Page 11 of Stables Spurs Suits
I don’t. The grass was so thick in some places that it swallowed up our footprints the second we lifted our feet, but I’ve never used a scythe before, and one wrong move could easily put one or both of us in the hospital, or worse.
“You look worried,” he says.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m up for anything you want,” I reply, and it comes out far more flirty than I intended. His eyebrows pick up a little, and I can see the hint of a smile teasing at the corner of his lips.
“But?”
“I’m not sure what you want is a trip to the emergency room.”
He laughs. “How about we just start with manual labor and go from there,” he replies as he passes me the smaller of the two scythes. “I’ll show you how to use it safely. Don’t worry, it’s not that hard.”
On his way past, he gives Loki a pat.
“I see you’re enjoying yourself out here,” he tells him.
“You know you’re talking to a deaf horse,” I laugh.
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.”
“No… it doesn’t.”
We start with a lesson in scythe cutting out by the road where the grass is already short. When he’s confident I have the sweeping motion down, we move into the bush. I go in first, staying to the left of where we’ve mapped out, and Atlas follows behind, sticking to the right. It’s harder than I thought. The blade slices through the grass easily enough, but when it catches on a shrub, the vibration rolls through the blade and up the handle into my hands, and the blisters from yesterday’s mucking sting and ache, loosening my grip more than I’d like.
We pause to check the map every five minutes or so of cutting, and I feel like I’m just getting the hang of things when Atlas calls out, “Stop!”
I freeze mid-swing and a small brown-gray bird flutters around a shrub on my left. I follow its high-pitched song to where it’s started to build a nest in the thick of the shrub I was just about to slice through.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to get closer, but the bird flutters away.
“An Indigo Bunting.”
“It’s brown, though.”
“Yeah, it’s a female. It has a touch of faint blue in the wings and tail, but it’s the males that really live up to their name. They’re early this year. I didn’t expect to see them until the weather warmed up a little more.”
“Why don’t they nest higher up in the trees where it’s safer?”
“Why don’t chickens fly?” he asks, like that is in any way related.
“Chickens don’t fly because their heavy bodies are too large for their small wings. I’m pretty sure these birds can reach the treetops just fine.”
“The correct answer is, because they just don’t.”
“But that’s not the correct answer.”
“What did we agree to earlier?” he asks with a raised brow and a smile teasing at his lips.
“Fine. You’re right. Okay?”
He nods in approval, and I glance around for where to go next.
“We should cut through that way instead,” I say, moving on. I’ll look up the real reason later. “Will there be others?”
“Could be a few females. Keep an eye out for the male too. He’ll be around here somewhere, guarding his territory.”
“What, like, there’s just one guy and how many females?”
“It’s not uncommon for them to have two or three. They basically have their territory that they stick to, and can attract more than one female to it.”
