Hostage of Love (Teacher/Student)

Chapter 8

“You’re kidding me.” Stephen seems to be a little surprised by the surprised look I give him. “You’re kidding me. Stephen, you’ve never grown a garden before?” He shakes his head and leans back further in the shade. “Is it so much of a surprise? Just because I grew up in a small town similar to this one doesn’t mean I’ve experienced similar happenings that you have also.” I put my hands deeper into the dark soil as I listen. The rain finally stopped, after about twelve hours, and now the sun is shining brightly and the storm has left a cool breeze behind.

I sit in my garden, one of the thing I love most about my home. It’s a decent sized patch of land, and I have several different types of things growing here, from vegetables to flowers to fungi to a few fruit trees. The fruit trees, both pears, are starting to wilt and I have a suspicion that they are in fact dead or dying. The soil in this particular area isn’t the best for those types of trees. I have several different kinds of the other three types, and most are growing splendidly.

Mum and I have found that they are a blessing to have, especially since I can bring them into town to sell to the owners of local restaurants, as well as the occasional housewife. The people here have been found to crave the locally owned produce, instead of some things that come from further inland. Things grown with chemicals and the like. When the harvest is plentiful, I am able to sell some of the things, and then we keep some for ourselves, and benefit both ways.

I put my hands deeper into the dark dirt, smiling at the coolness that is pressed up against my skin. The storm left the garden in a soggy state, which I am very thankful for because I haven’t been able to water it very often and we’ve recently been in a dry spot. My baby needed it badly. Stephen sits cross legged on my right, his large hands delicately adjusting the dirt around one of my tomato plants. I notice that he’s pushing it up almost too closely and smile. Taking one of his hands, I move it with my own, showing him the best way to move the dirt. “You can’t get it too close or too tight because then its like its suffocating. It has a harder time moving, and the water has to get through more dirt before it reaches the root.”

As he starts to push his fingers the way I showed him, my gaze moves out to the pasture behind us. My filly, now a month old, and her mother are grazing peacefully, the grass slowly being diminished as they make their way across their fenced in home. I smile softly. My horse really is beautiful, she’s one of the best presents, be it unintentional, that I’ve ever received. Her coat is a glossy roan color and each of her back hooves have white socks just above the hoof. The patches extend to her knees, showing off more of her graceful form.

Early on, I discovered that Lady has a personality that is easily excited. She loves to learn at least one new thing each day. Whether its how to properly fall on her rump, or chase a new butterfly through the tall grasses, she greets it eagerly. Unfortunately, I’m not able to constantly be watching her, so I’m sure she’s able to see more than I notice.

“Adrianna.” I turn my head back to Stephen, his colorful eyes watching me. I feel my cheeks warm up and am immediately thankful for the sun. It gives me an excuse that it’s the heat turning my cheeks red, not my blush. Yes, we’re together, but I still get chills and start to blush when I notice him looking at me. It’s almost like.. I don’t deserve his beautiful gaze.

“Do you have another question?” I ask, thankful that my voice remains in a non nervous tone as I reply. My hands turn back to the task at hand and I reach out to grab the plant of butternut squash, the one that I am currently re-planting. “No. It’s more of a comment.” The spade is set aside, “What is your comment then?” and I put the plant inside the hole that I dug out earlier.

“You have something, on your face.” I turn my head to look at him. Something.. on my face? I don’t remember putting anything on it this morning. “What-… what is it?” I ask, thinking about possibilities and none come to me. I sit up, the plant momentarily forgotten as I crouch back on my knees. The bottom half of my legs are covered in dirt from crouching in the garden and it doesn’t help that I’m wearing shorts. Parts of my bare arms have splotches of dirt on them as well, although my red tee shirt has more dirt than my arms. There has been a few times that I have to crawl through the garden to reach things, and when I need to, getting dirty doesn’t bother me. Dirt can always be washed off.