Smallville Farmer Novels & Stories

And then there was him. Mr. Rowan. The farm owner. Broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rough hands that looked like they could snap a man in half. His eyes raked over me like I was already in trouble. “You’re Chrissmel?” he asked, voice low and gritty. “Yeah.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Here to… milk cows, I guess.” His mouth tugged at the corner, almost amused. “Follow me.” The barn stank of hay, sweat, and animals. I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh… this is disgusting,” I muttered, hands already sticky with straw. “I should be in New York right now, not jerking off cows for cash.”

My mind began to blur as the colors behind the farmer began to combine together, creating swirls of rainbows as people moved around his little stand. “What did you say your name was?” I questioned, or at least I thought I did. It was beginning to get hard to think through the swirling colors, and my mind was soaring as if I had drank too much. I could feel my magic attempting to spark at my fingertips, as if I was in danger, but I couldn’t quite figure out what I would be a threat close to me. “I never did darlin’.” The farmer answered, and turned to look at me. His pot belly seemed to have disappeared in the blurriness, and he began to look more like a cartoon than a person.

Instead she was standing in front of Caleb Hart’s place with her bag at her feet and zero cell service. The farmhouse was old but solid--white paint faded by sun, wraparound porch sagging a little on one end. Fields stretched out forever behind it, golden wheat swaying under the late afternoon sky. A big, broad-shouldered man came out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. Jeans worn at the knees, flannel sleeves rolled up, ball cap pulled low. Even from a distance she could see the muscle earned from real work, not a gym. “Caleb Hart?” she called.

I say, standing at the head of the table. The people before me aren't what I first imagined. Some are grizzled, older farmers, but most are relatively young and see themselves more as entrepreneurs and businessmen. The owner of the largest farm in the region goes by Mac McElvay. He's in his fifties, thick gray beard, currently wearing a sleek black suit. "I'm only here to demand reparations for the crop you ruined," he says, glaring daggers. "Don't think we don't know that shit was you, Callahan."

After Eric and Henry had just finished their breakfast, they saw Smith coming, with a bundle of firewood that had been chopped up and neatly arranged on their shoulders. “Did you two just have breakfast, I brought a bunch of firewood for you to use. Anyway, just moved to a new house, and I'm thinking about farming again, so I thought to bring you guys some small things. “Mr. Smith, thank you very much.” Eric saw that and smiled and thanked him, it was Smith's heart. From the moment they moved house, they helped out. Hearing that, Henry also nodded as a thank you. “Thanks for what I do, just small things. Well, in the new village this morning something big happened. Haven't you heard?"

“I just… I really just need to get out of here but I only have enough for the bus ride. Not enough money for the ride to the bus station.” “Don’t have enough huh?” The farmer looked him up and down. “You’re one of them fancy folks that come here and waste their money, get stranded and ask us poor folks to help out.” “Something like that..” Ethan said, clearly uncomfortable with the 21 questions while he was in plain sight. “Yeah. You definitely had a bad day. You probably in some kind of trouble too.” The old farmer began to walk back to the main part of the ranch. Ethan walked behind him slowly.

I turned slowly. Alcott Fletcher looked exactly the same as he had in high school. The whole Fletcher Farms heir vibe on full display. He was two grades ahead of me and Sienna back in school, always acting like the county belonged to him. “Alcott,” I said flatly. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.” His grin widened. “Heard your city marriage didn’t work out. Now you’re back playing farmer on the old Miller place? Cute.” My jaw tightened. “Still coasting on your family’s name, I see. How’s that working out for you these days?”

My gaze traveled over his face and caught the small mole near the corner of his mouth, and while he was smiling, I also noticed a tiny dimple there. I couldn't say anything other than he really is a very beautiful man. “Sheila is not my ex-girlfriend,” he declared. “What I meant by ‘I’m used to being hurt’ is physically.” I blinked. “H-How?” “My father used to be a farmer, so when I helped him, I’d get wounds, so I got used to it. I didn’t mind it at all. It’s all part of being a farmer.” I was speechless. I had assumed he was born rich, but he wasn't. I assumed wrong.

Good. A few of the farmers left the stall, fearing the impending doom, while those hungry for gossip remained. Then the farmer spoke up again. "Gracious Heavens, you mustn’t speak so carelessly! His Majesty has men everywhere! They will imprison you just for this!" But the man saying this hardly looked like he was worried, rather his eye brows danced around playfully like he could not hide his glea and the pleasure he found in more reduction of farmers for competition. Sick bastard.

“Sergeant Larson, show mercy and let them go.” Zayn was not overly surprised by the sigh, but he had an eyebrow raised ever so slightly as he looked toward the middle-aged man walking into the room dressed in overalls. The man appeared to be a farmer with his tanned complexion and slightly hunched back. However, Zayn’s eyes glistened at the sight of this man. At the same time, his breathing quickened a little for just a brief moment. The others might not be able to tell that this man was terrifying but he could instantly tell that the farmer was truly powerful!