Page 16 of Harvest His Heart
“Lots of butter and sugar will do that.”
I chuckle. “Lettuce, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes—still warm from the vines. Roasted garlic, goat cheese, herbs. Cold cuts from last year’s hunts. Anything I’m missing?”
Her eyes round. “This is incredible.”
“Almost forgot the best part.” I return with jars of pickles, peppers, mustard, and a pitcher of apple cider.
“And did you can those, too?”
“Eldon,” I say. “Kitchen wizard. You’re welcome to our daily spreads.”
I pour the golden cider into unmatched glasses and slide one to her, careful not to touch. The scar at my wrist catches the light, a remnant from another life.
“Patrick called ten minutes ago,” I say, jaw tight.
Color fades from her cheeks. Her eyes go moss and amber. “About the fences?”
“That, too.”
She studies the rough-hewn table like it has answers. “You don’t have to watch me like a hawk.”
“Maybe I like watching.”
She chooses the far head of the table. The distance shouldn’t sting, but it does.
I try for casual and miss. “Town errands. Meet anyone interesting?”
She reaches for the jars.
“Careful. Those peppers aren’t for the faint of heart.”
“Grown here?” She lifts a pale, slender one.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Her cheeks flush at the first bite, then she smiles and goes back for more. “Spicy but delicious.”
“You’re a regular heatseeker.”
She smiles, chasing it with cider. Then, she takes another.
I can’t help grinning. “Damn, Lace—for a city-girl journalist, you eat like a ranch hand.”
She laughs, shoulders easing. “And you’re giving rancher, man-of-the-house vibes with that apron.”
“Guilty.”
“You know, for as big and intimidating as you come across, you’re really a softie, downright domestic.”
The word scrapes something raw. I scratch my eyebrow, cover with a gulp of cider. “I like to take care of what’s mine.”
Her face glows.
“You know, this cabin, the farm, my small corner of the ranch.”
“Tend your garden,” she says, lifting her glass. I mirror her, ruing the distance. Our glasses hover in midair, tension thick between them.
“My own little Garden of Eden.”
