8. A Capable Worker
Chapter eight
A Capable Worker
Sutton
Itwisted the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and died, leaving a ringing silence inside the cabin. A thick layer of coastal mist coated the windshield, blurring the line of pine trees bordering the rutted gravel driveway.
I rested my forehead against the steering wheel and closed my eyes. A dull throb radiated up the base of my spine. Two days of driving up the coast and sleeping in locked parking lots left a deep, persistent ache in my bones.
The heater died, and the temperature inside the sedan began to plummet.
I shivered, rubbing my palms over my jeans.
Whenever I blinked, I saw the flashing strobe of paparazzi cameras, reminding me exactly why I could not turn back.
I was terrified, and my nausea rose high in my throat, but staying in Los Angeles meant my baby would become just another prop in Hayes’s life.
I forced my head up, examining my destination through the water droplets on the glass. The sprawling, disorganized flower farm sat under a bruised sky. It was a world away from the estate I had abandoned.
Mud covered the tractor paths. Weather-beaten sheds leaned against the wind. It was messy and isolated, sitting far enough away from the highway that no one from my old life would ever find it.
I pulled the keys and dropped them into the center console. I unbuckled my seatbelt, letting it retract into the quiet cabin.
“Just a few more steps,” I whispered to the empty car.
I shoved the car door open. A blast of freezing, salty ocean mist whipped across my face, stinging my cheeks.
I grabbed the lapels of my wool coat, pulling it tight across my chest to block the sudden chill.
I slid out of the driver’s seat, letting my weight drop onto the driveway.
My designer suede shoes sank straight into three inches of wet, freezing muck.
I gasped as the icy water seeped straight through the ruined suede, immediately soaking my socks.
The mud swallowed the shoes up to the ankles.
I let go of my lapels and gripped the edge of the car door for balance.
I had to pull with my entire body just to budge my right foot upward.
The mud’s suction gripped my foot, threatening to pull the shoe straight off my heel.
I planted my dripping foot on a patch of loose gravel, kicked the door shut, and turned toward the farmhouse.
The porch railings sported peeling white paint and rusted nails.
A long expanse of churned, standing water and tire ruts separated my car from the safety of the wooden steps.
I trudged across the yard, forcing my shoulders back to stand straight.
Every step required total focus to keep my shoes from slipping in the slush.
The wind off the ocean cut right through my clothes, stealing my breath and carrying the strong smell of wet earth and decaying leaves.
I tucked my chin down against the mist. Fighting the suction left me shaking, burning through the last of my nervous energy.
I kept my eyes fixed on the wooden steps, refusing to stop, even as my knees threatened to buckle. I just needed to reach the porch.
A screen door whined on its hinges. An older woman stepped out onto the porch, blocking my path to the entrance.
She wore faded Carhartt overalls stained with dark earth at the knees.
She wiped her callused hands on a dirty rag, her eyes narrowing as she watched my pathetic progress across her yard.
I stopped at the base of the stairs, breathing hard through my nose.
“You’re trespassing, or you’re lost,” the older woman called out over the wind. “The main highway is two miles back the way you came.”
I swiped a strand of wet hair out of my eyes.
I refused to look down at my soaked feet or acknowledge the ice water seeping through my socks.
I maintained direct eye contact, projecting the same unbothered professionalism I used to manage chaotic Hollywood schedules.
I needed her to see a capable worker, not a terrified runaway.
“Excuse me,” I said, projecting my voice over the gusting wind. “I saw the flyer in town that said you were looking for live-in farmhands for the season. I don’t have agricultural experience, but I need a job.”
The woman stopped wiping her hands. She tossed the rag onto a chair and stepped up to the edge of the railing. She swept her gaze from the top of my styled hair down to the ridiculous, mud-caked suede. She let out a rasping sigh, clearly unimpressed by the outfit.
“My name is Ruby,” she said. “And honey, you are wearing suede in a mud pit. The days here are long, the work is exhausting, and the pay is just barely fair.”
She waited for me to turn around and run back to the heated leather seats of my car.
I clamped my hands at my sides to hide the tremors.
The exhaustion from the drive made my legs weak, but the need to keep my baby safe anchored my feet in the dirt.
I lifted my chin, staring right past her skepticism.
“I am not afraid of hard work, Ruby. If you show me what needs to be done, I promise I will pull my own weight.”
Ruby stared at me in the freezing mist. She crossed her arms over the front of her overalls, taking in my shaking shoulders and exhausted posture.
“You look like you’re about to pass out right here on my steps,” Ruby noted.
I dug my fingers into the leather of my purse strap.
I refused to break eye contact, determined to stand tall.
I expected her to demand a resume, or ask invasive questions about why a woman wearing a thousand-dollar coat was begging for manual labor in the middle of a coastal squall.
Instead, her harsh expression finally relaxed.
She nodded once, turning her back on me, and stepped inside the enclosed mudroom.
I stood frozen in the slush, gripping the bag until the edges bit into my palm. The icy wind cut through the gaps in my coat. I half-expected her to return with a phone in her hand, dialing the local police to report a trespasser.
The screen door opened again. Ruby stepped back onto the porch carrying a pair of scuffed work boots. She tossed them down onto the bottom step.
“Put these on before you catch frostbite,” Ruby said.
I stared down at the ugly, utilitarian boots. They were easily two sizes too big and covered in dried earth. Looking at them brought a sudden relief. She wasn’t calling the authorities, and she wasn’t demanding explanations. She was just offering a practical solution.
In Los Angeles, every interaction came with a curated script or a hidden cost. Here, help was as simple as a pair of spare boots.
I let go of my purse strap. I reached out, bracing my palm against the wood for balance, and pulled my foot free.
The ruined suede stuck in the muck before finally releasing with a squelch.
I kicked the shoe aside, leaving it half-buried in the mud, and stepped my damp sock into the boot.
I freed my other foot next, finally leaving it all behind.
I stood in the massive boots, waiting for her terms.
“There’s an empty bedroom upstairs in the farmhouse,” Ruby said. “Rent comes directly out of your weekly paycheck. If you can keep up with the chore list, you can stay.”
I let out a long breath, my new boots planted firmly in the slush. The massive Los Angeles estate had been cold and isolating, but this small room would be entirely mine.
“Thank you,” I said. “That is more than fair. Where do you need me first?”
Ruby jerked a thumb over her shoulder, pointing past the edge of the farmhouse.
“Leave your bags in the car for now,” Ruby said. “Follow me out to the back sheds, because we have a rescue animal that needs her stall mucked.”
Ruby stepped off the edge of the porch, not bothering to look back to see if I followed.
I moved after her, descending the wooden stairs.
The boots slipped against my socks, nearly sliding off with every step.
The mud sucked at the soles with every step.
I clamped my arms over my chest to keep the coat closed against the wind.
“Stay to the left side of the tractor ruts,” Ruby called over her shoulder. “The muck in the center will swallow you to the knee.”
“I’ll keep to the grass,” I answered.
I aimed for a patch of crushed weeds bordering the driveway.
The wind drove the coastal mist into my eyes, forcing me to squint.
The cold seeped through the gaps in my coat.
I trudged around the side of the farmhouse, watching every treacherous step.
Wrenching the boots free of the muck demanded all my attention.
We reached a weathered outbuilding tucked against the tree line. The siding bowed inward, battered by years of ocean storms.
Ruby pulled the sliding door open on its tracks. The pungent, eye-watering scent of wet hay and manure rushed out to meet us.
It was an intense, suffocating smell. The ammonia burned the back of my throat.
I didn’t cover my nose or step away. I crossed the threshold into the dim interior, leaving the freezing mist behind.
A brown-and-white cow stood in a drafty stall in the corner.
Her stomach bulged, her sides rounding with a growing pregnancy.
She shifted her weight in the fouled bedding.
Ruby grabbed a frayed halter hanging from a rusted nail. “Don’t stand directly behind her. She spooks with the extra weight she carries.”
“I’ll stay near her head,” I said, moving along the wooden rail.
“This is Clementine,” Ruby said, gesturing toward the animal. “She eats into my profit margins every single day, but she needed a safe place to drop her calf, so we make room for her.”
I walked up to the edge of the stall. The cow let out a low, vibrating rumble, blowing a puff of warm air from her nose. I reached out, resting my hand against her side. The coarse hair scraped against my chilled skin. The steady rhythm of her breathing settled my nerves in the quiet space.