“You want me to bale hay?” Devin tried not to feel too surprised. “I’ve never run a baler before.”
“You’ll learn,” Peggy led him over the mown fields filled with the cut, dried hay neatly piled in long rows. One whole side of the airport had been in hay. They then crossed over a fence heading toward Becky’s big, hip roof barn-turned-brewery. It glared blindingly white in the well-risen sun.
“Isn’t it early?” Though the cut hay on the ground looked dry and rustled when he stepped on it.
“Wet winter, warm spring, and a drier than normal April. It’s mature enough,” she kicked at a windrow as they stepped over it. “I’d like to have let it grow another few weeks, but I don’t trust Jessica.”
“You don’t trust her…to do what?” Devin couldn’t imagine how not trusting a pregnant woman led to an
