Always On My Mind (The Sullivans #8)(3)

She’d been part of the dancing community for so long she hadn’t ever looked for any other world to belong to. Especially not when Sullivan family events with her mother and seven siblings were frequent enough to take up any free time she had.

But now, even the thought of dancing made her sick to her stomach. Her ex had wooed her with dancing...and then betrayed her with it. Once upon a time, she’d danced for herself, for the pure joy it had given her. Until these past few months, when she’d been little more than Victor’s puppet, dancing to try to please him. By the time she realized that nothing pleased him, she’d forgotten how to dance for any other reason. And now, it felt like there was a dead, numb zone inside her where her heart used to be.

She supposed she’d find another community to belong to in time.

Lori was just about to head back to the deli counter to pick up her sandwich, when she noticed a large board filled with flyers. She’d always been interested in strangers’ lives and devoured biographies as fast as her librarian sister Sophie could give them to her. Looking at a community posting board was such a perfect window into other lives she’d never live. And the truth was that as she’d driven the short Main Street, she’d been surprised by how cute the town was. The storefronts dripped with old western charm and she’d even passed a farm stand that looked like a picture out of a magazine.

In the middle of the board was a white piece of paper with the words Farmhand Needed in a strong, clearly masculine hand. Not for one second of her life had she ever thought about living or working on a farm. For her entire life, she’d known exactly what she was and what she would be: a dancer.

Only, since she wasn’t going to dance anymore, why not try something completely different, something that could very well turn out to be her second calling?

Maybe if she had gotten more than a dozen hours of sleep all week, she might have taken a clearer, more cool-headed look at the decision she was making.

Because she wasn’t looking for trouble. She swore she wasn’t.

The thing was, for the first time in a very long time, Lori felt a stirring of excitement. Of anticipation.

And a thrill that felt a little bit like fear.

She’d always liked the scary rides at the amusement park, and had been the one to drag her siblings to horror movies. But what could possibly be scary about working as a farmhand?

Especially when she’d already decided she was going to be the best damn farmhand the world had ever seen. Not to try to please anyone else, but to please herself, and to know that at the end of a long day on the farm, she’d done good work that she could be proud of.

Lori ripped the ad off the board and put it down in front of the deli boy. She was impulsive, but she wasn’t stupid, so she asked him, “Do you know the guy who posted this? Is he a nice man?”

The boy nodded. “Sure, Grayson is nice.”

Lori liked the sound of that name. Grayson. Probably some old farmer like the grandfather she’d seen on the sidewalk who’d been married for fifty years and needed some extra help with his chickens and cows. She had no idea what that help would entail, but she’d always been a fast learner.

She grinned and asked, “Can you tell me how to get to his farm?”

* * *

This was just the kind of day Grayson Tyler liked best—quiet and filled with backbreaking work from sunup to sundown as he made his way across his thousand acres.

When he’d bought this Pescadero farm three years ago, the barn had been on the verge of becoming firewood and the farmhouse had been a mice-infested shell. A hundred and fifty years ago the first farmer had started to work this land and it’d had a good run for a while, but the latest generation had been more interested in their fancy cars and IPOs than the farm their grandfather had spent his life cultivating.

Grayson had spent seven days a week for the past three years bringing the farm back to life. His family had thought he was out of his mind when he’d moved from New York City to what they called “the middle of nowhere,” even though San Francisco was only an hour away. Not that he’d been to the city, though. He knew too many people who flew between New York and San Francisco on a regular basis. There were too many potential opportunities to meet someone from his past.

That was one of the great things about a farm: the past didn’t matter. All that mattered was the animals that were hungry now, and the future you could build one plowed field, one well-fed cow, at a time. In fact, he was busy rebuilding the chicken coop this morning, so his chickens were in the field at the front of his house.

He was hammering in one of the final two-by-sixes for a new roost in the chicken coop when he heard the sound of an engine. His house and the coop were far enough from the road that he wouldn’t be able to hear a car heading through Pescadero, which meant it was coming up his drive.

Grayson gritted his teeth at the unexpected interruption. People in town knew by now not to drop by without letting him know ahead of time. Only once in a blue moon would a delivery truck come by with a package from New York.

He put down his hammer and turned to deal with whoever had come uninvited, although he didn’t recognize the car. The sun was shining on the windshield so he couldn’t see the driver’s face, but through the open driver’s side window he saw a lock of long, dark hair blow out.

A woman? What was a woman doing at his farm?

Damn it, this was the last thing he wanted to deal with—some tourist who must have gotten lost on the way to the only bed and breakfast in town and was coming to get directions.