Farmer Takes a Wife Read online

  “You can’t blame me for any of this, Carson. I gave them the best advice I knew when they asked for it...that’s all,” Ellis said.

  “No, you told them what you wanted them to hear so they could make a bad decision and you would end up with the farm. Is that why you came by to see if I would sell it to you for pennies on the dollar? If you ask me, you perpetrated this whole thing to get this land!”

  “How dare you!” Ellis screamed, causing old Roscoe to bark loud.

  “How dare me? Get the hell out of my face you sour-lipped, rotten gum, putrefied old goat. You want this land, you can have it, but you are going to have to buy it from the bank,” Carson said walking by his Uncle, nudging the old man with his shoulder.

  “Carson, don’t walk away and leave things like this between us,” Ellis called out.

  “I am walking away just as happy as a lark. You and that depressed ass dog can keep each other company, because you and me have nothing left to say to each other,” Carson said as he walked over to his truck. It wasn’t a new truck, but it was newer than the old Ford he’d driven since his high school days.

  The rental pod affixed to the rear of the truck pull was loaded up with his bed, the china hutch and dining room table, six chairs, two arm chairs, and an antique settee. He’d taken with him a set of pots, some cook pans, and some of the dishes from the cabinet. The glasses were too worn to make the journey and he opted to let those stay. The old percolator would make the journey as well as some low country coffee bitter enough to wake Lazarus from an eternal slumber. The curtains were old fashioned, but he would need something at the windows since the Wyoming winters would be bitterly cold, or so he had been told. Only the basic farming tools that fit in the moving pod had been added to his limited possessions.

  His last stop before leaving South Carolina was to the bank. Two pieces of business needed to be handled; the first was to get his seeds from the safety deposit box. The second item on his agenda was to turn the house keys over to the bank manager.

  “Carson,” Bradley Talmidge called his name. “I sure hate things had to end like this. That farm has been in your family for four generations.”

  “Well, you side-lipped lying fart, if you had really been that concerned, you would have refused my father the loan. But you didn’t and here we are,” Carson said. “And here you are,” he told the red-faced banker as he tossed him the house keys that he failed to catch. With the box under his arm, Carson straightened himself to his full six foot frame, squared his shoulders, and walked out of that bank. He had a date with destiny in Serenity, Wyoming.

  He picked up his cell phone as he merged on to I-26 headed towards Charleston. He would take it all the way to I-20 up through Atlanta and in a few days, he would be in Serenity, Wyoming in his new home.

  The numbers were programmed in his phone for Jamar Smalls in Serenity and his Cyndi. The phone rang several times before she answered.

  “Hello,” she said softly.

  “I am on the road headed towards Wyoming,” he told her.

  “You’ve closed everything out in South Carolina?”

  “I have, Cyndi. I spoke to Jamar in Serenity and my house arrived. He and the construction manager sent it over to the land I bought from him, and they will have it all set up by the time I get there,” he said with a smile. “I can’t wait to see you, Cyndi.”

  “I can’t wait to be your wife, Carson,” she said.

  “I will see you soon,” he said gently.

  “I love you, Carson,” she said

  “I’m loving you back, Cyndi,” he told her and ended the call.

  He beeped his horn three times, excited for the new phase of his life. He could not believe he had sold it all and given the farm back to the bank. It was his turn to manifest his own destiny. “Serenity, here I come!”

  Chapter 2- Turning the Soil

  Cynthia Kleene stood in front of the large mirror eyeing her full-figured body. Her breasts were large and round, which perfectly matched the rest of her. Her bottom was often referred to as two little people fighting under a table cloth, which was insulting if not downright offensive. Her hair, if one could call it such, was an unruly mess of wayward curls that seemed to be oblivious to the power of a brush. Once her Aunt Greta had even attempted using a straightening comb on the locks of doom, but the comb had to get so hot to press out the curls, it darn near burned her hair off of her head. Instead, she found the best results from an old-fashioned jar of hair grease, the blue kind, and paper rollers made by tearing strips from brown grocery bags. Adding a tad bit of water, combined with the grease and a couple of twist, each morning she left the little carriage house looking almost presentable. Cynthia turned from the mirror and sighed as she discontentedly thought about her hair, her body, and her life.

  Of the three issues, none was easy. Idaho Falls was a lovely town but not much happened there. The men in the town all liked to date women who looked like them. Most of the black men in town were related to her or a product of two other relatives that should have said no to each other in the middle of whatever night that need brought them together. Her hair was a prime example of what the walking offsprings looked like from the unnatural coupling: wild, crazy and out of control.

  Donnie Kleene was one cousin she made a point of avoiding. It didn’t matter how many times her Aunt Greta told Donnie that she was his cousin, the man still wanted to get touchy. The second issue with her life was her body. Many men wanted it in the wrong kinds of ways.

  “You sure are pretty, Cyndi Kleene,” Donnie said to her. “That nice juicy ass makes me wanna drop down and motorboat that sum bitch until your girl juices run down your leg.”

  It was after that lovely statement that Cynthia stopped visiting her Aunt Greta. It didn’t help much to be around any of the men folk in her family. Donnie may have been to the one to say the words, but the other men looked at her with the same evil intention. They all made her feel unsafe. Her Daddy felt the same way and helped her move from the even smaller town where she grew up in Ammo to the big city of Idaho Falls.

  Her Daddy used the first chance he got to move her away from Ammo, a small town outside of Idaho Falls with a population of about 320 people. Initially, the job she’d taken in the city was as a companion for Nancy Rozelle. A spitfire of a retired school teacher who could not remember who she was most the time, the other times she was convinced that Cyndi was showing up to rob her. Several times she’d called the police until finally, they stopped showing up to arrest the black lady with the crazy hair.

  One night she needed them to show up when Donnie came to town and found out where she lived. Aunt Greta meant well, sending her oldest son to deliver the pies for Thanksgiving, but she never did understand that her son was touched in the head. Cyndi only made his condition worse by hitting him in the thick skull with a frying pan after he ripped the front of her dress while trying to force himself on her. His eyes were red and wild, his lips hanging loosely with drool dangling from the sides as he grabbed greedily for her. His erection grew inch by inch down his leg as he tried desperately to get her to touch and stroke him.

  “Get away from me, Donnie Kleene!” she screamed.

  Nancy called the police. Luckily for them all, the dispatcher heard glass breaking and Cyndi’s yells for help. The police arrived to find an unconscious Donnie sprawled out on the floor. It had to have been the worst Thanksgiving ever, although Aunt Greta’s pies soothed her homesick soul. She sat in the middle of the floor in her bedroom, sweet potato pie filling covering her face like a small child with its first birthday cake. It was her first year away from home. Cyndi soon found out, however, that the longer she stayed in Idaho Falls, the less she missed the little two-bedroom house she’d grown up in and called home.

  It was never really a home to her anyway. The house she grew up in was owned by a potato farmer who rented it to her father. Cyndi never knew Ira Lee Kleene, her mother. Rumor had it around town that Richard Kleene had run his wife off
after catching her in the barn with his ugly, half-crazy brother-in-law. The brother in law which was responsible for creating with his sister, the walking bag of trouble he named Donnie. It wasn’t the first time he caught her in the barn turning tricks for money. Most of the men in town had spent a good deal of their paychecks on Ira Lee. Yet, Richard never could tell what she did with the money. Aunt Greta often joked behind her brother’s back, if Ira Lee had spent some of the money on him that Richard would have let her stay.

  “I ain’t got no use for a woman without enough self-respect to sell her body to every Johnny Harddick with a twenty-dollar bill,” he yelled.

  Others tried to console him after the beer-bellied Sheriff was seen leaving the barn one night after a visit with Ira Lee. That was the last straw—when his wife cleaned herself up then climbed into bed with him, attempting to have him next. She even had the nerve to lean over and try to kiss him.

  After he ran Ira Lee away from their home, it took Richard several days to stop vomiting. Other men rode out to the house on Friday night, but Richard sat firm with his shot gun in his hand, letting all the Johnnies know that Ira Lee had moved to Idaho Falls. He never saw her again, but late one night, almost a year later, a small basket was left on his front door, with a cute little babe with an angelic face and a head full of curly black hair. He knew where the baby had come from but he said nothing as he made his way to the market to get a few cans of milk, a bottle, and some rags for diapers.

  He raised her like a lady. The older Cyndi grew, the more she looked like her Mama, which made the Johnnies come a swarming. Richard sat on his front porch, gun in hand, daring any of them to come near his land. The fat-bellied Sheriff had been replaced by his lacquer-slick-haired son, who was as lascivious as his father.

  “Cyndi, girl,” Richard told her. “A man who wants to lay you down without first making you his wife is not a man that you want to call your own. A good man will want to make you his wife before he makes you his lover. Anything less than that, my pumpkin, is not worthy of your time or your love.”

  By the time she was 18, she was sick of men and their lies. Each time one wanted to kiss her, she would ask the question, “Are you willing to marry me first?”

  The stuttering would start, followed by lies, false promises, and one ring with a note to honor her always. It wasn’t enough. She didn’t believe in fairy tales but she at least wanted a man who wanted something long term. Her father’s dreams had been crushed by loving the wrong person and he had never recovered. Cyndi swore to herself that no matter how long it took, she would find the right man. Since there was nothing of interest to her in Idaho Falls, she figured she had the whole world at her fingertips.

  Her search began online.

  Three dating websites, a singles’ hook up connection, and a phony social media page yielded nothing until one night, a single message showed up in her inbox.

  “A lonely farmer wants to talk.”

  It was never clear how Carson Royal’s email made it into her inbox. She could not see where the message had come from nor which site had generated the response. Fear of the unknown almost made her delete the message thinking it could be a potential virus. Fear of missing a kindred soul to start a meaningful discourse outweighed the doubt. Cyndi clicked on the message, opening it and a whole new world.

  The conversation started lightly about his struggling farm in South Carolina. Often she expected the online chat to turn sexual but it never did. The dialogue remained centered on their day as she shared with him the exploits of her students. He in turn, shared tales of the farm, his father’s old bloodhound Roscoe that he swore hated him, and the problem with the lack of rain.

  A year passed without notice as they chatted every night.

  “I would like to actually talk to you live,” he commented.

  She felt no reluctance when she typed in her number. Less than a minute later, her phone rang. Butterflies circled in her stomach at the sound of his deep timbered voice.

  “Hello, Farmer,” she said softly.

  “Hi there, Cyndi,” he said back.

  Every night, the conversation started the same way. Laughter rang through the line at funny quips she shared, bringing rays of sunshine into his dark life. The darkening of each day was closing in on her farmer as he received news of his sister’s death. Heartbreaking words of heavy grief which burdened his mother, driving her to an unthinkable act that resulted in a horrific accident and took her life. Less than two years later, he walked into his familial home to find his father dead in the recliner Carson had purchased as a gift for the cranky old coot’s birthday.

  Farmer was alone.

  “You are not alone. You have me,” she told him.

  “If I didn’t have you, I would have nothing,” Carson told her.

  “Farmer, I heard of this place almost right next door to me in Wyoming called Serene or something like that. A young man is building a town. He has farm land for sale, but I think if you buy it, you have to grow food for the townspeople. I mean I don’t know if it is some hippie commune or a Waco in the making, but it is a fresh start. Plus, you’d be closer,” she told him.

  For the first time, the conversation turned intimate.

  “I would love to get closer to you, Cyndi... So close, I can wake up next to you every single day so your light can shine into my heart to start my morning,” Carson said in a low tone.

  “Good grief, man. I think my toes just curled up in my shoes,” she said with a grin.

  “I want to curl your toes in person, too. I plan to kiss you so hard, so deep and so long, you are not going to know where I stop and where you start,” he said seductively.

  “Watch out there now, Player,” she jibed. “You know I don’t play or lay unless I am the Mrs.”

  “I can make that happen,” he told her.

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I am going to sell everything here with the exception of two pitchforks, a shovel, a hoe, and a rake. I am going to empty my bank account and head your way so that you and I can live the life we deserve,” he told her.

  “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “No, I am telling you I am coming to Wyoming. I am buying some land and putting us a little house on it so I can grow the food for the people of whatever hippie commune that is, and you are going to be my wife,” he told her.

  “Just like that!”

  “Exactly like that, but first, let me close everything out here and in five to six months, you are going to be my wife,” Carson said confidently.

  Four months to the day, he called her to say he was on the road, leaving South Carolina headed toward Atlanta and coming to Wyoming to start their new life.

  “I will send for you once I get our home settled,” he said.

  The idea was preposterous and she had no intention of marrying him. She’d said yes to keep him hopeful during the liquidation process of his old life, but something inside of her wanted to wait for the man who would make her heart beat skip as well as give her the butterflies. Cyndi wasn’t certain Carson Royal was that man. A month later, one day after school when she was leaving the building, she spotted Donnie waiting by her car. Instinct told her to call the police but common sense asked her to wait. As she watched him, she saw he was looking down the road at someone. She followed his crazy eyes. Two other men she remembered from Ammo were in the waiting vehicle. They were waiting for her. No good intentions came from three men lying in wait for anything, let alone for anyone. She was nobody’s victim—least of all Donnie Kleene’s.

  It was time to leave Idaho Falls. Farmer had called a few weeks prior to let her know whenever she was ready, so was he. Today was as good of day as any. She was ready.

  “Farmer, this is Cyndi,” she said in the phone after she dialed him instead of local law enforcement. “I am ready to marry you. Please come get me.”

  “Okay, Cyndi girl, tomorrow morning a blue and white Cessna will be at the airfield outside of the airport to pick you
up. His name is Jack. He is a tight faced man, but honorable. He lives here in Serenity and you’re going to like it here,” Carson said.

  “Good. You said his name is Jack?”

  “Yes. He is my sworn brother and he will keep you safe,” he said to her.

  “Great. I could use some feeling safe,” she said as she hung up the phone. Although there were only .61% of African Americans in Idaho Falls, Cyndi had learned to blend in. She slipped from the back door of the school, making her way to the bus stop to get home to the little carriage house. Shoving as much as she could into a suitcase and two boxes, she called a cab to take her to the airport where she waited all night for the arrival of a blue and white Cessna flown by a man named Jack. A man who was going to fly her to Serenity to become Farmer’s wife.

  Life was funny, which brought her to her third level of discontent. Situations can change everything a girl believes in, especially if her situation involved a crazy cousin with a nefarious plan for her evening. Normally, a tough bird like Cyndi Kleene wasn’t easily spooked. She’d taken care of Donnie once, one on one she could probably handle him again, but something felt off with this time.

  Her life depended on her heeding that feeling.

  In the small airport terminal, she could not sleep for a number of reasons. At 7:30 am, with a cup of sour coffee that had sat in the hopper all night, she stared out the window to watch the arrival of a blue and white Cessna. The plane arrived with Jack as pilot, but the story took an odd turn, which changed the course of life for not only Cyndi, but also Jack, Farmer, and a saucy rescue worker named Molly, who had a body that could launch nuclear weapons.