Page 2 of Where It All Began
She bumped down the lane, swerving to miss the biggest of the ruts until the farm came into view and was relieved to find that there was indeed a house on the property. It was a traditional two-story that had seen better days. The serviceable white clapboard siding was clean, and the roof looked brand new, but the porch bowed and sagged, and the flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds. Phoebe noted there were no curtains in any of the dingy windows, though privacy didn’t appear to be an issue out here with no neighbors for a quarter mile in each direction.
Across the drive from the house sat a dilapidated barn in faded red, though the fence around the scrap of land in front of the barn was new and freshly painted. The barn itself looked like a good stiff breeze would have it tumbling in on itself.
There was no welcoming committee visible, so she turned off the car and hefted her suitcase and typewriter out of the trunk. When she slammed the lid, the first signs of life stirred. A frantic yip came from the screen door on the porch. It bumped open an inch, closed, and then bumped again. A brown and white mottled dog the size of a toaster oven shoved its nose through the opening and muscled its way out.
“Hey, buddy,” Phoebe said, dropping her baggage and sinking down. The dog hunkered down in suspicion and inched forward. It gave her hand a careful sniff and must have downgraded her threat status because he flopped on his back inviting a belly rub.
It was character that made the dog cute, not anything physical, Phoebe decided. He had one eye, an ear that flopped up, and an obscene length of tongue that lolled from the side of his mouth.
“Lousy guard duty, Murdock.” The voice as rough as the gravel beneath her knees came from over her shoulder in the direction of the barn. Phoebe rose and then froze.
Farmers didnotlook like the man ambling toward her. They were older, weathered, craggy.
This guy looked like he’d walked off the set ofDukes of Hazzard. His dark hair was long, curling a bit at the ends. Grey eyes peered at her from a tanned face that carried a rough layer of stubble. His long, muscular legs were encased in tight denim. The dirty plaid shirt was tight across a set of spectacular biceps that bulged as he hefted two buckets filled with what looked and smelled like shit.
The man made carrying shit sexy. She’d had no idea that was possible. Now, if he was as smart as he was hot, her summer had just gotten a hell of a lot more interesting.
“John Pierce?” she asked, one-eyed dog and bags forgotten.
The man set the buckets down and peeled off his work gloves before offering her a large, callused hand. “That’d be me. And you are?”
Phoebe blinked, returning his strong grip. Just how many visitors was this farmer expecting? “I’m Phoebe. Phoebe Allen, the grad student you said could spend the summer.”
He looked at her blankly.
She tried again. “Thesis? First generation farms and the obstacles they face post-farming crisis?” John was staring at her as if she’d just announced she was here to perform a craniotomy on him. Maybe he was daft? Maybe he’d hit his head on a piece of farming equipment and had lost his short- or long-term memory, whichever held the information that she was coming to stay with him for the summer and interview him for her thesis.
“PhoebeAllen?”
“Uh-huh.”
He finally released his grip on her hand and swiped an arm over his forehead. “Son of a bitch.”
“I beg your pardon?” It wasn’t that Phoebe was opposed to bad language. She was a bit of a connoisseur of four letter words. But to lead an introduction with it was odd and didn’t bode well.
“I was told you were a grad student named Allen.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Technically I am.”
“I was told you were a man.”
“Who the hell told you that?”
“A meddling, exasperating liar, that’s who.” He was scowling now, his expression dark.
“Let me guess. You have a problem with me being a woman.” Phoebe was used to the attitude. She was the only woman out of fourteen master’s students in her class at Penn State University and one of only three in the entire College of Agriculture.
“Of course I do.”
Phoebe settled her hands on her hips and drummed her fingers against the denim of her skirt. “Just because I’m young and female and a little on the short side doesn’t preclude me from an interest in farming economics and rural sociology.” She was gearing up to launch into her just-because-I-have-a-vagina lecture when he gave a short laugh.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Phoebe was toe-to-toe with him. Given the contents of the buckets he’d been hauling, she probably should have kept her distance, but she was mad enough, annoyed enough, to forget about her sandals and bare toes.
“I mean we can’t live under the same roof all summer alone together.”
Phoebe, never at a loss for words, found herself struggling to come up with any at the moment. “What? Why not?”
