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“Ow!” he feigned, and grabbed her fingers. Their eyes sparked and caught but again she didn’t push. When he stroked her knuckles then released her hand, she took it back without touching him again.
“So. Cider,” she said, certain she was blushing.
“Yeah, cider,” he said. “My dad let me plant three hundred trees up there twelve years ago and they’ve been in full production for about eight. We grafted bare root varietals so we had a head start. We’ve got Spitzenburgs, Golden Russets, Arkansas Blacks, Gilpins, and your more common Braeburns and Granny Smiths.
“I use almost the same crew on the trees as I do in the trucks,” he continued. “We harvest from August to October, but of course the snow starts around the same time, so I lose some of my pickers and have to hire short-term.”
Melinda’s mouth had fallen open at the number of trees he’d planted and now she cocked her head at his attention to growing the perfect crop.
“When does the booze part come in?”
He laughed. “Well, we have apple-pressing parties that are more like Thanksgiving feasts. The extra apples become pies. After we get as much juice as we can, we age it in wine barrels. Then it ferments with the help of some natural yeasts, plus some stuff for flavor, for eight or so months. Then we rack it and pour it off the lees. The stuff that settles at the bottom of the barrel, I mean.”
“This is an art form!” she exclaimed.
“It started out as a hobby,” he said, “but it’s grown into quite the production.”
“Do you sell it anywhere?” Surely after twelve years and three hundred trees, he’d be floating in bottles if he didn’t distribute them.
“We sell at the markets up here,” he said, chin lifted in slight pride. “The ski crowd really goes for it. Local, organic, gluten-free, craft product, all the good stuff.” He grinned. “Plus, we charge a lot so they feel like they’re getting quality.”
Melinda shifted and felt something stab her in the behind. What was she sitting on? Her fork? No, it was those zip ties. Had they fallen out of her pocket when he’d undressed her after the tree branch incident? Poky little things. What should she do with them?
~
Grant’s eyes traced Melinda’s face as she toyed with something in her pocket. Firelight caressed her skin and set her hair to burnt-umber flame. She was so beautiful his teeth ached.
Then bile rose in his throat. How could he have done this to her? Disbelieved her? She fairly broadcasted truth—pure, unapologetic, clear-eyed truth. She’d been through so much with her family and was trying to work through it. And he’d called her a liar and carted her off in a death carriage to God-knows-what. He was a criminal.
“How can you sit here with me?” he burst out. She jerked to face him, startled. “How can you sit here listening to my bullshit stories about apples after what I did?”
She looked confused. “The fritter thing...?”
“No, dammit, the car!” Grant stabbed his fingers through his hair. “The ride up here! I was a bastard. I stole you. You’re stolen now. Trapped.” The truth roiled in his gut.
Melinda tilted her head at him, evaluating. He hoped she judged him and found him unworthy.
“You’re making all of this your fault,” she said. “Why are you doing that? Do you control the weather? You thought you were being a good friend.”
Grant gritted his teeth. “What happened in that car was my fault. I’d like to sink the damn thing in the lake. With me in it.”
Melinda studied her shoes and he kicked himself for tainting their evening by seeking absolution. Then she seared him with her gaze and he stilled.
“Would it help to understand how I felt?”
Grant shook his head, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I can explain until I’m blue in the face what it’s like to feel helpless,” she said. “But most men don’t really understand that. They haven’t been shown and told that they’re powerless from the beginning of their lives, the way that women have.” Melinda paused. “Have you ever been made powerless, Grant?” Her voice was low, her eyes hooded.
Wordlessly he shook his head. He wasn’t completely oblivious to women’s issues, but as a man, a large man, he’d never given his personal safety a moment’s thought. Perhaps another reason why he enjoyed plowing snow—it brought him closer to the edge of vulnerability. He’d never considered that women lived there every day.
“Would you like to be?”
He didn’t know what she meant but fortunately she didn’t seem to need an answer.
“Have you never felt the least bit powerless, Mountain Man?” She rose to her knees then, hands on her thighs as she stared down at him.
“I...”
