Sally: Autumn Storms (F&L Story #4)

Sally: Part 1

Saturday, October 9, 2010.

There were some things that women weren't meant to do…run around shirtless, grow facial hair, pee standing up…those kinds of things. Furthermore, changing the back tire of a jacked-up Dodge Ram 4X4 fell easily into that category. At least Sally Sanborn thought so, especially since she was so dog tired from scurrying at full speed all day, her knees wobbled. Digging the toes of her cowboy boots into the ground, she threw every ounce of her body – and she'd be the first to admit that scale tipped at being two stones more than she preferred – into budging the first stubborn lug nut.

“Why – won't – you – come – loose?!” Sally pushed with all her might, stabbing each word with an exasperated shove on the tire iron. The lug nut creaked and grazed and smirked at her…and then twisted like it'd been buttered with frying grease. Caught off-guard, Sally's body tumbled forward into the dirt. Her blond hair escaped the hair band, her chin hit a rock, and her hip let out a sharp pop, evidence of her not-so-youthful-anymore body.

If it weren't for the fact that twilight approached and a storm drew on the horizon, she'd say, “To hell with it,” and hike the half mile back to her house. But her truck bed and flatbed trailer were currently laden down with sheets of plywood and the folding tables left over from her nephew's wedding celebration. The wall cloud looked to be several miles north of her and showing no indication of moving in her direction, but Sally bore too frugal of a personality to leave the wood and tables out to the early-autumn elements overnight, regardless. Gritting her teeth, she brushed the dirt off her bottom and stood to tackle the second of eight lug nuts. Her personality also accumulated a variety of stubbornness, obstinacy, and tenacity on a regular basis.

Lingering on the wilting age of thirty-seven, Sally Sanborn accomplished enough in a day's time to equal a dozen men and their brute strength. Ever since she bought the river side farm over a decade ago, she'd been harvesting pumpkins and mucking out the chicken coops mostly by herself. During the early summer planting season and now the harvesting, she hired out a migratory work crew a few days a week, and in the afternoons, a couple of high school kids came by to pick up the slack. Also now, during her busiest season with families and school groups coming out to pick their own pumpkins in a “real live” pumpkin patch, several farmers in the area leased out their tractors and trailers and a few farmhands as well, just to keep her small operation and livelihood kicking. But Sally soon came to terms with the fact that she had more on her chore list than one woman could do. It rumpled her panties that she needed help, but swallowing her pride, she finally sent out help-wanted announcements to the small, nearby communities.

That was a month ago.

Four men applied so far. Sally admitted to being fair with each, giving them a trial run for a week. Two men lasted four days, one never showed up on his second day, and the fourth laughed in her face when she told him who he would be working for. Sally signed the checks, so Sally was the boss. Her word was law. She had no love for a lazy-ass man. Her heart had enough problems.

She stared down men twice her size and owned a shotgun arson to rival the National Rifle Association, so she shouldn't be bothered by one little flat tire. Yet, she was. In fact, a lot of things bothered her lately. Foremost in her mind was something that her nephew's new wife, Sage, said to her earlier that day. The newlyweds were just about to leave for their honeymoon, and Sage, a feisty redhead, leaned over and whispered, “You can have it all,” in her ear.

At first, Sally wasn't sure what Sage meant, but the significance of Sage's words eventually came to her while she'd been tearing down the wooden dance floor and hauling bundles of lumber to her truck. Sally once told Sage that she wanted a sexy-as-sin cowboy with more than sticks of hay between his ears. Of course, in her experience, finding one of those was like asking her diesel truck to run on chicken shit and pumpkin pulp. Though she had plenty of both potential fuel sources, some things just weren't going to happen in her lifetime.