Page 17 of Harvest His Heart
“It is not good that man should be alone,” she blurts, covering her mouth.
I hold her gaze a beat too long; she looks away, apology tumbling out.
I drawl, “The gist of it,” and let the moment breathe.
“No.” She raises her chin in challenge. “Isn’t the gist how much trouble women cause? Eve ruined everything.”
My throat tightens, heat rising. “Adam didn’t protect her. Left her alone when she needed him most.”
“Never heard it spun that way,” she says, eyes flickering to mine. Swirling with uncertainty. “But maybe you’re onto something.”
“No preacher here. Take it with a grain of salt.”
She slathers thick slices of bread with saffron-colored mustard. “And this is yours, too?”
“Course. Mustard plants are easy. Grow like weeds. Don’t need much.”
She piles her sandwich with cold cuts, vegetables, lettuce, pickles. Her enthusiasm warms my heart. At least through the food I grow, the meals I make, I can changesomethingfor the better.
I follow suit, trying not to stare. But I can’t get enough of her. Like she’s the only sight my thirsty eyes need. She stares at me more than she should, too. Her face beams despite herself. The silence between us feels safe, good even, as we eat lunch, enjoying the sight of one another.
Sunlight warms her buttery hair, cheeks glowing, and face opening with each bite. I could make her happy. Keep her well-fed and protected. But hard to tell where those invisible walls of hers begin. All I know is they’re thicker than fresh churned butter.
“What next, Cowboy?” she asks as we stand together at the sink. Her washing dishes, me drying and putting them away. Her fingers brush mine when I take a dripping plate, a static spark snapping between us. Sandalwood and apple blossom swirl together in the steam.
“You’ll see,” I say with a wink.
Chapter
Seven
ANSON
Ahalf hour later, I lead her out to one of the two-passenger ATVs, handing her a helmet. “Figured this might be more comfortable than one of the horses. Unless you’re a secret cowgirl?”
She giggles as if it’s the silliest thing she can imagine. The vehicle’s already fully loaded with water, snacks, everything we’ll need. As we head out, she whoops, sounding free. God, it makes my heart glad. To take a little of the weight off her.
I take her to old barns, fields of grain and cover crops. The greenhouse, where she gets lost in the rows upon rows of plants. Seedlings for winter foodstuffs, hothouse crops, gardening experiments.
My voice softens as we walk the lines. “Tomatoes, peppers—like what you sampled earlier—cucumbers, kale.”
She examines the verdant plants carefully, admiring one ripening tomato. “Gorgeous, and it keeps the tomato hornworms away?”
“In theory,” I say, unable to hide the look of disgust on my face. “Hate those things. They’re disgusting … the way they squish green.”
“Squish? But they turn into hummingbird moths.” Passion fills her voice.
“Hummingbird moths? They’re your thing?”
“They’re cool. One of my favorite insects.”
“Maybe I should start calling you hummingbird,” I tease, tenderness threading through my voice.
She shakes her head. “More like pepper.”
“Pepper. Suits you, fire-tongued and all.” I swallow hard, staring longer than I should. Again.
She looks away. I never knew intimacy had its own hum. Now, it vibrates between us. “Over here’s broccoli, green beans, and during the winter, I’ll keep arugula, sorrel, and mustard greens going there.”
