The barn the farm ii, p.1
The Barn : The Farm II, page 1
The Barn
The Farm II
Heath Grayson
Copyright © 2024 Heath Grayson
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Heath Grayson
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Heath's Mailing List
About The Author
Books In This Series
Chapter One
Cody
“Watch out!” Buck said.
I was too busy gawking at his butt up on the ladder to get out of the way in time. The wet paintbrush bounced off my head and landed on the floor, splattering light blue all over the parlor and leaving a large splash of paint down my face.
I watched Buck’s face change from horror to concern to intense, almost pee-his-pants hilarity. He laughed so hard he almost fell off the damn ladder.
We were painting the living room, or the parlor, as my dad would’ve called it. It was the last thing before the old farmhouse would be fully renovated. After I reacquired as much of my father’s furniture as possible, we wanted to update the interior and exterior—new bathrooms, a new kitchen, and new windows and doors. The major renovations took place the first winter we lived together, and we were just about to enter our third spring. The old house is gorgeous, but it leaked so much heat it warmed the front field. I ignore how much that makes me sound like my dad.
Buck laughed so hard he cried. He’d calm down, then look at me and start all over again. I glared at him, resolute not to crack and laugh, as I looked for a towel to wipe my face. I saw how funny it was, but that didn’t matter at the moment.
“Oh my god, babe, are you…” Buck tried to say but devolved into laughter again.
“Yes, Buck, I’m fine,” I said, with more sass than needed.
We afforded the home makeover after our stellar first planting season, but the season after that set us up for success. I’d love to flex my farming-blood credentials, but it wasn’t me. Buck insisted on using products that allowed us to market our grain as organic. And then, in his infinite farming wisdom, he urged me to charge our buyer more. It didn’t work at first, pushing us into the arms of their biggest competition. Which caused a small bidding war for not only the grain but the rights to it for the next several years. We became a single-buyer operation, bringing security and increasing our overall profits.
Buck got off the ladder to check on me. I saw the battle in his eyes to keep from laughing as he took hold of my shoulders and evaluated the damage.
“Hey, I warned you,” he said through squinty, watery eyes. “If you weren’t burning a hole through the seat of my pants, it wouldn’t have got you… right in the…” he started laughing again.
“Oh my god, Buck. It could’ve gotten in my eyes!”
“But it didn’t,” he said. “It kinda looks like you let Sonic the Hedgehog…” he couldn’t finish his sentence.
“You know what…” I said, struggling to break free, but starting to laugh with him.
I was about to say something witty and devastating when he kissed me, smearing paint all over his face, too.
“Now we both look like a hedgehog’s regret,” he said, flinging us both deep into hysterics.
Things on the farm had been great—splendid even! After he managed the labor that first season, Diego became the only real friend Buck and I made as a couple. He then graciously helped us staff the farm permanently. As we plant on more land, with the goal of all 20k acres in three years, we will need many more farmhands than we have. To house all those new hands, we started building all-new staff quarters.
That project took up most of my time and was what I was most excited about. Once completed, however, it would remain dormant so my sister and her extra large wedding party could use it for her wedding. Her nuptials would be on the farm later that spring, and I wanted to ensure the new staff quarters, and our house for that matter, were as polished as possible before my family came to stay. For several reasons.
When I inherited the farm after my father died, my mother and stepfather, Carl, were insistent that I sell it and foot the bill for my sister Anna’s wedding. She wasn’t even engaged yet. There were some not-so-subtle suggestions that I somehow owed it to my sister and the rest of the family. That my birth, being a product of a one-night stand while my mother was married to Carl, somehow needed to be atoned for. Thankfully, I did not do that.
My mother eventually came around to the idea of me hosting, and continued her unofficial wedding planner role. While it was months away, she already had every detail planned out. She also got over me keeping the farm, asking me about it whenever we spoke, and seemed invested in its success. While she’d never say it out loud, I think she’s proud I didn’t sell. I stuck up for myself and declared this is who I am. The tense, combative, and rude phase of our lives was passing.
Most of that has to do with the family therapy sessions. I think the rest of my family had quietly wanted it for some time, but knew my mother and Carl would never go for it. Surprisingly, she became its biggest champion, engaging in our conversations and opening up. Our therapist eventually suggested we meet virtually once a month without her. Those calls were awkward at first, but they’ve gotten better. It’s not perfect, but it works, kind of like my family.
With our laughing fit over, Buck kissed my neck, getting paint all over it. Before things got out of hand, we went upstairs to shower. The light blue all over his face, matching mine in the mirror, made me smile like an idiot. I was happy. Happier than I may have ever been.
Regardless of the farm or my newfound family appreciation, my true joy came from Buck. Sharing my life and bed with Burkhart Bauer has been the best experience of my life. Hands down, bar none.
We had a rocky start. Buck was the farm manager’s son. He lived on site every summer I was there, and we were best friends. I had the biggest crush on him when we were young, even if he liked to boss me around. I hadn’t spoken to him in a decade when my father died. I was about to sell and be done with it, but Buck reached out and convinced me I was a farmer born and bred—that there was soil in my blood. He said he’d help me revitalize the land as my farm manager, and I agreed to give it a shot.
After several drunken explorations, Buck and I tried to go all the way. It didn’t work, and when he woke up, he freaked out and ran away. My onetime best friend, temporary farm manager, and the object of my desire drove off, leaving me sobbing in the dirt.
Once he was gone, Carl convinced me there was no way I could do it alone. Buck returned a month later with his tail between his legs, begging me to let him prove he’d changed, and I chose to believe him. I moved him into my room, and made him my full-time farm manager. We’ve come a long way, and while there’s still ample room for improvement on both our parts, I love nothing more than falling asleep in his giant arms.
I still loved being alone together. It couldn’t happen during the planting and growing season, with dozens of other men around during the day. But when the ground lay dormant, Buck would still roam around doing this or that, and I’d be in the house completing paperwork and making phone calls. I love my solitude when in the thick of working, but knowing he’s out there and would come back for lunch made my chest warm and cozy.
Buck and I have taught each other quite a bit, and we succeed more than we fail. My most significant defeat was trying to get him to cook edible food consistently. His idea of cooking wasn’t about constructing meals, but heating as many calories as quickly as possible. He’s a talented student, though, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d help me unprompted if he walked in and I was in the middle of making dinner. And always if I asked, which I did often.
“Can you chop the carrots? That damn call ran long,” I said one day, hearing Buck come into the house after just starting to make dinner. “I swear they can tell I used to work in corporate. They’d never treat an actual farmer like that.”
Buck went right to the fridge to grab the carrots without saying yes. “Babe, you need to stop saying that about yourself. You are a farmer… you own a goddamn giant ass farm, for Christ’s sake.”
Buck put the carrots down on the counter, but needed to get a knife in the drawer I was blocking. Instead of asking me to move
He let me go. “Ya’ hear?”
I turned around to kiss him again, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I hear. Thanks.”
“No thanking needed. Just saying the truth.”
Pressed so close to him with his giant, calloused farmer’s hands gripping my hips did things to me. I’m not sure Buck had planned it, but knew what to do when he felt what was happening.
“But, I could go for an appetizer…”
I said nothing else. Instead, Buck knelt on the floor and didn’t get up again until the pot I put to boil was overflowing.
As happy as we were, Buck and I weren’t living in pure domestic bliss, and it wasn’t just his inability to feed himself like an adult. Buck Bauer is the messiest man over 16 I have ever known. Picking up your partner’s worn underwear, dirt-caked pants, and dust-covered shirts from every goddamn room is only cute the first few times. Not to mention the literal mud he tracks through the house moments after I put the mop away—when I’ve insisted he take his boots off at the door.
It is what it is. Buck is who he is. I wouldn’t change him. Not even his grody boot prints all over my freshly mopped floor. I was the happiest I’d ever been. And while yes, most of that had to do with Buck, proving that I was indeed a farmer helped a lot. Mostly proving it. I wasn’t sure I would ever believe I was a farmer in the same way my father was. I still put product in my hair every morning and spent my days reviewing expense reports, in meetings, or staring at spreadsheets. While I knew exactly how much it costs to repair every piece of a combine, I had no idea how to run one and never would. I was trying to become comfortable with that.
I never expected my life to change this way, but I was damn fucking happy it did. Even if I’d never be a real farmer, every morning I woke up next to a studly farm manager who damn sure was.
Chapter Two
Buck
That little phone thingy started vibrating on my screen. My camera came on, and the first thing I thought was that I needed a shave. The second was that I needed to clean my laptop screen. The plastic surface was covered in dots and spots. I had no idea how Cody kept his computer so clean.
I don’t know who chooses the music that plays when these video calls ring, but I think they should find another job. Maybe it’s supposed to be pleasant, but it’s not to me. The bee-see-doo-bee-see-doo always makes my stomach tight, my pits moist, and my heartbeat a little faster.
I always got nervous before an appointment with my therapist, Dr. Lake. I knew it was stupid. I’d seen the guy for years, but it was what it was. Every time I heard that damn chime or saw my face pop up in the little self-view area, it reminded me of why I needed to be doing this, and it ain’t pretty.
The screen blinked to life, and there was Dr. Lake, smiling that warm, knowing smile he always greets me with. He was in his late 50s, with thin-framed glasses and what I assumed was an expensive haircut.
Dr. Lake was the exact kind of man I wouldn’t have trusted before I admitted needing his services. Educated, intelligent, expensive looking. He’s the kind of guy my dad wouldn’t trust before even talking to him. The farthest thing from solid farm stock a man could get.
“It’s good to see you again, Burkhart,” Dr. Lake said on screen, draining all the tension and nerves out of me. No matter how fancy, he’s damn good at putting people at ease.
“Hey, Doc. Good to see you, too.”
Dr. Lake was good at a lot more than putting people at ease. He had helped me so much, I didn’t even feel like the same man anymore. Or, as the doctor would say, I was a better-functioning, more authentic version of the same man.
“Would you like to pick up where we left off last time?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
The last time felt so long ago, but it had only been a month. I met with him once a week for a year, down from twice a week when I first started. I was proud that he kept reducing how often we needed to meet. He’d say I was doing so much better he couldn’t in good conscience see me more.
“Last we spoke, you told me you had experienced no panic attacks or close calls. Are we still on track?”
“Yup. No panic attacks or anything close to one in a long, long time now.”
“Great. You know I have to ask, is that because of a lack of stress and triggers, or are you handling them like we discussed?”
I laughed. “Oh, there’s been plenty of stress, Doc. We’re building the crew house, and planning for the season is in full swing. I guess you mean the other stuff. No, not too much of that stress lately. But I hope when it pops up, I’ll do like the last time and try to hear you droning on in my head.” I laughed again.
Dr. Lake laughed, too. I liked to imagine him as this little Jiminy Cricket dude on my shoulder, reminding me how to deal with the shit I’m shit at dealing with.
“That’s great, Burkhart. As long as you remember to do it, I don’t care how you get there.” He smiled and added, “How’s the drinking?”
“Great. Had a glass of wine at dinner last week, and I think I had two beers the week before when we made burgers. I enjoy the stuff so much more now that I can actually taste it. Which means I have to get the expensive stuff, ‘cause what I was drinking before tastes like piss water.” I laughed, and so did Dr. Lake.
I hadn’t been drunk since I almost ruined my life after waking up in Cody’s bed. About a year later, with Dr. Lake’s approval and Cody’s support, I had a glass of wine with dinner one night. Since then, I’ll have one occasionally, but never more than two. I didn’t need it and never craved it, but I’m glad I get to enjoy a drink out at dinner with Codes or a beer with the men after a hard week.
“Good, I’m glad you’re on track,” he said and paused. “How is everything else? How’s Cody?”
My cheeks heated. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ve been feeling that guilt again.”
I waited for him to react, but he didn’t, and I cleared my throat. “It doesn’t happen often, and it hasn’t happened randomly in the middle of the day like it used to. But, sometimes, when I’m holding him,” I swallowed the dryness in my mouth, “especially in bed right after he falls asleep, but I’m still awake, it comes back, and I have to go get a drink of water.”
“How are you dealing with it when you go get water?”
“I breathe deep. Count stuff in the room if it’s really bad.”
“And?”
“And I go over all the things I’ve done right. In the before and the after. The before is a pretty short list.”
“We’ll make it longer, Burkhart, but that’s a good start. Are you able to get to sleep after your water?”
“Most nights, yeah. I’m out as soon as I get back under the covers.”
“Great,” he said and smiled, happy I was using his advice and little tricks. “You know what I’m going to ask. Is it guilt about the same things as before?”
“Yes, and no.”
“Yes, and no?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m doing a hell of a lot better not beating myself up about what happened. It’s the other stuff that’s been popping up. I’ll smell his hair, and boom, I’m right back to watching Joey Schmidt calling that kid a queer bomb in high school. And, Doc, you know I don’t hate anyone—I never have. I was taught to live and let live, but I sat around and let assholes shit all over people when I should’ve stopped them. I knew it was wrong. My old man woulda whooped my ass if he heard, but I kept my mouth shut. That’s not even talking about the fucked up stuff I’ve said, done, or posted,” I said as my face got redder. “Sorry for cussing, Doc.”
“Don’t apologize, Burkhart. I’m paid to listen to anything you’d like to say, and you cannot offend me. These ears have heard more than a few curse words. You’re also not cursing at me, which is good,” he said with a chuckle.
“Ok, sounds good. Sorry, Doc,” I said, and we laughed again.
“Let me ask you, when this guilt happens, right before you go to sleep, what are you feeling beforehand? You said smelling Cody’s hair can trigger it. Does his hair smell good?”
