Gone Country (Rough Riders #14)(18)




Jesus. He’d been so distracted with Sierra’s arrest and the custody hearing that he’d let a few things slide in the transition to running his business remotely. Things he’d deal with when he wasn’t so pissed off.


Full of restless energy, he laced up his running shoes and hopped on his treadmill. At least he’d put the anger to good use.


Gavin ran for an hour. Then he cooled down and lifted free weights. Last year his blood pressure had skyrocketed, forcing him to shed thirty pounds and take charge of his health. An exercise regimen, the right diet, the right medication and he felt like a new man. He even had a libido—something he’d never had much of until medical tests four months ago revealed low levels of testosterone.


At first he’d scoffed at taking testosterone supplements. He’d gotten by fine for years without them. But in thinking about how little interest he’d had in sex over the years, he decided he had nothing to lose.


And thinking about sex…his thoughts drifted to Rielle. The woman made him insanely hard. Just sitting beside her at breakfast, he had the urge to pull her onto his lap and kiss the hell out of her, while running his hands down her muscled arms. Then he’d hold her generous breasts before clamping his hand on her ass, bringing her pelvis against his so she’d know exactly how hard she made him. He was getting a woody right now just thinking about her.


Stop. Time for a cold shower.


Then maybe he’d wander down to the Garden of Ree and see what chores his too-tempting roomie had assigned herself today.


“Rielle?”


She pivoted in the dirt and faced Gavin. “Are you lost?”


“No. Just exploring.” He sighed dramatically. “I’m lonely.”


“Right. You’re bored.”


His low, throaty laugh was seductive. “That too. I followed the road that winds around the gardens and it ended abruptly.”


“It ends to deter explorers.”


“You are hilarious. So what are you ripping out, plowing up, or chopping down today?”


Rielle peeled off her gloves and set them on top of the fence before she left the fenced garden. “I’m about to check my fruit trees to see how close I am to harvest.”


“Then you what? Pick them, load them and haul them to a farmer’s market?”


“Some gets sold locally, but the bulk goes to restaurants across the country.”


“There’s a market for it outside of Wyoming?”


“A much bigger market.”


Gavin fell in step with her as she headed toward the grove of trees at the bottom of a small hill.


Rielle gestured to the orchard. “These are considered old fruit trees. They’d been here thirty years when my parents bought the place thirty years ago. So they’re sixty-year-old trees that’ve never been treated with pesticide. That’s incredibly rare.”


“So you just leave them be and let nature take her course?”


“I prune and water and use natural pest repellents. It usually works. But one year the trees were infested with some weird bug and had zero yield. I figured all the trees were done for because…”


“You couldn’t spray them.”


“Exactly. The next year, the trees came back stronger than ever, no bugs. I chalked it up to nature knowing what the trees needed better than I did.”


He walked alongside her. “I am a clueless urbanite when it comes to trees—with the exception of recognizing orange and grapefruit trees.”


“I think it would be cool to walk into your backyard and pick a grapefruit for breakfast.” She touched a branch of the closest tree. “This is a pine sweet apple.”


“Never heard of that variety.” His eyes lit up. “Ah, this is the tree that lays the golden apples.”


She laughed. “Yep. I have two of these. Next in line are mountain pear trees, again a rarity. These two are the fussiest of all the trees; I never count on any kind of yield.”



“But when it does bear fruit?”


“I get five bucks apiece for them. They’re so tiny, yet have such robust flavor. One chef in Chicago has a standing order to buy the entire crop. He’s anxiously awaiting shipment because it’s been two years since these suckers have bloomed.”


Gavin whistled.


“The next two trees are golden apricot. I sell the fruit to locals or find some use for it in my own cooking and canning. After those are the plum trees. The variety is sweet water pink, another rarity. The skin is such a deep purple it’s almost black, but the flesh is a very pale pink. The fruit doesn’t get big, and it tastes like a cross between a blueberry and a strawberry.”


“What’s the going rate for a sweet water pink plum?”


“Six bucks apiece.”


“Do you sell them around here?”


She shook her head. “Wyomingites won’t spend that on a beer, let alone on a tiny piece of fruit. There’s a Japanese fusion restaurant in San Francisco that takes the whole lot every year. My understanding is the chef slices a single fruit and plates it with single curls of white, dark and milk chocolate and charges twenty-five bucks for it.”

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