"I was hoping you'd come back to see the calf today."
A soft, feeble laugh escaped her as his mouth covered
hers. His tongue slipped effortlessly between her lips to taste and
tease. His hands roamed her back and ribs, settling over the back
pockets of her jeans, pressing her pelvis close to his. Then they
wandered again as if needing to touch all of her all at once.
She held him near, easing some of the excited tension in
her breasts against his chest. She toyed with the hair on the back of
his neck, dallied with his tongue, and gasped for air when he pulled
her tight against him and deepened the kiss until she went weak and
witless in his arms.
"Umm." It was a deep, guttural sound of pleasure that
thrilled her beyond anything he could have said as he lifted his head
and perused her face, holding it between his palms. He shook his head
in wonder, then grinned happily and dropped his hands with a huge sigh.
"Oil."
"What?"
"I have to change the oil in the tractor," he said,
backing away from her. "There's no light in here or I'd… I'd
do it later, tonight, after…"
He stared at her a few more seconds before collecting his
thoughts. He cleared his throat and looked away. He knew what he was
feeling, but he hadn't expected it. He wanted her, no doubt about it,
but that was all he wanted. He didn't want anything strumming the
strings of his heart. He didn't want his desire for her leading him
into swamps of passion that would suck him in and crush the life out of
him again. He didn't want to get carried away and start believing that
he knew this woman—what she was thinking and what she wanted
from him.
"You must be getting ready to do something then," she
said, feeling a need to break the sudden and very uncomfortable silence
between them. "I thought the wheat was already planted."
"It is," he said, picking up the pan and tools he'd be
needing, and scooting under the tractor on his back. "I got a couple
fellas coming to work next week. We'll plant corn and after that
sorghum. For fodder."
"For who?"
"Fodder. Food. For cows."
Dorie crossed one leg over the other and leaned against a
big drum of something, while Gil retreated into farm talk.
Even a citified person like her knew there was more to
farming than throwing dirt over a seed and whacking off the results.
But to hear Gil talk, it sounded more like working the trading floor at
the Commodities Exchange than the age-old practice of cultivating food.
A delicate execution of knowledge, timing, and good luck.
For instance, Gil said he ran a summer fallow operation.
Which meant half the land he planted with wheat went uncultivated for a
year to build up moisture and soil nutrients, then it was planted the
next fall, while the other half went idle.
The hard red winter wheat was planted mid-September to
mid-October, sometimes as late as November, depending on the
weather—and this was where good luck came into play.
Normally, the wheat was planted early enough for it to grow five to six
inches tall before winter set in. Ideally, there was a snow cover to
protect the plants from the harsh winter temperatures as they went
dormant until spring. If all was well, the wheat would begin to shoot
up again by late March or early April and by the first to the middle of
May the plants "head out"—they got spikes or ears of grain on
the end of each stalk. Then barring disease, insects, heavy winds,
hail, torrents of rain, and other miscellaneous acts of God, there
would be a two-week period around the first of July in which to harvest
the wheat before it went to seed.
Then, to make it all the more exciting, bids were made on
wheat crops a year, sometimes two years in advance. The farmer would
accept the best price he thought he could get that year and sell the
crop before it was even grown.
Dorie thought it sounded like a gigantic crapshoot.
Well, it wasn't, Gil insisted. Most years the wheat came
in fine and was shipped off to flour mills or export markets in the
Pacific
A soft, feeble laugh escaped her as his mouth covered
hers. His tongue slipped effortlessly between her lips to taste and
tease. His hands roamed her back and ribs, settling over the back
pockets of her jeans, pressing her pelvis close to his. Then they
wandered again as if needing to touch all of her all at once.
She held him near, easing some of the excited tension in
her breasts against his chest. She toyed with the hair on the back of
his neck, dallied with his tongue, and gasped for air when he pulled
her tight against him and deepened the kiss until she went weak and
witless in his arms.
"Umm." It was a deep, guttural sound of pleasure that
thrilled her beyond anything he could have said as he lifted his head
and perused her face, holding it between his palms. He shook his head
in wonder, then grinned happily and dropped his hands with a huge sigh.
"Oil."
"What?"
"I have to change the oil in the tractor," he said,
backing away from her. "There's no light in here or I'd… I'd
do it later, tonight, after…"
He stared at her a few more seconds before collecting his
thoughts. He cleared his throat and looked away. He knew what he was
feeling, but he hadn't expected it. He wanted her, no doubt about it,
but that was all he wanted. He didn't want anything strumming the
strings of his heart. He didn't want his desire for her leading him
into swamps of passion that would suck him in and crush the life out of
him again. He didn't want to get carried away and start believing that
he knew this woman—what she was thinking and what she wanted
from him.
"You must be getting ready to do something then," she
said, feeling a need to break the sudden and very uncomfortable silence
between them. "I thought the wheat was already planted."
"It is," he said, picking up the pan and tools he'd be
needing, and scooting under the tractor on his back. "I got a couple
fellas coming to work next week. We'll plant corn and after that
sorghum. For fodder."
"For who?"
"Fodder. Food. For cows."
Dorie crossed one leg over the other and leaned against a
big drum of something, while Gil retreated into farm talk.
Even a citified person like her knew there was more to
farming than throwing dirt over a seed and whacking off the results.
But to hear Gil talk, it sounded more like working the trading floor at
the Commodities Exchange than the age-old practice of cultivating food.
A delicate execution of knowledge, timing, and good luck.
For instance, Gil said he ran a summer fallow operation.
Which meant half the land he planted with wheat went uncultivated for a
year to build up moisture and soil nutrients, then it was planted the
next fall, while the other half went idle.
The hard red winter wheat was planted mid-September to
mid-October, sometimes as late as November, depending on the
weather—and this was where good luck came into play.
Normally, the wheat was planted early enough for it to grow five to six
inches tall before winter set in. Ideally, there was a snow cover to
protect the plants from the harsh winter temperatures as they went
dormant until spring. If all was well, the wheat would begin to shoot
up again by late March or early April and by the first to the middle of
May the plants "head out"—they got spikes or ears of grain on
the end of each stalk. Then barring disease, insects, heavy winds,
hail, torrents of rain, and other miscellaneous acts of God, there
would be a two-week period around the first of July in which to harvest
the wheat before it went to seed.
Then, to make it all the more exciting, bids were made on
wheat crops a year, sometimes two years in advance. The farmer would
accept the best price he thought he could get that year and sell the
crop before it was even grown.
Dorie thought it sounded like a gigantic crapshoot.
Well, it wasn't, Gil insisted. Most years the wheat came
in fine and was shipped off to flour mills or export markets in the
Pacific
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