53. Marnie

Dusty pulls into a dirt lane that skirts along a creek.

“Why don’t we irrigate this field?”

I ask, looking past Ed at the rolling fields.

“Don’t need to. It’s got the pivots.”

He points at the long metal sprinkler, linked metal arches, spanning the southern half of the field.

He pulls up to the well, a chugging beast, massive and loud. Climbing out of the truck, he crosses the well and starts fiddling with it. Dusty goes out every afternoon to ‘check on the wells’, but this is the first time I’ve accompanied him. I glance at Ed. “You have any idea what he’s doing?”

Ed chuffs, laying down with a groan. I idly scratch him behind the ear, letting my gaze span across the field. This field undulates more than others. I suppose that makes it less desirable than the pancake-flat fields closer to town, but to me, the contouring adds interest. Beauty.

The wind passes over the field and the leafy crops bend beneath its touch like ocean waves swelling and dipping.

With clouds sailing overhead, I can almost picture that they’re fluffy schooners sailing over deep green waves. An egret, long-necked and graceful, flies overhead, landing somewhere near the creek.

Dusty returns to the truck, leaning on Ed’s side. “You want to see my bees?”

“Excuse me, what?”

He laughs. “My bees.”

“Like… bee bees?”

“Yup. Bee bees.”

“You’re a beekeeper? This I have to see.”

Dusty opens the truck door. Ed pops his head up, not bothering to move. I crawl around him, taking Dusty’s hand as he helps me to the ground.

“You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No.”

I squint up at him. “Don’t you have special hats or some shit so we don’t get stung?”

He laughs. “No.”

We cross the dirt lane again. “Don’t you get stung?”

“Only if I piss them off.”

The creek curves away from the road, creating a small enclave. We stop about twenty feet back. Already, the bee traffic is picking up significantly. He points at the towers of white boxes near the creek.

I would never have pictured Dusty as a beekeeper, and yet, it kind of fits. He does his own thing. I glance up at him. “They make honey?”

He laughs. “They’re bees. So, yes.”

“And what do you do with it?”

He shrugs. “Pawn it off on people.”

“I bet I could bake with it.”

Already, my mind is skipping ahead, thinking of the cakes I could make with fresh, local honey. “The gluten-free crowd would go bonkers. What other secrets do you have up your sleeve?”

“Just lavender and some berry patches. You could use the raspberries, I bet.”

“I can use the lavender, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “For baking?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. I can make a honey lavender biscotti that’ll knock your socks off.”

“I’d be willing to take that bet. You want to go pick some?”

“Lavender? Can we?”

“You bet.”

We walk along the creek, following its meandering path. It’s created natural patches, too small and uneven to plow. But big enough to put to other use.

He undersold the lavender patch. It’s huge. Cheery stems of lavender shiver in the gentle breeze, painting the little mini field green and purple. I walk through, noticing how the bees are busy skipping from bloom to bloom.

He follows behind me, picking a stem to pull the buds off. “The lavender seems to really like the sandy soil.”

“Does the honey take on the lavender flavor?”

He glances back, watching bees flit back towards the hives. “Now that you mention it… it does taste more flowery than the stuff you get at the store.”

I kneel by the plants, carefully picking off a few buds to crush in my fingers. “I didn’t take you to be a bee man. Or a flower guy.”

“There’s more to me than meets the eye.”

His tone is glib, but his smile falters when he sees my serious expression.

Tipping my head back to look at him, I hold his gaze. “I know.”

I know that he’s sweet and sexy as hell.

Capable.

He can fix a roof or plow a field.

And, apparently, I can add innovative to the list. It makes sense. This is a man who isn’t afraid to put himself out there. To fail and make mistakes. But isn’t that when the good stuff happens? When you’re not afraid to try?

“Your Uncle Gus gave me a long leash. He didn’t mind the side hobbies so long as we got the important things done first. We even talked about going organic on the west eighty next year.”

“Really?”

“It’s not easy. And it looks ugly as hell for the first few years until the land adjusts, but yeah, we were going to try it.”

“I like that idea. What other plans did you have up your sleeves?”

He gestures at the bees with the lavender stem in his hands. “I have test plots all over the place. Pumpkins. Strawberries. Sugar beets. Trying to figure out what will flourish and what won’t.”

I stand, dusting off my knees. Recipes start flicking through my head. Pumpkin pie. Strawberry tarts. Red velvet cake made red and tender from beets instead of artificial color.

“I’m really impressed, Dusty. All this… I don’t know, it gets my imagination going.”

He smiles as I pick my way through the blooms to stand in front of him. He brushes my hair behind my ears, leaving the scent of lavender along my cheekbone. “You haven’t even seen the grapes yet.”

I tilt my head, grinning. “You’re starting a vineyard?”

He shrugs, reaching out to reel me in. “More of a dream than a reality, but yeah, we’ve got it started.”

I bite my lip, peering up at him. “Show me.”