11. Tailored Rags
Chapter eleven
Tailored Rags
Hayes
Sutton disappeared into the shadows of the packing shed. I took a step forward, my leather shoes grinding into the loose gravel. The lingering diesel exhaust from the departed delivery truck blew across the driveway, choking the stagnant summer air.
I coughed, waving a hand to clear the gray smoke from my eyes.
The afternoon sun beat down, glaring off the tin roofs of the nearby outbuildings.
Sweat gathered at the collar of my shirt.
I forced my way through the settling dust, keeping my eyes fixed on the open doorway where my pregnant wife had just vanished.
A figure stepped out from the blind side of the dock.
“Hold it right there,” a gruff voice barked.
I blinked through the grit coating my eyelashes. An older woman wearing mud-stained overalls planted herself in my path. She held a clipboard under one arm, her stance wide and unyielding. Her boots were caked in dried earth.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to sidestep her to keep my eyes on the shed door. “I just need to get past.”
She shifted with me, staying squarely in my way. Before I could take another step, she raised her free hand. A callused palm slammed flat against my chest. The impact brought me to a dead stop in the dirt. I stood motionless against the steady pressure of her hand.
The rough texture of her skin snagged the fine cotton of my clothes.
For years, people in Los Angeles scrambled out of my way the second I walked into a room.
Studio executives rearranged millions of dollars to accommodate my schedule.
Production assistants emptied corridors to spare me a moment of inconvenience.
Now, a stranger treated me like a stray dog on her property.
“You don’t get to chase her into my workspace, Hollywood,” she said.
I stared at the dirt packed under the fingernails pressed against my chest. My status was a worthless currency on this acreage. Looking past her shoulder toward the dim interior of the shed, I understood. She was actively shielding Sutton from me.
“My name is Ruby,” she continued, her voice cutting through the lingering hum of the truck engine down the road. “I own this land, and you’re trespassing.”
The air smelled of damp potting soil and diesel fumes. I did not try to push her hand away. I did not try to throw my weight around or dial my PR team. The polished leading man didn’t matter in the coastal heat, leaving only a desperate husband standing in a rutted driveway.
“I just need to talk to my wife,” I said.
Ruby scoffed, her dark eyes narrowing in the glare. She pressed her palm into my chest, ensuring I didn’t advance another inch toward the packing shed.
“Please,” I added, the dust catching in my throat. “I just have to explain.”
“Your explanations aren’t worth anything on this farm,” Ruby said. “You don’t belong here. Or with Sutton.”
The dismissal stung. I didn’t argue, just stared down at the dirt covering my ruined shoes.
She was right. I had traded my marriage for red carpets and fabricated romances, building a life of artificial luxury while the woman I loved wrestled feed bags in the dust. I have no right to intrude on her new world.
I needed to earn the right to stand on this gravel.
I looked at the sprawling rows of greenhouses, the old tractors parked by the fence, and the endless expanse of mud stretching toward the tree line.
“So put me to work,” I said.
Ruby tilted her head, keeping her hand firmly planted to ensure I couldn’t move forward.
“I’ll do anything,” I said. “Just let me stay.”
Ruby stared at me, evaluating my tailored suit and my shoes. She did not look impressed.
“You want a job?” she asked, gesturing over her shoulder. “We have a rescue animal that needs her stall cleared. It’s the outbuilding by the back pasture.”
“Show me,” I said.
I followed her across the rutted yard, the mud immediately sucking at my shoes. We stopped in front of a drafty, weathered shed. A massive, pregnant cow occupied the narrow enclosure. The stench of wet hay and manure blasted out of the open doorway, thick enough to taste.
I swallowed hard, forcing my expression to remain blank.
I shrugged off my tailored jacket, dropping the fine wool haphazardly over a rusted wire fence post. I rolled up my sleeves.
My publicist would have had a stroke seeing the wardrobe treated like rags, but the man who cared about tailored suits didn’t exist in this barn.
I waded directly into the claustrophobic space. The slick muck ruined the expensive leather, seeping over the laces as my feet sank into the filth.
Ruby leaned against the doorframe, watching me navigate the mess. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Your pregnant wife stepped onto this farm four months ago wearing an expensive designer coat,” Ruby said, her voice dropping the gruff hostility for a quiet, cutting honesty. “She scooped this muck down to the baseboards without complaining once. Let’s see if the Hollywood husband can match her.”
I stopped in the center of the foul-smelling enclosure.
The mental image of Sutton—exhausted, heartbroken, and forced to heave a shovel in this exact spot while I sat in soundproofed London penthouses drinking champagne—stripped away whatever pride I had left.
She had destroyed her favorite coat just to earn enough money to keep our unborn child safe.
The contrast between my pampered life and the brutal reality she had endured isolated her in a way I had never grasped.
I turned away from the cow. A rusted pitchfork leaned against the wall. I grabbed the splintered handle, wrapping my fingers tightly until the rough wood bit into my uncallused palms. I used it to steady myself.
“I came here for Sutton,” I said, staring at the wet straw. “I won’t complain about a thing. Just point me toward the wheelbarrow so I can haul this out.”
Ruby did not offer a smile, but the hard line of her shoulders relaxed slightly against the doorframe.
“The wheelbarrow is right behind you,” she said. “We’ll see if your stamina holds up to real farm work before the sun goes down.”
I nodded, gripping the handle tighter. I turned my back on the doorway and drove the tines deep into the filth.
An hour later, the sweltering heat trapped inside the outbuilding offered zero relief.
Sweat soaked through my shirt, pasting it flat against my spine.
I shoved the pitchfork forward, scraping the tines against the floor to scoop the final pile of muck away from the bottom boards.
The abrasive grain of the wooden handle slid across my right palm.
A swollen blister gave way, tearing open.
A sharp sting flared across my skin. I did not drop the tool. I tightened my grip, forcing the exposed, bleeding flesh back against the splintered wood, and hoisted the wet straw into the wheelbarrow. The muck settled.
I leaned my weight against the pitchfork, staring down at my hands. Raw, red patches marred the center of both palms, the skin peeling back in jagged strips. Blood welled in the creases, mixing with the grime.
I sat in luxury suites complaining about jet lag while she did this.
Sutton had shoveled this exact stall in the coastal chill, pregnant and alone. The physical agony burning across my palms felt like a necessary, inadequate penance. I let the pitchfork drop into the dirt.
I grabbed the wheelbarrow. The rusted iron bit into my open wounds. I gripped the handles tighter against the sting, leaned forward, and pushed the load out of the shed into the blinding afternoon sun.
My shoes sank into the mud, the laces caked in filth. I pushed the wheelbarrow toward the rusted wire fence. Ruby stood on the opposite side of the barrier, watching me. She watched my uneven progress without offering an ounce of pity.
I let the handles drop. The rear legs sank into the soft earth.
“You’re bleeding all over my equipment, Hollywood,” Ruby noted.
Her eyes dropped to my torn palms, lingering on the open blisters. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my forearm, careful to keep the dirt out of my eyes.
“It washes off,” I replied. “Just tell me where to dump the load.”
“The compost pile is behind the tractor shed,” she said. “Take a hose to the basin when you’re done, and hang the pitchfork back on the nail.”
I nodded, accepting the instructions. Before picking the metal handles back up, I looked past the outbuildings. I traced the gravel path leading back toward the main packing facility. The yard was quiet, the delivery trucks long gone, leaving only the hum of the distant highway.
“The stall is completely cleared out,” I said, turning my attention back to Ruby. “Could I please just go knock on the shed door to tell Sutton good night?”
Ruby let out a harsh laugh. She uncrossed her arms and stepped right up to the wire fence.
“Shoveling manure for one afternoon doesn’t erase four months of you abandoning her,” Ruby said. “Get in your fancy rental car and drive back down the highway to the motel.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to use my exhaustion as an excuse, to beg for just five minutes on the porch, but I swallowed the argument before it started. She was right. I had sacrificed my wife for a fabricated PR campaign, and a single hour in the dirt did not balance the scales.
“I understand, and I’ll leave for tonight,” I said, keeping my voice level. “But I am coming back tomorrow morning, and you can assign me whatever chores you need done.”
Ruby did not offer a nod of approval. She just stared at me, waiting for me to follow her order. I retrieved my jacket from the fence post, tossing the ruined fabric over my shoulder.
I turned away from the fence, walking toward the main greenhouse to try talking to Sutton one last time before leaving the farm.