Chapter 21
Lily
The gravel crunched under Ethan’s tires as we rolled up the long drive. Out here, Willowbrook stretched wide and quiet, except for the barnyard noise that hit us before we even parked—the bellow of a cow somewhere beyond the pasture, the low hum of a tractor, a dog barking.
But it wasn’t just the sounds. The place was alive.
Half a dozen teenage boys were scattered across the yard, muscles straining as they hauled square bales from a flatbed into the barn loft.
Jason was among them, sweat darkening his Willowbrook Marching Band T-shirt, his laugh carrying as he shoved another kid for nearly dropping a bale on his head.
One of the younger boys clung to the ladder, while the older ones hollered encouragement that sounded suspiciously like heckling.
An older woman stood near the porch steps, apron tied snug around her waist, a basket of fresh eggs balanced on one hip as she scolded and praised in equal measure. “Careful with that hay! It’s not a pillow fight. And Jason, don’t think I didn’t see that push.”
The boys just grinned sheepishly and went back to work.
I took it all in, watching it unfold like a scene from another life. A real life. People moving in rhythm, each knowing their part, no one needing a script.
Ethan cut the engine. “Let’s go,” he said simply, like this was nothing out of the ordinary.
I stared a second longer, taking in the peeling paint on the porch, the mismatched roof patches, the neat rows of vegetables beyond the barn. It wasn’t polished, but it pulsed with something I couldn’t quite name—maybe belonging.
The screen door creaked, and an older man stepped out onto the porch, hat in hand. He was all angles and sun-browned lines, the kind of lean that comes from decades of lifting what needs lifting. His eyes cut to the truck and lit up.
“Well, now. If it isn’t my favorite spare pair of hands,” he called, shading his eyes against the sun. “Calloway, you here to work or just drink Ruth’s lemonade?”
Ethan lifted a hand in greeting.
The man’s gaze slid to me, curious, not unkind. “And you must be the Summerfest gal I’ve been hearing about. Word is you’ve got half the town running circles with poster deliveries.”
Heat snapped up my neck. “In my defense, they’re very efficient circles.”
He barked a laugh, pleased. “She’s quick. I like her already.” He came down the steps and offered a dry, work-rough hand. “Walt Durbin.”
“Lily Harper,” I said, shaking his hand. “This is… honestly, the first time I’ve ever set foot on a farm. It’s beautiful.”
His eyes crinkled, amused. “Beautiful, huh? Most folks just notice the manure first.”
I laughed, a little too quickly. “I’m trying very hard not to.”
Walt chuckled. “Well, if you can see past the smell, you’ll fit right in.”
Fit right in. The words lodged somewhere between my ribs, heavier than he meant them to be.
It was just a friendly phrase, a farmer’s way of saying welcome.
But it brushed against a place in me that had always felt just the opposite.
I’d made a career out of proving myself, out of polishing every rough edge so no one would see how badly I wanted belonging.
And here this man was, telling me I might do it just by standing in a barnyard and breathing through the smell.
I shoved the thought down before it could get too loud, pasting on a smile as the older woman’s voice carried from the porch.
“Walt, stop scaring the girl and go check on those boys. They’ve got bales to stack before the sun cooks ‘em.”
Walt tipped his hat toward me, then to Ethan. “Come on, then. You can walk and talk.”
He set off across the yard with a steady but careful gait, his shoulders still broad but his steps slower than the boys tossing hay in the distance. There was grit in it, sure, but also a weariness that made me wonder how one man could possibly keep a place like this running.
“Most folks in town touch this place one way or another,” he said, waving a hand toward the barn. “Boys get their first paychecks out here. Moms swap recipes on the porch. And anything that ends up on a Saturday market table probably grew in one of those rows.”
I followed his nod to the garden patch, neat as a quilt, greens and beans and tomatoes staked up like soldiers. My city brain ticked off the work behind it: planting, watering, weeding, harvesting. How did he manage it all?
I tucked the question away, though it hovered. Maybe the answer was what Ethan had already told me—that in Willowbrook, nobody really did it alone.
Jason trotted past with a bale on his shoulder, face split in a grin when he saw us. “Hey! You made it. Don’t let Mr. D talk you into going into the loft, Lily. It’s approximately one thousand degrees up there.”
Another boy snorted, wiping sweat from his forehead. “He knows because Jason hides up there whenever the heavy lifting starts.”
“Do not!” Jason shot back.
Walt shook his head, amused. “You see why I keep ‘em busy. Better they’re sweating out here than causing trouble in town.”
I fell in step beside Walt and Ethan, dust kicking up around my sandals. “So… everyone works here?” I asked, watching another kid pass a bale up.
“Everyone passes through,” Walt said. “Some longer than others. Ethan used to live in my barn loft June through August, near enough.” His shoulder bumped Ethan’s in easy affection.
“Still sneaks out twice a month to tighten what’s loose and oil what squeaks ‘cause these old bones can’t keep up with it all anymore. ”
I glanced at Ethan. He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes on the boys and the stack growing in the loft, jaw set like he wished Walt hadn’t said a word. Something warm tugged under my ribs anyway.
One of the older boys overheard and grinned down from the loft. “You oughta tell her about the time Ethan tried to prove he could carry two bales at once.”
Ethan groaned under his breath. “Don’t.”
Too late. The boy dropped the memory like a bale onto concrete.
“Two summers ago. Middle of July, hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of a Chevy. Ethan here—” he jabbed a finger downward, “—was training us. Showing us the ropes. Then he decides he’s gotta flex and show us all how strong he is.
Grabs two bales, one on each shoulder, struts like he’s Paul Bunyan reborn. ”
The other boys hooted, already remembering. Jason nearly fell off the ladder laughing. “Didn’t make it three steps!”
“More like two and a half,” another chimed in from the flatbed. “Right before his foot slid in a fresh pile of cow crap.”
“Biggest splat I ever heard,” Jason gasped, tears streaking through the dust on his face. “Went down flat on his back. Bales on top of him. Whole barn smelled like Eau de Ethan for a week.”
“Mrs. Durbin made him hose off outside before she’d even let him come in for lunch,” the boy in the loft added, grinning wider. “He sat on the porch sulking like a wet dog.”
The entire group dissolved into laughter, voices bouncing off the barn walls. Even Walt’s shoulders shook with quiet amusement.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was useless. “Oh, that’s—oh my God—that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. Why didn’t you tell me that story, Calloway?”
Ethan’s ears had gone pink under the brim of his ball cap. “Because it’s not a story. It’s slander.”
“Smelled true to me!” Jason crowed, practically wheezing as he hauled up another bale.
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt, and for once, Ethan’s scowl didn’t scare anyone off. It just made the boys howl louder.
Mr. Durbin led us toward the barn, pausing to pat the weathered siding like it was another family member. “Wouldn’t be standing without Ethan here,” he said matter-of-factly. “Half the fences would be down, roof leaking, stalls a mess.”
I glanced at Ethan, surprised. He only shrugged, eyes on the ground like the compliment was a pebble he could kick out of the way.
“You just… fix things out here?” I asked.
“Somebody’s got to,” he muttered. “Besides, Walt’s got enough on his plate.”
There was something in his tone—simple, steady, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. I filed that away. Another piece of him I hadn’t known.
Walt chuckled, leaning his weight against the barn door.
“Don’t let him fool you. He does more than anyone, but he’s not the only one.
Boys like Matt, Nate, and Ben—they’ll show up when I need an extra set of hands for the heavier stuff.
Girls help Ruth in the garden come planting season, and half the kids in town take turns picking beans or hauling tomatoes.
Even little ones get set loose with watering cans. Everyone pitches in where they can.”
I turned that over in my head as Ethan picked up a bucket. A whole town, circling back to this one patch of land, keeping it alive. Not because they had to, but because it mattered.
“Alright, Harper,” Walt said, jerking his chin toward a row of feed buckets. “Let’s see how you do with the chickens.”
I squared my shoulders. “I can handle chickens.”
Famous last words.
The second I stepped out with a bucket of cracked corn, the yard erupted. Wings flapped, feathers flew, and suddenly I was mobbed by a dozen hens like I’d rung a dinner bell.
“Ethan!” I squealed, lifting the bucket high over my head while trying to shoo them with my elbow as they pecked at my shoes. “They’re attacking me!”
He leaned on the fence, arms folded, grinning like a man watching free entertainment. “They’re eating, Harper. Not attacking.”
“Feels the same!” I tried to backpedal, but a hen leaped at the side of the bucket and I lost my grip. With a squeak, I clutched at the nearest thing—Ethan.
He moved fast, one hand closing over mine on the handle, the other steadying my arm. “Easy. Don’t dump it all on yourself,” he murmured, his smile warm enough to rattle me more than the feathers in my face.
Pressed against his side, I clung for dear life until he angled the bucket down. Together we tipped it into the trough, the corn spilling out in a rush. The hens dove on it instantly, abandoning me like I’d never existed.
I stayed frozen a beat too long, still gripping his arm, my pulse thudding in my ears.
His forearm was solid beneath my hand, muscles flexing as he steadied the bucket like it weighed nothing.
For one ridiculous second, I forgot about the chickens entirely.
Then I realized what I was doing and stepped back, brushing feathers off my shirt.
“I survived,” I panted.
Ethan’s gaze lingered on me, unreadable, before his mouth tugged into a slow grin. He winked. “Barely.”
Next came sweeping out a stall. I lasted maybe three swipes before my sandal caught on something unholy and nearly snapped. Dust and hay clung to my hair, my shirt, even my lip gloss.
“This is barbaric,” I muttered, trying to shake straw out of my hair with one hand while still clinging to the broom with the other.
From his stall, Ethan raised a brow. “It’s a broom, Harper. Not exactly heavy machinery.”
“Easy for you to say,” I huffed, jabbing at the floor. “My natural habitat involves air-conditioning and espresso, not… whatever that smell is.”
His mouth curved, slow and irritatingly amused. “That smell is a barn. And for the record, you’re holding the broom backward.”
I looked down, mortified to realize I was. “Details,” I snapped, flipping it around and swiping again, only to stir up another cloud of dust that made me sneeze so hard I nearly dropped the broom.
Ethan chuckled under his breath, not even trying to hide it this time.
“Don’t,” I warned, pointing the broom at him like a weapon. “Not one word.”
He held up both hands, but his grin betrayed him. “Didn’t say anything.”
By the time I’d stopped sneezing, we settled into a rhythm—him working steady, efficient strokes, me battling every stray wisp of hay like it had a vendetta.
After a few minutes, I glanced over. “How many times have you done this?”
He shrugged, not looking up. “More than I could count.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Voluntarily?”
That earned me a sideways look, half-smirk, half-serious. “Somebody’s got to. Animals don’t clean up after themselves.”
I watched him sweep like it was second nature. “But why you? Don’t you have, I don’t know, a bookstore to run?”
“When something needs doing, like today, I find someone to cover,” he said with a shrug. “Rachel, Ben, my mom—whoever’s free. That’s how it works around here. Everybody helps when it matters.”
I chewed that over, pushing a line of hay toward the door. It was such a simple answer, but it landed heavier than I expected. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is.” He gave a small shrug, still focused on the floor. “You show up. You do the work. That’s it.”
I wanted to argue—that nothing about any of this was easy, not the chores, not the smell, not the sweat sticking to the back of my neck—but something about the quiet certainty in his voice made me stop.
I dragged my broom across the packed dirt, wincing at another puff of dust. “You know, this is officially the least glamorous thing I’ve ever done.”
Ethan glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Least glamorous? That’s a bold statement.”
“I once had to cover a ribbon-cutting at a dog grooming salon,” I said. “Someone’s poodle sneezed directly in my face while the mayor was making his speech. This still wins.”
Ethan’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting a laugh. “So the barn beats out a poodle sneeze. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I leaned on my broom, grinning despite myself. “If by compliment you mean ‘new benchmark for humiliation,’ sure.”
Ethan shook his head, still smirking. “Nah. You’re holding your own. Honestly, I could almost see you working on a farm.” His gaze flicked over me before he added, almost too quickly, “Looking cute in a pair of overalls.”
My broom froze mid-sweep. “Overalls?” I echoed, half-teasing, half-trying not to notice the warmth creeping up my neck.
He cleared his throat, suddenly intent on kicking at a clump of hay. “Just saying. You’d make it work.”
For once, I didn’t have a snappy comeback. The silence stretched, thick and awkward, until a hen clucked from the corner like she was laughing at us both.
But as I caught his eye again, the moment felt charged, and I wondered what it would be like to stand in that barn, just the two of us, letting the world outside fade away. The thought sent a thrill through me, one I couldn’t quite ignore.