Chapter 2

Jordan had traveled his fair share, but there was something about the Willamette Valley that just took his breath away—rolling hills in verdant green, stately trees, clean, crisp air. Autumn was his favorite season to begin with, but he especially felt it there. Though only a quick trip south on the highway, Newberg felt a world away from the city life of Portland. Jordan was always surprised by how much he liked the feeling. He was a city boy. But there was something amazing about leaving the city behind and being surrounded by the unspoiled farmland of the lush valley.

The GPS on his cell directed him to turn off the highway just before the town itself, and he followed a side road for about a mile. As he rounded a curve, a large wooden sign came into view. It looked a little weathered, but the paint was bright, and an artist’s rendition of a hazelnut graced the upper left corner above the writing.

Shaw Farms, est. 1926.

Hazelnuts. Of course. Jordan should have guessed, considering where he was. The heart of hazelnut country. The Willamette Valley was some of the most fertile land in the state, and there were hundreds of hazelnut farms. It was Oregon’s largest crop and what the area was known for.

Jordan eased the truck into the turn and followed the drive through a copse of oaks that suddenly opened up to a flat expanse. A house sat on the left, and several outbuildings and a barn stood on the right. And straight ahead were unmistakable row upon neat row of hazelnut trees. Jordan reduced his speed further and looked for a clue to where he was supposed to go. The third building had two huge bay doors. It looked promising, so Jordan eased the truck into the small concrete lot in front of it. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the truck just as a side door opened. A man strode purposefully toward him.

Jordan nearly swallowed his tongue.

From a young age, Jordan had known he was bisexual, so his attraction to the tall, broad, dark-haired man wasn’t entirely a surprise. The guy was dressed in a light gray, long-sleeved T-shirt, worn, well-fitting jeans, and work boots. Jordan took a minute to just enjoy looking while doing his best not to outright leer. Then he reined in his libido and sent a silent prayer that the man was not Beckett Shaw. It wouldn’t be good to perv on the boss, even on a short-term job.

“Jordan?” the man asked when he was close enough not to have to shout. He held out his hand. “Thanks for coming. I’m Beckett Shaw.”

Dammit.

Jordan stepped forward and shook Shaw’s hand. “Glad I can help. What’s the problem?”

Shaw groaned out a frustrated sound and gestured to the building behind him. “The windrower won’t start. I have gotto get the harvest in, and I can’t do that without first using the windrower.” Shaw walked toward the first bay door, and Jordan fell in step beside him. “I have no idea when it was last serviced. And knowing my father, he let the maintenance slide.”

Shaw abruptly stopped speaking and blew out a breath. Jordan glanced at him, but then averted his gaze. There was something more going on with Shaw than just a busted windrower. It was a vital piece of equipment, as all the nuts that had fallen on the ground had to be swept into rows so they could be collected, but Shaw’s frustration seemed deeper than that. That wasn’t Jordan’s problem. He was just there to fix the machine, which he was confident he could do, just as soon as he saw what was going on with it.

They entered through the smaller side door and then turned to the left to enter the garage. The windrower was one of four tractors, all bright-red Massey Fergusons. Jordan kept his wince inside when he took in their state. The brand was a classic workhorse and, kept in peak condition, could run for decades. Shaw’s machines had been neglected, but they weren’t in terrible shape. Nothing a little maintenance and TLC couldn’t fix.

“Let me take a look and see what’s going on.”

Jordan beelined for the windrower, since that was the machine in question. It was a regular tractor with the windrower attachment permanently affixed to the front. She was a big, beautiful machine, complete with an enclosed cab. Jordan itched to fix her up right, give her the care she needed. But instead he opened the engine compartment and peered inside.

“I’ll be in the office, right through here.” Shaw’s voice was soft, and Jordan glanced over his shoulder. Shaw gestured back through the door. “Let me know as soon as you find the problem.”

“Won’t take long,” Jordan assured him and turned back to the engine.