He didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to be there for someone. But he was the only one who was here for Clara. The only one who was left. So that meant he had to step up.
He looked out the windshield, eyes fixed on the dirt road. “The good news is,” he said, speaking slowly, “that he’s doing something better than that right now, I’m sure. Because trust me, a guy like that gets ushered right into the good part of heaven.”
Clara laughed, the sound shaky. “You think so?”
He wanted to think so.
“Oh yeah,” Alex said. “God probably showed him where all the good fishing holes are. And he’s not driving around some barren desert breathing in dust and hoping today is not the day you get mortared. No. He’s not worried about that anymore.”
Alex fought to keep his throat from closing up, to keep a wall of emotion from crushing him beneath its weight. “I think the only thing he’d worry about is you,” he continued, his voice rough. “But I’m aiming to make sure he doesn’t have to.”
Silence settled in the cab of the tuck. Then Clara cleared her throat. “You think he’s fishing up there, huh?”
“You know he is. And he doesn’t have to lie about how big the fish is anymore. They’re all monsters.” The ridiculous image made him smile. And he felt gratified when he looked over and saw that Clara was smiling too.
They got out of the truck at the old pasture where the cows had been once upon a time. The fence had certainly seen better days, and even if it were in great shape, it wasn’t going to be enough for bison. They needed good, strong materials, and the older one was sagging and falling over. So that meant refencing the entire pasture.
But he was happy enough with that. It gave him a goal. Gave him something to work toward. Something to give Clara. Something to give back to Jason.
He gritted his teeth. He owed the man more than he could ever repay.
And he sure as hell didn’t deserve any of it.
When they got out of the truck, he tossed Clara a pair of wire cutters. “Okay, what we’re going to do is go down the fence and basically cut. Should be quick enough. We’ll get to the posts afterward.”
Clara nodded, and they set to work silently. She was a fast worker, and she was a hard worker, and as he’d observed earlier, she didn’t seem to want to show the need to stop as long as he was still going strong.
So they worked until his shoulders ached, until he was hungry enough that he couldn’t keep going.
“Hey, Clara,” he called. She was several links down the fence, working her way in his direction. “Why don’t you open up the truck? I have a cool chest in the back. We can tailgate.”
“What do you have in there?” She wrinkled her nose as she peered toward the cool chest, looking skeptical and vaguely mouseish.
“I brought sandwich fixings. Nothing is on the sandwich as of yet. You can choose.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Well, I brought roast beef since I noticed when you ate the stew you seemed to like beef.”
She frowned. “I don’t like it cold.”
He looked at her and tried to figure out if she was kidding. Judging by her expression, she wasn’t. “I also brought turkey.”
She smiled at that. “Well, I do like turkey lunchmeat.”
He stared at her. “You don’t make any sense, do you know that?”
She scowled at him, her pale face streaked with dirt, her cheeks bright pink. Her nose was a little sunburned, the upturned tip as pink as her cheeks. And then his gaze dropped to her lips. They were soft, full. At least, they looked like they would be soft. But he wondered if they’d stay soft if he leaned in to kiss them. Or if she’d firm them right up and try to bite him.
He would deserve the bite. Hell, he deserved it just for thinking about her like that. But the knowledge didn’t stop him from thinking it. Also, the idea of her biting him when he pressed his lips to hers didn’t cool him off like it should. No, his body found that every bit as intriguing as the idea of a kiss.
They made their way back to the truck and Clara hoisted herself up on the tailgate, opening the cool chest and rifling through the contents. She happily retrieved a Coke, popping the top while she continued to forage for sandwich toppings. She pulled out the bread, then grabbed the turkey. She took out the bottle of mustard and some pickles and nothing else. He found himself grimacing as he watched her assemble the sandwich and take her first bite. But then a smile spread over her face, and he couldn’t even judge her for her choice of lunch because he just felt accomplished at the fact that he’d given her something she actually wanted.
After that, he set out to make his own sandwich—with roast beef, since Clara had used all the turkey, which had originally been for him, dammit—and cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and mayonnaise.
Clara narrowed her eyes and looked at him, where he was standing. “Your sandwich looks gross,” she informed him.
“So does yours,” he said, walking over to the truck and lifting himself up next to her on the tailgate. He pulled a beer out of the chest and popped the top on the edge of the truck bed, and the two of them ate in relative silence, staring out at the work they had done for the day. At the discarded fencing, broad expanse of land and all the work they had ahead of them.
Clara popped the last bite of sandwich in her mouth and brushed crumbs off her lap. Then she lifted her hand, shading her eyes, and looked out toward the horizon. Up at the mountains.
“I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve been this deep into the property,” she said. “I’ve kind of gotten into my routine. Going to Grassroots, doing the small garden, checking on the bees. It keeps me close to the house.”
“Yeah?”
“I think it feels too lonely. I mean, realizing how big this place is, and I’m here all by myself. It just feels sad.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” he said.
At least not for now. But he left that part unsaid. Still, judging by the way she breathed in deep, by the way her shoulders sagged slightly, he could tell she had heard it somehow anyway. That she felt it.
He looked over at her, gazed at her profile, at the way her lips curved down, at that fine blond hair catching in the breeze.
As if sensing his perusal, she looked over at him. The breeze kicked up just then, and he caught her scent. Irish Spring and skin, nothing extraordinarily feminine. Just her.
His stomach tightened, and he found himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch her face, to see if her skin was as soft as he thought it might be.
Instead, he lifted his beer bottle to his lips and took a long, slow drag on it.
Clara looked away sharply, and he wondered if she had somehow sensed his thoughts again.
“We better get back to work,” she said, hopping down off the truck.
He nodded, setting the bottle down. “All right, boss, whatever you say.” And he smiled that easy smile because it was better than honesty at that moment.
As far as he was concerned, it was better than honesty almost always.