Heartfield Ranch (Communities of Discipline Book 2) by Fiona Wilde Page B
Authors: Fiona Wilde
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felt.
“It’s supposed to be ninety-four degrees today and I bet if we pick blackberries really fast we’ll have time to swim afterwards.”
“And I’ve heard nothing of your plans,” Lynette said, walking by with two plates of food for her children.
“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Karen said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ann Marie said. “I’ve got two. We can change here.”
“What about the animals?” asked Karen.
“I traded chores with Leslie.”
Karen remembered Leslie as the short, almost delicate-looking woman with waist-length hair she’d met in the compound’s spinning room. She tended the flock of wool sheep and was an expert weaver who gave lessons at the Senior Center on Saturdays. She tried to imagine tiny Leslie hauling the more stubborn goats in for milking, but had already decided that Heartfield women were a lot less delicate than they often looked.
“All right then!” she said, and the two women slipped their suits on under their clothes and set off together for the blackberry patch at the edge of the field.
The bushes were loaded, and Karen tried to avoid the thorns as she picked. Occasionally she’d cast unbelieving glances at Ann Marie, whose fingers seemed to flit in between the branches. Within minutes her bucket was filled, while Karen had more finger pricks to show for her efforts than berries.
“Damn!” she said, when a thorn snagged the back of her hand.
“They’re pesky little buggers,” Ann Marie offered. “But trust me, it’ll be a lot less painful once you’ve had some experience at picking. It’s an art.”
Karen laughed. “I never looked at berry-picking as an art.”
“No?” Ann Marie smiled. “Everything is an art. That’s one of the coolest things I’ve learned at Heartfield. See, in my old life I was taught that something had to have an aesthetic and a monetary value to be an art. But here I learned that milking a goat is an art and making a salad is an art and making a cabinet is an art and cuddling a baby is an art –anything that brings happiness is an art.”
For some reason, her words made Karen feel like she wanted to cry. She remembered feeing like that as a child – finding excitement in every new experience. When had she lost that feeling? She couldn’t remember. Somewhere along the way her enthusiasm had been replaced by duty and blind loyalty to people she didn’t even like.
“I like that,” she said. “I like that you all have values out here.”
“Yep,” Ann Marie said, picking up both buckets – she’d finished filling Karen’s while they’d talked – and headed towards small lake that sat on the border of the Heartfield property. “Respect, obedience, honesty and art. They’re all gifts to one another and to ourselves.”
“Honesty…” Karen said the word aloud and it felt like a conviction.
“That’s one of Clay’s personal favorites, just in case you’re interested,” Ann Marie said. “Clay’s a good man, but he can’t abide falsehood. I think it would be pretty easy for a woman to make him happy provided she was straight with him.”
Karen looked over at her companion. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ann Marie threw back her head and laughed merrily. “It’s pretty obvious that he’s crazy about you. Or are you the last to know?”
Karen blushed. “He’s kind of given me that indication.”
“And is the feeling mutual?”
Karen demurred with a nod.
“It’s complicated given why I came here,” she confided. “Why I’m still here. I don’t really know what to do, Ann Marie. I don’t want to do anything to hurt Heartfield but your parents are really pressing this whole thing pretty hard.”
“It’s nothing new.” Ann Marie sighed. “They’ve done everything short of hiring someone to come in and physically abduct me, and Jake’s not entirely convinced that they won’t try that.” Her voice grew sad. “He had this crazy notion after we got married that if they just
“It’s supposed to be ninety-four degrees today and I bet if we pick blackberries really fast we’ll have time to swim afterwards.”
“And I’ve heard nothing of your plans,” Lynette said, walking by with two plates of food for her children.
“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Karen said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ann Marie said. “I’ve got two. We can change here.”
“What about the animals?” asked Karen.
“I traded chores with Leslie.”
Karen remembered Leslie as the short, almost delicate-looking woman with waist-length hair she’d met in the compound’s spinning room. She tended the flock of wool sheep and was an expert weaver who gave lessons at the Senior Center on Saturdays. She tried to imagine tiny Leslie hauling the more stubborn goats in for milking, but had already decided that Heartfield women were a lot less delicate than they often looked.
“All right then!” she said, and the two women slipped their suits on under their clothes and set off together for the blackberry patch at the edge of the field.
The bushes were loaded, and Karen tried to avoid the thorns as she picked. Occasionally she’d cast unbelieving glances at Ann Marie, whose fingers seemed to flit in between the branches. Within minutes her bucket was filled, while Karen had more finger pricks to show for her efforts than berries.
“Damn!” she said, when a thorn snagged the back of her hand.
“They’re pesky little buggers,” Ann Marie offered. “But trust me, it’ll be a lot less painful once you’ve had some experience at picking. It’s an art.”
Karen laughed. “I never looked at berry-picking as an art.”
“No?” Ann Marie smiled. “Everything is an art. That’s one of the coolest things I’ve learned at Heartfield. See, in my old life I was taught that something had to have an aesthetic and a monetary value to be an art. But here I learned that milking a goat is an art and making a salad is an art and making a cabinet is an art and cuddling a baby is an art –anything that brings happiness is an art.”
For some reason, her words made Karen feel like she wanted to cry. She remembered feeing like that as a child – finding excitement in every new experience. When had she lost that feeling? She couldn’t remember. Somewhere along the way her enthusiasm had been replaced by duty and blind loyalty to people she didn’t even like.
“I like that,” she said. “I like that you all have values out here.”
“Yep,” Ann Marie said, picking up both buckets – she’d finished filling Karen’s while they’d talked – and headed towards small lake that sat on the border of the Heartfield property. “Respect, obedience, honesty and art. They’re all gifts to one another and to ourselves.”
“Honesty…” Karen said the word aloud and it felt like a conviction.
“That’s one of Clay’s personal favorites, just in case you’re interested,” Ann Marie said. “Clay’s a good man, but he can’t abide falsehood. I think it would be pretty easy for a woman to make him happy provided she was straight with him.”
Karen looked over at her companion. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ann Marie threw back her head and laughed merrily. “It’s pretty obvious that he’s crazy about you. Or are you the last to know?”
Karen blushed. “He’s kind of given me that indication.”
“And is the feeling mutual?”
Karen demurred with a nod.
“It’s complicated given why I came here,” she confided. “Why I’m still here. I don’t really know what to do, Ann Marie. I don’t want to do anything to hurt Heartfield but your parents are really pressing this whole thing pretty hard.”
“It’s nothing new.” Ann Marie sighed. “They’ve done everything short of hiring someone to come in and physically abduct me, and Jake’s not entirely convinced that they won’t try that.” Her voice grew sad. “He had this crazy notion after we got married that if they just
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