I had to butcher the roosters.

Well, I didn’t have to butcher the roosters, but someone had to, and I’d promised my mother that I’d do it.

I’d butchered plenty of animals before, when I was growing up. We used to keep goats, rabbits, chickens, and ducks. We didn’t keep geese because they’re partial to biting. Plus, they’re nasty, ill-tempered bastards.

Three days had passed since I’d called Darrell Winston. We’d heard nothing from him, and everyone was on edge.

My time in Tennessee was growing short; the seasons were changing, and soon I would be back in my apartment, back to my job and my life. Even my brothers seemed to sense my impending departure.

Jethro asked for my address in the city. Roscoe and I consulted a calendar, trying to find a date in December when he could visit over the winter break. Cletus and the twins suggested a road trip to junk yards in Chicago, hopeful that they’d be able to discover a treasure trove of rusted classic cars that could be hauled back to Tennessee.

My mother was now sleeping most of the time, so visits from her friends at the library and the minister were usually brief, or we’d make an excuse. When she was awake, she was hazy and her speech was slow. I could feel her drifting away, disappearing. A growing part of me recognized that I had no control over the situation.

But another part, stubborn and willful, struggled against the slippery hours, wanting time to stand still.

So, instead of sitting inside all day and going crazy watching my momma breathe, I decided to let my brothers take a turn so I could butcher the roosters.

It was a solid plan. I had the cone all set up, and the knife; I was wearing my oldest jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt with a tank top underneath, and work boots. I had on the same old, black apron I used to wear for the occasion as well as the fitted leather gloves.

Nevertheless, when the time came for me to do the deed, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I had that damn rooster upside down in the cone, disoriented and still, but I just couldn’t do it.

I heaved a frustrated sigh, released the rooster, stood, and kicked a nearby bucket. Kicking the bucket felt really good, so I decided to punch a bundle of straw. That felt good too, so I kept doing it.

I don’t know how long I spent raging against the straw—maybe a minute, maybe twenty. When I finally stopped I was red faced; my loose braid had come undone, and my hair was wild around my shoulders. My legs, arms, and stomach were sore from the workout.

Breathing hard, I ripped off the gloves and placed my hands on my hips, glaring at the straw. It looked just the same.

“Feel better?”

My head whipped around, searching for the origin of the voice, and found Drew standing at the edge of the chicken yard, his thumbs in his belt loops, his dark green T-shirt tucked into his dark green uniform pants, his cowboy hat on, and a stern expression on his face.

He would have melted my butter if I’d been in any mood to be butter…or to melt.

Who am I kidding? My butter melted as soon as I saw his hat.

I was irritated—with the roosters for crowing, with my momma for dying, with my father for being evil incarnate, and with Drew for melting my butter when I wasn’t in the mood to be butter…or melt.

I eyeballed him, disliking that I noticed how exceptionally fine he looked, and I waited to catch my breath before I responded. “Yes, I do feel better now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, you don’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve that mystery.” I reached around my back to untie my apron.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened into a hard line. “Are you upset with me about something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“The fact that you’re breathing, I guess.”

Over the last three days, Drew and I had spent plenty of time together. During all of that time, he’d quoted Nietzsche never, he’d recited poetry not at all, and he’d barely spoken. Even worse than that, he hadn’t touched me—not once.

Meanwhile, there was a wild boar of need within me; one that he’d awakened with his quicksilver eyes, poetic words, velvet baritone, heroic deeds, and expertly choreographed kisses.

He’d left me to drown in want.

Drew shifted his weight, his head tilting to the side as he regarded me. Despite the shade and shadow provided by his hat, I could tell that he was fighting a smile.

“My breathing bothers you?”

“Sometimes.” I removed the apron, ducked into the shed, and hung it on a nail where it lived.

If I’d said what was on my mind, I would have told him that his self-control bothered me.

Or maybe it wasn’t self-control. Maybe he’d lost interest.

Or maybe there was something appallingly wrong with me. During this time of sorrow and stress, I wanted to lose myself, forget about my worries, and debate the merits of mustachioed eighteenth century philosophers, or relive our soul scorching, pride destroying, body claiming kiss.

Drew met me inside the shed and blocked the door with his body. “How are you doing today, Ash?”

“I’m just peachy, Drew. I’ve been trying to butcher a rooster for the last hour, and I can’t bring myself to cut the damn cock. How’re you?” I was hot and it was stuffy in the shed, so I pulled off my long-sleeved shirt and draped it over one of my shoulders; this left me in my tank top, jeans, and work boots.

He studied me, his eyes moving from the top of my head down to my stomach, likely taking in the sight of my wild hair, red cheeks, and sweatastic torso.

“You just browsing, or…?” I motioned to myself and lifted my eyebrows. I was hoping to convey impatience rather than the fact that his perusal was most definitely melting my butter.

“Are you feeling frustrated, Sugar?” He said these words softly, liltingly, like he was speaking intimately with someone, or like he was speaking to someone with whom he planned to be intimate. Drew reached behind him and pushed the door. It squeaked as it closed.

My eyes flickered to the door then back to him. He removed his hat and tossed it to the side, and that’s when I saw intent in his eyes—clear as frosting on a cake—and I was momentarily stunned.

Before I could get a handle on the situation or process how to respond to it, he crossed to me in four steps, backing me up against the cabinet in the shed, and captured my mouth with his. My long-sleeved T-shirt fell to the floor. I barely noticed.

I’d like to say that I pushed him away. I’d like to say I didn’t welcome his kisses and caresses. I’d like to say that I didn’t greedily untuck his shirt and greedily touch every inch of his solid stomach, chest, and back, and greedily rub against him. I’d also like to say that I didn’t greedily moan like a hussy when he reached one hand up my shirt, his fingers and mouth giving my breasts deliciously rough treatment.

I’d like to say all that; but if I did, I’d be a liar.

Because it happened.

His hands were hot and purposeful, and he used his body with delicious skill, rocking against me, causing me to gasp. His fingers deftly unbuttoned my jeans, slipped into my panties, parted me. I arched into him, clamoring to get closer, needing his touch and the friction of our shared embrace.

Flashes of him smiling, playing his guitar, quoting Emily Dickenson played through my mind; memories associated with wanting—wanting him, wanting this, wanting more. I wanted to be touched by him, possessed by him, claimed by him in a way that mirrored my desire and betrayed his need for me.

I opened my eyes and found him watching me, his silvery blue gaze piercing and savage. I saw his lack of self-control, the same feral madness that was overwhelming me.

Furthermore—and I know this will shock the hell out of people because it shocked the hell out of me—Drew brought me to the edge of euphoria and over its precarious precipice in less than sixty seconds. One minute I was fumbling to feel and taste him; then his mouth was on my breast and his hand was in my panties; then my head was thrown back and I was riding the rollercoaster, sky diving, and bungee jumping.

I was still so turned on, so hot for him, I couldn’t muster enough common sense to be embarrassed. As the tremors subsided—leaving my legs weak and wobbly, my body spent and humming—Drew wrapped his hand around the back of my head and brought my face to his chest. He nuzzled my cheek, his hot breath fell over my ear, and he bit my neck. Then, he licked it.

I held on to him so I wouldn’t fall on my ass. Speaking of my ass, Drew moved the lovely hand (that seconds ago had brought me to release) from the front of my panties to my bottom, and he squeezed me with a ragged sigh, like a moan escaping on an exhale.

“Fucking hell, I love your body,” he growled. “You are perfect.” He pulled me against him, alternately kissing and biting my jaw and collarbone.

My breathing hadn’t yet normalized and my heart was still beating a thunderous pace in my chest, but my mind was clearing, and it couldn’t believe what I’d just done, or rather, what we’d just done.

I exhaled roughly and blinked against the tears that were gathering in my eyes. Drew stilled, his mouth pressed against my shoulder. He must’ve sensed that I was crying or was about to cry, because he moved his hands to my upper arms and held me just far enough away to inspect my face.

“No, no, no….” he said in a rush, then he leaned forward and placed gentle kisses on my eyes. “No, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m a bad person,” I said, though it wasn’t precisely what I meant. If my brain had been functioning properly, I would have said something like, What in tarnation is wrong with me that I can’t stop thinking about you when my mother is dying and my evil father is about to show up and make all of us even more miserable, and you’re going to bear the brunt of his awfulness, and yet never far from my perpetual melancholy is the hope that you’ll find some way to take me in your arms, read me your poetry, rile me up with Nietzsche quotes, engage me in a battle of wits, and make me feel good.

“No, Ash. You’re not a bad person.”

“I am. I’m a horndog. I just got off in the shed at three o’clock on a Friday like a farm hussy, or a…a tool shed hussy.”

He chuckled and wrapped me in his arms, brought me against his delightful chest.

“No, Sugar. You are not; you aren’t any of those things. You are loveliness personified; you are grace and fascination. I think of you and I stop breathing. I worry that any movement will steal the image of you from my mind’s eye. But the memory is a pale, hollow specter to luminous reality. Because when I see you, when I touch you-”

“Oh my God, you have got to stop talking!” I grabbed his face with both my hands and brought his mouth to mine. If I hadn’t, I might have spontaneously exploded.

When I was sure he wouldn’t extract himself and continue torturing me with his prose, I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my tiptoes, relaxing into the delectable sensations caused by another perfect kiss.

Oxygen became a concern, and I was getting worked up again, so I pulled away, lowering my forehead to his shoulder and breathing heavy.

“I like how you shut me up.” Drew was also breathing heavily. He tried to run his fingers through my hair but failed. It was just too tangled from my fight with the straw pile.

“I like shutting you up.”

My admission made him laugh and he kissed my forehead and cheek. We stood together embracing in the shed for several short, quiet moments until our breathing evened and our hearts slowed.

I gnawed on my bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth, my mind occupied by the fact that I was standing in my momma’s shed with a man that I craved, trusted, but didn’t really know anything about. And he’d just brought me to orgasm in sixty seconds.

If there was ever a man I should get to know better, this man was him.

The walk back to the house wasn’t weird, and that was what was weird about it…if that makes sense. Also weird, we took the long way—the really, really long way.

Drew put his arm around my shoulders and I wrapped mine around his waist. I stole his cowboy hat and plunked it on my head. It was too big, so I pushed it back and let it rest at a precarious angle.

“I found a joke for you.”

I glanced up at him. “Really? What is it?”

“Have you heard my Nietzsche joke?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, there isn’t one.”

I waited for a beat, confused. Then, I got it all at once and I rolled my eyes. “That’s a terrible joke.”

“Okay, how about this one.” He cleared his throat and tried to flatten his smile. “What did God say at Nietzsche’s funeral?”

“What?”

“Nietzsche is dead.”

This one made me laugh. I closed my eyes and shook my head, allowing Drew to guide our steps. “That one is hilarious. Good job.”

We walked a ways in companionable silence, and I allowed myself to enjoy the comfort of his arm on my shoulders, being tucked into his side like I fit there; like a space had been made just for me. The late afternoon sun was at our back, and the first real autumn chill danced over my skin, making my shoulders shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asked, looking down at me.

“No. Not really. It feels good.”

Drew pulled his hat from my head and released my waist, instead holding my hand and tugging me toward a felled tree in the midst of wildflowers. Most of the blooms were gone as summer was giving way to cooler weather, but their stems came to our knees like tall grass.

“Come, sit.” He instructed, forgoing the tree trunk in favor of sitting on the ground amongst the flowers.

I plopped down next to him, and we sat in companionable silence for a while, absorbing the general splendor of the field. It was untouched, unlike the area around the house. My brothers and their hobbies and messiness had cluttered the acre or so nearby the house, but the rest of the fifteen acres were woods, fields, and wilderness.

The trees in Green Valley were still green, but the trees on the mountains were already changing color. Red, orange, and yellow-carpeted misty mountains reached to the blue sky. With the coronation of vivid fall colors, the mountains announced the change in seasons.

I felt Drew’s gaze on me, so I turned to face him, my expression open and questioning. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just stared.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Yes. Obviously you’re looking at me, but why? Do I have food in my teeth? Lettuce in my hair?”

“Nope.”

“So, you’re just, what? Just looking at me?”

“Yes.”

I wrinkled my nose and wagged a finger at him. “There is something wrong with you…in the head. You’re odd.”

“Ash, there is nothing odd about me looking at you.”

“Keep your eyeballs to yourself.”

His mouth pulled to the side as he openly admired my face, and then he recited, “‘There is an innocence in admiration: it occurs in one who has not yet realized that they might one day be admired.’” He repeated this oft quoted Nietzsche-ism liltingly, almost coyly.

I rolled my eyes. If ever a Nietzsche quote had been misused, this was the time.

“Puh-lease. If you haven’t figured out by now that ninety-nine percent of females in eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina admire you coming and going, then you’re an idiot. And I know you’re not an idiot.”

“You misunderstand.” His stony face cracked with a smile. “I don’t care about ninety-nine percent of females, Ash. I was referring to just one.”

I watched him, studied him, inspected him; and Drew watched me right back. My stomach twisted, and my chest was heavy with a growing disquiet.

I was feeling more than I should.

Drew, holding my gaze, tugged on my hand and lowered himself to the earth and me with him. He then spent a few seconds positioning us so that I was tucked into his side, his arm around me, my cheek on his chest.

I lay still for a full minute, staring forward with wide eyes, confused as to what was going on.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re all stiff.”

I lifted my head and looked at him, searching his face for clues; it gave me no hints. If anything, his expression made me more muddled. This was primarily because his eyes had gone all soft and were caressing my face. Furthermore, he’d threaded his fingers into my hair and was rubbing it with his fingertips like it was silk and he was enjoying the texture.

“What’s going on?” I blurted, my face and voice betraying a hint of panic, I’m sure. “What are we doing?”

“Lying here.” The side of his mouth hitched.

“But why? What did I miss?”

“I don’t think you miss much.”

“But I missed something. I definitely missed something….” I looked up and down the length of him. “I missed something big.”

His hand was still in my hair, his fingers moving in and out of the thick curtain and softly brushing my curls to one side then the other. My body began to relax, because what he was doing felt good.

“Drew….” I sighed his name, but when I heard the sound of it—what I sounded like saying it, like it was an invitation—I shook myself and refocused. “We’re laying in a field of wildflowers.”

“What do you have against wildflowers?”

“Nothing, except…we don’t even really know each other.”

“I know you.”

I tsked. “Well, I don’t know you.”

“What do you want to know?” He asked this softly, his cherishing eyes trailing a path from my forehead to my neck, shoulders, arms, stomach, then back up in an equivalent unhurried study.

I paused at that, because the answer to that question was so much. There was so much I wanted to know.

My mouth opened and closed and I blinked at him. I officially had a blinking problem. “I…I…I guess I’d like to know how you met my mom, how you met my family, where you come from.” I knew Momma’s point of view, but I was curious about Drew’s perspective. I also wanted to know how his sister knew my father.

He nodded, but didn’t stop playing with my hair or giving me his distracting, reverential looks. “My sister committed suicide after your father pretended to marry her when he was already married to your mother.”

My mouth?

The one that was already open?

Yeah, that one.

It dropped.

My eyes also blinked in rapid succession—big surprise!—and I shook my head, managing to say only, “Oh my God.”

I couldn’t believe that he just…said it. He said it like he was telling me about his first grade science project. I felt like a bomb had gone off. My ears were ringing.

But he continued like he hadn’t just said something completely life altering. “My sister basically raised me after my mother died; she died shortly after I was born. My sister, Christine, was fifteen years older, and she had a lot of mental health issues.” Drew shrugged, his eyes shifting to a passing cloud. “She was manic depressive.”

“Oh my God. Drew….” I placed my hand on his cheek and turned his face back to mine. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I couldn’t help myself; I shimmied up his body and gave him a quick kiss.

He swallowed, and his features hardened as if he’d willed them to. Yet, when he spoke, his tone was gentle, verging on indulgent. “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“My father is a bastard.”

“Yeah.” Drew nodded. “So is my father. Your dad and mine have a lot in common.”

I gave him a sad frown. “Is your dad a polygamist?”

“No. But he’s a US senator, and he seduces other men’s fiancées.”

The first part I remembered Roscoe telling me weeks ago.

“Other men’s fiancées?”

“Yep. Like mine for example. But, to be fair, she wanted to be seduced.”

Again, it was like a bomb had gone off. My breath left me on a whoosh and we stared at each other.

Well…isn’t that like shit on a shoe at a wedding.

I glanced at his lips then kissed him again. This time I made sure that the kiss conveyed how much I’d been thinking about him—and his kisses—over the last several days.

He responded immediately and we kissed for several minutes. When things started to escalate, he gently pushed me away, holding my face in his hands.

Drew gazed into my eyes as though searching them—or me—for the answer to life’s great questions. I met his stare straight on, held it, dared him to find one trace of pity or reluctance or regret.

I felt none of it.

Instead, I felt fierce loyalty and pride—in him for all he’d accomplished despite his family, and pride in my family for taking him in as one of their own.

I also might have been feeling desire. In fact, I was feeling desire. I’m not going to lie.

Whatever he found in me must’ve satisfied his implicit concerns, because Drew’s expression lost some of its severity and he sighed. “Ash.”

“Yes?”

“I wish we could….” He said this in a rush then stopped, licked his lips, and affixed his eyes to the sky. I sensed that he was holding himself back from speaking his mind. He seemed to be literally biting his tongue. Yes, literally. His tongue was between his teeth and he was biting it.

At length, looking pensive, Drew cleared his throat before starting again. “I looked up your father when I was in college, then I found out where he married your momma, and I discovered that she still lived here. I was curious about her. So when a game warden position opened up, I used the job interview as an opportunity to meet her.”

I propped my head up with one hand and laid the other on his chest, peering down at him. “And how’d that go?”

He smiled. “She was something else.” Then he frowned again. “In a lot of ways, she reminds me of Christine: soft hearted and sensitive, but also with a talent for sass.”

I chuckled and rested my chin on his chest. “She does have a talent for sass.”

“Sass has a genetic component. It’s passed down from mother to daughter.”

I rolled my eyes, “Whatever, Nietzsche.” Then I recounted one of my least favorite Nietzsche quotes, “‘There are no facts, only interpretations.’”

Drew reached his hand into my hair and began combing his fingers through it as he’d done a few moments ago, and I had an out-of-body experience.

I honestly didn’t know how I’d arrived at this place, this time, this moment. I was a person I didn’t recognize, but I had a faint sense of knowing from a long time ago. I was someone from my past when trust was freely given, and my overly idealistic mind jumped to romanticized conclusions even when faced with realistic expectations, good judgment, and logic.

I was lying in a field of wildflowers…wildflowers. I was half on top of fictionally handsome Drew. His hand was in my hair. We’d just been kissing. I trusted him because he’d proven himself, through his actions, to be trustworthy. And I was giving no thought to real life, sorrow, or the ramifications of willfully surrendering to this mountain of a man.

I had to shake myself out of my trance, because Drew was speaking again, and I wanted to hear.

“…At the library, so I came by the next week again. This time I brought some of my own poetry and, I don’t know why I did it, but I showed it to her. She read it, made some suggestions, then gave me a book of poetry by e. e. cummings.”

“Ah, I love e. e. cummings.” I sighed when I said this, because I really loved e. e. cummings. Whenever I needed a shot of romance or a dose of raw galvanized euphoria, I’d read e. e. cummings. He jumpstarted my heart. He made me feel like I held a light within myself that could scorch and smolder and rage like an inferno—or that showed me I at least had the potential to burn. I just needed someone who knew how to light the match.

Drew smiled at me then kissed my nose.

This should have struck me as strange, these careless intimate touches, but it didn’t. They didn’t. He didn’t.

Obviously, I was insane.

And because I was insane, I snuggled closer to him and asked, “Roscoe said you beat the crap out of Jethro one time.”

Drew nodded as he picked up my hand and laced his fingers through mine, studying my fingertips.

“Yeah. It was after I accepted the job. I’d been here for about two months. Your mother had me over for dinner a few times. Jethro knew who I was, had met me more than once....” He was quiet for a long time as he investigated my fingers, tested how we fit together, compared the sizes of our palms.

I was mesmerized by this little dance of our hands and lost track of what we were discussing. When Drew continued, it took me a few seconds to remember the topic. “I think he did it because it was the only way he knew how to get attention.”

“What? Who?”

He placed my hand over his heart then gave me a quizzical grin. “Jethro. My bike. I think he stole my bike in order to get my attention.”

“Ah, and you beat him up?”

“I didn’t know it was a call for attention at the time. I just thought he was an asshole stealing my bike.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at this. Poor Jethro. He’d had a hard time of it, being the oldest. He knew our father the best out of all of us, and being Darrell Winston’s firstborn wasn’t an enviable position.

“But then you became friends.”

“Yep. We did. Good friends.”

“Like brothers?”

Drew looked at me for a beat then glanced away as though pondering this concept. “I hope so, but I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any brothers.”

“What about other family? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

“My mom was an only child. And my father’s family…they’re all high society, rich oil people in Houston. They don’t much understand me, and I don’t care to understand them.”

“What do you mean? They must be proud of you. You’re a friggin PhD from Baylor for hootenanny’s sake.”

His smile was warm, but it barely met his eyes. “I mean, to them, my sister was an embarrassment because she was mentally ill. When she died, they milked it so that my father would win his election. Then, when he and my fiancée started carrying on, they wanted me to publically endorse their relationship, because my father was slipping in the polls.”

As he spoke his eyes hardened; obviously, the memory was distant but the feelings were fresh.

“My sister Christine was an embarrassment because she’d been born differently and needed help. My father marries my fiancée, and I’m a disappointment because I won’t publically endorse their marriage. The hypocrisy of society, what is considered appropriate behavior, is completely baffling to me.”

I twisted my mouth to the side and contemplated the man that was Drew. He recited the details of his broken past with a detachment that was heartbreaking because it didn’t sound at all forced. And he’d just thrown it all out there, all his baggage filled with dirty laundry. He didn’t ask me to wash it, or pick it up, or like it, or smell it.

He simply said, Here. Look at this shitty mess. This is me.

But he wasn’t a mess. His family was a mess. Drew was beautiful and poetic and raw and real.

I thought about reciprocating. I thought about telling him about my father, how he’d been drifting in and out of our lives, conning us all. About how he used to hit Momma, how she put up with it. I thought about telling him the story of the day she finally threw him out, when she came home and found twelve-year-old Billy black and blue, and called the cops. Roscoe was two at the time.

Instead, I was quiet, like a coward. I wasn’t ready to open up my baggage and share my dirty laundry.

“What are you thinking about?”

Drew’s softly spoken question pulled me from my thoughts. He was watching me closely, and I briefly wondered if I’d verbalized any of my internal musings. We were face to face now, one of my legs was thrown over his stomach, chest to chest, and I was leaning over him on my elbow.

I shrugged and gathered a deep breath. “I guess I was thinking that you’re pretty brave, just throwing everything out there about yourself, about your family and your past.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then what were you fixin’ to say earlier? You started to say something: I wish we could….”

Drew’s eyes seemed to burn brighter—intense and hot—at my mention of his unfinished statement.

At length he shook his head subtly and said, “I don’t want to say things you’re not ready to hear.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

His mouth hooked to the side, but his eyes were melancholy. “No, Sugar. I can’t. Please don’t ask, because I can’t think of anything more difficult than saying no to you.”

Of course this made me smile and feel warm from my chest to my toes. “Why do you suddenly like me so much, Drew?”

Drew touched his nose to mine and gifted me with a soft kiss before responding. “There’s nothing sudden about it.”