Hearts and Hazelnuts

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sun crept over the horizon, washing the room in watery light. Jordan Hart had already been up for more than an hour, and his eyes crossed as he stared at the computer screen. There was not enough coffee in the world to make his brain function well enough for this, but he had no choice. He needed a job, and that meant scouring the postings. Something somewhere had to pan out.

He worked with his hands. Computers were not his strong suit.

Jordan blew out a breath, stood up, and crossed to the kitchen to pour more coffee. Three months before, he’d been living on the northeast side of Portland and making enough money to live comfortably. Working on cars all day, enjoying a beer with friends at night, he’d been happy. Well, content, if not exactly happy. And then, from one moment to the next, everything went to s**t.

No one knew the general manager had been craftily embezzling profits for more than a decade. Jordan certainly hadn’t. He’d come in, worked his shift, and collected a pay check. But despite servicing everything from late-model sedans to high-end sports cars, the shop wasn’t making much of a profit. And when the absentee owner finally looked into the financials…well, Jordan was employed one day and jobless the next.

It sucked because he liked the shop, and he loved the work.

Things went downhill from there. When he failed to find a job within the first few weeks, he had to dip into his savings to pay rent. He didn’t have enough to sustain himself for long. With no employment prospects, Jordan had to give up his apartment.

Moving in with his brother was a blow, but Jordan reminded himself it was only temporary. At least John was a good guy and didn’t treat Jordan as though losing his job were somehow his fault. Since their parents were gone, the brothers were close and they always had each other’s backs. John had even tried to get him a job at the Massey Ferguson dealership where he was the service manager. Working on big, diesel engines was Jordan’s first and truest love. But there were no openings, at least not for a permanent position. Jordan filled in a few days, but that was it.

Coffee in hand, Jordan sat back down in front of the computer. He’d expanded his search past the Pacific Northwest, and it looked like he’d have to move if he wanted to find a job that used all his skills. Jordan was certified to work on just about every kind of engine, something he took pride in. The classes required long hours of hard work. They’d also been worth every penny, every curse, every drop of sweat and blood.

Jordan didn’t want to leave Oregon. He couldn’t imagine it. It went beyond just the perfect weather—four distinct seasons without prolonged temperature extremes—though that was a big draw. It was the place he’d grown up, and he was proud to be an Oregon native, through and through.

The ring of his cell phone broke the quiet in the room, and Jordan snatched it up, grateful for the interruption. He was even more glad when he saw his brother’s name on the screen. There could only be one reason John was calling so early in the morning.

“I got a line on a job for you.”

Thank God. “Yeah? You need me to come in?” Jordan stood and headed toward his tiny bedroom so he could dress.

“Sorry, man.” John sounded apologetic. “But it’s a day thing. One of the farmers out in Newberg needs service, and my guys are swamped. Beckett is desperate because he’s supposed to harvest today. I told him about you, and he’s willing to have you come out.” John sighed. “I know it’s not much, but Beck’s a good guy and he’ll pay you fair. And a day’s work is better than nothing, right?”

“Yeah, of course. I want to work, John.”

“I know, kid. I’m sorry.” Another quick breath. “Okay. I’ll text you the address. Get out there as soon as you can.”

“I’ll be on the road in a couple of minutes,” Jordan assured him.

Jordan dressed, poured his coffee into a travel mug, checked his tools, and climbed into his truck. One of the best investments he’d made was his expansive set of Proto tools. He kept them in a triple-locked tool chest attached to the bed of his Silverado.

The drive to Newberg only took about forty-five minutes, and once he cleared the area surrounding Portland, I-5 was fairly deserted. He set the cruise control at only five miles over the speed limit. That was not the day to get pulled over for speeding.

Jordan had traveled his fair share, but there was something about the Willamette Valley that just took his breath away—rolling hills in verdant green, stately trees, clean, crisp air. Autumn was his favorite season to begin with, but he especially felt it there. Though only a quick trip south on the highway, Newberg felt a world away from the city life of Portland. Jordan was always surprised by how much he liked the feeling. He was a city boy. But there was something amazing about leaving the city behind and being surrounded by the unspoiled farmland of the lush valley.

The GPS on his cell directed him to turn off the highway just before the town itself, and he followed a side road for about a mile. As he rounded a curve, a large wooden sign came into view. It looked a little weathered, but the paint was bright, and an artist’s rendition of a hazelnut graced the upper left corner above the writing.

Shaw Farms, est. 1926.

Hazelnuts. Of course. Jordan should have guessed, considering where he was. The heart of hazelnut country. The Willamette Valley was some of the most fertile land in the state, and there were hundreds of hazelnut farms. It was Oregon’s largest crop and what the area was known for.

Jordan eased the truck into the turn and followed the drive through a copse of oaks that suddenly opened up to a flat expanse. A house sat on the left, and several outbuildings and a barn stood on the right. And straight ahead were unmistakable row upon neat row of hazelnut trees. Jordan reduced his speed further and looked for a clue to where he was supposed to go. The third building had two huge bay doors. It looked promising, so Jordan eased the truck into the small concrete lot in front of it. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the truck just as a side door opened. A man strode purposefully toward him.

Jordan nearly swallowed his tongue.

From a young age, Jordan had known he was bisexual, so his attraction to the tall, broad, dark-haired man wasn’t entirely a surprise. The guy was dressed in a light gray, long-sleeved T-shirt, worn, well-fitting jeans, and work boots. Jordan took a minute to just enjoy looking while doing his best not to outright leer. Then he reined in his libido and sent a silent prayer that the man was not Beckett Shaw. It wouldn’t be good to perv on the boss, even on a short-term job.

“Jordan?” the man asked when he was close enough not to have to shout. He held out his hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m Beckett Shaw.”

Dammit.

Jordan stepped forward and shook Shaw’s hand. “Glad I can help. What’s the problem?”

Shaw groaned out a frustrated sound and gestured to the building behind him. “The windrower won’t start. I have got to get the harvest in, and I can’t do that without first using the windrower.” Shaw walked toward the first bay door, and Jordan fell in step beside him. “I have no idea when it was last serviced. And knowing my father, he let the maintenance slide.”

Shaw abruptly stopped speaking and blew out a breath. Jordan glanced at him, but then averted his gaze. There was something more going on with Shaw than just a busted windrower. It was a vital piece of equipment, as all the nuts that had fallen on the ground had to be swept into rows so they could be collected, but Shaw’s frustration seemed deeper than that. That wasn’t Jordan’s problem. He was just there to fix the machine, which he was confident he could do, just as soon as he saw what was going on with it.

They entered through the smaller side door and then turned to the left to enter the garage. The windrower was one of four tractors, all bright-red Massey Fergusons. Jordan kept his wince inside when he took in their state. The brand was a classic workhorse and, kept in peak condition, could run for decades. Shaw’s machines had been neglected, but they weren’t in terrible shape. Nothing a little maintenance and TLC couldn’t fix.

“Let me take a look and see what’s going on.”

Jordan beelined for the windrower, since that was the machine in question. It was a regular tractor with the windrower attachment permanently affixed to the front. She was a big, beautiful machine, complete with an enclosed cab. Jordan itched to fix her up right, give her the care she needed. But instead he opened the engine compartment and peered inside.

“I’ll be in the office, right through here.” Shaw’s voice was soft, and Jordan glanced over his shoulder. Shaw gestured back through the door. “Let me know as soon as you find the problem.”

“Won’t take long,” Jordan assured him and turned back to the engine.

It needed maintenance in the worst way. Jordan would suggest Shaw get all his tractors serviced as soon as possible. After just a few minutes, Jordan spotted the immediate trouble. The fuel line was corroded through. It would have to be replaced.

He headed back out to his truck, unlocked the chests, searched through his tools, and collected the ones he needed. Then he circled around to the other side. He knew he had some fuel lines in one of the compartments, and if he was lucky, he’d have one that would work. He often picked up extra parts when he wandered into supply stores. Having miscellaneous parts on hand had worked in his favor more than once, so he picked up common items when he could. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for.

Back inside, he poked around in the engine and took things apart. The carburetor was a mess, and a good cleaning would do wonders. But the more he searched, the better he felt. The fuel line was the only real problem. It wouldn’t take him long to fix.

He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped the grease from his hands, and went in search of Beckett Shaw.