Chapter Thirteen
Margaret feels drawn to her art project partner. She senses that he is genuine and not like anyone she has ever met. She appreciates how he has treated her and finds contentment when she hears his voice.
Despite the fact that they are somewhat strangers, she seems to mean something to him.
Margaret carries numerous paintbrushes as she walks toward the back door. Samson holds the canvas she needs for her painting.
Margaret follows Samson outdoors, to a gated area occupied by three horses who are roaming around eating hay. He points out each one in turn. “The black one is Demon; the white one is Chance; and the brown one is Bo," he says, indicating the animals respectively.
Samson remains on his way. He yanks the enormous white wooden stable door that is cracked, almost ancient, and a little lopsided open. It is heavy and takes Samson’s strength, his muscles are tough, and his azure veins grow like hives, just to yank it open. When the door finally yields -there is an obnoxious sound it scrapes loudly against the rustic tile floor- Samson steps into the depths of the stable. The hay smells intoxicating as Samson walks in. The scent of manure, hay, and animals is enough to take a man’s mind off Margaret even if only for a moment.
Inside, two pigs are lying in a muddy section of a pen.
"The pigs' names are James and John, twins named after Hager's Brothers," Samson says, observing Margaret. “They're our newest addition besides our newborn goat.”
"Hager Brothers?" Margaret's regard caught on the two piglets sleeping in a filthy muddy enclosure to her right. They made her feel disgusted.
“Yep, they were twins who sang comedic country songs and participated in the television show Hee Haw," Samson explains.
Margaret felt like she was going to be sick.
The mere thought of being near these pigs irked her, while the concept of twins brought up painful recollections of the past days. She wanted to leave, yet something compelled her to stay.
“You okay Margaret?” Samson asks in a voice that is unambiguously concerned, but soothing like the sound of waves lapping against a rocky shore while stepping closer and placing a gentle touch on her arm.
She replies, "Yeah great," stepping away from his hand, but a moment later regretting it.
Margaret couldn't escape the feeling that had arisen within her from Samson's touch. She felt something more personal in his eyes than just concern. Something that made her heart skip a beat.
He sees her hesitance and extends his hand once more, this time tracing the length of her lightly tanned arm with his fingertips.
She turns to face him and peers into his eyes, which are full of warmth and generosity they are like crystalline water that welcomes her into his gaze.
Without speaking a word he takes her hand, that's flawlessly painted in pale blue, into his own, which is soft yet battered from spending days on the farm with his father.
He holds hers delicately. Touching her, like the very first time.
Margaret could smell a pleasant, sugary scent with hints of earth and the outdoors coming off of him.
"Are you sure?" he says, looking for any indication that she is not. "It's okay if you aren't, Margaret; you can talk to me."
Margaret feels a flutter in the hollow spot of her stomach. She can't believe how generous he is to her after all she's experienced is pain. She has only ever had a single individual be there for her and truly care about her well-being.
She takes a step away from Samson. She does so, letting her hand fall from his. This leaves her with a faint sense of longing for his touch.
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“Okay,” He promptly lowers his hand to his side and proceeds to the next pen. “Over here is Nala, Skywalker, Peanut, Storm, and Pixi,” he points to a herd of rabbits.
"And then over here," he indicates, the third pen in the barn's initial portion.
Margaret's gaze drifted to the small corral across from her, where a baby goat lay fast asleep. She sees its tiny body, blanketed in white fur, with a soft pink snout pressed against the grass.
"That's Noodle," Samson said and pointed out the mother – Lulaa – nuzzling her offspring affectionately.
Margaret nods as Samson talks about the baby goat, who is only 4 days old; Samson has a total of 8 goats. He keeps on going through the next door, naming the other goats considering they are all located in a different section. "Kevin, Pip, Vader, Aurora, Coconut, and Billy."
There was loud mooing through the air, yet there were no signs of cows. Margaret looked around uneasily as a boy chatted about his farm and pointed out Annie Truffle, a grey cat curled up tightly in a corner near the goats' pen.
"Aw, that's kind of an adorable name," Margaret adds after her long silence.
"Thank you kindly, we got Annie Truffle about a month before Momma died, and Momma named her."
"Oh, um, I'm sorry," Margaret replies, reaching out to pet the furry creature.
"Don't worry, let's not get into that." Standing up Samson continues speaking, "and in that pen over there, we have our roosters Drumbstick and Scar, and there are multiple lady friends- Betty, Hayhay, Alfredo, Frizzle, and Cupcake-they like to fight over Alfredo no one knows why.”
The chickens are clucking like crazy, ruffling their feathers, making sounds like whistling, clucking, and mindless mumbling.
Margaret giggles awkwardly. She receives a reassuring smile from Samson.
“Next are our sheep,” Samson places his arm around Margaret's shoulders and they walk to the last pen in the room. “Duke, Carrie -Underwood- and Cotten.” The sheep's fence around them had a thin plywood door and ugly yellow paint splotches that looked like bruises on its walls.
The two venture into the last section of the barn, and Samson keeps his arm firmly around Margaret's shoulders.
He likes having her close.
His skin is sweet, and soothing seeping over her like honey.
Her skin may have been smooth, but the fabric of her dress felt almost scratchy against Samsons' forearm like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. He ignored it not knowing why he liked being with this girl but he knew he did.
Although she wanted to push him away from her, there was something that made her feel like she needed to be close to him.
She didn't know why she didn't want to push him away she always pushed everyone away.
In Michigan, making friends was simpler than in New York. She was unsure of how to feel about how her life had changed in just the last few weeks.
The cow's noises were almost deafening as Margaret observed the five of them. As she looked them over, Samson explained the names: Handsome, Pebble, Honda, Trinity, and Gertie; who he noted was the youngest and always the loudest.
Samson watches her, takes in her every feature, the way her eyes aren’t brown, but copper against honey and sage, two perfect orbs the same shade as nature after it rains. He takes in the smell of her long brown hair like flowers dancing with citrus, he could feel her pulse beating with her heart.
“You named your cow Handsome? That’s kind of cute.”
Smiling Samson answers “No actually my dad did.”
Margaret suppressed an awkward look, then laughed and smirked as she shook her head, “Oh okay.”
“I named Honda though,” he looks proud.
Mar makes a very confused face and then laughs with a smirk.
“Ah if you think that's funny check out this.” He turned away from her, cupping his hands around his mouth, and bellowed: “PORCHE! MERCEDES! FORD!” His voice echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and surprising everyone in the room.
Seconds later a very furry black and white with a bit of brown Bermes Mountain Dog races in, being trailed by another equally furry black and white Border Collie.
“Ford come here!” Samson yells again.
This time a large grey and spotted Catahoula Leopard puppy saunters in.
“This is Mercadies,” Samson motions at the Border Collie now sitting at his feet.
The Catahoula makes his way to Margaret and sniffs her. Then stands on his hind legs putting his front paws on her chest.
“Uh hi pup,” Margaret reaches and pets the dog he's soft. His head, like a hyena’s, is narrow and wedge-shaped, and his body and strong paws are covered in thick fur.
“That's Ford and the one laying on the ground is Porche.”
Margaret looks at the dreamy boy with chaotic brunette hair like he just told her his dogs were named after cars. Because he did.
“You must be joking, or crazy,” Margaret states.
“I’m really not Margs,” Samsons' smile glows, his white teeth shining at her almost as brightly as his gorgeous pale eyes.
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