Epsd 1

Mr. Bradley’s voice thundered across the yard as he hobbled after a young woman, his cane wagging in the air like a sword.

"I don't ever want to catch sight of you near my farm again, you mischievous rascal!" he bellowed, his old legs struggling to keep pace.

The woman, quick on her feet and even quicker with her apologies, darted toward the door. "Apologies, Mr. Bradley. I'll seek your permission next time," she called over her shoulder, skirting out before he could change his mind.

Mr. Bradley, out of breath but full of bluster, slammed the gate to his modest farm. "I'll turn you into a metaphorical guinea pig if you come near here again!" he shouted after her, though he was already turning back to his house. Chuckling to himself, he muttered, "What’s the story with that little troublemaker?"

And so, the question lingers: why was this young woman being chased off by an elderly farmer? Well, here’s the backstory:

The day had begun with good intentions. She’d woken up determined to find a *legitimate* job, an ambitious thought given her track record. While strolling through Armsville, her eyes fell on a notice tacked up outside the general store:

**“Workers needed for various tasks at Mr. Bradley's. Strong men wanted. Compensation to be discussed with Mr. Bradley. I'll be waiting."**

Perfect, she thought—until the store owner snapped her back to reality.

"I’ve warned you about hanging around my store, you little rat!" The middle-aged Ms. Tiffany scolded, broom in hand.

"My apologies, Ms. Tiffany. Must’ve slipped my mind. Won’t happen again," the young woman promised, backpedaling out of broom’s reach.

Home, for now, was the attic of the Thompsons' mansion, a grand house sitting at the edge of the forest that hugged Armsville. The Thompsons, blissfully unaware, had been playing accidental hosts to her for over a year. She’d help herself to their food at night, making sure to stay one step ahead of discovery.

A year and a half ago, she’d lived with Mr. Bradley, her godfather, but a series of misadventures—possibly involving a goat and a very upset mailman—had led to her eviction. She found solace with the Thompsons, but her luck had soured when Bradley discovered her napping in his stables. 

Now, here she was, considering that same Mr. Bradley’s job offer. The idea lodged itself firmly in her disorganized mind. The only hiccup? She wasn’t exactly a “strong man” as the notice requested. But why let a small detail like that stand in the way?

An hour later, she stood in front of her mirror, admiring her makeshift disguise: baggy blue pants, a brown belt with a cobra buckle, a collared shirt tucked under a dark vest, black hat, a fake mustache, and boots that had seen better days. "Not bad," she mused. Her reflection was, at best, unconvincing, but desperate times called for questionable outfits.

The two-mile trek to Mr. Bradley's farm took an hour, mostly because she spent the walk practicing her deep, gravelly "man voice." By the time she arrived, a handful of brawny men were already sitting outside the farmhouse, waiting to be interviewed. Mustering her courage, she squeezed between two men and attempted some awkward small talk.

"Good morning, gentlemen," she croaked. 

A few of the men grunted in response. 

"So... um... good, right?" she added, to dead silence. Deciding silence was the better option, she waited for her turn.

When it came, she tumbled into the room, nearly tripping over the threshold. Mr. Bradley, perched behind his desk with his usual ridiculous reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, greeted her with an amused smirk.

"Please come in, young man," he said, sipping his tea.

"Thank you, sir," she rumbled, adopting her best “manly” voice.

"And your name?"

"My name? I’m… uh… Patrick. Patrick Smith, sir."

"Smith, eh? Can’t say I’ve met any Smiths in Armsville."

"Just arrived yesterday from Hemingsville," she replied, her story spinning out faster than she could keep track of it. "Saw your notice and thought, 'Now here's my big chance!'"

"Hemingsville? Good town, good people," Mr. Bradley mused, a knowing gleam in his eye. "Alright, Mr. Smith. You start today."

And with that, “Patrick Smith” was hired. She followed James, one of the farmhands, on a tour of the property. After some awkward banter and a crash course in animal care, she was left alone to tackle the chores.

Five hours later, James returned to find chaos. No tasks had been completed, and "Patrick" was half-stuck in a hole in the stable, legs flailing helplessly.

"Need a hand?" James asked, stifling a laugh.

“Little help would be nice,” she grumbled from the hole.

Somehow, by the end of the day, the work got done. Or at least, it *looked* done. Mr. Bradley, thoroughly impressed with "Patrick’s" efforts, even paid her in full.

"Good work, son," he said, handing over the payment.

But as she reached for the coins, her fake mustache fell off, landing right on Mr. Bradley's desk.

There was a beat of silence.

“Kathryn,” Mr. Bradley sighed, eyes narrowing. “We need to talk.”