The Framer’s Daughter (After Dark Taboo)

Chapter 1

I had been away at college for four long years, immersing myself in lectures on sustainable farming, soil science, and crop rotation all in pursuit of a degree in agriculture that I hoped would breathe new life into our family farm.

At twenty-two, I felt like a different person from the wide-eyed girl who had left home, but as my old pickup truck rattled down the familiar gravel drive toward Meadow Creek Farm, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

The sprawling acres of golden fields, and the familiar big red barn, stretched out like a welcoming embrace. I smiled when I saw the weathered buildings and silos that had stood sentinel over my childhood.

The air was crisp—a far cry from the stale city smog I’d endured the last four years.

But things were irrevocably different now. My mother had passed away five years earlier, taken too soon by cancer that had left a void in our lives.

My father, Malachi Steppard, had shouldered the burden of running the farm alone ever since. Of course, he had help, but my mother had been an integral part of making everything run smoothly. Without her, it felt like the air was missing.

My father, at fifty-two years old, was the epitome of rugged strength. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that curled slightly at the temples. He sported a chiseled jaw perpetually dusted with stubble and had piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through to your soul.

His hands were large and calloused from endless days of labor, yet they moved with a surprising gentleness when handling the animals or fixing machinery.

My father exuded a raw, effortless sexiness forged from years of battling the elements. And that was definitely something I shouldn’t have been noticing. But it was something I couldn’t help but notice.

His flannel shirts, often rolled up to the elbows, clung to his muscled frame, revealing veins that mapped out stories of hard work. His jeans, faded and form-fitting, hugged his powerful legs. And there was something about the way he carried himself.

He was confident and commanding, and it made my heart skip a beat if I dwelled on it too long. But he was forbidden territory. It was wrong on every single level to want him.

He was the man who had raised me through my awkward teenage years, enforcing curfews with a stern voice and offering sage advice on everything from riding horses to navigating first crushes.

“You’re my girl, Polly,” he’d say, his tone gruff but laced with an undercurrent of protectiveness that now, in hindsight, stirred something deeper within me.

Desiring him was a complicated, tangled web of familiarity, respect, and an emerging desire that I pushed down deep.

The taboo of it all had simmered in my mind during those lonely college nights, when I’d lie awake replaying memories of him shirtless in the summer heat, hay bales stacked high behind him, his skin glistening with sweat.

It was wrong, disgusting, to desire my father. Hell, society would label it perverse, a betrayal of the family dynamic.

And they were right.

I arrived on a summer afternoon; the sun casting long shadows across the yard, my truck kicking up a plume of dust that announced my return like a herald.

Malachi was out by the barn, hammering away at a loose fence post, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those tanned, veined forearms that spoke of unyielding strength.

He straightened when he heard the engine, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his blue eyes locking onto mine through the windshield.

“Polly,” he called out, his deep voice carrying across the yard like a warm rumble.

I parked the truck and hopped out, and he strode over with that purposeful gait, his boots crunching on the gravel, and pulled me into a hug. It lingered a beat too long, his body hard and warm against mine, the scent of hay and leather enveloping me.

“Missed you, kiddo,” he murmured into my hair, and when he pulled back, his gaze held mine with an intensity that felt far from paternal.

I forced a smile, my cheeks flushing under his gaze. “Missed the farm. And you.” The words hung in the air, loaded with unspoken meaning, and I quickly busied myself unloading my bags to break the moment.

Life on the farm slipped back into its familiar rhythm almost immediately, but with an undercurrent of tension that hadn’t been there before.

As the days passed, I dove into the chores by mending fences under the golden sun, tending to the livestock as they grazed peacefully in the pastures, and baling hay that scratched at my skin and filled the air with its sweet, earthy aroma.

Working side by side with Malachi felt both comforting and electrifying. He was stricter than I remembered, barking orders with that authoritative tone that brooked no argument.

“Polly, tighten that wire properly, or it’ll snap come winter.”

But there were moments that set my pulse racing, like when his hand brushed mine as we passed tools, or the way he’d catch me staring at his broad back, muscles rippling under his shirt as he hefted heavy equipment.

Nights were the hardest, when everything quieted down and it was just the two of us in the old farmhouse. The kitchen, with its worn wooden table, held the remembrance of my mother’s apple pies lingering. I swore I could smell them in the air.

We’d share dinners of food we’d harvested from the farm, and then afterward enjoy a beer on the deck as we overlooked the land.

Tonight felt different, though. I cleared the table, my cutoff shorts riding up just enough to draw his attention to the curve of my thighs.

“You’re all grown up now,” he said one evening, his voice low and gravelly, swirling the glass in his hand. “Makes a man think about things he shouldn’t.”

I froze at those words, watching silently as he tipped back his glass of whiskey, downing it.

I laughed it off, a nervous trill that didn’t quite mask the heat rising in my chest, but inside, desire coiled tight like a spring.

It was wrong. Taboo, forbidden. He was my father by blood, the man who had bandaged my scraped knees after falls from the hayloft, who had driven me to school dances and warned me about boys with wandering hands.

Society’s judgment loomed large in my mind, but the farm’s seclusion made it feel like our own private world, where rules bent under the weight of longing.

The farmhands were a rotating crew of seasonal workers with sun-weathered faces and easy banter. They came and went, eyeing me with appreciative glances but knowing better than to approach under my father’s watchful eye.

He was possessive, always had been, growling at any guy who lingered too long near the barn when I was around.

But now, that possessiveness bordered on something darker, more primal, and it ignited fantasies I dared not voice.

And as days passed after his after-dinner comment, things went back to normal.

Until they weren’t.

One afternoon, as we stacked hay in the barn, the air thick with dust motes dancing in the sunlight, my father turned to me suddenly, his blue eyes piercing.

“Are you dating anyone back at school? Some city boy with soft hands?”

The question caught me off guard, his tone casual but his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there. “No one serious,” I replied, my heart racing as I met his gaze. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, turning back to the bales, but not before I saw the flicker of relief, or was it something else?

“Just looking out for you. Like always. Don’t want you getting hurt.”

And for the rest of the workday, it went back to normal.

But that night, lying in my childhood bed with its faded quilt and posters of celebrity crushes still tacked to the walls, I closed my eyes and listened to the creaks of the old house echoing through the thin walls.

I heard him pacing in his room down the hall; the floorboards groaning under his weight. The walls were thin enough that I could almost feel his presence, and I wondered if he was thinking of me the way I thought of him.

Like how it would feel to have his rough hands exploring my body, or to hear his commanding voice whispering forbidden words.

The taboo nature only fueled the fire, making every glance, every accidental touch, crackle with electricity.

I knew we were teetering on the edge of something irreversible, and I realized I was ready to fall.