Page 2 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Two

ANSON

Lacey parks while my mind races. Words that meant little before now wash over me with a weight I can’t shake. A week. She said she’d stay for a week, devote a chapter of her farm-to-table deep dive to Off-Duty.

Seven days aren’t nearly enough. Not with that silky blonde hair, those rosy cheeks, that golden skin and thick, pink lips. Sunshine in human form with curves for days.

Her almond eyes gleam amber and moss, lashes thick and dark. Her brows tilt in an imperious arch, but wariness flickers there too. Like she doesn’t quite know what to make of me.

I wait, long-sleeved khaki shirt and Stetson back in place, gloves in my back pocket. My heart flops against my ribs like a caught fish. My pulse buzzes at my temples. Mouth dry and wet all at once. I take far too long choosing my next words.

Until I don’t use words at all. Instead, I sweep a hand toward the big red barn, iconic against the golden prairie and its heavy-headed grass.

“Know we’ll dive into the garden and the larger ranch more over the next week. But how about a quick tour?”

She nods.

“Carrots, leeks, onions, rutabagas over here. Spinach, lettuce, second-harvest greens near the house where they catch shade in the afternoon—”

“The soil here isn’t the dry, cracked dirt I’d expected,” she says, bending forward to grab a handful.

I try not to notice her round ass and ample hips, but she’s stunning. No other way to put it. And her tight-fitting jeans are a walking, sashaying crime.

Her voice calls me back. “Rich and dark, the kind that crumbles like chocolate cake when you lift a handful.” The faint smell of earth and sun-warmed straw rises, grounding me in the place … with this captivating woman.

“Worked hard to improve it over time. Organic matter, aged manure, fallen leaves … all of it’s helped with the soil structure, nutrients, fertility, microbial activity,” I drawl, expecting to lose her.

Instead, she listens raptly, hands covered in the soil I’ve devoted years to.

Nothing sexier than a woman willing to get her hands dirty.

“Makes me think of the earth at my grandparents’ apple orchard back East. Beautiful, rich, nearly black, and capable of producing gorgeous, big vegetables.”

I whistle. “Sounds like I’ve got some competition then.”

She nods, eyes laughing. “Yep, you won’t impress me with your long carrots or big zucchini.”

I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Got to ask you to withhold judgment until you see my eggplants, then.”

She reddens, and I’m here for it. Don’t want to come across as a creep, though. Should get back on track with this farm tour. “Kale,” I say flatly, nodding toward a verdant couple of rows.

She grins, looking relieved by the change of subject. “Hipster heaven.”

My mouth twitches as I try not to smile. “Don’t let the bummy clothes and unshaven face fool you. I’m not the type to charge twenty bucks for a handful of weeds. But with garlic and bacon grease? I’ll fight a man for the last bite.”

She giggles, airy like birdsong. “Personally, I like it sautéed with lemon and garlic or creamed.”

I rub my stomach, smiling broadly. “I’d give either of those a try. Maybe with antelope or wild boar steaks. You do eat meat, right?”

“Absolutely, and I love wild game. Do you hunt?”

“Have to around here … just to keep our livestock safe.”

She nods, a faint smile on her lips.

“Course I apply for tags. Enjoy going out when I get one, and it doesn’t conflict with harvest time. How about you?”

“Never even touched a gun,” she says, voice shaking. There it is again. That whiff of fear. Like something about the life she’s lived up to this point leaves her on edge.

I stop, scowling. “You should at least know how to use one. For self-defense.”

Her eyes dart to mine, her face unreadable, before her gaze flickers away. She moves forward, and I follow a few steps behind, admiring how the slight breeze tugs at her curls, sending golden threads dancing against the periwinkle sky. Makes me jealous I can’t touch her like that.

We pass a patch of lush herbs, their fragrance filling the air—peppery basil, resinous rosemary, lemony thyme. Her stomach growls, and my lips quirk.

“When’s the last time you ate today?” I ask.

She pauses, looking up to the right for a moment. “This morning. Coffee and some eggs.”

“Not enough. Better get you fed, girl.”

Lacey says nothing, eyes scanning the fields like she’s devouring them.

I gesture to the rows sloping toward the barn. “Fall light hits here longer. Makes the greens sweeter, the carrots earthier. Most folks don’t know it, but the season writes the flavor.”

Admiration crosses her face. “Can I quote you on that?”

“Sure, but I didn’t come up with it.”

“Did one of the organic farmers you mentored with?” she asks.

“Actually, I’m self-taught. But I read it somewhere.”

A chorus of clucks drifts from the coop, and somewhere farther off, a horse nickers, the sound low and steady. The place feels alive in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Cabbage!” She laughs, admiring the huge red and green heads pushing out of the brown earth.

“Those got away from me,” I admit with a sheepish shrug. “Turns out cowboys only like so much coleslaw.”

“That’s a shame. Coleslaw is a gift from God. So is cabbage soup.”

Her laugh pulls me under. Damn, I’m falling harder by the second.

“That’s what I’m saying. Maybe we’ll whip up something before the end of your stay.”

She points to the oversized zucchini. “And something with these.”

“Not sure you want to. Think they cross-pollinated with my pumpkins or squash. Can’t vouch for what they actually are anymore.”

“Frankenfoods,” she snorts, then flushes, embarrassed.

But I love it—the unguarded sound, her walls dropping for a heartbeat. Lets me know I could make it happen again.

“Maybe you’re onto something. Organic Frankenzucchini. There a market for that?”

She giggles, tilts her head, studies the mystery vegetables. “Guess I see a hint of orange. We could try soup or bread.”

“I doubt it’ll be worth the effort.” My eyes catch hers. Lie. There isn’t a thing on this earth I wouldn’t try with her.

What the hell is happening to me?

“How about after I take a quick shower, we throw something together with fresh-picked produce? Your choice.” My throat tightens as sparks flicker behind her eyes. “Drinks and dinner at my place?” More rides on her answer than I care to admit.

She flushes. “I don’t know...” The words turn oddly cold. “I need to get back to town for the night. You know, scope out the inn where I’m staying.”

“Inn?” I furrow my brows. “There’s no place to stay in Forest Grove.”

“What do you mean? I have a reservation.” She digs through her purse while I stand there like a fool, chest aching just to look at her. Beauty like the ice-dusted Lone Grizzly Mountains. Too stunning to remember, too breathtaking to forget.

She hands me a folded paper. Forest Grove Inn.

No fucking way. I crumple it in my fist.

She gasps, hazel eyes going wide like a startled doe.

“This is for your own good,” I mutter. “That’s no place for a woman traveling alone.”

“I live in Seattle. Believe me, I know how to take care of myself.”

“City girl doesn’t make you invincible.” I run a hand over my forehead.

“And why’s that?” She props her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. Sparks fly. Too damn sexy for a man who deals in potatoes and rutabagas, not hearts.

“You think because you’re big, because you’ve been in the military—” She exhales hard, bursting at the seams. Her mouth opens, and I wait. Instead, she swallows the thought. “That you can control women. Tell us what to do—”

The way she spits military has me leaning back. That word is a wound for her. Father, lover, brother? Someone in uniform hurt her.

“Nope. More like a concerned citizen who wants to see his interviewer alive tomorrow.” I remove my hat, rake a hand through my hair. “Besides, you’ll cut out driving if you stay here instead of in town.”

She bites her bottom lip, and I’m burning alive. Damn, what I’d give for a taste. But the way she looks at me? I’m the enemy.

She shrugs. “This is small-town U.S.A. You mean to tell me there’s crime in podunk Forest Grove?”

“Every town’s got a spot for the dregs. Forest Grove Inn is that place. A halfway house for vagrants, druggies, prisoners fresh out of the state pen.”

“The state pen?” Her voice tightens.

“Few hundred miles off, but a straight shot hitchhiking—”

“But isn’t hitchhiking illegal? I saw signs everywhere—”

I chuckle. “Didn’t end up in prison by following the law.”

Her frown lingers.

“You can stay in my cabin,” I offer. “Until you get everything sorted.”

She shakes her head, chin trembling. What story hides in that subtle gesture?

“No. I can’t drag you—or the ranch—into my troubles. I should’ve planned better.”

“I’ll stay in the bunkhouse with the hands. You’ll have the place to yourself. Spare, minimally furnished, like most bachelor pads. But safe, warm, cozy.”

Her cheeks pinken.

“And you’ll be in farm-to-table heaven. How often do you get invited to stay at a veteran-owned”—she flinches at the word—“horse sanctuary, organic farm, and permaculture haven?”

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

“It’ll give us time for private tours,” I push on. “Winemaking, composting, harvesting, animal husbandry. More time to enjoy fork-to-farm meals, too.”

Why do I sound like a used car salesman?

“But I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” she whispers, eyes dropping. Someone’s accused her of that before.

“You could never be trouble.” Too quick, too raw. Really, I’m imagining all the trouble my hands could get into tracing her soft lines. “And since the nearest decent hotel’s an hour away, this is the practical choice.”

“I don’t know.” Her tone darkens.

“If I were older, the way you imagined me, would this decision be so hard?”

She gives me a look, sly as a cat with a stomach full of canary. Warmth floods my chest, messy and impossible.

“If I say ‘yes,’ will you stop it with the trick questions?”

I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

But she doesn’t return the gesture. Instead, she regards me apprehensively, her cheeks flushed, a torrent swirling in her eyes.