CHAPTER TWO
FINLEY
The sky’s still gray when I step out of the barn, breath puffing white in the cold. The pigs are already restless, grunting and squealing like they’ve been starving for weeks instead of just a night.
“I know, I know,” I mutter, hauling the feed bucket across the trough. They crowd the gate, greedy noses bumping at my boots as I scatter grain.
Next are the chickens. The coop smells of straw and feathers. I collect the eggs carefully, slipping them into my apron one by one.
By the time I get to the cows, the sun is just breaking over the tree line. The pasture glows gold in the light, frost still clinging to the grass. The herd gathers around the trough as I pour the feed, their breath clouds thick in the air.
I rest my arms on the fence rail, watching the cows jostle for space. I roll my neck, trying to stretch out the stiffness. Yesterday a calf slipped through a gap in the fence and bolted. It took me nearly an hour to wrestle it back, slipping in the mud, boots caked, rope burning my hands.
Farming isn’t a job you clock out of—it follows you to bed and wakes up with you in the morning. Some days it feels like it’ll break me. But my father built Oakridge Farms from nothing, and now it’s mine to carry on. And I’ll show up every day, like I promised… before he died three years ago.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I dig in my pocket pulling it out. One new text from a number I don’t recognize.
Hello, Finley, my name is Alex Rhodes and I’m the new owner of Oak & Rye. I would love to schedule a meeting to acquaint ourselves. When is a good time for you?
“Alex Rhodes,” I mutter under my breath. Everyone in town has heard of her—fresh out of college, now running the market like it’s some kind of class project. I’ve seen her out before, laughing too loud with her friends, looking like she’s got it all figured out. Party girl. Trouble.
I shake my head, adjusting the brim of my hat as I look back out over the fields. I don’t have time to babysit someone who’s just playing shopkeeper. She won’t last long anyway.
I shake off the thought of Alex Rhodes and get back to work. I grab the feed bucket one last time and finish up with the smaller chores, moving through the motions like I always do.
By mid-morning, it’s time for the real work. I attach the carrot harvester and climb onto the tractor, the engine glowing to life as the fields stretch out in front of me.
Thanksgiving festival is coming, and my mind drifts to the contest. Five years in a row I’ve taken the title. And this year will be no different.
I run through the ideas in my head as I guide the tractor. My usual strategy: smoked meat. Something greasy and handheld.
Last year I did pickle brined turkey legs. This year I’m thinking sliders. Hot honey turkey sliders. If only I was half decent at baking bread. Last time I tried they came out like hockey pucks.
The tractor rattles steadily as I guide it down the rows of carrots, the harvester pulling them up clean from the soil, green tops shaking before dropping into the bin.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the arm rest, mind half on work half on Thanksgiving.
A couple of my farmhands trail behind on foot, checking the bins. One waves. “Looks good, boss.”
By the time I finish the last row, the bins are full, my body’s buzzing from the constant rumble beneath me. I park the tractor near the barn, hop down, and roll my shoulders against the stiffness still lingering from yesterday’s calf incident.
Inside the barn, I give quick instructions, making sure the carrots are sorted and stacked. Then I head for the house, the ache in my stomach reminding me it’s lunch time.
I drop into the chair at my kitchen table. I take a bite of my bologna sandwich, staring out the window at the stretch of apple trees beyond the yard.
I let out a long sigh and dig my phone out of my pocket again. That message from Alex still sits there, waiting for a reply.
I don’t want to deal with her. But Oak & Rye is my biggest buyer and the biggest market in town. If she’s going to run it, then I’ll have to face her sooner or later.
I type the shortest message I can manage.
Tomorrow. At the farm. 11 am. Don’t be late.
I hit send before I can think better of it, then shove the phone back down into my pocket.