Darien had been cleared to drive after three months with a handicap tag on her car, which she wasn’t pleased with, but she understood. Since she was getting back to a somewhat normal life, Val had finally made the tough decision to move out and let her go on her own.
As soon as Val was gone, Darien now had nothing to do and no one to talk to. She tried PTSD groups and veteran groups, but nothing helped the depression she was buried under. She finally began researching at the hospital where she’d had her surgery, checking with anyone who could give her organ transplant information. After nearly six weeks of getting nowhere, she finally found out that her donor organs had come from a hospital in Iowa City.
Darien rushed home and called the hospital, looking for information on a woman that would’ve died the night her donor organs had become available. It took her an hour to finally be directed to the person who could give her names of the three patients who’d passed away during the twenty-four hour time period. Two of them were women. After a quick Internet search, she was sure Paulette Sandinsky was not her donor, especially since she was eighty years old. That left one name: Janice Hoffman. There was no obituary listed, but Janice’s name was affiliated with Hoffman Farm, an agriculture and dairy farm on the outskirts of Tipton, Iowa. Further research revealed that Tipton was a very small town of around 3,500 residents.
Darien took a deep breath and booked a flight and a rental car. Then, she found the only motel in Tipton and booked a room for a couple of nights. She sent Val a text message saying she thought she’d found her donor’s family and was heading to Iowa.
***
The flight had gone by quickly and before she knew it, Darien was standing in the parking lot of the airport in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The air seemed different. It smelled more like dirt than the salty tingle of the beach air she was used to. After signing the papers for her rental car, she made the hour long drive to Tipton.
The motel was small. She estimated there were no more than twenty rooms in the building. The older woman at the desk looked her over a few times. Darien knew she stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone around her was in jeans or jean shorts and some form of boots. She’d worn jeans, but the sneakers on her feet screamed outsider.
“Where are you from?” the older woman asked.
“California,” Darien answered.
“What brings you all the way to Tipton?”
“Oh, I’m on vacation, visiting an old friend.”
“Well, here’s your room key. Enjoy your stay,” she said, walking back into the other room to continue watching the show playing on the TV.
Darien nodded and headed back outside. The number five was on her key, so she moved her car into the space in front of her room and walked inside with her bag. The room was small with a double bed, a microwave, and a mini-fridge. The décor was like something directly out of the sixties with drab green and gold coloring. She dropped her bag on the floor near the dresser and pulled the map from the side pocket that she’d printed before leaving her house. Her motel was circled in red pen with the Hoffman farm highlighted in yellow. It was too late in the day to make an unannounced visit, so Darien walked next door to the mom and pop style diner, where she ordered a chicken pot pie and a water to go.
Chapter 5
The next morning, Darien dressed in jeans, a new, light blue t-shirt that was meant to look old and faded, and her sneakers. She covered her short hair with an old dark-blue ball cap with a surf logo on the front of it as she headed out to her rental car. She’d chosen to leave during brunch time so maybe she’d miss the early morning hustle and bustle of the farm. The streets were empty as she drove across town toward the rolling hills of the outskirts on the northern end.
Darien’s heart raced when the cattle fence came into view. She was starting to wonder if Val had been right all along about this being a mistake as she drove past the gravel road that led to the tan-colored house. A large barn and smaller structure that looked like a horse stable were in the distance. A large building also sat on the opposite side of the property. Cows of all different colors were scattered around an open field on that side. She made another pass by the property before heading back into town to get some lunch at the diner she’d eaten at the night before.
Mustering her courage once again, she got into the car and headed back towards the farm. This time, she noticed an old sign near the gate that had the word HIRING scrawled across it in black paint. She quickly turned in and drove up towards the house.
A ranchhand who looked about her age walked by as she was getting out of the car. He was wearing dusty jeans, an old t-shirt, and a worn pair of cowboy boots.
“You here about the job? Or are you lost?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Darien cleared her throat. “I…yeah, the job.” She nodded, looking around, hoping it wasn’t some kind of animal slaughtering or other unconventional farm work.
“Courtney’s not here, but Beverly is in the house. Come on.” He spit tobacco on the ground and kicked some gravel over it with his boot. “I’m Ernie, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Darien.”
“Where are you from?”
“West coast.”
He nodded, pulling open the screen to the back door. “Ms. Beverly,” he called.
“I’m in the kitchen, Ernie. Come on in.”
Darien followed him into the two-story, ranch-style home to the kitchen, where an older woman with grayish brown hair was standing near the sink. She had a few extra wrinkles and slightly worn skin from the obvious years she’d spent in the fields of the farm. She plopped the dish towel over her shoulder and turned around.
“This is Darien. She’s here about the farmhand job, and Courtney’s out at the market, making a delivery.”
“I’ll take it from here,” she said, nodding for Darien to come further into the room. “I’m Beverly Hoffman. Welcome to our farm.”
“Thank you,” Darien replied, wondering how this woman was related to her donor. The nervousness in her chest had started to subside, making her feel a little more comfortable in the stranger’s home.
“What brings you out this way? You don’t look like you’re from around here,” Beverly stated.
“You’re right, I’m sure I stand out like a rooster in a hen house, but I’m a hard worker. I’ve been through a lot this past year and I came out here to clear my head and put the past behind me.”
Beverly nodded. “I have some hot biscuits and honey. Would you like some?” she asked, pulling the towel off the hot food and sliding the plate over.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Darien smeared a little of the fresh honey over the two biscuit pieces and pushed them back together, eating it like a sandwich.
“Did your momma ever tell you it’s not polite to wear hats and sunglasses in the house?” Beverly chided.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Darien pulled her hat off and reached for the sunglasses, slowly pulling them down. “These are prescription. I’m afraid I left my regular glasses at home.”
“You don’t have to take them off on my account,” Beverly said, stiffening when she saw a glimpse of Darien’s bright colored eyes before she pushed the dark glasses back up. “Where did you say you were from?”
“Arizona.” Darien grinned.
“That’s a long way from Iowa.” Beverly patted her hand. She was unable to figure out why she’d felt such a connection to the stranger, but there was something about her that Beverly liked. “Well, whatever you’re running from, honey, you’re safe here.”
“Thank you. I’m recently out of the military, so I guess you could say that’s it. I’m trying to find myself again.”
“Our farmhand job doesn’t pay a whole lot, maybe a dollar over minimum wage, and it’s cash, under the table. It’s hard work with long hours, mostly fixing the fence and doing other odd jobs. You may have to handle an animal occasionally.”
“That’s fine with me,” Darien replied, finishing her biscuit. She’d ridden a horse a little as a kid,
and she’d encounter donkeys, camels, and various chickens and roosters in the villages while on her three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Alright. Well, my son handles the dairy side of the farm, and my daughter-in-law, Courtney, pretty much runs everything else. She’ll be the one to get you started, but she won’t be back until later today. I have a little bit of a health issue, so my days of working on the farm ended a couple of years ago.”
Darien nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, though.” Beverly poured Darien a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. “So, you’re retired military, you said?”
“Correct.”
“Maybe you can tell me some of your stories one day. I’m sure you have a bunch.”
“They’d probably bore you to tears, but I’d be glad to.” Darien wondered what it was about senior citizens and people that were ill, that made them enjoy hearing someone tell them a story. When she was going to the veteran’s support and PTSD recovery groups, everyone had wanted to hear each other’s stories. Everyone except her. The counselors had told her it would be beneficial for her healing if she talked, but she’d chosen to stay silent. There was something about being on the farm and talking with Beverly that made Darien want to tell her everything.
“Be back in the morning anytime before eight, ready to work. You might want to think about a pair of boots. I don’t think those sneakers are going to hold up for long out in the field.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darien smiled. She’d packed a pair of her desert tan-colored recon boots, so she’d planned on wearing them.
***
The next morning, Darien showed up at the farm just before eight, wearing her combat boots, jeans, and a dark blue t-shirt. Her ball cap was pulled down over her short hair, and her eyes were covered by the dark glasses she always wore.
“Morning,” Beverly announced from her position at the screen door. “Nice boots.”
Darien nodded with a smile.
“Courtney had to go into town to get my prescriptions refilled, but I told her I hired you. Ernie knows what she wants you to start with. He’ll show you around. He’s probably over in the barn somewhere.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darien headed off in the direction she’d pointed and found the ranch hand working on a rotary tiller.
“Fucking piece of shit!” he spat, kicking the machine.
Darien cleared her throat and he spun around. “Sorry,” he grimaced.
“I’m ex-military. You can’t say anything I haven’t heard or said myself. What’s the problem?” she asked.
“It won’t start. I told Courtney it makes a better anchor than a tiller, but she doesn’t want to spend the money to get a new one.”
“Do you mind if I have a look at it?” “Have at it. When you’ve had enough, there are a couple of boards on the fence near the main road that need to be nailed back up. Any tools you need are in here in the barn, along with nails and new boards.”
“Sounds like fun.” Darien shook her head.
“We have a couple of goats and mini horses that keep knocking the boards down. Anyway, when you’re done fixing the fence, you’re supposed to start repainting it. The paint is over there in those five gallon buckets, along with the brushes. There are a couple of empty containers around here that are smaller if you want to transfer the paint a little at a time. That might be easier than carrying around the five gallon buckets.”
Darien nodded and squatted next to the tiller when he walked away. She wasn’t sure what she was doing on the farm. She’d come to thank her donor’s family. Now here she was doing manual labor for pennies. Shaking her head, she stood to grab a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. Darien was drawn to the farm and to Beverly. She wasn’t ready to give away her true reason for being there, so she sucked it up and went to work, cleaning out the carburetor on the gas-powered tiller. She had it running with no problem a few minutes later and moved on to the fence.
***
The sun bore down on Darien’s back as she walked along the fence line, hammering the loose boards and making notes on a handmade map of the ones that needed to be replaced. Sweat beaded along her forehead, rolled down her back between her shoulders, and covered her abdomen. The Middle Eastern desert had been hot, but it was nothing like the humidity and blistering heat on the farm. She felt like she was melting into a puddle. Darien pulled the front of her shirttail up, revealing her toned body as she wiped the sweat from her face. She hadn’t noticed the vehicle coming down the road until it skidded sideways, nearly missing the turn for the farm. She was on the far end of the fence line along the main road, so she could barely make out the white truck and the driver who got out of it. Shrugging, she tucked her shirt back in and went back to nailing the boards.
Chapter 6
Courtney climbed out of the truck, shaking her head. She couldn’t believe she’d not only missed the driveway entrance, but she’d nearly crashed through the fence. The fence that stranger with the impeccable body was working on. She shook her head. She knew the worker Beverly had hired was female, but she’d never seen a body like that on another woman. The sculpted midriff made her warm in places she’d hadn’t thought about in almost a year.
“Here’s your medicine,” Courtney called out as she walked inside.
“Wonderful,” Beverly replied, coming down the stairs slowly.
“We should set you up in the bedroom that’s down here.”
“Nonsense,” Beverly huffed. “I’ll use the same bedroom I’ve had for the last forty years until I can’t walk anymore.”
Courtney shrugged.
“Did you meet Darien yet?”
“No. I’m pretty sure I saw her though.”
“Oh, she’s as sweet as can be. She’s very quiet though. As a combat veteran, I’m sure she has her reasons.” Beverly poured a glass of lemonade. “Anyway, Ernie said she fixed the tiller.”
“Really? I was about to replace that old piece of shit.” Courtney poured her own glass and sighed. “I still don’t like the idea of a stranger working here. I was going to hire Mr. Miller’s son to do the handy work.”
“Darien is cheap labor and she’s probably the hardest worker this ranch has ever seen. I’m sure she’ll do just fine.”
“She drives a rental car and you’re paying her under the table, minimum wage at that. Did you even see her ID? Where’s she from? What’s she doing here?”
“I didn’t need to, dear. All of that is none of my business anyway. I trust my instincts and something tells me that woman is a lost soul looking for a home. By fixing that old dilapidated tiller, she’s already saved us some money, so quit bitching and go introduce yourself to her.”
Courtney smiled and drank her lemonade before heading out to the barn in search of Ernie. She was nearly mowed down when Darien walked out with a pile of fence boards up on her shoulder.
“Whoa,” Courtney screeched, ducking before the long boards took her head off.
“I’m sorry.” Darien stepped to the side. “I didn’t see you there.” In all honesty, she hadn’t seen the beautiful woman because her peripheral vision was nothing but darkness. Darien was a little surprised that she hadn’t heard her footsteps though.
Courtney eyed the woman in front of her up and down. She was definitely the person standing near the fence showing her bare torso to the passing cars. She was a little taller than Courtney and lean with slightly broad shoulders. Her clothing gave way to the subtle curve of feminine hips and small breasts, but other than that, she was the type of woman Courtney had only read about in the fiction novels she read. She definitely screamed lesbian. In fact, it was so obvious that it could’ve been tattooed on her forehead. Still, Courtney let her eyes linger a little longer. She’d only ever been attracted to women like herself—country and farm-raised, but still feminine enough to keep you guessing which team she batted for.
“I’m Darien Hollister, the new farmhand,” the woman said, breaking Courtney’s co
ncentration.
Courtney mentally chided herself for staring at the good-looking stranger. The last thing in the world she needed to do was send mixed signals to someone who would never have the chance to be with her. It wasn’t the butch factor. No, that was a newfound interest apparently, as Courtney found it hard to pull her eyes away. No, she was and always would be, someone else’s girl. That’s what Courtney had said the day the ring was put on her finger and she said I Do, five years earlier.
“Courtney Hoffman,” she mumbled.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Darien replied, trying desperately not to stare at the beautiful woman in front of her.
Courtney had tanned skin, pretty green eyes, and wavy, light brown hair that hung down past her shoulders with dirty blonde highlights from the long days in the sun. She was a little shorter than Darien and had a slim build with nice curves. She was wearing a white tank top, cut-off jean shorts, and ankle length, slip-on cowgirl boots.
Courtney couldn’t see Darien’s eyes through the dark lenses of her sunglasses, but she was sure she’d just been given the once over. Beverly’s new hire was going to be trouble, she could feel it. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m assuming since you have those boards, Ernie gave you my instructions.”
“Yes, ma’am. I found five that were missing or too rotten to nail back up, so I’m working on replacing them now,” Darien replied.
Courtney nodded. “Did he tell you about painting the fence too?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Courtney smiled and shook her head. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. Courtney will do just fine. Ernie will help you if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be in the crop field or the house.”
Darien smiled and nodded before walking away and heading down the driveway towards the stretch of fence she was working on. “What the hell am I doing here?” she muttered to herself as she wiped the sweat from her face for the hundredth time that day. She still couldn’t figure out why a quick trip to say thank you had turned into her taking a manual labor job for next to nothing. She shook her head.
Second Chance Page 3
