you even know how big an acre is, Opie?”
“No fucking clue, but it’s big enough we can’t see everything that’s yours standing in one place.”
She looked at him, and felt her middle bottom out at the expression on his face.
Grinning like a kid, reverent.
She couldn’t help it. “What do you think?”
He looked at her and laughed. “It’s fucking amazing, is what I think. I mean, I’m a bad one to even ask, I think I’ve been out in the country, I mean actually standing in it, not just watching it roll by from a car window, maybe twice in my whole life, and both times were for school. I can’t get my head around this. How much is yours, how much you’re responsible for, but goddamn, Nina.” He looked away again.
“Jesus.”
His open appreciation of what this meant was more than she bargained for.
She had just wanted him to see something, something that eased up that tension in his hard body, and then he had to go and see a little of her, too.
“You put on that sunscreen?”
“Hell yes. I don’t fuck around when it comes to cancer. Plus, I’m protecting my assets.”
“Your freckles?”
He flicked her off with an ease that spoke of practice. “No, my pretty face.”
“I don’t know if you’re the Burnside with the pretty face. I’ve seen your brother.”
Sam made a dismissive noise and bumped her shoulder with his. “Bet he’ll lose those Byronic curls by forty.”
“Yeah, what’s that, in twenty years? Enough time for me.”
“Why wait around for the kid to lose his looks when you have something time-tested and perfectly fucking swag right here? You wanna see my abs again?”
“Swag?
Joder.
”
She looked at her fields again so she wouldn’t smile at him too much and jumped when she felt his hand close over hers. “Thanks for taking me out here. It’s amazing. I look at this, all this, and it’s so big and I don’tknow,
green.
Everything is perfectly alive, I guess. It just seems like something so much more than regular life, like everything could be okay out here. Which probably sounds asinine to you, because you see this all the time, it’s your work.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, her nose burning, a sudden prickle in the corners of her eyes.
“It doesn’t what?”
“Sound asinine.”
“No?”
“I love my city plots, and my café, my farm store. But out here feels like home. Like where I’m supposed to be.”
“So why don’t you live in that big house?” He pointed to the pretty farmhouse behind them, across the irrigation culvert.
“I own most of the acreage, and then lease another couple of plots, the ones across the irrigation line that the house sits on. John Lake lives there. I lease from him.”
“The musician?” Sam whistled and looked at the house with renewed interest.
“You a fan? He’s a really nice guy, actually.”
“I met him once. When he played with the Lakefield Symphony. PJ got me backstage after the performance and I watched PJ and John Lake and a couple of other guys jam for a while. He is a good guy.”
“Next time I settle up with him, I’ll take you along.”
Sam grinned. “You do that. Lacey told me you were from the West Coast originally?”
“When I was three my mom and dad migrated from Mexico to pick apples in eastern Washington state. I had an aunt with papers in Roslyn, Washington, until my parents could manage papers for themselves. I was actually born in the U.S., in Oregon, during an earlier agricultural work trip they took.”
“I don’t know a lot about migrant workers, I admit.”
“Some farms are good, keep good records, pay fair, have good conditions for work. Those places make it easier for migrant workers who are interested in living in the U.S. permanently, actually. Any kind of legit record or paperwork helps. Other places are awful, of course, poor conditions, uneven or nonexistent pay, fear and abuse.”
“Were you guys okay?”
“My parents were lucky. After they established
“No fucking clue, but it’s big enough we can’t see everything that’s yours standing in one place.”
She looked at him, and felt her middle bottom out at the expression on his face.
Grinning like a kid, reverent.
She couldn’t help it. “What do you think?”
He looked at her and laughed. “It’s fucking amazing, is what I think. I mean, I’m a bad one to even ask, I think I’ve been out in the country, I mean actually standing in it, not just watching it roll by from a car window, maybe twice in my whole life, and both times were for school. I can’t get my head around this. How much is yours, how much you’re responsible for, but goddamn, Nina.” He looked away again.
“Jesus.”
His open appreciation of what this meant was more than she bargained for.
She had just wanted him to see something, something that eased up that tension in his hard body, and then he had to go and see a little of her, too.
“You put on that sunscreen?”
“Hell yes. I don’t fuck around when it comes to cancer. Plus, I’m protecting my assets.”
“Your freckles?”
He flicked her off with an ease that spoke of practice. “No, my pretty face.”
“I don’t know if you’re the Burnside with the pretty face. I’ve seen your brother.”
Sam made a dismissive noise and bumped her shoulder with his. “Bet he’ll lose those Byronic curls by forty.”
“Yeah, what’s that, in twenty years? Enough time for me.”
“Why wait around for the kid to lose his looks when you have something time-tested and perfectly fucking swag right here? You wanna see my abs again?”
“Swag?
Joder.
”
She looked at her fields again so she wouldn’t smile at him too much and jumped when she felt his hand close over hers. “Thanks for taking me out here. It’s amazing. I look at this, all this, and it’s so big and I don’tknow,
green.
Everything is perfectly alive, I guess. It just seems like something so much more than regular life, like everything could be okay out here. Which probably sounds asinine to you, because you see this all the time, it’s your work.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, her nose burning, a sudden prickle in the corners of her eyes.
“It doesn’t what?”
“Sound asinine.”
“No?”
“I love my city plots, and my café, my farm store. But out here feels like home. Like where I’m supposed to be.”
“So why don’t you live in that big house?” He pointed to the pretty farmhouse behind them, across the irrigation culvert.
“I own most of the acreage, and then lease another couple of plots, the ones across the irrigation line that the house sits on. John Lake lives there. I lease from him.”
“The musician?” Sam whistled and looked at the house with renewed interest.
“You a fan? He’s a really nice guy, actually.”
“I met him once. When he played with the Lakefield Symphony. PJ got me backstage after the performance and I watched PJ and John Lake and a couple of other guys jam for a while. He is a good guy.”
“Next time I settle up with him, I’ll take you along.”
Sam grinned. “You do that. Lacey told me you were from the West Coast originally?”
“When I was three my mom and dad migrated from Mexico to pick apples in eastern Washington state. I had an aunt with papers in Roslyn, Washington, until my parents could manage papers for themselves. I was actually born in the U.S., in Oregon, during an earlier agricultural work trip they took.”
“I don’t know a lot about migrant workers, I admit.”
“Some farms are good, keep good records, pay fair, have good conditions for work. Those places make it easier for migrant workers who are interested in living in the U.S. permanently, actually. Any kind of legit record or paperwork helps. Other places are awful, of course, poor conditions, uneven or nonexistent pay, fear and abuse.”
“Were you guys okay?”
“My parents were lucky. After they established
Similar Books
