Page 4 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
She points, but the patch is a good distance away. Beyond the bustle of the welcome square, I catch sight of orange speckles across the fields, like marbles tossed on green velvet.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “We’ve got to ride the train first.”
Her eyes go wide.
“A train?”
There it is. An engine hum cuts through the noise. The crowd parts just enough to reveal a miniature locomotive chugging along its own track, scaled down but built like the real thing. A plume of white mist rises from the stack as it pulls a line of green passenger cars—each filled with waving children. The train whistle blows, and Ivy practically levitates with excitement.
“Mommy! It’s real!”
I can’t help smiling. Whoever owns this ranch poured serious money into this setup. Not a cheap hay wagon like the other ranches. This is the kind of thing people will talk about all season.
We buy cider first … because you can’t not, apparently. The stand is tucked near the gate, manned by a cheerful woman with a pumpkin painted on each of her cheeks. Ivy cradles hersteaming cup like it’s treasure, eyes rolling back with the first sip. I take mine slower, the cinnamon stick bumping my lip as the warmth spreads down my throat.
“This is so good,” she declares.
“Glad you approve,” I say. “Hey, want to share an elephant ear?”
“Yes, oh, yes mommy.”
We get in line and order the special treat covered in powdered sugar. Luckily, Ivy and I find a spot at one of the smaller tables and share the delicious creation.
Once finished, I wipe her sticky hands and we join the crowd waiting for the next train. That’s when I notice him. He’s across the square, unloading a crate of apples from the back of a pickup. Even at a distance, he stands out – broad shoulders beneath a flannel shirt, tall enough to be seen over the bobbing heads of the crowd. Sunlight picks up the sandy strands in his hair, and when he hefts the crate onto one arm like it weighs nothing, I definitely take notice.
As if sensing me, he turns. Blue eyes catch mine even through the crowd. The connection jolts so strong I have to look away. Men like that don’t look at women like me. Not twice. I really need to get out more!
“Mommy, can we sit at the front?” Ivy tugs my arm, breaking the moment.
“Sure,” I say quickly, thankful for the distraction.
The train hisses to a stop, kids piling out, parents corralling them with calls of “stay close.” Ivy and I climb into the nearest car, the benches scaled perfectly for little legs. We wait while the train loads as many kids and parents as possible.
As she requested, we are in the front with complete view of the train’s conductor or driver … except no one is sitting there now. He’s probably taking a break.
That’s when Mr. flannel-clad dream man nearly scares me to death. I’m sitting here taking photos with my phone of Ivy and the train, and he says, “Feel free to tag the ranch in those pics. We’re on all the socials.”
I’m hoping he didn’t notice how I jumped when he spoke. He’s standing two feet from me. I didn’t expect it and I’m hesitating, just glaring into this man’s handsome face with his chiseled jaw and just enough beard to be lethally sexy.
“Uhh, sure. No problem,” I respond, absolutely lost for words like I’m lost in his eyes.
He smiles and looks at Ivy. “Having fun today?” he asks.
She’s all smiles, instant to answer him unlike her mom. “I’m so excited. When does the train leave the station?”
“How about right now?” he says. He tips his head to me as he makes eye contact again. “Levi,” he says.
“I’m Hannah and this is Ivy.”
“Let’s head for the pumpkins,” he says with a smile that flashes dimples. Too charming. Too good-looking. I tell myself to knock it off and watch as he climbs into the conductor’s seat.
The whistle blows again, and the train lurches forward. Ivy squeals, her laughter bright against the rumble. We pass the corn maze first, stalks stretching taller than my head, kids’ voices escaping from inside. Then the goat pen comes into view – separate and distant, a cluster of white and brown bodies butting against the fence. Off farther still is the pumpkin patch, row after row of orange dots waiting like treasure.
I breathe in the fresh autumn air. Something in me loosens. But another part of me feels anxious and interested as I watch his arms and shoulders from behind.
Stop it … I don’t need this. I came here for pumpkins … not temptation in flannel.
Chapter 4
