Chapter 3: Cheese Curd Emergencies
The first slice of dawn was cold and blue, cutting through the bedroom window. Bucky was already awake, had been for an hour, listening to the absolute silence of the pre-dawn forest and the soft, rhythmic breath of the woman beside him. He watched her sleep, her hand curled under her cheek, the slope of her belly a mountain range under the quilt. The fear was a cold stone in his gut, same as every morning. The scan. Today.
He slipped from the bed, the floorboards cool under his feet. He pulled on jeans, went barefoot and shirtless into the main room, stirring the embers in the woodstove back to life. The cabin filled with the scent of cedar smoke and the promise of warmth. He put the kettle on.
By the time the water whistled, he heard the soft rustle from the bedroom. Sol appeared in the doorway, wrapped in his flannel shirt, her hair a glorious sleep-tousled crown. She blinked, her eyes still soft with dreams, then they focused on him and the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
“You’re making noise,” she murmured, padding over. She pressed her face against his bare back, her arms circling his waist from behind. Her warmth seeped into his skin.
“I’m making coffee,” he corrected, his voice gravelly. He poured a cup for her, heavy with cream the way she liked it, and handed it over his shoulder.
She took it, didn’t move. “I’m scared.”
The admission, so simply stated, felt like a punch. He turned in her arms, cupping her face. Her cheeks were warm from sleep. “I know. Me too.” He didn’t offer platitudes. They were worthless. “Whatever it is, we handle it. Today, we just look.”
She nodded, her eyes searching his. Then a different hunger crossed her face, one that had nothing to do with fear. Her fingers traced the waistband of his jeans.
He didn’t hesitate. He took the coffee cup from her hand, set it on the counter, and walked her backwards to the large, worn sofa. He sat, pulling her onto his lap, her legs straddling him. The flannel shirt fell open. He palmed her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple, feeling it peak instantly under his touch. She rocked against the hard denim of his jeans, a soft moan escaping her.
“My good girl,” he breathed, his mouth at her ear. “Tell me what you need, baby girl.”
“You. Inside. Now.” Her words were hot puffs against his neck.
He unfastened his jeans, freeing himself, his hands guiding her hips. She sank down onto him with a deep, shuddering sigh, taking him all in one slow, glorious slide. He was so big, the stretch making her gasp. He held her there, fully impaled, his forehead against hers, letting her adjust. Letting them both feel the sheer rightness of it.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his hands firm on her ass. “You take all of me. Every time. So perfect.”
She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that made his vision haze. He let her set the pace, his own hips meeting her rises and falls with controlled thrusts. One hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit, circling in time with their joining. He watched her face—the flutter of her lashes, the part of her lips, the way her brow furrowed in pleasure.
“Look at me,” he commanded, soft but unwavering.
Her warm brown eyes locked on his. In them, he saw the fear, the love, the overwhelming trust. It undid him.
“You’re safe here,” he gritted out, his pace increasing. “You and him. Mine to protect. Mine to love. You hear me?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, her movements becoming frantic. “Bucky… please…”
He drove up into her, hard and deep, the sofa creaking beneath them. His fingers worked her faster. Her inner muscles clenched around him in a sudden, violent wave, and she cried out, her head falling back. The feel of her coming on him pushed him over the edge. He pulled her down hard onto him as he emptied himself deep inside her with a guttural groan, his seed pulsing into her warmth.
They stayed locked like that, breathing ragged, until the tremors subsided. He didn’t pull out. He just held her, his face buried in the curve of her neck, breathing her in.
Later, after a shared shower that was more about clinging than cleaning, they dressed. Sol in a soft, drapey dress. Bucky in his uniform of dark jeans, black henley, boots. He checked his sidearm out of habit, then secured it in the quick-access safe by the door. He wouldn’t bring it to town. Not today.
“The cheese curds,” Sol said suddenly, her hand on the door. Her voice was small. “I need cheese curds from the dairy counter. The fresh ones. Right now.”
He didn’t question it. If she needed cheese curds at eight in the morning before a potentially life-altering medical scan, she’d have them. “Okay.”
The drive to the one-street town was tense and quiet. Bucky’s eyes constantly scanned the road, the tree line, the mirror. Sol stared out the window, one hand resting on her stomach.
Mae’s Café & General Store was a low, long building with a sun-bleached porch. The bell above the door jingled as they entered. The warmth was a wall, rich with the smells of baking bread, fried onions, and coffee. A few old-timers hunched over mugs at the counter. They looked up, their stares not unfriendly, but assessing.
Bucky positioned himself slightly ahead of Sol, his body subtly angled to keep everyone in his sightline.
A woman emerged from the back, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Mae. She was maybe sixty, with a strong, capable frame and iron-grey hair coiled in a braid around her head. Her eyes, a clear, penetrating green, took them in. They lingered on Sol’s face, then her stomach, then flicked to Bucky’s protective stance.
A strange, fleeting expression—recognition, surprise, a sudden softening—passed over Mae’s features so fast Bucky almost missed it. Then it was gone, replaced by a neutral, welcoming calm.
“Help you folks?” Her voice was warm, with a low, gravelly texture.
“Cheese curds, please,” Sol said. “From the cooler in back. The fresh batch.”
Mae nodded. “Just came in this morning. You know where it is?”
Sol faltered. “I… I thought…”
“It’s fine. Go on back. Door’s open.” Mae’s gaze shifted to Bucky, who hadn’t moved. “She’s okay. No bogeymen in the walk-in, son.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. Sol touched his arm. “It’s okay.” She moved past the counter toward the rear of the store.
The moment she was out of earshot, Mae leaned against the counter, her eyes on Bucky. “You’re the one building out on Thorne’s ridge.”
“Yes.”
“He mentioned you. Said you were jumpy, but your corners were square.” She folded her arms. “Your wife have a name besides ‘cheese-curd emergency’?”
“Sol.”
Mae’s eyes changed again. Just a slight widening, a quick inhalation. She covered it by turning to grab a cloth and wipe the already-clean counter. “Pretty name. How far along?”
“Twenty weeks. Scan today.”
“Ah.” Mae stopped wiping. She looked at him, really looked. “That explains the look on your face. Like you’re waiting for a sniper.”
“Aren’t I?” The words were out before he could stop them.
Mae considered him. “Not in here. Not from me.” She sighed. “She’s gone for the pickles, too, hasn’t she? Pregnant women always know where I hide the good fermented dills.”
As if on cue, Sol reappeared, a paper bag in one hand, a giant, open jar of pickles in the other, a guilty look on her face. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“Next time just ask, city boy,” Mae said, her tone shifting to a gentle scold aimed at Bucky. “We look after pregnant women around here. It’s in the town charter, page one.” She reached out and, before Sol could react, pinched her cheek with a familiarity that made Bucky’s blood heat. “You eat those, honey. The baby wants what the baby wants.”
Sol blinked, a stunned smile touching her lips. “Thank you.”
Bucky pulled cash from his pocket, slapped it on the counter, more than enough. “For the curds and the pickles.”
Mae rang it up, handed him change. As he turned to go, her voice stopped him. “The clinic’s on Elm. Doc Brewer’s good people. He delivered half this town.” A pause. “He’s discreet.”
Bucky gave a tight nod. He guided Sol out, the bell jingling behind them. He didn’t breathe easily again until they were in the truck, the engine running.
“She pinched your cheek,” he said, staring straight ahead.
“I know.”
“Who does that?”
“Grandmothers,” Sol said softly, buckling her seatbelt. She was staring at the jar of pickles in her lap. “She seemed… familiar. In a way I can’t place.”
Bucky put the truck in gear. The fear was still there, the cold stone. But another layer had settled over it—the unsettling, porous feeling of being known, even just a little, by a world he was trying to keep at bay. Mae’s words echoed. We look after pregnant women around here.
It was a promise. Or a threat. He couldn’t decide which. He drove toward the clinic, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to rest on Sol’s thigh, needing the anchor of her warmth.