Page 120
Henry: 175
Lark: 211
Her eyes snapped to Henry’s. “Did you follow Rule Six?”
“Which one was that?”
“Agreeing to do our best.”
Henry dipped his chin. “Do you truly think I would do you the dishonor of not trying? One hundred and seventy-five is a formidable number for anyone. You were better than I, as simple as that.”
Lark stared at the numbers once again, allowing the truth to sink in. She had done it. She’d beaten Henry Branok at his own game.
Of course, she’d had far more time to explore, for she hadn’t been teaching, speaking with others, and answering as many questions as he had. But then, he’d also been out of doors on average more days than she had, hadn’t he?
They reviewed each other’s lists of the birds they’d seen, and Lark glowed as Henry marveled over the ones she’d observed that he hadn’t.
“Reed bunting, sedge warbler, golden plover,” he recited. “Nuthatch—how did I not manage that one? Oh, a marsh harrier, very nice. Tree pipit. Well, there is one bird on mine you do not have.”
She looked between the lists. “Which one?”
“A lark.”
Lark stared at the birds’ names. “I don’t see that on yours.”
“I’m looking at her right now. You can add that to your list, if you’d like.”
She met his gaze, his eyes on her, and she laughed with a shake of her head. “Very clever, Mr. Branok.”
He delivered a proud smile. “Be prepared to hear such comments for the rest of your life, my darling.” He wrapped her in his arms. “You are my favorite bird, after all.”
He pressed a quick peck to the tip of her nose. “Now, what shall you do to celebrate your victory?”
Lark had imagined months ago what this would feel like and what she might do. And yet, now, looking back at the months she’d spent falling in love with Henry, she found she truly wasn’t bothered by her victory in the slightest.
She had already won the best reward of all.
She closed the book and peered up at her husband-to-be, staring into the stunning pools of blue and sighing. “I think I’m more interested in what we agreed to do if we did not win.”
His eyes narrowed. “Surely we had spoken those in jest.”
Swiftly, Lark flipped to the front of her book where the signed agreement rested, and she pointed to the final rule they’d added only last week.
“‘Rule Seven,’” she read aloud with a growing smile. “‘The individual who is not the victor shall either, one,’”—she raised her finger—“‘eat a full pheasant for dinner, two, ask Mr. Dunn for a recitation of his lifelong list thus far, or three, mimic the ritualistic mating dance of a sandhill crane.’” She pointed to his name next to the list. “And I will remind you that these were your ideas that were absolutely not suggested lightly.”
He sighed, pulling his lips to the side. “Hmm. Not a great selection to choose from.”
“You only have yourself to blame for that,” she said. “You didn’t like the suggestion I offered.”
“I can’t imagine why. Falling into a patch of nettles seems appealing now.”
She grinned. “Stop putting this off. Which do you choose?”
He rubbed at his jaw, peering out at the sea. “I can’t stomach eating a full pheasant. I’d be as sick as your aunt on a carriage ride. And listening to Mr. Dunn is even more unappealing than that.” He sighed. “Very well, I have made my choice.” He faced Lark. “Prepare to be wooed, my love.”
Lark stared, trying to hold in her laughter. “What? No, you’re not supposed to do the mating dance for me, just in general.”
“No, no,” he said, removing his jacket and laying it on the sand, dropping his journal on it next. “This is for your pleasure. I’ve seen this very dance performed by the cranes while I was in the Americas, and it was remarkable. You shall certainly fall more in love with me than ever before after this.”
