The Wrong Brother's Bride by Allison Merritt

shorter and several years older than him, dressed in plain working clothes. His pants were thin in the knees and his sleeves had loose threads on the cuffs. The woman wore a bonnet, which partially concealed her face, but she looked sturdy and her dress was clean. All eyes turned to him. He guessed the children ranged from ten to fourteen.
    “Adam Stiles, Mr. O’Dell. My wife, Rosy. We ain’t been here long. We heard you had work and we could use it.”
    August let his gaze slide back to Stiles. “I’ve got eighty acres of corn to get in over the next two weeks. And probably the same amount for shucking.”
    “We can do it,” Stiles assured him.
    They had a hungry look about them, as though they’d traveled a while and maybe fallen on hard times. He understood troublesome times well enough.
    “You live close?”
    “About three miles south. Even the littler ones can make good time walking three miles. They’re hardy boys.” Stiles wadded his slouch hat in his hands, his knuckles turning white with the effort. “This is a fine farm, Mr. O’Dell. Looks like it keeps you in corn. You wouldn’t regret hiring us. We were sharecroppers back home, cotton and tobacco. Ain’t nothin’ harder than those crops.”
    It was painfully clear August had his back against the wall. No one was in the fields right now, even though the horses were still hitched to the wagon. The Stileses looked strong enough, and with additional hands tugging those ears off the stalks, he’d get done sooner.
    “You know who I am?” August stared at Stiles, wondering if he’d heard the gossip in town. It must’ve surprised him to be confronted by a man with a black eye, but he’d kept it to himself.
    Stiles shook his head. “Just heard you were hiring.”
    “Alright. You pull a hundred bushes down a day and I’ll give you and the missus fifty cents apiece. The younger ones, a quarter a day.”
    He could afford the wage, especially if it meant taking the corn to market soon. Stiles’s eyes lit up.
    “We’ll take it, Mr. O’Dell. We can start now. C’mon, kids. Let’s go get that corn picked.” He slapped his hat on his head and bounded down the steps, ushering the children away from the house as though he feared August would change his mind before they could start.
    “Stiles.”
    The man hesitated, his eager smile fading a bit.
    “I’ll be out directly. My wife’s in the family way and I ought to tell her about this so she’s not worried. Start picking and I’ll bring the wagon down with me when I come. You can see where we stopped this morning.”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
    August watched them make their way across the yard. He didn’t trust easily, a trait he could thank his father for. He’d been desperate for work before too, and understood the relief in Stiles’s eyes when he agreed to take them on.
    He went into the house and rapped on Loyal’s door. She was sound asleep again, the tray on the table beside the bed, although her fingers still curled around the half-empty cup. He smiled because the plate was clean. For a woman who claimed she wasn’t hungry, the eggs and biscuits had disappeared fast enough. He removed the cup, and before he could change his mind, brushed a kiss across her lips. Licking his own, he took away the sweet taste of apple butter. She stirred a little without opening her eyes.
    For the first time since she’d exchanged vows with him, he felt a hopeful spark. Loyal wouldn’t end up hating him because he’d let her and the farm down.
    The Stiles family worked like someone had a whip at their backs. They stripped every ear from the stalks in seconds and moved on to the next row, throwing ears across the empty space to the wagon. They didn’t speak much and barely seemed concerned about the heat.
    August ignored the ache in his back and ribs. He marveled that his brother had hired a crew and done this every summer since buying the farm. The intensity of the work had never come through