Bitter Harvest

by Wendy Tyson

  Megan glanced at the men around the table, noticing their reactions. She watched Brazzi watch Ted go, his face expressionless. She saw Nunez return to his newspaper. But Otto Vance sat back down, his brooding form throwing a shadow across the shiny copper table top.

  Megan was about to speak when her cell phone rang. A glance at her screen told her it was Clay Hand, her farm manager. She looked back at the men, still wondering what had turned these Dr. Jekylls into Mr. Hydes, and continued into the kitchen to take her call. Oktoberfest had everyone on edge. Like the harvest moon, surely this too would pass—and tempers would be back to normal.

  In the relative privacy of the café’s kitchen, Megan answered the call.

  “Hey,” she said. “What’s going on back at the farm?”

  “I hiked up to Potter Hill, but there was no chair.”

  “You’re joking.” Only she knew he wasn’t. Clay’s voice was dead serious.

  “I wish I were. There is no chair. In fact, I couldn’t even locate the spot you referred to.”

  “Maybe you were in the wrong area?”

  “Top of Potter Hill, facing the farm. We zig-zagged our way back and forth across the area—and nothing. Two of Bobby’s men were with me.” Clay got quiet for a second. “Are you sure that’s where you saw it?”

  Megan’s spine stiffened. She knew what she’d seen and where she’d seen it, and the fact that it was gone now made her that much more concerned.

  Appearing to read her mind, Clay said, “Look, I have to ask because I know Bobby will.” Bobby was Chief Bobby King, Winsome’s youngest-ever police chief. “Plus,” Clay continued, “I’d almost prefer if you’d misplaced the chair’s location, because if it’s gone the day after you spotted it, that means—”

  “That someone saw me up there.” Megan finished his thought. What she didn’t add was, because they were probably spying on me. She was pretty sure Clay was thinking it.

  “Yeah.”

  The silence that ensued was thick with unspoken memories. A bloodied, battered body in Megan’s barn. An intruder with murder on their mind. And something Megan would remember but Clay would not—a secret separating her from the rest of Winsome. From the rest of her family. Was it possible whoever placed that chair on Potter Hill knew about the treasure buried somewhere on Washington Acres’ property? Megan figured anything was possible. History had taught her that.

  The steady contented activity from Alvaro’s corner of the kitchen had stopped, and the café was suddenly quiet. Megan looked over to see Alvaro watching her, his lined face scrunched with worry. Megan immediately regretted having the conversation in the kitchen. She also regretted not taking a photo of the chair when she’d had a chance. She’d been too spooked to stay there—and now her haste was backfiring on her.

  “Look, Clay,” she said, forcing her voice to sound cheerful, “it’s no biggie. It was a folding Adirondack chair. Someone probably enjoyed a picnic at the top of Potter Hill and packed it up when they were done.”

  “Uh-huh,” Clay said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

  “Besides, we have a ton to do. Washington Acres Café and Larder won one of the restaurant lottery spots, so Bibi is baking later this morning and Alvaro will have his hands full. If we win the farm sponsorship, none of us will sleep for the next few weeks.”

  “When will you hear?”

  “Should be later today.” Megan glanced at Alvaro, now back to chopping. “I need to go, Clay. I’ll leave here shortly. And then we can tackle the remaining pumpkins and take inventory.”

  “In case we win?”

  “Whether we win the lottery or not, with so many expected visitors in Winsome over a week-long period, our produce will sell—through the farm or through the café.”

  “Still, it’d be a real boost if we won that lottery. Help to get our name out there. Whoever sponsors is in all the advertisements and brochures.”

  “True.” Megan considered the scene she’d walked into in the café. “It seems everyone feels that way. Funny how a little healthy competition can turn friends into frenemies.”

  Two

  By the time Megan left the café, she’d forgotten about the lottery and the Oktoberfest celebration. The next two hours after Clay’s phone call had been taken up by a mad rush of customer orders, a broken bathroom faucet, and a trip to the hardware store. With the bathroom finally back in working order, Megan finally turned into the driveway at Washington Acres. Sadie ran to greet her, a worshipping Gunther trotting behind.

  Megan bent down to pet the dogs, then headed toward the door that led to the enclosed porch and into the kitchen. Clay was up at the barn—she could see him sorting pumpkins into the bin for Saturday’s farmers market. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. The day had already gotten away from her.

  Megan was just pulling the door open when her cell phone rang. She pushed her way into the big country kitchen, dropped her belongings onto the table, and glanced at her phone. A number she didn’t recognize.

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “Megan Sawyer of Washington Acres Farm?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ophelia Dilworth. From the Oktoberfest committee.”

  “Ah yes, the PR person. Good afternoon.” Megan opened the kitchen window, letting in some fresh air and allowing her gaze to wander toward Potter Hill. From this distance, she couldn’t see the spot where the folding Adirondack had been, but she could make out the fiery cluster of trees near the top where it had sat. Until someone moved it.

  “Megan, you have an incredible farm. I love, just love, what you’re doing there.”

  Megan closed the shades and tried a window on the other end of the kitchen. Perhaps the chair had simply been moved, not taken. She scanned the hills for a small dot of red—not easy to ferret out in a sea of changing foliage. “Thank you.”

  “And I think—the Oktoberfest committee thinks—that you will be in a perfect spot to represent Winsome at a huge event like this. In a few years, that is.”

  Megan closed the curtain abruptly and spun around on her heels. She leaned against the counter. “In a few years?”

  “Yes.” Deep, dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry to tell you that Washington Acres was not chosen as the farm sponsor. It’s not that you’re not doing a good thing—you are, obviously, and we’re all rooting for you—but the committee feels that the farm is too young to take on such a large responsibility.” Ophelia Dilworth had a voice that simply dripped with disappointment for Washington Acres. “And with so many people expected, it would be a large responsibility.”

  “What farm was chosen?”

  “Plus, you’re a female farmer going at it alone.”

  “My grandmother is here. And I have help.”

  “Yes, but you’re still the boss, which makes for an even better human interest story. We’ll find a way to highlight what you’re doing over there—”

  “What farm was chosen, Ophelia?”

  There was a long pause, during which the sound of a chainsaw buzzed through the open window.

  “The Sauer farm.”

  Incredulous, Megan sat down at the table. She rested one arm on the worn Formica and rubbed her temple with the other. Her head was starting to throb. “Glen and Irene Sauer?”

  “That’s them. A lovely couple.”

  Lovely was not quite how Megan would describe the Sauers. That decision made no sense. Megan could understand if one of the other, more established small local farms had been chosen, but Sauer? Glen Sauer had been Gunther’s abusive owner before the local vet rescued the pup. Megan felt no love for the Sauers, but beyond their treatment of animals lurked another problem—their sheer size.

  “Megan, I knew you’d understand. Just like me, you want what’s best for Winsome. This was no easy decision—the committee really struggled—but we all want to put W
insome’s best foot forward. Or clog in this instance.” She laughed at her own Oktoberfest reference.

  Only Megan wasn’t listening, her mind still swimming over the committee’s unexpected decision. “Ophelia, the Sauers grow mostly corn and soy—not the variety of vegetables you’d need for something like Oktoberfest. And their operation is much larger than the guidelines the committee itself set forth.”

  “Yes, well, we revisited those guidelines, and we decided they were too limiting.”

  “The Sauers run a huge spray and grow operation, on top of a national beef and poultry lot. I understand if you don’t want to take a chance on Washington Acres, but there are other farms the committee could choose. Smaller family-run operations like Mark Gregario’s place, Diamond Farm. I thought that was what this was all about. Buy local, eat local. Show the wholesome variety of what Winsome has to offer.”

  “We never required the sponsoring farm to be organic, if that’s what you’re getting at. Even your farm doesn’t have its certification.”

  “But it will. It just takes time. And besides, that’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?” A condescending impatience had crept into the perfect sing-song of Ophelia’s voice.

  “Oktoberfest is supposed to showcase Winsome’s small businesses. Winsome is a historic town with a proud agricultural history. That means small family farms and local produce. You’ve managed to choose the one farm that defies that tradition.”

  “We’ve picked the one farm that can supply all of the products we need for the event. Vegetables like corn as well as meat. Reliably, and without question.”

  Megan could name two other farms—humanely run farms with a strong local reputation—that could do the same. So why Sauer? But arguing with Ophelia was clearly pointless. Sadie, sensing Megan’s distress, pressed against Megan’s leg and nosed her way into Megan’s lap. Megan rubbed the dog’s ears absentmindedly.

  “The Sauer farm’s national distribution could be viewed as a plus. They have standing broader than Winsome. We’re trying to get your town on the map.” Ophelia stopped chattering long enough to take a breath. “Look, I actually called with other news.” Ophelia’s voice had lost its edge and was back to its practiced sincerity. “We’d like to highlight Washington Acres in the Oktoberfest program. We’ll do a spotlight piece on you and the farm. Female farmer and all that.”

  Megan didn’t immediately respond. She knew the committee was buying her agreement. Sauer Farm was the wrong farm to sponsor the event—for many reasons, including the fact that they didn’t meet the committee’s own original parameters. Well aware that Megan had been a lawyer, the committee must have figured a spotlight would keep her quiet.

  And it was a tempting offer. She could use all the publicity she could get. But not that way.

  “I don’t think I’m interested.”

  “Don’t be like that, Megan. Think of your farm. Of Winsome.”

  The kitchen door jingled and Clay entered with a hearty “hello.” Dirt streaked his face, and his normally worn but pressed clothing was also caked with mud. Seeing Megan was on the phone, he frowned, and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  “I have to go, Ophelia.”

  “What’s your answer? Would you like to be featured in the brochure? Come on.”

  “I really am not interested.”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Fine.”

  Ophelia huffed her annoyance. “You don’t have much time though. We’re already late going to press. I need to hear from you tomorrow at the latest. Okay?”

  “Yes, sure,” Megan said. Clay was shifting from foot to foot. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll call you then.” Megan hung up. “What’s going on?” she asked Clay.

  “It’s Porter. He went to pick up more baling twine and now his car won’t start. I need to go jump it for him.”

  Brian Porter was the newest addition to Washington Acres. A young veteran with anger-management issues, he started working on the farm a few months ago at the request of Dr. Denver Finn, the town veterinarian and Megan’s sort-of boyfriend.

  Megan said, “You look like you’re in the middle of something.”

  “Turning over beds so we can plant more cover crops.” Clay glanced down at his clothes. “That bad?”

  “Pretty bad. How about if I jump Porter’s car and you finish what you were doing?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind.” Megan’s mind wandered back to her call with Ophelia. “I could use a distraction.”

  Clay gave her directions to where Porter was stranded. “What was that call about?”

  “You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to keep Porter waiting. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Megan pulled behind Porter’s truck and jammed her own pickup into park. It was a warm October day, and the mid-day sun beat down on the pavement, heating her face and reflecting off Porter’s silver truck like sharp shards of glass. He’d stalled on Horse Buggy Lane, a long stretch of nowhere that adjoined Curly Hill Road and passed only the Jenner solar farm, the back side of Lyle Lake State Park, and an abandoned kennel. Seemed like an odd way to get to the hardware store, but then, Porter was an odd bird.

  Megan grabbed the jumper cables from the truck bed cabinet and walked over to Porter’s vehicle, which had been pushed to the side of the road. Porter was sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette and looking put out—a sullen, tattooed James Dean in his dark blue jeans and white t-shirt.

  He said, “I get paid for this time.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Megan, still feeling argumentative after her talk with Ophelia, swallowed a biting response. Porter was a recovering alcoholic and a troubled former soldier. Like her late husband, Mick, Porter had seen the Middle East from the vantage point of the trenches. Unlike Mick, Porter came home—in one piece physically, if not mentally or spiritually. But despite Megan’s misgivings about Porter’s ability to stay clean, she’d found that he’d proven himself useful at the farm. She’d pay him for his time now, if only because he needed the cash more than she did.

  She tossed the jumper cables his way. Porter shook his head. He tossed the cigarette on the ground, saw the look of annoyance on Megan’s face, and picked it up again, holding it away from him like it was poison.

  “Flat tire. That’s why I stalled. I stopped to check the tire and couldn’t start the car again.”

  “Do you have a spare?”

  “Nope.”

  “Clay didn’t mention the flat. I don’t have a spare with me.”

  Porter shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  The reason it didn’t matter came rolling along the otherwise deserted stretch of road and pulled up behind Megan. A shirtless Dr. Daniel “Denver” Finn climbed out of his 4Runner. “Afternoon,” he said to both of them before disappearing behind the vehicle. He came back carrying a tire.

  “Think you forgot something,” Porter mumbled. He stood, stuck the cigarette butt in his pants pocket, and took the tire from Denver. “Ain’t it a little cold to be showing off?”

  Only Megan could see a gash running down the side of Denver’s torso. And a bruise blossoming along his lower ribcage, an angry red bullseye in the middle. “You got gored,” she said.

  “Aye,” Denver replied in his Scottish brogue. He rubbed a hand along his flank and winced. “Porter here caught me on the way back from a neighboring farm. The bull got the best of me.”

  “Ouch,” Porter said, suddenly fascinated.

  Megan took a long look at the veterinarian, trying not to stare. His dark auburn hair, tousled on a good day, formed a mop of waves atop a ruggedly handsome face. The beginnings of a beard shadowed his jawline. Her gaze traveled down his well-muscled torso, and she redirected it—with difficulty. They’d been seeing each other on and off since the spring and s
he’d told him she wanted to take things slow. Only standing here, on this beautiful fall day, with Denver looking wounded and devilishly strong at the same time…she thought maybe they were taking it too slow.

  Porter cleared his throat. “You two gonna stop staring at one another and help me get this tire on? Doc? I could use a hand.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Megan glanced at Denver. “He needs a doctor.”

  Denver shook his head. “Just a few bruises.”

  “And a lot of dried blood.” She touched the spot above the gash gently and Denver winced again. “He got you good.”

  “Aye, you should see my shirt. It fared worse than me.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  Sirens began to blare in the distance.

  Porter grinned.

  “Ambulance is coming for you.”

  The sirens wailed louder, getting closer. They were joined by another sort of wail—fire trucks.

  “Something must have happened.” Megan turned back toward Denver. “Please. Go see the doctor and get that wound cleaned up. I’ll help Porter. We’ll be fine.”

  Denver opened his mouth to argue, so Megan stepped closer. She balanced on her toes and kissed his lips lightly.

  “Unfair means of persuasion,” Denver murmured.

  “Holy hell, you two. Get a room,” Porter said. But he was staring at the vet worriedly. “She’s right, Doc. You’d better get that looked at. You don’t need an infection.”

  The sirens wailed louder.

  “Damn,” Porter said. “I wonder what happened.”

  Denver looked out toward the trees bordering Lyle State Park, and Megan followed his stare. Nothing beyond the sentry line of pines was visible. The sound was coming from the direction of the adjacent solar farm.

  He said, “Probably a car accident.”

  Megan agreed. She rooted in her car for the first-aid kit she kept in the glove compartment. The small box in hand, she tossed him a fresh roll of paper towels from her truck. He unfurled a few and pressed them against his side. She applied antibiotic and a square patch of adhesive bandage and declared him fixed up—for now.