Prologue #2
"A few miles, usually," I say, pleased he asked. "They're looking for somewhere dry, defensible, with enough space for the colony to grow. It's not just about finding a cavity; they're evaluating ventilation, entrance size, distance from the ground. There's a whole checklist."
"And they communicate all of that through dancing," he says slowly.
"Yep," I say, and pop the P just to watch him frown.
He shakes his head, still watching the box. "I took behavioral biology in college. I've never heard of anything like that outside of primate studies."
I glance at him, surprised. "You studied biology?"
"Animal science." He shrugs one enormous shoulder, like it's nothing. "Then I spent a few years working ranches in Montana and Wyoming, learning the business. Now I'm back here to help my dad expand the operation."
"So you're a scientist cowboy," I say.
His ears go red again. I decide I like making that happen.
"My professors would enjoy that description," he mutters. "I spent half my time asking how any of it would help with a sick calf."
"They'd be pleased to see you expanding your interests." I coax the last of the stragglers into the box and close the lid, leaving a small gap for any remaining scouts to find their way in. "There. She's in there, the queen. The rest will follow."
Tazio is still holding the box beside his truck, looking at me like I've just walked on water.
I tug the half-zipped suit off my shoulders and wipe my palms on my jeans. "You can put the box down. Your hands deserve parole."
He sets it carefully in the shade. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Since I was twelve," I say. "My grandma taught me. Her mother taught her."
He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. "At twelve, my biggest achievement was putting a gate back on before Dad found out I'd knocked it off."
"Did you succeed?" I ask.
"He waited until dinner to ask why it opened backward," he says, deadpan.
I laugh, and his shoulders finally drop.
"What happens to them now?" he asks.
"Once the rest are in, I'll secure the box for the drive and take them home," I tell him. "They'll get a hive instead of a Ford. Tremendous improvement in property values."
He frowns at the box. "Do you have space? I don't want to make work for you."
"Rescuing bees is work I like," I say. "Getting woken before six-thirty to do it is the part June will pay for."
"I could cover the cost," he offers. "The box, whatever they need."
"Let's get them settled first," I say, waving him off. "You're allowed to enjoy surviving before we discuss the invoice."
He glances toward the ranch road. "My dad won't come within fifty feet of a hive. I might be able to tell him I helped."
"You held the box steady," I tell him. "That's more useful than shouting advice from a tailgate. Claim it."
His mouth curves, briefly. I start packing up before I become invested in making that happen again.
Behind me, I hear June's screen door slam, and then her voice carries across the yard. "Molly, you want some coffee? I made a pot."
"Can't, June," I call back. "I've got to get these girls back to my yard before they decide to take off again."
"Well, at least take some of my scones. You're too skinny." June appears on her porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks at Tazio, still standing by his truck, stunned, and her face splits into a grin. "You surviving over there, Taz?"
"Yes ma'am." His voice goes stiff and formal, and I can tell he's not comfortable with the attention. Interesting. Most men his size use their bulk to dominate a conversation. This one looks like he'd rather disappear.
"Well, you should buy some of Molly's honey," June says. "It's the best in the county. She's got sage and orange blossom both."
I shoot June a look that she completely ignores. "I've got to go."
"Wait." Tazio takes a step toward me, then stops, surprised at himself. "You sell honey?"
"I have bees. Bees make honey. I sell what I can't use." I shrug. "It's not a big operation."
His eyes go to my truck bed and stay there. "Do you have any with you?"
I hesitate. There are a few jars in the truck. I was going to drop them at the farm stand on my way into town, but the intensity in his eyes makes me nervous. It isn't the scared kind of nervous. The kind I haven't felt in a long time.
"Maybe," I say.
"I'll take all of it," he says, without a second of thought.
I blink at him. "You don't even know how much I have."
"Doesn't matter." He's already walking toward my truck, digging in his pockets, coming up empty. His expression shifts to frustration. "I don't have my wallet."
"Taz, honey, I'll loan you whatever you need," June calls from the porch, and I can hear the amusement in her voice. She's enjoying this way too much.
"June—" I start.
"Consider it a welcome-home present." She's already coming down the steps, reaching into the pocket of her apron. "How much, Molly?"
I have fourteen jars of sage honey in the truck. I do the math quickly: eight dollars a jar, that's over a hundred dollars, way more than I should take from anyone, let alone a stranger, but before I can say anything, June is pressing a folded stack of bills into Tazio's hand.
"It's too much," I say.
"It's local honey from a local beekeeper," Tazio says, his voice firm. He's not looking at June anymore. He's looking at me, and there's a stubborn set to his jaw that suggests arguing with him would be pointless. "I'll take all fourteen jars."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
June laughs, the sound bright and knowing, and retreats to her porch with a wave. "You kids figure it out. I've got bread in the oven."
We stand there in her yard, me with my bee suit half-unzipped and my hair a mess, him with a fistful of borrowed cash and dirt on his boots, and neither of us moves to leave.
I don't know why. I don't have a name for it.
But when I finally take his money and hand him the jars, our fingers brush, and I feel it all the way to my spine.
"Thank you," he says, and his voice is softer now.
"You're welcome, Tazio Williams," I say, and his whole name feels good in my mouth.
"Taz," he says. "People call me Taz."
"Okay, Taz." I climb into my truck and start the engine. "Take care of yourself. And stay off the tailgate."
I secure the ventilated swarm box for transport and drive away with it beside me and his money in my pocket and a strange fluttering feeling in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
One week later, the phone rings again.
"Molly." June's voice is breathless, excited. "You need to come over. Same truck, same situation."
I'm already reaching for my suit before I remember to be suspicious. "June, what are the odds of a swarm landing on the same truck twice in one week?"
"I'm sure I don't know anything about odds," June says, way too innocently. "Get over here."