A Walk in the Sun

by Michelle Zink

  Dedication

  For Alex Blazeski,

  who lives on in the land he loved

  and in the hearts of those who loved him

  Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Lies I Told Prologue

  One

  Two

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Michelle Zink

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Rose Darrow groaned, reaching through the darkness to swipe the alarm on her phone. She didn’t need to look to know that it was four a.m. She closed her eyes again, remembering how it used to be, the morning sun slanting softly into her bedroom on school days, the cows calling to her dad across the field out back while her mom banged around in the kitchen.

  She forced her eyes open. Living in the past wouldn’t get her through today.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled to the bathroom, then pulled on her work jeans and a T-shirt. At least it was warmer now and slightly less depressing than the cold winter mornings right after her mother’s funeral. Then it had seemed like the whole world had died, like her mom had taken the sun and the flowers and the smell of fresh-cut grass with her forever. Now the land was coming back to life even if her mom was gone for good. It was hard not to feel betrayed by the knowledge.

  She braided her hair in the dark and stepped into the hallway, silent except for the grandfather clock ticking softly in the entryway downstairs. She held still, taking a few seconds to listen for her dad. She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop hoping that one day he would rise above his sadness and remember that Rose was still there. That she needed him.

  Finally she gave up and padded quietly down the stairs. She pulled on her boots, her eyes on the picture of her mother that hung in the foyer. People had been telling Rose that she looked like her mother since she was old enough to walk. Same red hair, same green eyes, both of them a little on the tall side. She hadn’t liked it when she was younger. She’d wanted to look like herself then. Like Rose, not Kate Darrow’s daughter. But looking at the picture now, she hoped it was true, like their similarities might somehow prove that her mother had once really existed when her presence seemed more like a dream with each passing day.

  Rose stared at the picture of her mother a few seconds longer. Then she headed for the barn.

  Everything was still and quiet, the moon high in the velvety sky, as she made her way across the dirt road that separated the house from the cattle barn. At seventy-five acres, the farm was small by some standards, but it was a lot of land, all of it laid out around the house at its center. Rose felt overwhelmed just looking at it.

  She should be relieved that Aunt Marty had hired someone to help over the summer. School would be out soon, giving Rose more hours to work on the farm, but it still wouldn’t be enough. There were fences to mend and irrigation pipes to repair, vaccinations to give and numbers to calculate, the weight of the cattle and the amount of money they would bring always a precarious balance against the cost of grain. There was the garden to maintain and the market stand to run, more crucial than ever now that money was tight. And then there was the hay; the entire north pasture would have to be cut and baled. Will Breiner was a good friend, but he was busy on his own farm. She couldn’t expect him to keep doing double duty, and there was no way Rose could do it alone.

  Still, the farm was more than a business. It didn’t matter that it had started to feel like an anchor around her feet; the rhythm of it was in her blood. It felt weird to think of a stranger living in the bunkhouse, working alongside her day in and day out. She hoped he knew what he was doing at least.

  She headed for the heifers and their calves first. Seven babies had been born in February, and they hadn’t lost a single one, something Rose was especially proud of since she’d taken charge of the whole thing. Will and his dad had helped a little, but most nights, it was Rose who stayed up waiting to make sure the mothers and their babies were okay. When the bedding was dirty and needed to be changed, she was the one who mucked the stalls before and after school. When one of her mother’s heifers had had trouble giving birth, she’d texted Will and her aunt Marty, then got the calving chains, wrapping them around the calf’s legs the way her dad had shown her last year and pulling gently when the cow had a contraction. It had taken her less than twenty minutes to birth the calf, a frail-looking female with fur the color of fresh hay. By the time Will and Aunt Marty got there, Rose was sitting on the floor, her chest feeling simultaneously full and empty as she watched the baby try to nurse.

  She opened the door to the barn and was immediately greeted with the bawls of the mother cows. The calves wouldn’t be weaned for months, but the mothers knew when they saw Rose that it meant feeding time. It hadn’t always been that way. When her dad had first stopped coming to the barn, when he’d started sleeping odd hours and forgetting the chores, the cows had just looked at her, blinking, like they had no idea who she was or what she was doing there. It’s not like she hadn’t done her share before, but her dad had always been so enthusiastic about the farm that he’d taken care of almost everything himself, hiring local help for the busy seasons of hay and harvest and trading work on the Breiners’ dairy farm for a hand with the bigger stuff. Rose had been in charge of feeding the chickens, harvesting food from the garden planted by her mom, sometimes bottle-feeding a clueless calf. It was her dad the cows turned to for food, and she used to laugh out loud when she’d see them running to him like excited kids from across one of the pastures.

  Now they lined up at the trough as soon as they saw Rose, and she walked to the feed chute and turned the hand crank. A second later, the feed, earthy and sour, started to pour out of the chute. It funneled into the trough, unfurling out of the barn through a hole in the wall while the cows waited patiently, watching the grain make its way toward them.

  When the trough was full all the way down the line, Rose stopped turning the crank. She opened the door between the pen and the interior of the barn and leaned against the doorjamb so she could watch them while they ate. The babies were still trying to suckle while th
eir mothers ate breakfast. All except for Buttercup, the little female Rose had birthed. The calf stood off to the side, the green fly tag in her ear twitching as she watched the others eat.

  She was still too small, and worry thrummed through Rose’s mind when she thought of all the trouble they’d had with the calf. At first everything had seemed fine. She had suckled on her mother just like she was supposed to, ingesting the nutrient-rich milk that was essential to her newborn health. But she had never fed easily again, and Rose had spent the last four months trying everything to get the calf to eat regularly. Sometimes she’d walk in and be surprised to find the baby nursing, but it never lasted long, and her weight hadn’t kept pace with the other babies’ in the barn. Rose had even tried bottle-feeding the animal, but that hadn’t worked, either, the calf pulling her head out of Rose’s grasp, bawling and backing away even when she usually seemed happy to see Rose. Rose had spent so much time with her that she’d finally given her a name, though that was something they didn’t usually do. All of the calves would eventually be sold to cattle farms, most of them out west. Giving them names was an easy way to make yourself miserable when you had to say goodbye.

  But this one had come from a heifer with a green tag, the mark of her mother’s hand in her breeding. Rose’s mom had had an affinity for breeding, an instinct for which heifers and bulls to buy at auction and when to bring them together. The farm had been in her blood, too, and Rose had named the struggling calf after her mother’s favorite flower. Right now, there were still a few other green-tagged calves, but they would all be sold in the fall, Buttercup included, and then there would never be another animal on the farm that had been bred by Rose’s mother.

  Resolving to talk to Will about the calf, Rose closed the door to the feed room and headed to the house. Careful not to wake her dad, she grabbed some cleaning supplies, a fresh set of sheets, some towels, and a broom, then made her way to the old bunk room at the back of the barn.

  The room hadn’t been used in decades as far as she knew, and she cringed as she opened the door, scared of what she would find. But it was just a dusty room with four bunks, two beds apiece, a dresser, and an old wooden dining table. The concrete floor was covered with dirt, and she went to work sweeping and dusting before moving on to the small bathroom. She left the sheets and towels on the dresser and opened the window to let in some fresh air. She might not be happy about the idea of a stranger on the farm, but she wouldn’t be inhospitable. That was something her mother never would have tolerated.

  When the room was as clean as could be expected, she left the big barn and headed for the smaller one where she spent the next hour feeding and watering the horses and mucking their stalls before moving on to the chickens.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten when she headed to the house for a shower.

  Two

  It was mid-May when Bodhi Lowell finally reached New York. It had taken him almost two months of walking, two months with nothing but the pack on his back and his own thoughts for company, but he’d made it all the way from Montana, and for the first time in his whole life he found himself east of the Mississippi.

  He’d picked up the Appalachian Trail yesterday in Harriman and was already looking forward to rejoining civilization in Pawling. He hadn’t eaten since the two protein bars he’d wolfed down as the sun was coming up, and he was ready for a real meal. Maybe a cheeseburger or two.

  The sound of his footsteps was meditative on the uneven ground, and he looked up at the patches of sky that appeared between the tops of the trees, grateful for the mild warmth of the day. In another month or two, the land out west would be scorched and hardened by the summer sun, rain a precious commodity. He wondered what the weather would be like here.

  He’d been working a ranch over in Winnett, birthing cows in the dead of winter, when he’d seen the online job posting for a summer farmhand in Milford, New York. Up to then, he’d never been east of Colorado, but he’d been unaccountably drawn to the summer position at Darrow Farm and, eventually, to the idea of it as an opportunity for a more dramatic change of scenery. After a few emails, one phone conversation in which he’d been surprised to realize Marty Jacobsen was a woman, and a quick check of his references, he’d been hired. He’d started out on foot in March and had never looked back.

  He raised his head as the sound of chatter came from up ahead on the trail. A few seconds later, a couple rounded the bend. Bodhi smiled in greeting as they each raised a hand. Their voices quickly faded behind him, and he continued on, shifting his pack and settling it more firmly on his shoulders.

  The pack had made countless trips with him across Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana, plus one sweltering summer in Texas, and he’d gotten used to answering the questions prompted by its presence. Old women wanted to know where he was from and truckers asked where he was headed. Kids asked him why he didn’t have a car while their parents wondered about his parents. But the one thing everyone wanted to know was if he got lonely. The question had surprised him at first. Being alone wasn’t something he feared or even thought about. It was a resting state, as natural as breathing since he’d left home at fourteen without a word to anyone. He’d been careful to stay under the radar right up until his eighteenth birthday last year. If his dad had reported Bodhi missing and he’d been caught, he would have been forced back to the crappy little apartment in Billings. Or worse, into foster care when Child Protective Services realized his dad was a drunk. He was better off on his own, something he’d proven by quickly picking up seasonal labor with the migrants who came north in the summer. He was a good worker, a hard worker, and he soon had a list of farms and ranches that were happy to have him back for the next season.

  The winters were the toughest for finding work. Then the farms were all but shut down, jobs hard to come by. Still, he’d always managed to keep a roof over his head, traded for milking cows or feeding cattle, both of which had to be done year round. The barns where he slept offered a kind of continuity; the soft shuffle of animals and the smell of hay and manure were the same everywhere. It was the closest thing he had to home, and he slept deep and sound there whether he was on an apple farm in Wyoming or a cattle ranch in Montana.

  He knew what people thought about the fact that he hadn’t been to school since he left home. He could see it in their eyes. That he was stupid, a loser. Deep down, he even wondered if they were right. His dad sure had thought so. But the truth was, he never did stop learning, and he had over a dozen library cards from all over the West. The long, cold nights of winter were his favorite. Then he was sometimes the only farmhand on the payroll, and he’d finish chores for the night, sprawl across his bunk, and read until his eyes burned. When the library was too far from the ranches and farms where he was employed, he’d dig around the bunkhouse for whatever he could find, just as likely to come upon a back issue of Field & Stream as an old copy of The Sun Also Rises. Didn’t matter. He read what he could find, and while he knew it didn’t make him educated, exactly, he also knew he wasn’t dumb.

  He’d taken the GED when he was sixteen and changed his name when he turned eighteen. The choice of Bodhi was a little ironic, since he was about as far from enlightened as anyone, but it had a kind of anonymity to it, and he liked the idea of being a faceless wanderer, searching for truth, rather than a former runaway without a single soul to care whether he lived or died. His new last name, Lowell, had been his mother’s, and the forgettable nature of it suited his purposes perfectly. He was tall, but not noticeably so, and while his years of ranch work had made him strong, his brown hair and eyes were nothing if not average. It was how he liked it. He was just passing through, had no desire to leave any trace of himself or form any attachments. The truth was, he hadn’t had much luck with people. His best interactions with them had come from a distance, and he planned to keep it that way.

  Three

  The school parking lot was half full by the time Rose pulled her mom’s 1968 Chevy into a spot near the fron
t. She was rebraiding her still-damp hair when Will pulled into the spot next to her, his pickup screeching as he turned the wheel.

  “Hey, Red,” he said, jumping out of the driver’s side.

  Will was the only one who called her by the nickname. She didn’t love it, but she didn’t correct him. The farm would have been sunk without him these past few months. He could call her whatever he wanted.

  “Hey,” she said, wrapping a hair tie around the end of her braid. “Still haven’t gotten that belt replaced?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t had time.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Bet you had time to conquer that new game on Xbox last night.”

  He swatted at her with the sweatshirt in his hands. “And time to help you with that bull, too.”

  The bull was notoriously stubborn about coming in from the north field, and she and Will had spent a half hour on their horses the night before trying to force the animal into its pen.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Rose said. “You were probably just killing time while your controller charged.”

  He grinned. “How’d you know?”

  She bumped him playfully with her shoulder as they headed across the parking lot. She’d seen him as a gap-toothed kid, an awkward middle schooler, a gangly adolescent. Now he was a man. Okay, maybe not a man, but a guy at least. He didn’t miss much, and his blue eyes had only grown clearer and sharper over the years. His blond hair was cut short, and his broad shoulders strained at his T-shirt. She was surprised to realize that he was at least four inches taller than her now.

  “That guy Aunt Marty hired is supposed to be here any day. Then I won’t need your help as much,” she promised.

  “I don’t mind helping, but I’m glad you’ll have someone around to give you a hand when I can’t be there.”

  “Last day of senior year . . .” She heard the note of wistfulness in her voice and wasn’t surprised when Will turned to look at her. He knew her better than anyone.

  “What?” he asked. “You going to miss the hard-ass chairs? The crappy cafeteria food?”