Page 117 of Ten Mountain Men

Nash laughs. “Just for eggs, yeah. You haven’t heard the rooster?”

“They’re way out back,” Buck says. “So you might not have.”

“I’d love to help,” I say, surprising myself, because I’m not really an animal-tending-to type of girl. Animals are inherently messy as hell, and helpless to clean up after themselves. But chickens. Why not? After gardening and apple-picking, I’m basically an off-the-grid pro at this point, right?

By the time the others start rolling into the kitchen—and I take time to admire each and every one of the men, all still shirtless and in their underwear—Buck’s already halfway out the door, making it clear he’s ready to get to work. I give everyone other than Luke a good-morning peck on the cheek, then fall into step with Nash, who walks a little slower, his arm brushing mine as we make our way down a narrow path that winds further into the woods than I’d realized their property stretched.

“Careful, darlin’,” Nash says, reaching out to steady me as my foot catches on a tree root. “You want me to carry you for safety purposes?”

“I think I can make it,” I tell him.

“Well, if you feel the need to stop for a rest, we can duck behind a tree and do a little smooching,” he offers. And a very tempting offer it is.

“Duly noted,” I say.

“Work first, play later?” he guesses.

I nod. I wouldn’t say Luke is exactly enjoying my presence yet, but I’m also not sure he’d protest too much if I wanted to extend my stay a day or two or five. I don’t want to rock the proverbial boat.

By the time we reach the chicken coop, Buck is already at work, focused and precise as he fills up the feed containers. The coop itself is nestled in a small clearing, surrounded by tall trees, because everything on this mountain seems to be surrounded by tall trees. Maybe I should learn what some of these trees are.

“You’ll want to keep your distance until they know you,” Buck says as he gestures toward the chickens. “They can be temperamental.”

“Kind of like you,” Nash says, elbowing his brother playfully.

Buck gives him a sideways glance but doesn’t respond. He’s too focused on showing me the ropes—how to scatter the feed evenly, how to collect the eggs without startling the hens. I try to follow his instructions.

“Careful, Goldie,” Nash warns. “That one’s got a temper. Bit Buck once, and he could barely hold back tears.”

“I did not hold back the tears,” Buck says. “That shit hurt.”

I laugh, almost dropping the egg I’m holding. Then I do drop it as a chicken squawks loudly in my direction, making me jump.

Nash’s laugh is low, warm. He steps up behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, and leans in to murmur near my ear, “Careful, Goldie. They can smell fear.”

I swallow hard, the proximity doing things to me I don’t want to admit out loud. “I’m not scared,” I say, though my voice isn’t as steady as I’d like.

Then, before I know it, his arms are around my waist in a casual but undeniably intimate hug from behind, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. “Oh, well, they can smell arousal too. Are you aroused? And if not, is there anything I can do to help with that?”

“Hey, buddy, you’re supposed to be helping with the chickens, not distracting me.”

“I’m multi-tasking,” Nash replies, his smile evident in his tone.

Buck straightens, eyeing the two of us with a raised brow. “There are plenty of other places you can multi-task,” Buck says. “You’re getting the chickens all riled up.”

Nash only grins wider, giving me one last gentle squeeze before stepping away. He winks at me as he moves to the other side of the coop, though the loss of his warmth leaves a surprising emptiness in his wake. “I think it’s your feathers gettin’ ruffled, Bucky.”

“My feathers are just fine, thank you very much,” Buck says. “But you just stepped in chicken shit.”

We continue on, Buck and Nash unable to go two minutes without some good-natured ribbing between them. There’s never any heat or malice behind it and I have to say it’s quite entertaining. Sibling dynamics have always been fascinating to me.

“You’re doing good,” Buck says after a moment, his eyes on mine. “For someone who’s never handled chickens before.”

“I had good teachers,” I reply, glancing between him and Nash. Then I tease, “Well, one good teacher, anyway.”

I stick out my tongue at Nash and he says, “Oh, baby, don’t put the goods out front if they’re not for sale.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” Buck asks, rolling his eyes.

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