Breathe with the Arrow

Chapter 4

  The morning came slow, gold spilling across the fields and making the dust rise in lazy swirls. Shirley woke to the faint hum of cicadas and the distant groan of the windmill, already turning in the stubborn heat. The air carried that dry, sun-baked smell of wheat and hay, the scent of summer itself pressing into the farmhouse walls.

  Downstairs, Jolene moved between stove and counter, humming softly as she worked. “Good morning, darling,” she said, setting a plate before Shirley. “Eat your fill. The sun is no friend to empty stomachs.” Her voice carried warmth, a gentle counterpoint to the harsh discipline Shirley had come to feel in her grandfather’s presence.

  Grandfather sat at the table, boots laced, spine straight, coffee steaming between his hands. “The morning does not forgive tardiness,” he said, eyes sharp on Shirley. “Hours lost cannot be reclaimed, and work will not wait for hesitation.”

  Shirley nodded silently, the familiar weight of his gaze pressing against her chest. She knew better than to rush words in his presence; the farm demanded attention, focus, and obedience.

  After breakfast, she went to the barn. Cecil was there, crouched beneath the windmill again, but today he moved more slowly, a faint paleness in his cheeks. He smiled faintly as she approached. “Ready for the morning?”

  Shirley nodded, lifting her bow. She noticed the slight tremor in his hands as he picked up an arrow. Something in her chest tightened—a subtle alarm she didn’t quite name. Cecil’s patience remained, though, steady as ever, guiding her through stance, breath, and aim.

  They practiced for hours in the oppressive heat, the sun relentless above them. Sweat ran down Shirley’s back, dust clung to her arms, and the sharp scent of hay filled her nostrils. Each arrow that struck the can on the fence carried a small victory, yet her eyes kept returning to Cecil, to the subtle signs of weakness she could not yet fully understand.

  At one point, he paused, leaning against the windmill, his chest rising with small, shallow breaths. “I think… I need a short break,” he said quietly, forcing a smile.

  Shirley frowned, but nodded. They sat beneath the old pecan tree, the shade offering a brief reprieve from the relentless sun. Cecil spoke softly, telling her stories of last year’s storms, of deer that had skirted the edges of the fields, of hawks gliding silently overhead. Each story carried a weight, a lesson not in words but in careful observation, patience, and respect.

  The peace broke in a sudden clatter. Grandfather had come out to the barn, his boots loud against the dirt, eyes narrowing as they fell upon Cecil. “I have warned you about wasting the hours with idleness!” he barked. “This heat is no excuse for neglect or weakness!”

  Cecil straightened as best he could, hiding the fatigue that pressed against him. “Yes, sir,” he said, voice calm, though it trembled faintly.

  Grandfather’s eyes flicked to Shirley, sharp and measuring. “And you, child—heed the hours. The world does not wait for dawdlers or dreamers.”

  Shirley lowered her eyes, cheeks warm under his attention. She had never known words to carry such pressure, the weight of expectation pressing down, shaping her small movements, her thoughts, even the arc of the arrow she held in her hand.

  By mid-afternoon, the heat had become unbearable. Jolene called them inside, her voice soft but carrying the authority of care. Shirley helped Cecil as he moved slowly, the paleness in his cheeks more noticeable now. Inside, the farmhouse welcomed them with the cool scent of bread, preserves, and fried vegetables. Grandfather’s gaze followed them briefly, silent but ever-present, weighing everything in its path.

  Later that evening, Shirley wandered through the wheat fields alone, the sun dipping low, painting everything in gold and shadow. She thought of the morning—the bow, the arrow, Cecil’s quiet guidance, and the unyielding presence of her grandfather. Somewhere beneath the heat and dust, she felt a growing understanding: that summer would test her patience, her courage, and her care, in ways she could not yet name.

  And beneath it all, a small, quiet worry lingered, twisting gently in her chest. Cecil’s hands had trembled that morning. His steps had been slower. The boy who had been the center of her small world, her anchor, seemed fragile in a way she could not fix.

  As twilight deepened, the shadows lengthening across the fields, Shirley made her way back to the farmhouse. The cicadas hummed, the wheat whispered, and somewhere in the dimming light, she realized that this summer was already changing her, shaping her heart with lessons that could not be taught with words alone.