Page 3 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
Chapter 2
Levi
Morning comes early on the ranch, whether I want it to or not. It's the opening day of the Harvest Festival here at Stone Valley Ranch. I lie in bed a minute longer, trying to coordinate in my mind everything that must fall into place to make it a perfect autumn experience. We’ll host many local families and those that live farther away who’ll be traveling here today.
That’s when I stop thinking and notice my body. The stiff ache between my legs is familiar, but this morning it feels lonelier than usual. Typical morning event. It would be nice ….. No, I can’t dwell in those thoughts. Maybe I’m just better off not having someone to share mornings with. Then again, maybe I’m not.
There was a time I thought I’d already found my forever woman. We were engaged, date set, rings bought. She was beautiful and full of fire, but her heart beat for big-city lights, notmountains or valley farmlands. I kept telling myself she’d settle into the rhythm here, that love would be enough. But it wasn’t. The small town felt like a cage to her, and I couldn’t give up the land that I inherited and have now built into a million dollar business.
In the end, she left. Probably for the best. She never would’ve been happy here, and I couldn’t have asked her to stay and wither.
Since then, I haven’t felt that pull toward anyone else. A few smiles, maybe a spark now and then, but nothing real. Nothing that lasted longer than the moment. I tell myself I’m fine with that. That the ranch is enough. That the ache fades if you keep busy enough. But on mornings like this, I feel the emptiness press closer than I’d like.
A quick breakfast and two cups of coffee later, I’m out here boots damp from the dew, breath clouding in the crisp air. The valley is quiet except for the rumble of an old Honda that’s been sport tuned and announces its arrival a good full minute before you see it. It’s a bunch of the high school boys who come to fill in and work for the weekends in the fall and spring.
I need a ton of extra help now. The festival has grown. Hopefully, everyone shows up with no one messaging they’re ‘sick’. Other than strawberry season in the spring, this is the ranch’s biggest time to make memories for this community.
I drag a crate of pumpkins, lining them up at the stand out front. Families will be showing up all day. Some local and city folks chasing a taste of small-town autumn. The ranch used to feel like a relic, like something waiting to die along with my uncle and aunt. Now it’s alive again. Kids running through the corn maze. Couples sneaking kisses on hayrides. Whole town showing up for cider and donuts. It makes the long days worth it.
Still, there are mornings like this where the silence presses in, and I wonder if I’ve built all this just to watch other people make memories.
I head for the barn, running a hand along the worn wood of the door. My aunt used to say you can tell the measure of a man by how he cares for animals and land. I try to live up to that.
My ranch hand, Kyle, swings his truck into the lot, on time for a change. He hops out with a grin and we shake hands.
“Ready for today?” I ask him, hoping he got a full night’s sleep.
“I’m on it, boss,” he says, smiling.
We unload crates of apples together. The smell rises up sharp and sweet, promising cider presses later today. I check the orchard, make notes about which rows need tending.
But as I walk the fields, I catch myself looking toward the road more than usual, like I’m expecting something. Someone. It’s ridiculous. Just another day, another October, another crowd of strangers wandering through the patch.
Still, I can’t shake it – the sense that this season is going to change something. That all the quiet mornings and long nights have been leading up to … something.
I push the thought away, grab the handle of the wheelbarrow, and get back to work.
My gut never lies. I know change is coming. I just don’t know what form it will take.
Chapter 3
Hannah
The parking lot is already packed by the time I pull in, rows of SUVs and minivans lined up on the gravel. Ivy’s nose is glued to the window, her breath fogging up a circle.
“There it is! Mommy, look—look!” she squeals, pointing at the big wooden sign that arches over the entrance. In bold orange letters it reads: Welcome to Stone Valley Harvest Festival.
Painted pumpkins and cornstalks frame the edges, the whole thing cheerful and festive, like autumn itself.
Ivy bounces in her seat. “This is gonna be the best day ever!”
“Let’s get parked before you combust,” I laugh, pulling into a tight space between two oversized trucks.
The second we step out, the noise hits me. Laughter, kids shrieking with delight, along with the faint blare of music overa loudspeaker. Someone’s calling out prices at the kettle corn stand. The smell of cinnamon sugar hangs heavy in the air, blending with hay and diesel.
We squeeze into the flow of families heading through the main gate. The arrival area is like a carnival … maybe six hundred square feet of organized chaos. Hay bales stacked for photo ops, picnic tables already full of parents juggling cider cups, a face-painting booth with a line of wiggly toddlers. Somewhere nearby, a scarecrow contest is underway, voices cheering over the crowd.
Ivy is a live wire beside me, tugging at my hand. “Pumpkins growing, Mommy! I see them!”
