Page 10 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
“We can put them on the table by the swing.”
He follows my glance and then looks back at me.
“You’ve got a swing,” he says, like it’s a small miracle.
“It came with the house,” I say. “It’s a little squeaky.”
“Squeaky’s honest.” His gaze tips toward it, then returns to me. “Mind if I…? I don’t usually sit much when I’m at the ranch. My place is up on the mountain ridge, so most nights I end up on my own porch anyway.”
The way he says it makes me picture it without trying — a cabin somewhere higher than this street, porch light burning against the dark trees, swing creaking in the quiet. I feel thequestion brush against that place inside me that’s been walled off since Jake left. I don’t have to do this. I can take the food, say good night, close the door, lock it, and finish drying dishes until my mind goes blank.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “For a minute.”
We walk the few steps together. He sets the bag on the side table, and puts the jug of cider carefully beside it. I watch as he tests the swing with his hand like a man checking a bridge before crossing. It creaks, obliging, and he sits. The chain groans once and settles. I lower myself next to him, leaving polite space, but not too much. The swing sways, soft and slow.
It feels absurdly intimate to be beside him with the neighborhood breathing around us. My porch light throws a gentle halo making the pumpkin glow. Somewhere, a dog lets out a single bark and then stops, like it changed its mind about being vocal.
“Long day?” I ask, because anything more personal is a leap I’m not ready to make.
He exhales. “The longest ones always come with the best kind of tired.”
“That a proverb?”
“Could be.” His smile is quick and shy all at once, like he’s out of practice with smiling at women on their porches at night. “Crowds were good. Kids were happy. Nobody fell off the train or a hay bale. I’ll call that a win.”
“It looked … well-run,” I say, remembering the way he moved through a hundred tiny tasks as if each one mattered. “You must have half the town working for you.”
“Feels like it some days.” He lets the swing rock, boot heel idly nudging the porch once, twice. “Truth is, they keep it running. I just make sure the train doesn’t throw a fit and the vendors get their change buckets filled.”
“And haul giant pumpkins to strange women’s porches.”
He turns his head toward me, eyes catching mine in the soft porch light. “Wish I could’ve done it myself. It would have been the best part of my day.”
The words slip under my guard so neatly that I don’t have a prepared place to put them. I look down at my hands and rub at a spot of invisible sugar on my jeans. “It was kind. Most men stop at opening the door.”
“I’m not most men.” He says it without ego. It lands somewhere between a fact and a hope.
We let the swing do the talking for a few breaths. The boards beneath us creak. The chain chink-chinks.
He tilts his head, looking toward the dark street. “Sometimes you get a feeling about someone. It may not make sense at all. But, it’s like the moment you lay eyes on them, something piques your curiosity. That same something makes you want to get to know them better. You ever have that happen, Hannah?”
The words tug at something in me because they are too close to my own thoughts I don’t want to admit. “I know what you mean,” I say, carefully. “But … sometimes we need to be cautious.”
He glances at me, trying to read me. “Yeah, the world is full of all kinds of people. But if it really tugs at you, you have to take a chance.”
I clear my throat. “You have to weigh the risk.”
He lets that hang between us. When he speaks again, his voice has a roughness to it. “My mom used to say that having friends and people to care for was a blessing. That can’t happen unless someone makes the first move of friendship.”
“Cider, peach bread and honey sound like a good way to sweeten someone. Is that what you’re doing?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“If you’ll let me,” he says.
I swallow around the sudden baseball in my throat … speechless.
“You and Ivy,” he says after a few seconds, quieter, “just the two of you, right?”
I stare at the pumpkin, avoiding his gaze. The porch light reflects in his blue eyes, and I can’t look directly. Not right now. “Just us,” I say. “And a cat who refuses to acknowledge us unless we open the tuna.”
