Chapter 2 #2
As the afternoon wore on in the orchard, Poppy had attached herself to Colt once Ivy left for the shop, which meant she was also laughing more than working, but that was something.
Sage and Willow had found some kind of sync, working together, two rows over.
I’d lost track of Knox and everyone else.
There was a rhythm to the picking that took on a life of its own. Brought back tons of memories. Made me forget anything existed outside of these two acres.
The bins filled up fast by the time the sunlight faded over the Lone Grizzly Mountains. I joined where everyone had gathered at the fence, hydrating and talking about the day.
“For as much as we picked, I feel like we’ve barely scratched the surface. I see plenty more on the trees yet.” Ash shook his head. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” I protested. “I’m grateful, though. Free farrier service for the next month.”
“Not necessary. We won’t stop until we see the job done. It’s what neighbors do. Who knows, someday we might need your help. You can repay the favor then.”
“With your crew and mine, we could get the entire orchard picked in a few days. If you’re sure it isn’t any trouble.”
“You can count on us.” With that, he steered Willow and Ro to the truck where the guys were already loading up. Knox too was in his truck and pulling away, with only a wave to me.
Sage and Poppy mumbled about taking showers and doing nothing the rest of the night, tired out. They headed into the house.
I stood in the drive, and waited until the taillights all disappeared. Then the quiet of the orchard called to me.
I strolled back through the rows, eyeing the situation, gauging how much was left to pick. The cozy orchard cottage was waiting for me at the center, the way it always was, like the open arms of a loved one, inviting me in.
I remembered how Mom had helped Dad prune trees one year, and she expressed how nice it would be to have a little cottage right in the middle of it all.
Like a hideaway. That spring, Dad set to work on building it.
Now, it was probably my favorite place in the entire world. My sisters rarely came here.
Before I settled in, I went to the window the way I always did and looked out at the rows of trees and dark shadows.
I did this every time without thinking about it, the same way I checked the door latch twice before I turned the lamp on.
Not that the flimsy latch would keep anyone out intent on coming in.
I pushed through the door and sat at the old desk, its lacquer worn through to the wood in places from years of my father sitting here.
The smell of the old leather-bound ledgers enveloped me, and I held the same fountain pen Dad had used—so old-fashioned, but it worked. I dipped the tip into the ink and tried to do what Dad always did, keeping meticulous notes about it all.
I logged that day’s entry in the ongoing orchard journals. It took a while to make the careful notes, an hour maybe, but so worth it to continue the traditions he’d started.
Once satisfied, I stretched, bones creaking, and made my way over to the couch.
The original had too many loose springs in it, so I’d replaced it last year with this one I’d found at a thrift store over in Lewistown.
These quilts were all family heirlooms handed down from one Wylde generation to the next.
The window dressings the girls and I had stitched with Mom after school once Dad finished building this place.
So much family history packed right here.
I cut a glance to the loose floorboards in the corner, ones most people might not realize were there.
This cottage held secrets, too.
With a sigh, and a reminder that the past was in the past, I pulled my boots off and made my way to the bathroom.
Part of Mom’s grand idea for this cottage had included a lovely clawfoot bathtub they’d salvaged from an old ranch house that was getting torn down. Dad had installed it right before the accident that took them from us too soon. I wasn’t even sure she ever got to use it.
Outside, the trees were dark shapes against a moonlit night.
I undressed and filled the tub with water and lavender bath oil, the stuff Sage made herself from a little herb garden she tended at the back of the house.
When everything was just right, I sank into the water, hoping it would carry away all my worries.
My mind still raced.
We couldn’t do this alone. I’d known that for years and carried it quietly, with no one to hand it to.
I wanted my sisters to find their own way in life, not be chained here unless they chose it.
So holding everything close to my chest became my survival—I’d worked hard, and made sure the Wylde sisters made it another day.
But today the guys had shown up, and the harvest was better for it, and my sisters had laughed, and those honey biscuits had touched my heart more than I’d ever admit out loud.
All because Knox told Ash we needed help.
Dammit.
Why did that long-haired cowboy have to be like that? Steady and perceptive, and there, in the way I let no one be there before. Only I knew better than to lean on that. I knew exactly how fast things could be taken away without warning.
“Stop thinking about him.” My sisters came first. That vow was the only compass I trusted. But it was no use. Knox had been at the edges of my awareness all day—always in the next row or in view when I turned around. And the view was fine.
The man filled out a pair of jeans as if they’d been custom-made. His broad shoulders flexed when he reached high for the apples. His hearty laugh echoed deeply around the orchard. I could still catch the faint trace of his aftershave hanging in the air.
My eyes closed. The warm water and the quiet cottage weren’t enough of a distraction from thinking about his calloused hands on the apple limbs. The way his voice dropped when he leaned in close with the eyes of a man who looked at me like he had all the time in the world to wait for me.
I flexed my fingers in the warm water, easing the ache from a long day’s picking. My hand slipped down my stomach before I could stop it.
Taking time for myself was usually the first thing sacrificed to exhaustion. But tonight there was no one waiting on me, and I let myself want it the way I only ever let myself want things when no one could see.
Everyone else came first. I always came last.
Not tonight.
I found my clit, and moaned his name, picturing him in his black cowboy hat.
“Knox. Yes, Knox.” I couldn’t stop, getting louder as I strummed myself and pulsed two fingers inside of me.
It was crazy to think of him this way, but of any cowboy in the region, he’d be the one I’d go for.
Which was why I pushed him away. Any fantasies I had about Knox had to be kept hidden, saved for only times like this when I needed relief.
“Knox. Mm. Knox.” I worked myself up, ready to let myself go at last. My legs shook, my core heated, water sloshed over the sides as something threatened to snap inside of me with a rush, and all the pending excitement of letting go.
I cried out, half in pain and half in delirium. “Oh, God. Oh, God!”
Then someone pounded on the cottage door.
“Daisy?” A man’s voice—Knox’s? The door swing open. “Are you okay?”
I yelped and yanked my hand back and sat up so fast the room tilted and bathwater spilled over. My mind reeled, dizzy when he appeared in the bathroom doorway, still in his flannel, jeans, and work boots.
With dark eyes, he raked me over with an expression I could only decipher as curiosity; then it turned to lust, ending with pure heat.
The corner of his lip curled up, mustache and beard with it, as if he knew exactly what I’d been up to.