Page 7 of The Harvest Homecoming

Sighing to myself, I returned to looking out the window as the PAs made small talk, while Rani twisted around in the front seat. Soft classic rock played on the stereo, something from Hall & Oates, as the lush landscape rolled past. Outside the capital, which was quite modern in spots, the true beauty of Östermon shone through. Fields of rich, golden, early fall wheat, potatoes, sugar beets, acres of fodder feed for livestock. Our soil was good, not as good as, say, Denmark’s, but good. We had to import most of our fruits due to the cold weather that enveloped our island in the winter, obviously.

Pastures filled with cows, sheep, and goats lazing under a late September sun brought a smile to my face as we passed them. I did love Östermon. I just wish we were more progressive. That would change under Frode, I was sure, for he had plans to bring our little island nation into the twentieth century at the very least, he liked to half joke. Perhaps his eldest son might tug us into the twenty-first when he wears the crown. Lord knows Östermonians were a stubborn lot. Just look at how long Rani was able to hold a grudge. Not that it wasn’t a well-founded enmity. I’d been an arse. Still was, if I were being honest, but I was trying to lessen my jerk standing. That had to count for something, right?

***

“Shame you weren’t here in the spring. We could have shown you how to shear the sheep. My da used to do it all by hand. He’d sit on that stool there in the corner, sit the sheep down on its arse, then clip away with one hand while holding his pipe in the other.”

I gave Shepherd Jakob Davidsen a kind nod as one of his four hundred sheep chewed on my back pocket. We were surrounded by white cotton balls with legs. Most were polite. Several were pushy, and a few were downright crude. I’d been nudged in the balls at least ten times by bony-headed ewes and gangly lambs. The past hour, I’d been deflecting nut shots while trying to be cheerful for the press who were following the good farmer and me through barns and pastures. Pastures thick with sheep shit. I gave up trying to avoid the mounds of pellets after the first thirty minutes. I’d have to ring for my father’s valet, Gorge, to tidy up my clothes when I got home. I didn’t employ a valet as I could dress myself, and quite well, thank you, but digging sheep poo out of the treads of my hiking boots was not exactly my cup of tea.

“He stood the sheep on their heads?” I asked because someone had to.

“No, not on their heads. On their arses. This is my wife coming now.” Farmer Jakob snickered at my silliness. An older woman in a paisley coat appeared out of the barn, face weathered from years in the sun just like her husband’s. “She wanted to present you with a scarf she knitted from our very own wool. She’s a bit shy, though, so she asked me if I’d talk to you for her.”

“How kind of her,” I said, taking the bright green scarf from the timid woman and wrapping it around my neck. Cameras clicked away as I shook hands with the wife whose cheeks turned cherry red. “Thank you, Mrs. Davidsen. Just what I needed. It’s chilly out here.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness. We are immigrants from Norway. We love it here. We love the royal family. We are very much honored for you to be here,” she softly said right as someone yelled something from behind us. So much for her shyness. Her brown eyes went wide just before I was knocked arse over kettle from the rear. I flew forward with speed as shouts rang out around me. There was no time to react with any kind of grace. I went down hard, face first, in a shitty mud puddle with a grunt of pain. Arms out, I managed to block the fall a bit, but not enough to keep my chin out of the muck. The smell was much stronger down here…

“Solberg!” a younger male voice bellowed. I lay there, winded, as mucky boots raced around me. I blinked, wheezed, and took note of hooves racing past with several people in chase.

“Your Highness!” Houghton called, dropping down beside me as the beast who attacked me ran in a circle, the ram’s head down in order to knock someone else off their boots as the farmer’s son, maybe a hired hand, tackled the beast to the ground. “Are you all right?”

Vetra and Rani arrived, both looking terribly worried, which made me happy to see. At least he didn’t hate me so much that he wanted to see me mangled by a British Suffolk ram named after a Norwegian hockey player. Things were looking up!

“Fine, yes, fine,” I lied as my guardian eased me into a sitting position among a herd of nosy sheep. The ram was subdued for the moment, but I could see the dislike in his horizontal eyes.

“Shall we see if you can stand?” Houghton asked with a hand under my elbow that I hurried to gently shake off.

“I’m fine, truly.” I got to my feet, a little shaky, a lot filthy, and gave the press a hearty, embarrassed laugh to put them at ease. “I’ve been rearended before but never with that much force,” I tossed out to be witty as my head spun from the impact. Rani actually snorted in amusement then coughed to cover the sound up.

“Deepest apologies, Your Highness,” Farmer Davidsen said as he ran up to check on me. “My youngest son, Henrik, did not latch the ram’s gate well. Please, let us take you inside to wash up your face and hands.”

“That would be most kind,” I replied, limping along making bon mots with the press as was my role in life. Rani stayed close, his deep brown gaze filled with concern he tried to hide but couldn’t. A faceful of sheep dung and a bruised coccyx were a small price to pay for those worried glances.

Chapter Six

Nothing feels better than a hot bath after a day out and about.

Soaking my sore tailbone in a lavender-scented bubble bath had not only washed away the grime of the day at the sheep farm, but it helped me sort out a few things mentally. Nothing calmed the soul like a long bath with purple bubbles.

While lounging in the tub, I rolled around several scenarios that might pave the way to opening up a discussion about my past blunders with Rani. The first step was to get him to speak to me in complete sentences. Brusque replies of one word did not a conversation make. To do that, to get him to talk, I’d have to remind him of just how charming I was or at least show him that I was open to discourse. Did that mean an open apology right out of the gate or a slower approach? I’d never found myself in this situation before and had no clue how to win back a lover lost. I just knew that when I was with Rani, the world felt right. My heart felt lighter. And my soul sang. Pity I couldn’t come to that discovery back when the man was enamored of me. I was, to put it bluntly, a putz.

Still, even putzes could right a wrong. And that was what I would do. I’d show him that I could be the kind of man he wished to be with again. That was if he wasn’t already with someone. Perhaps that was the first thing to do. Yes. I’d have to dig a bit. Maybe ask Alva offhandedly over breakfast tomorrow if Rani is seeing someone. Over the scrambled eggs as we buttered our toast. Just light chitchat as we broke our fast.

With that settled in my mind, I let my mind wander off to various little romantic trysts with the man of my dreams as I dried off and pulled on some pajamas and a robe. We could vacation in the tropics, where his beautiful skin would darken slightly even with liberal applications of sunblock. Mine would burn sadly, so I’d be under an umbrella with a book and a fruity cocktail as he splashed around in the surf, his glorious curls sodden, his chest wet and bared to my hungry—

The soft rap on my door tugged me from my equatorial fantasies. Cracking it open, I saw Rani in the corridor with a small tray and a sheepish expression. My heart did Simone Biles caliber flips.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” he opened with, to which I huffed.

“Rani, please. We’re not in public. We know each other quite well. Can we drop the royal titles?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Rani, come on.”

He drew in a long breath then let it out. “Sorry.” I nodded as my sight moved from his lush mouth to a wild curl tickling his brow. “Princess Alva asked me to check on you.” Oh. That was disappointing. “She’s feeling much better now and will meet you for breakfast as usual. She bid me to find something to bring you to ease the discomfort in your…” His gaze darted to my lower half, which made his cheeks grow slightly darker. “Bum area. I had the kitchen make you a pot of black tea, decaf, so as not to add to any insomnia you may be battling, with a plate of butter cookies and two paracetamol tablets.”

Well, this was lovely. And a heartening display since he could have simply rang the kitchen to have them deliver it to my room. Also, he remembered my struggles with sleeping and had taken care not to exacerbate them. Surely that was a good sign.