Page 2 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
My mind starts blooming with ideas—pumpkin cheesecake, spiced cider simmering in big pots, something savory like a maple-glazed turkey slider. The thoughts tumble over each other so fast I grab a notebook to start scribbling them down.
Then my phone buzzes on the table. I swipe it open. It’s Dad.
Don’t forget to contact Oakridge Farms and plan an introductory meeting. I attached his number.
Below it, there’s a contact card: Finley Knox.
I sigh, sinking deeper into the couch. Of course. Dad still making sure I don’t miss a step. I type out a quick reply—Okay, Dad—before setting the phone back down.
I push myself up off the couch, stretching my sore limbs, and cross the room. The pumpkin candle flickers on the TVconsole, burning low. I lean down and blow it out, the smoke curling upward before fading.
I switch the TV off and head toward the bedroom. Boxes wait for me in piles, but they can wait until tomorrow. So can Finley’s text.
Tomorrow I’ll unpack and figure out what to say to the Oakridge Farms guy. Right now, my aching body begs me for sleep.
I slide beneath the fresh sheets, the mattress soft and comfortable. My eyelids grow heavy, and my last thought before drifting under is the Thanksgiving festival—rows of food. Laughter spilling down Main Street, and me right in the middle of it.
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.”
