Hearts and Hazelnuts

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

It was supposed to be a good day. With all the hazelnuts on the ground, it should have been easy enough to sweep them into rows and then drive the harvester over the rows to gather them up. But Beckett wasn’t surprised when things went wrong.

He was frantic when he went into the machinery garage, only to have the windrower fail to start. It had been working fine when he tested and fueled it up the day before, even if it was running a little rough. But when he turned the key, nothing happened.

Beckett kicked the tire of the inert tractor and cursed a blue streak. Then he pulled out his cell and called John. The service manager at the Massey Ferguson dealership was a friend, and Beckett hoped he’d have someone available to come out and fix his tractor.

John was very apologetic when he said they were swamped.

“s**t,” Beckett muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wanted to yell, but it wasn’t John’s fault. “When do you think someone can come out? I have got to get these nuts off the ground. If I don’t get a good harvest this year—” He blew out a breath. “Do you know where else I can call? I’m desperate here.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and then Beckett heard the sounds of the shop fall away, as though John had shut a door.

“Listen, Beck. My brother is an excellent mechanic. There’s nothing he can’t do with an engine. I could send him out to you today.”

Beck squinted. “What’s the catch?” There had to be a reason John was being furtive.

“No catch. Just…he doesn’t work for the dealer. Or any shop. He’s between jobs, but it’s not his fault.” John spoke quickly. “But it’s not like he’s affiliated with a business, and I know that can be…worrisome to folk.”

“But he’s good?”

“The best. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, man.”

Beckett knew that. John had become a friend when Beck was living and working in Portland. Forced off the farm by his father, Beck had no choice but to find employment elsewhere. He and John had met at a trade show four or five years back.

“And he can come today?”

“Right now,” John assured him. “I’ll call him right now, and Jordan can be there within the hour.”

“Fine. Send him.” Beckett’s voice came out harsher than he intended. Stress made him tense. With effort, he softened his tone. “Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”

Beck paced for the next hour, until he heard the rumble of a diesel engine and nearly tripped getting out the office door. The Silverado stopped in the lot, and Beckett almost sprung wood when the stocky man stepped down from the cab.

Jordan Hart was several inches shorter than Beck, wide shouldered and slim hipped. A swirl of ink colored his biceps where the sleeve of his T-shirt didn’t quite cover, and his dark hair spiked carelessly. His jaw was shaded in a matching stubble, and he walked with an easy, rolling gait that made Beck’s mouth water.

Beck had to curb his reaction. The man might run for the hills if he saw Beckett’s attraction, and he could be Beckett’s savior. The hazelnuts were his priority. Beck hadn’t gotten laid in eight months. A few more weren’t going to hurt him.

Jordan had a quiet, no nonsense way of speaking that Beck appreciated. And Beck was happy to let Jordan do what he needed to on the tractor. Sending a silent prayer heavenward, Beck left Jordan to the engine and headed back to his office. Ostensibly he needed to do some paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was too worried about what Jordan might find in the engine of the windrower.

Twenty minutes later, boots on concrete alerted Beck to Jordan’s approach, and he turned in his chair just in time to see the man reach the door.

“What’s the verdict?” Beckett tried not to let the worry creep in.

“Fuel line’s corroded. Easy enough fix. I have a part that will work, and I can get you up and running in no time.”

There was something in Jordan’s tone, a hesitancy perhaps, that gave Beckett pause. He squinted. “But?”

Jordan blew out a breath and fixed his gaze on the far wall. “It’s in need of some serious maintenance. And if the other tractors are in the same shape…” Jordan went silent for a few seconds and then looked Beckett in the eye. “If it doesn’t get taken care of, you’re going to be in far worse trouble than this.”

Beck wasn’t surprised to hear it. In fact he was glad the only thing immediately wrong with the windrower was the fuel line. For a long moment, he was quiet as he weighed his thoughts.

“But you can get the windrower working now?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” Beckett took a breath and just went for it. “John said you were between jobs at the moment.”

A muscle ticked in Jordan’s jaw. “Yes.”

“Okay. So if you would fix the immediate problem with the windrower first, that’d be great. How long will it take?”

Jordan gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Half an hour? Maybe a little more.”

Beckett’s relief washed through him. If he hadn’t been sitting down, his knees might have buckled. “Fantastic. So do that, please. And then, if you’re interested—”

“Beck, man, we got a problem with—oh, s**t. Sorry.”

Beckett turned to the open door where Cory stood. He looked windblown and flushed, as though he’d run the hundred yards from the storage building where he’d been working. Beckett’s gut clenched. They couldn’t afford any more trouble.

“What’s wrong?”

Cory’s gaze bounced from Beck to Jordan and back again. “The conveyor is dead. As in the motor gave an unholy whine and just quit.”

Beckett squeezed his eyes shut. That was bad news. Shaw Farms sold most of their crop to one of the processing plants, but they always processed several thousand pounds of the first haul to sell themselves at local festivals. The festivals were a big deal, and having a presence meant people recognized the Shaw name. The conveyor was vital. It carried the washed nuts through the line, where blanks were sucked up and discarded and good nuts were sorted and bagged.

“Goddammit!” The farm couldn’t afford that kind of setback. Not when everything was riding on the harvest. Beck’s stomach clenched, and tension flooded every muscle.

“I can look at it.”

Jordan spoke so softly, Beckett almost didn’t hear him. It took a second for the words to penetrate the stress barrier in his brain. But when they did, Beck jerked upright and stared at Jordan.

“Yeah?”

“Sure.” Jordan glanced around. “Motors aren’t exactly my thing, but I know how they work. I can see if it can be fixed or needs to be replaced at least.”

“Thank f**k,” Beckett breathed. He turned his attention to Cory. “Jordan will take a look at the motor as soon as he’s finished with the windrower. Why don’t you head back to storage and make sure the containers are cleaned and ready?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Cory gave a sort of salute and headed back the way he came.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

Jordan’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Let me get to work on the tractor, and then I’ll look at the motor.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.” Beckett stood quickly and stepped into Jordan’s space. “Look, I have a proposition for you.”

Jordan eyed him warily, but he didn’t move or speak, so Beckett took that as his cue to continue.

“All the tractors need maintenance. I don’t know when the last time it was done. And I’ve been so busy since I took over in March, I haven’t given it much thought. What do you think about staying on a few days? After you fix the windrower and the conveyor motor, you can give all the tractors the service they need. I know it’s only a couple days work, but I’ll compensate you—”

“Sure.”

Beckett stuttered to a stop at the interruption. He’d been fully ready to beg if he had to. But Jordan was willing, and he’d proven his worth already by diagnosing the problem with the windrower. Beck was well aware Jordan could have said much more was wrong with it and gouged him out of time and money. Besides, John could be trusted, and he vouched for his brother. It was a win/win situation all around.

Holding out his hand, Beckett offered Jordan a smile. “Thank you.”

Jordan glanced at his hand and then up at his face and slid his palm along Beckett’s to shake. Ignoring the electricity that sparked between them was nearly impossible, but Jordan took a step back before Beck could gauge whether he felt it, too.

“I need to get to work.”

Beck nodded and resumed his seat, giving Jordan the space he clearly needed. Perhaps he wasn’t unaffected after all. But Beck wouldn’t dwell on that. That wasn’t why Jordan was there. He nodded and watched Jordan walk out of the office. The well-worn jeans hugged his ass, and Beck had to force his gaze and thoughts back to business.

The day hadn’t turned out at all like it was supposed to. But it was looking up. Not only were the necessary repairs being made to the machinery, but Beck got a mechanic out of the deal, at least for a few days. And he could be assured his tractors would be running in top shape when it was done.

It didn’t hurt that said mechanic was gorgeous.

Not that Beck would do anything about it. He didn’t even know if Jordan returned the attraction, though he had his suspicions. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. It didn’t matter. Beck’s top priority, his only focus, was the farm and recovering from the debt his old man had left.

Beckett still couldn’t believe the state the farm had fallen into. Shaws had worked the land since his great-grandfather bought it, sight unseen, in 1926, and the sixty acres already sported the hazelnut trees. Love of the land, valley, and crop had settled itself in Beck’s blood. He had been raised at his grandfather’s knee and grew up wanting nothing more than to work the land and produce quality product.

His father, on the other hand, wanted to make money.

How Lyndon Shaw could be so different from his father and grandfather before him, Beckett would never understand. But while Beckett cared about the trees and the nuts, Lyndon only cared about the bottom line. In the end, it was what drove Beck from the farm five years before. He couldn’t watch his father destroy the place, and with them constantly butting heads, Beckett had to leave. Lyndon owned the farm. The choices were up to him.

Eventually his father had given up. Fortunately for Beckett, Lyndon wasn’t black hearted enough to sell the farm out from underneath him. Though Beckett had to sell almost all his possessions and take out a hefty loan in order to buy his father out, it was worth it. Shaw Farms was his, lock, stock, and barrel. And his father was long gone—living the life he’d always wanted on the Florida coast.

Beck had worked hard since taking possession seven months before. Fortunately the trees were hardy. With nine thousand Barcelona and York varieties populating the acreage, pollination was all but guaranteed. The brisk January winds had done their job, and as spring led into summer, Beck watched his trees produce buds. Now the last of the nuts had fallen, and he was determined to bring in the harvest before the autumn rains started. The first weekend in October was always his favorite, simply because it was time to harvest.

As long as he could get his windrower up and running.

But that’s why Jordan was there, and from the clangs and grunts issuing from the garage, Beck was sure he was doing his job. Just a little bit longer and he could be out there in the orchard, taking that first step to bring in the nuts.

If he was very lucky, he’d yield an average of a thousand pounds an acre. He knew his grandfather had gotten twice that in his heyday. But with the overgrowth his father had allowed over the past few years, Beck wasn’t sure he’d have that high a yield. Nuts grew on new wood, and some of the trees in the back acres hadn’t been pruned in years.

Beck was trying not to borrow trouble. Any harvest at all would be a good one, and he’d been out in the fields with his grandpa enough to know he was looking at a decent crop. Next year would be even better.

The sudden rumble of the engine, loud in the closed in garage, sounded like music to his ears. Beck pumped his fist in the air, relieved as f**k to finally be able to get to work. A glance at the clock showed him he was only three hours behind schedule. Not able to wait any longer, he headed out.