I continued to bump along behind Oscar’s red truck, rusty in places, dented in others, and entirely covered in a fine white dust that was being kicked up on the road. As it made a final turn, I saw an ancient wooden mailbox marked Bailey Falls Creamery, with a smaller name underneath, Mendoza.
A moment later I was pulling into a clearing, surrounded by enormous trees covered in reds, oranges, rusts, and yellows. In the center stood a white clapboard farmhouse, complete with large wraparound porch, green shutters, and a stone chimney. An old tire swing hung from the oak nearest the house. Late-autumn chrysanthemums were planted in pots all along the porch, spilling out into the yard and lining the beginning of the drive. Huh. Oscar sure had a green thumb . . .
In the field beyond the house was the barn. I could see why he was so stinking proud of the thing; it was indeed massive. Huge stone stacks made the walls, while a red-painted roof soared high above, arching up to the skyline cupola.
A cupola is the tiny structure found atop some barn roofs, particularly those constructed back in the 1800s. When barns housed not just hay but animals as well, extra ventilation was necessary to regulate the temperature, particularly in the winter months, when the animals spent much of their time indoors. Newer barns that housed only equipment still sometimes added cupolas just for their aesthetic value.
Yes, I read up on barns.
And in the field above the house and barn were the bread and literal butter of Oscar’s operation: the cows. What looked like some of the same kind of cows I’d seen the other day over at Maxwell Farms, the pretty red and brown animals giving their gentle calls welcoming Oscar home in direct opposition to what I now knew was their true nature . . . that of an angry horde determined to one day trample me.
Oscar climbed down out of his truck, and after taking one last glance in the rearview mirror to assure myself that yes, I was indeed as cute as I’d remembered, I pushed open the door to the Wagoneer and stepped out into the dooryard.
Into a huge puddle of mud.
Arms flailed while boots sank, then stuck, and as I pinwheeled to stay vertical, gravity took a moment to assert itself. Down I went, vaguely aware of Oscar running toward me, reaching to snatch me up out of the mud. But I zigged when he zagged, and landed squarely on my ass.
Mud splattered everywhere, soaking into my jeans. My thigh-high boots were thoroughly soaked as well, making me swear loud and long.
Oscar came to the rescue, kneeling down next to where I sat, covered in mud. “You better quit that yelling, the cows will come see what’s wrong.”
“I’m covered in mud!”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, smothering a laugh. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
I let him scoop under my arms and put me on my feet, bringing me close to all that flannel and thermal . . . mmm. Touching and feeling all that cotton made me quite sure it could very well be the fabric of my life. I inhaled deeply, breathing in all that cottony softness, all that crisp outdoor air, edged with a touch of burning leaves.
Once I was on my feet again, all I wanted to be was down on the ground, rolling around with this guy. Though I could feel the earth under my feet, I still felt light, airy, weightless. I wanted more weightless. I wanted more of that suspension with him, that heady feeling that I could feel crowding in and making me a bit dizzy.
“Look at you, dirty girl,” he murmured, showing me his now mud-covered hand.
“You have no idea,” I murmured, tilting my head back and gazing up at him. Backlit by Mother Nature, he was stunning. And I was in his arms. I let my own hands come up, sliding along that red plaid flannel shirt and up around his neck, sinking once more into that decadent hair. “Now put that hand back where it belongs.”
Oscar should grin more often. Because when he does, birds sing and angels weep. And holy shit, cows moo.
He bent me backward a bit, very old-school Hollywood, but instead of kissing me like I hoped, he dipped lower, nuzzling along the column of my neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin there, settling right along the pulse point just underneath my jaw. “It’s really a shame about those boots. They’re sexy as fuck,” he said. I squealed a little as the scruff below his lips tickled at my skin. “I hope they’re not ruined.”
“No worries. I’ve got a guy who works on all my leather.”
“How much leather do you have?” he asked, and I could feel him smiling at my collarbone.
“Not like that.” I giggled. “I just meant I’ve got someone who can clean them.”
“Good, that’s good.”
“It’s nice of you to be concerned, though, since they are Chanel.”
“Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots,” he said and, with a gentleness a man so large shouldn’t possess, lightly plucked a fallen leaf from my hair.
“Next time I’ll wear the boots, I promise.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, crunching the leaf in his hand. “Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots . . . and nothing else.”