Page 53 of Blue Jean Summer

I hadn’t wanted to push the subject. All we’d have to do was share one kiss to seal the deal during the ceremony, and we’d be off scot-free.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about that day by the pond or the stolen moment in the pantry. The way she tasted. The way she took from me as much as I took from her. The way it felt to hold her.

I couldn’t wait to marry Catherine Foster, if only for one more kiss.

“If you stay in my kitchen, you’ll be put to work,” Hallie said.

I straightened and headed for the door. “Have a good day.” I didn’t miss the snickers at my back as I slipped out into the bright spring air.

I had been up well before the sun rose, working with clients overseas, which left me with a free afternoon.

I didn’t think the estate grounds could look any better than they usually did, but Mason was proving me wrong. Everything had been shined, polished, and pressure washed. The rosebushes had been pruned. Today, he was by the stables with a truck bed of fresh mulch and a pitchfork.

“Mr. Wilder,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice as he scooped up a chunk of mulch and shuffled it into the flower beds that encircled the stables.

I huffed. “Not you too.”

He laughed. “Hallie gets a kick out of it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled. “Need a hand?”

“A hand? From boss man?” he quipped. “I wouldn’t dare.”

I flipped him off. “You got another pitchfork?”

Mason cackled. “Storage closet just inside the stables. Should be another one in there.”

I found the other pitchfork, tossed a hello to Levi, who was in one of the stalls with a horse, and headed out to help unload the mulch.

Mason and I worked in silence until the truck bed was reduced to black dust and shards of shredded wood. I rested my pitchfork against the stables and got on my knees to work the mulch around the shrubs and roses.

There was something about the peaceful monotony of physical labor that cleared my head. It eased the stress of my day job and the updates from my lawyers about the contested will.

The sun was ruthless, searing the T-shirt to my back and neck. Sweat ran in rivulets from my hair to my chin, stinging my eyes as I slowly made my way around the outside of the stables. Mason worked opposite me until we eventually neared the middle.

The work couldn’t rid my mind of Catherine, though. Somehow, it felt like she had been branded onto my heart long ago. Or that the idea of her had been tattooed on my soul. It was ever present and growing.

I sat back on my haunches and rolled my neck from side to side to ease the ache from being hunched over. The front of my T-shirt was filthy. I grabbed the neck and yanked it over my head, turning it inside out so I could mop up my face. It was already sweat soaked, but it did the trick.

Hooves thundered ahead. I looked up as a beastly shadow engulfed both Mason and me.

“Grey,” Mason said as he eased up. I did the same, throwing my soiled shirt over my shoulder.

The cowboy atop the horse peered at me from beneath the brim of a black Stetson. He gave Mason a nod but didn’t offer a single syllable more. “You Hayes Wilder?” he grunted.

“Yes, sir.”

The man dismounted and extended his hand. “Walt was a good man. Sorry for your loss.”

I shook his hand. “He was.”

The man’s horse glared at me. I didn’t dare take a step forward. He seemed more like an attack dog who would lunge on command than a horse.

“How’d you know my granddad?” I asked.

He cocked his head to the west, where white fences portioned off the property, even though the other side was part of the estate too.

“Warren Grey. I lease the west side.”