Byrds of Paradise

Squick alert:

Contains sibling incest.

Time for the standard disclaimers...

This is a work of erotic fiction. The persons and events described are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and/or events is coincidental and totally unintentional.

All characters engaging in sexual activities are over the age of eighteen.

The Midwest has been referred to as "flyover country" for a very long time. Some folks wouldn't have it any other way...

##########

"Get up."

The gruff command was followed by a second sharp poke to my left kidney. The first jab woke me up, the second one got my undivided attention.

I rolled over onto my back and looked up. The first thing my eyes focused on was the business end of what looked like a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. The second thing was the face of a pissed off farmer behind it.

"Okay, okay." I kept my hands where he could see them. His face scrunched up when he caught a nose full of week-old body odor and he stepped back toward the door. I made it to my feet and he motioned me outside.

"What the hell are you doing on my property?" The shotgun never wavered. Neither did his gaze.

"Passing through. It looked like it was going to storm so I took shelter. Guess I fell asleep." I mentally kicked myself for not being more careful.

"You don't break in other people's buildings. You people --"

I raised my hand to cut him off and his finger over the trigger twitched. "It was unlocked, I swear. The lock was just hanging there. Like I said, I was going to wait out the rain and then move on."

The shotgun never moved as he looked at the door hasp. The large Master lock swung gently, just like I had found it.

"Still, this is private property." The barrel drifted down to point at my feet.

"Yes, sir. I was only looking for a place to stay dry and then be on my way. Not looking for trouble."

"Kind of far from the interstate, ain't you?" My eyes now adjusted to the bright daylight, the farmer could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. He was about my height but probably had me by a few pounds.

I didn't have an answer to that question. I nodded.

"You got a name, son?" The barrel now pointed at the ground roughly halfway between us.

"Cale."

I could tell from his reaction that I had hesitated a split second too long to answer. The barrel pointed at my midsection.

"You in trouble with the law?"

"Not exactly." That sounded better than "It's complicated."

"Not exactly?" His laugh wasn't an amused one. "What the hell does that mean?"

"They might be looking for me for something, maybe shoplifting, but I didn't hurt anybody." Again, close enough to the truth.

"Stealing is still stealing," he paused, "Cale."

"I never said I was proud of it."

"Do me a favor, take off your shirt." Between the motion of the barrel and the change in his tone, arguing would have been stupid. I carefully pulled the T-shirt over my head.

"Turn around." It dawned on me that he was looking for a weapon.

"Got a knife in my pocket." I motioned carefully to my right front pocket.

"Take it out." I pulled out the little knife I had, maybe a three-inch blade, and tossed it at his feet. Without taking his eyes off of me, he picked it up, flicked his wrist to open it, and examined it. He closed it against his leg and tossed it back to me. "Needs cleaning and sharpening. You can put your shirt back on."

I pulled the T-shirt over my head and almost gagged. The farmer laughed. "Little ripe, huh?"

"Kinda." I had let the knife land in front of me. I bent down, picked it up, and tucked it in my pocket.

The farmer lowered the shotgun, pointing the barrel at the ground between us. "Just passing through?"

"Yes, sir. Heading north."

I could tell from his expression that he didn't believe that, either. "Where to?"

I thought about it for a moment and realized I didn't know what was north of here. "It's probably better you don't know."

The man nodded but didn't point the 12-gauge at me again. "When did you eat last?"

"Couple of days ago."

"Jesus. Climb in the back and we'll get you some food. We got a place in the barn you can get cleaned up and grab some sleep if you want."

I weighed my options. Any food would be good, I was down to my last protein bar. The chance to rinse out clothes and at least take a cold shower would work. Sleep was a foreign concept by now, last night being an exception and not the rule.

"What's the catch?" Life on the run taught me that nothing is free pretty quick. Anybody else would have pointed me toward the road and invited me to leave immediately.

"I need a hand for the season. I can't afford to pay the going rate for help. Room, board, and one-fifty a week cash. No questions asked. You ever work a farm?"

"No, sir. I can learn, though." How hard could sitting around watching things grow really be?

"Famous last words. Get on up there, stay the hell away from the window." The farmer waved in the direction of the truck.

"Thank you, Mister?"

"Buchanan. Seth Buchanan."

"Thank you, Mr. Buchanan. I appreciate it."

Mr. Buchanan laughed. "We'll see about that."

I moved slowly back to the pump shed and collected my backpack. The sun was starting to get hot now and the humidity was becoming oppressive. I tossed the pack into the bed and climbed over the tailgate while he closed and locked the shed. I didn't miss his long look at the lock, either.

It was a short drive to the house I had taken care to avoid last night. Houses around here usually had dogs, and dogs aren't generally fond of strangers. Sure enough, there was a large one hanging out on the front porch as Mr. Buchanan pulled up.

A woman I took to be Mrs. Buchanan stepped out on the porch as the dog got to its feet and stretched. "What did you forget this time, Seth?"

"Nothing." Mr. Buchanan climbed out of the truck and waved his arm in my direction. "Found a hand."

The dog had spotted me and sat down next to Mrs. Buchanan's leg. I wasn't about to try to get out of the truck until we had been properly introduced. I'd seen dogs like this before.

They even had an ominous nickname. Maligator. Smart, fast, and single-minded as fuck. Technically, they were known as Belgian Malinois, used in law enforcement and security work for their talents. This one's eyes never left me.

Mrs. Buchanan looked me over from the porch without saying anything. Mr. Buchanan said something to the dog, who jumped down off the porch and came over to the truck.

"Need your hand." Mr. Buchanan's face was expressionless.

I slowly draped my left hand over the side of the truck bed, he spoke to the dog again, who sniffed my hand briefly. A quick word and he was back on the porch with Mrs. Buchanan.

"That's King. You can climb down from there now." All three of them watched me climb over the tailgate and drop to the dirt from the bumper.

"I'm going to take him to the loft. He could use a sandwich when he's cleaned up a little."

Mrs. Buchanon nodded. "What's your name?"

"Cale, ma'am."

"Just 'Cale'?" I couldn't figure out her expression, either.

"Yes, ma'am." The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

"You allergic to anything, Cale?" The inflection of her voice told me she didn't believe that was my name, either.

"No, ma'am."

"You get cleaned up and we'll bring something over. You start after lunch." Mr. Buchanan pointed toward the barn. King parked himself in front of the door after the Buchanans went inside.

Walking to the barn was the longest trip of my young life. I was half expecting King to come flying off the porch to take me out of this world. He never moved, just watched me.

The loft was easy enough to identify. It was unlocked and the door opened quietly. It was furnished, an unusual mix of armchair, small dining set, a couple of end tables, and a couple of lamps. A small window air conditioner and a fake fireplace that doubled as a heater rounded out the collection. A sink, two burner stove, mini refrigerator, and microwave populated the kitchenette.

The bathroom was as bare-bones as the rest of the place. Sink, john, and a shower stall barely big enough for one.

The bedroom was small. Twin bed, dresser, and a beat-up wardrobe left barely enough room to turn around. Throw rugs were scattered around the place.

The closet in the kitchenette wasn't a pantry, it held one of those RV washer/dryer combination units. I dumped my pack on the living room floor, found jeans and a shirt that weren't too dirty, and took a quick cold shower.

I figured out how to start the machine and threw a couple of pairs of jeans, what underwear I could salvage, and a couple of T-shirts inside. I cleaned up the debris from the floor.

Mr. Buchanan knocked as I was pushing the fridge back into place after plugging it in.

"I see you found everything."

"Not where the hot water is." A hot shower would have been nice but I wasn't about to be picky. I was at least clean.

"Yeah, the water heater is downstairs. I'll get that turned on. I'll show you where the generator is, too. We're supposed to get more storms all this week. Amy made you lunch. You can keep the plate and utensils here." He set the plate on the table, then pointed to a little cube plugged into the wall. "That's a weather radio. I'd keep it turned on if I were you."

He moved a switch and a computerized voice announced it was station WXM35 in Hayes, Kansas and began announcing the current weather observations. "I'd turn on the weather alerts on your phone, too."

"Don't have a phone." I would have killed for a camera, though. His expression was priceless.

"What?"

"I don't have a phone. Lost it." Once more, it was close enough to the truth.

"You're going to need to get you one, then. In case we need to get a hold of you." He seemed to be still trying to process my lack of a phone.

"No ID. Lost my wallet, too." The same way I "lost" my phone.

I almost laughed out loud as his eyebrows climbed close to his hairline. "You don't say."

I shrugged. "You can't trust anybody these days. Somebody stole it while I was sleeping."

"How the hell am I supposed to pay you then?" He was still puzzling out how I could not have a phone or ID.

That was a great question and I didn't have an answer. "Let me think about it."

"You manage to keep a watch?"

"Actually, no. I sold that."

"There should be an alarm clock on the dresser. Go set it." I found it and set it for the time. I almost had to ask him how to wind it, I'd never held one like this before. I figured it out by accident.

He had his phone out and was tapping away on it when I returned from putting the clock back in the bedroom.

"Making a list of stuff you're going to need. Go ahead and eat, figure out what personal stuff you're going to need, and we're going to need your clothes sizes. I'll be downstairs getting the hot water heater turned on and checking the generator."

He disappeared down the stairs, shaking his head and muttering something to himself.

I ate quickly, not because I was in a hurry but because I was hungry. He had brought two huge sandwiches and a few bottles of water. I put one of the sandwiches away for later and all but two bottles in the fridge.

I found Mr. Buchanan checking the output meter on the generator. "Damn, that was fast."

"Only ate one. Didn't want to eat too much all at once." I wanted to save something to eat in case that was supposed to be my dinner, too.

"Okay." He then started with teaching me how to switch back and forth between utility power and the generator. Satisfied I could do it without killing myself, he started with a tour of the barn, explaining what the equipment did.

Next was the generator location for the main house. Same procedure for switching back and forth. We spent the afternoon doing little chores, making small repairs, cleaning things, all stuff that I would eventually be responsible for when I had time.

I quickly learned what I called the first law of farming: You will always have more things to do than daylight to do them.

I needed to be ready to work at five every morning, Sunday included. I was welcome to join them for church, if I chose. I respectfully declined and he didn't seem the least bit surprised. I planned on using that time for my chores, laundry and cleaning the loft.

The afternoon went by quickly. I didn't see King at all and assumed he was in the house guarding Mrs. Buchanan.

I didn't really notice that it had clouded up again until we broke for dinner. Mr. Buchanan checked his phone as we loaded some equipment back into the truck.

"We're done for today. Storm will be here before dark." He turned the phone to show me a weather radar image. A large blob of green and yellow with patches of red was headed right toward the little blue dot in the center of the screen.

"Another reason to have a phone. No telling when a twister's gonna drop." I had been shown the shelter next to the barn. There was a similar one near the house. As he spoke, a yellow box popped up on the screen as the image refreshed. "They just issued a watch. Time to get back." Right on cue, the alert sounded on his phone.

The ride back to the house was silent. I headed upstairs to the loft after we unloaded the truck and put everything away. Mrs. Buchanan had left a plate wrapped in foil with heating instructions and a cardboard box with things like bars of soap, toothpaste and a couple of toothbrushes, toilet paper, a large bottle of lotion with aloe vera, first aid stuff, a pad of paper, and a couple of pens.

I took a long, hot shower and warmed up dinner. I didn't realize how tired I was until I sat down in the chair. I couldn't stay awake.

The rain had started not long after I got out of the shower. There was an occasional flash of lightning and dull rumbling of thunder, but the worst of it missed us. The cube squawked like clockwork, reminding me of the tornado watch. I wasn't going to sleep through that sound.

I went to bed early. It was a good thing I did because the next day was the blueprint for the days that followed. If I thought I was tired the first day, I was sorely mistaken, literally.

The days soon blurred together. At some point, I started being given tasks without supervision.

The day after I started, Mrs. Buchanan went into Russell and bought a basic smartphone for me to use. She also picked up some clothes and proper boots. Mr. Buchanan showed me how to break them in.

Paying me was a question that was answered by deciding that we would keep a running tab of items I asked for and we would settle up at the end of the season.

Outside of personal care items and additional clothing, the only luxury I asked for was a small Bluetooth speaker. They offered to add me to their streaming services but I declined. I preferred to listen to music, anyway. At least, when I wasn't listening to the weather.

The first couple of weeks of working with Mr. Buchanan, he would slip in the occasional personal question. I avoided answering them directly, especially the family ones. "Not really," got a lot of mileage. Every so often, Mrs. Buchanan would remind me that I was welcome to eat with them and I always respectfully declined. They weren't offended by that either, surprisingly.

It had nothing to do with them directly. It would be too easy to let something slip that I shouldn't. After the first time I saw my face on television, I shaved off my beard and mustache, wearing sunglasses whenever possible. The young woman working the register at the truck stop was too busy texting to notice me when I bought the stuff to do that.

I also let my hair grow out. By the time I hit the Buchanan's place, it was just starting to touch the top of my ears. I looked nothing like my old self now. Clean-shaven, tanned, and leaner than I had ever been, I sometimes didn't recognize my own reflection first thing in the morning.

It was roughly about six weeks in that I had my first scare. The two of us had been working on replacing a leaky gasket on one of the pumps. It was hotter than hell inside the shed as I scraped the old, dried gasket off the base. Mr. Buchanan had stepped outside to talk to his wife on the phone.

I didn't think much of it, they talked back and forth quite a bit during the day. I heard somebody pull up and a strange voice.

"Mornin', Seth. It's been a while."

"Deputy Heyworth. How are you?" From the sound of it, they were on friendly terms.

"Same old. The Jessups are missing a trailer, the green one. You haven't happened to see it going by, have you?"

"No, can't say that I have. Cale!" Shit. As I put down my tool and got to my feet, I heard him continue. "My help. Maybe he saw something."

I took my time walking out, using one hand to shield my eyes from the sun and my face from the deputy until I put my sunglasses on. Mr. Buchanan repeated the deputy's question.

"No, sir. I was down the other side of the field yesterday." I wouldn't have heard anybody driving by, let alone see them from where I was.

"Cale, this is Deputy Heyworth. Deputy, my help, Cale."

The deputy started to stick his hand out and stopped. I was pretty much mud all over, especially my hands. My jeans weren't much cleaner. "New around here?"

"Yes, sir." My heart was pounding so hard I was surprised he didn't hear it.

The deputy looked me up and down. "At least he ain't afraid to get dirty. If you see it, give me a holler. Nice to see you, Seth. You take care."

"Will do, Bill. Say hello to the sheriff for me. Stay safe."

The deputy nodded and climbed back into his four wheel drive, turned it around, and headed out the way he came in a cloud of dust.

"I bet that old bastard forgot he sold it and is trying to claim the insurance," Mr. Buchanan laughed. "Let's get this finished, it's too damn hot out here and we need to get some water on this field."

Ninety minutes later, I was stretched out in the bed of the truck as Mr. Buchanan hauled ass down the blacktop toward the house and an early lunch. I was headed for a shower and a nap, I only had a couple of light chores that could wait until after supper.

Passing in front of the house, there was a dark blue GMC parked next to Mrs. Buchanan's Excursion. I knew immediately it wasn't one of the neighbors, it was way too fancy and undented to be from around here. People back home would have referred to it as a "pavement princess." It wasn't intended to be a work truck.

A boy and a girl leapt off the stairs and followed the truck to the barn. King loped along behind them. Up close, they appeared to be in their early teens.

A man and woman walked with Mrs. Buchanan, following the two children.

"Hi, Grandpa!" Both kids hugged him tightly at the same time. The old man was practically beaming as he hugged them back. The three adults were all smiling as well.

The kids made way for the younger woman. Given her resemblance to Mrs. Buchanan, I guessed it was their daughter. The heartfelt "Hi, Daddy," confirmed it as they hugged.

"Hi, sweetheart." It sure sounded like Mr. Buchanan was starting to choke up. That was my cue to make myself scarce. It was starting to feel like I was getting something in my eyes, too.

"I'll take care of this stuff, Mr. Buchanan." It would give me something to do besides dwell on the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Hey, Dad." The two men exchanged a hug and back slaps. "I can give you a hand."

"Thanks, Dale. Good to see you, son. Appreciate the help." Mr. Buchanan turned to me. "Cale, this is Dale and Cindy, our kids. Those two hellions are Haley and Colt, my grandchildren.

"Kids, this is Cale. He's helping me out this year." We exchanged the usual pleasantries. As I dropped the tailgate, Dale motioned Colt over and the four of us had the truck unloaded in a few minutes. The six then headed back toward the house while I cleaned the tools we had used and straightened up before heading upstairs.