Harvest His Heart Bonus Scene

I roll my eyes, trying not to smile, but it’s useless. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing the side of my throat like he can’t help himself. “You warm enough, Pepper?”

“I am now,” I whisper.

He hums, satisfied, and brushes a kiss to my forehead. “Good. Hate the thought of you cold.”

He crouches in front of the fire, adds another log, and the room flares to life—gold on wood, shadows moving like old memories. I sip my cider, watching the play of muscles in his back beneath that worn flannel.

“You’re staring,” he says without turning around.

“You’re showing off,” I shoot back.

“Maybe.” He rises, turns, and that smile of his softens. The kind that’s half wolf, half warmth. “You know, been thinking about something.”

“Dangerous habit for a cowboy,” I tease, but my heart starts to pound.

“Two weeks since the festival,” he says, leaning against the hearth. “Two weeks of you laughing in my kitchen, taking over my side of the bed, stealing all the good coffee.”

“You said you liked my kind of chaos.”

He nods. “Didn’t know how much ‘til I got it.”

Something in his tone changes—rough, steady, serious. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a small weathered leather pouch. My breath catches.

“Anson?”

He comes closer, every step slow, deliberate. “Bought this the week I met you,” he says quietly. “Didn’t even know your middle name yet. Hell, I barely knew your last. But I knew enough. Knew the way your laugh hit me. Knew the way I wanted to protect it.”

He kneels, big hand wrapping mine, thumb circling my wrist in lazy motions that incinerate. “You healed me without trying. Made this old house feel like a home. And I’ve been carrying this, waiting for the right day to ask.”

Tears sting before I can stop them. “Anson…”

“Lacey Worthington,” he says softly, voice breaking on the word. “Marry me. Be my wife. Stay here, build this life with me. I want the quiet mornings and the messy ones, the harvests and the storms, all of it with you.”

He opens the pouch, and inside is a simple gold ring—warm, hand-worked, a tiny apple blossom engraved on one side. My throat locks up.

“You had it made?” I whisper.

“Custom,” he admits. “Local smith. Told him to make it strong as the woman who’d wear it.”

I laugh through tears, half a sob, half joy. “It’s perfect.”

He slides it onto my finger, and it fits like it was meant to be there all along.

“Guess that makes it official,” he says, sweeping me into his arms and carrying me to the couch, where he settles me in his lap.

The kiss starts soft, reverent, but heat stirs beneath the tenderness. The kind that always finds us. His hands trace the familiar path down my spine, and I melt against him, heart thudding.

When we finally pull back, breath mingling, I rest my forehead against his. “I should’ve known you’d have this planned.”

“Wasn’t planning,” he says. “Just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the storm to clear.” His thumb drifts over my ring, glinting in the firelight. “For you to see what I already did.”

“That we were inevitable?” I tease.

“That I was never meant to weather a single damn thing without you,” he answers simply.

The fire pops, sending a spark into the air. I press a hand to his cheek, tracing the smile lines there, the proof of laughter that came after pain.

“I love you, Anson Baxter,” I whisper.

He grins against my mouth. “And I hope you’ll love being Mrs. Baxter soon.”

“Soon?”

“Could be sooner.”

I laugh, throwing my arms around his neck. “You rushing to the altar?”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, kissing me once more. “Just making sure it sticks.”

Outside, the rain eases into mist, moonlight breaking through clouds. The distant forest glows verdant in the afterglow, branches heavy and lush.

Anson tightens his arms around me. “You know, Pepper, reckon it’s time I add a new label to our apple butter.”

“Oh?”

He smirks, eyes dancing. “’Made With Extra Love … and One Wife’s Approval.’”

I laugh until tears spill from my eyes, and he catches me close, both of us shaking with it. Laughter and joy, and the sheer rightness of everything.

Later, when the fire burns low and the storm has truly passed, I rest my head on his shoulder, our joined hands gleaming faintly in the firelight.

The ring glows golden, the way the mountains did at sunset the first day I met him.

And a new habit takes hold. I don’t think about running or hiding or surviving.

Just staying, building a life and home with my forever cowboy.

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