He presses a thumb on the push-to-talk mic, and his voice rumbles through the speakers. “Hollow Creek Farm has been in operation since 1886. Our ancestors were among the five founding families of Blue Crescent Harbor. Back then, there were just a few milk cows on forty acres. These days we’re up to about eight hundred acres, most of it in pasture and hay, and we keep eighty head of breeding cattle on rotation through these fields.”
The tractor bumps over a rut in the path, and my shoulder presses harder against his. His body heat seeps through my thin dress. I grab the door handle tighter, knuckles whitening.
How long is the ride going to be again? I’m not positive I can survive much more proximity to this beautiful, solid, human furnace of a man.
“The calves are born mostly in spring,” Ryder continues smoothly. Is he not as intensely aware of every point where our bodies touch as I am? How can he be so unaffected? “With fewer herds on a fall schedule.”
I stare out the window. To the left, the pastures extend beyond where the eye can see. To the right, the tulip fields spread out in neat rows of reds and yellows, of purples that fade into pinks. It’s stunning. A riot of color that should capture my attention, but it’s not enough to drag my focus away from the man beside me.
The tractor lurches over another bump, and I sway into him. My hand lands on his thigh again. Hard muscles flex under my palm.
I must find a better grip point.
I yank my arm back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is rougher now, stripped of the tour-guide polish.
I fold my hands in my lap, willing them to stay put and behave.
Ryder clears his throat and switches the microphone back on. “Up ahead, you’ll see the orchard. We grow apples, peaches, and pears on about ten acres.”
The more he talks, the more I appreciate how complicated managing all these moving parts is. The flower farm, the cow-calf operation, the orchard, and the entertainment side with the fun farm. And the Evanses do most of the work themselves with little hired help. No wonder Ryder is so busy. Hearing about the day-to-day is enough to make my head spin.
I risk a glance at Ryder. His jaw is tight, his hands on the wheel like he’s holding on for dear life. A muscle twitches in his cheek. He’s not unaffected. That knowledge sends heat spiraling through my core, where reason goes to die.
“This section,” he says into the microphone, voice steady despite the tension radiating off him, “is where we plant seasonal crops for the fun farm. Pumpkins or corn for our maze.”
A little girl in the trailer behind us squeals with delight, asking if they can come back to carve the pumpkins in October. The sound breaks through our bubble, a reminder that we’re not alone. That families are watching, children listening, and I’m a teacher who should not be having sexy thoughts about a parent while pressed against him in a tractor.
I shift, trying to put half an inch of space between us.
It’s impossible. The seat is too small. And my body doesn’t want the distance anyway.
The path dips, and we both lurch forward. Ryder’s arm shoots out, his forearm in line with my sternum, breaking my fall like the safety bar on a roller coaster. Functional, if you ignore the skin-on-skin contact and consequent heart failure.
The soft tickling of his arm hair burns against my collarbones.
“Okay?” he asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Fine.”
He drops his arm, and I jerk back to keep myself from leaning into him, from chasing more of that accidental contact my body has already filed under “necessary.”
“The river feeds into the Lake of the Ozarks.” Ryder continues his narration. “It’s one reason this land has been productive for generations.”
As I listen to him tell the history of his family, his pride for the Evans name makes more sense. Ryder is not an entitled prick because of his founder title; he is in love with this land, the town, and its people. His rough edges come out when he perceives a threat, real or imagined. But he doesn’t guard an abstract legacy. Ryder protects what his people bled into this soil. I know what it takes to build something from nothing, to pour yourself into it until you can’t tell where you end and it begins. I also know the pain of having the thing that defined you ripped away from you. I hope he never learns that lesson.
The tractor follows the curve of the river; sunlight glints off the water in a glitter of sparks. The families in the hay bed are taking photos, pointing at the scenery, getting lost in the experience.
Inside the cab, it’s just us.
Ryder and me and the terrible, wonderful awareness that has been humming between us from the start. It bristled under our arguments, hid in the apologies, and settled deeper with every accidental touch. And now it’s screaming louder than the engine. It has been since Monday night.
That phone call rewired something in me. Hearing Ryder sob over the phone did what his charm never could. It cracked open a door I’d bricked shut. And after getting this behind-the-scenes into his daily life, the rest of him finally makes sense, too.
By the time the hayride ends, I have a new respect and comprehension for Ryder as a person, his world, and his roots. As the barn comes into view, the passengers in the back get ready to disembark. Rhys waves from the trailer, grinning.
I spring out of the cab the second the wheels stop turning. The loss of the contact is immediate, a cold emptiness carved out of my side. Regrettable but necessary.
