Page 1 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

One

LACEY

Somewhere in the middle of Montana, Audible replays Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Only I’m no longer listening.

Instead, my eyes ache with the beauty of the place. The white and black trunks of aspens, leaves glowing like gold in the warm afternoon sunlight. The larches burnished and blazing against the infinite periwinkle sky where wisps of cloud drift lazily above.

I roll down the driver side window of my candy-apple-red Toyota Corolla, inhaling the fragrances of fall. Dry leaves—earthy, musky, slightly sweet. Warm soil, with a hint of petrichor from this afternoon’s light drizzle.

Then the sweet, fruity scent of woodsmoke, pungent and cozy, curling from some distant hearth.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear someone was burning applewood, my personal favorite.

The aroma tugs at the hollow space in my chest, the part of me that longs for belonging as much as it longs for warmth.

It nudges me back to my grandparents’ orchards in New York’s Catskills—sprawling verdant acres filled with every kind of apple tree imaginable, grafted together with painstaking care by my grandfather and his farmhands. My summer haven and home during my parents’ painful, years-long divorce.

Besides using the apples for ciders of every flavor and shade, sauces, butters, pies, strudels, and more, they piled the wood high for fall bonfires and smoking meats. My mouth floods with anticipation at the memory.

A slight chill threads through the afternoon air. I ache to bury myself in feather down and flannel before a roaring fire. I can only hope the hotel I’m staying at will be as cozy as the feeling in the air.

In Forest Grove, I squint at my maps app, trying to get my bearings. Gruff Bear River runs to one side, the town itself no bigger in real life than the dot on the screen.

A small collection of buildings clustered around Main Street.

A couple of dive bars hinting at eclectic folks and wild stories.

A grocery, hardware store, and church. A few diners, a stoplight.

It’s the kind of place you’d find on a winding road along the Eastern Seaboard, dappled with orange and red leaves and patches of sunlight.

Past Forest Grove, I see Off-Duty Rescue Ranch, where my contact for a new non-fiction book is located. Anson Baxter. Farm-to-table agriculturalist, permaculture pioneer, strawberry winemaker. Ancient as the soil he cultivates.

Although I’ve never seen him, the name conjures an image of an old man. So did his grumpy drawl the one time I got him on the phone.

My shoulders ache from hours behind the wheel. I pray this wizened Navy farmer is worth it. My editor, Cherise, insisted a profile on him for Farm-to-Table Montana was non-negotiable.

I haven’t seen a photo of the man. Couldn’t find much about the ranch online, either. Just that they work with horses and run what you might call a collective, each resident contributing in their own way.

Local produce and ingredients for Anson. Ash who heads up the horse ranch—my most helpful contact so far. Eldon the chef, Miles the lumberjack. I strain to recall all the names Anson rattled off in that clipped, impatient voice of his, as if he only has so much breath, so many words to spend.

“Miss, you look lost. Can I help?” A gruff man asks, red hair and beard threaded with gray.

“Maybe. I’m looking for the Forest Grove Inn.”

He scowls, eyebrows darting into his hairline.

“Is there a problem?”

He blinks slowly a couple of times, like he’s deciding how much to say.

He shrugs. “Have to see for yourself. Some people might be fine with it.”

That sounds ominous. Still, this isn’t my first small town. Pretty sure I can handle rustic Montana.

“Could you point me in the right direction?”

“First right. Second left. The road’ll curve about a mile down toward the Dead Horse Gulch. Can’t miss it after the abandoned gas station.”

“Sounds charming,” I say, sarcasm lacing my words.

He clears his throat, tittering like there’s a joke I don’t get. “That’d be one way to put it. Best of luck to you.”

I frown, not ready to deal with that yet.

I can’t call this day complete until I make contact with Anson, nail the guy down for our first interview.

I have to make this happen—to prove to my family and friends that this writing career isn’t just a pipe dream.

To prove to myself that the whole me I once was still exists.

With how difficult he’s been to reach by phone or email, I can only imagine it’ll be pulling teeth to line up a series of in-person interviews during my stay. But I’m armed with determination.

I want to be the next Alice Waters, though I don’t see a French Laundry in my future. Never been much of a cook. But a stack of fork-to-table books that set the new standard for organic food production? Yes, please. Legendary gardens overflowing with abundant vegetables and fruits? Absolutely.

“Thank you for your help,” I say with a polite nod.

He tips his cowboy hat. “Ma’am.”

The road to Off-Duty Ranch winds and curves through some of the most pristine wilderness I’ve trekked since this road trip began.

I pass a large, brown doe by the side of the road.

Big black nose, floppy ears, large eyes, and a frenetic hesitancy by the side of the road that has my foot hovering on the brakes.

“Don’t dart out. Please don’t dart,” I half-beg, half-pray until I pass her.

Further down the dirt road, a rising knoll gives way to lush prairie and a meandering river. A bald eagle soars above its cresting currents, majestic and deep in mid-hunt. Tall grasses sway lazily in the wind, and horses and cattle graze in the shadow of looming, snow-dusted peaks.

Michael Pollan’s long gone. Replaced by Morgan Wallen, Jason Aldean, Chris Stapleton. I belt out “White Horse” at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking and straining—more bear caught in a trap than songbird crooning.

The GPS cuts in with occasional directions in lofty feminine tones. My heart jumps in my throat as I finally reach the ranch gate and follow the long drive. In the distance, I spot a massive, muscular man, bare-chested and bent over row after row of greens. He wears a well-worn brown Stetson.

Thick corded arms. Broad shoulders. Burnished gold hair and a square-cut jaw felted in afternoon stubble. Thick eyebrows, shadowing guarded storm-gray eyes. A well-proportioned nose leading to the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.

I catch myself. Thoughts like these are where danger begins. He’s too big, too strong, too obviously military. I can only hope he’s Anson’s son or grandson, and that I won’t have to deal with him beyond introductions. I bring the car to a stop, roll down the window.

“Can I help you, Miss?” The gravel in his voice sparks across my skin, crackling like fireworks in July, lighting me up in places I don’t dare acknowledge. There’s something oddly familiar about it, too.

“Name’s Lacey Worthington. I’m here to see Anson Baxter.”

He grimaces, removes his gardening gloves and Stetson, and runs thick fingers through unruly hair. He hesitates, tension thickening the air.

Is there a problem? Some reason he doesn’t want me to meet Anson?

Suddenly, he crosses the distance, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to me. Incandescent sparks flare along my palm and fingers where we touch. “Anson Baxter, that’d be me.”

At this closer distance, I notice a long scar running the length of his chest, another upsetting the stubble along the left side of his jaw, down his neck, and along the length of one arm to the wrist. His eyes sharpen, and I look away, ashamed at how I’m staring.

“Oh.” Heat spreads through my cheeks. “I thought you’d be older … a lot older.”

He scowls, putting James Dean to shame. “Thirty-one. Will that be a problem?”

Three years older than me and hotter than hell. Great.

I blink hard a couple of times, trying to find the right words. Simple question. Should have a simple answer. His scowl carves shadows deep into his face, his eyes dragging heat and warning across my skin.

He’s danger. Trouble. Something I know far too much about. Sandalwood, spice, evergreen, and a faint tang of beer. It makes sense for a lazy, late-afternoon lunch on a Friday. But my spine goes rigid, my heart flutters, my insides tremble. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should go.

But no. I have to be professional. I have to do this … for my career, for myself. “Shouldn’t be.” I swallow hard, unconvinced by my own words. “It just means I might approach the story from a slightly different angle.”

His smile spreads wider, teeth flashing. His thick, work-hardened fingers linger longer than they should over mine. Or maybe I’m the one who should let go. Only it feels too good to.

Suddenly, his hand drops, leaving me with a hollow ache I can’t quite name. My pulse trips over itself, reckless and betraying.

“Pull around the side.” He nods towards a makeshift parking lot in front of an outbuilding. “And I’ll show you my carrots.”

My breath hitches as I watch the massive, shirtless man saunter away.