Running to the Farmer (The Runaway Brides of Darling Creek #2)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Ellis

The knock on the door startles me in the middle of lunch.

Dread hits my stomach because I’m sure it must be one of my neighbors, Ennis, Jake, or Wylie, coming to tell me Daisy busted through the fence again.

The massive ranch to the north touches a small section of my cow pasture, right where the creek flows past. Daisy happens to love the clover that grows in that shady little corner and also loves to walk right through the fence and get into trouble on the other side.

As I approach the side door, a pair of boots are visible through the curtains. I’m sure It’s one or more of the ranch hands who work for Wylie.

Beyond the porch, I can see Daisy chewing up my herb garden in the yard.

“Tell the guys I’m really sorry about?—”

As soon as I open the door, words fail me.

Standing on my porch is a woman who makes absolutely no sense. She wears a long, oversized cardigan sweater that’s more art teacher than cow hand. The work boots had me fooled at first, but close up, it’s obvious those boots are three sizes too big for her. If that weren’t incongruous enough, she wears a white satin dress under the cardigan. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was some kind of plain, oversized wedding dress. No hat, either. Just an expert-level braid pinned like a halo around her head. Overall, the woman reminds me of a teacher I used to have a crush on in the seventh grade.

Clearing my throat, I apologize. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

She squints at me through wire-rimmed glasses and frowns.

“You need help on your farm, and I’d like to offer my services.”

I blink back at her, perplexed.

My mind tries to recall if I put out a call for employees, but I never did any such thing. I’ve been running this small farm on my own for years.

Then I remember that Wylie and his brothers sometimes like to good-naturedly prank me, and it all comes together.

Tilting my head with a gotcha-grin, I ask, “Did Wylie send you?”

The woman bites one pillowy lip. “Um, no.”

I clear my throat again, curious about my body’s reaction to her pretty white teeth set against those pink lips. A hint of lip color is there, and then I notice the eyeliner, mascara, and pink polish on her fingernails where she holds onto a white sash draping along the floorboards.

“No, sir.”

Where in the world did she come from?

I follow the trail of the sash with my eyes. The other end of it is tied in a slip knot around Daisy’s neck. I’ll be damned.

Somebody’s art-teacher bride brought my cow home.

I’m sure there’s a story there, and it’s one I’d like to hear.

I decide to play along. “You know what. On second thought, you’re right. I have been putting out the word. Jenny from the diner in Darling Creek must have sent you.”

She blinks.

I study her hair, her makeup, her nails. “Or maybe Hattie from the salon?”

The stranger follows my gaze from the top of her hair to her toes. She gets my meaning. “Yes! Yes, it was Hattie who mentioned something.”

“Right. And you just happened to run into Daisy here on the way to the chapel?”

“Hm?”

I nod toward the heifer.

“Oh! Yes. Well, I wasn’t on my way to the chapel, per se. I was running…taking a walk.”

“Taking a walk, huh?”

She shrugs. “A girl’s allowed to get cold feet?”

She says it like a question. “And I’m glad you did,” I blurt before I think twice.

“Me too!” she chirps.

We stare at each other like someone broke wind and no one knows who to blame.

She’s the first to look away, blushing.

Desperate to break the ice, I move out of the way and hold open the screen door. “Welcome to Gates Farm. I’m Ellis.”

She narrows her eyes at the open door and stammers, “I’m…Louisa.”

I can see clearly she’s not ready to give me her last name, and I suspect all she needs is some quick money under the table, for reasons that I’m guessing have everything to do with that bridal gown and muddy boots she wears.

“Come on in.”

“Um,” Looking frazzled, Louisa flails the sash, still connected to Daisy.

“You can let her go. The yard is the only fenced-in area she hasn’t destroyed yet. Let’s go; lunch is getting cold.”

“Lunch? I’m sorry, this is not a social visit. I’m here to work.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, shrugging and letting the door begin to creak closed behind me. “But orientation begins after I fuel up. So you’ll be waiting either way. Might as well eat.”

Ambling into the kitchen, I smile when she shuffles in behind me.

Weird morning, and I would chalk it up to some kind of divine providence if I believed in that. I set the bowl of baked beans and a platter of sloppy joe sandwiches on the table, which is received by a wide-eyed Louisa. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or disgusted by my culinary prowess.

The truth is, I could use some help around here. Grandma Gates left me this farm after I came home to take care of her until she died, and I have been working my fingers to the bone. The vast herb garden is so neglected, I don’t know what to cut first. The flower field went to seed last fall, and I didn’t have time to prepare it for spring like Grandma and Grandpa did. My strawberry field is a muddy mess, and the hens are laying more eggs than I can handle.

“Thank you, this is very generous of you.”

Sitting across the kitchen table from her, I can’t help but notice how she shovels my mediocre food into her face like it’s going out of style. Ok. So, not impressed or disgusted. She’s just plain hungry.

When she comes up for air, I decide to pry a little.

“You come from that compound I’ve seen out there on the highway, don’t you?”

She watches me carefully as she gulps down a full glass of fresh milk.

“Want to tell me the real reason you’re running away from your own wedding?”

I have always had a bad feeling about that place with the white steeple and the collection of crappy cinder block white buildings. Wylie Sterling’s altercation with a couple of guys from that place confirmed that they’re not good neighbors. Not the kind of neighbors we want in this valley.

Louisa sets down her glass, politely dabs her lip with a napkin, and looks me straight in the eye.

“Because I don’t want to be somebody’s plural wife, and I don’t want my life to turn out like my mom’s. I don’t want nine kids. I was going to legally marry someone young and dull, then divorce him and take half of what’s his. I could use his money to help my mom and my siblings leave if they want to.

That was my long-term plan.

“But then Olivia left, and everything turned upside down. The prophet’s in exile, and the one getting ready to take the leadership role has decided he wanted me instead. So I can’t just leave. I have to run. Far away. I just need enough money for a bus ticket so I can get out of state.”

Something about that last part doesn’t feel totally truthful to me. Everything else feels honest, though.

Louisa takes a breath and then helps herself to another sloppy joe, scarfing it down like a woman who’s eternally grateful for the most mediocre sandwich in the western world.

I lean back in my chair and rub my sternum as if the story has dealt a blow to my body. I’m suddenly not feeling very hungry anymore.

“Well, your secrets are safe with me,” is all I can rasp out.