the farmer's daughter

The Farmer's Daughter: 1

Well life on the farm is kinda laid back
Ain't much an old country boy like me can't hack
It's early to rise, early in the sack
I thank God I'm a country boy,

John Denver

You stand on your tiptoes, a dangerous choice as you stand on a wooden stool, reaching to clip pegs around the folded edge of the linen sheet. You clasp it over the cord in three places and reel along the length, bending to pull a wet
Sheet from the basket.

"You're grinding on the clutch," Johnny's

voice carries through the barn door before he emerges,

"you need another driving lesson."

"I know how to drive stick," your brother, Shane, starts argues with the larger man. "It's not the clutch."
"Ermph," the other man grunts in return.

"Thanks for having a look though," Shane slaps his arm lightly.

He gets another grumble from the chronically grumpy man. Johnny is older than your brother, by quite a bit; and you too.

He's tall and burly, and his brow never truly loses its furrow. He's fonder of your father than Shane you're sure if he didn't feel some kinship with your father,

he'd never venture this far.

Johnny is a big, older man. He has a lumbering gait you can recognise even as he's at the property's edge, and his curly hair falls messily around his chiseled face.

There's a touch of silver in one curl, but his age doesn't show otherwise.

You refocus on hanging the laundry. You stand on your toes and strain to clip the beg on the line. The stool wobbles, and you put your feet flat,

steadying it. You suck in your lower lip and look around. Shane's gone. You hear him back in the barn clattering through the toolbox, but Johnny remains. He narrows his eyes at you as you give a sheepish smile.

"Hi, Mr. Miller," you say.

"Hey," he returns in his way.

You don't expect much more, so you wind the line further and once more bend to take another piece of clothing.

You quickly forget his presence and go back to your precarious game.

Back on your toes, the stool tips, and you gasp, a scream catching in your throat as you brace yourself for the violent tumble.

You don't hit the ground, though. You barely even tip as you're caught under the arms. You open your eyes as Johnny holds you well over the ground. He does so effortlessly.

"I... Mr. Miller, thank you," you breathe.

"You shouldn't do that," he grits.

"Um, I know," you wiggle your feet and look at the ground, "um, can you put me down." He does just that, and you laugh at yourself, "thanks."

"Hm," he sidles down to the basket.
To your surprise, he takes out the next sheet and easily throws it over the line. He holds out a hand, but you just stare at his calloused palm. What is he doing?"
"Pin," he demands gruffly.

"Oh, uh, sure," you step up and place a pin in his hand.

His fingers brush around yours as he closes them. You retract your reach as he clasps it over the linen. He puts his hand out for the next and again, and you hand one over.

"Don't do it again," he says as he grabs the next piece of laundry.
"Mr. Miller, I won't, but you don't need to-"

"It's fine," he carries on, set on his mission of putting out the drying. "Your father wouldn't be happy if I let you hurt yourself."

"Erm, I guess," you give him another pin.
He's silent as his brown eyes fixate on his chore. He bends to grab more, drapes the cloth over, and takes a pin to secure it in place.

You work in wordless rhythm until the basket is empty and the line is full.

"How is he?" Johnny asks.

You put your hands behind you and wring them, "better. He's just been working too much on the farm,

He nods and looks at you.

He crosses his arms, straining the fabric of his long-sleeved tee. It's warm out, enough to dampen his shirt with sweat. Still, he doesn't seem to mind.

"If you need anything," he peers around the fields, "big place for just you and the other one."

"Oh, George? Yeah, we manage."
He scratches the top on his chin and shifts his stance.

You've never seen him flinch before, never hesitate or doubt, but in that moment, he seems unsure. He clears his throat and drops his hand.

"Well, have a good day," he bows his head slightly. "Have your brother take down the laundry."
You look away guiltily, staring at the stool, "you, too, Mr. Miller."

He backs away a few steps, and you cautiously glance at his boots as he does. He stops, and you hold your breath.

"I don't mind Johnny," he says.
"Right," your voice flutters, "Johnny."

He twists on his heel and continues across the grass to the trodden road. He follows it down towards the fence. You tear your gaze away and gather up the basket and the stool. You leave them on the porch and sit in the shade as sweat speckles on your forehead.

Your heart is still racing, likely from your near disastrous slip. You think you will have Shane take down the sheets. You may even convince him to help your fold.