Planting His Dream Read online

  Planting His Dream

  By Andrew Grey

  Foster dreams of getting away, but after his father’s death, he has to take over the family dairy farm. It soon becomes clear his father hasn’t been doing the best job of running it, so not only does Foster need to take over the day-to-day operations, he also needs to find new ways of bringing in revenue.

  Javi has no time to dream. He and his family are migrant workers, and daily survival is a struggle, so they travel to anywhere they can get work. When they arrive in their old van, Foster arranges for Javi to help him on the farm.

  To Javi’s surprise, Foster listens to his ideas and actually puts them into action. Over days that turn into weeks, they grow to like and then care for each other, but they come from two very different worlds, and they both have responsibilities to their families that neither can walk away from. Is it possible for them to discover a dream they can share? Perhaps they can plant their own and nurture it together to see it grow, if their different backgrounds don’t separate them forever.

  Prologue

  A Year Ago

  “FOSTER,” ARTHUR Galyon called from the back door of the old farmhouse that Foster’s family had called home for generations. At least Foster was the third generation. But Foster wasn’t sure how much he actually wanted to be a farmer, and he would have to make his decision soon.

  “Yeah, Dad,” Foster called back, looking up from where he’d been hiding for ten minutes in the equipment shed, behind the tractor, hoping for a few minutes of quiet. Very few cars passed their farm, and the only sounds were the animals in the field and the wind, but dang it, his father never gave him two minutes to himself. He set his copy of Left Hand of Darkness on the shelf and stepped out, wiping his hand on a rag so his father would think he’d been doing something.

  “We need to get corn for the herd. Take the truck, get a load, and drop it in the field to augment the grass for the heifers.” He turned to go back in the house.

  “What will you be doing?” Foster asked. Yeah, his father would hate it, but Foster deserved to know. He was doing a lot of the work around the farm.

  “What?” his father asked.

  Foster walked over to his father. “I do a lot of the work here, and you know it.” He placed his hands on his hips. This had been coming for a while, and on the spur of the moment, he decided it was time he stood up for himself. “I’m not a child, and I pull more than my share of the load around here. Always have, and you know it. So if you want something, ask, don’t bark.”

  “Under my roof—” his father started, and Foster stepped closer, staring daggers into his father’s blue eyes, which were mirrors of his own.

  “Don’t even say it,” Foster interrupted. “I have opportunities away from this farm. So you need to decide the kind of relationship we’re going to have and whether you want me as partner on the farm or not. So I’ll ask again: What are your plans for the afternoon?” His father had always run the farm and the family with more control than Foster thought was necessary.

  “If you think you can deliver an ultimatum to get out of your work….”

  “When have I ever gotten out of work? I went to school and still managed to get my chores done, even driving into Muskegon so I could go to community college. Did anything change? Did my chores get done?” he challenged. “You know they did.”

  “What do you want?” his father asked suspiciously.

  “I want you to stop acting like an ass,” Foster said flatly. “I want you to treat me as an adult, someone who can make decisions and doesn’t need to be told every damn thing that needs to be done. And dammit, stop acting like a dairy-farm drill sergeant. You aren’t in the Army and haven’t been for twenty-five years. And just so you know, I’m not some private you can bust down. I’m your son.” Foster held his father’s gaze, waiting to see his reaction. He figured there were two possibilities. The most likely was that his father would yell, threaten, and then pull rank, ending with his “under my roof” crap. Foster had heard that before. The other was to simply go inside, ignore what Foster had said, and pretend the words had never been heard. Arthur Galyon rarely changed anything for anyone. Everything was done his way, no highway option.

  “Fair enough,” his father said. Foster blinked twice, making sure he’d heard correctly. “I’m going to go to my office because I need to finalize the sale of the asparagus crop that’s about to come in. A family is coming in to help with the harvest starting tomorrow, and I need to arrange delivery and make sure the buyer knows that the produce is coming. That way we can get paid faster.”

  “All right. Do you want me to direct the cutting this year or are you going to do it?”

  His father hesitated. “You do it, and your mother and I will handle the morning milkings.”

  “Sounds good.” Foster turned away and got in the truck, then headed out toward the last of the silos. They planted a huge amount of corn that they siloed in order to get the milk herd through the winter. The silos were now getting close to empty, and what was left had been on the bottom of the cylinder since last fall, so he’d have to heft it out and into the back of the truck. He’d only need a single load. Now that the grass was returning in force, they only used silage to supplement the grass and to try to keep some consistency in the herd’s diet.

  He backed up the truck to the silo, pulled open the door, and began pitchforking load after load into the back of the truck. The corn smelled sweet and a touch fermented. He loved that smell. It was one of the first ones to imprint on his memory, and he knew, no matter what, that this scent would always remind him of home. He was sweating by the time he got the back of the heavy-duty long-bed Ford completely filled.

  Once he was done, he drove around and was surprised to find his father waiting by the gate. He opened it, and Foster drove through and continued on. He drove in a long arc around the edge of the field, getting out every so often to shovel some of the feed onto the ground. He stopped half a dozen times so the herd wouldn’t congregate in one spot. Once he was done, he exited the pasture and parked the truck in its usual spot.

  He got out and walked around the side of the house to where his mother had her garden. She and his father’s mother were checking on tomato plants and strawberries, making sure the beds stayed weed-free. It was a constant chore.

  “I hope we get rain,” his mother said, looking up at the sky.

  “I’ll set one of the large impulse sprinklers out here when you’re done. I’m hoping for rain tomorrow, but the plants are too tender to wait.”

  “Thank you,” his grandmother called from where she sat, plucking the weeds from her strawberry patch. Foster walked over and gave her leathery cheek a kiss. His grandmother had spent her entire life on farms, and her skin showed it. Years of sun had taken their toll, but she was healthy as a horse and nothing stopped her.

  “Are we going to have a good crop this year?” he asked.

  “I think so.” She groaned as she got to her feet. “Can we enlarge the bed? I’ve got lots of babies that we can transplant to fill the space.”

  “I’ll get the tiller in a minute, and we can rake it out once the sun gets a little less hot. Then you can transplant as much as you want.”

  “What are we going to do with more berries?” his mother asked Foster. “We already put up enough jam and preserves.”

  “Mrs. Ruskin hailed me last week. She said it was just her and Mr. Ruskin now. She cleaned out her second chest freezer and asked if I wanted it. I helped get it out of her house, and it works, so I put it in the equipment shed yesterday. Dad and I can move it to the basement, and you and Grandma can fill it with berries to your hearts’ content. She bought it four years ago from Sears—I know because I helped her bring it in. So
it’s good.” That put an end to the discussion and put smiles on both women’s faces. Dad would probably pitch a fit about the electric bill, because it was what he did, but Foster knew they made it through the winter on everything they could grow and put up from their own garden.

  He got the tiller and began chewing up the ground along the side of the strawberry patch. The grass in that area was fairly decent, but it was on the side of the house and there was plenty of room to expand the bed. Using the machine was akin to riding a bronc. It bucked and shook and tried to run away with him sometimes. Foster made four passes and retilled the area a second time before putting the tiller away. By the time he got back, his grandmother was already chucking clumps of sod to the edge of the bed, humming to herself.

  “She loves those berries,” his mother said indulgently. Foster didn’t blame her. His grandmother’s heirloom strawberries were a huge deal to her. She had brought the first plants to the farm when she moved here with Grandpa after they’d married. They were an old variety and the best strawberries ever. Unlike the ones in the stores, these weren’t big, but they were juicy and full of flavor. Foster got a rake and helped his grandmother by starting at one end, raking it out so she could start her transplanting.

  In Michigan, the days were long in June, thank goodness, because there was always more work than anyone could get done. He’d just finished raking, his arms aching, when an old van pulled into the drive. A man, a woman, and three teenagers ranging from about thirteen to eighteen or so climbed out. “Can I help you?” Foster asked. He leaned his rake on a nearby fence and walked over to them.

  “We’re the Ramos family. We inquired about picking your asparagus. I’m Carlos. This is my wife, Maria, and my children, Ricky, Daniela, and my oldest, Javi.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Foster. My father told me you’d be starting tomorrow.” He looked at the van and wondered if they planned to stay in it, but said nothing. He’d learned that there were times when it was better to remain ignorant. They needed work, and his family needed the crop brought in.

  His father came out and joined them, going over the details of the work and how they would be paid. They seemed agreeable. “We have an electric hookup near the field if you’d like to use it, along with water.”

  “That’s much appreciated.” That confirmed what Foster had thought.

  “My son can take you out and show it to you. He’ll be overseeing the work, so if you have any questions, you can speak with him.” Arthur went back inside, and Foster explained where they were going. Then he climbed into the truck and led the Ramos family out of the drive and down the road about a mile to the edge of the asparagus field. He turned off the paved road onto a dirt track and stopped at the back corner of the field, near the trees. “The power is at the pole, and the water is in the shed.” Foster unlocked both so they could have access. “There’s also a fire ring if you want to use it, and the trees at the edge of the wood are on our property, so you can gather as much wood as you like.” This was the first time he’d managed the harvest like this. He knew what was here, but the actual spartan living conditions of the people who would be working for his family had never hit home before.

  “This is great. Thank you,” Carlos said.

  Everyone seemed to have their job and knew what to do. The younger teenagers retrieved an awning from inside, strung it to the edge of the van, and put it up. Carlos and Javi hooked up the electricity, and Maria set up tables and chairs outside, all within a matter of minutes.

  “What time do we start?” Javi asked.

  “I’ll be here at seven with the tractor.” They had an attachment for the back of the tractor with belts and adjustable platforms that allowed the workers to lie on their bellies. The tractor moved forward slowly, and as the asparagus was cut, it was placed on the belt and ended up on a tub in the center. It saved days of bending over. “We’ll get everything set up and go to work.”

  “Is this the only field?” Javi asked.

  “No. This is one of three. We’ll pick each field twice in a rotation, with this one first. It takes a day per field.”

  Javi nodded and looked out over where the heads of the plants were sticking out over the ground. “So it’s only six days.”

  “Actually two weeks. We pick for three days, and then we have to wait for more shoots, so we wait three or four days and then pick the second time.” He made a note to ask what the pickers did in between. He did know if there was no work, there was no pay.

  “I see.” Javi didn’t turn to look at him. “So we’ll be here two weeks.” He shook his head and then turned back toward the van that was the family’s home. Javi had eyes as dark as night and twice as deep, skin as warm as the sun on his back. He was tall, but not too tall, and broad; strong, but not bulky like Foster—a body that was the result of hard work.

  Javi was handsome, maybe more than handsome. Foster knew he shouldn’t be having these thoughts about one of the workers on the farm, but his mind wandered a little and he had to pull it back so he was no longer wondering what lay under Javi’s jeans and flannel shirt. “I should be heading back to the farm. Do you have a phone?”

  Javi turned to him, eyes stormy.

  “I’ll give you my number so you can call if you need anything,” Foster added in a hurry so Javi wouldn’t think he was being insulting. Foster told Javi the number, and Javi wrote it down. Then Foster turned and said good night to the rest of the family before getting in his truck. He drove home, arriving in time to help his father with the evening milking.

  It was dark by the time he got the milking done and sprinkler set in the vegetable garden, so he went inside, washed up, and sat down at the table. His mother brought him a plate, and Foster dug in, eating heartily. He was always hungry as soon as food hit his stomach. After years of working hard from sunrise to sunset, his stomach came alive when he let it. Usually he grabbed food and took it to go when he was working.

  “Thank you for my bigger strawberry patch,” his grandmother said as she came into the kitchen and sat down next to him.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She accepted a mug from his mother. After waiting until Foster’s mother left the kitchen, she leaned forward and said, “I heard you and your father had a… discussion.”

  “Sometimes you have an interesting way with words.”

  “Your father wants what’s best for the farm.”

  “Yes. But he’s a tyrant sometimes, and if he wants my help, then he needs to appreciate it. You’ve been telling me that I needed to take the reins as an adult, so I have.”

  His grandmother nodded.

  “He needs to recognize it,” Foster said. “I’m not asking for anything that I’m not worth.”

  “I know. Your father takes after his father. I loved your grandfather, but he ran both the farm and your father.”

  “But I’m not him, and I’m trying to decide what I want to do with my life. I know Dad and Mom want me to stay and take over the farm. It’s what all of you have told me since I could walk. But I have to decide for myself.” Foster finished his dinner and took the plate to the sink. His father and mother were in the living room, resting. “I’m going outside. I need to turn off the sprinkler.”

  His grandmother nodded and went to the sink to take care of the dishes. Foster knew she wouldn’t go to bed until the kitchen was clean.

  Outside, he turned off the sprinkler, then wandered over to where the herd was moving near the edge of the field. They stomped and lowed in the darkness.

  Someone was out there, behind him. He heard footsteps and felt their presence. Darkness reigned in the country at night, and the only light came from the floodlight on the milking barn. “Can I help you?” He began heading back toward the house.

  “Foster?” a tentative voice said, and then Javi stepped out of the darkness.

  “What are you doing here?” Foster asked, approaching warily.

  “I went for a
walk and got lost. I thought I’d turned around to go back, but I got mixed up. When I saw the lights here, I thought I’d ask how to get back.”

  Foster relaxed. “Come on. I’ll take you. I bet your mom and dad are worried.”

  “Not really. If it were one of the younger ones, they would be, but they’d only be concerned about me if I didn’t show up to work.” The resignation in Javi’s voice made Foster wonder what kind of homelife Javi had. Foster pulled open the truck door and waited for Javi to get in. Once the doors were closed, Foster started the engine.

  “Do you move around the country a lot?” Foster asked, more for conversation than anything.

  “Yes. We were in Ohio a few weeks ago and have more work lined up here. We hope. Then, later in the summer, we’ll start moving south again. Asparagus, beans, cherries, blueberries, apples, lettuce. We pick everything.”

  Foster glanced over at his passenger as he made the turn onto the road. He expected Javi to watch where they were going, but his gaze was straight at him, heated and intense. Javi turned away quickly. “At least you get to see a lot of the country.” Foster had to say something, even if it sounded lame.

  “I see nothing but fields and the van we live in.” The yearning in Javi’s voice made Foster apply the brake slightly without thinking. Damn, he wanted his father to treat him better, but he at least had choices in his life. He could see Javi had very few.

  Foster approached the field, the dim light from the van off to the side. He pulled to a stop but didn’t open his door. There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t think how to start.

  “Thank you,” Javi said, and then, to Foster’s surprise, Javi touched his hand. Not for more than a few seconds, but long enough to shoot tingling heat through him. He’d never understood that a simple touch could shoot fire, good fire, through him. Almost before he could think about it, the touch was gone and Javi had his door open. Foster wanted to ask what had just happened, but it seemed too late, and what if it was his imagination? Better to keep it to himself.