I take my time to hide the trembling in my fingers as I pin one side of the dress up.
“Patience is a virtue,” I murmur.
“Never claimed to be virtuous.” There’s a husky, teasing rumble to his voice that makes my toes curl against the grass.
He's so warm at my back, and he smells like leather and pine and clean skin and I have to keep my eyes on the clothesline because if I turn my head even slightly my nose would be at his jaw.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask. “You got somewhere to be?”
His lips are close enough to my hair that I feel the warmth of his breath when he answers. “Not particularly.”
The wind drops and the clothesline stops whipping. His chest is at my back and his hand is over mine.
There’s so little space between us.
I want there to be none at all.
I want him to slide his other hand to my waist. I want to lean back and feel his arms tighten around me.
I want it so much, so suddenly, that I have to look straight ahead at the mountains and remind myself who he is and who I am and why none of that is going to happen.
Ultimately, though, he’s the one who takes a step back.
The wind rushes in where he was, sending prickles along my skin.
“Just…” He gestures vaguely at the clothesline, at me, at nothing in particular. “Don't overdo it. That's all.”
And then he walks away, spine rigid, and doesn't look back.
So, yeah, he’s still Walker.
Brooding and grumpy and solitary.
Scolding me for trying to clean the house and grumbling that laundry isn't my job when he finds me hanging clothes on the line to dry in the sunshine.
I ignore him.
I ignore him all the way up until the snake incident a couple of hours later.
It starts when Jonah and I make lemonade to cool off and we’re playing our fossil dig game again, while Walker works on building a small barn about fifty yards away.
He's been at it for the better part of an hour, framing out what will eventually be a little stable for the pony he's planning to get Jonah. The kind of starter responsibility a kid can handle: feeding, grooming, mucking out a stall, all within shouting distance of the house.
He mentioned it over dinner the other day, casual as anything, like surprising his son with his very own pony was just another day in the life.
Lucky kid.
And lucky me, getting to watch Walker bring it all to fruition.
He's in a grey t-shirt gone dark with sweat across his shoulders and down his back, Stetson pulled low against the sun. Every time he lifts a beam into place the shirt rides up, showing the ridges of his stomach, the cut lines disappearing into his waistband.
It’s kind of hypnotic watching him work. Marveling at the casual effort of him carrying boards that would take two of me just to drag across the ground. The raw strength of his body.
He wipes his forearm across his forehead. Takes a long drink of the glass of iced lemonade I gave to him, his throat working with every swallow.
I have to look away before Jonah notices I've completely abandoned our game of make-believe.
But I’m not as smooth as I thought.
