Chapter 2: Lemonade and Landmines
The alarm was a single, quiet ping in Bucky’s ear, not the shrieking siren the system was capable of. Proximity sensor, southwest tree line, thirty yards out. Vehicle. Engine idle.
He was moving before Sol could set her knitting down. The paperback she’d been reading tumbled to the porch floor as he stepped in front of her, his body a solid wall between her and the direction of the threat. His hand didn’t go for the handgun on his hip; it went to the rifle leaning against the doorframe. He worked the bolt with a soft, oiled snick, his eyes never leaving the dense wall of pines.
“Stay on the porch. Behind me.” His own voice was flat, operational.
The old pickup emerged from the forest shade like a ghost ship, rolling slowly up the dirt track Bucky had carved. It was a battered Ford, probably older than its driver, a lean man with a face like seasoned leather who eased out from behind the wheel with the careful slowness of someone who knew about guns being pointed at him.
Bucky didn’t lower the rifle. He kept it angled down, but his finger was alongside the trigger guard, his stance wide and ready. Sol’s hand found the small of his back, a point of warmth and pressure. He absorbed it without relaxing.
The old man leaned against his truck door, squinting not at Bucky, but at the trees around the clearing. His gaze lingered on the discreet black domes of the motion sensors, the glint of a camera lens.
“Son,” the man called out, his voice a dry rasp. “I’ve seen military compounds less guarded.”
“Good for them,” Bucky said, his tone offering nothing.
“This is Thorne’s parcel. Been checking the lines for twenty years. Heard the building. Came to see who was dumb or brave enough to try and winter way out here.” The man—Thorne—finally looked at Bucky. Pale blue eyes, sharp as chips of ice. “Name’s Silas.”
Sol’s fingers pressed harder. It was her signal. A request. Bucky exhaled, a controlled release of breath, and lowered the rifle muzzle a fraction. Not a welcome, but a temporary stand-down.
“We’re not dumb,” Sol said, stepping slightly out from behind Bucky, her hand still on him. She didn’t move far. “And the brave part is still up for debate. I’m Sol. This is James.”
Silas’s eyes tracked to her, and for the first time, his expression shifted. It wasn’t a smile, but the severe lines around his mouth softened a degree as he took in her rounded belly, prominent even under the loose linen tunic. His gaze flicked back to Bucky’s hyper-vigilant stance, the rifle, the paranoid web of security.
“Well,” Silas grunted, a sound of dry comprehension. “Guess that explains the paranoia.”
“Explains the preparedness,” Bucky corrected, his voice low.
“Same thing, from different angles.” Silas pushed off the truck. “You got something to drink? Drove a ways.”
It was a test. An invitation onto their ground. Bucky’s jaw tightened. Sol squeezed his back. “I made lemonade. Fresh. Have a seat.” She gestured to the rough-hewn bench Bucky had built next to the porch steps.
Bucky watched, every muscle coiled, as Silas ambled over and sat with a soft groan. He set the rifle against the porch rail, within instant reach, and stayed standing. A sentry. Sol disappeared inside, returning a moment later with a tray holding a pitcher of pale yellow liquid and three mason jars. The ice cubes cracked and popped.
She poured, the domestic act surreal in the tension-filled clearing. She handed a jar to Silas, then one to Bucky. He took it, his eyes never leaving their guest.
Silas took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You built this place yourself.”
It wasn’t a question. Bucky gave a single, short nod.
“Good joinery on the corners. Proper overhangs for the snow load. You know what you’re doing with your hands.” Silas appraised the cabin again. “The security’s overkill, but the craftsmanship isn’t. Interesting mix.”
“What do you want, Mr. Thorne?” Bucky asked, cutting through the small-talk.
“Silas. And I told you. Checking lines. Meeting neighbors.” He took another sip. “Also, you’re between my cabin and town. Makes you a landmark. If your sensors pick up someone heading east through here that ain’t me, I’d appreciate a heads-up. I return the favor. Simple.”
A neighborhood watch. In a neighborhood with one house per five square miles. Bucky processed it. A transactional offer. An exchange of intelligence. That, he understood.
“Fair,” Bucky said finally.
“Your woman makes good lemonade.”
“She does,” Bucky said, and there was the faintest trace of something in his voice. Pride.
Sol settled on the porch steps, close to Bucky’s legs. “We’re hoping to be more than just a landmark. Trying to make a home.”
Silas looked at her, then at the handful of young lavender starts wilting in their nursery pots beside the garden. “Home’s a good thing to make. Harder than a cabin, though.” He finished his drink and stood, setting the jar on the bench. “Storm’s coming in late tonight. Not a bad one, but the wind’ll be sharp. You’ll want to batten down that chicken coop you’re planning.”
Sol blinked. “How did you know about the chickens?”
A ghost of a smirk touched Silas’s lips. “Saw the lumber for the run behind your shed. And you’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The look of someone who wants to care for things.” He nodded to them both, a gesture that was almost respectful. “I’ll be off. You need a hand with anything real—not this paranoid electronic nonsense—I’m two ridges over. Radio frequency I monitor is on a card in my glovebox. Leave it if you don’t want it.”
He moved back to his truck, the engine coughing to life. Bucky watched until the taillights were swallowed by the trees. The ping in his ear signaled the vehicle clearing the last sensor.
Silence rushed back in, deeper now.
Sol let out a long breath she’d been holding. “He’s… intense.”
“He’s old school.” Bucky finally took a drink of the lemonade. It was perfectly tart, sweetened with the local honey she’d found. “He’s right about the storm.”
“Are we going to use the radio frequency?”
Bucky stared at the space where the truck had been. “Maybe. As a last resort.”
That night, the wind did pick up, whistling through the canyon and making the cabin timbers creak. Bucky did a final perimeter check, his silhouette a dark blot against the window as lightning flashed far away. When he came to bed, his skin was cool from the night air.
He slipped under the covers, curling his big body around hers, his front to her back. His hand slid under her sleep shirt, palm settling on the tight curve of her stomach. “He didn’t stop kicking all evening,” she murmured, pressing into his warmth.
“Good.” Bucky’s nose nuzzled the kinky curls at her nape. “Means he’s strong. Means he’s okay.”
The wind howled. Sol shivered, and Bucky pulled the quilts higher, tucking them around her shoulders.
She kissed him, a soft press of lips that quickly deepened into something hungrier, fueled by the storm outside and the tempest of feeling within. He responded instantly, rolling her onto her back, his weight a comforting press. His mouth was hot, demanding.
“Need you,” he growled against her lips, his hand already pushing her shirt up. “Always need you.”
“Then take me.” It was a whisper, a permission, a command.
He made love to her with a fervent, focused intensity that left her breathless. He worshipped her changing body with his mouth and hands, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip. He entered her slowly, inch by devastating inch, until she was so full she could only gasp his name.
The pace he set was deep and relentless, each thrust a claim, a promise, an anchor in the howling night. His words were a rough, steady stream in her ear. “My girl. My strong, perfect girl. Taking me so deep. Making a home for me right here.” His hand slid between them, fingers finding her clit, coaxing a rhythm that made her vision whiten at the edges.
She came with a broken cry, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. He followed with a choked-off groan, driving into her one last, shuddering time, spilling hot and deep inside her. He collapsed, careful of his weight, his face buried in her neck as they both rode out the aftershocks.
After, he didn’t pull away. He stayed embedded within her, softening, his arms locked around her. The storm rattled the windowpanes.
“The scan is Thursday,” he murmured into her skin, his voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction.
Her heart, which had been floating, thudded back to earth. “I know.”
“I’ll be there. Every second.”
“I know that, too.”
He finally shifted, pulling out, but immediately gathered her back against him. The residual ache between her legs was a pleasant reminder of his possession. The wind shrieked like a thing in pain.
It wasn’t arrogance. It was a fact. As Sol drifted off, lulled by his steady breath and the fading storm, she held that fact close. Their home wasn’t just hidden. It was watched. By him. And now, perhaps, by one old man who recognized the look of people building something worth guarding.