Hope.
It was the only answer. Well, that or rolling over and letting the beasts eat him. Forget getting Henry to convince some official to bring a “real” certificate of marriage and somehow fooling her into signing. Forget disappearing into Canada and getting an annulment arranged. Forget breaking her heart and being the scum of the earth to get what he needed.
Of course Henry would have to agree. And Tessa would have to leave her home. But if that happened…
Maybe he was as deep into a fantasy as the muck around this old boat ramp. But he folded the new possibility around his heart, tenderly wrapping his wounds. Then he closed his eyes, and slept right on the dock for hours.
He rose before the sun did, got back on the bike, and rode to Barefoot Bay. When he stepped inside his dimly lit bungalow, the first thing he heard was a rumble in the distance—the steady growl of a tractor.
At dawn? She couldn’t sleep, no doubt. What did that mean? His new plan had a snowball’s chance?
Time to find out.
The only thing that really surprised him was how much he wanted to hurry the process. Not because they didn’t have much time until the fake wedding that he now wanted to be real. But because of how much he wanted to be
He washed his face, brushed his teeth, grabbed a pair of jeans, and stuck his feet into sneakers. He was halfway across the gardens before he even bothered to tie them.
He crossed the garden, following the sound of the tractor to the opposite end of the fields, and stopped to stare at the sight. The sun had yet to cross the horizon, but a yellow glow lit the tips of the palm and oak trees along the eastern border of the property, the morning clouds washed gold and pink. Silhouetted against that backdrop, Tessa rolled along on a small tractor, her back ramrod straight, her hair blowing, a look of strength and invincibility visible on her face even from this distance.
Yes, he wanted to be with her. With her, next to her, in her bed, and in her life. The tableau punched him, stealing his breath for a moment. He tried to take another step but couldn’t, captivated by the sight of her, the purity of her spare moves as she looked over her shoulder. Behind her, whatever tool she had attached to the tractor plowed up a wake of churning leaves and dirt.
Inside him, more muscles coiled with desire—and affection. It was like she’d crawled right under his skin and taken up residence there. As if she sensed him there, she turned, and the engine hitched in speed like Ian’s pulse.
For a long time they just looked at each other across the field. Then he made his way toward her, over dirt and sprays of bright-green vegetable leaves. When he was a few feet away from the tractor, she gave his bare torso a once-over, shaking her head.
“Damn, dude, you don’t play fair.”
He resisted the urge to tell her everything he’d decided, because he still had to take this idea one baby step at a time. First, he needed to get back to where they were before he fell apart last night.
“Somebody was plowing at five-thirty in the morning. I’m not awake enough for a shirt.”
She studied him, no doubt aware that she’d never heard his bike return. “What is that welt on your cheek?”
He touched the bite. “Mosquito. I crashed outside.”
“Are you crazy?”
He nodded. “’Fraid so.”
She gestured toward the dirt behind her. “So, you too wiped out to help me? I’m running late and once I get these vines torn up, I need to start getting as many potatoes picked and into the storehouse as possible.”
“Late? It’s barely sunrise. What are you late for?”
“I need to be somewhere at eight,” she said vaguely, then glanced at the sunny sky. “And the potatoes can’t be in the hot sun once we cut the vines, so anything I cut has to be harvested and put away in the storehouse. Thus, I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ll help,” he said quickly. “Tell me what to do.”
She pointed behind her tractor to the plowed row. “Dig up the sweets. As soon as I finish this I’ll help, but if we can get one row done, I’ll be happy.”
“What about the other two rows?”
She glanced toward them, sighing. “I’ll get them eventually.”
He reached to her, still not ready to gloss over what had transpired. “Tessa, are you all right? With everything I told you last night—”
“I’m fine,” she assured him, frowning. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”
“I’m better than fine. And I want to talk, okay?”
She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. “Not now. I don’t want to get distracted. I’ve put these sweets off for too long. I’ve put a lot of things off for too long,” she added.
What did that mean? But he took her cue and didn’t ask; instead went off to find a faded wood bushel basket and carried it to the end of the plowed row, kneeling down to brush dirt off the hefty yams and toss them into the basket. After a while, he looked up, watching her maneuver her tractor.
Funny how he’d mistakenly thought she was a vulnerable woman. She was strong and independent. She could probably handle anything.
Could she handle a life in the government protection program? Raising children who weren’t hers? Leaving her friends, who were her whole family?
Doubts pressed like the sun as it rose. When should he tell her if not now?
When she finished plowing, she got another pile of baskets and started at the other end of the row, too far away to really talk intimately until they met in the middle.
“Ever work on a farm before, John?” she called.
Yeah, in the Cotswolds, at his uncle’s farm. He could say that. He could start there.
“Now and again,” he said when she glanced up at him because he’d taken so long to answer.
“I love farming,” she said, the meaningless small talk suddenly taking on much more meaning.
Would she love farming on the other side of the planet—with him? “I noticed.”
“Yeah, much to my lawyer mother’s dismay. I wandered into it by accident, but it suits me so well. Have you always been passionate about cooking?”
What was she doing? Making conversation or trying to get him to open up? Either way, she was throwing a door wide open for him to walk through.
“Not always,” he said. “I like other things.”
She looked up from her work. “Like what?”
Finance, stocks and bonds, business, numbers, spreadsheets, and investments. Damn, he’d been good at it, too. “Played a little football when I was young,” he said when too much time had passed.
“What position?”
He opened his mouth to say goalie, but shit. She thought he meant American football. He pictured the field and picked a position. Should he say quarterback? That would be another lie. Should he—
She stood up suddenly. “Never mind, John.” She gave him a tight smile. “You can throw those in the storehouse for me and leave the tractor here. I really need to be there when the doors open.”
“You’re shutting me down, aren’t you? You don’t want to hear about my…my life, do you?”
She backed away. “Another time, okay? I know you understand.”
No, he did
She shook her head. “I don’t want to know, John.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I don’t want to get close to your heart and know your past and understand your pain and still not…” She stopped, waving her hand.
“Still not what?” He didn’t follow where she was going.
