by Erin Wright
So, the barn it was. At least there, he had a reasonable chance of being left alone.
Damn the bank anyway. At least if they’d sent a man, he could’ve told that man what he really thought about him, the bank, and how screwed up this whole situation was, punctuated perfectly with his fists. To add insult to injury, Stetson also knew that he was going to hear about his rudeness – and swearing – from Carmelita sometime in the very near future.
The prospect of an ass-chewing didn’t exactly make him jump up and down for joy.
Stetson looked around, trying to find a very important project to work on. The Miller Family Barn was more of a storage building and workshop combined together than a typical barn. In the winter, he would park tractors and other equipment in it to keep the expensive machinery out of the weather, but since it was the middle of summer, there was a lot more elbow room to be found.
Along one wall, there were workbenches, toolboxes, and all of the miscellaneous tools and junk that had accumulated over the years. The piles of stuff were ostensibly kept under the pretense that they could someday be used to make repairs, but Stetson knew better.
The truth was:
1. He was a farmer;
2. Farmers never threw away anything; and
3. Carmelita was never allowed into the barn.
There were some laws of nature that just shouldn’t be broken.
And then, he spotted it. Hidden in the very back corner of the barn was a small tarp-covered tractor. Unlike the modern equipment that was used for the day-to-day operations of the farm, this tractor was nearly 60 years old.
It had belonged to the Miller family from the day it’d rolled off the assembly line. It was the first piece of motorized equipment Stetson’s grandfather had purchased. Since then, a long line of equipment had passed through their ownership. Bigger, more efficient equipment cycled through as technology advanced, but the family had held on to this particular tractor as a reminder of all the things it symbolized.
Stetson wandered over to the miniature tractor – at least, miniature in comparison to today’s beasts – and pulled the tarp off, sending up a cloud of dust that had him coughing and gasping for air. Once most of it had settled and the air became breathable again, Stetson ran his hand over the rusty, chipped green paint and split leather seat, remembering…
Over the years, the tractor had sat in a field through rain, snow, and shine. Eventually, time took its toll on the machine to the point where it would no longer run. Then one day, Stetson’s father wrapped a chain around the front axle, lifted a much younger Stetson into the seat, showed him how to release the clutch and how to steer, and together, they pulled the rotting tractor to the barn. It was the first thing Stetson had ever driven.
“What’re we gonna do to Grandpa’s tractor?” Stetson had asked.
“We’re going to fix it,” his father replied, amused at the obviousness of the answer.
“But this one’s old and we have better ones over there.”
“I guess that depends on how you judge better,” his father had said, kneeling to look his young son in the eye. “If it wasn’t for this tractor, your grandfather wouldn’t have been a successful farmer, and that means that we wouldn’t have had the money or reason to buy those other tractors that you say are better.”
“But why are you going to fix it? The other tractors are stronger and faster.”
“First, I’m not the only one who’s going to fix this tractor, son. You’re going to help me fix it. Second, we’re going to fix this tractor because it’s a reminder of where our family has come from. It’s a symbol of all the hard work that’s gone into giving us the things we have now. It may never plow another field, but this is the tractor that plowed the fields and planted the seeds that are your future and I want you to learn to respect that.”
Stetson’s vision was blurry. The tractor was fuzzy around the edges and his face was hot, but in his mind, he could clearly see the deep, sun-etched wrinkles at the corners of his father’s eyes.
Stetson wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as the memory faded. Damn dust in the air, anyway.
The tractor still didn’t run. There was a new part attached here and there, but he and his father had only ever worked on the tractor a few moments at a time over the years.
“If they want my farm, fine. But this tractor will run again, by God,” he said out loud. It was a declaration to the universe. Finally, something that he could do, rather than just sit and worry. What had thirty-one days of worry gotten him? A banker in his father’s office, doing her damnedest to steal the Miller Family Farm.
He grabbed a wrench and got to work. Worrying and stewing over bankers solved nothing.
What about drooling over bankers?
Stetson stopped, his wrench in mid-air as he stared unseeingly at the tiny, antique tractor in front of him. Where the hell had that thought come from?
The stress was getting to him, that was for sure. If he didn’t pull his head out of his ass, and soon, he was going to lose his mind along with his farm.
And Stetson wasn’t quite sure which one was worse.
Chapter 4
Jennifer
Jennifer gingerly stood up from the chair, rolling her neck from side to side to work the kinks out of it as she looked down with satisfaction at the piles of papers on the wooden, scarred desk. To the untrained eye, it would look a lot like it had when she’d started – just piles of papers laid out everywhere – but this time, there was a purpose for those piles.
Which definitely couldn’t be said for the first set of piles she’d inherited.
She hadn’t sorted out the piles elsewhere in the office, stacked on every horizontal surface available, but hey, baby steps.
Now that there was some semblance of order in the chaos, at least in the desk arena, she just had to find a way to help Mr. Miller save his farm, even if he was an ungrateful ass. He may not appreciate her hard work on his behalf, but that didn’t mean it was any less her job.
Which, now that she thought about it, was rather like operating on a pain-in-the-ass patient and saving their life, whether or not they wanted the help, and whether or not they appreciated it.
Jennifer wrinkled her nose at herself. How was it that she’d gone from one profession to the next, and neither one of them appreciated the effort and care she put in? She must be a glutton for punishment – a masochist of the first order. There was no other explanation.
“Would you like a break now?” came Carmelita’s voice behind her, startling her out of her self-pitying thoughts. She whirled around to face the door, her hand over her heart, a startled yelp spilling out of her.
“Sorry, I did not mean to scare you,” the housekeeper said with a kindly smile. “You have been hard at work for a long time, though, and I thought that you might want to take a break.”
Jennifer’s eyes flicked to the elk clock on the wall. Wow – 3:15 in the afternoon? Where did today go? “I’d love that,” she said. “You have my crust of bread and my glass of water to drink?”
She may or may not have said that with sarcasm dripping off every syllable.
Carmelita sighed as she turned to head back towards the kitchen, her soft slippers making her almost completely silent on the creaky hardwood floors.
“Stetson has not come back in from outside yet, but when he does, we will have a talk about manners,” the housekeeper said over her shoulder in her softly accented voice. “He was not raised by his parents – God rest their souls,” she crossed herself, “to speak to a woman that way. Or anyone at all.”
They’d made it to a cheerful, if cramped, country kitchen, where Carmelita set about making a sandwich for Jennifer, her hands moving rhythmically between the ingredients. There was a small, worn table shoved up against the wall, so Jennifer slipped into a seat, watching the housekeeper at work. Homemade white bread, thick sliced roast beef…her mouth was watering at the sight.
“Are his parents no longer here?�
� she asked, trying to phrase that in the most tactful way possible. The housekeeper seemed intent on bringing them up, even if Jennifer usually didn’t get involved or even know much about a client’s background. But since Carmelita wanted to talk about it, it was only polite to respond and ask questions.
Nothing more than that.
“No,” Carmelita said sadly, sliding a plate in front of Jennifer along with a glass of milk. Jenn stared at the glass in bewilderment – she hadn’t been served milk to drink since she was a small child. She took a hesitant sip of the super thick, creamy liquid as Carmelita continued, “His mother died 14 years ago in a car accident – hit a deer on the way over to Pocatello to visit Stetson’s older brother, Declan. His father was devastated; they loved each other very much. He never dated or looked at anyone else. He died of cancer last July, or so they say. I think he died of a broken heart. He was never right after Mrs. Miller died.”
She stopped talking just as Jennifer had taken another overly large bite of her glorious sandwich – she’d almost just shoved the whole thing in her mouth because it was so damn delicious, but had instead settled on only taking a huge bite instead.
Which left her chewing furiously so she could respond without her mouth being full.
Awkwarddddddd…
Finally, she swallowed and said, “That’s a really sad story.”
Which was just about the most lame comment on the planet, but she really wasn’t sure what else to say.
Carmelita pulled out an oversized mixing bowl and canisters, lining them up in preparation to make something delicious, Jennifer was sure of it. It was probably a good thing that an audit only lasted a couple of weeks. She was going to have to be rolled out the front door at this rate on a hand truck if all of Carmelita’s cooking was as delicious as the sandwich had been.
She scrambled for something else to say as Carmelita hummed softly to herself, stirring flour and sugar together in the ceramic mixing bowl.
“So Mr. Miller has an older brother?” She wasn’t sure why she was asking this question, other than out of politeness. It certainly wasn’t any of her business.
She certainly didn’t care.
“Two older brothers,” Carmelita corrected, adding salt into the mixture. “Wyatt is the oldest and then Declan two years later. Stetson was…how do you say? Surprise.” She laughed a little. “Mrs. Miller was so flustered when she found out she was pregnant again. Stetson was eight years after Declan, and they had believed that they were done. She wanted a little girl but of course, he was a boy. Mr. Miller was happy, though, and Stetson never left his side. As soon as he was out of diapers, he spent the whole day with his father. Never complained – his shadow. Two peas in a pod.
“Declan was always closest to Mrs. Miller, and Wyatt…well, I do not know. Wyatt is his own person.”
Which was just about the oddest statement ever, but Jennifer didn’t feel comfortable asking for clarification. She’d already gossiped about her client’s past long enough. It was time to get back to work.
With a barely stifled groan, she pushed back from the worn kitchen table and stood, stretching for just a moment before smiling at the housekeeper. “Thank you for lunch,” she said.
The housekeeper bobbed her head, flashing a quick smile before concentrating on her baking again. Chocolate chips were being added to the bowl now. Jennifer tried not to drool.
Too much, anyway.
“My Stetson – his bark is worse than his bite. He is just worried. He has a good heart. He will be nicer to you next time. I will make him.”
Jennifer let out a snort of laughter at that. The diminutive housekeeper was probably a good two feet shorter than Mr. Miller, but Jennifer was pretty sure that in this case, size wasn’t really what mattered.
“Well…ummm…thanks again,” she said, and headed back to the office.
She was still pretty sure that Stetson Miller was a jackass of the first water, but at least he had good taste in housekeepers. That was one point in his favor.
Even if it was his only one.
Chapter 5
Stetson
Stetson pulled the alternator off the tractor and carried it over to a workbench. Covered in a thick coating of grease and dirt, it didn’t look like much, but he was sure that with a bit of a tune-up, he could make it sing again.
Or at least put-put-put down the field. Wouldn’t that be something – he could start using this tractor around the farm a little again. Machines were meant to be used, not to just sit around under a tarp.
“Hey, Stets, you here?” Declan’s voice called out as the barn door squeaked and rattled open.
Dammit. What is he doing here?
Declan was certainly Stetson’s favorite brother – it wasn’t hard to be declared the winner in that contest, considering the competition – but that didn’t mean he wanted him here on the farm. Not with the damn banker still here. It wasn’t five o’clock yet, so she would still be in their father’s office, doing her best to steal the farm away.
Stetson didn’t want Declan anywhere near Jennifer-the-Thief.
“Hey, Dec!” Stetson called back, as casual as he could. “I’m back here!” He listened to his brother’s cowboy boots echo on the dirty concrete floor, and then he appeared in the doorway, pushing his hat back on his head as he looked around the indoor riding arena that had long ago been turned into a large repair shop.
“Whatcha workin’ on?” he asked, making his way through the random piles scattered about. He got over to Grandpa’s tractor and let out a little laugh. “Is the farm doing so well, you don’t need to worry about working out in the fields anymore? You can take a day to just work on this old thing?”
Stetson shrugged as he fiddled with a nut, pretending to be utterly fascinated by it. He couldn’t meet his brother’s eye. “I just…wanted to do something a little different today. Figured it was ‘bout time someone worked on this.”
“Yeah, Dad would’ve loved to see this up and moving again.”
They both stood in silence, staring at the family relic. “So,” Stetson finally said, clearing his throat and wiping his hands on a grease rag, “what’s up?”
“Just wanted to stop by and talk to you about having a family meeting. Are you free on Friday afternoon? With the drought hitting hard this summer, Wyatt’s dryland wheat is ripening faster than usual. I think he’s anxious to get it out of the fields.”
Stetson bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. Since Wyatt was the only dryland farmer in the bunch, his wheat always ripened first, which meant he always harvested first. Which meant he could always destroy farm equipment with impunity and then return it without a care in the world because he was cock-sure his brothers would fix it all before starting into their own harvests.
Which was true, mostly because they had no other choice.
“Wyatt…I just don’t know,” Stetson hedged, trying to figure out a way to get out of sharing farm equipment this year. “You know we haven’t been getting along lately.”
Or ever.
Stetson decided to leave that part out. “If I have to work with him on harvest again this year, I’m not sure we’d both still be alive by the end of it.”
Declan let out a little laugh. They both knew it was true; Declan was just too nice to say it out loud. “C’mon, brother,” Declan chided him, “you know it’s what Dad would’ve wanted.”
Which was also true, dammit. And it sucked that Declan was willing to play that card, even if it was true.
Of course, he didn’t get the title of peacemaker in the Miller family for nothing. He’d been the liaison between his older brother and younger brother since the day Stetson arrived on the scene, and had finely honed his craft over the years. He was the only reason Stetson and Wyatt ever ended up in the same room together. Without Declan serving as a buffer between his two brothers, they would’ve either stopped talking to each other or killed each other long before now.
It was a toss-up as to which it would
’ve been.
Stetson let out a long sigh. “Yeah. You’re right. Fine. Meet me here on Friday? We’ll go over our harvest schedules and put together a plan then.” Hopefully the banker-a-la-thief would be gone by then.
He could only hope.
Declan grinned. “Awesome. See you then.” He turned and started making his way back out of the barn, when he stopped and turned back. “What’s up with the fancy car up at the house?”
Dammit, hell, shit, God almighty—
“Just an accountant I hired to come look at the books. You know, make sure they’re in tip-top shape.” He smiled, trying to act as casual as possible, but he was dying inside. There was no way Declan would fall for that one. It was the stupidest idea known to man. You didn’t deal with paperwork; you just threw it in the office, closed the door, and ignored it.
Everyone knew that.
“Great idea! I’m proud of you for thinking of that. Having someone else take over the books is just what you need to do.”
Or that. Declan could always think it was a grand idea to invite a bookkeeper into their lives. Stetson barely kept from rolling his eyes. His brother had the most ridiculous ideas sometimes.
“Hell,” Declan continued, “I might just go on up to the house and talk to him about coming over to my place and taking a look at my books. Do you—”
“Oh, you shouldn’t bother her! Not ummm…not right now. Maybe later. But she has a lot to go through right now. Lots of…paper.” He waved his hand in the air vaguely.
Shut
the
hell
up
Stetson gave Declan a weak smile.
“She, eh?” Declan arched an eyebrow teasingly. “Is she a looker?”
“Oh no. Ugly. Mole on her nose. A little hair sprouts out of it.”
He had no idea where that came from. Or where any of this was coming from. He shouldn’t be lying to his brother. He knew that. He also couldn’t figure out how to tell him the truth.