For now, she was storing the churned butter in a shallow pan of cold river water in the cellar. By the time they went to town by the week’s end, she’d have not only her jam to sell, but a fair amount of butter as well. It was a heap of work, but like always, she didn’t shy away from it.

As she entered the barn, her footsteps crunched in the hay with the confidence of someone who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. He liked that about her. If only she wanted him . . .

He waited until she reached the cow before he let his shovel bang against the stall and alert her that she wasn’t alone. He stepped into the open and waited for her to adjust to the dim barn interior.

As her eyes locked on him and rounded, he guessed she’d thought he’d gone out to check on the herd, likely hadn’t expected to find him there. When she took a quick step back, he held out a hand. “Greta, hold on.”

She glanced at the double door.

“I’m sorry.” He had to get at the heart of what he wanted to say before she ran off. “Sorry for the other night and getting carried away with—well, you know . . .” He pointed his finger back and forth between them, hoping she’d catch his meaning.

She watched him, her eyes rounding further. “You’re sorry you kissed me?”

“Yep.” He breathed out a sigh, but it caught in his throat at the dismay that flashed across her pretty features. “I mean, nope. Nope, I ain’t sorry about the—” Again he waved his finger between them. “Ain’t never gonna be sorry for that.”

She placed the pails on the ground on either side of her and cocked her head. No doubt he sounded like a blathering idiot. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m mighty sorry for rushing you. I meant what I said on our wedding day—that I ain’t a brute and won’t be pushing you for anything you’re not ready for.” The words tumbled out awkwardly, and he shifted the shovel around, needing something to do with his hands.

After a moment, her shoulders sagged. “You don’t need to apologize, Wyatt. You’re not rushing or pushing me.”

His head snapped up. “I’m not?”

It was her turn to duck her head. “No. I’m not sorry about kissing you either.”

The heavy load he’d been carrying seemed to slip from his back. His chest felt suddenly lighter, as though he could breathe again.

She started twirling a lock of hair around one of her fingers. It was a nervous habit she had, one that was endearing.