Chapter 17
FAYE
The tractor cab is meant for a single person. Sandwiching in two people, especially with one as large as Ryder, means I’m basically sitting on his lap.
Well, I finally got my wish of smelling him up close. And today, with him not coming straight off the back of a horse, he smells of grass and flowers and the summer to come. Of sunny days spent stretching lazily by the lake. Of sleepless, sticky nights—and not because of the temperatures.
He is so darn sexy with his backward baseball cap keeping his unruly hair in check.
His large hands grip the steering wheel, flannel shirt sleeves inexorably rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. And his voice is right in my ear, close up as he speaks into the microphone and behind me, amplified by the speakers mounted on the back of the tractor’s cabin.
It throbs through the seat and right up my spine.
That deep, magnified drawl has the same effect on me as whiskey on an empty stomach—warm, ill-advised, and buzzy.
At least with him having to explain how the farm works and what each part we drive through is, I don’t have to make conversation. I’m free to quietly melt by his side.
Ryder keeps his eyes on the rutted track ahead and seems oblivious to how my left thigh is striving to form a molecular bond with his right.
He presses a thumb on the push-to-talk mic, and his voice rumbles through the speakers.
“Hollow Creek Farm has been in operation since 1886. Our ancestors were among the five founding families of Blue Crescent Harbor. Back then, there were just a few milk cows on forty acres. These days we’re up to about eight hundred acres, most of it in pasture and hay, and we keep eighty head of breeding cattle on rotation through these fields. ”
The tractor bumps over a rut in the path, and my shoulder presses harder against his. His body heat seeps through my thin dress. I grab the door handle tighter, knuckles whitening.
How long is the ride going to be again? I’m not positive I can survive much more proximity to this beautiful, solid, human furnace of a man.
“The calves are born mostly in spring,” Ryder continues smoothly. Is he not as intensely aware of every point where our bodies touch as I am? How can he be so unaffected? “With fewer herds on a fall schedule.”
I stare out the window. To the left, the pastures extend beyond where the eye can see.
To the right, the tulip fields spread out in neat rows of reds and yellows, of purples that fade into pinks.
It’s stunning. A riot of color that should capture my attention, but it’s not enough to drag my focus away from the man beside me.
The tractor lurches over another bump, and I sway into him. My hand lands on his thigh again. Hard muscles flex under my palm.
I must find a better grip point.
I yank my arm back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is rougher now, stripped of the tour-guide polish.
I fold my hands in my lap, willing them to stay put and behave.
Ryder clears his throat and switches the microphone back on. “Up ahead, you’ll see the orchard. We grow apples, peaches, and pears on about ten acres.”
The more he talks, the more I appreciate how complicated managing all these moving parts is.
The flower farm, the cow-calf operation, the orchard, and the entertainment side with the fun farm.
And the Evanses do most of the work themselves with little hired help.
No wonder Ryder is so busy. Hearing about the day-to-day is enough to make my head spin.
I risk a glance at Ryder. His jaw is tight, his hands on the wheel like he’s holding on for dear life. A muscle twitches in his cheek. He’s not unaffected. That knowledge sends heat spiraling through my core, where reason goes to die.
“This section,” he says into the microphone, voice steady despite the tension radiating off him, “is where we plant seasonal crops for the fun farm. Pumpkins or corn for our maze.”
A little girl in the trailer behind us squeals with delight, asking if they can come back to carve the pumpkins in October.
The sound breaks through our bubble, a reminder that we’re not alone.
That families are watching, children listening, and I’m a teacher who should not be having sexy thoughts about a parent while pressed against him in a tractor.
I shift, trying to put half an inch of space between us.
It’s impossible. The seat is too small. And my body doesn’t want the distance anyway.
The path dips, and we both lurch forward. Ryder’s arm shoots out, his forearm in line with my sternum, breaking my fall like the safety bar on a roller coaster. Functional, if you ignore the skin-on-skin contact and consequent heart failure.
The soft tickling of his arm hair burns against my collarbones.
“Okay?” he asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Fine.”
He drops his arm, and I jerk back to keep myself from leaning into him, from chasing more of that accidental contact my body has already filed under “necessary.”
“The river feeds into the Lake of the Ozarks.” Ryder continues his narration. “It’s one reason this land has been productive for generations.”
As I listen to him tell the history of his family, his pride for the Evans name makes more sense.
Ryder is not an entitled prick because of his founder title; he is in love with this land, the town, and its people.
His rough edges come out when he perceives a threat, real or imagined.
But he doesn’t guard an abstract legacy.
Ryder protects what his people bled into this soil.
I know what it takes to build something from nothing, to pour yourself into it until you can’t tell where you end and it begins.
I also know the pain of having the thing that defined you ripped away from you. I hope he never learns that lesson.
The tractor follows the curve of the river; sunlight glints off the water in a glitter of sparks. The families in the hay bed are taking photos, pointing at the scenery, getting lost in the experience.
Inside the cab, it’s just us.
Ryder and me and the terrible, wonderful awareness that has been humming between us from the start. It bristled under our arguments, hid in the apologies, and settled deeper with every accidental touch. And now it’s screaming louder than the engine. It has been since Monday night.
That phone call rewired something in me. Hearing Ryder sob over the phone did what his charm never could. It cracked open a door I’d bricked shut. And after getting this behind-the-scenes into his daily life, the rest of him finally makes sense, too.
By the time the hayride ends, I have a new respect and comprehension for Ryder as a person, his world, and his roots. As the barn comes into view, the passengers in the back get ready to disembark. Rhys waves from the trailer, grinning.
I spring out of the cab the second the wheels stop turning. The loss of the contact is immediate, a cold emptiness carved out of my side. Regrettable but necessary.
I smooth down my dress, not meeting Ryder’s eyes as he rounds the tractor to join me.
“Miss Rose!” Rhys jumps off the trailer. “Wasn’t that the best?”
“It was wonderful, Rhys. Thank you for convincing me to come.”
Ryder’s son skips toward us, but the kid doesn’t make it two steps before his uncle, the man who danced with Ryder and Rebecca at the Moonshine, swoops in, lifting Rhys onto his shoulders.
Rhys protests about being carried away, and Remy replies with what sounds like an excuse about needing a sturdy set of arms to clear the lemonade stand.
The brother winks at Ryder. “Go pick some flowers, keep the customers happy.”
Ryder flips him the bird.
Rhys squeals that it’s a dollar for the swear jar, then spreads his arms like airplane wings as his uncle zigzags away, matching each tilt with a dramatic swoop and leaving Ryder and me alone.
Is Ryder’s family trying to matchmake us? Did Ryder ask them?
His ears are pink, and his scowl deep. No, he clearly didn’t ask Rebecca to put me on the hayride or his brother to whisk his son away the moment we returned.
“We don’t have to pick flowers if you have other things to do,” I offer, giving him an out.
Ryder looks down at me, and his entire face opens up, brightening.
“Nah, I’m in. Please excuse my brother; Remy can be a bit of an ass sometimes.”
I smile at him. “Runs in the family?”
Ryder chuckles, and the sound ties my ovaries in a knot. They beg me to please let them have his babies. Other parts of me are on board with the process required to achieve that result.
“Touché.” He dips his head in that charming, old-fashioned way he has, and grins wider. “Let’s get you a basket.”
He walks into the barn, and I follow.
Inside is cooler, giving my heated cheeks a much-needed respite. The walls are lined with wooden bins and big spools of twine. Ryder grabs a wicker basket from a wall hook, then gestures for me to follow him out a back door to the flower fields.
It’s quieter on this side, the noise of the festival fading behind us.
We walk toward the tulip field, the faint swish of stems shifting against one another calling to us.
The afternoon has that perfect spring quality.
It’s bright but not harsh, warm but not hot, with a breeze that carries the scent of fresh earth and flowers.
Behind us, the families from the hayride are dispersing, heading toward the parking lot with their picked tulips and tired children. The farm is emptying.
We’re increasingly alone.
I chase that thought away, focusing on stringing two words together. “How have you been? You and Rhys, I mean.”
Ryder glances at me. “I meant to call you to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For insisting on therapy.” He stops at the edge of the tulip field, turning to face me. “We had our first session with Dr. Agard on Thursday.”
“Oh, great. How did it go?”