Page 78 of We Redeemed the Rain

“That’s ‘cause I don’t make jokes aroundyou.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because you,Bea Thompson”—I mimicked the way she’d emphasized my full name— “generate enough comedy for three people.”

I looked up, and we held a moment of eye contact. Her jawdropped with a scoff but fire danced in her narrowed eyes. “But you like laughing at me, cowboy. Admit it.”

Cowboy?

Her gaze traveled down to my chest then back to my face.

Were we…flirting? A timid burn started at the base of my neck.

Bea said some of the corniest lines I’d ever heard. Just like she wrote in her letters. I whirled away so she wouldn’t see how hard I was fighting a smile. Hell would freeze over before I’d admit liking anything.

She strode into the middle of the stall. “Well, something you should know about me is this:miss outis not in my vocabulary.” Then she leaned down, stooping to gather a heap of soiled shavings into her bare hands.

“Whoa, whoa.” I swiveled the pitchfork, pressing the wooden handle across her chest like a seat belt and lifting her back. Kept the mess beyond her reach. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

“Helping.” She answered innocently.

“Not like that, you ain’t.”

“You’ve left me no choice.” She lurched past my barrier and scooped a handful of shavings, grimacing.

“What is wrong with you?” I laughed in disbelief and batted her wrist with my palm. The shavings popped out of her hands and scattered back to the ground. “Quit that!”

She sighed, straightening up. “Fine. I’ll just go to the next one.”

Before I could stop her, she’d marched out of the stall and into the next. I was on her heels and caught her by the waist as she bent to gather another handful. “Bea!” Full-on laughter shook my shoulders as I jerked her forearm, scattering the shavings again. “You gotta stop!”

She was laughing, too. It was a beautiful sound, even infused with annoyance and defiance. She pushed me away and crouched down. “I want to help!”

I placed my hands on her waist again and tugged her upright as she struggled.

Laughter, an unfamiliar friend, continued to eke from my throat. It was the second time I’d truly laughed in ages. The mudfiasco and now this. I almost lost the battle and dropped her in the shavings as my arms went weak, slacking with laughter. I wheezed a breath in. “You’re so damn stubborn!”

She elbowed me in the gut, and Ioofedout a breath.

I grabbed her a third time, using a bit more force. I pulled her close and locked my arms around her shoulders to keep her from escaping. We were both breathing heavy, both laughing. Her struggling slowly eased as she realized she couldn’t escape.

Something shifted deep inside me, like hot water hitting my scalp—a rapid transition from uncomfortable to incredible the longer I held myself under the flow. The painful relief trickled down my shoulders and arms and through my core. Her hair smelled like sunshine and honey and her skin was soft. I resisted the urge to sigh into the top of her head and wrap her tighter.

I wracked my brain, trying to remember the last time someone was this close to me. My hands flexed on her shoulders as I tried to decide whether to hang on or let go. I spoke over her ear. “If you think I’m lettin’ you grab manure with your hands, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Thengiveme a pitchfork”

“Fine. I’ll?—”

Her hand slipped up and rested over one of my forearms.

My words faltered. “I’ll—give you a pitchfork.”

I knew it was time to let her go. Past time.

She squeezed my forearm. “Swear it.”

I didn’t recognize my own voice as I struggled to remain unaffected by the feel of her against me. “I swear.”

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