5

It wasn’t until Abby came over the top of the rise the next day that Luc realized just how nervous he was. She’d made it about halfway down by the time Le Dog limped up to greet her. An old friend, judging by their interaction.

She squatted to give the animal a hug, sweeter and warmer and kinder than anything this mountainside had seen since Luc had moved in. Le Dog, in return, bathed her face with his tongue, and Luc had to look away.

“You know each other,” he said. Not a question.

“Rodeo. He and I… We used to spend time together.”

He asked, “What happened?” and watched her face whiten, wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“He was taken away.”

“Why?”

She shrugged, the movement perfectly nonchalant, but the words… They were incisive. Sharp, like small darts. “I wasn’t supposed to get attached.” The smile she gave was a brittle shadow of her usual expression. He hated it. “I’m glad you got him.”

Curious but unwilling to delve too far into the workings of the lunatics next door, Luc nodded. “He is good company.” He didn’t mention that the dog had cost him a fortune. No point rubbing that in when the woman didn’t seem to have any say in the matter.

Abby eyed the big barrow he’d worked late into the night to build.

“It’s a brouette de taille,” he said, tamping down the ridiculous edge of pride that tinged his voice. “For burning the branches.”

“Oh…looks kinda like a wheelbarrow. Do we roll it with us?”

The air was frigid, and this close, he could see the pink in her nose and cheeks. He’d been right to stay up working on the brouette, no matter that his body dragged today.

He nodded, feeling silly and proud of his accomplishment. A little bricolage in the workshop—not as easy as he’d thought, getting the parts. The steel drum, oddly, had been the hardest to find; he’d had to drive thirty miles out for that. Odd because burning a fire in a steel drum was one of those iconic images of America he’d always seen on TV. The rest he’d taken from an actual brouette. A wheelbarrow.

“And it keeps us warm.” He reached into the sack hung on the end, took out a rawhide that he threw to Le Dog and a pair of gloves that he handed to her. “Put these on.”

She looked up and caught his eye. She started to smile but flattened her lips. “They fit.”

Was she upset? Why would she be upset about new gloves? Luc swallowed back his disappointment and spoke, all business. “We continue as before. I cut, you pull the branches and throw them in here.” He indicated the place where he’d cut doors into the steel drum. It lay with its doors wide open now, flat on what had once been a wheelbarrow. He’d close it up when the day was done to avoid any risk of sparking a fire on the mountain or—God forbid—his vines.

“Okay” was all she said before getting right to work.

They made good progress together. Their rhythm was quick and easy, and they worked until the sun was high in the sky. He’d found a couple of adequate sticks and carved them into skewers that morning, just sharp enough to spear some sausages he’d gotten in town. While she continued to pull last year’s growth out from the trellis and shove it into his barrel to burn, he turned to prepare sausages and small onions, setting them off to the side of the brouette to cook while they finished the row. Why hadn’t he thought to burn the branches like this before? It was, after all, the perfect tool for pruning in a place this cold. Lunch, heat, and transport all in one place. No more hauling everything up to the enormous brush pile at the top of the rise.

The sight of her flushed from the heat and the work set off an unexpected spark of interest that Luc quickly tamped down.

Abby caught his eye, and Luc wondered if he had perhaps muttered something aloud. If he had, it would have been in French, which at the very least meant she couldn’t understand. But what on earth would she think of a man who muttered under his breath all the time?

It didn’t matter, he decided, as they approached their stopping point, Le Dog a few steps behind. His stomach grumbled as the smell of charred onions and meat told him that it was time for lunch anyway.

“Sit here.” He indicated a log a few meters from the vines. He’d taken a chainsaw to the rest of the fallen tree when he’d bought the place. One of the many things he’d had to do in order to get the vineyard back up and on its feet. All of it enjoyable work, satisfying in a way his family would never understand. No, they’d been royalty—at least on their own small plot of grape-growing paradise.

He didn’t like to think of what they’d done to the vineyard. Olivier, Maman, and Céline, with their new business partners. It couldn’t last. It wasn’t possible. The spraying and the abuse of the land. He pushed it from his mind.

What would Grandpère think of this place, he wondered—not for the first time—with its bright-red underlayer of soil? Farther down the mountain, it was red clay, making it impossible to grow grapes. Here, though, the ground was sandy, with just the right hint of tiny Bordeaux gravel. And if that rich iron color had an influence on the grapes, well…who knew how that would pan out? He’d thought he’d gotten hints of iron in his early tastings, but…probably just his imagination. It didn’t work like that. Well, it did, but not overtly. Not in ways you could identify immediately on the nose. Terroir—that indescribable element of place. More a translation of sunlight and rain and the shape of the mountain than a simple regurgitation. Like how what you ate affected the way your sweat smelled.

He sniffed, unconsciously hoping for a whiff of woman. How would she smell up close? There’d be no perfume, nothing like French women with their designer eaux de toilette.

And there, he’d brought himself full circle—right back to thinking of Abby in inappropriate terms.

He shoved bread into her hand abruptly, along with his pocket knife. “Open that, for sandwiches.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“This is the tradition, when it is cold. The brouette to cook lunch.”

“It’s wonderful to have the heat, Luc. Thank you for thinking of that.”

He shrugged. Alone, he’d been fine with the cold and the extra work hauling branches.

While they ate, he studied her face, watching her consume the sandwich the way she’d consumed everything he’d prepared for her, with such relish that he wanted to—

“Putain,” he muttered, startling her as he rose. “I’m sorry, I’m just…a bloody mess today.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s okay. Do you want me to go or—”

“No, it’s fine.” Luc took a big breath and wondered where these nerves were coming from. It couldn’t all be for her, could it?

Yes. Yes, it probably could.

* * *

For the better part of a week, Abby had gotten up every morning and shoved back the excitement of what lay ahead as she dressed in her warmest clothes and headed off to work. The threat of the ice storm had been delayed, and so she’d pruned that whole week. Abby’s body changed with the work, adapting to the movements and to the man’s presence. She noticed things about him, little things, like the way he eyed her when he didn’t think she saw, the way the gloves he’d given her a few days ago fit her perfectly. The way he fed her when he probably wouldn’t have bothered to feed himself had she not been there.

Though his exterior was rough, he was a kind man. A good man, contrary to Isaiah’s assurances that nothing beyond the fence could possibly be good. If the Church was wrong about that, then what other untruths would she uncover?

Things like medicine? And learning? She’d gladly give up her own place in Heaven to keep Sammy from suffering, but with every new day, the doubts piled up and up, until she feared her lifelong beliefs might topple.

And then what would she be left with?

Luc’s kindness was magnetic, and she supposed it was the reason for this anticipation she felt every morning as she slid through the fence. Strange how it obliterated the fear of discovery.

Today, she paused and took in the view. Rows and rows of vines stretched out, their branches coated in hoarfrost, sparkling white in the morning sun. The valley below was lost in fog, while the sun beat hard on her head, and cold rime lined the ground. And there, up ahead, stood that man, majestic as the mountains. He moved, swathed in smoke, bending, cutting, pulling the branches out, and throwing them into the barrow before standing.

He turned her way and stilled. Abby’s breath stopped for a moment or two as she stood frozen atop the rise, caught in the act of staring at him. The hand that she wanted to lift in a wave wouldn’t move. Her eyes, stinging from the sun, wouldn’t blink.

His face, she could see even from this far off, was stuck in a look of surprise or relief or…

Breath in, puff of vapor out. A bird cawed overhead, its long shadow slicing through the landscape, breaking the spell. She couldn’t help the smile that took over her face. Ignoring the shimmering thrill that ran through her, she slip-slid down the slope to find him waiting, his only greeting the extended sweater and gloves. Wordlessly, Abby put them on. Almost habit after nearly a week.

Pruning was different now, almost pleasurable. Together, they’d developed a rhythm. He’d snip, snip, snip, usually about five times, and then go on to the next plant while she moved in to unclip and pull. No more of those branches like whips to her face—or his. Her movements had become spare; the pain in her shoulders faded to a pleasant memory that kept her company at night, alone in her bed. Their pace felt good, efficient. There was pride in a job well done—not something she’d felt since Isaiah’d taken her off market duty, claiming she’d been too friendly with the evil outsiders.

It made her wonder why Luc had left France. What would make this man move to an entirely different country to do this alone?

“What’s it like, where you’re from?” she asked.

She didn’t expect him to answer, of course. Unlike her, the man was not a talker, and he’d made it abundantly clear that idle chitchat wasn’t his thing. Only this wasn’t idle, was it? Not if a person was hungry for the answer, like she was.

She’d given up on a response by the time he spoke, his voice so low she had to stop to hear him. “Pretty.” He paused. “And warm, compared to this.”

“It never gets cold there?”

“Not in my region. Not like this, no.” His face lifted to take in the landscape before them. “Everything is less dramatic. More…civilized.”

“You saying we’re uncivilized?”

His eyes snagged hers before he bent back to his task. His response was nothing more than a grunt, but just that connection left Abby’s body humming, her fingers tingling.

He shocked her a few minutes later by asking, “What is it you people do over there?”

“Why, you interested in converting?”

She was proud of the surprised huff she got out of him—a challenge she’d won. And she wanted more. She wanted a big, round laugh, a smile that reached his eyes. She wanted his face to lose its solemn cast for a while. It almost didn’t matter what replaced it, although she’d like to be close enough to see it, touch it, maybe catch it in her hands.

“Do I seem right for your…group?”

She looked him up and down in a way she’d never dare to back home. “No, sir. You don’t seem like you’d be a believer.”

“And you are?” He returned to work, but the question stalled her, held her oscillating in its grip. A few months ago, she’d have responded without hesitation. Just days ago, even, she’d been sure that out here was bad and in there was good and there was no in-between.

He must have sensed her uncertainty, because he stopped and said, “You are a believer.”

Yes, she tried to say. Yes, of course I believe.

She couldn’t.

“I was young when I got here,” she finally managed. It sounded like an excuse. “At first, I thought this place was the bees’ knees. ’Course you’d have to see where I came from to understand why.”

“Bees’ knees?”

She swallowed past the lump lodged in her throat. “Never heard that one?”

“I haven’t.”

“Means it’s the best. So good you can’t believe it.”

Snip, snip, snipping in something that wasn’t quite silence, they continued down the line.

After a bit, he surprised her again. “You never said what your days are like.”

“Yonder?”

That made him smile. “Yes.”

“Pretty normal, I suppose. Everyone’s up at daybreak. Guess you could say we’re like any farm. Some folks work with the animals, milking and gathering eggs and so on. Most women work in the big kitchen, baking for the market.”

“I’ve seen you there.”

“Me?”

“Not you. But your people. At the market, selling things with your…” He motioned toward his head.

“Our what?”

“Those hats.” He stopped pruning to look at her. “Why do you not wear one?”

One guilty hand flew to the top of her head, where her bonnet should be. Her gaze slid to the sliced-up fence, beside which it currently sat. “Oh. I…” She swallowed, hating the truth but unwilling to lie for something so silly. “I don’t like how the covering looks. How I look with it on. I leave it up there.” So you won’t see me in it.

One side of his mouth curled up before he reached for his vine in that affectionate way of his, taking whatever secret satisfaction he’d gleaned with him. “So, you work at the market?”

“Not anymore.”

“No?”

“Banned from market duty,” she said dramatically to cover up how much that had hurt.

“Why?”

“Too friendly with the customers.”

“That seems…counterproductive. One hopes for friendly salespeople.” He paused. “Especially in America, where the smile is king.”

“People don’t smile in…”

“France,” he said, with that low, rolling sound that made her feel…warm. Curious. Itchy in places. “No. People don’t smile.”

“Ever?”

His lips turned down, and she could see how the no-smiling rule was well followed.

“You don’t smile,” she said.

He stopped pruning so abruptly that Abby almost ran right into him. “No?”

Shaking her head, she looked at his face and mirrored his frown before saying a purse-lipped, “Non,” in imitation of his accent.

And there, miracle of miracles, the man did it. His lips curved up. Or almost. One side of his mouth lifted—the side with the scar—and, oh goodness, it was a dimple. What kind of trick was it that this big, burly man had to suffer through the indignity of a dimple? And much, much worse was her having to suffer through that smile.

She wanted to touch it, the divot in his cheek. Or those lips, or that thick, rough-looking neck, which was more cleanly shaven than the first time she’d come here.

Did he do that for me? she wondered as she turned away, reaching for…anything to stop herself. Branches. Those would do. Pull, throw, wait—red face averted—and move on.

They’d finished the row without speaking and moved on to the next by the time Abby could breathe normally. Surprise, surprise, he was the one to finally break the silence.

“Besides no cap, what else do you wish for?”

She didn’t hesitate before saying, “A place of my own.”

“Yes?”

“Nothing big, just a…a room. Where I could listen to music, maybe?”

“You can’t do that there?”

“Oh, we sing all right. Best part of the Church is the singing.”

“What do you sing?”

“Hymns.”

“I don’t know any.”

Without thinking it through, she sang a verse from one of her favorites. “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful: the Lord God made them all.”

When she met his eye, Luc was…not exactly smiling, but close. His eyes were warm, his expression…admiring, maybe? Abby blushed with the realization of what she’d just done.

He said one word: “Pretty.” But something about the way he said it, his eyes eating up her face, made her cheeks burn hotter and breath come faster. To hide it, she turned quickly back to work.

Changing the topic, she cleared her throat and asked, “So, how much is a place to rent?”

“What?”

“A room to live in. How much money do I need for that?”

He shrugged. “Depends. Big cities, it’s a lot, I think. Around here? I don’t know. Maybe a few hundred a month?”

“Good Lord, that’s a lot.”

“Life is expensive.” He shrugged and cut, the movement lifting shoulders massive enough to carry the weight of the world.

“Right. So…you have to pay for food, right? And what else do you pay for?”

“Electricity. Um, water and gas, things like that.”

“Gas for the car?”

“For your car and for your stove or heat.”

“Oh. So…I’d need a lot. To start a life.”

“A good amount, yes. You need to pay a guarantee as well, I think, if it’s like France. And references for the landlord.” He glanced at her. “This makes you unhappy?”

“Guess I thought…I thought I could work for you for a couple weeks and have enough to start a life.”

“It’s hard, Abby.” His eyes on her were steady and full of a new softness that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, like he’d taken off a layer of her skin to speak to her insides.

“Blue jeans, too,” she said, forcing a touch of flippancy to her tone.

“What?”

“Jeans. I’d like to wear jeans with snaps and a zipper, like a normal person.”

“Like a slim?” The word came out with two Es in the middle: sleem. She shook her head, not understanding. “Um, skinny jeans?” he clarified.

“Goodness, no!” She laughed. “I’d need time to adjust to just trousers first, but…” Letting her gaze rest on the valley before them, she thought of the hundreds—no, thousands—of women who walked around every day wearing practical clothing instead of these stiff cotton skirts and modest drawers she had to fight her way out of. “I’d like to look normal when I go into town, to feel free. Just a T-shirt and jeans. Those sneaker shoes to walk in. Maybe some—”

She stopped, hating how her current thought embarrassed her. It wasn’t the wish so much as the fantasy surrounding it.

“Some?”

“Boots. Cowboy boots, you know? The kind you stomp around in.” Except stomping wasn’t what she envisioned when she said it. In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself in jeans by all rights tighter than she should want to wear them; a cute shirt—maybe something sparkly, but not too fancy, since part of her just wanted a plain T-shirt; and those boots with their small heels and slightly pointed toes. And all of this dancing on the arm of a man. This man, truth be told. It was this man in her fantasy, which sent a new wash of heat prickling against the cold air, from her chest to her forehead and well into her hairline.

“I can’t imagine you stomping.”

“No? I’d be good at it.”

Their eyes met as he said, “I don’t doubt it.” The words, silly and inconsequential as they were, sent blood rushing right down her body to where it didn’t belong. Somehow that blood weighed her down, made her lids heavy, and sent her mouth to drooping in a way she was sure he could see.

And then she knew he could, because his eyes strayed there, lingering before one thick, rough-hewn hand followed. A single knuckle swiped her bottom lip in a gesture not so much affectionate as…curious? Compulsive? Like a baby who couldn’t help but touch a ball or stuff it in his mouth. To taste. To feel. To know.

It was over too soon, that swipe. And yet, somehow, it lasted forever. Suspended here on the mountain, in their thick cloud of burning vine and sparks, the cold melted away by more than just the fire.

After that long hitch in time, Abby inhaled and let the air out in hiccups—the shaky kind you couldn’t help making after a good, hard sob. But rather than the release of a big cry, his knuckle to her lip screwed everything up tight, made her insides overflow with whatever this was. She was sure she’d pop. She had to.

Because Lord only knew what she’d do if this pressure didn’t release sometime soon.