Farmhanded 1 (Patreon)

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Ethan had imagined failure would be more dramatic—some obvious catastrophe, something he could point at later and say it was where everything went wrong. But for him, it was a collection of smaller humiliations. It was a rejection email before breakfast, an interview where somebody smiled too much while promising to “be in touch,” a week of watching the number in his bank account shrink while his rent stayed the same.

At one point, he walked into his apartment, too tired to be angry. Ethan stumbled inside and dropped his messenger bag beside the tiny kitchen counter. Back when he had first moved to the city for university, the cramped little places students rented had looked like a promise that he was starting a life bigger than the one waiting for him back home—the rural town where everybody knew everybody, where the closest thing to traffic was getting stuck behind a tractor, and where leaving for the big university already meant success.

Ethan had believed every bit of it. He had studied business, learned accounting and finance, graduated with respectable marks, bought a far-too-expensive suit because he’d been convinced he would need it constantly, and pictured himself walking through glass office doors carrying coffee while people trusted him with important numbers. Instead, more than a year after graduation, the suit hung in a closet whose door wouldn’t close properly, and the coffee came from the cheapest place he could find on his way to interviews.

As he collapsed on the couch, his phone buzzed with a notification, and Ethan grabbed it, hopeful that it could be someone willing to hire him. Sadly, it was an advertisement from a food delivery app reminding him of restaurants he couldn’t afford. He tossed the phone aside for a moment before picking it up again. He opened the messages and looked for Owen’s name. They had known each other since they were kids, and Owen had stayed close to home.

Ethan typed before pride could stop him. “I think I’m officially screwed.”

Owen replied within a minute. “Those words usually mean you did something stupid. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. That’s the problem. Another interview today. Pretty sure the guy had already decided no before I sat down,” Ethan typed fast.

Owen sent a sympathetic emoji, and Ethan rolled his eyes.

“Dude, you don’t get it!” Ethan continued, trying to put his frustration into words. “If I don’t get something soon, I’m going to burn through what’s left of my savings.” He paused, aware that for the first time he was fully opening up about his struggles. “Rent’s due again in two weeks. I can maybe manage another month after that, but then I’m packing the car and coming home.”

Owen’s reply didn’t come immediately, and Ethan could imagine his friend staring at the screen, trying to figure out how to answer without saying anything that sounded too cheerful about the possibility of Ethan coming back. “Actually, there might be something here.” Owen’s text finally came. “You remember the Halvorsons’ farm?”

Ethan frowned immediately. He remembered the farm, a property a little outside town, an old working farm that had been there longer than either of their families. Ethan mostly remembered the previous owners as a married couple who seemed ancient even when he had been 10. “Yeah. Haven’t thought about that place in years,” he typed back.

“They finally retired. Kids didn’t want it, so they sold it. The new owner took over a few months ago. Heard they’re looking for somebody to deal with the business side. Money, paperwork, bills, whatever. Apparently none of the guys there know what the hell they’re doing with that stuff.” Owen’s text sounded promising, except for the location he was talking about.

Ethan groaned. “You’re suggesting I move home to do farm paperwork.”

“I’m suggesting you use the degree you spent four years complaining about to finally get some money.” Owen’s messages now sounded harsh.

“I moved three hundred miles away so I wouldn’t end up back there,” Ethan typed.

“And how’s that working out?” Owen’s text cut through Ethan’s ego like a sharp knife.

“Asshole,” Ethan said, though he was smiling faintly.

Owen had earned the insult, but Ethan couldn’t deny that he was right. Going home felt like surrender, but it still sounded better than eviction.

“Do you have their number?” he finally typed.

Owen sent the contact immediately. “Call tomorrow. The worst thing they can say is no.”

Ethan stared at the message for a while and saved the number. Considering the past few months, he thought he had accumulated considerable expertise in hearing no.

The next morning, Ethan had barely finished his first cup of coffee when he opened his laptop and found three emails waiting in his inbox. The first email began with “Thank you for your interest.” The second used: “After careful consideration.” And the third opened with the familiar “We regret to inform you.” Ethan closed the laptop and picked up his phone.

He found the number Owen had sent him and pressed call before he could regret it.

“Hello?” A deep masculine voice responded, and Ethan forgot why he was calling.

Ethan’s mental image of the farm still contained elderly Mr. Halvorson bending over a fence post like a question mark. So hearing that voice answering created such a ridiculous disconnect that he checked the screen to make sure he had called the right number.

“Hello?” the man repeated, sounding slightly less patient.

Ethan straightened. “Hi. Sorry. Yeah. Hello.” He paused to regain composure. “My name’s Ethan. I was calling about a job. Somebody told me you were looking for someone to help with the farm’s finances and paperwork.”

The man didn’t respond immediately. “Who told you?”

“A friend of mine. We grew up around there,” Ethan explained briefly.

“Around here?” Something in the man’s voice changed.

“Yeah,” Ethan said firmly, trying to sound confident. “But I’m living in the city now.”

“Well, this isn’t a remote desk job,” the man said in a harsher tone. “Farm’s a long drive from the city. Whoever handles the books needs to be here most days because half the paperwork never leaves this property, and I’m not reorganizing how everybody works around somebody who plans on wandering in twice a month. We work early, we work dirty, and nobody here has much patience for some picky city boy deciding country life isn’t for him after 3 days.”

Ethan swallowed hard as his whole body straightened up instinctively. A stranger’s lecture on the phone shouldn’t have felt sexy, but something deep within him suddenly stirred. “Well, sir, I’m not exactly a city boy,” he cleared his throat to sound more serious. “I grew up in that town. I know there’s no nightclub, and the entire place basically shuts down at nine.”

The man chuckled, and Ethan hated how much he liked that sound. “That’s different, then,” the stranger said. “You know the farm?”

“The old owners. Everybody knew them,” Ethan said.

“They retired. I’ve been trying to straighten out what they left behind ever since.” The man paused for a few seconds. “If you’re serious, come by. I’d rather meet somebody before I hand them access to every account keeping the place alive.”

Ethan looked around the apartment. “I’m serious.”

“Good. Name’s Cyrus.”

Ethan couldn’t help but chuckle because that definitely sounded like it belonged to somebody named Cyrus. They arranged a day and time. Cyrus gave him a few directions even though Ethan knew where the property was.

The moment the call disconnected, Ethan lowered the phone and exhaled so hard his cheeks puffed. “Maybe moving home wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The following morning he loaded his car, left his keys with the landlord, and drove away from the neighborhood he had once dreamed of living in. He called his parents during the drive to tell them the news. His mother nearly deafened him when she realized he was actually coming home rather than merely visiting, and his father laughed somewhere in the background.

By the time he reached his parents’ house, his mother was already standing outside before he had parked. He gave himself one night to rest, but the following morning Ethan showered, shaved, put on dark jeans and a button-up shirt, then drove to the farm.

He arrived at the farmhouse a while later and parked near an old pickup truck with its hood raised. At first, he assumed nobody was nearby. Then he noticed two enormous work boots coming out from underneath the truck, attached to denim-covered legs so thick that Ethan briefly wondered if there were two people lying under there side by side.

“Uh, excuse me?” Ethan said softly.

A scrape echoed beneath the truck, and a mechanic’s creeper rolled outward. Ethan’s brain stalled for the second time in less than a week. The man was huge, far bigger than anyone Ethan expected to see casually repairing an elderly pickup before lunch. He had dark hair pushed messily away from his forehead, hard features with some stubble on them, and broad shoulders that strained a dirty gray T-shirt stained with sweat and grease. His whole body was heavily muscled—working muscles packed everywhere. Even flat on his back, he seemed so big that Ethan felt oddly undersized.

Then the man sat up, and Ethan’s ability to act normal cracked. “Need something?” he asked in a low voice that wasn’t as dramatic as Cyrus’s had been but deeply masculine.

“I’m looking for Cyrus,” Ethan said.

The man’s eyes scanned Ethan’s frame. “House,” he finally said, nodding toward the large farmhouse up the lane. “Front door.”

“Right. Thanks,” Ethan responded, struggling to remain calm.

The man smirked faintly, and Ethan almost stumbled into a bucket beside the truck.

“Fantastic. I’m the master of first impressions,” Ethan whispered as he walked away. “Five minutes. I’ve been here five fucking minutes.”

He took a deep breath once he reached the door, then he knocked and heard heavy footsteps approaching from inside. When the door opened, Ethan wondered if Owen had sent him to some kind of experimental farm where normal-sized men were prohibited.

The man standing there was so massive that Ethan had trouble processing his whole frame. He was so tall that his hair came remarkably close to the top of the door frame, with shoulders so wide that the whole place seemed incorrectly proportioned around him. His chest and arms were thick beneath a plain dark shirt, his waist was powerfully built, and his legs were almost absurdly massive. Above it all, his face was equally stunning.

“Ethan?” The man asked, and Ethan’s knees almost gave way. It was Cyrus’s voice.

“Yeah.” Ethan’s voice was shaky, so he took a few seconds to regain composure. “That’s me. I found the place after all.”

“You found the place indeed,” Cyrus said, smirking and moving aside to let him in—which was fun because half of Cyrus still seemed capable of blocking the doorway.

Ethan passed him, trying not to stare too long at the massive man’s body. He focused on the interview, which turned out considerably easier once the conversation turned to numbers. Cyrus explained that the Halvorsons had kept the farm alive largely through experience, habit, and an alarming dependence on paper, but without anything resembling an accounting system.

Cyrus explained that the farm itself brought in enough money to survive, but he couldn’t confidently tell Ethan where all of it went from month to month. Feed costs had increased, equipment needed repairs, fuel expenses fluctuated, and there were wages, insurance, taxes, veterinary bills, household food, and maintenance contracts.

“We can run the farm,” Cyrus said. “Kane can repair damn near anything with an engine. Wyatt knows livestock better than people. Caleb handles himself plenty. I can keep everybody working. Put any of us in front of a spreadsheet, though, and we’re wasting time we could actually use somewhere else.”

“Kane’s the guy under the truck?” Ethan asked shyly.

Cyrus nodded. “I’d bet you had a long conversation with him.”

Ethan snorted and focused back on records, accounts, prior budgets, outstanding debts, and banking access. With each answer, the problem seemed larger but also more interesting. For the first time in months, somebody wasn’t politely questioning if Ethan had enough experience. Cyrus had a mess, and Ethan knew how to start fixing it.

“I can fix this,” Ethan said.

Cyrus raised one eyebrow. “You haven’t seen the whole thing.”

“I can still fix it,” Ethan replied firmly.

“Then the job’s yours,” Cyrus responded, with a wide smile that made Ethan’s legs tremble again. “You seem to know what you’re talking about; you already know the area, and you’re the first person I’ve spoken to who looked excited when I mentioned unpaid invoices.”

Ethan laughed, and something inside him loosened. Cyrus explained the pay, which wasn’t spectacular but was considerably better than unemployment.

“One of the rooms upstairs is empty. You can use it if you want,” Cyrus said. “Part of the arrangement, it saves you driving back and forth, especially when we’re busy.”

Ethan could’ve thought about it longer, maybe called his parents, considered boundaries, and perhaps spent a few nights commuting before deciding if living in his employer’s farmhouse was sensible. Instead, he thought about Kane under the truck, Cyrus across the table, and the mountain of paperwork waiting for him.

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I think that could work.”

Cyrus smirked and offered his hand for a firm shake.

Later that day, Ethan met Wyatt. The man appeared in the office carrying two glasses of lemonade and smiling as if they were already friends. He was blond, blue-eyed, with broad shoulders and a thick chest, and built with the same ridiculous excess that seemed to be a requirement for employment on the property. Unlike Kane’s quietness or Cyrus’s commanding authority, Wyatt radiated uncomplicated friendliness. Ethan thought of a golden retriever: huge, cheerful, always in motion, and probably capable of knocking over furniture without meaning to.

“You’re the guy saving us from paperwork?” Wyatt asked.

“Yeah. That’s me.” Ethan responded, still processing Wyatt’s size.

“You’re a lifesaver.” Wyatt placed one glass beside Ethan’s keyboard. “Cyrus tried making me organize receipts once. Bad idea. I sorted them into big ones and little ones.”

Ethan slowly lowered his pen and widened his eyes. Wyatt laughed so loudly that Kane, passing outside the open window, looked in with visible irritation.

Caleb came to introduce himself that afternoon and immediately created a different problem. He was definitely Cyrus’s son. The resemblance was evident in Caleb’s height, his broad frame, the shape of his face, and the same kind of confident eyes that made Ethan feel as if his thoughts had become embarrassingly public. Caleb was younger than Cyrus but fully grown, huge in all ways, and considerably more mischievous about noticing Ethan notice him.

“So you’re Ethan,” Caleb said, smirking.

“So everybody keeps telling me,” Ethan replied, admiring the man’s handsome face.

Caleb leaned one shoulder against the office doorframe and looked around at the newly labeled boxes. “Dad says you’re some kind of genius.”

Ethan snorted. “I’m flattered, but I only operate Excel.”

Caleb’s grin widened. “Well, we can always find more things for you to do around here.”

Ethan swallowed hard and blushed, realizing that unlike Kane, who mostly watched, or Wyatt, who flirted almost accidentally by existing, Caleb knew exactly what he was doing. And Ethan didn’t have enough determination to resist any of them.

...

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PS: Plot submitted by a Support-tier member as part of the tier's benefits.