He stepped further into the loft, the straw crunching beneath his boots. "I don't doubt you do. But two pairs of hands are faster than one, and the wind is picking up."
The air inside the barn was thick with the scent of dried timothy hay and the sweet, sharp musk of horses. Outside, the summer storm was finally breaking, sending heavy droplets drumming against the tin roof in a rhythmic, metallic pulse.
They worked in a shared, comfortable silence for a while—the only sounds were the rustle of hay and the occasional low whinny from the stalls below. As they moved the final bale into place, Clara tripped slightly over a loose floorboard. Silas was there in an instant, his hand steadying her arm. busty in barn
The heavy wooden ladder creaked. Silas appeared at the top, his flannel shirt damp from the rain and clinging to his broad shoulders. He paused, his gaze catching Clara in the amber light of the late afternoon.
For a moment, the world outside the barn—the mud, the rain, the endless list of chores—seemed to vanish. There was only the warmth of the hayloft, the scent of the earth, and the quiet understanding between two people who knew the value of hard work and the peace found in the heart of the country. He stepped further into the loft, the straw
Clara stood by the open loft door, watching the grey clouds roll over the ridge. She wiped a smudge of dust from her cheek, her breath hitching slightly as she hauled another heavy bale of hay toward the edge. The physical labor of the farm was grueling, but there was a quiet dignity in it that she’d grown to love.
Silas nodded, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Anytime, Clara. Anytime." Outside, the summer storm was finally breaking, sending
"Thought you might need a hand with the last of the winter stores," he said, his voice low against the steady rain.