Page 24

The morning is cold, clear. Last night's rain is a memory. Fog sits on the lower pasture, burning off slow as the sun climbs. She photographs it all. The mist, the cattle, the fences. Me working. Every time I turn around, her camera is pointed somewhere. At the fence posts. At Bucky, who's somehow on top of the water trough again. At my hands.

She's photographing my hands.

I don't say anything about it. Just keep working while she captures something she sees in my fingers, my grip on the wire, the way I hold the staple gun. Nobody's ever paid attention to my hands before. Beth never looked at them twice.

Poppy looks at them like they're worth recording.

The feed truck arrives at nine. Benny drives, same as every month, and his eyebrows climb to his hairline when he sees Poppy hauling a bale of hay across the barn floor.

"Well," he says, leaning on the truck. "She's new."

"She's the photographer."

"That what we're calling it?"

"Get out of my barn, Benny."

He grins, unloads the feed, tips his hat at Poppy on the way out. She waves with both hands because she's got hay chaff in her hair and a streak of dirt across her forehead and she doesn't care. Benny pulls out of the drive, and I know he'll be at Maggie's within the hour telling the whole town that Deck Connors has a woman hauling hay in his barn.

By noon, we've moved the cattle. She was useless at first, walking too close, waving her arms wrong. I repositioned her twice, both times with my hands on her shoulders, turning her body where I needed it. Both times her breath hitched. Both times I let go too slow.

The herd settled in the east field by one. She sits on the fence rail, camera in her lap, cheeks flushed from the cold and the work. I lean on the post beside her.

"You're not terrible at this," I say.

"High praise from the man who told me to stay on the path."

"I also told you not to climb anything. You didn't listen to that either."

"I climbed you last night."

The words land in my gut. Heat, immediate. She's grinning, proud of herself, legs swinging on the rail. I step between her knees, hands on the fence on either side of her thighs.

"That mouth is going to get you in trouble."

"Promises, promises."

Kissing her is becoming involuntary. My hands leave the fence, find her face, tilt her chin up. The kiss is slow this time. Not urgent like the barn. Not desperate like last night. Slow, thorough, her mouth soft under mine, her fingers curling into the collar of my thermal.

When I pull back, her eyes are half-closed. The wind pushes her curls across her face. I tuck them behind her ear. Let my hand rest there. Thumb on her cheekbone.

"Deck."

"Yeah."

"What does your mom think? About me being here."

"She told me to buy good butter."

That grin. Full wattage. "I like your mom."

"She'd like you. She's already planning the interrogation."

"When?"

"She'll call. Give it a day."

"I can't wait."