Mrs. Dawson simply smiles and hands me a new bag of mushrooms, while Mr. Dawson shows me the distinctive shape of the tomato leaf and tosses the ones I uprooted in the plastic bucket along with the weeds. After we finish the weeding, Mr. Dawson informs me he’s headed out to one of the back fields to plow and asks if I’d like to come along. I agree and soon find myself perched on the side of the massive tractor as Mr. Dawson guides it along the dirt path.

“Jace said this farm has been in your family for a while?” I ask as we roll along.

“Sixty years,” Mr. Dawson replies. “Fulton has a long history of family farms. Most everyone I grew up with has had land here for generations. Of course, half of them have had to sell parts or all of it to developers by now just to make ends meet. Farming’s a tough business.”

I nod, understanding the statement more than he knows after my conversation with Jace.

I’ve never given any thought to the intricacies of farming before. I gain a new appreciation for the back-breaking work over the next couple hours spent creating meticulous rows out of the freshly churned dirt.

Mr. Dawson and I chat as he drives the tractor back and forth. He explains more about the planting process and entertains me with stories about various harvesting mishaps they’ve had over the years.

Once the field is finished, we drive back toward the barn. Mr. Dawson comes to a stop underneath an overhang that juts off the side of the looming red barn.

The front yard is bustling with activity. Mike is raking leaves, while one of the twins sits on the front steps removing green husks from a pile of corn cobs. I think it’s Max, but I’m not certain. Claire stands in the center of the yard, scattering handfuls of grain from a bucket. The flock of chickens are clustered around her, scurrying from pile to pile as each new handful hits the ground.

Mr. Dawson climbs down from the tractor and offers me a hand to get down as well.

“Thanks for the trip.”

“Anytime,” he tells me, eyes twinkling.

I head toward the house and am greeted by the distracting sight of Jace chopping a log of firewood. Despite the chilly November air, he’s stripped down to just a t-shirt. The muscles and tendons in his arms bulge and shift as he carefully splits each block of wood.

For the second time today, I’m dumbstruck by the mere sight of him. I hoped I was finally desensitized to messy dark hair and muscles. At the same time, I never want the moment when he glances up and catches me staring to end. A flash of heat overwhelms me as I meet his knowing gaze.

Jace winks.

I flush and turn away. I beeline toward the front porch, but slow when I reach the twin shucking corn. “Need any help?” I ask, studying him closely to try and determine which twin he is.