Page 8 of The Land that Binds

A half hour later, when she deemed it safe, Alana stepped out the front door. The sun was already beating down on the vines, yet the leaves were still damp with early morning dew from the lake’s rising mist.

She walked slowly through the alleys between the vines, giving herself more time to closely inspect how they were doing. Vine management seemed to be healthy—the leaves were growing at the proper angle to capture sunlight and shade the grapes, while also giving the fruit room to breathe. But upon closer inspection, she realized none of them were pruned. Every vine boasted at least triple the number of grapes it should.

Her face twisted into a frown as she marched her way to the tool shed and threw it open. She grabbed a hand pruner, then stomped back up to the plot of Cabernet Franc. She knelt in the dirt and began dropping the smaller clusters that weren’t needed.

“It’s pointless,” a voice said above her. “You could let the vines go wild and the grapes would all grow the same.”

She ignored him. “That’s ludicrous.” She shuffled on her knees to the next vine and dropped another cluster. “A true winemaker knows how vital pruning is to the process.”

“I know how the process works.”

“Yeah?” She snipped, then shuffled again. “Explain it to me.”

He took a step forward, following her path. “Eliminating excess clusters on a vine means more sugar concentration in the grapes that are still growing, which results in a higher quality product.”

“So essentially you’re telling me you don’t want to make a high-quality product,” Alana jabbed.

“That’s not—” Leo hummed low and rubbed his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

She smirked and leaned back, holding a hand to her eyes so she could properly look up at him. His hair was still wet from the shower and he wore a long-sleeve today, the sleeves pushed up his tan forearms. “Then what did you mean?” she asked.

“I meant no matter what I do to manage the vines, the grapes will have the perfect balance of pH and Brix that I need to make that particular wine.” He scratched his head, his gaze sweeping down the slope across the vineyard. “It truly baffles me.”

“Huh.” Alana gave him her back, hiding a smirk. “I don’t know about that, but the vines still need tending to.”

“Because?”

She leaned back with an irritated sigh. She brushed a hand along the cordon where the shoots sprouted from. “Because they grow tired. We’re working with older vines that we want to survive for years to come. Even if you think they’re perfect”—she wiped at her mouth with her forearm to hide her smile—“they still need proper care. Plus, we don’t have the production facilities to handle triple the amount of grapes. Unless our winery has drastically changed in the last three years, I know we can’t make that much wine.”

“We could sell the grapes to bring in more profit.”

“Absolutely not,” she snapped. “Out of the question.”

“And why is that?”

Her irritation flared to a whole new height. “Because that is a vineyard rule,” she snarled. “If no one here has explained that to you yet, then let me be the first. It’s a no and always will be.”

His sigh was heavy and dramatic. She ignored it and shuffled again.

He followed. “What will you do with the excess?”

“Compost it.” She lifted a tiny green bunch hanging from the vine. “Or feed them to Sophie’s goats. Does she still have them?”

“Yes. And chickens.”

Alana grinned, snipping the bunch in her hand. “Our little farm girl.”

Leo dipped down and picked up one of the discarded bunches. “Wouldn’t these be too acidic for the goats? I usually compost them.”

“Nah, they love them. And the cheese they make is insane.”

His brow lifted. “Even more insane than what I’ve tasted?”

“Oh, definitely. It’s bright, tart, tangy. You’ll see.”

“Ah.” He scratched his head again. “Looking forward to it then.”

She squinted her eyes, regretting what she said and what it implied: that the winemaker would be sticking around long enough to try the cheese.