Page 109 of Ten Mountain Men

Goldie

The next morning, the mountain air seems fresher after the heavy rain, even cleaner and crisper than usual, as I follow Ranger into the sprawling garden that takes up the entirety of the front yard.

The night before, after mopping and sopping up all the rainwater the buckets didn’t catch, and eating a late supper, we all retired to our spots to read. I hadThe Body in the Library,chosen for me by Buck, who’d decided to reread the same—they had two copies. He said he thought we could talk about it after we finished, which I thought was super sweet. Luke had his book of quotes. The others seemed to be on a memoir kick. But none of us read for very long—we all dozed off, bone-tired, in the living room, and all woke up in the same places this morning.

Everyone agreed it was the best night’s sleep of their lives, but we also agreed to take a break on the cleaning today, to focus on the necessary chores only since we were all still quite exhausted from the previous jam-packed day.

Luke and Ash went back to the roof to try, try again, but they both looked worried. Probably because the temperature dropped significantly overnight, which may just mean the snow Ash mispredicted earlier in the week will be here sooner rather than later.

The cold snap left a delicate frost that shimmers on the last of the season’s vegetables.

“I’ve got some late carrots and Brussels sprouts left mostly,” Ranger explains, gesturing toward clusters of green that peek out from the tangled foliage.

I nod, rubbing my hands together for warmth, my breath misting in the air. “I don’t know much about gardening, but I’m a quick learner and happy to help…harvest?”

Ranger’s smile is quick, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ll take you up on that. Here, let me show you how to dig them up without hurting the roots.” He hands me a trowel, our fingers brushing in the exchange. A simple touch, but it sends a tiny jolt up my arm.

We kneel side by side at the edge of the carrot patch, the earth soft and damp under our knees. Ranger demonstrates how to insert the trowel into the soil, his movements gentle and precise. “You gotta feel for the right spot,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Then ease it out.”

I mimic his actions, the soft soil yielding under the trowel. With a gentle tug, I free a carrot from the earth, its vibrant orange a stark contrast to the muted tones of the soil. “Like this?” I ask, holding it up for him to see.

“Perfect,” he approves, his smile genuine. Our hands brush again as he takes the carrot to inspect it, and this time the contact lingers just a moment longer than necessary. His fingers are rough, the hands of a man used to hard work, but his touch is gentle.

Ranger places the carrot in the basket beside him and turns back to the garden. “Let’s get some more of these and then move on to the sprouts.”

As we work, I find myself watching him. He’s focused, attentive to the task at hand, but every so often he throws a glance my way, as if to make sure I’m still there.

“You seem to know a lot about all this,” I comment, gesturing around the unruly garden.

He shrugs, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “Had to learn, really. Being out here, it’s about making sure we can sustain ourselves as much as possible. If a blizzard hits, we might not be able to get down the mountain for weeks, if not longer.”

I nod, understanding the weight of responsibility he carries. “It must be a lot, having to ensure everything runs smoothly here.”

“It is,” he admits. “But it’s worth it. This”—he gestures around us—“is home. And it’s ours. Makes all the hard work and worrying worth it.”

“You must be really worried about the roof,” I say gently.

He sighs, but says, “Luke and Ash’ll get it patched up.”

We continue working in comfortable silence, the baskets slowly filling. I can’t help but feel a warmth spreading through me, and it’s not just from the physical labor. Ranger’s honesty, his dedication to this land and his brothers—it’s endearing. I find myself admiring him, not just for his skills, but for the care he puts into every single thing he does.

As we move on to the Brussels sprouts, Ranger gently bumps his shoulder against mine, a playful, light gesture that makes me laugh. “You’re doing great,” he says.

In this quiet corner of the garden, with Ranger by my side, amid the wild, untamed growth that somehow thrives under his care, I feel a sense of belonging, that feeling of being home that catches me off guard again.

Ranger’s light brown hair is pulled back today, and I love that his face is unobscured. I find my gaze lingering on his lips—so full and inviting, stained as if he’d bitten into a ripe, juicy strawberry.

“Ranger,” I say, my voice slightly breathless as we stand close, the basket between us now full of our morning’s effort. “I know we’ve got a lot to get done, but…do you think we can make time for a kiss or two?”

He pauses, his trowel halfway to the basket, and his blue eyes meet mine. There’s a moment of silence. Then, he smiles.

“Yes,” he replies. “In fact, I think we could make time for three or four. If you’d like.”

My heart leaps at his words, and without another thought, I step closer, closing the small gap between us. He doesn’t hesitate; his strong hands reach out, resting gently on my hips as he leans down, down, down. I stretch up, up, up, up. Our lips meet somewhere in the middle of his height and mine, and it’s a kiss that feels like it could melt the frost off the garden, warm and sweet, deepening as we both give in to the moment.

A surge of warmth spreads through my body, chasing away any remnants of the chill in the air. Every nerve in my body comes alive, tingling with a mix of anticipation and desire, and…what? There’s something else there too. A tenderness, an affection.

With each passing second, the kiss deepens, his tongue exploring my mouth and vice versa while his hands explore my curves and my hands explore the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

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