Page 36 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

“This way,” he said.

I followed behind him as we went from the barn, across the dirt road, and past the staff building, through a thick collection of pine trees until we got to a bridge.

The bridge was wooden and old, and wide enough to span Snow Creek at a narrow point in the river. When we got to the other side, the rushing water a soothing sound, the scent of pine stronger than before, I saw a series of rooftops beyond the trees.

I was about to head that way, thinking it was our destination. He must have sensed this, because his fingers curled around my wrist, then slid down to link our fingers together. The calluses on his fingers and his palm scratched. His hand was warm and strong. I went the direction he was pulling me immediately.

“There’s a bend with some cottonwoods,” he whispered, as if someone might hear us. “It’s mighty pretty.”

Cottonwoods grew everywhere on the ranch, but he made it sound special, his voice soft, like he was reciting poetry to me.

I was being courted, sure as anything. Courted cowboy-style.

“That sounds nice.” I said, an understatement as to how I really felt.

My breath was short in my throat as we made our way along the edge of the river. There wasn’t really a path, more like a wide space made by feet walking here, perhaps since long ago. Perhaps for centuries. Tall wild grasses tapped against gray stones and, as I walked, I could hear the crunch of last year’s dried pine needles beneath my boots.

It wasn’t just a stroll, no. It was a good ten minutes of his long legs working and me trying to keep up. He had to let go of my hand when the way grew narrow and rose into a short scramble between rain-speckled boulders.

We were out of the trees and along an open bank, and there, just up ahead on a flat bit of land, was a bend in the river, lined with gravel that slowed it down. By the banks, a cluster of cottonwoods grew, heart-shaped leaves shiny and fluttering in the breeze. I could feel the rain like a mist and turned my face up to look at the wool-gray clouds puffing and shifting.

Jake paused and held out his hand for me to take.

If the ranch felt like another world, this, this moment when I took Jake’s hand and let him tug me onward, felt like a fairy tale. We walked to the trees and stopped beneath them.

Right next to the trunk of the largest cottonwood tree in the group, Jake let go of my hand and turned to me, head dipped down as he looked directly into my eyes. “Can you hear them?” he asked. “You can if you listen.”

I listened hard. Harder than I ever had in my life, in the hopes of hearing what he wanted me to.

It was faint. A short whistle. Or a chirp. I saw flutters that I thought were branches brushing against each other, but then a dark triangle swooped through the air before disappearing.

“It’s the bats,” I said, not hiding my wonder and delight. Not being city-sophisticated at all. Not at all. Instead reaching out for something I’d never known existed. A moment like this.

“Yes,” he said. Then he stepped closer and reached to touch my forehead. “Does your head ache at all?”

“No,” I said, though I wished at that moment that it did. So he’d be even more attentive. Step even closer.

“This’ll make it better,” he said. “At least, that’s what one of the foster mothers used to say.”

“Which one?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard rightly, that there’d been more than one.

“The nice one,” he said. Then he kissed my forehead, right near the cut, his hand cupping the back of my head, surrounding me with warmth and energy until I was floating.

He stepped back, and his fingers trailed from the back of my head. In his eyes was an earnest, solemn expression. Watchful. Waiting. “I might be too forward,” he said, husky and low.

In any other lifetime, I would have teased. Made a joke. Made light of the feelings inside me coming down like flint-headed arrows landing, pinning me to the earth. But I was, indeed, the focus of his attention. His pure attention. So the answer was no.

“No,” I said. I shook my head. I wanted his hand on the back of my head again. Wanted another kiss to my forehead.

Unable to speak, I could see he was waiting. For me. To say yes.

“Yes,” I said. I stepped forward, close enough for him to catch me and for me to catch him right back. A bat swept through the trees, just about skimming his dark hair, and he didn’t even move. “Yes, please.”

Then I received the gift I’d been hoping for. The smallest smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

And then he kissed me. Sweet and soft, his mouth plush and tender on mine.

He didn’t grab or push. He eased his way against me as though I was a flighty wild animal he needed to be careful around. He dipped his head, slow, slow.