Seeds of Trust

by Cynthia Reese

  The color in his face heightened. “Yeah. I do. But not if some dumb yahoo is going to try to scare you—or worse. I want you in one piece.”

  “Then tell me what was going on at that meeting.”

  His face closed down. “I did. I can’t help it if you don’t believe me.”

  “I want to believe you. I want you to believe that I’m here to help. But I guess I can’t help it if you don’t believe me.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, ready it seemed to say something. “It might be helpful for you to go see Jake Wilkes tomorrow. Give you another small-farmer view of this thing.”

  Becca accepted his suggestion for what it was—a reach across a divide he didn’t seem to be able to bridge. “I will.”

  “Jake’s an old bachelor, can’t cook worth anything. So why don’t you come out to the house for dinner tomorrow when you get through with him? Mee-Maw will be glad to see you.”

  “Just Mee-Maw?”

  He reached over and traced the curve of her face. For a moment, she held her breath, waited for the kiss she was sure would come. Her pulse accelerated.

  Ryan let his fingers graze against her cheek for a moment longer. He took a step back, his eyes registering the same deep conflict she felt.

  “No,” he said finally. “I have to be honest. I’ll be glad to see you, too.”

  With that, he was out the door like a man on fire.

  * * *

  Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Haven’t heard from you… What’s up?

  Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Things are crazier than ever. Look, it’s pretty confusing for me right now. Maybe it’s not fair to you… No, I know it’s not fair to you. But you need to know that I’ve met a woman. I haven’t got an earthly clue how long it will last, and I’m not fool enough to ask you to wait until I find out.

  Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: This is your goodbye, then?

  Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Don’t make me feel any more awful than I already do, okay? It’s safe with you…and scary with her. And there are other things—things about me that you might not like if you knew them. So, yeah, I guess this had better be goodbye.

  CHAPTER TEN

  RYAN ARGUED WITH HIMSELF all the way out to the farm, up the back steps, down the hall past Mee-Maw’s room. By the time he’d stripped off his clothes and got in the shower, the argument in his head was as loud, at least to him, as any barroom brawl.

  It came down to one question, really: should he have come clean with Becca? Told her not only everything he knew, but what he feared and suspected, as well?

  He’d told only one other person even part of the truth, and that was Jack. Jack had held fast to the idea that the best thing they could do was keep their heads down, muddle through, hope for the best.

  Up until now—up until Becca—Ryan had thought Jack was right.

  The hot water pulsating on Ryan’s back eased some of the soreness from the day’s labor. He still wasn’t used to it, not even after nearly nine months on the farm. How Gramps had done it day after day, and in his eighties to boot, was amazing.

  But then Gramps had an amazing partner in Mee-Maw. Woman could probably still outplow Ryan in a competition with a mule and a set of plows. She was tough but still so vulnerable.

  Thinking of Mee-Maw brought his thoughts back to Becca. And thoughts of her and the kiss he’d just passed up—and the promise of maybe something more in the future—left his hands shaking so that the shampoo bottle slipped through his fingers.

  Ryan smothered a curse and retrieved the shampoo from the bottom of the old cast-iron tub that was too small for a man his size.

  As he did a quick lather on his hair, he tried to separate the hormones-gone-wild from the more dangerous attraction he had for Becca. In so many ways, she reminded him of his grandmother—sounded freaky when he thought about it that way, but it was true.

  Mee-Maw was the one woman he’d admired above all other women. She had a good, compassionate heart, but she was willing to roll up her sleeves and get dirty if that’s what it took to take care of her family. She was smart and funny and she knew people.

  All things that Becca was.

  So how did he know all this? He hadn’t met Becca but a couple of days ago, but what he’d bumbled out to her earlier—right before he hightailed it out of there before he could make a complete idiot of himself—was true. Ryan did feel as if he knew her.

  It wasn’t just the instant kinship he felt, it wasn’t that he truly sensed that she wanted to help. It was the way she said things, the words she used. Sometimes he could almost predict how she was going to react to situations.

  It was her appreciation of rural life. Now that was different from the last woman in Ryan’s life. Lily had sure cut and run when she found out he planned to give up the high-paying job with the ag-chemical firm and instead move here and run the farm for Mee-Maw.

  But Becca…he knew she wouldn’t have done that.

  He would have kissed her tonight. Wanted to. But then he’d thought about Sunny and Jack’s warning to keep his head down for Mee-Maw’s sake. Kissing Becca just hadn’t felt right.

  But, man, he’d wanted to. Which was why he knew, no matter how it hurt, he owed it to Sunny to end things with her. They’d had a deal—if either one of them met someone in the real world, they needed to pull the plug on their cyber-relationship.

  Give up that easy friendship with Sunny? The very idea ripped something inside him. But he might as well get it over and done with. A man was only as good as his word, after all. Better to e-mail her after he got out of the shower.

  Ryan groaned in frustration and splayed a palm on the cool tile surround of the tub. Why was he always getting himself in these impossible situations? Either Becca was buttering him up to get him to confess all—in which case she was a complete phony—or else she was the real deal. Truth be told, that was almost scarier.

  Because no relationship could ever be built on deceit. Or even half-hidden truths. Until he came clean, Becca wouldn’t really know who she was getting involved with.

  But these secrets weren’t his own; they could hurt Mee-Maw. Maybe even result in her losing the farm she’d lived on all these years.

  Ryan cursed again. No. If it were meant to be with Becca, it would be. It just wasn’t the right time for them to start anything. He wouldn’t force it and risk Mee-Maw’s homeplace.

  Because he owed Gramps that much. No matter what.

  * * *

  WHEN BECCA WOKE the next morning, the sun was bleeding around the edges of the motel room’s heavy drapes. She’d not had a restful night—not only had she still felt unsettled over the hangman’s noose, but she’d also had to deal with her dad.

  He’d chastised her for not being more aware of her surroundings. “Should have scoped out that door before you got out of the car. Could have been worse. You were lucky.”

  He had given her grudging praise for not overreacting, but it was so much easier for the bad things, the negative things, to stick in her head.

  Becca yawned, threw back the covers and headed for the shower. First thing she was going to do was get something to eat, then head out to Jake Wilkes’s place. She wondered why his name hadn’t been on the list of claimants Ag-Sure had provided.

  He must be key to all this—or was that just hope that Ryan had finally decided to trust her enough to leave some breadcrumbs as a trail?

  Out of the shower and dressed, Becca spotted the vine still on the dresser. She let her fingers trail along the thick vine. Ugly. But then most parasites were.

  The morning was bright and hot already. Charlotte at the din
er hadn’t known J.T.’s full given name, but she’d been able to provide detailed directions to the Wilkes farm, and Becca easily found the place.

  What she saw when she pulled up at the gate was a far cry from Murphy’s slick operation. Here, the fence was constructed from rusty wire and creosote posts, sporadically reinforced with bits and pieces of scrap lumber. The barns and outbuildings looked just as dismal, and the house was a tiny ranch-style that had seen better days.

  Becca pulled to a stop in the space between the house and the large barn. She opened the car door and stood, peering around for signs of activity.

  In the distance, she heard the squealing of pigs and hogs—and the sound of hammering.

  Becca followed the noise and the scent to find a gray-haired man bent over a section of fence. Hogs snuffled excitedly around him. He kept butting them back with an elbow or a foot.

  “Cornelia, I swear, you get out of this pen again, you’ll find yourself on my plate, you got it? Pork chops, that’s gonna be your future. Now least you could do is just get out the way and let me—Baby, you, too. I know you was in on it. Cornelia never does anything without you helping her.”

  Becca grinned at what she heard, amused by a pig farmer on first-name basis with his charges. From the affection in his voice, even if it was tinged with frustration, the pigs were in no danger.

  “Mr. Wilkes?” She cupped her hands around her mouth and tried again when he didn’t seem to hear her. “Mr. Wilkes!”

  He looked up, frowned and hollered, “Just a minute. Let me get this finished up, else they’ll be out again, quick as a flash.”

  Wilkes banged away on the patch some more until he had it to his satisfaction, then tucked the hammer into a loop on his belt. With a casual scratch behind the ear of the nearest hog, he made his way through the pack. A big black-and-white sow rubbed up against him.

  “Oh, all right, Geraldine. You get a pet, too. I’m not mad at you—you always do stay in the pen. Now, go on with the lot of you. Y’all got mud to play in and slop to eat. Go on, git!”

  With that, he clambered over the fence, grabbed a hose and squirted a jet of water over his waders. He stepped out of them, revealing worn brogans that, like his farm, had seen better days.

  “Yes, ma’am? I wouldn’t get too close to me if you can’t abide the smell of hogs. I sure am sorry. If I’d known I’d have company—well, no, guess not. Got to fix the hole or else those hogs’ll get out all over again.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I know a thing or two about hogs. My name is Becca—”

  “Reynolds? That crop investigator? Should have guessed. Brandon called me last night after he talked to you. Said you might be around. Nasty, the way they put that noose on your door. But then what can you expect from people like that? Ain’t got quality, I say. Quality always shows, so if it don’t show, well, ’tain’t there.”

  “Yes, sir. Your nephew was telling me that you had some dodder vine—”

  “Some? Some! One whole field of cotton just about gone. I’m ’bout ready to burn the lot of it. Who knows if I don’t, it’s just gonna get worse.”

  “Yes, sir.” She waited to see if that response would trigger another flood of rants. When it didn’t, she ventured, “I was wondering why you weren’t on the list of claimants. From Ag-Sure, I mean.”

  “Simple. Can’t afford crop insurance.”

  “Kind of risky, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t know about that. After all, what good has it done these fellas who have it? Don’t see Ag-Sure cutting any checks, or did I miss something? In any case, if you can’t afford it, you can’t afford it. And me, I can’t afford it. I can barely afford my mortgage as it is. I’m in the hock for fertilizer and pesticides and seed—and don’t even get me started on what diesel costs these days.”

  “So, when did you discover dodder vine in your crop?”

  He took off his cap and rubbed his forehead with the back of his arm. “Lemme see…this is August, I’d say, hmm…June.”

  “June?” This was earlier than any of the others had claimed they’d found dodder vine.

  “Yes, ma’am. One day, I’m seeing some of Murphy’s day workers skulking around in my field—his land borders mine, you know—and so I run ’em off. I figure they’re after, I dunno, whatever ain’t nailed down in my barns and they’re sneaking in the back way. Few days later, I find these little ol’ vines that look like snakes every few rows. Well, now—” he replaced his cap “—it don’t take no rocket scientist to put two and two together.

  “Murphy’s been after that plot of land for a while—ticked him off good-fashion when I managed to scrape up the money to save this half of the farm. So I yank up the vines and I burn ’em. When they’re young, they burn pretty easy.”

  “Then…”

  “How come I got dodder vine in my cotton? There’s only me. I can’t watch the field day and night—I gotta get work done, gotta get some sleep—and these pigs of mine’ll worry a man loose from his soul if he lets ’em. I snatched up what I could when I found it, but some of it I must have missed. It took root and spread like wildfire. But I dragged a big firebreak between it and the rest of my crop and I burned enough off so that it didn’t have any way to spread. I keep thinking Ryan’ll come up with some way to kill the mess and I can save my crop, you know?”

  A pang went through her at the mention of Ryan’s name. Becca pulled her attention from that and focused on the topic at hand. “Could you identify the men who had been in the field?”

  “Naw, don’t say that I could. Not a positive ID.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Besides, Murphy hires so many illegals, his farm looks like a revolving door. Hardly ever see the same folks for more than a month or so at a time.”

  “Illegals? Undocumented workers?”

  “Yeah, poor men. Murphy makes ’em kick back part of their wages for their rent—and in cash, to boot. They live off down behind me along the creek. That’s why Murphy wanted my property, I figure, ’cause it’s got easy access to water. Ain’t none of ’em got any wells down there.”

  Things began to click into place for Becca. Murphy was paying his workers with checks to document losses for insurance purposes—but he was getting a chunk of that money back in cash. It was a fiddle, a common enough one.

  The men would be in the fields, but Becca wanted to see for herself this settlement of migrant workers. Perhaps she could find someone there to question.

  “I’d like to talk to them. Is it far?”

  Wilkes shrugged his bony shoulders. “Nope, not to me. I can drive you to the back fence—you can take a gander at the dodder vine on the way if you’d like—and you can walk from there.”

  A few minutes later, Becca was standing at an overgrown fencerow, looking over the crest of the field behind Wilkes’ property.

  “See the tops of them trees? That’s the creek right there. ’Tain’t more than a fifteen-minute walk back on in there. I should know—I take the rascals some food and other stuff on occasion.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Murphy makes sure they stay pretty desperate, but I wouldn’t treat my hogs thataway.” He shook his head in disgust. “Want me to walk back there with you?”

  “Not if you don’t think there’s any danger. They might talk more without anyone else around.”

  “Suit yourself. But if you ain’t back in…say an hour and a half, I’ll come lookin’ for you.”

  “I have a cell phone.”

  “Mightn’t get reception that close to the creek. But then again, the way these dang cellular towers are popping up, it might. Brandon got me one of them contraptions to carry with me—” he patted his pocket “—in case I fall or something. Bunch of bother, you ask me, but he pays for it. Give me a call when you get back to the fence and I’ll come pi
ck you up.” He rattled off a phone number, and Becca input it in her phone.

  Then she turned, negotiated the fence and started for the creek.

  “Hey!”

  She turned at Wilkes’s call. “Yes, sir?”

  “You watch your back. This land you’re on? It ain’t mine any more. Belongs to that scumsucker Murphy.”

  A little tremor of fear rattled through her. She squared her shoulders and nodded her head. “Yes, sir. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be back in an hour and a half or so—or I’ll call.”

  “You do that. I’m gonna see to those hogs of mine. Blamed pests. Oughta turn the lot of ’em into pork chops.”

  He turned and made his way back to his pickup, and Becca was suddenly left alone.

  * * *

  THE WALK, despite the thick cotton plants, wasn’t a bad one. Mostly it was downhill and she could feel breezes blowing up from the creek. As Becca came to the edge of the field, she saw a well-worn path leading into the woods. Farther along, if she squinted, she could make out a narrow track of road. That had to be the access by car.

  She settled on the path, figuring it was the shortest route. Sure enough, about five minutes later she stood at a clearing.

  It looked like something out of a third-world country. Old tumbledown mobile homes, more rusted-out hulks than anything, leaned on shaky stacks of concrete blocks. Corrugated tin augmented what she suspected were leaky roofs. Doors stood wide-open, windows—the ones that weren’t broken—thrown open.

  In the bare sand clearing, a gaggle of little girls were playing in the dirt near a still-smoking campfire. An old man dozed on, of all things, a brand-new garden bench. The scent of cumin and chili pepper emanated from the various mobile homes, and it smelled as good as any Mexican cantina Becca had ever patronized. Her stomach rumbled in protest.

  The little girls had spotted her. They gaped open-mouthed at her. She approached them, knelt down in the sand.

  “Hola,” Becca greeted them. Dusting off her rusty Spanish, she asked them what they were playing.