The spring rains had been sparse this year. The sun-baked ground was hard, and unyielding. The timothy wasn't growing as tall as the cows needed, but this was probably Old Elizabeth's last season, so when she was slaughtered, there would only be five cows left...the grass would probably stretch with one less mouth to feed. The corn was growing at least. The corn always grew.

You'd been managing since the drink and the depression had taken your husband. By the time he'd finally passed, you'd been functionally doing all the work anyway, while he lay in bed wasting away, refusing to go to the doctor. The farm hadn't been his; it had belonged to your family and passed on to you, and you'd signed it over to him in the youthful belief that he would be its faithful steward while you were his faithful wife, his little woman.

What a crock of shit that had turned out to be.

The work was hard, but it had always been hard. But it was harder this year, with the bad rain, everything being more expensive, and the constant push for people to stop working the land and seek their fortunes in the cities. Investors were buying up the land for pennies on the dollar and turning it into either low-cost cookie-cutter housing developments that would probably end up as tax write-offs, or building massive solar farms over the acres that used to be the nation's food source.

You could hold out, though, with a little luck...and maybe some help.

You knew you needed a hand. The farmers who hadn't been bought out helped each other as much as they could, but everyone had their own plot to till, and while the community came together for harvest and sowing season, Dale couldn't mend his own fences and yours in the same amount of time, and the Olsens couldn't spare an extra hand to come milk your cows if you were sick. You were managing, but so often it came down to the wire. And it wasn't like you had money to pay a hired hand, anyway.

You turned the hose on to wash your hands and take a drink, and noticed the stream of water coming from the end was murky. You'd need to deepen the well again, something you hadn't had to do since before your husband had gotten sick. When you straightened, you saw a figure walking up the gravel lane towards the farmhouse. Walking. You scanned the horizon for a vehicle, but saw none. That was odd. You mounted up into your pickup and set off towards the drive to intercept the stranger. Maisy was perched in the seat beside you, her salt-and-pepper muzzle already pointed at the walking figure, her paws stepping up and down on the dirty canvas seat with suppressed excitement.

You saw it was a man as you got closer, a tall, dark, but lean-looking man in jeans and a faded green shirt that was too big for him. His face was shaded by the brim of a red-and-white ball cap. His features were angular, his hair almost black, and cut short -- or maybe it had been shaved off and was only now growing in again. His eyes were a startling gray. He drew up when he saw the pickup, moved to the side of the drive to make room, and waited, his hands half-raised as though he expected you to be aiming a gun at him. The shotgun behind your seat wasn't loaded, but you could reach it if you needed, and an empty gun looks just as threatening as a loaded one to someone who can't tell the difference.

"Help you?" you asked him. His expression was hard to read, but you thought you could see desperation deep behind the eyes. His clothes were dusty, as though he'd been outside for a long time in the dirt that blew up in the near-constant wind. His boots were work boots, but worn down until you could almost see the steel through parts of the toes. The ball cap was frayed all along the hem and stained at the base of the brim from sweat.

"Could use a drink." He said the words like they were the confession of a deep and private weakness that he'd rather nobody know. "And...maybe a room for the night, if it's not too much to ask. I can sleep anywhere," he added a little hurriedly. "And I can't pay, but I can work. Got a strong back...when I've had enough to drink." His voice was low, and quiet, and hoarse. You could see that his lips were dry, and when he tried to wet them with his tongue to speak more distinctly, it was swollen. How long had he been out here?

You reached down to the center console and pulled out your water canteen, unscrewing it and handing it out the window to the man, who took it gratefully but took care not to let his fingers touch yours as he did. He drank one mouthful, then took another and handed the canteen back, looking as though he wanted to drain the lot, but was holding back.

"Drink's free," you said, looking at him speculatively. He wasn't much to look at, and his dirty face and flat affect made it hard to guess his age, but you'd estimate maybe a few years older than you. He clearly needed help, but you were looking for some sign of how risky it would actually be to let him stay on your property for the night.

"Got the birthing shed," you said reluctantly after a moment. "It's not much, just a cot and a sink, but it's got air conditioning, and I can make you a plate with dinner."

You were torn between doing the neighborly thing, which was to feed him and send him on his way as soon as possible -- which was also the safest option -- and taking him up on his offer out of the need for more help. Hadn't you just been lamenting the fact that you needed manpower?

"Got some shingles need replacing up on the roof of the farmhouse," you heard yourself saying. "And I could use another set of hands on the evening chores. Then in the morning, there's a pressure regulator in the pump house I need swapped out. Do those and we'll call it square for a night."

He didn't hesitate, he just nodded. There was a moment's silence.

"You can hop in the back for a ride up to the house," you offered after a beat. You weren't letting him into the cab with you. He nodded again and pulled himself up into the truck bed, hauling his body laboriously over the side after stepping up on the back tire. It looked like it took him almost all his strength.

"Christ, what am I doing?" you muttered to yourself. But Maisy hadn't barked at him, not once. Not even a growl. That had to mean something.

---

Thanks for reading this! I'm thinking of a long term, story-heavy tale of a man and woman working together to face difficulties and falling in love in the process. She's facing pressure from people trying to buy her land, courtship from other members of the community she doesn't like very much, creditors chasing after debt her late husband had racked up without her knowledge, and the constant struggle to live off the land. And he's...well, he's got a past. He's running from someone, people with long memories and deep grudges and a score to settle. But he might be just what you need, and you might be the answer to a lot of his prayers, too.

We can discuss kinks and characters and ages, but I would expect this to be relatively vanilla with greater emphasis on the depth of their relationship than the number of positions they fuck in. Still, they can be pretty kinky once they learn to trust one another.

I'd love to hear your ideas in the DMs. Please don't send chats. We can move to Discord if you like, too.