Page 57
"Hunter," Miles warns with a tone that actually turns me on a little.
The second brother, who's taller and currently grinning like Christmas came early, jogs over. "Wait, wait, wait. Important question. Did you collect her before or after the roadside nipple emergency? Because—"
"Will." Miles's voice could cut down a fir on its own.
"What? It's a legitimate question."
"Okay. Noted that there is no privacy in this family," I say to Miles, who suddenly standing very close to me.
"Welcome to the Strattons," Hunter says cheerfully. "We share everything except money, and that's only because there isn't any."
"Everyone, this is Audrey Fields," Miles says, cutting both his brothers a hard look. "Play nice, because apparently she has the power to fire me from the Wildcard team if you don't."
An older man with Miles's shoulders and a gray beard strides over, wiping his hands on his jacket.
"Nice to meet you, Audrey. Greg Stratton. Wonderful to meet you, truly, and—" he pivots without breathing, because his other two sons are back to fighting again, "—HUNTER, WILL, GET THE FUCK BACK TO WORK, THE TREES AREN'T RESURRECTING THEMSELVES."
"Gregory." A small stumpy woman appears like magic. She has silver-blonde hair under a knit hat and she's handing me a steaming cup of spiced cider. "Watch your language in front of our guest."
Greg looks down at his boots like a scolded child. "Sorry, dear."
She must be Miles's mom because with a wave of her hand, the entire male population of the farm is back at work on her command.
"I'm Susan," the stumpy woman says with a smile. "Drink that, sweetheart, and go sit somewhere warm. You may as well put your feet up and relax because these idiots will be at this for hours."
I look at the damaged trees. Then at Miles who is already hauling a crushed tree off the trailer while attempting to kick his brother in the shins.
The cider in my hands smells like cinnamon and cloves and every good decision I've never made. But I can't just stand here while everyone does all the work.
So I chug the entire cup in four swallows and shrug off the coat.
"Where do you want me, Susan?"
"Absolutely not," Miles calls across the yard. "You're wearing market boots. They are not fit for farm work."
"Actually," Susan says, disappearing into the barn. She returns with a worn pair of work boots and holds them against my foot with a satisfied nod. "These'll fit. If my son wants to bring beautiful women into working buildings, he should expect them to get involved." She turns to her husband. "Isn't that right, dear?"
"Yes, dear," Greg says, like an automatic response without looking up.
But over the next ten minutes, you know what I learn about myself?
I know nothing about tree farming.
So I don't pretend. I ask what's damaged, what can be retrimmed, what needs replacing entirely, and how many trees still need tagging before the trucks load at dawn.
Hunter hands me the crumpled order sheets like a drowning man handing over the ship's wheel, and within twenty minutes I've rebuilt the entire Milford count on a clipboard, separated the salvageable stock into its own row, and stopped three separate Stratton sons from checking the same trees twice.
"She just color-coded our trauma," Will says, staring at my system.
"She does that," Miles says, and there's something in his voice that makes my chest go warm.
The work is loud and physical and weirdly wonderful. Maybe because all the brothers now have their shirts off in the night sky, each of them as muscular and built at the other, but also because… it's busy.
Cutters whine through thick trunks, sap and pine fill the cold air, and the barn lights glow across the snow while the brothers haul replacement firs down from the upper field.
It's fast. It's fun. It's really, really, rewarding.
Fir needles collect on my sweater as my hands go numb from the cold. Miles keeps crossing my line of sight carrying entire trees across one shoulder like they're gym bags.
