Page 9 of Harvested By The Mountain Man
The road out of the square is quiet now. In town, the landscape is dotted with jack-o-lanterns flickering low. I drive slowly, window cracked letting in crisp autumn air. I start double guessing myself and feeling a nervous as I get closer to Maple Street. When I finally turn onto it, everything in me goes still.
I drive past houses with tidy fences and trimmed hedges until I see it – the blue duplex house with a swing out front. The huge pumpkin is there, sitting on the porch where Kyle must have left it. I ease the truck to a stop, headlights cutting across the pavement, and just sit there. Watching.
The house is dark except for a lamp burning in the front room. I imagine Hannah inside, maybe reading Ivy a bedtime story, maybe washing dishes at the sink. Normal things, everyday things. Things I suddenly feel curious about.
I reach for the jug of cider on the seat beside me, fingers brushing the glass, but I don’t move. Because what if I knock on that door and she looks at me like I’m crazy? What if she sees me not as the man who thought of her, but as the stranger who couldn’t stay away? So I sit there, torn in two. Every muscle wanting to climb those steps, every caution telling me to stay put.
The swing creaks faintly in the breeze, and for a moment I picture her there, hair loose with Ivy curled against her side. Somehow, I envision myself in the picture. A protector for both of them, instead of a stranger.
Why am I thinking like this?I grip the steering wheel, noticing what a damn coward I am.
Dammit, if you like this woman and want to get to know her, do it. Get out of your truck and knock on the door … lightly.
Enough second-guessing. I kill the headlights and take the cider by the neck, the bread and honey tucked under my arm. Stepping out, I shut the door quietly. Every step I take feels louder than it should. Halfway there, the porch light snaps on. A shadow passes across the curtain. The deadbolt slides. I slow on the middle step. The door eases open. And there she is.
Chapter 9
Hannah
The house is finally quiet. Ivy’s breathing turned slow and even a few minutes after I tucked the blanket under her chin. School tomorrow. Lunch packed, shoes by the door, library book back in her backpack so we don’t rack up another quarter in fines.
I tell myself there’s nothing left to do tonight but rinse the dishes and blow out the cinnamon candle. Still, I move through the rooms like I’m listening for something. I stack plates and wipe the counter twice. The house is too quiet. I should put on a podcast or some music and listen through my earbuds.
Headlights sweep across the living room wall. I pause, dish towel in my hand. Another set of lights follows, slower this time, like someone easing down the street, not in a hurry to get where they’re going. It makes me a little nervous. This small-town area is pretty quiet on weeknights especially. I glance toward thefront window. The pumpkin on the porch throws a fat orange shadow across the glass.
I step closer and peek through the curtain. A truck sits on the street that I haven’t seen before. But what makes my heart miss a beat is the outline of a familiar man – one I can’t forget – making his way up the walkway to the house.
Oh, shit!
I stare harder at the figure. This is a duplex. Maybe it’s the neighbor’s friend. Maybe it’s nothing. Lock the door, Hannah, be smart.
My breath lodges high in my throat. Something inside me feels excitement and terror at the same time. It’s him. It’s definitely him. I flip the deadbolt open and ease onto the porch.
The air is cool enough to raise goose bumps along my forearms. Out on Maple, the streetlights paint the asphalt in pale circles. Crickets chatter in the hedge. I cross my arms and stand beside the pumpkin like it and I had a plan to meet here all along.
The silhouette moves toward me, tall and broad-shouldered, carrying something tucked against his side. He steps into the light … Levi.
Up close, he looks larger than I remember, as if the festival somehow compressed him to fit inside the day. His jacket is unzipped and there’s a white T-shirt underneath, the sleeves hugged around his arms. He’s holding a half gallon of cider by the neck with one hand and balancing a paper bag and a small jar in the other. A faint scent of pine and woodsmoke clings to him, like he carried the mountain down with him.
“Hey,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t disturb the night. “I, uh… had some leftovers. Didn’t want them to go to waste.”
“Leftovers,” I repeat, because anything more than that would come out as a squeak.
He lifts the bag an inch. “Bread from the bakery stand. And honey from old Mr. Pike’s booth. He swears it’ll fix any problem a person has if you just stir enough into your tea.”
I find a smile, and it’s ridiculous how relieved my body feels to be doing something as simple as smiling. “Is that medical advice?”
“Frontier medicine,” he says, straight-faced, then the corner of his mouth lifts. “Thought you and Ivy might like the cider at least.”
“Thank you.” It comes out too quiet, like the words are slipping past a lump in my throat, so I try again. “Really. Thank you.”
He nods and looks down at the pumpkin between us like it’s an extra person joining the conversation. “That one’s a champion. Almost needs a forklift.”
“Kyle said the same,” I say, warmth rising to my cheeks. “I told him our eyes were bigger than our arms.”
He shifts the bag to his other hand. “Where should we put this? I can set these inside for you, if you want.”
“I …” My eyes glance at the door. If Ivy wakes and sees the ‘train conductor’ standing in our living room, she’ll be so excited that she won’t go back to sleep easily.
