Page 3 of Coming Up Roses
There’s no sign of Abigail in the main room, so I head for the stairs at the back. My socks are quiet on the timber stairs and I knock on the open door as I reach the top, hoping I don’t startle her.
She’s facing away from me, both hands resting against the desk, her head lowered, like she’s staring at something on the desktop.
She doesn’t react to my knock. I wait for another moment. Maybe she’s just focussed on something.
I try not to spend that entire moment staring at her ass, or her legs, or any other part of her. I force myself to look towards the window at the end of the room. In the distance I can just make out the Hereford cattle in their paddock.
A shuddering sound brings my focus back to Abigail. She stands up straight, waves her hands in front of her face and takes another gulping breath, except it doesn’t sound like she pulled in much air.
Something isn’t right here.
I knock again, louder this time, then stride right into the room.
“Abigail?”
She turns to face me and the full effect of the dressshe’s wearing hits me. It’s some kind of business-y style that’s fitted to her body, ending just above her knees.
The expression on her face stops me from being completely distracted by the dress though.
Abigail tries to draw another breath, but it stutters and gets stuck in her throat. Panic flashes through her green eyes, staring up at me while filling with tears.
“Can you hear me?” I ask and she nods. “Okay, just listen to my voice.” I hold out my hands, palms up. She hesitates, but places her shaking hands in mine. I lead her to the window. “You’re going to be fine, okay? Everything will be all good.”
I position Abigail in front of the window, then slip my hands free of her grasp. It’s surprisingly hard to let go.
I step behind her, but she must think I’m moving away because her hand grips my wrist and she looks up at me with those pleading eyes.
“I’m right here,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.” I place my hands on her shoulders, hoping I’m not crossing any lines. Her body is wound so tight she’s almost quivering. I can feel every stilted breath. “What can you see?”
A shaky inhale. “Um … grass.”
I chuckle. “So much grass. I hope you like green.”
Her hands land on top of mine and she grips tight. She makes a choked sound that I’m going to claim as a laugh.
“What else can you see?”
“Pond.”
“We call it a lake for some reason, but you’re right. It’s a pond.”
Another sound I’m taking as a laugh.
“There’s some cows,” she says, her voice shaky and breathy. “Way in the distance. They look red.”
“They are red. They’re Herefords. They’re my favourite kind of cattle.”
She twists her head around to look at me. “Favourite cattle?”
“Yes, favourite cattle. I’m a farmer, we all have our favourites. We also have favourite tractors. Don’t judge.”
“Do you like He-Heffalumps because you’re a redhead?”
“Heffalumps?” I can’t help myself and a cackle bursts out of me. “Herefords, I think you mean.”
“Same difference,” she says, her voice finally sounding more normal. Her grip softens on my hands.
“And no, they’re not my favourite because I’m a redhead. They’re big and chunky and hairy. They’re cute.”
