Page 8 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Eight

LACEY

Ican’t hide in Anson’s cabin forever—not when the smell of bacon and blueberry muffins drifts across the yard like a promise.

Eldon’s breakfasts live up to the rumors: crisp bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh-pressed orange juice, coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

I grab a chipped mug and pour some of the black brew, pretending not to notice Anson watching from across the room. Steady, unreadable, the way a sunrise holds its breath before the day begins.

Plate piled high, I add a thick slab of homemade bread, slathering it in butter and pausing before a selection of brightly colored, labeled jars.

Strawberry, cherry, blackberry, raspberry—every jam imaginable.

Applesauce and apple butter, too. Chef Eldon stands behind the counter, eyes proudly assessing the scene.

“Hi, I’m Lacey Worthington, here researching a book on farm-to-table cuisine.”

He nods, dark blue eyes bottomless, like the coffee at my favorite Seattle breakfast joint. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Are the jams homemade?” I ask.

“Housemade,” Eldon corrects with a grin. “And that apple butter’s Anson’s fall experiment. I keep telling him to jar it for sale, but he swears it’s missing something.”

“Good apple butter’s hard to master,” I say.

Eldon’s shoulders stay squared as if he’s holding back a smile.

“Maybe you can weigh in.” He pushes the jar my way, enough urging for me to slather my bread in it.

“And the scones? Those look amazing.”

“They go quick, just so you know.”

I hesitate. Then, Cary’s voice ghosts through my head: “Have another doughnut, honey?” The old litany about my body, my everything.

I hesitate, edging closer to the big tables where cowboys eat, their hats lined up on hooks along the opposite wall. Anson’s eyes find mine, guarded, watchful. He wants me to sit with him; my stomach flutters.

“Lacey!” Ro’s voice pierces the dining room. “Come sit with me.”

I breathe a mix of relief and disappointment as I head toward the table where Willow and Ash sit. Anson’s jaw clenches, and he looks away.

“Sleep well?” Ash asks.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good, cause last night was pure drama.”

I frown. “What happened?”

Willow shakes her head. “Chicken coop wide open. Lost some of the flock to a pack of coyotes.” She bites her bottom lip, looking down. “But I know Ro and I locked it tight last night after the evening scratch.”

“Told you,” Ash says, gulping coffee. “Strange prints in the soft dirt near the door. Someone’s trying to sabotage operations.”

My heart pounds so loudly in my temple the roar of conversation in the room feels distant.

“Chief Patrick’ll be out in a bit. Lots to discuss with him.” His eyes meet mine, steady and strong.

I shrink away from the look. I suppose he means to convey confidence. But guilt seeps into the cracks of my foundation. How much of this is my fault?

I clear my throat, steadying my voice. “Did you notice anything strange this last week? Or last month?” What I’m really asking is if the trouble came with me. I already know the answer.

“Been a helluva year. But cut fences, open coops. New to me.”

I nod, looking down sadly. I should go. Leave before any more trouble gets visited on the horse rescue.

Ro bounces. “After breakfast, Mom, Laura, Eldon, and I are gonna bake sugar cookies for fall. Want to help?”

I open my mouth, preparing the best of a thousand excuses that pop into my head. But one look at the little girl’s face, and I’m a goner. “Fall cookies. What do they entail?”

“We’ve got cool cutouts—leaves, pumpkins, acorns, trees. After that, we’ll decorate them with yellow, orange, red, and green frosting—”

Willow butts in, reading the question in my face. “All organic, ranch-produced food coloring.”

“Seriously?” I can’t deny I’m impressed.

“Of course, if you have other plans,” she says, looking past me.

I glance over my shoulder, seeing Anson there. “So?” he drawls, nodding toward my half-eaten bread. “Eldon says you’ve got opinions about what’s missing.”

My grandmother would say there’s only one thing. My face heats, unwilling to voice it.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s good,” I admit, licking a crumb from my thumb. “Maybe a touch tart.”

His mouth quirks. “You’ll get used to the bite.” A faint grin seizes his mouth, chiseled face wary. I can’t tell if it’s from awkwardness or worry. His face exudes fatigue, too, like he barely slept. After Willow’s story, I’m not surprised. “You keeping your grandma’s secret?” he teases.

“Love,” I say quietly. “That’s the missing ingredient.”

His expression stills—not hurt, just thoughtful, like the word struck bone.

Hours at the ovens should distract me, but the word “love” still hums under my skin. Like the heat of his kiss and the sweetness of yesterday’s forbidden fruit, golden canopy, blue skies, droning bees, and hearts unfurled.

“More are cool enough to decorate!” Ro exclaims, clapping her hands together.

I stride towards her, picking one up, testing the temperature. More than once today, she’s impatiently sworn a batch was ready to frost, still hot enough to melt powdered sugar.

“Well?” Laura asks, big, blue eyes quizzical. I’ve gathered from the way she and Eldon inhabit the kitchen together that they’re an item. Her soft, rounded face is the perfect foil to his rugged, angular edges. Opposites yet somehow complementary.

“Yep, these are ready.”

We ice and decorate, sprinkle and pipe thin frosting outlines until the kitchen’s spacious countertops heave with sweet treats.

“You ever get any of those scones?” Eldon asks gruffly, coming up behind Laura and wrapping his thick, corded arms around her. My throat tightens, jealous of the relaxed comfort between them.

“No. Like you said. Cowboys devoured every last crumb.”

Laura sinks back into the big man, her face tranquil, secure. “A shame. His apple-cinnamon scones are to die for.”

He kisses her cheek, a low chuckle coming from his chest. Nothing is more inspiring or painful than seeing two people in perfect sync. Wonder if that’s attainable for someone like me?

My mind flashes to the orchard. Sandalwood, heated breaths, the kind of kiss that still makes my toes curl. I swallow hard, shoving a cookie into my mouth to assuage the desire crackling down my spine.

“Hey, you didn’t even frost that one first,” Ro scolds, putting her hands on her hips.

“Burned edges. No good for decorating,” I tease with a wink towards Laura and Eldon. They smile.

The chef drawls, “Been meaning to ask. Got a whole bushel of apples here ready to go bad. Far more than I could possibly use. Would you like some for pies or preserves?”

I shrug, a bit confused by the random question.

A mischievous smile covers Willow’s face, her head bent over the cookie she meticulously decorates. “Apple pie. Anson’s favorite.”

“Really?” I ask, voice dripping with curiosity I can’t explain.

She lifts her head. “You know, the kind with the fancy lattices? A total sucker for it. His Achilles’ Tendon. But don’t quote me on that.”

My eyes narrow, body tightens. Like I can’t stand any other woman knowing more about him than me. A stupid, irrational feeling considering how high I’ve kept my guard around him.

“I could take some. Enough for half a dozen pies.” I swallow hard, not sure what I want to prove. Or why I want Anson’s true weak spot to be me. “To thank everyone for their hospitality.”

“No need,” Eldon says. “The pleasure’s ours.” He pauses, grimaces. “Half a dozen, you said? Guessing you’ll need sixteen to eighteen pounds. I’ll drop them by the cabin after we’re done here.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Anson will, too,” Willow says, eyes darting to Laura’s as though they’re in cahoots.

The afternoon fades into quiet laughter, small-town gossip—never mean, just cozy, like this ranch. I can’t remember the last time I felt this secure, this welcomed, this a part of something bigger than myself. And still, my thoughts drift back to Anson—the man who makes belonging feel like home.

Back at his golden, glowing cabin, I breathe in sandalwood and spice, the sweetness of the fragrant apples in a box on the counter.

I put on slow-crooning country music. Something I’d never listen to in Seattle, but can’t seem to get away from here.

Passing his chair, I find an orange and black flannel shirt cast haphazardly over the back.

I grab it, snuggle it against my cheek, breathe it in, wishing it was him. His lips, so soft, so kissable. Desire humming through his body like I was the only woman who exists for him.

“If only,” I sigh.

I slide into the oversized shirt, ridiculous on my much smaller, though curvy frame.

The softness and warmth of the fabric envelops me like his arms, caged against the rough bark of the apple tree.

Wrapped in smoke and spice, I roll up the sleeves, pulling flour, sugar, and other baking items from the pantry.

Finding white porcelain pie dishes with fluted edges, pre-warming the oven as I work.

Nothing feels more familiar. Almost as if Grandma were here with me.

I long to call or text her. Ask about a few measurement details that remain fuzzy.

But I can’t. If Cary ever found out I’m still talking to them …

a shiver rushes through me. Just one Facebook post, one comment is all it would take.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a blur of flesh and muscle. My hands freeze in the butter–flour–sugar I’m working into crust, the bare-chested man chopping wood outside eclipsing all other thought.

Anson’s back muscles strain beneath his golden skin, bursting beneath the surface, husky, defined, powerful. He chops with an ease I can’t fathom, like this is every day for him. Considering it’s remote Montana with winter on the way, I take it for what it must be, a well-worn habit.