Still staring through the binoculars, Linnea gasps. “You found them!”
I grin. The Snow Creek elk herd is more elusive and smaller than Lost River’s. Rowdy had been worried that disease had wiped them out. Or that our long winter had been too hard on them thanks to their tendency to stay in higher elevations. This herd hasn’t reaped the benefits of a volunteer effort like the Winter Range Project to clear out old livestock fencing, so his worries were justified.
When she passes me the binoculars, her gaze drops to the spread. She’s quiet, but her delighted expression ignites a bright, steady warmth inside me. “You made us a picnic?”
I take a peek through the lenses. The brown fuzzy shapes against the snow get my heart skipping even before I can sharpen the focus. Dozens of cows are clustered in groups, their coats a rich caramel brown that contrasts with their dark legs and faces.
“You said you miss the field, so…”
She releases a soft sigh. “So you brought the field to me.”
Yesterday, when her text reply arrived with the picture of a wide streambed framed by sparse trees and a patchy blue sky, I wanted to pump my fist in victory. Not just because she was in the field for the day, but because she thought to share it with me.
“Something like that,” I say, setting the binoculars on the dash. “Plus we have a debate to get into, Linnea Jaymes. Can’t think of a better setting.”
She cocks her head, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “Linnea Jaymes?”
I peel open the package of cheddar. “You said you don’t have a middle name, right? You can take mine.”
“You got a problem with my name, cowboy?” I think her sassy tone is a cover because her cheeks are flushing pink again. Call it ahunch, but her siblings getting a piece of their mom when Linnea got a big fat nothing had an effect on her. How could it not?
“Nope. But it sounds better with mine.”
She rolls her eyes but I’m not fooled. I’m also keenly aware of how tight my pants feel. Because the idea of her taking my name satisfies a powerful craving inside me to makehermine.
“Pilot Boy crackers?” she asks with a smile as I unwrap the sleeve and add a stack of the big, round hardtack to the cutting board. “We ate those in Alaska all the time.”
“A field grunt’s staple.” I score the sausage wrapper and peel it back. “I think Shackleton’s crew aboard the Endurance survived on them too.”
Her eyes warm. “I loved that story. Dad read it to me when I was a kid.”
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat with a sip of water. “Mine did too. Polar exploration and survival all rolled into one classic adventure saga.”
Her eyes fill with compassion. “Does talking about him bring up hard memories?”
“They’re not hard.” I try to smile but there’s an ache tapping inside my chest. “Just bittersweet maybe.”
She nods. “What were they like?”
I exhale past the tight knot in my chest. It’s not that I don’t like talking about them. I rarely have an opportunity. “My mom ran a flower shop and my dad taught creative writing at a community college. They both loved the outdoors. And they really loved each other.”
“Did your dad write those words?” She nods at my hand.
“Yeah.” It comes out gruff, so I try to smile. “He loved writing short stories, and he dabbled in poetry.”
She caresses over the back of my hand, arcing over my rough rose with her thumb. “It reminds you of them.”
I smile, and though it feels a little awkward and sad, giving it toher feels the opposite. It feels freeing. I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “Roses were her favorite.”
With a soft sigh, she cocks her head at the cutting board, where I’ve started slicing up the sausage. “That looks homemade.”
“Yep. Last fall with Bear.”
“You’re sharing your special stash? You must like me.”
“I’ve liked you from the minute I laid eyes on you.” I lean over and kiss her. It’s quick and playful, but my heartbeat wallops down, down, straight to my dick.
“I like you too.” It comes out a little breathy, and she licks her lips.