Chapter 5 Snapper #2
Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then her gaze returned to mine. All I had to do was close that small distance, and—
“What are you doing up there? Dinner’s almost ready!” Ma hollered from the kitchen.
Saffron jerked away and practically jumped the rest of the way down the ladder.
“We should…” She gestured toward the stairs.
“Yeah.”
We found Ma in the kitchen, checking something in the oven. She took one look at us—both flushed and disheveled—and her knowing smile made me want to sink into the floor.
“Find anything interesting?” she asked, wriggling her eyebrows.
“Just some photos,” I managed.
“Well, you’re welcome to keep looking. But first, eat.” She pushed a basket containing warm rolls in our direction.
Saffron took one and bit into it. “Oh my God, these are amazing.”
“Have as many as you want, mija. You need meat on your bones.”
I grabbed three myself and rested against the counter, watching Saffron eat. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek from the attic, and her hair was falling out of its ponytail, but she still looked so beautiful that she took my breath away.
“You have something…” I reached out and wiped the smudge away with my thumb.
She went very still. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” I let my thumb linger maybe a second too long before lowering my hand.
Ma watched this exchange with barely concealed delight. “You know, there are more places to look for those formulas. The old winery building. The caves.”
“That’s right. The caves have a records room,” I said. “We could check there.”
“Now?” Saffron glanced out the window. The sun was low on the horizon.
“We’ve got lights.”
“Okay. Let’s try,” she said after hesitating for a few seconds.
“Dinner is at seven,” my mother reminded me. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t, Ma.” I kissed her cheek and motioned Saffron in the direction of the door to the porch.
Outside, the evening air felt blessedly cool after the attic as we walked the path toward the caves’ entrance.
“Your mom is wonderful,” Saffron said.
“She likes you.”
“How can you tell?”
“She gave you cookies and rolls. Ma only shares those with really special people.”
Saffron smiled. “I’m honored.”
“You should be. Kick’s been trying to get on her good side for twenty-eight years. Still hasn’t managed it.”
She laughed, and the sound made my chest warm.
“Cold?” I asked when we walked in and she shivered and rubbed her arms.
“Yes, but I’ll adjust.”
I led her farther in, past barrel rooms filled with aging wine, through passages carved into the hillside decades ago. The records room, a small chamber lined with filing cabinets and boxes, was in the east branch.
“This is going to take forever,” Saffron said, surveying the sheer volume of material.
“Then, we better get started.” I grabbed a bottle of Zinfandel from a nearby rack. “Want some?”
“We’re working.”
“We can work and drink.” I found wineglasses on a shelf and poured. “It’ll make the time go faster.”
She accepted the glass and took a sip, her eyes closing briefly.
We settled on the stone floor and started going through the boxes. While we found notes about various vintages, most were recent. I couldn’t help glancing at her every few seconds—the way she concentrated, the furrow between her brows, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear repeatedly.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked without looking up.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Can’t a guy appreciate a pretty woman?”
She raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“No.” But her mouth curved up at the corners, betraying her.
“Liar.”
She shook her head and reached for another box, but that ghost of a smile lingered.
“How come we never…?” I started, then stopped.
“Never what?”
“You know. You and me.”
She froze, her hand halfway into a box. “What?”
“We’ve known each other for years. We’re friends. But how come we never tried to be more?”
Her expression shuttered. “It wasn’t worth the risk.”
“You never know until you try.”
“Snapper—”
“I’m serious. What if—”
“You’re just bored,” she cut me off. “No rodeo this year means no buckle bunnies throwing themselves at you. I’m convenient. That’s all.”
That stung. “Is that really what you think?”
“It’s not like you’re ever around anyway.” She sorted through a stack of papers without meeting my eyes. “And when you are, you turn right around and leave again.”
“I’m here now.”
“For how long? Until your shoulder heals and you’re back on the circuit?”
Fair question. One I didn’t have a good response for. “Saffron—”
“Let’s just keep looking, okay?” She turned away, shutting down the conversation.
I wanted to push. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she wasn’t convenient, that I’d been half in love with her for years. But the set of her shoulders told me now wasn’t the time.
We searched in silence for another hour. I found old correspondence, barrel inventories, nothing useful. Then Saffron gasped.
“What?” I moved closer.
She held up a leather-bound journal, smaller than Marilyn’s but similar in style. “Look at the inside cover.”
I leaned in to read the faded inscription: “Concepción Maria Ramirez Avila.”
“Holy shit.”
She carefully turned pages filled with flowing handwriting. Some entries were in English, others in Spanish. There were recipes, family notes, and daily observations. Then she stopped on an entry dated February 1956.
“Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud. “‘My heart is breaking. E says she won’t allow us to make the wine again. M and I have agreed—I will keep my formulas; she will keep hers. What we created together is finished.’”
“‘She won’t allow,’” I repeated. “E is a woman.”
“Ellen,” Saffron said, looking at the photograph of the three women. “E is Ellen.”
“But who was she? And what did she do?” I shook my head. “We need to figure out who she is.”
Saffron continued reading, but the entries became less specific after that. Just daily observations and recipes.
“This doesn’t help us much,” she said, closing the journal. “We still don’t have the formulas we need. At least not the percentages.”
“On the other hand, we know we’re on the right track.” I stood and offered her my hand. “Come on. It’s getting late.”
She let me pull her up, and for a moment, we stood there, hands linked, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For today. For everything.”
“We’re partners, remember?”
She squeezed my hand once before letting go. “Is that what we are?”
I took a step forward and reached for her. “Saffron, I—”
“I can’t do this.”
Before I realized what was happening, she sprinted from the records room. I raced after her.
“Saffron, wait!” I shouted when I saw her head out the main entrance.
“I need to get home,” she said over her shoulder when I caught up with her. By then we were halfway to her truck.
I stopped running and put my hands on my hips. “I thought you were staying for dinner.”
She stopped too and turned to look at me. “I’m grungy from being in attics and caves all day. Thank your mom for me.”
“Thank her yourself,” I muttered when she took off again. This time, I didn’t try to catch her.
Kick stood near the table, beer in hand, talking to Cru about something related to the vineyard blocks. When he saw me, he raised his bottle in greeting.
“Where’s Saffron?” he asked. “Ma said she was with you.”
“She left.”
His eyebrows rose. “What happened?”
I shook my head, not wanting to get into it here, with half the family within earshot.
He stood and jerked his head toward the porch. I followed him outside, where the evening air had turned cool.
“Talk,” he said once we were alone.
“Nothing happened. We were looking for Concepción’s notes in the caves, found her journal, and then Saffron just bolted.”
“Did you say something?”
“I tried to.” I held onto the porch rail. “She wouldn’t let me.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
He set his beer down. “She’s drowning right now, Snap. Her family’s about to lose everything, and you’re standing there asking her to figure out what you two are to each other.”
“Wait a minute. Aren’t you the guy who told me to tell her how I felt upfront? If I remember correctly, you said I should get it out in the open so there’s no question about where I stand.”
“You, Snap. Not her. You.”
I looked up at the sky. “I’m lost.”
“There’s a difference between saying, ‘Hey, Saffron, I’m crazy about you, and whatever you need, I’m your guy,’ and forcing her to think about things she doesn’t have the brain space to deal with right now.”
“I wasn’t forcing anything—”
“Yeah, you were. I know you.” He crossed his arms. “You want to fix everything at once. Help her with the wine, get her to admit she has feelings for you, all while she’s trying to keep her head above water.”
The accuracy of that hit harder than I wanted to admit.
“So what do I do?”
“What you said you’d do, and let everything else happen when it happens. Be honest with her about how you feel.” He picked up his beer again. “She’ll come around. But she’s gotta do it on her own timeline, not yours.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I know it.”
We headed back inside, and I wanted to ask him how he could be so certain, but Ma was calling everyone to the table.
“Where’s Saffron?” she asked like Kick had.
“She had to go home.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping she’d stay.”
Me too.
Dinner was the usual chaos—too many people talking at once, Reagan and Neva demanding attention, Bit and Cru arguing about some vintage they’d tried last week.
I picked at my food and contributed when someone asked me a direct question, but mostly, I just sat there, thinking about the woman I came so close to kissing.
“What did Saffron say about opening the bottle of Christmas Blessing Wine Tryst found?” Bit asked.
I hung my head and shook it. I’d completely forgotten to bring it up. Where in the hell had my head been? That was a stupid question. On her. All on her.
“Don’t give up on her,” Bit said, squeezing my shoulder and looking at me as though he could read my thoughts.
“No? You should’ve seen her—”
“I did.”
“Leaving?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“So then, you know. She wants nothing to do with me.”
He took my arm and led me outside. “You’re wrong. So wrong.”
“Yeah? If that’s the case, how do you explain why she had to get away from me like her life depended on it?”
“Because it does.”
“Bit—”
“Hear me out. She’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of needing you.” Bit swirled wine in the glass I hadn’t realized he brought out with him. I grabbed it and took a swig, remembering I had to return to the caves to put the stuff away we’d left out, and that included the bottle of Zin I’d opened.
“What’s so bad about needing me?” I asked.
“What happens if she lets herself and you leave?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Does she know that?” His eyes met mine. “Or does she just know you as the guy who’s gone most of the year chasing rodeo championships? The guy who’s never settled down, never committed to anything but the next ride?”
His words hit hard, but that was Bit, I reminded myself. He told it like he saw it. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His tone was gentle. “You’ve been running from this place, from the family business, from putting down roots, for years. She has no reason to believe you’d stay.”
“But I would.”
“Then, prove it.” He put his hand on my shoulder again. “Keep showing up. Keep helping. Don’t push for more than she can give right now.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“I told you before. I’d do everything humanly possible for the woman I love. In fact, I did. You should too.”