“I love it!” she said, throwing her arms around Woodman, the bracelet clutched carefully in her fisted hand around his neck.
His arms came around her, his chest pushing into hers like he was holding his breath. After a moment, he exhaled against her neck, and his warm, sweet breath kissed her skin like a promise. She felt her heart kick into a gallop, suddenly aware—all too aware—of Woodman’s maleness. His body, pressed into hers, didn’t have the flashy definition of his cousin’s, but it was solid and strong pushed flush against her small breasts.
“I wanted you to have somethin’ special,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear as the picker on top of the hill switched from a bluegrass lullaby to “Sweet Virginia.”
Her skin flushed with heat just as goose bumps popped up along her bare arms. She was cold and hot, and for the first time in her lifelong friendship with Woodman, she felt embarrassed, like a secret that he’d kept from her for years and years was suddenly out in the open. Confused and a little shaken, she stepped away from him, careful not to seek out his eyes and opening her fist to distract herself.
“What all’s on it?” she asked, her voice trembling a little, her body aching for more of something she couldn’t name.
His eyes, which seemed a darker green than ever before, glanced down at the bracelet, as he cleared his throat. “Uh, um, well, a little barn there . . . to remind you of the annual jump. And, uh, an apple. For Apple Valley. That there’s a little banjo, ’cause your pickin’ sure is gettin’ good. I thought that little silver horse looked like Heath. And then there’s . . . a, um . . .”
She looked more closely and noticed a small silver heart behind the horse. “A heart.”
Looking up at Woodman, she felt her own heart flutter with some indescribable emotion caught somewhere between hope and unease as she asked, “Yours or mine?”
He stared at her, his eyes as true and earnest as always, though his cheeks sported a deep pink now. Just this summer she’d noticed the blond hair on his face—the light mustache when he didn’t shave, the stubbly beard along his square jaw at the end of the day, when he was covered in dust from working with Klaus. He was growing up just as fast as Cain, but it hadn’t registered—she hadn’t really seen it—until right now.
“Mine,” he whispered, taking the bracelet from her palm and hooking it carefully around her wrist.
***
Two hours later, the party was winding down, and Ginger, who’d blown out her candles with Woodman beside her, stood alone at one of the many white-painted split rail fences on McHuid Farm, looking out over the bright green paddocks as she toyed with the bracelet around her wrist and remembered Woodman’s declaration.
Mine.
She screwed up her face and sighed. She didn’t like it that Woodman, who was her friend—her most beloved friend in all the world—had made her feel such confusing things this afternoon. She didn’t like it that her cheeks had gotten so hot while they’d hugged. She didn’t like it that she was suddenly so aware of the fact that he was growing into a man. Their mothers had practically planned a union between them since Ginger was born, but Ginger didn’t see Woodman like that. He was the big brother she’d never had, her most treasured friend, a safe place when her feelings about Cain felt so confusing.
Turning away from the fence, she ambled slowly back up to the main house, relieved to see her grandmother sitting alone on the front porch swing of her tiny cottage, located a stone’s throw from McHuid Manor.
“Gran!” she shouted, quickening her pace. She’d barely seen her grandmother—her father’s mother—all day, and, after Woodman, Gran was her very closest friend.
Kelleyanne McHuid had moved into the in-law cottage after Ginger’s parents were married, way before Ginger was born, which meant that she’d been a permanent fixture at McHuid’s throughout Ginger’s childhood. Though—she wrinkled her nose with worry—she didn’t know for how much longer. Recently, Ginger had heard her mother and father discussing Gran in hushed tones behind closed doors. Gran suffered from Parkinson’s, and Ginger’s mother seemed to feel that she needed “more care” than they could provide at home, while Ginger’s father refused to discuss putting his mother into a “damned home” yet. It worried Ginger near constantly to think of losing her Gran to the nursing home in town.
“Here’s the birthday girl!” said Gran, patting the seat cushion beside her with a trembling hand. Gran’s whole body trembled lately. More and more every day. Her eyes lowered to the bracelet around Ginger’s wrist, and she grinned. “Whatcha got there, doll baby?”
“Gift from Woodman,” said Ginger, feeling her cheeks flush.