Melanie called that she’d see him at home later as she headed back toward the house and possibly to the plant. Lucas was unsure of her plans for the day, but he knew he was needed right where he was, learning to farm. If only his administrative assistant could see him now. She’d be laughing.
Lucas's grip tightened around the handle of the pitchfork as he plunged it into the hay, muscles that had never known farm work straining against the unaccustomed labor.
"Square bales! Not too tight, not too loose," Joe instructed from across the barn, watching Lucas attempt to bind the hay. "You'll get the hang of it."
"Square bales," Lucas repeated under his breath, determined to master this new art form. Back in New York, his challenges were about mergers, contracts, and navigating boardroom politics, not wrestling with twine and hay.
There was something undeniably gratifying about the results of his efforts here—the growing stack of neatly tied bales signified progress in a way that spreadsheets never could.
"New York City's got nothing on this, eh?" Joe remarked with a knowing chuckle.
"Definitely a different pace," Lucas admitted. He hadn't anticipated the weight of the bales, or the persistence needed to keep up with the crew. He had to show them he could be their leader.
Lucas gripped the wooden handle of the pitchfork, his palms already raw from the unaccustomed labor, yet he refused to let it show. He stabbed into the hay with newfound vigor, muscles protesting movements they had never before been tasked with.
"Like this," Joe’s voice cut through his concentration. He demonstrated turning the hay with practiced ease. Lucas watched, committing the technique to memory.
"Thanks," he said, adjusting his grip.
"Everyone starts somewhere," Joe replied. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."
"Maybe by next harvest," Lucas jested.
With each new task, Lucas felt the gap between his old life and his present reality widen. The physical demands of farm work were relentless, but there was an unexpected rhythm to the labor that lulled his mind.
"Hey, Lucas, can you help with the irrigation lines?" a worker called out, snapping him back to the present.
"Sure thing," he called back, setting aside the pitchfork. As he walked over, Lucas reminded himself that every question asked was knowledge gained. Fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings, he glanced over at Joe for guidance.
"Pull here, then twist," Joe instructed, pointing to a section of the pipe.
"Got it," Lucas said, feeling a rush of accomplishment as the water began to flow smoothly once again.
"Lucas, you're doing fine," Joe assured him as they walked back to the farmhouse. "It's all about persistence and teamwork."
"Something tells me I'm going to learn a lot about both," Lucas replied.
Later, after supper, he stood at the kitchen window, looking out over what he’d done that day.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Melanie said, her voice soft beside him.
"More than words can say," Lucas replied.
Before bed, Melanie went with him out to gather eggs, a task Lucas had watched but never attempted himself. Armed with a basket and an abundance of caution, he opened the gate and stepped inside. Chickens scattered in a flurry of feathers and indignant squawks, leaving Lucas to wonder if perhaps he'd missed a step in the process.
"Easy there, big guy," Melanie chuckled, her hand catching the door before it swung shut. "They're just chickens."
"Right, just chickens," he echoed, though his heart raced as if he'd faced down a boardroom of investors instead.
Squatting down, he reached for an egg nestled in the straw, his movements exaggeratedly gentle. The egg wobbled precariously before rolling from his grasp, shattering against the floor with an audible crack.
"Guess I'm already good at breaking them," Lucas quipped.
"Practice makes perfect," she assured him, her laughter mingling with the clucking of hens. "And we have plenty of eggs."
As the week unfolded, Lucas found himself moving from task to task, each one new and challenging in its own right. He wrestled with stubborn weeds that seemed to mock his urban upbringing. He fumbled with the knobs of the ancient tractor, earning a few teasing jibes from the crew, who took bets on how many tries it would take before he got the engine roaring to life.
"Third time's the charm," Lucas declared, finally coaxing the machine into a rumbling purr. His pride swelled at the small victory, a stark contrast to the world he knew, where success was measured in profits and power points.
