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Jack tossed his oil-soaked rag down on the workbench and headed out of the barn. Following the steady beating sound, he walked through the yard and around the corner of the house. His wife stood at the top of the hill above him.
He stopped dead.
She was wearing a pair of his old work pants, and one of his new blue shirts, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the shirttail hanging to midthigh. Gripping a hoe, she lifted it high in the air and brought it down with a resounding thunk. Rich brown earth flew everywhere, speckling her hair and disappearing in the tall grass just
beyond.
Flinging the hoe aside, she bent from the waist and clawed at the ground. Her shirttail flipped up, revealed the rounded curve of her buttocks.
Jack gasped. The old, often-washed wool of his pants curled enticingly around her body, leaving far too little to his imagination.
His throat went dry. Desire twitched deep in his groin. A hint of breeze rippled the fabric against her shapely calves and thighs. Without warning, he remembered what he'd spent years trying to forget. The perfection of her body, the softness of her skin, the feel of her body beneath
him?
All of a sudden she flew backward. Skidding butt-first through the blackish soil, she landed with a shriek at his
feet.
Spitting dirt, she brushed the hair out of her eyes and got to her knees. Crawling forward, she turned around and
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saw him. She immediately smiled. "Phew, that's the second time I've done that. This hill's a bitch."
Jack stared at her in shock as she brushed the dirt from her shirt and shook her head. Clumps and particles of earth pattered his chest. His gaze swept her from head to foot, noting the thick rope belt that anchored his pants to her small waist. "Why in the hell are you wearing my Sunday clothes?"
She had the grace to wince. "These are your good clothes?" He nodded.
"Sorry. But I couldn't garden in that torture device. Every time I lifted the hoe, I'd have passed out."
Suddenly it hit him. She was gardening. He glanced at
the freshly turned earth and frowned. "What the hell ..."
"I'm planting a vegetable garden. I've already gotten
in the radishes, potatoes, lettuce, peas. I was just starting
on the corn."
"You're working in the garden?" She looked at him with a strange expression. "Let me guess: I don't garden either?" "You always said it was beneath you." She glanced down at the newly turned ground. "Maybe I meant it literally."
He stopped a smile just in time. "Is this part of the 'new and improved' Lissa?"
"Yes, I suppose it is." She grinned up at him. "I was going to gather some wild roses to plant alongside the porch. Want to help?"
He tried not to look at her, but couldn't help himself. She was staring up at him through wide, concerned eyes. Dirt speckled her pale, flawless skin and clung to one corner of her mouth. Her unbound hair was a curtain of moonshine that slid down her shoulder and swung gently against the soft curve of her hip.
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"Is this real?" His words were a whisper, a thought inadvertently spoken aloud.
She moved toward him, smiling a soft, beguiling smile that made his knees go weak. And suddenly he was afraid of what she was going to say. "Don't say anything," he whispered harshly. "Please, no more ..."
Her gaze held him captive. "It's real to me, Jack."
He flinched. Was it possible?
