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

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Louisa

I ate three sloppy joes and two helpings of beans before I could stop myself.

I haven’t eaten this well in a long time. Maybe ever.

Embarrassed at how my body reacts when Ellis --this adorable farmer with the chiseled jaw--tells me he won’t snitch on me to the church, I pop out of my chair and busy myself with gathering the dishes.

“I don’t need help with dishes,” I hear Ellis say behind me.

“Automatic response,” I say as I run hot water in the sink.

“Leave it.”

Ellis’s command is so firm that I step back from the sink, waiting for a stern talking-to.

Instead, he smiles.

My shoulders relax.

And then it all goes to hell when he gestures down a dark hallway. “Come on, let’s go to the bedroom.”

I knew it was too good to be true. As my brain waffles between fight or flight, I’m also kicking myself for trusting an outsider. The compound is hell on earth, but it appears I’ve jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

Horrified, I rear back from Ellis, sloshing water from the sink’s sprayer all over my dress.

I’m also a tiny bit heartbroken. Ellis seemed so kind and unassuming that I allowed myself to get lost in his eyes.

This is why we’re not allowed to be out in the world without a brother, husband, or mother to watch us.

Unwanted marriage or not, I would be better off leaving the church with my friend Goldie at my side. She would punch this man in the dick before he put his hands on me.

Ellis seems confused at my physical reaction, and then realization settles over his face.

“Wait...oh god, that’s not what I meant." He makes a noise that's an exasperated sigh and an embarrassed grunt as he rubs the back of his neck. "I meant...Let me show you to the spare room where I keep my grand—my extra stash of clothes. For the workers.”

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

I hesitate, my mind spinning.

“Worker clothes?”

I don’t sense any duplicity in Ellis. Still, he keeps saying things that make me blush and want to run away.

He smiles. “Unless you want to get dirt and poop all over that pretty bridal gown.”

I snort and look down at the white satin, its hem stained from my walk through mud and dead leaves. And Ellis is right. I need a change of clothes if I’m going to be working on the farm.

I’m going to need to change a lot of things.

The hen Ellis calls Princess Diana pecks at my hand, stabbing me before I can jerk it away.

I stifle the “Ouch!” as I clutch my hand in pain.

Ellis steps forward.

“Let me show you.”

I can’t let him think I’m a slow learner or a crybaby. But it’s not helping that the smell in the chicken coop is outrageously terrible and stings my eyes.

I can do this. I just have to put my mind to it.

Of course I can do this. After all, I herded a whole dang cow back home to him, didn’t I?

“You already showed me. I got it,” I insist.

I grit my teeth and suffer through the smell, the pecking chickens, and how much I do not like nature. Maybe instead of a hunky farmer, I should have done a favor for a nice, unattractive tax attorney. Or a genteel woman of a certain age who owns a bed and breakfast and offers an impeccable selection of teas.

It takes several tries, but eventually, I get the hang of harvesting eggs without upsetting the hens.

Cleaning the coop comes next, which is actually the most gratifying part of my day. The chickens take their stupid selves outside to the yard and mostly stay out of the way while Ellis and I replace the straw in the nests and clean all the compartments. And there are a lot of fiddly little places to clean in a hen house.

By the end of the day, I’m either used to the smell of chicken shit, or we’ve made it a whole lot better.

Ellis brings me a bottle of water as I sit on a stump in the yard.

“Well, how was your first day?”

“Fine,” I say. The truth is, I hate sweating. I’ve sweat through this old pair of jeans and this faded, long-sleeved black tee-shirt. Besides that, I’m wearing a shirt with wolves howling at the moon and swoopy letters printed across the chest that read, “World’s Baddest Nana.”

I’m desperate for a shower and to sit somewhere and read a book and to avoid all human interaction. But I did strangely enjoy the cleaning part, despite myself.

“I guess I owe you some money.”

My focus snaps back to Ellis, who plucks a wallet from his back pocket.

I watch as he counts off a stack of twenty-dollar bills with his large, veiny hands. I push down the sensation flooding my nerves as I stare. I’ve always had a thing for sexy hands. Men working on Wall Street do not have gorgeous hands with knuckles that look like they could bust through a wall if needed. At least, my preference in romance novels would dictate as much.

My eyes widen at the amount of money that Ellis counts off: Nine, ten, eleven bills…

“I’m not good at math, but that’s too much for one afternoon’s work.”

Ellis doesn’t argue; he simply presses the stack of bills in my hand. At that simple touch, I note that that might be the first humane physical contact from a man since I was small.

And I want more.

“Just one condition. Stay for dinner.”

As lovely as he is and as much as I enjoy looking at him and his crinkly, smiling eyes, I don’t have a real reason to stay any longer. I’m losing daylight, and I need to go to town and start asking around for Olivia.

“I’m still full from lunch,” I say, not entirely lying. “But I’d appreciate a ride into town.”

“What are you in such a hurry for?”

Lying through my teeth, I tell him, “I’m headed to California. As I understand it, there’s a bus station in town, and the last bus to Bozeman leaves in an hour.”

He nods soberly, with big, puppy-dog eyes working overtime. “Let me get changed and we’ll go. Help yourself to whatever you want from the guest room.”

While showering, I wonder why my brain keeps fixating on those eyes of his. Ellis is so lucky to live out here all by himself. He doesn’t need me hanging around messing things up. The money sure is nice, but that was him being generous, I’m sure of it.

I’m not cut out for farm life.

I pull on a pair of baggy jeans and fish an old leather belt from the back of the guest room closet to cinch it at the waist. Then I find a less grandmotherly top to wear with it, a faded Rolling Stones tee-shirt with parted lips and a protruding tongue. It makes me smile. If Olivia and Goldie saw me in this, they would laugh. I’ve always been the prim and proper one of the three of us. If only they knew.

When I leave the guest room, I find Ellis standing on the front porch.

His eyes bug out at the sight of me. “Not that one,” he snaps.

Shame floods my cheeks. “Oh…sorry…”

I shrink back and stop halfway back into the house, pausing when Ellis corrects himself.

“Wait. Louisa. I’m sorry. You can absolutely have that shirt. I don’t know why I freaked out just now.”

His voice is soft. When I turn back to him, he’s scrubbing his face in frustration at himself.

I reach out and touch his forearm. Bold of me, but he seems to be all twisted up in his feelings because of this shirt.

“It’s fine. Obviously, this shirt means a lot to you. I didn’t know. I’ll change and take something else. Thank you so much for your kindness.”

His veiny forearm tenses under my touch. Close now, I study his eyes, finding an odd color mixture in his irises--brown with green flecks. Fascinating.

I pull away, but he catches my hand in one of his. He’s warm, and tight as a drum. “I insist you keep it. She’d tell you to take it.”

Shame slowly recedes, inch by inch, as I decide to enjoy the human touch. My hand in Ellis’s rough, work-worn hand feels better than it should.

Oh, but I have to find Olivia. And the more time I spend with this man, the worse it will be for him. He needs to let me go, and I have to let him think I’ve gone far away. It’s what’s safest for him.

“Suppose you tell me about her on the way into town, Ellis.”

He blinks down at me, and for one wild moment, I think he might kiss me. As crazy as that would be, I might just let him.

But that is a fantasy brought about by my favorite secret reading habits.

I am starved for tenderness. Ellis has tenderness and goodness and light pouring off of him. It’s…what do they call it? Stockholm syndrome? It can’t be that. He’s not forcing me to do anything.

But with that mouth? I’ll bet he could talk me into anything at all.