Page 3 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Three

LACEY

By the time we reach the cabin, the last of the daylight bleeds out over the valley, staining the sky in copper and rose. Crickets hum through the tall grass, and the wind carries the scent of damp earth and pine sap.

My eyes adjust slowly to the shift from that fading gold to the softer interior glow of Anson’s A-frame cabin—warm light pooling over the wooden floors.

The change feels like stepping into another world.

Like my nerves adjusting to his lodging proposition: hesitant, uncertain, a little dazzled by the warmth after the autumnal chill outdoors.

He moves ahead of me, broad shoulders filling the doorway.

Amber spills across his profile, catching in his hair.

I pause on the threshold, heart racing. I told myself this was practical.

Professional. But standing here, wrapped in his mountain quiet, practicality feels like a lie I almost believe.

My fingers tighten on the strap of my purse until the leather squeaks.

Constructed from light-blond logs and finished to a honeyed gleam, masculinity and coziness collide—warmed pine, worn handles, golden light throwing honeyed pools across the floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows drink the day’s last light.

Outside, the peaks catch fire with sunset.

Inside, every line of wood seems to hum with stored heat.

“This is breathtaking.”

“Better than the inn,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, striding past me with a tilt of his head.

I follow, hesitant, until he nudges open a wide doorway to a room anchored by a rustic, hand-hewn bed.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the opposite wall, neatly stacked with ancient, leather-bound volumes.

I catch it again—his scent, all spice and wood smoke. Against it, my own perfume blooms, a hint of apple blossom and vanilla that makes my chest ache. Sweet meeting strong. Heaven meeting earth.

“Got to change out the sheets. Wasn’t expecting a guest—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to put you out or—” I stop before admitting what I really mean … bring trouble to your door.

He turns, one brow raised. “Not staying at the Forest Grove Inn. End of story.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words dry up. He’s right, probably. The red-bearded man in town hadn’t had kind things to say about the place either.

Anson’s expression softens a shade. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it.

His storm-gray eyes narrow, and he runs a hand over his chin. The delicious masculine scratch of hair against his work-hardened hand awakens a throb in a place I refuse to admit. “I’m gonna to go out on a limb. But you strike me as an apple-cider-tea kind of girl. Or maybe green-apple?”

The corners of my mouth tip up before I can stop them. The moment feels fragile, too intimate. “Why would you guess that?”

“Because of the fond, far-off look you got describing your grandparents’ apple orchard. It meant something to you.”

I look away, the sudden sting behind my eyes catching me off guard. It’s been a long time since anyone paid attention to what matters to me.

He clears his throat and steps toward the stove. “Teas are all house-made here—herbs, fruits, vegetables from the ranch. Only thing I don’t grow myself are a few spices and nuts. Locally sourced where possible. Responsibly sourced otherwise. You got any allergies I should know about?”

“No allergies,” I say softly. “Thank you for asking.”

He fills the kettle and nods, gas stove hissing as he lights the burner. “That’s the beauty of growing and cooking your own food. You know every piece of what goes into it.”

The kettle hums to life, and warmth begins to seep through the room—metal on flame, fire on air—until the cabin feels like a heartbeat we share.

He pours the steaming water into a wide mug, the scent of apples and cinnamon unfurling like a memory. Steam ghosts between us, blurring his face for a heartbeat before clearing again. He slides it toward me, fingers brushing the handle but never mine.

“Careful,” he says. “Still hot.”

“You aren’t having any?”

“After a shower.”

I cradle the mug despite his caution, letting the warmth seep into my palms. “This smells incredible.”

He half-smiles, nodding toward the living room. “Make yourself at home while I get a fire going.”

I follow and sink into a light leather couch; it squeaks as I settle in. I snuggle against the accent pillows patterned in Navajo-style geometrics.

I take a tentative sip from the sturdy stoneware mug stamped with a bear.

The sweetness hits first—honey and fruit—followed by a mellow spice that feels like safety.

I blink hard. The first sip loosens something between my ribs.

The next pulls heat into my chest until the room hushes around the mug.

He kneels before the hearth, and my eyes devour his back, a wall of muscle rippling beneath a khaki thermal.

The way his Wranglers strain against thick thighs and that muscular ass?

My heart’s a hummingbird. The firelight glints off his short-cut, burnished-gold hair.

The composite is torture of the most exquisite kind.

I cross my legs, the ache between them undeniable. What is wrong with me? Somewhere in my body, a door I nailed shut long ago inches open.

“You’ve built something beautiful here. All of it.”

He leans back, gaze steady but unreadable. “Wasn’t much beauty in my life before … or purpose.”

His voice carries an undercurrent I ache to dive into. But intimacy is mutual, and I’m not ready to discuss my life with him. Or anyone, for that matter.

Instead, I clear my throat. “Are bears a thing around here?”

He chuckles low. “You could say so.” His voice has a steel to it, like he’s holding back.

Don’t know if it’s to keep from scaring me or something else.

“Wolves, too. You got a problem with big predators?” He glances over his shoulder, and I instantly feel like the hunted.

A spark pricks low in my belly where fear should live.

He stands, eyeing me warmly, shifting his weight. “Anything else I can get you before I work on that shower?”

The golden light from the hearth dances across his face. His jaw is square-cut and bold, his features hard in all the right ways. I shake my head, unwilling to trust my voice.

“Alright, then,” he murmurs, softer than he needs to. “Be back shortly. Don’t let the bears get you.” He winks, boyish grin melting me.

I savor the cozy atmosphere, strategizing how to spend the next hour or more. I have books to look over, interview questions to review, notes to take about the day—how to write about Anson, the incredible beauty of Montana, and Off-Duty Ranch.

The faint overtone of sandalwood fills my nostrils. My eyes flicker to the hallway, and I jump, nearly spilling my tea. “Oh!”

He chuckles like a lion growls. Confident, a little dangerous. A white towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand, drying his hair. My gaze traces the long, silvery scar down his torso. Then, it drops. God, does it drop—right to where I shouldn’t be looking.

His face darkens, pupils widening. I force myself to look away, staring hard at my mug until my reflection steadies.

A streak of anger sears through me—better than desire. “But it hasn’t even been five minutes. How could you be done so quickly?”

“Navy shower. Two minutes tops.”

“Oh!” It’s all I can manage. My face burns all the way down my neck. Maybe you should get dressed. I open my mouth to scold him, but he cuts me off.

“Just wanted to make sure you haven’t bailed on me. Need more tea or anything before I get dressed?”

“Nope, still good.” My voice cracks. I want to bury my face in my hands, my pulse pounding in my temples. This is my worst nightmare. Old-man name, old-man occupation, old-man grump, yet the towel hangs scandalously on a V of hipbones.

He chuckles as he walks away, and I shamelessly track him, tracing the outline of what has to be the finest ass on this planet. I hate the plush white towel for keeping me from the truth.

A few minutes later, Anson saunters back into the room wearing gray jogging pants and a white V-neck T-shirt.

It’s ridiculous. From his broad shoulders and narrow waist to his big, bare feet, my insides are in knots.

He pads into the kitchen, grabs a mug, makes another tea. “You sure you don’t need a warm-up?”

Warm-up? Yes, please. Wait, what the hell are we even talking about?

My mind feels fuzzy, my body weak. I look at the mug in my hand. Tea! He’s talking about tea, Lacey. Get yourself together. “Still fine,” I say with a too-big grin.

He takes a seat next to me, leaving a cushion’s width between us. It relieves me, though every cell in my body wants him closer … much, much closer. “Tea okay?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Hmm. So good. So cozy … and safe. I can’t thank you enough.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he murmurs. “Tell me about yourself, Lacey.” He pronounces my name like a sacred oath. Chills run down my arms, though I’m not the least bit cold.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I answer, trying to pull it together. “I’m the interviewer, which means I ask the questions.”

“That’s not gonna work for me,” he grumbles.

“And why not?”

“Because I’m not one of those media-type guys. What you see is what you get. No fancy, prewritten answers. No highfalutin words. Just plain-spoken, plain-living. So, a strict interview? Not my thing. But a conversation—that I can do.”

The warmth radiating from his stormy eyes, his flesh, his face is too much. His voice drops; my breath follows.

I inhale. “So, an unstructured interview, then. Like a friendly conversation. Open-ended, free-flowing.”

He nods. “Hope that won’t make things harder for you.”

I shrug. “Just might take a bit longer than I originally anticipated to get everything I need. You’re okay with me taping our conversations, right?”

He doesn’t even blink.

Despite the non-reaction, I make a show of pressing the record button and holding my phone. Like a hidden shield between us. “So, tell me about yourself. How you got into organic farming.”

He sets his mug on the rustic wooden coffee table in front of us, staring off for a long moment. “Raised by a single mom. Thought I had something to prove, so I joined the Navy—”

“A sailor, then?”

He shrugs reluctantly. “SEAL. Don’t like to talk about it.”

My whole body stiffens, though I work to stay composed. Not all men who’ve worn the uniform are bad. But no words can soothe the visceral reaction of my body. My grip tightens on the phone, the light winks back at me.

Anson stares at me thoughtfully but says nothing. Thankfully.

The big cowboy scratches his chest, finding his words. “Wounded warrior. Where the scars come from, in case you’re wondering. Ambush, not at liberty to give details.” His eyes flicker to mine, a dark and swirling thunderstorm.

“After the rehabilitation, the Purple Heart, all that bullshit … guess you could say I was aimless, directionless. No idea what to do with myself outside of the service. Explored all the usual civilian paths—police, sheriff’s deputy, security.

But I’d already seen enough of the worst side of people. Wanted something else.”

“And so, you found horticulture?”

“Nope. I found pain, heartache, disappointment.” The words come out flat. His jaw works once. A muscle jumps, and he won’t quite meet my gaze.

“My grandpa died. Vietnam vet. Like a lifeline to me.” His words are raw—slow and deliberate.

“Felt untethered and kind of went inside myself. Where you’re not supposed to go as a vet.

” He stabs his fingers into his shower-damp hair, eyeing me.

“Sorry if this isn’t the story you want.

You can cut all this later, do your writer magic.

But this is where it began, so it’s where I have to start. ”

“You’re doing fine,” I whisper.

“Turned to reading and hiking to clear my head. Eventually, came across the line that changed my life. Voltaire’s Candide: ‘We must cultivate our garden.’”

My mind explodes at his words. “Wait, you read French literature.”

He chuckles. “An English translation. Part of the library I inherited from Grandpa. Still have it in my bedroom—thin, dog-eared, half the pages underscored. That line? Highlighted, underlined, circled. Looked like it got him through some things. Figured I’d try it. Only I took it literally.”

He stops, stares at me for a long moment. Like he’s trying to figure me out. Or maybe whatever’s going on between us. It feels like a third person in the room, can’t be ignored.

“Well, it’s obviously working for you.”

“Being in nature is working for me. Away from violence, destruction, ill intention. Focusing on what really matters.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, wispy-voiced.

“Family, good food, good living.”

“Speaking of food,” I say, stomach rumbling again.

He smiles. “Ready to cook together?”

More ready than he could possibly know.