by Dani Wyatt
Sweat stings my eyes and coats my chest, sticking the shirt to my back, but as heavy as this work is, it has to be done. I twist and turn, swinging the bales from the pile out the opening and down nearly thirty feet to where Reggie, one of the farmhands, grabs them and hauls them closer to the dirt track.
Any moment now, a new customer of mine will pull up and take away the load.
“How many we got so far?” I yell down, swiping my forearm across my eyes.
“That’s sixty-four, boss,” Reggie shouts up, putting a hand over his eyebrows to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.
I nod, then turn to climb up a few rows onto the towering stack of hay. Reaching up about six rows higher, I grab on to the bale twine, one in each hand. With a grunt, I jerk them away, jumping backward and down the stack as I go, pulling an avalanche of tumbling hay down around my worn black boots as the bales hit the roughhewn floorboards.
When he was a high school senior and I was just a kid, my brother Paul once got caught up here, buck naked and rolling in the hay with Connie Hucket. I laugh at the memory, then shake my head. A lot of screaming followed that discovery, along with accusations from Connie’s father. My brother was never interested in farm work. I don’t see any reason why that should have changed. I’ll have to deal with him, I know that, but not right now. Not when there’s work to be done.
A breeze rustles the trees, flapping my open denim shirt and offering a moment of cool relief on my damp skin. Reaching down, I grunt as I lift two more bales and send them flying out into the air, then hear the familiar thud-thud a moment later as they hit the ground.
“Boss!” Reggie shouts. “Lunch after this, huh?”
My stomach answers with a groan before I can.
“Yup,” I call out, then send another two out into the air.
We’ve been here since dawn, but that’s been everyday for as long as I can remember. I’m up before the roosters and working up an appetite. By this time of day, my morning staple of bacon and eggs have worn thin.
“We’ll get these folks loaded up,” I shout, “then grub.” I take a hard breath and toss another two his way.
The wind out here carries sounds a long distance, and my hearing’s always been pretty good, so when I catch the low hum of an engine approaching, I know I’ve got a few more minutes before they’ll get here. With renewed effort, I grab the last bales and throw them down to Reggie, then head over to the loft door to see a cloud of dust kicking up at the end of the farm’s mile-long drive.
I swipe my hands back from my face, raking my fingers through my hair. Years of hard work have left the palms rough enough to sand wood, but that’s the way out here. I rub my hands down my chest, brushing away some of the sweat, but it’s quickly replaced by more.
This land has been in my family going right back to when the Stoddards came out here to find a simpler way of life back at the end of the nineteenth century. It may be mine now, but I still think of it as belonging to Mom and Dad. And Paul, I concede wearily. As little as he’s been here since we grew up, he still has as much right to call this place home as I do.
Reggie scurries around below me, moving what I’ve thrown down over near where we will load this customer’s order. New in town, name of Patrick McGowan, and I expect from the sound of things that this is his first time around at having horses.
When he called to inquire about buying some hay, it became pretty clear he didn’t know first cutting from second cutting. Alfalfa from Timothy. But that’s fine by me. We’re always learning, and I admire anyone who discovers at any age just how satisfying this sort of life can be.
I lean a shoulder against the doorframe, taking the weight off my feet a little as I watch the cloud of dust get closer.
“Margaret said she made pork chops and fried potatoes.” I can almost hear Reggie’s mouth watering. “Left it in the oven for us.” He lets out a little chuckle. “Man, I’d love to pork her chops.”
“Hey.” I shout down. I narrow my eyes and lean over to look at him. “Watch it. I’ve told you before, you keep that up, you can find a new paycheck. Last fucking warning.”
Margaret’s a friend and a good woman. She gets in early, cleans and helps out around the house, and generally makes sure everything’s in order, because running this place keeps me busy dawn to dusk. She does some cooking as well, because outside of my morning meal, I can’t even manage to boil water without nearly burning the house down. If it weren’t for her and the diner in town, I’d starve. Margaret runs her own housekeeping service, and I respect that. She’s a single mom and a damn hard worker. Sure, she’s an attractive lady, but I show her only respect, and I expect the same from anyone else that works for me.
Reggie ought to know that by now. I may be a quiet type, but if you disrespect a woman around me, you’re asking for trouble. My dad taught me properly where that’s concerned, but there are too many men who didn’t have that same upbringing.
“Whatever, man.” Reggie snorts as he spins back and forth, organizing the pile. “You need to get laid.”
“I’m not kidding around, Reggie, so don’t try me. Do you need me to come down there and teach you how to shut up?” I stand to my full height and stretch my arms upward, gripping the top beam across the opening and stretching my abs, which are tight from all the lifting. At six foot five, I easily fill the eight-foot-tall doorway.
As I sigh and stretch, the wind catches my shirt and sends it flying up like a cape around my back, fluttering like a flag on a staff.
“Naw. I’ve seen you teach. I’m good.” Reggie’s grinning, maintaining some of his dignity, and that’s fine, but I know he’s got the hint. I’m not joking either. One more comment like that and he can get his ass on down the road.
“Good.”
The dust ball is solidifying now as it draws near, revealing a blue Ford among the cloud. Not a new one but not old either, hauling a flatbed trailer behind.
Kind of a flatbed a city guy would bring for a hundred bales of hay. Shit. Not gonna be big enough.
I’ll say a brief hello, make sure he knows he’s welcome, but then I’ll get away and let Reggie do the loading. I’ve got ten thousand other things calling for my attention. That’s farm life, but it’s also my life, and it’s damn good one. Once the essential chores are over, then my time’s my own. I’ve got a new rescue gelding I’ve been working with, and that’s where my mind is at. My passion is saving the hard cases. The unwanted or hopeless. The ones with that certain look in their eye. Something that catches me by the heart and tells me something about their soul. It’s always been about the eyes for me.
I’m itching to get the new chestnut under saddle today, pretty certain he’s ready for it. I’ve been working this farm and had my leg over a horse as far back as my memory goes. Never felt that sort of joy doing anything else, to tell you the truth.
Not that I haven’t had my fill of the rest of the world. I took off for a few years after high school, went to college, got some experience of somewhere other than Cooper’s Mill. Not so much because I had a burning desire, it was more that it made my parents fucking proud. Neither of them graduated high school, so they wanted that for me and Paul. They managed to build a hell of a business with this place, though. Took a struggling family farm and turned it into six hundred acres of hay, wheat, and quarter horses. Some livestock too. But it’s the horses that have always been my love.
The pickup slows as it gets nearer to the farm buildings, so I give a wave to let McGowan know where we are. A hand extends out the window of the cab, and he waves back in acknowledgment, then picks up a bit of speed again.
My head is starting to pound now, but that’s not unusual by about this time. I need water and food, lots of it. I eat about a trough worth of food a day and thank goodness I’ve got the budget for it, but I’ve got to get Reggie started on this first. I take a few deep breaths to calm my stomach. The majority of my crew is out harvesting the second cutting round bales of hay today, the ge
ntle rumble of the machinery almost unnoticed as background static. But with them out of action, that leaves only me to get this done.
“Hey.” Reggie stops hauling the bales, stretches up for a breather, and puts his fists on his hips. “You gonna come to Barlett’s tonight? Rest of us are all going to town. Light it up. Jimmy said there’s a bachelorette party coming in. Should be easy pickins, even for an ugly bastard like you.” He chuckles, but my stomach immediately tightens.
“No,” I answer, flat and solid. “Why do you even ask me that shit, still? You know I’m not interested.”
“I know, just thought I’d offer is all.” Reggie shakes his head with that backward-ass grin. “Knew you’d turn it down.” He’s poking the bear, and I’m not sure if it’s just stupidity or he’s testing me. Neither of which will end well for him if he keeps it up.
Jimmy Bartlett owns the only nightlife spot in town. It’s a decent enough place, food is greasy as an oil change, but it’s cheap and the beer selection is starting to move into the twenty-first century. But picking up women in a bar? Nope, nope. Not my thing.
I like my life here. Quiet, orderly. It doesn’t lack its own kind of excitement. Yeah, sure, my bed is empty, and some nights I feel that pull. But I guess I’m just not blessed in that department. Of the two of us, Paul was always the one who chased after the next bit of tail. Not me. I can’t just have meaningless hookups to get my rocks off. It doesn’t work for me, and I’ve never met a woman who struck me in the heart.
So that’s the way it is, and I’ve made my peace with it.
In college, I dated. Certainly wasn’t a monk. Figured out what body parts went where, but that’s about it. After that, I’ve been solo pretty much. And it’s okay. I’ll live.
“I’ve been here going on six months,” Reggie continues, as much to himself as to me. “You never go out. I’ve never seen you even raise an eyebrow at a piece of—” He stops himself as I drop my arms and cross them over my chest, glaring at him. “A nice female person. Girl. Woman. Whatever, man. What’s the deal?”
“No fucking deal. No fucking business of yours either. You’re paid to work, not ask me about this shit. Now get them loaded. I told McGowan what he owed, so take his money, be polite, show him how to stack and get him gone. I’m going to drive back and check on the crew. Then I’m taking that new gelding into the round pen, see what he’s got.”
I stare him down, in case he’s thinking about talking shit back, but he finally takes the hint and gets back to shifting bales with his mouth shut. When he turns away, I draw another deep breath, loving the scent of the fresh-cut hay spinning around. I’m a bit itchy from the bits sticking to me, but a good splash in the creek will sort that out.
I’m friendly with the guys I hire, but I keep my distance. Fuck, if I think about it, I wouldn’t call any of them a friend. Even the ones who have been with the family for years. I’m not antisocial, but I just don’t connect with a lot of what interests them, especially since mostly what interests them are hookups and getting drunk.
As for me, being alone isn’t so bad. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
It’s not that I don’t like women. I sometimes imagine having a good woman sharing my bed with me. I love how they smell. The softness of their curves. The little things they do, like how they put their hair up into one of those crazy messy knots on the top of their head like it’s nothing. Or they put a finger between their teeth and bite down when they’re thinking. I don’t think of any woman in particular, but I guess deep down there’s a part of me still hanging on to a shred of hope that someday my one will find me. And I’ll claim her.
Stretching my back brings me out of my thoughts. The letter from Paul is back at the house, and I’ll deal with it when I’m good and ready. Right now, there’s work to do. The navy-blue Ford is pulling right up now, the driver with his arm out the window, raising his hand in a friendly gesture. I’ll give him a friendly greeting, then I’ll get gone.
I reach up to the nail where my black Stetson is hanging and retrieve it, putting it in its usual place on my head. Then I take a moment longer than most folks would find necessary to adjust it back and forth, finding just the right spot, exactly where it should be. For me, there’s only one perfect place where my hat will sit, and I can’t relax until it’s in place.
The next breeze makes me stop. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and stand on end.
I stare at the truck as it turns in a wide circle and backs in with the trailer settling by the pile of hay, Reggie flagging him in from behind.
I stand, arms crossed, and I don’t fucking get it, but my heart clicks in my chest. There’s something besides the hay scent on that breeze, and with the next summer gust, I blink and focus, my eyes zeroing in on the passenger seat of the truck.
Another arm hangs out that window, as well as a tendril of the shiniest black hair I’ve ever seen. It’s spinning in the wind around a bare shoulder. A feminine shoulder. Skin the color of sweet tea, and I see a rainbow-colored beaded bracelet on a tiny wrist.
As the truck backs slowly into place, I grunt out a few expletives. Her hair whips around, and she leans out the window to look back toward Reggie. From my vantage point, I can see green eyes and a face that even my uncultured ass knows deserves to be painted in oil, framed, and hanging in the Louvre.
My blood turns hot, rushing south and filling the length of my dick in a heartbeat.
In a blink, I’m swinging my body out the open hay loft, three stories up, and half sliding down the old ladder strapped to the red exterior of the barn. I can’t remember the last time I used this ladder—it’s not the sturdiest and it probably isn’t used to bearing a weight like mine—but it’s the fastest way down, and that’s what counts right now.
“Stop!” Reggie raises his voice to be heard over the truck’s engine. “That’s close enough, Mr. McGowan.”
The truck’s engine cuts out, and the driver’s side door squeaks a little on its hinges as McGowan slides out. Then the other door opens, and I’m not sure why, but I’m getting angry. Knowing Reggie is down there, closer to her than I am right now and getting the first look...
I’m ready to set him on his ass.
She’s tiny. But full and lush in all the right places. At just the glimpse of her from the back, I’m mesmerized. I can’t stop taking inventory of each inch. The light pink of her bra strap is that hanging down onto her upper arm, under her dress sleeve. The braided red thread tied around her left ankle. The simple white sneakers on her small feet that look brand-new. The way her ass is filling out the fabric of her little floral dress. The hem skirting just at mid-thigh.
All of the sudden, I couldn’t be happier I’ve not been with a woman in years. Strange fucking thought, but everything feels amplified right now. One glance at those eyes and it’s like the needle in the haystack jumped out and stabbed me in my heart.
I haven’t even seen all of her, or even heard her speak, but something is clutching in my chest. I’m ten feet from the ground, but I need to be down there right now. I take two more of the wooden spindles with my black boots and push off, landing square on the ground with a thud. As I turn on my heel, my eyes fall fully on to the face of the woman that I swear was sent to me straight from heaven.
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KEEPING HER CLOSE
C H A P T E R O N E
Black
“Black.” The newest waitress enunciates it like we’re fucking and she’s about to come. “Awesome. Name.”
She maintains eye contact, licking her bottom lip and crossing her arms under her tits, conspicuously pushing them up until they are all but spilling out of the uniform black tank top. The name of the bar, The Long Draw, is printed in silver glitter across the front.
Even in the middle of the day, this place is almost at capacity. But my ears are trained so even with the noise coming from the band rocking a Steely Dan cover and the hundred or so patrons yelling over each other in order to
be heard, I still hear Ransom, the bartender, snort a chuckle behind me.
I clench my teeth. In here, I’m all business. “You got your paperwork?” I feel my jaw pop.
I’ve never touched a single one of the girls who works here. This newb will quickly get the lowdown from the staff, that’s for sure. If she continues, I will shut that shit down so fast it will make her bleach blond head spin.
I’m not going to say I don’t touch the men who work here. It’s a rare occurrence, but I do not hesitate to shut their bullshit down as well, usually with a foot in their ass. A place like this, every night you gotta come in like a warrior. Ready for anything and prepared for everything.
The staff and the patrons here smell weakness like a shark on blood.
The irony is, with this iconic biker culture and all, you’d expect the man who founded it to be a biker. He’s not and I’m not.
I’ve never even been on a bike. Never wanted to. Not that everyone who comes in here rides up on their custom Harley, but when you own a bar in Hell, Michigan, you are going to attract your share of bikers from all over this country. All over the world, in fact.
My newest hire leans back in disappointment, checking her manicure, barely hiding her irritation that her flirtation met with my frigid demeanor. But I don’t care. She’ll learn that. I’m a son of a bitch, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.
I flip through her new-hire packet, making sure all the critical components are in order. I may not look it, but I’ve got a sharp eye for details. Running a business is all about the details and who ever thought a fuck like me would be good at anything? Let alone running a successful as hell bar that’s given me and the owner bank accounts to envy.
I don’t miss her eyes running me up and down as she stares, though it draws nothing from me but increased irritation.
