She sighed. “You haven’t told her.”
“She’s on blood pressure medication. The doctor—”
“She is? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Hank gave her a blank look.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m just an employee. It’s none of my business.”
“Jamie—”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“Ellie would never allow someone she didn’t think pretty highly of to stay in my parents’ old room.”
Blue eyes met his. “What about you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, hedging.
“What do you think of me?”
It would be easy to tell a white lie and say he’d been a fan from the start. But something told him she wouldn’t hold his honesty against him. “I admit, when Ellie first brought up hiring you, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”
“You didn’t think I was up to the job?”
“Far from it. Maybe I saw too much of my ideal self in you. The Hank Friestatt everyone wants me to be.”
“Which is?”
“You know. Someone who passively accepts his fate without questioning it.”
“You think I’m passive?” She huffed in indignation. “You don’t know me at all.”
“No. Not that.” He squirmed. “I’m making a mess of this. It’s that—what I’m supposed to want, you seem to want without trying.”
“And that is?”
“To squelch your desires and spend your life in the same place your parents and grandparents did, doing all the same things.”
* * *
Jamie picked up her guitar and began to sing softly, so as not to wake the others.
“I met a brown-eyed boy that summer
Between the meadows and the vines
Never intending to be lovers
Then came the taste of sweet red wine.
“Now in the moonshine in my wineglass
I swear I see his face
And though it wasn’t meant to be
Still in my mind I see
That summer time, that summer place.”
“That’s your song?” asked Hank.
“That’s how it works sometimes,” replied Jamie. “The lyrics spring up fully formed from out of nowhere, like a dandelion puff on a breeze. I have to hurry to catch them before they blow right past.”
“You wrote that.”
She shrugged and laid her guitar down carefully at her side. “That’s what musicians do.”
Hank hesitated. “What inspired you?”
“You mean, who did I write it for?”
He held his breath.
“It’s about somebody I used to know. His name was Ben.”
Ben? Who the hell was Ben?
She clenched her hands between her knees until her knuckles were white, and drew a deep breath. “Ben and I went to the same high school. He followed me to college. Oh, he didn’t admit it was because of me at first. But once he finally did, we were exclusive from then on. He was my rock when my dad sold our farm. We were talking about getting married. It was understood, even if we hadn’t made it official. And then a new guy transferred to our school. A football player, looking to step up to a bigger league. He was as charming as he was talented. Overnight he became the hottest guy on campus. And of all the girls he could have had, guess who he wanted?
“I was flattered. I broke up with my rock for him. You can guess what happened next.”
Hank studied the intricate topstitching on his boots. “I take it it wasn’t good.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. Oh, well. Lesson learned. I survived.” She pasted on a smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?” She laughed without bitterness. “It’s kind of surreal. If anyone had told me senior year that in three years I’d be pouring wine in Oregon, I’d have said they were crazy. Back then I thought my future was all sewn up. I was going to marry Ben and settle down in the farmhouse. Dear old Mrs. Anderson, my elementary music teacher, all but came right out and said that when she retired, her job was mine if I wanted it. Ben was going to work the farm.”
And there would be children. At least one boy and one girl, maybe more. Jamie would watch their faces light up when she showed them where trout lurked on hot summer days in the shaded areas of the stream that flowed through their farm, and the autumn miracle of pulling big orange carrots out where months earlier their fingers had pressed tiny seeds into the damp earth.
“Ben married another girl from our community. After that, I couldn’t have gone back to Lancaster County even if there’d been a home for me to go to. I couldn’t bear to see my childhood best friend living the life that was supposed to be mine. I gave away Mrs. Anderson’s job. Dad had moved into a town house. That’s why I went to Philadelphia. I had nowhere else to go. A year or so later, my sister called to tell me that Ben’s wife had given birth to a baby boy.”
Hank cleared his throat.
She looked at him steadily. “I still have my teaching. Or did.” She averted her eyes. “This coming school year’s going to be different.”
“Are you having second thoughts about your promotion?”
“It’s starting to hit me how much I’m going to miss the classroom, that’s all.”
She began to strum again.
“If I could turn back time
Take you there with me
Maybe then you’d see
Into my past.
“If you’d just take my hand
Walk a mile with me
Baby then you’d see
The best things are those that last.”
Hoo? Hoo? Hoo cooks for you?
Jamie looked up from her guitar toward the fir grove where the owl lived, and couldn’t help but smile.
Hank sang along in a rusty voice that was a little off-key.
“I thought that we’d be more than friends
But time, it marches on.
You were there for a while
When I needed a smile
But you stole my heart in the—”
Hoo cooks for you? called the owl.
With growing confidence, Hank placed his hand over his heart, threw back his head and belted it out with Jamie, accompanied by the owl in the background.
“If I could turn back time
Take you there with me
Maybe then you’d see
Into my past . . .”
Aaah-ooooo . . . The coyotes chimed in, too.
“You were there for a while
When I needed a smile
Now I’m yours—”
Ar ar ar a-oooooh!
“Till the end of the line.”
One sleep-tousled head after another popped out of the tent flaps to witness the spectacle of Jamie playing and Hank acting the fool, with the owl and coyotes providing backup.
The song ended with Jamie’s head thrown back in gales of laughter and Hank clutching his sides.
Finally, Jamie returned her instrument to its case, leaving only the sound of crickets over by the spring.
The campers retreated into their tents, but not before exchanging secret looks of amusement.
* * *
The fire had burned down to a bed of red coals.
Jamie carried her guitar over to the picnic table.
It was high time to get some shut-eye, but sleep was the furthest thing from Hank’s mind. His body was vibrating with energy. Without thinking, he strode purposefully over to where Jamie stood in the shadows, and with a touch on her shoulder he turned her from where she had just covered her guitar case with a tarp to keep out the dew, and slid his hand down her arm to entwine his fingers in hers.
She looked up in mild surprise, but didn’t pull away. He took her other hand, slipped his fingers through hers and let it drop, and for a moment they stood there face-to-face, the lines and mounds etched on their palms that some might say were a portent of their future melding together.
He swallowed thickly. Blame it on the music. For the f
irst time in a long time, Hank felt free . . . as free as the red tail hawks that hung on the hot, ascending air above the ridges on summer afternoons. All the burdens and expectations that had been weighing so heavily on him were left behind on the valley floor.
He reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. The moonlight shone down on her too-long nose, her soft eyes. He dropped his forehead to hers and for a moment listened to the sound of their breathing. Then he took Jamie’s head in his hands, and gently pressed his lips to hers.
Their first kiss started out soft and chaste, almost reverent.
But it whetted his appetite for more. With the slightest nudge of his tongue, her lips opened, warm and slick.
Her willing response sent him soaring even higher, as though they’d been hurtling toward each other on a collision course and they’d finally made impact.
Jamie threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his and suddenly he was awash in a tsunami of sensation. He slid his hand into the hair tumbling down the back of her head. Skeins of long hair entangled his fingers like tentacles. He wound himself into them tighter, a willing captive.
The kiss grew and deepened until it was a living thing, evolving . . . expanding . . . eclipsing all else. They explored each other with heated desperation.
Suddenly they heard a smattering of soft pops far in the distance. They broke the kiss to look out across the sky at starbursts of color from the fairgrounds south of town. When their eyes met again, they smiled in wonderment. It felt like a sign.
Hank put his hands on Jamie’s hips and turned her around so that they could watch the fireworks together. The length of her back felt warm up against his torso. He peered over her shoulder at the sight of her breasts rising and falling.
He slid his hands up her ribcage and cupped her breasts, squeezing them together and lifting until the shallow line of cleavage deepened into a seemingly bottomless crevasse between two high mounds.
Twin strokes of his thumbs revealed the hard nubbins of her nipples.
Her head fell back onto his shoulder on a sigh.
He slid his hand into her jeans along her soft belly and found the crisp edge of her panties.
“Hank,” she breathed, her hand atop his, stilling it.
He sucked in a ragged breath. “Is it because we work together? Because I don’t care about that.”
“We don’t just work together. I work for you. There’s a difference.”
The words then quit were on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back just in time.
“This summer is going to fly,” she said.
“I know.”
The fireworks had ended, but she still felt so warm, so lithe in his hands.
“Before I know it, it’ll be time for me to go back to Philly and start my new position.”
She had only been there a matter of weeks, and already he could barely remember what it had been like before she’d arrived.
“I can’t risk doing anything that would put that in jeopardy. It’s all that I have. I don’t have choices. My home is gone. There’s nothing left to go back to.”
Reluctantly, Hank slid his hand out of her pants and slowly turned her around to face him again.
Her arms went around him in a restrained hug that was more friendly than passionate.
They clung together, reluctant to part, until finally their breathing returned to normal.
Then they went back to the fire circle and crawled into their respective sleeping bags, still acutely aware of each other.
It took some experimentation to get comfortable on the hard ground.
“Jamie . . .” murmured Hank when they’d been still for a few minutes.
Her head, resting on his shirt that she’d rolled up and fashioned into a pillow, turned toward him.
He wanted to tell her that he wished things were different. He wanted to curl up next to her in her sleeping bag. He wanted to utter sweet nothings to her all night long.
“Good night.”
“Night.” Jamie looked away and folded her hands across her chest.
Hank stared at her profile until her breathing relaxed into sleep.
But a seed of hope, so tiny he hardly dared acknowledge it, had been planted.
If experience had taught him anything, it was that things don’t always work out as planned.
Chapter Eighteen
Jamie awoke to a metallic clanking and the shuffle of boots. She opened her eyes to see Hank squatting in front of the fire, setting up a tripod on which to cook breakfast.
She rubbed her eyes and sat up.
“Morning,” she said, her voice cracking.
He twisted around at the waist. “Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.” He grinned. “I was starting to think you were going to sleep the day away.”
She looked around to find much of their equipment already packed up and waiting to be loaded onto the packhorses.
“What time is it?” she asked, bending her knees and planting her feet and leaning forward to rise. “Whoa,” she said, landing on her butt with a dull thud. She’d forgotten she was zipped into a sleeping bag.
“Careful, there.”
She automatically fished for her phone, only to remember there was no service up there on the peak.
He tipped his head to the sky. “I’d say around six thirty.”
“Uggggh.” She groaned, falling back onto the padded flannel, still warm with sleep.
“I’d like to get everyone fed and be off the trail before the rain hits.”
“Rain?” The sunshine sparkled in the dewy foliage surrounding the campsite. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day to me.”
“See those clouds that look like an outstretched horse’s tail at about forty thousand feet?”
She held a hand over her eyes and squinted in the direction where he pointed with his chin, trying to adjust to the light. All she saw were some feathery wisps.
“It’ll be raining by suppertime. Wait and see.”
They spent the next hour working in tandem, feeding the guests, putting the campsite back in order, and helping riders back onto their horses. It was as if last night had never happened, and yet it was all Jamie could think about.
Only after they were headed downhill with the others out in front, where Hank could keep a watchful eye on them, did he fall back to where Dancer picked his way delicately along the trail.
At first, the only sound was the squeaking of their saddles as they rocked gently back and forth in pleasant rhythm with their horses.
“You okay?” Hank asked.
Those two words held a world of meaning.
“I’m fine.” She smiled and brushed back her windblown hair. It gave her a warm feeling inside to know he cared.
“Hope I didn’t talk your ear off last night.”
“Did you?”
“You know I did. At least, it seemed like it.”
“It was fun imagining your however-many-greats-grandmother coming out here in a covered wagon wearing a long dress and a sunbonnet.”
“A lot more fun than actually doing it. Those old wagons were so bumpy that most of them preferred to ride or walk alongside. Add to that, no doctors if you got hurt or sick. Only about twenty percent of the people who started out on the Oregon Trail actually made it all the way to Oregon.”
She reached over and squeezed his bicep playfully. “You come from hardy stock.”
Her lighthearted touch had a profound effect on him. His eyes burned into hers like black beacons, starting a peculiar melting feeling low in her belly.
“What about you?” asked Hank when he found the ability to speak again. “I told you all I know about my ancestors. What about yours?”
“My family came from Scotland, back in the eighteenth century. Do you know anything about Scottish history?”
“Nada.”
“It’s not like I’ve been to Scotland or anything. But we had this big photo album with lots of pictures when
I was growing up. My sister and I used to sit with my dad, and he’d page through it with us.
“Back in the day, clans would rent a small piece of the chief’s land to grow their own grain on. The clans were basically a military society. Your rent took care of the chief, and in exchange, the chief took care of you in times of war.
“Well, after the English won a certain battle, the clan chiefs were stripped of their power. The Scots were forbidden to speak their native Gaelic, wear their tartans, and so on. It was the end of the clan system. The chiefs had to figure out a new way to survive. At the same time, the price of wool was skyrocketing. They came up with the idea to put sheep on all the farmland to take advantage of that. You had to have a lot of sheep, and therefore a lot of land, to make a profit.
“But—as you know,” she said, thinking of the sheep that kept down the weeds in the vineyards, “raising sheep doesn’t require many people. So the farmers were ‘encouraged’ ”—she drew air quotes—“to leave the Highlands. Dad told us about how the roof of his family’s cottage was set on fire to hasten their departure.”
“Is that when they came to America?”
“Not yet. They were given a tiny plot of ground high on Scotland’s windy west coast. But the rent was so expensive that their crops didn’t cover it. Both the mother and the father had to farm seaweed. Not only that, the coastline was so treacherous that the mother routinely tethered her two small boys and the milk cow when she went to work, to keep them from blowing away. Of course, the kids put up a terrible fuss. And so one day she left them untied, and—”
“No way.”
Jamie nodded. “The littlest one was blown right off the cliff. They started dreaming about America, saving every penny they could. They knew they’d never be able to save enough to emigrate themselves, but they worked until they had enough to send their only surviving son.
“His mother sewed all their savings into the lining of his coat, put him on a ship, and sent him across the ocean, knowing she would never see him again.”
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