Page 6 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
"It could be." I move closer, reaching for the same weed bed. Our fingers brush in the soil, and neither of us pulls away for a long, charged moment. His hand is warm, calloused, so much larger than mine. "I'm exactly what your ad asked for. Practical. Hardworking. Someone who understands mountain living."
"You don't know anything about who I am now," he argues, but the words lack conviction.
"I think I do." I smile slightly, staying close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I know you still take your coffee black and strong. Know you still garden with the same methods. Know you still split wood every morning." I pause, then add quietly, "Some things don't change, Josiah. Core things."
The sun climbs higher, and sweat beads along my hairline. When a droplet slides down my neck and into the hollow of my throat, Josiah's gaze follows its path, his pupils dilating before he jerks his attention back to the garden.
When we finally break, I rinse my dirt-covered feet with the garden hose. The cool water feels amazing against my heated skin. I glance up to find Josiah watching me, his expression intense. His eyes track a water droplet as it trails down my calf, and the naked want in his gaze before he catches himself makes my breath catch.
Inside, I pour us both fresh coffee, knowing exactly how he takes it. When I hand him his mug, our fingers brush. This time, he doesn't pull away immediately, instead letting the contact linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"How do you know so much about me?" he asks, voice rougher than before. "You’ve been gone for a decade."
I meet his gaze steadily. "I pay attention to things that matter to me."
"You've been searching for me specifically, haven't you? It wasn't random, finding me on that service."
I don't look away, refusing to be ashamed. "What if I was?"
He shakes his head slowly and chuckles. "Most wouldn't go to such lengths."
"I'm not most people," I say simply. "And you're not most men."
The noon bus to Manitoba comes and goes. Josiah doesn't mention it, and I don't remind him. Instead, we spend the afternoon canning early strawberry preserves. I move confidently around his kitchen, reaching for equipment before he can tell me where it is. Each time we pass each other in the confined space, there's a moment of awareness, our bodies gravitating toward one another even as we maintain a careful distance.
As the sun sets, bringing in a cool breeze and purple skies, I stand on his porch and watch him stack firewood. Each time he bends to lift another log, the muscles in his back and arms shift beneath his sweat-dampened shirt, and I make no effort to hide my appreciation.
When he catches me watching, something flashes in his eyes. A hunger he's trying desperately to control.
I belong here. With him. The certainty of it runs bone-deep, as much a part of me as my own heartbeat. He might not know it yet, but I'm home. And I'm not going anywhere.
four
Josiah
AnotherbustoManitobahas come and gone.
Wynonna's still here, moving around my kitchen like she belongs there, humming softly as she helps me prepare dinner. I tell myself I'm just being practical. After all, driving to town would've wasted half a day of work. I'll take her tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Even I don't believe that lie.
Truth is, watching her in the garden today messed with my head in ways I wasn't prepared for. Barefoot in the dirt, denim shorts riding high on tanned thighs, tank top clinging to curves that have no business being so distracting—she looked like summer incarnate. Nothing like the gangly teenager who used to follow me around. All woman now, and my body's reaction to that fact is becoming harder to ignore. Literally.
"Potatoes are ready," she announces, setting the pot on the counter beside me.
"Thanks." I keep my response brief, afraid my voice might betray the direction of my thoughts.
She reaches past me for the strainer, and her arm brushes mine. The simple contact sends a shock straight through me, and I have to grip the counter to steady myself. This is getting ridiculous.
"You still make that face," she says suddenly.
I glance at her. "What face?"
"That one." She points with the spoon she's holding. "When you're concentrating. You get this little crease right here." Her finger hovers near my forehead, not quite touching. "Used to fascinate me when I'd watch you work on Dad's roof."
The casual mention of her teenage observation creates a jarring dissonance in my mind of the young girl who watched me work overlaid with the woman standing in my kitchen. It's unsettling how she carries both versions of herself at once.
"Didn't realize I was that interesting," I mutter, turning back to the venison steaks I'm seasoning.
