Page 7 of Mountain Man’s Flirty Farmgirl (Wildwood Valley Harvest #1)

SIENNA

“ Dunk him! Dunk him! Dunk him!”

I gripped the baseball in my hand, ignoring the cheers from the crowd gathered around the dunking booth. Blade sat on the platform above the water tank, arms crossed, that cocky smirk on his face that made me want to nail this throw even more.

“Two strikes,” he called down to me. “You sure you don’t want to forfeit? Save yourself the embarrassment?”

The crowd booed good-naturedly. Blade’s buddy Ashe cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Don’t listen to him! He’s been talking trash all afternoon!”

Another of Blade’s friends, Marc, shook his head. “Blade’s about to eat those words. Literally. Along with half the tank.”

I wound up for my third throw, feeling the familiar weight of the ball. Ten years of marriage, two kids, and countless Sunday afternoon games of catch in the backyard had improved my aim considerably. Blade might’ve forgotten that.

I let the ball fly.

Thunk.

The target gave way, and Blade plummeted into the water with a splash that sent half the crowd scrambling backward, laughing. When he surfaced, his dark hair was plastered to his head, and he was grinning like an idiot.

“There she is!” Ashe whooped, clapping. “That’s our girl!”

The crowd erupted in cheers as Blade hauled himself out of the tank, water streaming from his clothes. He didn’t even bother shaking himself off before he was walking straight toward me, that dangerous look in his eyes.

“Oh no,” I said, backing up. “Blade, don’t you dare?—”

But he was already wrapping his arms around me, pulling me against his wet chest as the crowd cheered louder. His mouth found mine, and I could taste chlorine and mischief and ten years of mornings waking up next to this man.

When he pulled back, I was nearly as wet as he was, my sundress clinging to my skin. “You’re terrible,” I laughed, pushing at his chest.

“You love it.”

“I love you. There’s a difference.”

He kissed me again, quick and sweet this time. “Nope, same thing.”

Marc walked over, still grinning. “You two are disgusting. In the best way.”

“Says the guy who refused to get in the dunking booth this year,” Blade shot back, wringing water from his shirt.

“Hey, that’s because last year I nearly took out the target mechanism,” Marc said. “Some of us throw too hard.”

Ashe snorted. “Some of us got banned from the ring toss for the same reason.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times, and you know it.”

I laughed, watching the easy banter between Blade’s closest friends.

They’d all grown up here in Wildwood Valley, left for the military, and found their way back after discharge.

And now they worked together on the construction crew, building the new honky-tonk on the edge of town.

It was Blade’s biggest project yet, and if everything went according to plan, it would bring live music and tourists to Wildwood Valley by next summer.

“Speaking of domesticated,” I said, glancing at my watch, “we need to go collect our offspring before they convince Grandpa to let them ride the pony again.”

Blade’s expression softened the way it always did when we talked about the kids. Emma was six, with wild curls and plenty of energy. Jake was four, quieter but just as determined, with my eyes and Blade’s serious way of studying the world.

“They’re at the petting zoo?” Ashe asked.

“With my parents,” I said. “Who are probably spoiling them rotten as we speak.”

When Mom and Dad sold their farm in Georgia and moved to Wildwood Valley two years ago, I worried it might be too much—having them so close after finding my independence.

But it had been perfect. They’d bought a little house on the outskirts of town, and Dad had thrown himself into helping local farmers optimize their growing seasons while Mom became the unofficial grandmother to half the kids in town.

“We should probably go rescue them,” Blade said, but he was looking at me with that look. The one that said he had other ideas about how we could spend the next hour.

“We should,” I agreed, even though I was thinking the same thing he was.

“Or,” he said, stepping closer, “we could sneak off for twenty minutes. Your parents love watching the kids. They probably won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“Blade Osborn,” I said, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “We are not abandoning our children at the harvest festival so we can make out behind the equipment shed.”

“Who said anything about the equipment shed? I was thinking the honeysuckle grove by the creek.”

My stomach flipped. The honeysuckle grove was where he’d proposed on a blanket under the stars all those years ago.

“Tempting,” I said. “But you know Emma will notice if we’re gone. She’s got your attention to detail and my suspicious nature.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“The worst.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine, kids first. But tonight, when they’re asleep…”

“Tonight you can have all the alone time you want.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

We started walking toward the petting zoo, Blade’s arm around my shoulders. The afternoon sun was starting to slant lower, casting everything in that golden light that made the valley look like something out of a painting.

“How’s the honky-tonk coming?” I asked.

“Ahead of schedule, if you can believe it. We should have the frame up by the end of next week.”

I could hear the pride in his voice. The project was his idea originally—something to bring life back to the town, give people a reason to stay instead of leaving for bigger cities.

The town council had been skeptical at first, but Blade had presented plans, found investors, and somehow convinced everyone that Wildwood Valley could support live music and weekend tourism.

“And your farmers market empire?” he asked.

“Hardly an empire. But we had our best weekend yet. Sold out of everything by noon.”

What had started as me selling fruit from our own garden had grown into something bigger.

I coordinated with five local farms now, selling their produce at the weekend farmers market and splitting the proceeds.

It wasn’t making us rich, but it was bringing people to town, supporting local growers, and giving me something that felt meaningful beyond keeping our own household running.

“Mrs. Upchurch said she’s thinking about expanding her tomato operation next season,” I said. “If the market keeps growing like this.”

“That’s because you’re good at what you do.”

“I’m good at talking to people. There’s a difference.”

“Same thing,” he said, echoing his earlier words.

We could hear the kids before we saw them—Emma’s delighted shriek followed by Jake’s more serious commentary on whatever farm animal had captured his attention.

“That’s definitely our children,” Blade said.

“Unfortunately.”

But I was smiling. Ten years ago, I thought I was just passing through Wildwood Valley, selling produce at a harvest festival before moving on to wherever the road took me next.

I’d never imagined this—the house we’d built together, the kids who made that house a home, and the life we’d created in this small town that had somehow become the center of everything that mattered.

“There they are,” Blade said, pointing.

Emma was trying to feed a goat while my mother held Jake up so he could pet a particularly patient sheep. Emma’s granddad was taking pictures of the whole thing, looking more relaxed than ever. Clearly, both of my parents were loving retirement.

“Mama, Daddy!” Emma spotted us and came running, her sundress covered in hay and what looked like goat slobber. “The goat tried to eat my hair!”

“Did he now?” I knelt to hug her, breathing in the scent of sunshine and farm animals and the strawberry shampoo I’d used on her hair that morning.

Jake toddled over more carefully, clutching a small stuffed pig that someone had obviously bought him from the gift stand. “Pig,” he announced seriously, holding it up for Blade to see.

“I can see that, buddy.” Blade scooped him up, settling him on his hip. “What’s his name?”

Jake considered this seriously for a beat before saying, “Pig.”

“Good choice.”

My parents walked over, both beaming. “They’ve been perfect angels,” Mom said, which meant they’d been holy terrors and she’d loved every minute of it.

“Did you dunk your husband?” Dad asked me, grinning.

“Third try.”

“That’s my girl.”

We gathered our things—diaper bag, stuffed pig, Emma’s collection of “pretty rocks” she’d found—and started the walk back toward the main festival grounds. The kids chattered about their adventures while Blade and I listened, hands intertwined.

This wasn’t the life I’d planned a decade ago. It was better than my wildest dreams.

As we reached the parking area, Emma tugged on my dress. “Mama, can we come back tomorrow?”

“The festival’s only today, sweetheart.”

“But I want to see the goats again.”

“We’ll visit the goats another day,” Blade promised. “Maybe next weekend.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She seemed satisfied with that, skipping ahead to where my parents were loading the kids’ gear into their car. Jake had fallen asleep against Blade’s shoulder, the stuffed pig clutched in his small fist.

“Good day?” Blade asked quietly.

I looked around at our life—our kids, our family, our friends still laughing by the dunking booth, the town that had become home in ways I’d never expected.

“The best,” I said.

And I meant it.

Later, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet, Blade would keep his promise about alone time.

We’d sit on the porch swing we built together, sharing a beer and talking about everything and nothing while the stars came out over Wildwood Valley.

Then we’d go to bed…and that was where the real quality time would start.

But right now, in this moment, with hay in my hair and Emma’s laughter echoing across the festival grounds, I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

This was home. This was everything.