A Second Harvest (Men of Lancaster County Book 1) Read online

  A Second Harvest, Men of Lancaster County #1

  Second Edition published July, 2020

  © 2016 Jane Jensen Holmes / Eli Easton

  First Edition – Published by Dreamspinner Press, July, 2016

  Cover Art by Anna Tif Sikorska

  Pinkerton Road LLC

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of

  international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution.

  Please do not loan or give this ebook to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means.

  The author earns her living from sales of her work. Please support the arts!

  DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK.

  Dedication

  To my own silver fox farmer.

  Contents

  Dedication

  A Second Harvest by Eli Easton

  Acknowledgements

  Act I: Planting

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Act II: Germination

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Act III: The Reaping

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Act IV: Feast

  Epilogue

  BONUS: Cookie Recipe

  BONUS: Tender Mercies Sample

  Dear Reader

  Men of Lancaster County Series

  Also by Eli Easton

  About the Author

  A Second Harvest by Eli Easton

  David Fisher has lived by the rules all his life. Born to a Mennonite family, he obeyed his father and took over the family farm, married, and had two children. Now with his kids both in college and his wife deceased, he runs his farm alone and without joy, counting off the days of a life half-lived.

  Christie Landon, graphic designer, Manhattanite, and fierce gay party boy, needs a change. Now thirty, he figures it’s time to grow up and think about his future. When his best friend overdoses, Christie resolves to take a break from the city. He heads to a small house in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania to rest, recoup, and reflect.

  But life in the country is boring despite glimpses of the hunky silver fox next door. When Christie’s creativity latches on to cooking, he decides to approach his widower neighbor with a plan to share meals and grocery expenses. David agrees, and soon the odd couple finds they really enjoy spending time together.

  Christie challenges the boundaries of David’s closed world and brings out feelings he buried long ago. If he can break free of the past, he might find a second chance at happiness.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my ever-faithful beta readers Kate, Veronica, and RJ! You always help me to be a better writer and I owe you all so much. Also thanks to the folks at Dreamspinner Press for giving this book a first publication and helping me edit the initial draft into shape. The new (second) cover was done by the talented Anna Tif Sikorska.

  I love the idea that it’s never too late to change your life, to take up a new degree or profession, a new love, or even a whole new family. Because the opposite is tragic, isn’t it? Being doomed to forever walk the same path can be a kind of living hell. It’s not easy to leave a well-worn road, but ultimately it is worth it. This is the story of one man’s second chance.

  Act I: Planting

  Chapter 1

  David sat against the rough wooden boards of the cow stall and watched Gertrude die. She opened her big brown eyes once toward the end and gazed at him for a long moment. In the glow of the lantern light, her lashes cast deep shadows so David couldn’t see what emotion might be in those eyes. Was she grateful he was sitting up with her? Did she know it was time to go? Was she relieved to finally be leaving this farm where she’d spent her entire long life?

  But she was just a cow. Probably she thought none of those things. When she closed her eyes again, it was for the last time. An hour later she stopped breathing, and she was gone.

  It felt like an era passed with her, silently and stealthily. David was there when Gertrude was born. She was the first cow that was his, designated as such while still in the womb, a birthday present from his parents. He raised her and showed her at the Harrisburg farm fair when he was in eleventh grade. She was a beautiful brown jersey with classic lines, and she won a third-place ribbon that day. David was proud enough to burst. For years afterward Gertrude was a reliable, strong milking cow.

  A farmer didn’t get sentimental about animals. That was plain stupid. But David was not able to kill Gertrude when her milk production fell off. She’d half performed for another decade until he eventually retired her to pasture. If anyone asked, he told them it was good to have a mature cow around to show the rebellious younger ones what was what, teach them the routine. And Gertrude was a leader by personality. She knew how to put other cows and heifers in their places. But the truth was, David just couldn’t bear to load her in the truck and take her to the slaughterhouse.

  She was a part of his boyhood, and it was right she was dead now. God knew the boy in him was a far distant memory.

  He turned off the lights in the barn and walked back to the house. It was foolishness to have stayed up with her. The day’s work had to be done whether or not he had a good night’s rest. He was too old for this.

  The light in the kitchen was on as he approached the house. He checked his watch. It was just past 5:00 a.m. Amy must be up.

  For the past two years, Amy had come home from college for the summer to work as a nursing intern at the Lancaster hospital and to help him run a CSA program on the farm. It was Amy who did all the customer work. She made up the flyers, packed the boxes of produce, and met with the customers every week when they came to pick up their shares. She was good at that sort of thing. He wished he could pay her more, but like every other operation on the farm, the profit from the CSA was a very faint line of green. David honestly didn’t know how most farmers made it. His grandfather had paid off the farm, but still, between property taxes, upkeep and maintenance, animal feed, and everything else, he made just enough to get by. As his dad used to say, the gravy was thin.

  He opened the sliding glass door and saw Amy in her bathrobe pulling some fresh eggs from the fridge.

  “Hey, Dad.” She yawned. “What are you doing out at the barn so early?”

  “Gertrude passed.”

  “Aw! That’s a shame.” Amy didn’t sound too broken up about it. Then again Amy learned young not to get attached to the animals.

  He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, went to the fridge, and poured himself some orange juice. But when he went to lift it to his mouth, he was surprised to discover a hard, thick lump in his throat. He put the glass back on the counter and breathed. Ridiculous. He hadn’t gotten particularly choked up, even when Susan died. But then she was sick for a few years. Her death was a blessing in the end.

  “Things live. Things die. That’s the way of it.” His voice was gruff, but the lump eased. He drank his juice.

  When he put the glass down, Amy was watching him with a frown. “You sound so cynical.
I worry about you, Dad. You should take Mrs. Robeson up on her offer for dinner. I think she really likes you.”

  “I’m not interested in Mrs. Robeson.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. “You should give her a chance. Mom’s been gone two years now. She wouldn’t want you to be alone forever. And Mrs. Robeson taught both Joe and me in Sunday school. She’s a very nice lady.”

  David gave Amy a warning look. “I don’t care to discuss my love life, thank you. Are you gonna cook those eggs, or are you waiting for them to hatch?”

  Amy snorted a laugh, but she opened a cupboard and brought out a skillet. “Slave driver! I just worry about you. I hate that you’re all alone here when I go back to school. Joe hardly ever comes home.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I know! That’s the problem. You’re turning into a crusty old hermit. Next time I see you, you’ll have a beard down to your belly button. I know you live on TV dinners, hotdogs, and chips. It’s not healthy. You should get remarried. I know Pastor Mitchell thinks so.”

  “Pastor Mitchell wants to get some of his old maids and widows married off so he doesn’t have to handhold them so much. I’m not interested.”

  David was half teasing, but Amy still gasped. “Dad! That’s a terrible thing so say!”

  David waggled his eyebrows, unrepentant, and exited the kitchen.

  He went upstairs and took a shower. The sleepless night hit him along with the hot water, and he knew it would be a long day. Why had he felt compelled to sit up with Gertrude? She probably hadn’t even known he was there. But at the thought of her, another wave of sadness hit him. An image ran through his mind—one of falling leaves and the boy he’d been playing in them, laughing. He had no idea where that came from or why.

  Out of the shower, he used a hand to wipe off the fogged mirror. He looked at himself critically to see if he could get away with not shaving this morning. His reflection surprised him briefly, as it always did. He felt so old. He always expected to see white hair and a sagging face when he looked in the mirror. But there were only a few strands of gray at the temples of his dark-brown hair and in his close-cropped beard. His face was not young, but it wasn’t sagging yet either. He’d lost a good thirty pounds since Susan died, so he actually looked younger.

  Fine. He might not look old, but he sure felt it. And he suddenly understood why he sat up with Gertrude. He wanted to watch her as she escaped the farm at last, as she simply left her body and went away, gone where no one could prevent her going and no one could follow.

  One day David would leave too, maybe just that way. He’d shut his eyes and vanish, leaving a shell behind. But dear Lord, he was only forty-one this past May. Even if he died when his dad did, at age fifty-eight, he had years to wait yet.

  Just to… wait.

  He couldn’t bear the melancholy look of his reflection. Foolishness! With a huff of self-disgust, David dried himself off and brushed his teeth, avoiding glancing in the mirror again. He was in a hurry now. Chores awaited and no one was going to do them for him.

  * * *

  Christie got to his feet in the small bathroom stall. He had to put his hand on the wall to help himself up, though whether it was due to the booze he’d consumed or his thirty-year-old bones was anybody’s guess. The thump thump of the bass from the music out front made the black stall quiver under his hand.

  “That was great! Can I return the favor?” The young Latino hottie looked at Christie hopefully.

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  Christie hadn’t gotten off, but he was cool with that. He got hard, and he had some fun with his hand down his pants, but he’d lost the urge to climax. And that was definitely down to the dirty martinis. The martinis and his own ennui. He only agreed to hook up with the guy because he was obviously a tourist, and he screwed up his courage to come over and talk to Christie. He hadn’t wanted to reject the kid. And yeah, the guy was hot too, with light caramel-colored skin and big soulful eyes. He was so young and green he was practically fluorescent.

  “Fantastic. Oh—wait. I have something.” The guy dug a baggie containing three blue pills from his jeans pocket. “X, man. Guy gave me a sample. Says it’s awesome stuff.” He opened up the baggie, took out one pill, and held the baggie open for Christie.

  “No thanks. I’ve had too much to drink already.”

  The guy shrugged and swallowed his pill dry. “Save ’em for later, then. And think of me.” He winked, closed the baggie, and stuffed it in the front pocket of Christie’s tight jeans.

  “Thanks.” Christie smiled. He didn’t plan to take the pills, but it was nice of the guy to offer.

  “Have a good night!”

  The young hottie left the bathroom. Christie followed at a slower pace, washing his hands at the sink and rinsing out his mouth. In the mirror his pupils were large, the black surrounded by only a sliver of blue. He looked washed-out too, old. He suddenly felt on the tired side of drunk. He wanted to go home.

  Out in the club, he made his way through the crush of bodies. It was Saturday night and The Boiler Room was packed to health-hazard levels. Christie didn’t have the patience for it. He’d been feeling off lately, more critical of his usual scene. He surveyed the crowd looking for his roommate, Kyle.

  The dance floor and bar area held the usual mix of tourists looking for the “gay New York club experience” and the regulars, who were dotted here and there in clusters. Christie knew all the regulars. He was one himself. And of course there were the assorted jack-offs with their eyes focused on their phones. What are you looking at? Grindr? You’re at a club, douchebag.

  The flash of annoyance reminded him of why he was tired of this scene. It was so shallow, so transient. The tourists came and went and the regulars stayed, growing bitchier and more cynical by the year—not to mention older. Christie included.

  And Jesus Christ, was it just him, or were the twinks getting younger every day? Babies, all of them. That was Christie once. Now he felt like aged beef. The thrill of it had definitely begun to wane, but it was hard to break the habit of eight long years. All his friends in the city were into this scene, especially Kyle. His best friend was nowhere close to wanting to rein in the party just yet.

  Christie spotted Kyle on the dance floor with Billy. Billy was a local too. He was a big, sweet-hearted muscle guy who had a massive crush on Kyle. They slept together now and then, but Kyle was the last guy on earth to settle down. He’d hooked up with at least one other guy tonight Christie knew of for sure, a cute redhead. He also looked plowed.

  Christie made his way over to them. “Hey!” he hollered. “I’m ready to head out.”

  Kyle pouted and took both of Christie’s hands, forcing him to dance. They danced together for a few minutes, but Christie really was over it. It was after 1:00 a.m., and he just wanted to leave. “You gonna stay?” he asked Kyle.

  Kyle shook his head. “No. I’m good. Let’s go.” He kissed Billy hotly, and they waved good-bye to the regulars as Kyle pulled Christie out the exit.

  They walked the six blocks to their place. Christie loved living in the East Village, but he had to admit the proximity of The Boiler Room was a huge factor in his decision to sublease his pricey but tiny apartment. And it certainly was a factor in Kyle’s moving in. Their place was only a one bedroom, but Christie paid more rent, so he got the privacy. Kyle slept on a pull-down wall bed in the living room. It was a constant battle to keep the place from looking trashed. But despite its many disadvantages, the apartment had three undeniable perks: location, location, location.

  They all but carried each other up the six flights of stairs. As was their postclub routine, they kicked off their shoes, scooted out of their tight jeans, and settled on the couch for a final round in their underwear. Kyle lit a joint, and Christie grabbed a half-full bottle of red wine from the kitchen and uncorked it. He slouched back on the couch and held the bottle aloft on his palm, testing his sobriety. It wobbled. A lot.

  “You’re gon
na spill that, idiot!” Kyle complained. “And that’s, like, wed wine!”

  “Wed wine?” Christie giggled. Kyle handed him the joint, and Christie took it with one hand, put it to his lips, and inhaled. Just one toke. He was still drunk on the martinis.

  “Wed!” Kyle tried again. “W-Rrred! Red! Wine!”

  They both cracked up. The red wine in question tipped dangerously. Christie passed Kyle the joint and brought the bottle to his lips. “Guess we’d better hurry up and drink it, then, before I spill it.”

  Kyle took a hit, held it, and let it out in a fragrant cloud. He took another immediately, toking so hard the paper on the joint flamed red. Man, that guy could smoke a joint down to a nub in minutes. He held the joint out to Christie.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Kyle shrugged and took another deep drag.

  “Thank God I don’t need to get up early tomorrow. Sundays rule,” Christie sighed. He was already dreading the hangover.

  “Except the day after Sunday is Monday,” Kyle bitched, sounding funny because he was trying to hold in the smoke.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Christie used to love his job as a graphic designer. But lately he’d been uninspired, and his relationship with his boss had soured too. He knew it was his fault. He wasn’t working up to his usual level. He needed to hit up an art gallery or something. Find some fresh motivation. Maybe he would do that tomorrow—a lazy Sunday art stroll.