Page 15 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

LACEY

TWO WEEKS LATER

The meadows blaze gold, craggy, snow-dusted mountains towering behind.

Everywhere I look, the world glows. Orange pumpkins lined along bright green hay bales, aspen and birch leaves amber against the cloudless, cerulean sky, where great flocks of migrating birds pass.

Murmurations of fast-moving starlings, gaggles of lumbering Canada geese, and a conspiracy of sleek ravens. Along the edge of the farm fields, a rafter of wild turkeys picks through harvested grain, gobbling and bobbing their heads.

A young buck stands in the shadow of the trees, wide-eyed and curious before startling and gamboling out of sight. The smell of caramel and apple butter wind through the crisp air.

Harvest Festival. My first real one.

And this time, I’m not the stranger with a suitcase full of worry. I’m part of something.

Music drifts from the main stage. Chief Patrick’s brother tunes his guitar while kids chase each other between the booths. Ro sells sugar cookies shaped like acorns and leaves, cheeks flushed, grin wide and proud.

Eldon’s booth has a line a mile long for pies, their buttery, sugary fragrance wafting across the ranch. Laura stands dutifully beside him, dishing out housemade vanilla bean ice cream, face beaming as she greets locals.

Anson’s hand finds mine as we weave through the crowd. Warm, rough, grounding. He’s traded his Carhartt jacket for an orange and black flannel that matches mine—his idea of a joke, though he’s the one who picked it out.

“Matching shirts,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear. “People are gonna start talking.”

“They already are,” I tease. “Small town, remember?”

He grins, presses a kiss to my temple. “Good. Means they know you’re mine.”

It still surprises me, the ease of it … this peace, this belonging.

The fear that used to hum beneath my skin has quieted. Nights are restful now, wrapped in his steel-strong arms, lulled by his warm breath, spice, and sandalwood. My dreams are full of laughter and lazy mornings, not shadows and running.

Patrick and his wife stop by our booth—Anson’s booth, technically, but he insists we share it. The table’s loaded with jars of homemade pickled peppers, mustard, and our new and improved apple butter.

Patrick lifts a jar, squints at the label. “‘Made with Extra Love,’ huh?”

“Our secret ingredient,” I say.

Patrick scrutinizes me before breaking into a smile. “You two sure that’s FDA approved?”

We chuckle.

“New branding, too?” The chief raises a thick eyebrow.

Anson slides his arm around my waist. “Partnership,” he says proudly. “She’s got the eye for it.”

I nudge him. “And the burnt fingertips to prove it.”

He chuckles, deep and low, and something in my chest goes soft and molten.

When the lull hits after lunch, we sneak away to the orchard. The same one where everything began.

The air is sweet with overripe fruit and the faint hum of bees. Rows of trees bow heavy with apples, the light slanting warm and honey-gold.

I pause under a familiar branch, touch the rough bark scarred by years of storms. “Feels different now,” I say quietly.

Anson steps up behind me, wraps his arms around me. “It is different.”

“How so?”

“Storm’s over.” He brushes his lips along my neck, voice thick with meaning. “Now it’s about the harvest.”

I smile, turn in his arms, and kiss him slowly.

Somewhere in the distance, children giggle, a guitar strums, and the scent of cinnamon and vanilla drift from the festival tents.

When we finally wander back toward the ranch booths, Ro spots us first. “You’re late for judging!” she scolds, pointing a frosting-covered spoon at us.

Anson chuckles. “Fashionably late.”

Willow snorts from behind her hot cocoa and coffee stand. “About time, you two. They’re announcing winners for best homemade product.”

A few minutes later, Patrick’s onstage, reading names from a card.

“Third place goes to Laura and Eldon for their outstanding Pumpkin Cream Pie.”

Cheers and whistles rise.

“Second place goes to Willow and Ro for their mouthwatering Apple-Cinnamon Cookies.”

More applause.

“First place…” He glances up, grinning. “Anson Baxter and Lacey Worthington for their incomparable Honey-Spice Apple Butter.”

Anson squeezes my hand, eyes gleaming with pride.

“Guess the missing ingredient really was love,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

I laugh, swat his chest. “Don’t start quoting me to me.”

When the crowd disperses, we end up back at our booth, a quiet moment amid the bustle.

He restocks jars, and I pretend to help, though really I’m admiring his tall, burly build and the way the muscles in his corded forearms strain against the softness of his flannel.

The sunlight catches in his hair, burnished gold, and I can’t stop smiling.

“So,” he says casually, screwing a lid tight. “You’ve been working on that book of yours again.”

“I have,” I admit. “But I’m thinking of changing direction.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “Oh?”

I run my finger along the rim of a jar, straightening its red ribbon bow. “What if it wasn’t Farm-to-Table Montana after all?”

“What then?”

I meet his gaze, feel the warmth rise in my cheeks. “What if it were Farm-to-Table Rancher’s Wife?”

His expression softens—slow, simmering, the kind of look that turns my knees weak. “Depends,” he drawls. “You planning on interviewing one of those ranchers’ wives, or…?”

“Maybe just the cowboy I know best.”

He grins. “Good answer. Sounds like ring shopping is in order.”

I swat at his shoulder playfully. “There you go, jumping to conclusions. I haven’t even been formally asked.”

He catches my hand, brings it to his lips, kisses the back of it with quiet reverence. “Guess your cowboy should do something about that, too.”

He wraps his other arm around me, pulls me close, and plants a soft kiss. “Especially since you agreed to stay … to make my house your home.”

“Our home. It’ll be crazy, though, once I really dive into the book writing. There’ll be so much to do. Hope you’re prepared.”

“Prepared for that and much more, Wife.”

Wife. One syllable. Delight rushes through me, embodied in an ear-to-ear grin that Anson echoes.

“Might even help you test the recipes. Could be a tough job, though. Long hours. Demanding supervisor.”

“I’ll manage,” I tease.

“Pretty sure you’ll do more than manage, Pepper.”

The festival lights flicker to life as dusk settles. Music rises, people dance, and laughter spills through the valley—like sunshine after rain.

Anson holds me as we sway to Morgan Wallen, my heart full to the brim. For the first time in forever, my story doesn’t end with running. It ends with roots.

The wind changes, carrying the scent of dry leaves and ripe fruit. I tip my head back, breathing it in.

“Feels like home,” I whisper.

Anson’s arms tighten around me. “That’s because it is.”

And under the soft hum of music and the shimmer of harvest light, I finally believe him.

An Autumnal glow has settled over the ranch, the cider’s warm, and Anson’s got a surprise that turns one quiet night into a forever memory neither of them will forget.