Page 18 of Harvest His Heart
I point to the rows upon rows of dainty, emerald-colored strawberry plants, tiny red jewels hidden between the broad, rough leaves. “And last but not least, the secret to my wine.” Normally, I’d joke with anyone I show this to that I’m gonna have to kill them, this being top-secret and all. But not with Lacey, not after what I sense she’s been through.
“This place is enchanting. Your knowledge of plants—” She freezes as we round a bend behind the greenhouse, tucked near a windbreak of pines. In the distance, targets give away the next part of my plan.
“You up for this, Pepper?” I ask, trying to read her ambivalence.
Her face hardens, eyes flicking to mine. “Have to be.” She bites her lip, but the tremor in her chin betrays her.
I unpack the ATV, pulling out the big, black rifle case, smaller handgun box, and a bag with ammo, scopes, tripods of various sizes and types, and tools. We begin by breaking each firearm down, checking safety, and loading. Her face is stony.
Next, I hand her the rifle, show her how to line it, stand behind her, body curling around her like in the kitchen lastnight. Never touching, her quiet shield. Her hands quiver, as we go over sighting, recoil, where to hold it against her shoulder. Ear protection on, eye protection, steady hands over hers, working in tandem. Until it’s time to stand back, let her protect herself.
Her finger tenses, pulling back, and the rifle jumps, throwing her back. The crack splits the stillness, echoing through the trees. She turns toward me, not thinking, and I have to push the muzzle away quickly. “Never point at anything you don’t intend to kill,” I say calmly but firmly.
Her eyes water, her face on the edge of shattering. I take the rifle from her, carefully setting it aside. “Hey, talk me through what you’re feeling.”
Her voice trembles. “The sheer force. The power. It’s terrifying.”
“It’s protection, too,” I say firmly, though warmly.
Her eyelids flutter. “But I could never?—”
“You could if you had to … whether a man, a bear, or something else. You could.”
“But who would I be after?” she asks, voice thin.
The words hit close to home, the question I’ve wrestled with ever since leaving the service. “Alive to find out.” Not trite. Not clever. Unmercifully true.
“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” she gasps, overwhelm cresting.
I grab her by the shoulders, leveling my gaze on her. Trails of fire burn up and down my arms, radiating from her flesh beneath her coat. Even without touching, she’s the raw ache in my chest. “You can do this, and you need to until you feel comfortable. Got it? Maybe we’ll switch to the handgun for a bit. Let you get a feel for that before returning to the rifle.”
Her face is conflicted.
I add, “After that, we’ll change it up. Do something you’ll love. I promise.”
“Okay,” she says through clenched teeth, her cheeks flushed, her face twitching like she’s seconds away from throwing up her hands and running back to the ATV.
But an hour later, she’s a fucking crackshot, examining the holes she put in the paper target with relish. “Sure you don’t want to take up hunting?” I tease. “Much rather make the stew than get the animal.”
“Oh, no,” she giggles. “I’m the stew maker. I have recipes from my grandma that are to die for.”
Pretty much everything about this woman is to die for. Emotion catches in my throat. I pack up the gun and supplies, repacking the ATV. “Next spot’s only a short hike. Want to walk?” I ask gruffly.
“Sure.”
As we pass beneath a glowing canopy of aspens and larches, I reach out, take her hand in mine, slide my fingers between hers. Her small palm, her dainty fingers feel made for mine.
Up the winding trail, we descend into a small grove of ancient apple trees. Her breath catches in her throat, a spark of recognition behind her eyes. “An orchard!”
“Come on,” I urge. “Haven’t reached the best part yet.” Golden light filters through the twisted branches heavy with fruit—feral beauty, half-wild and sun-dappled. The smell of apple skins, damp earth, the saccharine musk of ripe fruit, and the incessant drone of bees.
“But how?” she asks, eyes devouring the canopy overhead.
“Legend says these orchards were planted by Chinese immigrants to the area way back in the 19th century. Miners, railroad workers. Not commercial orchards but to support their families and a life carved out of the wilderness. Vanished from these mountains long ago, but their touch remains on the land.”
“Guess some roots run deeper than people remember,” she says, looking up at the showy apples hanging overhead. Red and green, blush and mixed. She strains towards one, standing on her tiptoes, fingers scraping the shiny surface just out of reach.
I grab it without stretching, eyes locking on hers. “Sweetest ones always hide higher.”
