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Dartmouth, but it was pretty clear she was serious. He didn’t know if he could stand to be around when the guy came back. For that matter, he didn’t know if he could stand Calla brushing against him in the doorway of the kitchen anymore, or smiling at him over her coffee cup, her hair damp and fragrant from her morning shower.
    He was glad to be going. Being constantly turned on for the past fourteen days was getting to him.
    * * *
    Calla parked the stacker in the equipment yard next to the other two tractors, hopped lightly to the ground, and walked slowly through the shadowy alleyway the long stacks of bales made in the hay yard. It was a relief to get the first cutting up; and this year without the rain that could spoil it. She must be living right.
    She glanced up. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. Henry was walking toward the bunkhouse, his irrigating shovel over his shoulders, his wrists hooked loosely over the handle.
    She simply couldn’t help herself; she stopped for a minute and watched him walk. His head was down, as though he were concentrating on every step, and she could see where his sunburned neck slid powerfully down toward his ax-handle-broad shoulders. The man had some body, she thought, not for the first time. Not even for the first time that day.
    As if he’d read her thoughts, Henry halted his stride and looked over at her. Calla’s breath caught in her throat, though she couldn’t have said why.
    He walked across the narrow road, straddled the low fence and approached her slowly, his wrists still over the handle of his shovel. When he reached her, she smelled clean sweat and damp mud and could just glimpse the suggestion of the hair of his armpits at the stretch of his short sleeves. The sight quickened the pace of her heart for some reason, and she flared her nostrils to suck in the smell of him as soon as she dared again to breathe.
    “Hey,” she said, sounding just a little strangled.
    “Hey.”
    Calla jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Hay,” she said feebly. He didn’t even smile. Oh, smooth, Calla. She stared at him, unable to look away, though instinct told her now would be a good time to run.
    “Can I ask you a question?” Henry stretched a long, sinewy arm past her and leaned his shovel against the stack behind her head. Slowly, slowly, as though she might bolt at any sudden movement. Her eyes dipped shut as he neared—and she sniffed at him again—then popped back open.
    “Uh, okay.”
    “Are you going to marry Dartmouth?”
    “What?”
    If she didn’t stop smelling him like that, he was going to have to do something drastic, Henry thought. He took a step forward, backing her toward the stack. “Are you going to marry Dartmouth?” He pressed closer, then stopped. That was drastic enough for him. “It’s a simple question.”
    Calla stumbled backward until she could feel the heavy scratch of hay through her clothes. Henry’s voice was oddly thick and he was so close now she could see the tight cords in his throat.
    “Are you?” he whispered. Drastic, hell. This was deadly. His eyes drifted shut involuntarily. He sniffed at her now. “Are you?”
    “Who’s Dartmouth?” she managed to ask, before his mouth was on hers. He leaned slowly into her, pushing her against the haystack, crushing her in the most wonderful manner, and had his way.
    That’s all she could think as he kissed her. And kissed her again, pulling at her lips, plucking kisses from her. He’s having his way with me. Then he tipped his head to one side and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along her still-closed mouth. And she stopped thinking altogether.
    Her mouth opened to allow the tiniest moan to slip past.
    “Calla,” he murmured against her lips, and dove in.
    She made no effort to raise her arms and twine them around his neck, they came around him of their own accord, and she met the pressure of his body with an equal force. Henry groaned deep in his chest and braced his hands on the