4. Josiah
four
Josiah
Another bus to Manitoba has come and gone.
Wynonna's still here, moving around my kitchen like she belongs there, humming softly as she helps me prepare dinner. I tell myself I'm just being practical. After all, driving to town would've wasted half a day of work. I'll take her tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Even I don't believe that lie.
Truth is, watching her in the garden today messed with my head in ways I wasn't prepared for.
Barefoot in the dirt, denim shorts riding high on tanned thighs, tank top clinging to curves that have no business being so distracting—she looked like summer incarnate.
Nothing like the gangly teenager who used to follow me around.
All woman now, and my body's reaction to that fact is becoming harder to ignore. Literally.
"Potatoes are ready," she announces, setting the pot on the counter beside me.
"Thanks." I keep my response brief, afraid my voice might betray the direction of my thoughts.
She reaches past me for the strainer, and her arm brushes mine. The simple contact sends a shock straight through me, and I have to grip the counter to steady myself. This is getting ridiculous.
"You still make that face," she says suddenly.
I glance at her. "What face?"
"That one." She points with the spoon she's holding. "When you're concentrating. You get this little crease right here." Her finger hovers near my forehead, not quite touching. "Used to fascinate me when I'd watch you work on Dad's roof."
The casual mention of her teenage observation creates a jarring dissonance in my mind of the young girl who watched me work overlaid with the woman standing in my kitchen. It's unsettling how she carries both versions of herself at once.
"Didn't realize I was that interesting," I mutter, turning back to the venison steaks I'm seasoning.
She laughs softly. "You have no idea."
There's something about the way she says it that sends heat coiling low in my belly. Dangerous territory.
I move toward the refrigerator, needing space, but Wynonna's reaching for it at the same time. We collide awkwardly, my larger frame forcing her to step back. She stumbles slightly, and my hands automatically go to her waist to steady her.
Big mistake.
Her skin is warm beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, her waist small enough that my hands nearly span it completely. I can feel her breath catch, see her pupils dilate slightly. For one suspended moment, we're frozen in some tableau of restraint versus desire.
I drop my hands. "Sorry."
"Don't be," she says softly.
I clear my throat and step around her, yanking open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary. The cold air is a welcome relief against my heated skin.
"You never answered my question yesterday," I say, desperate to redirect both our attention. "How exactly did you find me through that service?"
She busies herself chopping herbs, avoiding my eyes. "Lucky coincidence."
"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended. "You used your mother's maiden name. That's deliberate."
Her shoulders tense, then relax with a sigh. "Fine. I was looking for you. Specifically."
"Why?" I turn to face her fully. "It's been ten years, Wynonna."
"And in ten years, I never met anyone who measured up." The simple honesty in her voice knocks me off balance. "Is that what you want to hear? That I compared every man I met to you, and they all came up short?"
"That's not healthy," I say carefully. "Whatever image you've built up in your head."
"Isn't just in my head." She meets my gaze steadily. "I know you, Josiah. Knew you then, know you now."
"You know what you remember. And memories lie."
"Then let me know who you are now." She steps closer, and every instinct tells me to back away, but I hold my ground. "Give me a chance to see the real you, not just my memory."
The request is so reasonable it's hard to argue against. And yet.
"The age gap."
"Is the same as it always was," she interrupts. "Fifteen years. It mattered when I was fifteen and you were thirty. It matters a whole lot less now that I'm twenty-five and you're forty."
Put that way, it's hard to dispute. Still.
"I knew your father."
"And I'm not asking you to forget that." She reaches out, her hand settling lightly on my forearm. "I'm just asking you to see me as I am now, not as the kid I was."
The problem is, I do see her as she is now. All too clearly. And my body's reaction to that sight is getting harder to conceal with each passing hour.
I pull away and turn back to the steaks, needing to focus on anything besides the warmth of her touch. "Dinner's almost ready. Want to grab plates?"
She nods, accepting the change of subject. As she moves to the cabinet where I keep the dishes, a sliver of understanding slides into place. She knew exactly which cabinet. Just like she knew how I take my coffee. How I plant my garden.
How much has she been paying attention to over the years? The question is equal parts flattering and unnerving.
We work around each other preparing the meal, and I catch myself falling into an easy rhythm with her. It's been years since I shared my space with anyone for more than a passing visit, yet with Wynonna, it feels natural. Like she's filling a vacancy I hadn't fully acknowledged.
The realization makes me uneasy. I've spent two decades building this life, this solitude. Carved it from the wilderness with my own two hands, just as my father and grandfather did before me. Made peace with being the last Stone to work this land.
Except, as I watch Wynonna set the table, I'm forced to confront the lie in that thought.
I haven't made peace with being the last. It's why I signed up for that damn mail-order bride service in the first place.
My land deserves to be passed down, to be loved by future generations.
To continue being Stone land long after I'm gone.
"Shit!" The curse escapes as I slam the heavy wooden cabinet door directly onto my finger, distracted by my own thoughts.
"Josiah!" Wynonna is at my side instantly. "Let me see."
I cradle my hand, throbbing pain radiating from my index finger. "It's fine."
"Don't be stubborn." She takes my hand gently but firmly, examining the injury. The finger is already swelling, a dark blue line forming beneath the nail. "You need ice."
She leads me to a chair and sits me down, then grabs a dish towel and fills it with ice from the freezer. The confident way she wraps it around my hand speaks of experience.
"Used to patch up my dad after work accidents," she explains, noticing my surprise. "Mom got good at home treatment and taught me everything she knew."
Her hands are gentle but sure as they cradle my much larger one, and something shifts in my chest—a softening I can't afford.
"Thanks," I manage gruffly.
"It's going to bruise, but I don't think the nail will come off," she says, examining it more closely. Then, before I can react, she lifts my hand and presses her lips to the injured finger.
Her eyes meet mine as her lips linger against my skin, and I see the exact moment something mischievous flares in her expression. Slowly, deliberately, she parts her lips and takes the tip of my finger into her mouth.
"Wynonna." My voice emerges as a strangled moan, but she doesn't stop.
Her tongue swirls around my fingertip, her eyes never leaving mine as she sucks gently. The sensation shoots straight to my groin, and I'm instantly, painfully hard. My breath catches audibly, and I know she hears it because her lips curve into a slight smile around my finger.
When she finally releases it, the cool air on my wet skin only emphasizes the absence of her warm mouth.
"Old superstition," she says, voice honey-sweet but eyes knowing. "Kissing an injury makes it heal faster."
"Pretty sure that's not how the superstition goes," I manage, desperately trying to ignore the throbbing ache in my pants.
She shrugs, her expression the picture of innocence that her actions disprove. "Must have learned a different version."
I clear my throat and shift in the chair, grateful for the table hiding my obvious reaction.
"Those few dates you mentioned," I ask as an excuse to change the subject. "Nothing serious?"
If she's surprised by the personal question, she doesn't show it. "No. Nothing serious." She pauses, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "Nothing physical either, actually."
I can't hide my surprise at that. A beautiful woman like her, alone for ten years?
She must read my expression because she adds, "I've been saving myself. Might sound old-fashioned, but," Her eyes meet mine, unflinching despite the vulnerability in them. "I was waiting for someone worth waiting for."
The implication hits me with the force of a physical blow. She's been saving herself. For me.
The moment stretches between us, charged with unspoken possibilities. I break it first, needing distance from this revelation that makes her even more dangerous to my resolve.
We finish dinner in a silence heavier than before, each of us acutely aware of the current running between us. And as I watch her move around my kitchen, her quiet strength and determination evident in every gesture, I'm struck by a realization I can no longer deny.
God help me, but I'm not taking her to that bus tomorrow either.