Read A Field of Red for Free Online

the outdoors. The morning was warming up, coming up over the trees that lined the river, which ran along the eastern side of the property, beyond the tall fence. The plants liked it sunny and dry, and this crop was almost ready to take in. But it had rained yesterday and again this morning, and you had to watch it—too much water was bad. So he was out here checking on them.
    They were growing like weeds.
    He smiled to himself. He made that joke a lot and always thought it was funny. The marijuana plants were almost as tall as George, marching away in long rows toward the fence.
    Chastity never laughed at his jokes. She was much more likely to roll her eyes and say something dirty under her breath. She didn’t think he was funny. When she did laugh at his jokes, George got worried—he got the feeling she wasn’t really laughing with him. More like at him.
    At least she laughed. George had never gotten up the nerve to tell any of his excellent jokes to the boss.
    George picked up his tools and started for the house—she’d be calling again. Once she started, she never let up. And it always seemed like she needed something.
    He looked up at the house. The back yard, more like a field, was fenced on all sides with high planks of pine. Beyond, stood the big old farmhouse, two stories and a large side porch that wrapped part-way around the front. Old wooden shutters hung from each window of both floors, mixed with the ivy that grew up from the west side and had nearly taken over the south side, too. There was even an attic huge enough to play basketball in.
    George liked the house. It wasn’t his, but the boss let him stay here, as long as he kept things up and took care of the crop. Even though they were way out in the country, and no one ever came snooping around, the boss didn’t like things to get too run down.
    It was the closest thing George had to a home in a long time.
    George walked to the tall gate and exited the field, turning and dead bolting the gate behind him. With the lock and the twelve-foot fence, no one could see what they were growing, not without a helicopter.
    He turned and crossed the small yard. There was a rusty old play set with swings and a back concrete patio with ratty furniture and a sliding patio door. He was headed for the house but then remembered what he was carrying and veered off, walking to the back door of the large red barn that stood across the gravel driveway from the house. He undid another deadbolt and went inside.
    The old wooden barn was huge on the inside, lined with old wooden rafters that framed a dusty central area. For some reason, the inside of the barn reminded George of the inside of a church—high ceiling, quiet, dusty. But this was unlike any church he’d been to—from the rafters hung hundreds of marijuana plants, drying in tight bunches and wrapped with brown twine. The plants cured in the dry heat of the barn. It had been a good summer, hot and dry, and the yield had been high. Between what was in the barn drying and what was still in the field, it had been an excellent summer. The boss was very happy.
    Pot came in two varieties. The narrow leaf, like what George was growing, was supposedly more potent than the wide-leaf variety, typically grown in humid and artificial environments. The broader leaves produced less resin per ounce of finished product, and the more resin, the better. At least, that’s what the boss had told him once.
    Of course, growing outdoors had its own share of problems—weather, weeds, insects, and prying eyes. That was why this farmhouse was perfect—surrounded on three sides by forest, with a backyard and the field beyond. The fence was only three years old and still looked new. The boss had it built after picking up the property in a Sheriff’s real estate sale.
     “PUDDIN’!”
    Jeez, he hated it when she called him that.
    It had all started out as a joke. “Georgie, Porgy, Puddin’, Pie,” when they’d first hooked up, but now