Applejack gives a light chuckle, and you can't help but feel a tremble in your knees; even her laugh sounds so sexy. Briefly, she leans back into the doorway and yells out inside the house, “Oh, Granny Smith! We got someone askin' about the job! I'll be in the barn, if ya need me!” After a faint response you can't hear from the porch, Applejack nods, steps out, and closes the door—and you can already feel your heart speeding up again.
“Well, c'mon, partner,” she says, gesturing her head for you to follow, “you'll need to know a few things before ya get started.” She steps off the porch and begins to walk around the left of the house, and you closely follow her. Your shoes and her boots kick up dust along the well-worn dirt path around the house. Along the way, your eyes wander again, and they find Applejack's strong, yet feminine form once again. The way her hips move as she walks; her smooth, well-toned legs, her cute butt—all of it drives you mad, but you struggle to keep it to yourself. The urge to confess your real feelings pops up in your head every so often, but you remain silent. You've dug yourself in way too deep, and confessing now would make you look stupid and dishonest in front of the girl you've been crushing on for years. By now, you've lost count of how many times you should have slapped yourself.
You snap your eyes front and start coming up with another plan. Leaving now is out of the question, as it would be dishonest and mean, and would hurt her too much. Minimalizing effort in this work will make you conspicuous. So, to keep from hurting her feelings, you decide to work as hard as you possibly can, while at the same time taking this opportunity to show off how useful and industrious you can be and impress her. It's the perfect plan to save yourself from this cumbersome faux pas.
At least you hope so.
The two of you have made your way to the barn behind the house, and Applejack opens the door. As you walk inside, the musty smell hits you immediately. A single electric light hangs from the middle of the barn ceiling; the rest of the place is illuminated by the barn’s windows providing natural light. Barrels were stacked up in columns against the wooden wall on the right, while large cubes of hay were stacked against the left wall. Applejack walks into the middle of the barn, turns to face you, and begins explaining in a somewhat regulatory tone. “Well, partner, I hope yer in for some hard n’ sweaty work, ‘cause it takes a hardy worker to pull off these jobs. Lots o’ heavy liftin’, lots of movin’ things around, and lots and lots of apples! Think ya can handle it?”
You glance around the barn, feeling a little daunted all of the sudden. This was going to be a little more difficult than you thought. But this does not deter you in any way, and you look Applejack square in the eye and reply assuredly, “Yes. I do.”
“Great!” Applejack then makes her way to one of the stacks of barrels (or were they really called bushels? Wasn’t that just the unit of measurement?), pulls out one, then walks over to the other side of the barn, straw crunching under her cowgirl's boots—which you notice look fantastic on her. She reaches the other side of the barn, puts down the barrel, picks up two cinder blocks, and sets them inside. She picks up the container with both arms, as if it weighed nothing, and walks back to you. “This here weighs about forty pounds,” she explains, hefting it in her arms for emphasis. “Average weight of a bushel of apples is about the same. Think you can lift it?”
You glance down at it before answering, “Sure! No problem.” She hands the barrel (bushel?) out to you, and you take it; the weight takes you by surprise, and you already nearly drop it. But saving face in front of Applejack comes first, and you know it; with a bit of effort, you heave the barrel up into your arms, showing that you can lift it with ease.
“Pretty good,” Applejack says, nodding in approval, “but on the busiest days, we have to lug around thirty or forty o' these things from the fields to the barn. Crates of apples weigh three times that, at least, so it usually takes two to lift 'em onto the trucks.” She then beckons you over to the left wall of the barn, where she got the cinder blocks, and stops before a huge square hay bale sitting by itself. You set down the bushel (barrel?) and follow, and she continues, “This weighs about the same as the usual crate. Wanna try and lift it up with me?”
You take a good look at the hay bale; it's almost as tall as you, and four times as wide, but you're certain you could lift one end of it. You nod, assuring her that you can do it, and you both bend down, ready to demonstrate. “All right, on three!” Applejack calls over to you. “One . . . two . . . three!”
With all of your might, you grip the underside of the yellow block and lift. Applejack does so at the same time, and the hay lifts off the ground with ease. As you lift it up over your heads, your eyes meet, and Applejack looks back at you with a warm, benign gaze. You see it, and you feel your face begin to flush; she looks so beautiful when she smiles like that. It makes you trust her, knowing you could easily depend on her.
It makes you love her.
On three, you both set down the hay bale, and your eyes meet once again, the cube of straw underneath you again this time. Applejack flashes you another pretty smile. “We may have a spot on the Apple farm for you yet, partner!” she praises.
That inexplicable tingling returns, and you feel your face warm up again. Keeping your cool, you reply confidently, “Nothing to it.” You then feel your foot brush against the edge of the hay bale, and you trip, feeling the air escape your lungs at the same time.
“Whoa, careful!” Applejack yells out as she steps forward to catch you. She gives a lighthearted chuckle and looks back at you, much closer and more informal this time. “Course, it might take some time for ya, but I think you'll get the knack of it.”
You can't even speak, at least not at first. With Applejack's slender, yet well-worn work hands holding you, one pressed against your chest, the other softly gripping your shoulder, there is little you can do but widen your eyes and hope she can't feel your heartbeat—which has considerably quickened at her touch. “Uh . . . yeah. I, I think I will.”
And there's another slap.