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"These are Honeycrisp?" I ask.

"Winesap. Old variety. My mom brought them from a nursery in Billings thirty-seven years ago."

He holds one out to me. I take it, bite in. The skin cracks between my teeth, tart and sweet at once, juice running down my chin.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

Just for a second. One second where he watches the juice track along my lip and his entire body goes still. Then he turns back to the tree and picks another apple with more force than the branch requires.

"Good?" he asks, not looking at me.

"Really good."

"Take some when you go. Box by the barn."

We work through the orchard. He picks, I photograph. The afternoon light moves through the branches and turns everything bronze. At one point, reaching for a high apple, he stands directly behind me to pull a branch down, his chest close enough to my back that I can feel the warmth through my jacket. His arm extends past my shoulder, fingers gripping the branch, forearm inches from my face.

Neither of us breathes.

He gets the apple. Steps back. Puts it in the crate without a word.

By four o'clock, the light is going. I've shot over three hundred frames, enough to make my editor weep. The farm, the orchard, the goat, the mountains, the rows. Everything but him. Every time I tried, he moved.

At the gate, I stop. Turn back. He's standing by the barn, arms crossed, watching me leave. Same posture as Wednesday. Same guarded expression.

"Can I come back?" I ask. "Not Saturday. During the week. To get more shots. Morning light, golden hour. I need the full range for the spread."

His arms tighten against his chest. "When?"

"Monday?"

A pause long enough to plant a crop in.

"Monday," he says. "Don't climb anything."

"I'll bring lunch."

"I didn't ask for lunch."

"You didn't ask for company either, and yet here we are." My grin is wide enough to split my face. "See you Monday, Deck."

Walking to the car, I can feel him watching. The whole length of the path, past the pumpkins, past the sign that says stay on the path, all the way to the gate.

My phone buzzes.

Mom:

How's the farm series going

Me:

Found the perfect one. Grumpy farmer. Best chili I've ever eaten. Going back Monday.

Mom:

Grumpy farmer with good chili? Poppy Christine Marsh you better send me a picture of this man immediately

Me: