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Traitor.
Grant headed to the other end of the barn, and I headed to mine, all kinds of salty.
Salty and determined.
And I almost beat him.
An hour later, Grant was waiting in the middle of the stalls while I finished the last few of mine. He leaned against the last hay trough he’d filled and squinted up at the sun.
“It is so fucking hot here.”
“Not hotter than DC. Isn’t it all nasty and humid there?”
“I don’t know if you realize this, but I’m not known to shovel hay much at home.”
“I could have guessed. Outside the fact that you just beat me at my own game,” I said, pitching a fork full of hay into a trough.
“Don’t blame yourself. I have nearly a foot on you and at least a hundred and fifty pounds.”
“But you don’t even know what you’re doing,” I huffed, angrily burying my fork in the hay for another load. “You’re supposed to be bad at this.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said with a smile on his face that told me he wasn’t sorry one bit. And then he stood, pulling off his gloves so he could take off his shirt.
I groaned. “Keep your shirt on.”
He didn’t stop. “Why? It’s too hot for this many clothes.”
“You gonna take off your pants too? That’s the real burden.”
“I’m not above it.”
I pointed my pitchfork at him. “I mean it. Put it back on.”
He laughed. “You gonna impale me?”
“I might. I’m trying to get rid of you, you know. And I know a lot of ways to dispose of a body.”
“What’s your favorite?”
He didn’t put his shirt back on, and I didn’t lower my weapon. “Did you know that pigs will eat anything?”
His smile faded. “Anything?”
“Anything. Bones and all. They’ll even eat your belt buckle, though they sadly can’t digest it. It’ll be the only evidence that I took you out for fucking with me.”
“I never thought I’d find bacon unappealing. Thanks for ruining that for me.”
“My pleasure. Now put your fucking shirt on.”
“How about you take yours off and we’ll be even.”
“Fine,” I said curtly, tossing my pitchfork into the hay.
He froze.
I had on a sleeved button-down to keep the sun off my shoulders, and I reached for the top button, unfastening it and working my way down, grateful I had on a cute sports bra with all the crisscross straps and not one of those old ratty ones I could never seem to get rid of.
“I find you interesting, Mr. Stone,” I said, disrobing. “When I met you, know the first thing I thought?”
“No, but since it precluded you throwing an egg at me, I can’t imagine it was good.”
“I thought you were the devil. The real live Lucifer come to slither into our town and squeeze the good out of it. I wasn’t wrong, either—you’re some sort of temptation, just not the kind you intended, I think.”
“What do you know of my intentions?”
I undid the last button and whipped my shirt off my shoulders, tying it around my waist. “I know they’re motivated by your designs, which I assume are power and money. Am I wrong?”
I reached for the pitchfork to resume my task, pleased that he couldn’t quit staring at my almost naked torso.
Payback’s a bitch.
“You want to know the truth?” he asked.
“If you’re capable.”
“My father doesn’t think I can do it.”
I paused, fork midair. “Why?”
He shrugged one naked shoulder, squinting up at the sky again. “He doesn’t believe I can do much of anything. I’ve lived my life as a disappointment to him—he’s never masked his feelings about it. My mother was the only thing he loved more than himself. I’m the reason she’s gone. He makes sure I know it, too.”
“Grant—”
He shot me a sideways smile. “I hear that pity again.”
I tried to school myself, not understanding how to convey compassion over pity. “I’m sorry,” I managed.
“It’s nothing to be sorry over, Jo. You asked why I was here, and that’s the truth of it.” He watched me through a small silence. “You didn’t think I’d be honest with you.”
“I didn’t think the reason would be this, that’s all.”
“You expected it to be an ungodly sum for selling my soul? In the interest of truth, I should warn you I’m still getting that. It’s just not what’s motivating me. So what’s motivating you?”
I took back to my pitchfork, throwing my wall back up. “Aside from the well-being of my family, farm, and town?”
“Aside from that. You’ve got a whole lot of spite for someone who’s already solved the problem of her farm.” When I shot him a look, he put his hands up. “It’s not an insult, just an observation.”
“I’m a bee farmer and you’re an oil man. We fundamentally disagree.”
“Who said I agreed with them?”
“You work for them.”
“That doesn’t mean I believe what I sell.”
I stared at him for a second, shaking my head. “You are the devil.”
