The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  The Rhubarb Patch

  By Deanna Wadsworth

  A Men of Gilead Novel

  City boy, sci-fi novelist, and recovering pushover Scott Howe doesn’t know what to expect when he inherits his grandmother’s house outside the quaint village of Gilead, Ohio—but it isn’t an enormous bald man in nothing but tighty-whities and orange rubber boots shouting at him to keep his Weedwacker away from the rhubarb patch.

  Scott has never met anyone like Phineas Robertson: homesteader, recluse… Republican. A tender—if unlikely—friendship grows over the summer while Phin and his schnauzer, Sister Mary Katherine, teach Scott about life in the country and the grandmother he never knew. Opposites attract, but widower Phin worries his secret will send Scott running faster than his politics, and Phin isn’t convinced he deserves a second chance at romance.

  Scott is convinced—rural life, and his one-of-a-kind older neighbor, is the future he wants. Before he can settle in, his mother drops a bombshell that strains their already tenuous relationship, and a cousin who believes he is the rightful heir to the property puts Scott in danger. It’ll take a lot of compromises, and even dodging a few bullets before they’re out of the weeds, but nurturing something as special as true love always takes hard work.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  More from Deanna Wadsworth

  Readers love Naughty Cupid by Deanna Wadsworth

  About the Author

  By Deanna Wadsworth

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  To Nina, thank you for your wonderful friendship and for letting me have Sister Mary Katherine. Now she will be loved by everyone and never forgotten.

  And to my first true love, Bailey. I miss you every day.

  The Men of Gilead

  “Come home to Gilead…. Love is waiting.”

  Chapter One

  “WHAT THE…?”

  A big, bald man in nothing but orange rubber boots and tighty-whities streaked across the yard toward Scott Howe, waving his hands and shouting.

  The high-pitched whir of the weed whacker shredding through the grass and thick, leafy weeds growing along the edge of the small barn went silent when Scott released the handle. Popping out his earbuds, he blinked hard, unable to believe his eyes.

  “Stop! Stop!” the man in his underwear shouted. “You’re killing the rhubarb!”

  Instinctively, Scott placed the weed whacker in front of him, wielding it like a knight brandishing a sword against an attacking dragon.

  At five eight, Scott wasn’t exactly a small guy, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Stop, dammit!” The man flailed his arms above his head.

  Then Scott registered his words.

  Keeping the weed whacker in front of him with one arm, he raised the other in truce. “I stopped!”

  Scott divided glances between the crazy man and the bits of grass and dark green leaves. All kinds of weeds grew around his late grandmother’s property, making the yard look like crap. Whether he decided to stay or sell the place, it needed a major spring cleanup.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The man came to a halt, all but shoving Scott out of the way. He knelt on the ground and began pushing aside the grass. “Dammit, you probably killed this one!”

  What’s he talking about?

  Scott took a step away as the man in his underwear and orange garden boots hopelessly muttered under his breath, gently picking up the curly green weeds.

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry.” Scott brushed his arm across his forehead before sweat ran into his eyes. “I didn’t know this was your property. The realtor told me my property line was five feet past this barn.”

  The man stared, bright blue eyes scrunched with incredulity. “It’s not my property, but it is my rhubarb. Nancy and I’ve been growing it for years.”

  Scott flinched. “Oh, you knew my grandmother?”

  “Yes, she was my best friend, and you just killed some of our rhubarb.” His voice hitched, a twinge of desperation in his eyes. Not anger but a deep, profound sadness that sent a hot wash of shame down Scott’s back.

  “I’m sorry, but….” He paused, not wanting to sound like a stupid city boy coming out to the country. “But what’s rhubarb?”

  Still on his knees, the peculiar man sat back on his haunches. Scott glanced at the guy’s lap, then darted his gaze back up before he noticed the faux pas—but not before taking note the guy was packing some real heat in those less-than-brand-new underwear.

  The man gestured to the shredded weeds. “That’s rhubarb. Well….” He pursed his lips. “It was rhubarb.” His broad shoulders slumped, the golden hairs of his chest sparkling a little in the morning sunshine.

  “I’m sorry,” Scott said again. “Are you sure I killed it?”

  He shook his head and flicked at the plant waste. He straightened a few curly leaves hidden among the shredded ones, but they collapsed. “This one’s done for.” He glanced down the twenty-foot length of the barn. “Thank God I saw you before you killed all of it.”

  Getting a little annoyed at this hulk of a man, Scott leaned on the weed whacker, his other hand on his hip. “Hey, I’m sorry you planted stuff on Nancy’s property. But how was I supposed to know? I just inherited this place, and I don’t even know what rhubarb is.”

  Those piercing blue eyes scoured Scott from head to toe, then back again. “I suspect you’re Scott.”

  He knows my name? “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, Scott, I’m Phineas Robertson.” He flipped a thumb over his big shoulder. “That’s my house, and this here’s my rhubarb patch.”

  “Hello, Phineas.” He gave the man a courteous nod, wondering if he should’ve called him Mr. Robertson, though he couldn’t be much older. But the guy had a big presence, an authority about him—even in his underwear—that could not be denied.

  When Phineas remained quiet, Scott grew awkward. “I’m sorry I weed whacked your rhubarb. Are there any other plants of yours growing on my property?”

  Shit, that sounded kinda snotty.

  Phineas put his hands on his hips, his fur-dusted belly rounding out. “No, just the rhubarb.”

  Feeling bad for sounding like a jerk, because Phineas was clearly distraught about the plants, Scott nodded. “Okay, so maybe you could show me what I can and can’t trim out of this section.”

  Hopefully the offer would create a neighborly truce.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Phineas fixed his gaze on the shredded rhubarb, though to Scott it all looked like weeds.

  I’m gonna have to google rhubarb.

  Phineas climbed to his feet. “Here, let me show you what parts you can pul
l. I haven’t gotten around here to trim it up, what with the funeral and everything.”

  So Phineas had attended Nancy’s funeral. Well, that was more than could be said for Scott.

  Phineas towered a good six inches over Scott, and almost all of that burly frame was bare and exposed. Scott gestured to his state of dress—or lack thereof. “You sure you don’t wanna put on some pants first?”

  Awareness of being clad only in underwear and orange garden boots dawned bright across Phineas’s face. Glancing down, he gave a rather sheepish smile, which made him very appealing all of a sudden. “Yeah, I should probably do that.” He stood there for another moment before taking a few steps away. Then he paused, pointing at Scott. “Don’t cut anything until I get back.”

  “I won’t.”

  Then he stomped off rather proudly in his underwear and boots, tossing out over his shoulder, “If you weed whack the asparagus along the fence, you’ll regret it.”

  Scott shook his head and laughed.

  While Phineas walked away, Scott surveyed the three-acre property that had literally fallen into his lap.

  Feathery clouds streaked the pristine sky as if an artist’s brush had smeared a blue canvas with a wash of white. Everything was greening up with spring. The cute white farmhouse he’d inherited looked cheery, though it needed some work. It was connected to a one-car garage by an overhang, and the peaked roof with two dormers gave the two bedrooms upstairs odd slanted ceilings. Not in the best shape, nor the worst. Flowers already popped up in the mulched beds around the house and garage—a sign of brighter things coming my way, maybe?

  Smiling to himself, Scott flipped over a dirty old five-gallon pail by the corner of the barn. He took his iPhone out of his pocket and sat down. After unlocking the screen, he opened the Facebook app.

  Nobody will believe this.

  Since moving into the house three days ago, he’d been entertaining his Facebook friends and fans online with Country Updates. That was the only writing he was getting done these days, much to his editor’s chagrin.

  Country Update #4: You guys will never believe what just happened! I was weedwacking at the farm and suddenly I see this big, bald guy wearing nothing but his white skivvies and big rubber orange garden boots barreling towards me! LOL I guess he’s my neighbor. He’s been growing rhubarb along the barn, but I just weed whacked some. Whoops! LOL Now will somebody tell me what the hell rhubarb is? #truthisstrangerthanfiction #cityboyinthecountry

  Chapter Two

  WHILE HE waited for Phineas to return, Scott amused himself by reading all the comments on his Country Update.

  Joan of Dark: Rhubarb is a perennial plant people make pie, jam, wine, or cobbler out of. I like it mixed with strawberries best.

  She included a Wikipedia link, so Scott perused the article. Most people mixed rhubarb with strawberries the way Joan did. He liked those well enough. Perhaps this curly leaved, weird-looking weed might taste good.

  S.D. Howe: Thanks, Joan! BTW, just what exactly is a cobbler? I’ve heard the word, but I’ve never seen or eaten one.

  Quite a few people jumped in on that post, teasing him or inviting him to come “down South,” where they could cook him various versions of their grandmothers’ fruit cobblers.

  Smiling, Scott read all their back-and-forth banter, replying to most. As a writer of gay science-fiction romance, his fan base was primarily women, and apparently most of those women liked to cook. After a few comments, they bogarted his thread by sharing recipes. But he didn’t mind. Those ladies would be paying his bills soon.

  Hopefully.

  For three years, he’d had a quasihappy life with his boyfriend, Brent, in Ferndale, Michigan—a quaint suburb of Detroit, popular with the gay community. Their life hadn’t been perfect, but the sex had been good, and they liked to do a lot of the same things.

  The problem?

  Brent liked to do more things than just Scott. He’d always apologize after cheating, and Scott always forgave him. Until the last time Brent came to him with his tail between his legs. One of his recent hookups had messaged Brent that he’d been diagnosed HIV positive.

  Brent suggested they get tested just to be safe.

  So Scott did.

  Then he packed up his things and moved out.

  The notion that a gay man’s life ended at thirty had never resonated truer than the day Scott hit the big three-O.

  Single, broke, and living with his mother again.

  At least he’d escaped Brent disease-free.

  A soft breeze cooled the sweat from his brow. His weather app predicted low seventies today—rather warm for mid-April—but it would storm tonight and be in the forties tomorrow. That was Michigan, though. If you didn’t like the weather, just wait five minutes… wait!

  Scott wasn’t in Michigan anymore.

  He was in Ohio.

  Hard to believe.

  The only sounds were the wind tickling the leaves, birds chirping, and the faint cluck of chickens that he assumed belonged to Phineas—I hope they’re not mine!

  The lack of horns, general city noise, and traffic left him with an eerie sensation of being completely alone. The secluded piece of land didn’t help the feeling of solitude. Robust pine trees created a wall on the west side of the property, and a spacious farm field occupied the south. The realtor had explained the woods across the street belonged to the Maple County Metro Park and would always be left wild for conservation. Though the city limits of the historical village of Gilead lay a mere six miles away, he was all by himself on a tiny gravel road.

  His gaze went east, to the two-story orange-brick house with a flat gray roof of odd circular shingles next door.

  No, he wasn’t alone out here.

  But what to do with Phineas Robertson?

  As if he’d heard Scott thinking, the back door of that house opened, and the man in question stepped onto the porch wearing carpenter jeans, a T-shirt, and work boots. Scott’s vivid imagination hadn’t forgotten what lay underneath. He’d never been into bears, but maybe his tastes had changed post-thirty.

  Phineas had a little gray dog on a leash with him—a schnauzer, maybe?—and he gingerly led it toward Scott, his attention fixed on the animal. When Phineas got close enough, Scott realized why they’d been moving so slowly. The pooch’s face and muzzle were flecked with white. A very old pup.

  When they joined him, Scott stood, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “Who’s this?”

  Phineas’s face lit up with a smile brighter than the spring sunshine. “This is Sister Mary Katherine.”

  Scott laughed. “That’s an awfully big name for such a little old girl.” He crouched down to scratch behind her ears. “Hello, Sister Mary Katherine. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “She can’t hear you,” he told him with a weary sigh. “She’s stone deaf.”

  While Scott felt bad, the disability didn’t seem to hold her back. Excited, she wiggled her little butt while Scott gave her a good scratch. “Are you Catholic?”

  “Well, my parents decided I was when I was a baby. Why?”

  “Um, because you named your dog Sister Mary Katherine.”

  Phineas threw his head back and laughed, a rich, boisterous sound. “Oh no, I didn’t name her. You see, my aunt was a nun, and she lived in a convent on Lake Michigan. Katie was hers, and when my aunt died, I inherited her. And since her personality is bigger than her name and she spent the first half of her life in a convent, sometimes I call her Sister Mary Katherine.”

  “Oh my God. You just can’t make that kind of stuff up. Truth is always better than fiction.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “She’s getting old, and she needs the exercise, so I thought I’d bring her with me while I show you around the property.”

  His phrasing sounded as if he had ownership over the house and land Scott had inherited, not the other way around. Rather than point it out, Scott decided to take advantage of the man’s knowledge. After all, he still didn’t know
how to use that lawn tractor, and their properties were the only two houses on this little road. They should try to be friends. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy, and Scott had already upset him by killing the rhubarb plant.

  The old white barn where Phineas had planted his—his and Nancy’s—rhubarb sat on the southeast corner of the lot, tall enough for one of those big tractors, he imagined. Yesterday he’d found the weed whacker and a lawn tractor in the barn, along with a bunch of other stuff he’d have to identify. Maybe Phineas could show him how to use the tractor so he could mow the grass.

  If not, he’d find a YouTube video about it.

  “Here, let me show you something.” Phineas knelt on the ground beside the battered rhubarb, indicating Scott should do the same. Sister Mary Katherine assumed they knelt to give her attention, and she wormed her way between them. Phineas picked her up and faced her in the opposite direction, calling her “Ms. Nosey Little Nosey-Pants.”

  Scott chuckled, then watched the dog stand very still for a moment, disoriented after Phineas moved her. Just when he worried something might be wrong, Sister Mary Katherine got her bearings and began sniffing the grass.

  “Now you asked me what rhubarb is,” Phineas began, drawing Scott’s attention back. “It’s a vegetable, but it’s used like a fruit in pies, jelly, and the like.”

  Though Scott had read about rhubarb while Phineas got dressed, he nodded and listened as the man showed him the difference between the weeds and the actual plants curling out of the dirt.

  “That’s new growth. In a couple weeks, I’ll be able to harvest half of this,” he said. “But you can’t pick all of it, or you’ll kill the plant. The leaves are poisonous, but that’s how it absorbs the sunshine.” Phineas pushed down the grass around the plant. “It needs a good weeding, but, if you don’t mind, I can come over and do that. I can also harvest it. Then maybe we can split it?”

  The hopeful nuance in his voice told Scott he’d realized that if Scott wanted to be a jerk, he’d lose his precious plants.