Signs of Spring Read online

  Signs of Spring

  Rachel Ember

  Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Ember

  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN (ebook): 9781735443096

  ISBN (print): 9781954950009

  Cover Design by Cate Ashwood Designs

  Beta Reading by Blue Beta Reading

  Editing by Jennifer Collins

  Proofreading by M.A. Hinkle

  Contents

  Rachel’s Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Robbie

  Chapter 2

  Lance

  Chapter 3

  Robbie

  Chapter 4

  Lance

  Chapter 5

  Robbie

  Chapter 6

  Lance

  Chapter 7

  Robbie

  Chapter 8

  Lance

  Chapter 9

  Robbie

  Chapter 10

  Lance

  Chapter 11

  Robbie

  Chapter 12

  Lance

  Chapter 13

  Robbie

  Chapter 14

  Lance

  Chapter 15

  Robbie

  Chapter 16

  Lance

  Chapter 17

  Robbie

  Chapter 18

  Lance

  Chapter 19

  Robbie

  Chapter 20

  Lance

  Chapter 21

  Robbie

  Chapter 22

  Lance

  Chapter 23

  Robbie

  Chapter 24

  Lance

  Chapter 25

  Robbie

  Chapter 26

  Lance

  Chapter 27

  Robbie

  Epilogue

  Burning Season

  About the Author

  Also by Rachel Ember

  Rachel’s Mailing List

  The best way to keep up with Rachel’s writing is by joining her mailing list. Mailing list subscribers also get exclusive content like free short stories and advanced copies of Rachel’s new releases.

  Chapter One

  Robbie

  Robbie always wakes up five minutes before his alarm, even when it’s set for the ungodly hour of four-thirty a.m. Lately, he’s especially grateful for this talent. Because of it, he’s woken before dawn in silence with Lance undisturbed beside him—his breaths peaceful and deep, his sleep-heavy limbs entangled with Robbie’s.

  This morning when he opens his eyes, Lance’s chest is flush to his back and his nose is in Robbie’s hair. Lance’s thigh is slung forward so that his knee is between Robbie’s. Robbie can smell the sandalwood soap he bought for Lance on the pillow. It’s almost time to get another bar.

  He lifts Lance’s wrist to his mouth and kisses it. Lance’s long fingers close reflexively around Robbie’s and he burrows his nose a little closer against the back of Robbie’s neck.

  Robbie only lets himself linger for a few minutes, knowing that if he stays until the alarm goes off and wakes up Lance, he’ll have no chance of getting out of the loft before sunrise. First thing in the morning, Lance is needy and even a little rough—not that Robbie is complaining. On the contrary, just the thought of what they’d get up to if he were to kiss Lance awake has him hesitating.

  But if Robbie doesn’t start his day early, he’ll regret it when his chores drag into the late afternoon. And he’ll also rob Lance of some much-needed sleep. He’s been putting in long days helping his sister, Nora—there’s a concept Robbie’s still getting used to, that Lance has a sister—fix up their father’s house. And it’s a daunting task, considering that after their father was taken to live in a nursing home, the next residents in the unsecured house were a bunch of raccoons.

  Most days, Lance divides his time between patching up the house and watching his niece while Nora is at work. Robbie isn’t sure what’s more taxing—the manual labor, or keeping up with an energetic seven-year-old. Either way, by day’s end, Lance is beat. He needs all the rest he can get.

  Moving slowly, Robbie unlaces Lance’s arms from around him in a maneuver he’s been practicing. As he rolls away, he pulls the blankets over Lance before he can feel the cool air in the room instead of the warmth of Robbie’s body.

  Then, because he can’t help himself, he touches the curve of Lance’s smooth jaw. He used to bemoan the short days of long winters, counterbalanced by long nights when the darkness seems to stretch into forever. Now, he cherishes the early darkness. It’s like the Earth itself is blessing the lingering hours he and Lance have spent in bed together over the past few weeks.

  He finds that he’s smiling into the mirror when he closes the bathroom door behind him and switches on the light. Robbie can’t bring himself to stop—instead, the smile grows broader as he meets his own reflected stare. He looks silly.

  Happy.

  He shakes his head at himself and turns off the light.

  A few minutes later, he’s managed to get dressed and reach the door without waking Lance for the third day in a row. He’s built this routine into an art.

  The three black cats that occupy the house as feudal barons, all entitlement and no gratitude, dart past his feet like moving shadows when he opens the door. He follows them out into the cold morning.

  The sky is still dark, but gloaming deep blue over the trees. Robbie can easily imagine how the rising sun will split that darkness, pushing back the stars for the span of a day. The longer Lance is with him, the more he catches himself marveling at things that are as familiar to him as his own reflection. It’s as though his heart is one raw nerve, and every little scrap of beauty strikes him right in the chest instead of bouncing off his skin.

  When he enters the first level of the barn, he’s immediately greeted by a low, impatient moo and the sound of rustling straw. Felony must have heard his feet on the stairs.

  “Good morning,” Robbie says, flipping on the lights as the calf butts her head against the stall door.

  Tired of the smell of powdered milk permeating the hayloft, Robbie installed a freestanding utility sink in the lower story of the barn a few weeks back. That’s where he heads first, urged on by another testy moo. It’s hard to believe the calf was ever a weak newborn. Now, Robbie wonders if the stall can withstand her impression of a battering ram long enough for him to mix up her breakfast.

  “I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying,” he calls back to her from the sink. “You’re such a princess. Maybe that’s what we should have called you.”

  As though to protest the suggestion, she flings her shoulder against the solid partition of the stall with a resounding thud. When she’s full-grown, Robbie doesn’t think even the steel-framed box will contain her. He chuckles exasperatedly, screwing the lid on the bottle.

  When Robbie opens the sliding door to the stall, Felony’s momentum carries her a few stumbling steps out of the stall before she whips around to face Robbie.

  He knows better than to make her wait. He guides the rubber nipple into her mouth and holds tightly to the bottle as she latches on with the ferocity of a dog in a game of tug-of-war. “Take it easy, Fee,” he mutters, though he’s been careful not
to let Lance hear him call her that. Robbie hasn’t officially conceded to Lance’s name choice. When the bottle is almost empty, he sidles backward into the stall one slow step at a time, leading her by the bottle that she’s latched onto, and she follows, already milk-drunk and with eyes half-closed.

  “That’s it,” he coos to her, tipping the bottle a little more upright when it’s nearly drained. “Such a good, hungry girl.”

  Robbie developed a habit of talking to animals when he first took over the ranch. It made him feel better—and more present, somehow—to hear his own voice outside of his head during long days without human company.

  He rubs the soft white hair on the top of the calf’s head while she noisily sucks the last of the bottle’s contents. When it’s empty and Robbie tugs it away, she bawls in protest and slams her bony head into his knee.

  “Ouch,” Robbie says, pivoting away from her as she takes aim again. “Look, I didn’t prescribe your diet. Take it up with Dr. Megan.” He slips out of the stall and closes it snugly behind him. She pushes her head against the door again and moos pitifully. Robbie reaches through the grate and scratches her back. “Sorry, baby. I wish I could let you have the run of the place, too, but I’m pretty sure you’d make me regret it. You’re a one-calf wrecking crew.”

  One chore done, Robbie turns and spies a liquid-black shape poised near the open bag of dried milk by the utility sink. He and one of the black cats lock eyes. Her haunches are curled beneath her; obviously, she was about to launch herself directly into the bag.

  “Triplicat Two,” Robbie says lowly, “if you knock over that sack, everyone loses.”

  The cat flattens her ears and hisses at Robbie. Why the cats loathe Robbie, he’s never been able to figure out. There are a half-dozen friendly barn cats on the ranch, but the three who invited themselves into the hayloft with him the previous fall aren’t just scared of people, they’re downright hostile. He probably should have called them the three sixes.

  Whatever judgment the cat has weighed, it works out in Robbie’s favor; she turns and races into the dark space behind a sheet of plywood leaning against the barn’s stacked-stone foundation. Robbie lets out a breath of relief, stepping forward to carefully roll down the top of the heavy paper sack in order to protect the contents from any feline interlopers who might return after he’s gone. There’s just half a bag left; he needs to remember to go by the farm store before they get too low.

  Outside, Robbie’s mare Dusty and Johnny’s pair of bay geldings are staying safely out of sight in their shelter, just in case Robbie should get the wild idea to put one of them to work. Poco, Robbie’s daily ride, stands at the gate with his head high and his ears pricked, so eager that he actually paws the ground as Robbie heads over. Robbie has never had a horse who’s so enthusiastic about leaving behind his friends and hay bale for a strenuous day’s ride, but it’s nice to spend time with a horse so thrilled to have a job.

  Robbie gives Poco a rub on the neck in greeting, halters him, and then takes him into the saddle shed. A few minutes later, he’s tacked up and mounted, and they’re headed out to check on the mustangs.

  The snow that fell across the county around the same time Lance showed up has melted in the intervening weeks. The resulting mud in the ranch’s hills and valleys is virtually impassable for a human on foot, and the horses can sink into it knee-deep. Also, the creeks are high, making crossings slippery and hazardous. So, checking on the horses has gone from being a pleasant task to a difficult chore.

  Despite the inconvenience, the thought of all that snowmelt pouring into the creeks and surging toward the river energizes Robbie, a sign that the world is nourished and warming, and spring is just around the corner.

  This morning, the creek is moving, but low. It was cold enough the past two nights to half-freeze the muddy ground, firming it up and making the paths passable, slowing the percolation of groundwater to the creek. Robbie and Poco make relatively good time through the twists and bends of the trail up to the hay meadow. He finds the land looking about like it did yesterday, but even more of the dormant grass has been churned to mud. The horses, utterly dependent by this point in winter on the hay that Robbie provides for them, haven’t strayed far, and their continuous presence has left its mark.

  The mustangs have been at Riverside for six and a half years. That means some of the older members of the herd are showing their age—particularly the pair of sorrel geldings who follow the band leader that Johnny named Kyle. Robbie has kept a careful eye on them over these cold months, wishing they were carrying a little more weight. He’s not sure how old they are; if they were tame, he could look in their mouths and guess by their teeth. But they have the quiet, peaceful sort of attitude that he’s always associated with older animals, and the winter has definitely hit them harder than the rest.

  It comforts him to know that spring will hit soon. The grass will get green, and then all of the horses will be as fat as ticks, their winter hair shedding and their summer coats shining like glass. The thought fills Robbie with happy anticipation. Even if the recent events of this winter have been miraculous—Lance’s arrival and his decision to stay awhile—it’s still winter, and Robbie will be glad to see the seasons turn.

  The hay bales are in a state of disaster. Robbie left out enough at the end of fall to last the horses for several months, but unusually low temperatures have made them eat more, as that’s their best way to produce body heat and insulate themselves with fat. And, a few weeks ago when the snow was high, he took down the low fence he’d been using to protect the hay—worried that, as the snow built up around it, they would stumble into it unawares and entangle themselves. As animals do when presented with excess, the horses have pulled apart and trampled a good portion of the hay into the mud, wasting it.

  He’ll have to get some more hay up here, or else drive the horses down to the corrals and feed them there. He probably has a week before they’ll be looking for more hay. He’ll have to make a decision before then.

  Robbie sees all of the mustangs except Bandit’s band, but he’s learned it’s useless to worry about that group. Their sly leader seems to think that her reputation as a wild horse is entirely dependent on whether or not she can remain not only untouched, but also largely unseen. When he’s satisfied himself that the mustangs are otherwise accounted for and hale and healthy, he points Poco back down toward the farmstead.

  Poco knows what’s waiting for him at the barn after an early-morning outing: oats. He breaks into an eager trot when the corrals and the roof of the stone barn come into sight. Robbie gently reins him in—one day, you let a horse trot to the barn, and the next day, you’re fighting him not to break into a mad gallop. As they come through the trees, Lance is just opening the sliding door on the lower level of the barn, freeing Felony. Hearing Poco’s hoofbeats, he looks up and waves. Felony bounds around Poco in a semicircle, tail ringing like she might entice him to play with her.

  Lance’s cheeks are rouged by the cold, and his loose curls are just growing long enough that they’re threatening to fall into his eyes.

  Robbie hops off his horse. “Come here.”

  Lance moves toward him, and when he’s within reach, Robbie pulls their bodies together and kisses Lance soundly.

  “Hey,” Lance says; Robbie feels him making fists in the back of his shirt, like he wants to get a grip on Robbie just as much as Robbie wants to take hold of him. “I missed you when I woke up.”

  When Felony launches herself into the back of Robbie’s knees, he staggers against Lance, muttering a curse. The calf thrusts her head directly under Poco’s nose, then tries to take hold of his dangling rein with her dexterous tongue. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Robbie tells her, releasing Lance to intervene. Felony curls her head around to look at him, her liquid brown eyes full of adorable innocence. “Get this little monster into the yard and lock the gate twice,” he tells Lance.

  Lance rubs the soft tuft of hair on top of Felony’s head. “Aw, she j
ust wants to play.”

  “That’s the problem,” Robbie says, sighing.

  “Hey, is it okay if I borrow the Chevy today? The lumberyard called, and the roofing supplies I ordered came in. I just have to pick them up.”

  “Take the Dodge,” Robbie advises him. The Chevy is fifty years old and about as reliable at its age as one would expect. Plus, its bed is half the size of the one on the Dodge. “You don’t need to ask, remember?”

  “Yeah.” Lance’s eyes slide away from Robbie’s. “Thanks.” With his money tied up back in Chicago, Lance has been financially dependent on Robbie since he came home. And he hates it. He frets every time Robbie buys him so much as a bottled water.

  Lance slaps his thigh. “Fee! Come here, you little disaster. I’ll race you!” He takes off running toward the ring of temporary panels they set up for the calf, over in the spot where the old house’s backyard used to be.

  Felony, unable to resist a moving target, bolts after Lance. She follows him straight through the gate and into her yard. Lance neatly doubles back and throws the latch, trapping her.

  She circles around to the gate a few seconds later, bawling out her objection.

  “You’d think she would know the score by now,” Robbie says, shaking his head.

  Lance pats Felony through the bars of the panel that’s now between them and grimaces at Robbie. “I think she might be as dumb as she is cute.” He looks at Felony again, and his voice rises into a croon. “But we love you anyway.”