Page 17 of Silver Brewer

When her jeans come undone, and she lowers them to her thighs, a perfect white ass shines at me, and the cloth disappears from her shoulder.

Goddammit, I’m turned on again. It never happens this quickly. I’m almost fifty, for heaven’s sake, yet I want her. Right here on this shoreline, next to the cold stream, I want to bury myself deep inside her.

Then I remember the land.

She wants my land.

She’s here because of that.

Not because of me.

I turn away from her, fighting the urge in my pants and the ache in my chest. My punishment for wanting her will be the blue balls I suffer.

I return to the fire and begin the process of making eggs and bacon over a campfire. The large cast iron skillet works wonders, and I remain crouched down, focused on the sizzle of meat and the slow curl of eggs, allowing my thoughts to wander.

Clara would camp. She liked the outdoors as much as I did, finding peace in the quiet. But we were too silent as a couple. We didn’t argue with each other. We didn’t yell at our children. We didn’t speak about all the things missing between us, and we didn’t make noise during sex. She was a good woman. The best. She made a home with my military earnings and loved our girls, the only gift I believed I’d given her. Clara wanted to be a mother, and fortunately, she was pregnant after my first tour. The girls became her focus while I was gone. When I returned home, she didn’t know how to handle me. The PTSD. The brewery. We weren’t those silent high school sweethearts anymore. Then she got sick.

“Good morning.” Her cheerful female voice breaks into my morbid memories.

I snort in response and glance up to watch Letty’s face fall. She’s not the reason I’m gruff, and I curse myself for responding as such, but her singular nod and the twist of lips tells me she’ll take no excuse for my rudeness. She walks over to a log and lays the towel and washcloth on the bark to dry in the sun. I want to reach for the material and rub the scent of her over my face and breathe her in again, but I don’t.

Instead, I focus on cooking the bacon and eggs.

“May I?” she asks before reaching for the camp coffeepot. I nod again as if my throat’s clogged.

Why am I not speaking to her? Answer her with something, you big oaf.

“Did you sleep well?”

She stops pouring her coffee and looks up at me. Her eyes narrow, and I raise a fist to cover a forced cough.

I’m an idiot.

“It’s surprising how well I slept,” she answers. “I mean, it’s quiet here and dark, and I’m not used to that. Planes, trains, and automobiles zooming, and bright orange streetlights are more my scene, but a lumpy ground and a thick sleeping bag weren’t too bad. I can’t say I’m ready for Naked and Afraid, but it wasn’t awful.” She reflectively smiles, and her response draws a grin from me.

Maybe we don’t need to talk about last night.

“So last night…” she begins, and my head heavily lowers, pulling my eyes away from her. Or maybe not. “You mentioned bears.”

My head pops back up.

“I wonder what I’m supposed to do if I see one. I read once I should fall to the ground. Another report told me to make myself large and yell.”

“You could always talk him away,” I scoff. Her face falls again, and her lips purse.

I amend. Fucking idiot describes me best.

“My mother teases me about how I talk too much. It’s a nervous habit. I feel the need to fill the silence, so the words just spew. Maybe it’s that my mind can’t settle. I struggle to relax, so I ramble. I don’t know. It just…” She glances up at me, and the words fall away. Whatever her reason for speaking so much, it’s happening again, and she realizes it.

Her expression dampens again. “Smells good,” she offers with a nod to the sizzling breakfast, and then she shuts her eyes as if willing herself not to speak.

“Was there anything you’d like to do today?” I ask, not having a plan. I rarely have anything specific on the agenda when I come up here. That’s the point. The brewery keeps me busy with schedules and meetings, so I use this place for a break from life.

“Ax throwing. Archery. Hunting.”

“Hunting?” The thought of her holding a gun surprises me.

“Actually, no. Firm pass on killing any Bambis.”