Would he stay?
A movement out the window caught her eye, and stepping closer, she saw him, hoeing at weeds in her vegetable patch. He’d mounded up her potato plants, something else she’d meant to do that day.
Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed wetly on his arms, and a ball cap shaded his face.
And, oh, the thrill of it. The unexpected and staggering thrill of it. His clothes hung in the closet with hers as she stood at the bedroom window and watched him work the garden under a sky like bleached denim.
She spun away from the window, hugging herself, then ran downstairs.
In the kitchen, she found the food he’d brought in the fridge and the dozen lemons she’d bought a few days earlier.
She made fresh lemonade, filled two tall glasses with cracked ice and poured. She put the pitcher and glasses on a tray and carried it all outside.
“It’s too hot to hoe,” she called out. “You’ll be dehydrated.”
“Nearly done.”
She walked out to him with the glasses as he finished the last row. “It’s fresh.”
While sweat trickled down his temples, he downed half the glass without pause. “Thanks.”
“You’ve done so much work.”
Leaning on the hoe, he studied the garden. “I’m hoping to sample those butter beans, come harvest. I’m fond of butter beans.”
“Those are lima beans.”
“You’re standing in the South, honey.” After a roll of his shoulders, he downed the rest of his lemonade. “I haven’t worked a garden since I headed down to Little Rock. Didn’t know I missed it.”
“Still, it’s hot and close.” She touched his hand to bring his gaze back to her. “I wasn’t very welcoming before.”
“Work’s allowed to get in the way now and again. Mine does, and will.”
“Mine, in this case, is frustrating. I thought I’d be closer.”
“Can’t help you on that. I don’t understand a damn thing you’re doing. But I can work a garden, and I can grill up those steaks I picked up, so you can have more time at it.” He cocked his head as he studied her. “But I’d say it’s time for a break all around, and I sure as hell need a shower.”
“You’re very sweaty,” she agreed, and took the hoe from him to carry it to her little garden shed. “I can pick some of the lettuce, and a few other things, for a salad when you’re done.”
“I’m thinking ‘we.’ ”
“You’ve already done more than your share in the garden.”
“Not we in the garden.” He took her hand, pulling her along toward the house. “We in the shower.”
“I really should—”
“Get wet with me.” He paused to take off his dirty boots, sweaty socks. “Did I ever tell you about this swimming hole we used to frequent?”
“No.”
“It’s not that far from here, a little higher in the hills. Really more a bend in the river than a pool, but it worked fine.”
Taking her glass, he set them both down on the counter as he moved her through the kitchen.
“Water’s cool. The color of tobacco, I’d say, but clear. Russ and I and some others used to ride our mountain bikes up there on those long, schoolless days of summer, strip down and cool off. The first time I skinny-dipped with a girl was there, at what we locals call Fiddlehead Pool, because there’s fiddlehead ferns thick as thieves up there. I’ll take you sometime.”
“That sounds very interesting, but right now—”
