As the last stragglers of the vegetable sale paid for their purchases, Hannah Grandbury, the farmer’s wife, packed up the remaining vegetables in cardboard boxes and carted them to the nearby shed. They would be taken back out again the next day for the afternoon sale.
Stuart had watched and listened to the farmer expound on his chores around the farm as he brushed two large brown horses that he kept in the stable a little ways away from the farmhouse and then hitched them up into a large wagon filled with hay. When he brought the ride around to the back of the farm house, the batch of people waiting for the hayride had finally arrived—a small group of mostly younger people in jeans, sweaters, and light jackets. The older people were similar to the patrons to Hannah Grandbury’s vegetable sale—hirsute, beer-bellied men, their loud wives, and grubby kids.
When Stuart stepped out of the stable to watch the riders climb up on the wagon and take the choice seats near the front, just behind the driver, Mel walked out of the back door of the farm house with an impassive eye. He sauntered toward the photographer.
“I had a conversation with the girl,” she said without prompting. “She told me that she hoped her house would be featured in the article.”
He stood next to her waiting.
Her gaze seemed to be fixed in the distance, thinking. “Mad Dog appeared to have a rather active social life while he was here.”
“Seems somewhat odd, doesn’t it?” he finally remarked. “You wouldn’t think a social life would be possible in this out of the way place.”
Her gaze moved to him. “I think you’ll have to come up with some questions for the other guests at Townsend House. Particularly for a certain painter.”
“Huh. Really.”
“I’m sure Mad Dog would be curious about the viewpoint of visitors to the Harvest Festival as well as the natives.”
“Hm. Well it looks like the hay ride is mostly loaded up. There might be some room for us at the end.”
Sure enough, the farmer in the driver’s seat and holding the reins to the horses was calling out to them to get on the hay ride. The rest of the riders were a noisy bunch, but they ignored the journalists who were slowly making their way to the wagon. Mel managed to scramble up to the end of the wagon by using a whell spoke as a foot hold. With envy, she watched Stuart climb aboard with a seemingly practices ease. He’s taller, that’s why it’s easier for him, she rationalized.
There was a loud command from the farmer to the horses and the wagon jerked forward. Mel sat at the very edge with her legs dangling down and one of her arms loped to the side of the wagon to keep herself from falling off. Stuart sat beside her, his thigh touching hers. Most of the hay was piled behind them, but as the wagon jerked on rocks in the trail, bits of hay flew out like a scattering of gold dust. The two of them looked back as the farm house retreated from view.
The trail that the hay ride was going through wound into a surrounding forest which in the darkening afternoon light and the mauve sky, looked like a formless black shape against the landscape. Only a lamp at the head of the wagon and one at the end lit the bit of trail that they were on. The air was a little cool and Mel shivered. Stuart responded to her movement by scooting even closer to her, his arm touching her arm. His fingers found hers and twined among them lightly. Mel suddenly found herself feeling a lot warmer and perhaps a little out of breath.
“I suppose one could imagine that it was completely dark,” said Stuart. “We could tell scary stories.”
“For what?” she replied. “So you could frighten me silly?”
“But then I could comfort you.”
“Oh right,” she replied in a sarcastic tone. “One of the oldest plays in the book.” But she didn’t move away from him.
“But if it works…”
“You don’t need to use superficial tricks for anything to work for you.”
He chuckled. “Oh Mel, you make things to be too easy. Wouldn’t it be more fun to play hard to get?”
“That would only waste more time.”
“Hm. I can’t argue with that kind of reasoning.”
She moved her fingers against his, purposefully. He shuddered and she didn’t think it was from the chill in the air. “I’ve never been on a hay ride before. It seems so rustic.”
“I’ve been on a hay ride once, when I was a boy. My parents had taken me to the country for a summer vacation. It was mostly me and a bunch of other kids and we did tell scary stories to each other and play games like telephone.”
“Telephone?”
“You’ve never played telephone?” he said surprised. “It’s a game where the first person makes up a message and whispers it to the next person. This person tells it to the next, and so on, all the way to the last person. The last person says out loud what he has heard and everyone has a good laugh because the message inevitably mutates into something completely different through the chain of people.”
“Ah. I’ve never heard of the game before. Do you think that has deprived my childhood?”
“Oh definitely,” he grinned. “But I think you still turned out okay.”
“Great, thanks for your vote of confidence.”
At that moment, the farmer uttered a “Whoa!” as the horses turned around a bend and pulled the hay wagon over a large pot hole in the middle of the road. The wagon bumped and jostled making the riders squeal and laugh. Despite hanging on to the side of the wagon, Mel fell over, straight into Stuart’s lap. The reporter chuckled and his free hand wandered over to tangle in her hair. Feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks, she suddenly sat up and scowled at him.
“Don’t get any funny ideas, mister.”
“I always have funny ideas.”
“You could have pretended to at least not have any,” she replied. His hand that had been in her hair withdrew back to his side. His other hand, though, was still touching her hand. She moved her fingers down toward his wrist and began massaging in slow, lazy circles.
Stuart bent his head so that his mouth was near her ear. His breath electrified her skin. “Careful what you do with those fingers of yours,” he said lowly.
“I’m not doing anything,” Mel said in faux innocence.
He turned his head so that his nose was buried in her locks. She heard him breathing.
“What are you doing?”
“Sniffing your hair.”
Amusement laced her voice. “Pervert.”
The other riders on the wagon talked and laughed, but to Mel, their voices were simply low murmurs in the background that she paid little attention to. Her focus was on the man beside her, pressed to her side, hand in hers. His face was in her hair, and he was simply breathing. Was it even possible to be even more aware, she thought dimly. She slowly blinked, trying to clear her head but she struggled. She tried to take in a deep breath and the cool air stung her nose. The darkness in the path suddenly shifted and she bolted upright, her shoulder accidentally hitting Stuart in the chin.
“Ow!”
“Oh, sorry, but I think I saw something…”
He shoved his glasses back in place on his nose and peered into the darkening path. “I hope this is good.”
“Look, there it is.”
A shadowy darkness drifted over the path that was not illuminated by the lantern hanging at the end of the wagon. It laid low on the ground like a crouching animal. Mel had the feeling that the thing was watching them, waiting. Was it waiting to pounce? Stuart tensed beside her, finally seeing what she was seeing. The wagon continued to rumble down the path through the forest. The rest of the riders, oblivious, continued their conversations. And as the wagon moved, the shadow was left behind to blend into the darkness of the forest.
“Do you think the woods have wolves?” asked Mel.
Stuart leaned back on the side of the wagon. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He casually draped an arm over her shoulders. “We wouldn’t want you to fall out of the wagon now, would we?”
“Somehow, I don’t think that is for securing me to the wagon,” she replied, but she made no move to shake his arm off her. “Besides, this isn’t some date.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I would say otherwise. I would even go so far as to say that all our lunch appointments were really dates, but I’m interested in what you would call a date.”
She turned her head slightly so he could not see her smiling. “I always thought dates involved kissing.”
