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

Chapter

Six

ANSON

When she’s gone, the cabin still smells like her—vanilla and apple blossoms tangled with the faint spice of sandalwood. Home, somehow.

Gravel grinds beneath tires as Lacey parks in front of my cabin, next to my truck. I look through the kitchen window, watching her march to the front door.

My fists clench and unclench, the ache from mending fences nothing compared to the one gnawing in my chest. The need to protect her burns like muscle memory.

Sunlight glances off the porch railing like a blade of warning. She grips it, white-knuckled, ascending the stairs a chore. My scarf is a talisman in her hand.

Lacey hesitates in the doorway, her body half-turned as if expecting to be told to leave. The sight guts me. “You’ve been gone a while.”

“Town errands. Reports. Bureaucracy,” she says. Her voice is steady, but her bottom lip trembles. Her eyes slide past me like I’m furniture.

I don’t press, just nod toward the picnic table out back. “Come eat before you pass out.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Want to.”

She moves through the room and out the slider to the covered porch, scarf dropping on the couch as she passes. I follow with plates stacked high.

“Homemade bread. More of your Frankenzucchini loaf,” I say with a lopsided grin.

“So, it didn’t kill you?” she teases.

“Delicious, actually.”

“Lots of butter and sugar will do that.”

I chuckle. “Lettuce, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes—still warm from the vines. Roasted garlic, goat cheese, herbs. Cold cuts from last year’s hunts. Anything I’m missing?”

Her eyes round. “This is incredible.”

“Almost forgot the best part.” I return with jars of pickles, peppers, mustard, and a pitcher of apple cider.

“And did you can those, too?”

“Eldon,” I say. “Kitchen wizard. You’re welcome to our daily spreads.”

I pour the golden cider into unmatched glasses and slide one to her, careful not to touch. The scar at my wrist catches the light, a remnant from another life.

“Patrick called ten minutes ago,” I say, jaw tight.

Color fades from her cheeks. Her eyes go moss and amber. “About the fences?”

“That, too.”

She studies the rough-hewn table like it has answers. “You don’t have to watch me like a hawk.”

“Maybe I like watching.”

She chooses the far head of the table. The distance shouldn’t sting, but it does.

I try for casual and miss. “Town errands. Meet anyone interesting?”

She reaches for the jars.

“Careful. Those peppers aren’t for the faint of heart.”

“Grown here?” She lifts a pale, slender one.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her cheeks flush at the first bite, then she smiles and goes back for more. “Spicy but delicious.”

“You’re a regular heatseeker.”

She smiles, chasing it with cider. Then, she takes another.

I can’t help grinning. “Damn, Lace—for a city-girl journalist, you eat like a ranch hand.”

She laughs, shoulders easing. “And you’re giving rancher, man-of-the-house vibes with that apron.”

“Guilty.”

“You know, for as big and intimidating as you come across, you’re really a softie, downright domestic.”

The word scrapes something raw. I scratch my eyebrow, cover with a gulp of cider. “I like to take care of what’s mine.”

Her face glows.

“You know, this cabin, the farm, my small corner of the ranch.”

“Tend your garden,” she says, lifting her glass. I mirror her, ruing the distance. Our glasses hover in midair, tension thick between them.

“My own little Garden of Eden.”

“It is not good that man should be alone,” she blurts, covering her mouth.

I hold her gaze a beat too long; she looks away, apology tumbling out.

I drawl, “The gist of it,” and let the moment breathe.

“No.” She raises her chin in challenge. “Isn’t the gist how much trouble women cause? Eve ruined everything.”

My throat tightens, heat rising. “Adam didn’t protect her. Left her alone when she needed him most.”

“Never heard it spun that way,” she says, eyes flickering to mine. Swirling with uncertainty. “But maybe you’re onto something.”

“No preacher here. Take it with a grain of salt.”

She slathers thick slices of bread with saffron-colored mustard. “And this is yours, too?”

“Course. Mustard plants are easy. Grow like weeds. Don’t need much.”

She piles her sandwich with cold cuts, vegetables, lettuce, pickles. Her enthusiasm warms my heart. At least through the food I grow, the meals I make, I can change something for the better.

I follow suit, trying not to stare. But I can’t get enough of her. Like she’s the only sight my thirsty eyes need. She stares at me more than she should, too. Her face beams despite herself. The silence between us feels safe, good even, as we eat lunch, enjoying the sight of one another.

Sunlight warms her buttery hair, cheeks glowing, and face opening with each bite. I could make her happy. Keep her well-fed and protected. But hard to tell where those invisible walls of hers begin. All I know is they’re thicker than fresh churned butter.

“What next, Cowboy?” she asks as we stand together at the sink. Her washing dishes, me drying and putting them away. Her fingers brush mine when I take a dripping plate, a static spark snapping between us. Sandalwood and apple blossom swirl together in the steam.

“You’ll see,” I say with a wink.