Black Single Dad Went Looking for Work on a Farm — He Didn't Know a Millionaire Would Make Him Rich
Chapter 12
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She hurried up the hill to her SUV. Luke watched her taillights disappear down the gravel drive and through the iron gate.Then he noticed Wade Harland standing in the doorway of the machine shed, his red cap pulled low, his phone pressed to his ear. Wade said something short, ended the call, and slipped the phone into his pocket. He did not look at Luke. He walked toward the farm office at the end of the main barn and went inside.Luke turned back to the field. He did not have time to wonder what that meant.For the next hour, he worked like a man possessed. Load, haul, unload, stack. Load, haul, unload, stack. The wind grew stronger and the sky grew darker until the evening looked more like nightfall. Thunder rolled across the valley, close enough to rattle the tin roof of the bank barn.At ten minutes before 7:00, Luke drove the last loaded wagon into the barn. He climbed into the loft one final time, swung the last bale onto the top tier, and pressed it into place with both bleeding hands.The first fat raindrops hit the tin roof above him a few seconds later. Then the sky opened.Luke stood in the loft and listened to the rain hammer the roof. Below him, 60 acres of orchard grass sat stacked, cured, and bone dry: 1,520 bales. Not one of them had been touched by the storm.He climbed down slowly. His legs were heavy, his muscles burning from six straight hours of labor that should have taken four men. He walked to the yard pump under the barn's overhang, washed his face and arms in the cold spring water, and unwrapped the bandana from his hands. Then he jogged through the rain to the truck by the gate.When the wind first picked up, he had moved Toby into the dry cab with his sketch pad. The boy was still there, drawing under the glow of the dome light.He had done it. He had kept his word. Now he only had to wait for Clare to come home.At 7:20, headlights swept across the gate. Luke sat up straight behind the wheel. For one hopeful second, he thought it was Clare.It was not.A white county sheriff's cruiser rolled slowly through the iron arch, its light bar dark, its tires crunching over the wet gravel. It stopped directly behind the Dodge, blocking it in.Wade Harland came walking down from the main barn in a yellow rain slicker, his red cap dripping. He met the cruiser as the driver's door opened. The deputy who stepped out was in his 40s, with a thick mustache and a wide-brimmed hat wrapped in a plastic rain cover. His nametag read Boyd. He and Wade shook hands like old friends, because they were; they had bowled in the same league for 15 years.