Because in four days, he'd ride away from here and back to his empty house and his ledgers and his safe, solitary life. Kelly would have her land, he'd have his money, and this strange week would become nothing more than a memory. A detour from the path he'd chosen seven years ago. But as Bo drifted off to sleep, his last conscious thought wasn't of ledgers or debts or protecting himself from pain.
It was of hazel eyes and work-worn hands and a voice singing in the darkness, brave despite the fear, refusing to surrender to the storm. And Bo realized that Kelly May Bishop had accomplished what he thought was impossible. She'd made him want something more than safety. She'd made him want to be brave enough to hope again.
The fourth morning dawned clear and golden, the kind of perfect late-summer day that made a man believe in providence. Bo woke with purpose coursing through his veins. Today they would begin the harvest. The wheat had reached optimal ripeness overnight, the kernels hard and dry, ready to be cut before the weather could turn or birds could devastate the crop.
He was sharpening the scythe when Kelly emerged from the house, already dressed for hard labor in an old pair of what must have been Samuel's trousers, cinched tight at the waist with rope, and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was braided and pinned close to her head, and she carried two canteens of water. "Ready?" she asked, handing him one of the canteens. "Ready," Bo confirmed.
He hefted the scythe, testing its weight and balance. "I'll start at the north end, work my way south in rows. You follow behind, gather the stalks into bundles, lay them out to dry. Sarah can help you. She's old enough for light work."
"Sarah's watching the younger ones today. I can manage the bundling myself." Bo looked at the vast field of wheat, easily four acres, and shook his head. "That's too much for one person, Kelly. You'll wear yourself out before we're halfway through." "Then I'll be worn out. Won't be the first time."
Kelly's jaw set in that stubborn line. "My children come first. I'm not putting Sarah to work like a field hand when she should be watching her siblings." They stood facing each other in the early morning light, two equally stubborn people locked in a battle of wills. Finally, Bo sighed.
"Fine. But we work in shifts. Twenty minutes cutting, five minutes rest. No arguments." "No arguments," Kelly agreed, though her tone suggested she'd work right through the rest periods if he wasn't watching.
They started at the north edge of the field as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning mist. Bo fell into the rhythm his father had taught him 40 years ago. Swing, step, swing, step. The scythe blade sang through the wheat stalks with a sound like whispered secrets. Behind him he could hear Kelly gathering the fallen wheat, her breathing steady despite the intensity of the labor.
The work was hard. Harder than Bo remembered. His muscles, accustomed to riding and occasional ranch work but not sustained manual labor, began to protest after the first hour. Blisters formed on his palms where the scythe handle rubbed.
Sweat soaked through his shirt and ran into his eyes. But he kept going, driven by something he couldn't quite name. Pride, maybe, or the need to prove he was still the man he'd been before wealth had softened him. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Kelly was watching, and he'd be damned if he'd show weakness in front of a woman half his size who'd been doing this kind of work for years.
By midday they'd cut nearly half an acre. Bo called a halt for lunch, and Kelly didn't argue this time. She simply collapsed in the shade of the cottonwood tree by the creek, breathing hard, her face flushed with exertion. "Here," Bo said, offering her his canteen.
"Drink. You're going to make yourself sick working in this heat." Kelly drank deeply, water spilling down her chin and throat. When she lowered the canteen, she was smiling despite her obvious exhaustion. "We're making good progress."