I want to kiss that smudge, then peel the flannel shirt and jeans off her body and lay her down in the grass.
"What are you doing out here?" I ask instead, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
"Came to help." She hops off the ATV, and I notice she's brought water and sandwiches. "It's almost noon. Thought you might be hungry."
I am. But not for food.
"Thanks." I take the water bottle she offers, careful not to let our fingers touch. I'm not sure I can handle touching her right now.
She surveys the fence line, then picks up the other post hole digger without asking. "Where do you want the next post?"
"Anita, you don't have to."
"I know. But I want to." She meets my eyes, and there's a challenge there. "Or do you not trust me to do it right?"
That gets my hackles up. "I trust your work just fine."
"Then show me where you want it."
We work in silence for a while, falling into a rhythm. She's stronger than she looks, and she doesn't complain about the hard labor.
She belongs here. The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. Yet she fits on this land, working with me.
"Storm's coming." I stare towards the dark clouds building over the mountains. "Weather report said it might hit the high country tonight."
"How bad?"
"Could be bad. Snow and ice. We've got cattle up there that need to be moved to lower pasture."
She wipes sweat from her forehead. "How many hands do you need?"
"It's a two-person job at minimum." I pause. "But the casual ranch hands are all dealing with their own properties. Storm's hitting everyone."
"Then I'll help."
"Anita—"
"I can ride. I know cattle. And you need someone." She plants her hands on her hips. "Unless you're planning to do it alone and risk getting hurt."
She's right, and I hate it. Pride wants me to say I can handle it myself. Common sense knows that's stupid.
"We leave in an hour. I'll leave a note for Mel, let her know we might be late getting back."
"I'll pack supplies. Just in case."
Just in case we get stuck up there overnight. My body responds to that thought in ways it shouldn't, and I turn away before she can see it written all over my face.
An hour later, we're riding out. I'm on Duke, she's on Honey - one of my gentler mares - and we're pushing toward the high country where I left a small herd grazing.
Watching her ride does things to me. She sits on the horse like she was born to it, moving with Honey's gait, completely at ease. Her body is fluid, confident, and I can't stop stealing glances at the grip of her thighs on the saddle, the curve of her back, the way the setting sun catches in her dark hair.
We find the cattle and start moving them down. It takes hours. The herd doesn’t want to leave good grazing. But Anita knows what she's doing. She positions herself perfectly, readsthe herd's movement, works in sync with me like we've been doing this together for years.
The storm builds faster than I expected. One minute the sky is gray; the next it's opening up with snow and sleet. Visibility drops to almost nothing.
"We need to take shelter!" I shout over the wind.
She nods, pulling her coat tighter. We guide the horses toward the old line shack, a small cabin my father built decades ago for situations exactly like this. It's bare-bones, but it's shelter.
