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

  David had done all he could with the hoof. He started to untie the rope that held up the cow’s leg. Her words sank in. He looked at her over the top of the stall, and she looked back at him steadily, her mouth pressed in a determined line. “For us?”

  The cow moved away from him the moment it was free and shook its leg, stomped it. That’s got to feel better.

  “About you and me, David. I’ve been praying.”

  David turned his back to Evelyn and indulged himself by closing his eyes and sighing. Lord,I’m so not up for this today.

  He composed his face and let himself out of the stall.

  “I believe it’s God’s will that we… well, that we at least get to know one another better!” Evelyn said patiently. “Susan is gone, and my Luther is gone, practically at the same time! I know you must be at sea trying to run this farm and take care of yourself too. It’s too much for any man. God gave man a helpmeet in woman so that they might hold each other up and provide support.”

  David pulled off his gloves and moved them from one hand to the other, shuffled his feet too. Now that he didn’t have a task to do, he wasn’t sure what to do with his eyes. He looked at Evelyn, looked away again. He couldn’t bear the determined openness in her eyes . “Well. I don’t know about that. I don’t know that I’m ready to think about that quite yet.”

  “Well.” Evelyn’s voice was a little pinched. “The Bible says it’s not right to mourn forever. Please just mull it over. Pray about it. Will you do that, at least?”

  “I will do that. Yes,” David promised.

  Maybe he could pray Evelyn found someone else. He felt sorry for her. She’d had a rough life. But he wasn’t attracted to her, not even the least little bit. After Susan he wasn’t about to let himself get pulled into another yoke. Why couldn’t he choose to remain single? Being a widower, he sometimes felt like a bull at auction. There were far too many single women in their Mennonite community.

  Evelyn’s face softened, and she gave him a smile. “It’s just that I know you believe the same as me. You’re a good, God-fearing man. I promised the Lord that if I ever, well, married again, it would be to someone with strong faith.”

  “That’s wise thinking.”

  “I’m sure you feel just the same!”

  David nodded. “I, uh, thank you for stopping by, Evelyn, but I have some more doctoring to do this afternoon. Can I walk you to your car?”

  Evelyn hesitated, the expression on her face saying she wasn’t sure how to take this. She apparently decided to take it as a compliment. “Of course, David. You may walk me to my car.”

  “This way.” David walked around Evelyn carefully and opened the barn door.

  There was absolutely nothing wrong with Evelyn Robeson, he reminded himself as they walked up the driveway. She was a decent Christian woman. It was purely David’s own fault he wanted nothing to do with her.

  Chapter 5

  They were in for a dry few days, according to the weatherman, so David mowed the far pasture on Monday. It had been a mild autumn, and the grass had grown tall enough for a late cutting. On Wednesday he ran the baler over the felled grass, leaving bound square bales dotting the field. A shift in the forecast called for rain on Friday, so on Thursday late afternoon, he had to pick up all the bales on the flatbed truck and get them safely stored in the barn before rain ruined them. A farmer lived and died by weather text alerts these days, and David loved his smartphone as much as anybody.

  Storing hay was one of the many preparations he made every year for winter. Once he saw how much hay he’d gotten off his own land, he’d know how much he had to order from the Millers down the road. He needed enough to get his herd through ’til April. His cows had access to the pasture all year round, and they’d dig through the snow to find grass, so he didn’t need as much hay as confinement operations. But there were weeks sometimes when the weather was too bad to let them out. Besides, they loved the soft hay like it was candy.

  He backed his flatbed truck, overloaded with bales, through the huge, wide-open doors on the top story of his bank barn. He set the brake and began unloading the bales and stacking them in front of the bales from previous cuttings.

  River and Tonga were in the barn with him. River lay watching him work, and Tonga hunted the corners for mice. When River gave off a sharp bark and stood up, David turned to see Christie Landon in the open doorway.

  “Hey there, neighbor.” Christie’s voice had a lilting quality that echoed in the big barn.

  “Hey.” David nodded at him and pulled another two bales off the back of the truck by the twine that bound them, but his stomach did an uneasy slide. He still felt humiliated about the way he’d buttoned Christie’s coat for him the last time he came around. He had no idea what he’d been thinking, just that it came automatically to him, an urge to take care of Christie, make sure he was warm. He couldn’t even remember doing that for Joe, at least not since he was a little tyke.

  He shoved the bales in place in the stack he was making.

  Christie fussed over River, who ate it up. He was all about receiving kindness from strangers. Then Christie wandered closer as David moved two more bales from the truck, one in each hand. “Wow, impressive. I bet those aren’t as light as they look.”

  His easy tone made David relax. “Why don’t you try one and see?”

  Christie was carrying a white box that looked like a cake or pie box, and he had the old coat David lent him over one arm. He put the box and the borrowed coat on a beam and then lifted one of the bales from the flatbed. He made a face. “Yeah. What is that, like, forty pounds?”

  “Forty to fifty, I guess.”

  “I should come over here to work out instead of going to the gym in town,” he joked.

  David grabbed two more bales and swung them into place. “Anytime you want to break your back working for me, you’re more than welcome.”

  Christie raised a challenging eyebrow. “Maybe I will. I brought you more cookies. I’ve been channeling Betty Crocker lately, so I could use all the weight lifting I can get.”

  “That’s nice of you, but not necessary.” He stopped and wiped the sleeve of his work shirt over his sweaty forehead. “That reminds me. That plate you brought over…. That was something else. I think that chicken’s the best I ever ate.”

  Christie’s smile was instant and bright. “Really?”

  “Surely. Those biscuits were good too.”

  “I’m glad you thought so, because I wanted to ask you something, actually. But let’s get this done first.”

  To David’s surprise Christie took off his own coat—a puffy black ski jacket that looked expensive—and put that on the beam as well. Underneath he wore a gray sweater and jeans, both of which were tighter and fancier than was practical on the farm. He had such a trim physique, like he’d never eaten a cookie in his life. David didn’t want to be caught staring, so he didn’t allow his gaze to linger.

  He said nothing as Christie started to move bales. He moved one at a time, but he wrangled them just fine. He had more upper-body strength than David would have expected, and strong hands. Probably he did go to a gym. The idea of having to pay someplace for the privilege of exercising was bewildering to David. He always worked his body harder than was probably wise on any given day. His aches and pains were witness to that.

  Christie stuck with the task. David found himself moving a little faster, pushing a little more, with someone there to impress. They swung bales like the truck was on fire. In ten minutes the flatbed was empty and all the hay was stacked.

  “We definitely deserve a cookie for that,” Christie commented as he brushed hay off his sweater. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his face that made him glow. He went over to the beam and picked up the box. He opened the lid and brought it over to David.

  The box contained at least two-dozen cookies—chocolate chips, some kind of oatmeal with crisp brown edges, and fancy chocolate ones. David took an oatmeal. “You didn’t have to bri
ng me all these.”

  “It’s strategic.” Christie took a bite of an oatmeal cookie too and licked his lips to catch the crumbs.

  David didn’t know what he meant by that and didn’t ask. He looked away at the bales of hay and took a bite of his own cookie. It was perfect—there was a caramel taste mixed with the oatmeal and a hint of saltiness that set off the sweet. But Christie still made him nervous, dang it. It wasn’t a bad nervous, necessarily. He was a little intimidated, perhaps. Christie’s city clothes and all that modern frippery and haircut and earrings and such made David feel like a homebody and a country bumpkin, like an old squash left out in the field.

  Christie took a deep breath and spoke in a firm rush. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I’m working a lot of hours right now, from the house, you know? But there’s not a whole lot else for me to do around here. I tend to be a compulsive type. When I get into something, I really get into it.”

  David’s gaze was drawn back to Christie’s face. His eyes were shining with enthusiasm.

  “And… well… lately it’s been cooking. Aunt Ruth had stacks of gourmet cooking magazines, and it’s fun to try the recipes. But then there I am with all this extra food, and my freezer is already full after less than a week. Plus it feels like a waste to make all that just for me. It’s not like a drawing or a painting. It needs to be consumed right away.”

  All the stuff about cooking being fun wasn’t something David could relate to. But he thought he knew where this was going, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s charity case, and he didn’t like feeling obliged. It reminded him of the way Evelyn Robeson kept bringing food over. There was an implied favor there, almost an implied possessiveness, like she was staking a claim. He could manage on his own, thank you.

  That must have showed on his face because Christie held up his hands. “Hang on. Let me finish. This would help me out too. It’s not cheap to buy the ingredients, though Aunt Ruth already had a lot of the spices and things, so that helps. What I thought was this…. I could keep track of what I pay for ingredients, you could pay half, and get half of what I make. Most recipes serve four, so you’d get two servings, and you can freeze one or have it for lunch the next day. That way I get to cook my little heart out, it’s cheaper for me, my freezer is saved from chronic bloat, and you get home-cooked meals delivered. What do you say? Want to try it for a few days and see how it goes?”

  He said all of this in a rush, as if anticipating David’s arguments and trying to outpace them. David took off one of his work gloves and rubbed his chin. Why was Christie even offering this? Was it as straightforward as he said? Wanting help paying for ingredients? Food was pretty expensive.

  David reverted to the practical. “How much would these meals likely run?”

  “Good question. I figured up what the chicken dinner cost me to make and half of that would have been sixteen dollars. But if you have a dollar limit in mind, I can take that into account too.”

  David would have paid sixteen dollars for the meal Christie brought over, if he’d been in a restaurant. And the food wouldn’t have been half as good either. If he got two meals out of it, it was certainly in his budget. But he still felt uncomfortable, like he’d be taking advantage of Christie.

  Then he heard Amy’s voice in his head. For Pete’s sake, Dad, all the chemicals in those frozen meals will be the death of you. Promise me you’ll do better. She’d be all over him to accept Christie’s offer, if she were here. And since he would be paying, there’d be no strings attached. Right?

  “What kind of things do you like to make?” he asked.

  Christie gave him a brilliant smile. “Oh my God, there are so many amazing recipes! I’m trying to avoid the super fatty or heavy stuff. Or lighten it a bit. You know, cut down the sugar and things like that. There’s a Bon Appétit issue on Moroccan food that looks delicious, and Indian food too.” His face became wary. “Or if you’re more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, there’re some good steakhouse recipes. Oh! And there’s an issue on Southern barbeque and New Orleans cuisine.”

  “Hmmm.” David needed a moment to think. He took the push broom that was against the wall and started sweeping the stray bits of hay toward the large pile. Heck, just hearing those words piqued his appetite. He’d never had Moroccan food. And everything else Christie mentioned made him so hungry he could eat the hay. It was well past lunchtime, and he hadn’t had a thing to eat since early that morning.

  Christie waited patiently while David tried to collect his thoughts. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” he said, still sweeping.

  Christie waved a hand. “Like I said, I’m already making the food. But maybe we could start out three nights a week, so if I don’t feel in the mood to cook, I won’t worry about it.”

  “If you ever don’t feel like it, just text me to let me know. I can fend for myself.”

  “Perfect!” Christie appeared to take that as consent. “Want to exchange phone numbers?”

  David leaned on the broom and took his phone out. Soon his number was in Christie’s phone and Christie’s in his. Christie Landon. For some reason the sight of it gave him a little thrill. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d added a new contact to his phone, especially one that wasn’t for church or business.

  Christie grabbed his ski jacket from the beam and put it on. “What about tomorrow night? Does anything I mentioned sound good?”

  All of it. It all sounded good. For some reason words lined up to press their way out of David’s usually taciturn throat. “Well… I’ve never been very far from here. Susan always made meat and potatoes, country cooking. I guess… I wouldn’t mind trying new things. See what people eat in other parts of the world.”

  The confession made him feel awkward, but Christie tilted his head and looked at David with interest. “Spirit of an adventurer, hey? I like it. Moroccan it is, then. I’ll text you tomorrow when it’s about ready!” Christie skipped out the door, leaving behind the box of cookies and David’s old coat.

  David put down the broom and went over to look in the box. He chose a chocolate-chip cookie this time, and it practically melted in his mouth. He felt… excited. Nervous. He felt like he’d either just done something very foolish or incredibly fortunate. Time would tell which, but he was sure looking forward to eating more food as good as that chicken dinner.

  He whistled to the dogs, shut the huge barn doors, and decided to leave the flatbed truck in the barn for the night. It wasn’t hurting anything. Once in the house, he put on some water for tea, stuck a cup of soup in the microwave for a late lunch, then went into the living room.

  One of the bookcases in there had four shelves of National Geographic magazines carefully arranged by date. They were some of his most prized possessions. He’d read them so often it only took him a moment to find the two issues he was looking for. One had an article called “Monkeys of Morocco” with amazing photographs, and the other was on the ancient spice trade with pictures from a Moroccan food market. He took the magazines with him back to the kitchen, where he could read them and look at the pictures while he ate his soup.

  He felt a giddy surge of anticipation stir in his heart. Tomorrow night he’d be eating food just like the people in these articles ate. He’d be dining in Morocco.

  Chapter 6

  Christie set his alarm so he’d get up early. He settled down to work by 7:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. He knew if he got his usual slow start, he’d be distracted all day, and he couldn’t let his new enthusiasm for cooking derail the progress he was making at work.

  By three he finished his mock-ups and uploaded them to the cloud where his manager could look at them and comment. With happy relief he signed off for the day and allowed himself to think about tonight’s meal. By three thirty he was at the grocery store to pick up the fresh ingredients.

  He was stupidly excited about making Moroccan tonight for himself and David. He had a warning voice in h
is head. Be careful. Don’t get too friendly with this guy. David Fisher is not gay. This wasn’t like meeting some nice New Yorker to date. Hell, David probably didn’t even want to be his friend. They had nothing in common.

  Except, possibly, an interest in exotic food.

  Even though those warnings were all true, Christie was a left-brain, instinctual kind of guy. This was a trait that had gotten him in trouble more than once, but generally his instinct was sound. He genuinely liked David—liked his honest, attractive face and the shy get-’er-done vibe about him. He was obviously a hard worker and a nice man. He lived alone and seemed… sad. It was simply a nice gesture to share meals Christie was cooking anyway. And God knew he could use a few ticks on the positive side of the karma balance sheet.

  Beyond all that there were little flashes of something else—things that had gotten under Christie’s skin. There was the way David seemed uncomfortable and awkward around him, couldn’t look at him for long, the way he’d buttoned up that coat. The logical part of his brain said David was being fatherly, and not in a “hot daddy” kind of way. But Christie’s gut…. His gut was not so sure. David taking care of him like that, the touch of his hands…. Yeah, that started any number of alarms happily ringing deep down in Christie’s gay little heart.

  Anyway, instinct, aka wishful thinking notwithstanding, Christie knew nothing would happen with David. He was just sharing expenses and helping out a neighbor at the same time. He was also lonely as fuck. So who did it hurt?

  He picked out three recipes from the Moroccan issue. There was a spiced cauliflower and almond soup, a chicken dish with lemon and olives, and a pastilla made with filo dough and stuffed with a mixture of almonds, cinnamon, and turkey sausage to replace the duck in the recipe. The pastilla would look impressive, but it wasn’t all that hard to make with prepackaged filo. For another easy and cheap side dish, he picked up a head of broccoli to roast. With some olive oil, sea salt, and cracked pepper, the broccoli would go well with the meal’s more exotic flavors.