The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  She struggled briefly, then, knowing she was beat, stopped, her breasts rising and falling rapidly above his arms.

  Her ponytail tickled his nostrils but he couldn’t scratch it without letting go of her body, warm and firm pressed up against his. He wrinkled his nose, narrowed his eyes, and peered down at where her neck disappeared into the edge of her T-shirt. He had an overpowering urge to bend and kiss that spot. To taste her soft skin with his tongue.

  Instead, he took the high road and freed her with a playful shove.

  Jamie picked up her jacket, yanked down the hem of her shirt, and gave him a defiant parting glare. But try as she might, she couldn’t contain her smile.

  Evidently, despite his erratic behavior, Jamie Martel wasn’t one to carry a grudge.

  “Truce?” he asked.

  She pretended to think about it. “Truce,” she said finally, flouncing out of the tasting room without a backward glance, to go help with the trail ride.

  Hank stayed behind, watching the bounce of her ponytail with each step. A few more weeks and she’d be gone and life would go on as before.

  In the meantime, he and Jamie were going camping together.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The day of the campout dawned warm and mild, with just enough clouds to break up the monotonous expanse of sapphire.

  Jamie was in the kitchen helping Ellie prepare the food for the excursion, thankful that the tension that had lingered between Hank and her after the wine fest had vanished just in time for them to spend the better part of two days and a night together.

  “We got this campout routine down. I fry enough chicken to feed everyone at the vineyard, including the workers. Then I make a couple buckets of potato salad and simmer a cauldron of baked beans. Half of the meal gets packed up for the people who’re going out to the Peak, the other half stays.”

  The buzzer on the range went off, and Ellie grabbed her hot pads to withdraw battered metal sheets of puffy sourdough biscuits from the oven.

  “How’s that look?” Jamie called to her. Ellie peered into the oversized bowl of potato salad Jamie was composing according to Ellie’s recipe.

  “Looks dandy. Would you go in the pantry and see if you can find some more catsup, and then give those beans a good stir while I start this chicken?”

  “How many people will there be on the campout this year?” Jamie asked, standing at the stove where the beans bubbled.

  “The campout’s always our most popular event. There’s only three sleeping tents. Those who want to go have to let us know when they make their trip reservations, months in advance. As usual, today’s trip is full.”

  “Where do the packers sleep?” What she really wanted to know was, Where will Hank and I sleep?

  “If it’s raining, in the food tent. It has a wood floor and a picnic table that can double as a cot for your sleeping bag. If it’s fine, they sleep on the ground, next to the campfire. Looks like it’s going to be nice out tonight. You’ll find it’s pretty rustic up there, but there’s a latrine and a shed where we keep equipment, horse feed, and fishing gear. The main supplies that need to be transported are fresh food and drinking water.

  “Everyone takes his own sleeping bag and water in his saddle bags. You and Hank will ride your own horses, plus lead horses packed with the food and ice. You leave room for your guitar?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Absolutely.”

  On an impulse, Jamie gathered her dishtowel to her heart. “Ellie, thank you for everything you’ve done for me this summer.”

  “Pooh. I should be thanking you. From the minute you walked through that door, I felt like you were part of this place.”

  * * *

  Hank led the packhorses up to the back door of the kitchen and showed Jamie how to load them up with the food.

  “C’mon up,” he called to Jamie when they were mounted and had gathered the rest of the crew. “Flora and Chico like to ride together.”

  Lewis saw them riding out and gave a wolf whistle. “Hey, Hank. While you’re up there on the Peak, don’t let her tell you she doesn’t know how to play poker.”

  Jamie smiled and waved back.

  “What was that about?” asked Hank, doing his best not to look too interested.

  “The guys invited me to sit in on their Saturday night poker game.”

  Hank had heard about those poker games for years, but never once had he been invited to play. And they’d asked Jamie after she’d barely started working here. Obviously, they saw her as one of them.

  While he was miserable dining on Kobe beef in one of Denver’s finest restaurants, she and his men were having the time of their lives, playing cards at Lewis’s humble ranch house.

  “Took ’em for twelve dollars and sixty cents,” Jamie added proudly.

  He led Jamie and the others along a rough trail through sun and shade until they came to a meadow. “Red columbine,” he said, pointing to where flame-like, orange-red flowers emerged through the rocks. “And see that little purple flower over there? That’s Oregon iris.”

  The riders didn’t do much talking. The green ones were focused on keeping control of their mounts, and the more experienced ones, like Jamie, were seizing the day, taking in the countryside.

  Farther along, Hank reined in Blitzer and turned in his saddle to face the riders behind him. Putting a finger to his lips, he pointed to where a herd of deer grazed not far away.

  The shadows lengthened and the slope gradually became steeper. The setting sun cast a bronze glow on everything in its path.

  Hank reined in again in a tract of Douglas fir stripped of their needles and motioned for the others to gather around.

  “Those trees look as if they’ve been burned,” said Jamie.

  “That’s what I wanted to show you. There was a controlled burn here late last fall,” Hank explained. “It’s a practice continued from the Native Americans to prevent a small fire, say from a lightning strike, from turning into a large one. Plus, periodic fires are healthy for the forest. It prevents overcrowding of trees and promotes new growth of flowers and plants, improving habitat.”

  On they climbed, the scrubland gradually being replaced with evergreens.

  “Won’t be long now,” said Hank.

  One last curve and they emerged from the woods to see a patchwork quilt of brown, green, and blue spread out beneath them.

  “What do you think?” asked Hank.

  Jamie stared out at the vista, speechless.

  Hank squinted again at the bright orange horizon. An osprey rode a thermal current in the foreground of Mt. Hood, while a flock of Canada geese descended noisily into a thicket of cattails to spend the night. How many times had he been out here since Dad died without really seeing this? He had allowed the campout to turn into just another chore.

  He slid off Blitzer and led him to a small pool. “There’s a spring over here,” he called to the others. “The horses got us up here. They get their drink before we do.”

  While Jamie helped the riders feed and stake their animals for the night, Hank unlocked the remote kitchen shed, retrieved a few bottles of wine, and submerged them up to their necks in the spring to chill.

  The campers found their tents and unpacked their saddlebags, while Hank lit the camp stove so Jamie could warm up the baked beans.

  “It’s the same food as down at the inn, but for some reason it tastes better up here,” said Jamie.

  After supper Hank showed Jamie where to lock away the leftovers to keep wild animals from getting them during the night.

  While Hank built a fire, the others gathered round. Jamie brought out her guitar, and they talked and sang until the flames burned down to embers.

  “Listen,” said Hank. “Hear that?”

  “What is it?” asked a wide-eyed woman from Chicago, dressed head to toe in expensive new outdoor gear.

  “A Great Horned Owl. They’ve been living in that stand of firs for generations, ever since I starte
d coming up here as a boy.”

  A while later, a howl went up, answered by an identical one farther away.

  “Coyotes calling to each other. Don’t worry, they won’t bother us.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the woman, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Jamie and I will keep the fire going through the night. We’ll lay out our sleeping bags right here, next to it.”

  “Speaking of sleep, you might want to get some. I’ll be rattling your tent flaps at sunup.”

  One after another, the campers yawned, stretched, and retreated to their tents.

  Hank showed Jamie how to lay out a plastic tarp to protect her sleeping bag from moisture, then he laid his own tarp at a respectful distance from hers.

  But instead of lying down, Jamie went back to her camp stool. With no explanation, Hank disappeared in the vicinity of the spring and returned holding another bottle of wine. He dried it off with the tail of his shirt, pulled the cork, and poured some into the collapsible cup she held out.

  For a while they sat in silence.

  Hank wondered if Jamie, too, was thinking that this was the first time they’d been alone together since the night of the dance. Though with the others just a stone’s throw away in the tents, they weren’t technically alone.

  Then Jamie tipped her head back and gazed up at the glittering night sky. “I don’t think you can get any farther from Philadelphia than this,” she murmured. “The stars look so close I can almost touch them.”

  Hank tipped his head back, too. “Getting here’s a hassle. All that prep, then the hour-long ride. But then there’s . . . this.”

  “I have to give you and Ellie and the guys credit. Between all the daily chores, the sometimes finicky guests to take care of, and then the glitches that seem to crop up just when you’re least expecting them, you work awfully hard to keep things running smoothly.”

  “I give Ellie all the credit. But then, she’s been doing it for years.”

  “How long has the Sweet Spot been in your family?”

  “The Friestatts came out here from Missouri at the start of the Civil War. Missouri was supposed to be a neutral state. But with stars on both the Union and Confederate flags and some members of the same families taking different sides, there were skirmishes everywhere. A woman named Arabella O’Hearn had a teenage son who was chomping at the bit to run off and join the fighting. She had already lost husband number one in the Mexican-American War. She was scared to death of losing her son, too. She came up with this plan to head west. But she knew it would be hard to travel two thousand miles on her own. There was a widower at her church, Henry Friestatt, who also had a teenage son. So, she proposed to him.”

  “As in, marriage?” Jamie’s fingers flew to her breast.

  Hank noticed yet again how long and expressive they were, like angel’s hands in paintings of Biblical times.

  “How romantic.”

  “Not sure romance had anything to do with it. Once they finally found their new home on the West Coast, far from any wars, where they could start fresh—”

  Her eyes lit up. “The Sweet Spot.”

  He shrugged. “They did end up having more kids. Lots of them.”

  “So it is a love story.”

  “In those days, they needed as many hands as they could get to run the farm. The Friestatts started out planting hazelnuts. They lived frugally, plowing all the profits into buying more ground, till eventually they accumulated enough acreage to add beef cattle to their operation. Of course, all that came to a screeching halt when it was discovered that the Willamette Valley is one of the best places in the world to grow pinot noir. Grandpa was one of the first to see it coming. About twenty years ago he tore out all the nut trees, sold the cattle, and planted wine grapes.”

  “It’s nice that you kept the horses.”

  “That was Ellie’s doing. Can’t get rid of those as long as she’s around. Not that she rides much anymore.

  “A decade later, Dad started getting into biodynamic viniculture. We’ve gradually been building up the soil using natural methods and finding ways to use fewer pesticides and herbicides. Now not a week goes by when some rep from one of the big beverage conglomerates or snack-food companies doesn’t fly into the private airstrip down on Dopp Road.”

  “And now, it’s all come down to you. Do you realize how lucky you are, Hank Friestatt?” she asked emphatically. “There are millions of people who’d give anything to be in your shoes. Though, it must have been overwhelming, at first.”

  “Sometimes it still is.”

  “But you did it. Some people would have been too scared. Or would have refused to try.”

  “That was never a consideration,” he said quietly. “Ellie needed me.”

  “But she didn’t insist that you come back, did she?”

  “She would never do that.”

  “The fact that you came through for her shows what kind of guy you are. Someone to be trusted. To be depended on.”

  If she only knew.

  Hank got up and put another log on the fire. “It’s not that I’m not grateful. But with privilege comes obligation. It takes a lot to keep the plates spinning.”

  “Still. There’s got to be more good than bad. The advantages outweigh the disadvantages.”

  “Do they?” He shot her a look. Should I tell Jamie about the offer? He’d been carrying it inside until he was ready to burst.

  Jamie wrinkled her forehead. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned forward in his camp chair, made a teepee with his fingers, and stared into the flickering flames. There, atop the Peak, it was just them sitting around the campfire under the stars. There was no Bryce bringing him yet another problem with the gophers, no grandmother whose mere presence served as a reminder of his legacy. “The wine boom has jacked up the value of our land exponentially. And there are people out there who’re more than willing to pay for it.”

  “You’ve had an actual offer?”

  Hank laughed drily. “You could say that.”

  She waited for him to explain.

  “I have a chance to fold, Jamie. Throw in all my cards and start over. You remember that black Escalade that almost ran us off the road the night you arrived?”

  “Ellie said something about a Realtor.”

  “His name is Stewart Baker. We had dinner when I was at the wine conference.”

  “But, what would happen to the vineyard? What about you? Where would you go? How would you make a living?”

  Jamie was a music teacher from back East, not an expert in the specialized field of wine country real estate site selection. She had no way of knowing that in the past five years alone, the price of Willamette Valley land had quadrupled. It was an embarrassment of riches.

  “Any damn thing I wanted.”

  “Exactly what is it that you want?”

  He looked up to see a blinking light of an airliner on its way toward the vast Pacific and from there, the exotic Far East. “Fly. I always wanted to fly.”

  If only he could trade places with that pilot with a snap of his fingers, soaring west until he caught up with the sun.

  “I was all set to start flight school when—it happened.”

  “There must be flight schools around here. What’s stopping you?”

  Hank took off his Textron cap and turned it over in his hands. “Ellie’s been anxious to teach me as much of the business while she still can. Plus, since the accident she hates it when I fly, even as a passenger. I could never fly commercially and manage an operation the size of the Sweet Spot at the same time. I can barely keep up as it is.”

  “I don’t understand how you could give all of this up.”

  Hank stifled a snort. How could he have expected her to understand? To her the Sweet Spot was just a temporary post before she went back to her real life.

  “That’s just it, Jamie—I can. The company Stew represents is looking to expand. They’re offering me an obscene amount of money.” />
  She leapt to her feet. Behind her hung the half moon. “You’ve just finished telling me how precious this land is to you. How your ancestors drove cross-country in a prairie schooner for it, and it’s been carefully cultivated for generations since then. Now it’s your turn, and you’re considering selling out to some”—she cast about for the right word—“some modern-day prospectors?”

  “Careful.” Hank nodded toward the tents where the others lay sleeping. “I don’t want just anyone to know about this. It could start a rumor that would hurt business.

  “Those advantages you’re talking about come at a heavy cost. Some might think of me as a big landowner, but that’s within a very small viticultural zone. In most ways, I’m like any small farmer: I do it all. The crop and the winemaking are only the tip of the iceberg. There’s maintaining the buildings and equipment, keeping up with legislation. . . Sure, I have an accountant. But who do you think keeps the records that she needs to do her job? You’ve seen what it’s like. Most days I’m up before dawn and don’t get to bed till after midnight. And then there’s the weather. Droughts, flooding, the whole gamut. The whims of the market—fads, competition, and so on. Is it any wonder Ellie has high blood pressure?”

  “But you have complete autonomy. Granted, it’s hard for you now, starting out. But you’ll get a handle on it. You’ll figure out how to strike a balance . . . where you need to ask for help and what jobs you want to keep for yourself because you enjoy them, the same way Ellie does the campouts and readies the kitchen at night for the following day.”

  She thought for a moment. “Speaking of Ellie, what did she say?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Hank. What was Ellie’s response when you told her you’re considering the offer?”

  He was beginning to regret sharing.

  Suddenly he wished Jamie had never come to Oregon. She forced him to talk about things he’d rather keep buried. He ran a hand through his hair. What was it about her that brought his carefully stored feelings to the surface?