Page 7 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Seven

ANSON

Ahalf hour later, I lead her out to one of the two-passenger ATVs, handing her a helmet. “Figured this might be more comfortable than one of the horses. Unless you’re a secret cowgirl?”

She giggles as if it’s the silliest thing she can imagine. The vehicle’s already fully loaded with water, snacks, everything we’ll need. As we head out, she whoops, sounding free. God, it makes my heart glad. To take a little of the weight off her.

I take her to old barns, fields of grain and cover crops. The greenhouse, where she gets lost in the rows upon rows of plants. Seedlings for winter foodstuffs, hothouse crops, gardening experiments.

My voice softens as we walk the lines. “Tomatoes, peppers—like what you sampled earlier—cucumbers, kale.”

She examines the verdant plants carefully, admiring one ripening tomato. “Gorgeous, and it keeps the tomato hornworms away?”

“In theory,” I say, unable to hide the look of disgust on my face. “Hate those things. They’re disgusting … the way they squish green.”

“Squish? But they turn into hummingbird moths.” Passion fills her voice.

“Hummingbird moths? They’re your thing?”

“They’re cool. One of my favorite insects.”

“Maybe I should start calling you hummingbird,” I tease, tenderness threading through my voice.

She shakes her head. “More like pepper.”

“Pepper. Suits you, fire-tongued and all.” I swallow hard, staring longer than I should. Again.

She looks away. I never knew intimacy had its own hum. Now, it vibrates between us. “Over here’s broccoli, green beans, and during the winter, I’ll keep arugula, sorrel, and mustard greens going there.”

I point to the rows upon rows of dainty, emerald-colored strawberry plants, tiny red jewels hidden between the broad, rough leaves.

“And last but not least, the secret to my wine.” Normally, I’d joke with anyone I show this to that I’m gonna have to kill them, this being top-secret and all.

But not with Lacey, not after what I sense she’s been through.

“This place is enchanting. Your knowledge of plants—” She freezes as we round a bend behind the greenhouse, tucked near a windbreak of pines. In the distance, targets give away the next part of my plan.

“You up for this, Pepper?” I ask, trying to read her ambivalence.

Her face hardens, eyes flicking to mine. “Have to be.” She bites her lip, but the tremor in her chin betrays her.

I unpack the ATV, pulling out the big, black rifle case, smaller handgun box, and a bag with ammo, scopes, tripods of various sizes and types, and tools. We begin by breaking each firearm down, checking safety, and loading. Her face is stony.

Next, I hand her the rifle, show her how to line it, stand behind her, body curling around her like in the kitchen last night.

Never touching, her quiet shield. Her hands quiver, as we go over sighting, recoil, where to hold it against her shoulder.

Ear protection on, eye protection, steady hands over hers, working in tandem.

Until it’s time to stand back, let her protect herself.

Her finger tenses, pulling back, and the rifle jumps, throwing her back. The crack splits the stillness, echoing through the trees. She turns toward me, not thinking, and I have to push the muzzle away quickly. “Never point at anything you don’t intend to kill,” I say calmly but firmly.

Her eyes water, her face on the edge of shattering. I take the rifle from her, carefully setting it aside. “Hey, talk me through what you’re feeling.”

Her voice trembles. “The sheer force. The power. It’s terrifying.”

“It’s protection, too,” I say firmly, though warmly.

Her eyelids flutter. “But I could never—”

“You could if you had to … whether a man, a bear, or something else. You could.”

“But who would I be after?” she asks, voice thin.

The words hit close to home, the question I’ve wrestled with ever since leaving the service. “Alive to find out.” Not trite. Not clever. Unmercifully true.

“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” she gasps, overwhelm cresting.

I grab her by the shoulders, leveling my gaze on her.

Trails of fire burn up and down my arms, radiating from her flesh beneath her coat.

Even without touching, she’s the raw ache in my chest. “You can do this, and you need to until you feel comfortable. Got it? Maybe we’ll switch to the handgun for a bit.

Let you get a feel for that before returning to the rifle. ”

Her face is conflicted.

I add, “After that, we’ll change it up. Do something you’ll love. I promise.”

“Okay,” she says through clenched teeth, her cheeks flushed, her face twitching like she’s seconds away from throwing up her hands and running back to the ATV.

But an hour later, she’s a fucking crackshot, examining the holes she put in the paper target with relish. “Sure you don’t want to take up hunting?” I tease. “Much rather make the stew than get the animal.”

“Oh, no,” she giggles. “I’m the stew maker. I have recipes from my grandma that are to die for.”

Pretty much everything about this woman is to die for. Emotion catches in my throat. I pack up the gun and supplies, repacking the ATV. “Next spot’s only a short hike. Want to walk?” I ask gruffly.

“Sure.”

As we pass beneath a glowing canopy of aspens and larches, I reach out, take her hand in mine, slide my fingers between hers. Her small palm, her dainty fingers feel made for mine.

Up the winding trail, we descend into a small grove of ancient apple trees. Her breath catches in her throat, a spark of recognition behind her eyes. “An orchard!”

“Come on,” I urge. “Haven’t reached the best part yet.” Golden light filters through the twisted branches heavy with fruit—feral beauty, half-wild and sun-dappled. The smell of apple skins, damp earth, the saccharine musk of ripe fruit, and the incessant drone of bees.

“But how?” she asks, eyes devouring the canopy overhead.

“Legend says these orchards were planted by Chinese immigrants to the area way back in the 19th century. Miners, railroad workers. Not commercial orchards but to support their families and a life carved out of the wilderness. Vanished from these mountains long ago, but their touch remains on the land.”

“Guess some roots run deeper than people remember,” she says, looking up at the showy apples hanging overhead. Red and green, blush and mixed. She strains towards one, standing on her tiptoes, fingers scraping the shiny surface just out of reach.

I grab it without stretching, eyes locking on hers. “Sweetest ones always hide higher.”

I polish it on my flannel, take a first bite. Juice runs down my wrist, tracing the line of the old scar like memory come alive. I reach for another, but she eyes mine, ravenous. My arm stretches, and she takes it, fingers brushing, wildfire igniting.

Lacey lines it up, bites over the exact same spot where my mouth left its mark, like she needs to taste me the way I need to taste her. Yearning bursts within, insatiable, out of control. My breath is ragged, can’t drag my eyes from her face, those plump lips.

“Tart,” she murmurs.

“You get used to the bite,” I growl, noticing the juice shiny on her mouth, right where I have to claim her.

The nutty odor of dried, crushed grass fills my nostrils as I step forward, crushing her back against a gnarled, scarred tree trunk—like my body. Like her inner world.

I cup her jaw. She leans closer, dragging me under as our mouths meet—hungry, unguarded. Sweet from the apples, sharp with iron—unyielding desire beneath the taste of something looming. Bigger, more dangerous than both of us.

Her lips part on a sigh, and I sweep into her, possess her mouth, slow and steady at first. She fists the front of my shirt, pulls me closer, mouth devouring, tongue meeting mine.

My hands roam. Neck, shoulders, waist, hips. Her heart pounds, soft chest locked against my hard muscle. I can’t get enough of her, a starving man at his first meal. Teeth clanging, tongues tangling, drowning together until my hands shake, desire coiling inside, ready to spring free.

“I can’t,” she gasps. But then her lips are on mine, drinking me in, drawing me hard against her. Teeth raking over my lips and then my throat, hips arching towards me. Yearning, inviting.

The bitten apple drops between us, bruised but still sweet—a small echo of every forbidden thing. She pulls back again. Face conflicted, lips burning with my kiss. “I can’t do this to you.”

“Do what?” Tension twists inside, tight, ready to explode.

“I can’t do this to you when you came here for peace and healing. I’m not those things. I’m danger and pain. It’s inevitable.”

I cage her against the thick trunk. Forehead dropping to hers, savoring how our hot breaths mingle, all spice and vanilla, apple blossoms and smoke. “Trust me, Lace. Tell me what’s going on. I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tears pool in her eyes, bottom lip quivering. She wants me. It’s etched in her face. But she gasps, turns away. “No, you deserve better than my ghosts.”

I let her go, and she beelines for the ATV and the path we strolled up less than fifteen minutes ago.

The half-devoured apple glistens in the dying glow of sunset, cast in a neon glow.

I could push past this—pretend I didn’t hear “stop,” pretend hunger is enough.

The longing is there, pinking her cheeks.

But wanting isn’t consent. Not for her. Not for me.

“I’m not gonna push you, Lace,” I whisper, voice gravel-thick, every nerve taut, every inch of me aching with the choice.

Later, after I drop her back at my cabin and head to the bunkhouse, I sit alone by the fire.

Licking my wounds. Every part of me still aching, on fire.

Smoke and bourbon coil in the air, mixing with metal and oil as I polish the rifle we used earlier.

The firelight glances off the scar on my forearm, making it shimmer—showing my brokenness.

I won’t sleep tonight, nerves burning. But it’s not unsatisfied desire. Lacey’s got shadows chasing her. I can feel them moving closer. Out here, you listen when the wind changes. Tonight, it’s whispering trouble.

My scarf still smells like apples and vanilla, threaded through my hoodie like a promise I haven’t earned.