Read Online Above the Harvest Moon by Rita Bradshaw - Free Book Online Page A

instrumental in lifting him out of the suffocating hell of the town and into what he privately termed as heaven on earth.
     
    He’d come across Clover Farm as a lad of ten one Sunday afternoon. As was his wont, he’d escaped the town to walk the countryside. Skirting any buildings to avoid human contact and the inevitable staring, he’d stopped to drink at the brook which fed the farm with water. He had noticed a horse lying on its side at the edge of the bank some distance away, and what looked like a new-born foal half in and half out of the water.
     
    Realising something was seriously amiss, he’d pulled the foal onto the thick grass by its mother and then raced across a couple of fields of waving corn towards the barns he’d seen, shouting as he went. He was brought up short as he rounded the corner of the first barn by a man grabbing hold of his arm.
     
    ‘Hey, what you think you’re up to, trampling my corn and hollering like that?’ the man had shouted in his ear, shaking him like a terrier with a rat.
     
    He’d gabbled his story, upon which the man, who had turned out to be Seamus himself, had called for a couple of men in the distance and the lot of them had returned to the brook, Seamus keeping hold of his arm when he’d tried to disappear. The mare, a favourite of the farmer’s, was already dead, but thanks to his prompt action the foal was saved, and that had been the start of his friendship with Clover Farm. Seamus had offered him a weekend job cleaning the cow-houses and stables, working in the fields, feeding the animals and the hens and turkeys which made a substantial profit at market come Christmas. When he had completed his schooling he had gone to live at the farm and begun work properly.
     
    It wasn’t an easy life. In winter the wind could be like a carving knife, cutting hands and cheeks until they bled, and when added to driving snow it had the ability to turn coats, mufflers and gloves into frozen boards. The fourteen-hour-plus days, longer at harvest time, tested strength and stamina, but Jake had taken to the life like a duck to water.
     
    The farmer and his wife and son had always treated him differently to their other employees, but for the first time in his life the distinction had been a good one. They had looked beyond his face, and everyone else on the farm had taken their cue from their master. Consequently he had found a contentment bordering on happiness.The feeling of belonging had grown when, after his son’s death, Seamus had made him his manager and invited him into the farmhouse to live.
     
    ‘I told them we’d put in an appearance a bit later,’ Seamus said now as Jake took his coat off and sat down in the other big armchair at the side of the range. ‘We needn’t stay long, they’ll be dancing and carrying on until the early hours most likely.’ He pushed a second glass to Jake, along with the bottle of whisky.‘There’ll be a few sore heads in the morning, sure as eggs are eggs.’
     
    ‘I dare say.’ Jake poured himself a good measure, knocking back half of it in one swallow before relaxing in the chair and stretching out his long legs. Drinking was the least of the shenanigans that went on at times like these. After the last harvest supper, young Herbert Lyndon had come cap in hand to Seamus to announce he was going to wed Florence, one of the other workers’ comely sixteen-year-old daughter, a mite sharpish. Seamus had given his blessing and the wedding had gone ahead forthwith, and both mothers were already knitting baby clothes.
     
    The two men sat talking for some time in front of the fire, their conversation easy and punctuated by comfortable silences. It was after one of these that Seamus straightened in his chair, saying, ‘I want to talk to you about something, lad, and tonight is as good a time as any, it being the end of one year with a new one about to come on us. How do you see Daniel fitting in here?’
     
    ‘Daniel? Daniel Osborne,