Chance of Rain

by Lin, Amber

  Natalie heard a chorus of “we are not” followed by raucous laughter.

  “I feel for you, Joe.”

  Any other man might see that as opportunity. After all, two of the six were both unattached and unrelated to him. But Joe hadn’t shown interest in a woman since his wife had been killed in a car accident.

  In his younger years, he’d been a troublemaker. Marriage had done little to settle him down, and his passionate and tumultuous relationship with his wife was legendary. Her death had sucked the light right out of him, leaving a jovial husk in its place. Lucy moved back home to take care of the farm, and when he’d got himself back together, Joe had run for sheriff. He wasn’t the most rule-abiding lawman they’d ever had, but no one cared more about keeping this town safe than he did.

  “Let me talk to Sawyer before I let you go.”

  “You’re going to be nice, right?”

  His voice was all innocence. “I’m always nice.”

  “No talking about southern hospitality or any of that,” she said, reminding him of the time he’d gone after her boyfriend for what Gram had done.

  “That was an honest mistake,” he protested. “And you know I offered that he could hit me back, when I found out.”

  “Yeah, well, next time talk to me.”

  “There better not be a next time,” he said. “If anyone gives you any trouble, you come to me. That includes Sawyer, and I don’t care how many goddamned medals they gave him. If he does anything or says—”

  “Here you go.” She held out the phone for Sawyer, interrupting the lecture. “Joe wants to talk to you.”

  Still naked, still half-erect, Sawyer pushed off the wall. The way he walked to her side was like a prowl, his gaze glued to hers as he accepted the phone.

  “Sawyer here.” He responded to the tinny voice on the line with a series of grunts and single-word answers. “No. Uh-huh. You sure? Okay.”

  He hung up.

  Boy, he did not seem thrilled that she would be around a few days longer. What was he thinking about? Thanks to Lucy, her thoughts were consumed with the various colors that made up his impressive anatomy. The sun-darkened tan on his arms and shoulders, the silvery-white of the occasional scar, the pale of his ass. And there. There it was darker, ruddy, and when he got excited...

  He was excited now. That much was clear from his thick, jutting length. But also maybe irritated, though she couldn’t get a read on his hard expression.

  She searched for a crack in his face, for some insight to guide her way. “I hope I’m not putting you out, staying here. I know you didn’t invite me over or anything, and now you’re stuck with me.”

  He didn’t stop until his chest was to her nose, until his dark eyes stared broodily into hers, until the smell of clean, sleep-mellowed man turned her insides to mush. “He called you Tally.”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Not much,” he said blandly. “I mean just now, when he was warning me away from you.”

  She almost sighed with relief. “He’s a little protective.”

  “Do you like him?”

  Jealousy, perhaps? “I like you.”

  “Good answer,” he murmured, and then he fit his mouth over hers.

  Sexual heat arced between them, sudden and electric. Possessive, probing, his kiss seemed to promise a hundred things and deliver more. It promised pleasure, and stirred a sweet throbbing at her core. Relief came in the form of the long brand of his thigh pressed between hers. His kiss promised forever, and so it was, going on and on, a sweet eternity passing over the course of their lips.

  The sheet fell away, replaced by his hands and his body. Her modesty went with it, overcome by her desire to feel him against her. She felt sexy and wanton, naked in the living room. The sun streamed through the windows, lit the dust in the air, and illuminated every angle of his body—and every curve of hers. But she didn’t have to worry about the effects of gravity or the occasional breakfast donut, not when he was drinking her in, soaking her in as if he were parched and she was water.

  It hadn’t been like this before, this urgency, this eagerness. Almost as if their renewed isolation opened up the floodgates of their passion. Even in the barn and his room, the uncertainty had muted her enjoyment. It could end at any minute, and then...

  But now she had two days in which to enjoy him, to luxuriate in this sexual obsession, to live a lifetime while the clock was stopped.

  As if by mutual agreement, they both gentled their embrace, the kiss dwindling to a shared breath. He rested his forehead against hers, his voice husky and rueful. “I have to check on a few things from the storm. It banged up the barn pretty bad, and I’m still worried about the irrigation overflow.”

  She heard the unspoken follow-up. But when I’m done, we’re going to have sex. Oral sex.

  Mmm, maybe that last bit was her own contribution to their tacit little pact to screw like bunnies. But she didn’t really have a preference. With him, even missionary was incredibly erotic. She remembered the thick slide of him inside her, how amazing it had felt with nothing between them...but that couldn’t happen again.

  “Okay, but we have to remember condoms from now on.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry. Listen, you need to know that I’m clean. And if anything were to happen—”

  “I’m not blaming you.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear promises to provide for her after he left. “I could have stopped you.”

  He raised his eyebrow, dubious.

  “I’m saying we have to keep our heads. You make me a little crazy, and I don’t think I’m flattering myself to say I have the same effect on you.”

  There was his sexy smile, so rare and so slight, like rays of sunshine peeking through heavy clouds. “You make me a lot of things, Miss Natalie Bouchard, but crazy ain’t one of them. I got there without your help.”

  She snorted. “Well, it’s a little crazy to be out working when it’s practically flooding.”

  “Got to. The water’s pooling in the fields. If I let it get much worse...”

  “Then what?”

  His lips tightened, as if he had said too much. Then he shrugged, walked over to the window. “Then it won’t be possible to fix it in time.”

  Her heart beat faster to hear him talk about keeping the farm. She picked up the sheet and draped herself with it. “I thought you weren’t sure about that.”

  “I’m not.” He looked at her sideways. “But a little birdy is making me reconsider.”

  “You’ll make it. I know you will.”

  “Such confidence,” he drawled. “If you say so, it must be true.”

  She didn’t like his mocking tone or the defeated set to his shoulders before he’d even begun. She felt frustrated, at them for trying to take his land, at him for not caring enough to fight for it, at herself for caring at all.

  “You can,” she said, unwilling to let him wish-wash his way out of this. “You’re a SEAL, for crying out loud. That’s the closest thing to a real-life superhero, so I’m pretty sure you can manage to be a farmer, like everyone else here has done, like your father did.”

  Something in her words pierced him. Doubt flickered in his eyes, uncertainty. Then he firmed. His scornful gaze flickered over the flat landscape, but she felt it along her body instead.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just not interested in being one.”

  * * *

  The storm had broken for a temporary reprieve. Like everything else in Texas, its storms were big, expansive. As the pressure system moved over their area, they were treated to heavy bouts of rain and thunder, then bright sunshine and back again. But the utilities and roads were already haywire after the initial storm front, and she knew from experience they wouldn’t be fully restored until the entire system had passe
d and repair crews could fix them properly.

  Power had returned, at least temporarily, along with the phone lines, so Natalie took a shower while her clothes washed and tumbled dry. Her hair smelled of his shampoo, her skin was extra smooth from his razor. Refreshed and restored, she ventured out of the house in search of fresh air and a glimpse of a certain pair of abs. If Sawyer insisted on working shirtless, the least she could do was admire him.

  She spotted him in the distance, sitting atop the ancient blue tractor, bump-bump-bumping along in the mud. It should have pleased her to see him working the land, but that thing was older than she was. It couldn’t be safe, or particularly effective. Maybe she could convince him to donate it to the Dearling Farm Museum.

  He needed a new tractor. He needed a horse. Hell, he needed five men working beside him full-time to get the planting done in time for a healthy harvest. Her family may not have owned a farm, but she had been a country girl and listened to the farmers discuss their work at the diner long enough to understand. This was a setup for failure, but maybe that was the point. Then he could lose the farm he never wanted and pretend it wasn’t his fault.

  He could leave her and pretend it wasn’t his fault. No, it was hers. If this is all we have together, I can be okay with that.

  Ugh.

  A sharp spice tickled her nose, and she turned the corner of the house. A mass of overgrown vegetation huddled against the house. On first glance it looked like a honeysuckle gone rogue, but at the bottom, old wood peeked through. This had been more than decorative. From the size and shape of the base, this had been a vegetable garden.

  Almost every house around here had one, and in its heyday, this would have been glorious. Right now, it just seemed sad. It wasn’t only the disarray, the neglect. Long branches slung over the sides, as though protecting plants long dead, like a mother mourning an empty womb.

  She poked through the net of vines, peering into the darkness. Her nose twitched, like it did when she cut into fresh jalapeños from her own patio garden.

  I wonder...

  She couldn’t see a thing, blocked at every angle by thick bands of growth. She’d need to cut through to see inside. Sawyer wasn’t in sight anymore to ask permission, the branches parting to reveal a broad, naked expanse of land. Well, who could complain about a little courtesy trimming?

  The barn should have some tools, even if they were as old as that tractor. In the yellow light of day, the barn looked dusty. Not at all sexy without Sawyer there. She sighed. Would it always be that way for her, everything lackluster without the jolt of heady masculinity he brought? She’d had her share of relationships, but there wasn’t a huge dating pool in a town of three hundred people.

  Armed with a large rusty trimmer and a corroded hand pruner, she went to work pulling apart what years had wrought, building a pile of broken branches behind her, uncovering the secrets of this house in a way she couldn’t do for its owner.

  Lucy’s cousin owned the Feed & Seed one town over, and Lucy was always on Natalie’s case to go on a date with him. He would have donned a suit for her, taken her to the steakhouse and proposed within the month. He was a settle-down kind of guy, and Natalie wanted to settle down, so what was the problem?

  She wanted a home and a family, but she also wanted the thrill, the passion. She wanted her husband so hot for her that he came up behind her in the middle of the day to make love. Was that too much to ask?

  Closer to the ground, the flora definitely changed, probably grass and weeds encroaching from the sides, but she didn’t stop. Almost afraid to look too closely at what was inside, she cut away all around, yanked at the overgrowth from the ground and pulled down unruly vines forming a canopy over the top. Despite her dedication, the work was sloppy, leaving the bulk of the bush intact. But when the strata above the wood enclosure was clear, she knew. Somehow, the garden had survived. Not just one ultra-hardy plant, which would have been understandable, but a whole slew of them: bell peppers, jalapeños, some other thin stalks of unclear breed and several types of herbs. The basil plant was practically a monster, with the thickest base she had ever seen and a multitude of high stalks with broad, pungent leaves.

  She knew she looked a mess, her hair decorated with leaves and small twigs, her arms scratched to high heaven. Holding her large, rusty shears, she was like an old mad scientist, having brought this thing back to life. Insane, but also satisfying. Exhilarating in a way serving eggs and hash browns to bleary-eyed customers couldn’t compete with. And with these to season the pot, she could make even that canned chili taste good.

  After digging in the kitchen for a colander, she got on her knees to pick whatever vegetables and leaves were intact. Finished, she carried the tools back to the barn. As she set them in place, footsteps crunched closer to the door.

  She leaned against a stall as he came in. “Hey. Saw you on the tractor.”

  He looked surprised but pleased to find her there. “Hey back. Figured I’d give it a try. It runs like shit but gets the job done, I guess. Well, it would, if I had six months instead of two weeks.” He peered closer, a faint uncertain smile curving his lips. “What have you been up to?”

  “Come see. I have something to show you.”

  Looking bemused, he allowed her to lead him across the yard. She explained briefly how she’d seen the growth and decided to cut it back, then found a blossoming garden inside, a little Atlantis in a sea of barrenness. “The fact that any of these plants survived means this’ll be a great spot once you clear more of this out, get some seedlings in here.”

  “You did all this?” He sounded stunned.

  She looked at the rather modest showing, seeing it through his eyes now, and wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “It passed the time better than snooping in your attic.”

  Even though it had been snooping of a different kind. Agricultural snooping, like counting the rings in a tree to learn its history.

  He laughed, the sound a little sharp. “I bust my ass every day and can’t even get the soil to behave. You spend a couple of hours out here and you’ve already got more green than me.”

  She frowned. “It’s just a garden. And it’s not even mine.”

  “It was my mother’s.” He shook his head. “We certainly didn’t grow things here. I barely even came back here.”

  His mother had died when he was only an infant. A complication related to the birth. That made this garden...really freaking old. “Maybe your dad watered it even if he didn’t harvest it.”

  That caustic laugh again. “I was lucky if he remembered to feed me, so I doubt he remembered to tend a garden for no reason. No, I take it back. That was exactly the kind of thing he would do.”

  Staring at the garden, she swallowed hard, because what could she say to that? Sawyer’s father had been a cold, selfish man. But he’d also been mired in the past, more interested in the wife who’d passed away than the son she’d left behind.

  Sawyer disappeared into the barn and returned a moment later with the shears. She almost started forward, thinking he was going to tear apart the puny little garden in some sort of rebellion, but no. He was finishing her work, all the high-up branches of the overgrown bush that she couldn’t reach. The thick stalks she’d left behind. He had to be exhausted already, but he worked carefully, methodically. She recognized his actions for what they were: not anger at his father but homage to his mother.

  She sat down on the cooling, shadowed grass to watch him and silently will her support.

  After some time, he said, “Tell me the rest of the story.”

  “What?”

  “I want to hear your voice.”

  His was muffled, but his request touched her. She didn’t want him to feel alone any more than she wanted to be alone.

  “Let’s see, where did I leave off? So the prince is working under the gar
dener, and in his kingdom there are three princesses. Well, every time the prince delivers flowers to the castle, he ties a lock of his golden hair around the bouquet of the youngest princess. Years pass, and they all grow up. The two older sisters eventually get married off to highborn lord types.”

  She picked at blades of grass as she spoke, pretending not to watch the way sweat gleamed on his shoulders or his odd, thoughtful expression as he worked. There was already too much mixing, too much emotion on top of their physical chemistry, like snow piling on a tree branch. When it became too much, what would break?

  “Come time for the youngest princess to marry, the king brings in all the highborn lords and she refuses them. Then he brings in all the merchants, and she refuses them. Finally he brings in all the commoners, and she chooses the lowly gardener’s apprentice.”

  He gave her a look of disbelief. “The king lets his daughter marry a gardener’s apprentice?”

  “Hush, it’s romantic.” Though she did appreciate the proof that he was listening. “So everyone is happy for a while, but eventually their kingdom comes under attack. They are really in trouble, and the prince is desperate to protect his wife and her family. Well, that sorcerer he saved still remembers him and offers him a magical sword.”

  He snorted.

  “This is not a dirty story,” she reprimanded.

  “Every story’s a dirty story when it comes out of your mouth.”

  She tried to be offended but felt ridiculously pleased instead. This was what she wanted, this simple domesticity tinged with lust, the intersection of her lifelong hopes and secret fantasies.

  “All right, then. Why don’t you tell me a story?” Her voice came out sultry, not an affectation but a side effect of the want coursing through her body.

  “Anything I want?” he challenged with a lift of his brow.

  She shrugged slightly. “It’s your story.”