Page 13 of Harvest His Heart
Make bread. Listen to music.Tell Anson everything.But why trust a virtual stranger after one perfect evening? Perfection is how it began withhim, too. Lovebombing, tenderness, so much affection, I thought it could heal every broken part of me. Until he started doing the breaking.
I move on autopilot—screenshots, timestamps, another entry in the hundred-page log that’s become my shadow life.
I contact my phone company and request text message records so that I have a third-party record. I file a report online with the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center. I call local law enforcement to inquire about filing a formal complaint.
Everything moves in slow motion here—paper forms, polite smiles, no online options. Of course. Guess today’s for town research after all.
I put on one of Anson’s aprons, the sandalwood-and-spice scent clings to the fabric, filling the air as I whisk batter in a bowl too big for one person.
Afterward, I munch on a slice fresh from the oven and drizzled in more of the local butter. Vanilla extract, cinnamon, sugar—alchemy for the morning’s ache.
I finish my second cup of coffee with cream. Local, I imagine. Everything here tastes purer, richer. The air’s fresher, the skies bigger and brighter.
I leave the fresh loaf of bread on the counter with a note that reads:
Frankenzucchini experiment #1 -
Sample at your own risk
It’s a goodwill offering of sorts. Because I do something bad … that I shouldn’t as I leave his cabin.
I pull a plaid scarf from his rack and wrap it over my fleece-lined moss-green jacket to ward off the crisp autumnal air. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Really, it’s the scent—him. Safety in sandalwood and pine, a borrowed courage I knot around my throat. I need it today, like I need air. A night spent tossing and turning, checking my cell phone, fear mounting. But the scarf makes me strong—all heat, smoke, and Anson’s warm smile.
Beneath the scarf and jacket, I layer a V-neck white T-shirt with a few delicate gold chains for when the heat of mid-day rises and acid-washed jeans with brown suede ankle boots. Nothing fancy. Almost makeup-free, apart from concealer to mask my dark circles.
On my way down the long dirt drive, I see a cowboy and two cowgirls headed my way on well-built mounts. The man steers his horse closer, grinning broadly. “Already tired of us country folk?”
I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No, just heading into town. Doing a little recon—seeing what the locals say about you heroes of Off-Duty Rescue.” I say the words calmly, but inside I feel like a fraud. Certain he’ll read between the lines, realize there’s more going on. “I’m Lacey Worthington, by the way.”
He nods. “Can’t wait to hear what you report back. Ash Rhodes. Spoke with you a couple of times on the phone.”
I nod. “Yes, you were very helpful. Much more so than Anson.”
He shrugs. “Tough exterior. Not easy to penetrate, but good guy. Upright as they come.”
My cheeks flush, though I feign indifference.
“And this here’s my mountain woman, Willow, and our girl, Rosie.”
I nod, smiling broadly at the blonde cowgirls who tip their hats. “Beautiful day for a ride. Lovely horses.”
Willow grins. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t let Ash out of it.” She leans down, pats the neck of the Palomino she rides, its breath a white column. “This is Pearl. Came to us from an older rancher we met at an Open House.”
“That’s right,” I answer. “I’ve been so caught up with Anson—I mean, the horticulture side of things, I haven’t even started to explore the horse rescue part yet.”
Willow smiles knowingly. Ash raises an eyebrow.
“You can call me Ro,” Rosie chimes in, cheeks flushed from the cold air. “This is Marshmallow,” she says, introducing her horse. “And that’s Juniper.” She points towards Ash’s horse. “Survived a grizzly bear attack,” she whispers. “Toughest horse on the planet.”
“A grizzly bear?” My voice catches. Suddenly, the bear stamped on Anson’s mug feels less cute, more ominous.
Ash removes his hat, running his hand across his forehead. “Nature’s beautiful but deadly.”
The Revenantflashes through my mind. Suddenly, all I can think about is the safety of my apartment in Seattle. Of course, different kinds of danger lurk there.
Eyeing me, the rancher asks, “What time should I tell Anson to expect you again?”
