Free Evenfall by Liz Michalski

mistaking Neal, with his reddish blond hair and ruddy skin, for a native Italian makes Andie laugh out loud.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Nothing. It’s just, I remember you used to do this when I babysat. Ask me a million questions.”
    “Yeah, and you never answered any of them then, either.”
    “That’s because it’s none of your business.” She takes another swallow of the beer. “Now your turn. What are you doing these days?”
    “Not much.” He traces the end of the switch along the instep of her foot. “Mostly helping dad on the farm while I figure out what to do with my life.”
    “How’s that going?”
    “What, helping dad, or figuring out what to do?” The switch is tickling her calf now, and Andie swats it away. “It’s okay. I got a degree in agricultural engineering—did I mention that? Not a PhD or anything, but pretty good for a country boy.”
    “Congratulations,” Andie says.
    “Yeah, well, it doesn’t seem to be doing me much good. What I’d really like to do is have my own place, but that takes money. So I’ll probably wind up working for the aggie extension or something, at least for a few years.” He lays back, lacing his fingers behind his head. The leafy canopy overhead shifts and sways, casting shadows on the water below. It’s quiet for so long that Andie starts to think Cort has, impossibly, drifted off to sleep. She’s on the verge of dozing again herself when he speaks.
    “Was this place ever a working farm when you were here?”
    “Evenfall? It depends on what you consider working.” She struggles awake. “Uncle Frank worked it, sure. But he probably never made much money. He was a security guard over at the GE plant most of the time I was growing up.”
    “But my dad says it was always good land. I wonder why they stopped.”
    Andie shrugs. “Who knows? Between Clara’s sewing and the job at GE, they did all right. Maybe he just didn’t want to farm.”
    “Maybe,” Cort says. He sounds unconvinced.
    “You know, it’s kind of weird to think of him growing up here,” Andie says. “He was always so quiet that Clara and Gert ran the show. I forget that this was his home first.”
    “Yep,” Cort says. “Those strong-willed Murphy women will run you right over if they get the chance.”
    Andie rolls to her side and pretends to frown. “Who says that? Aunt Clara was as meek as they come.”
    “Maybe so,” he concedes. “But you take after Gert.”
    She pummels him until he sits up, laughing, and grabs her wrists. “You do,” he says. “Except she probably hits harder. Her hands are a lot bigger—yours are delicate little things.”
    It’s true. Andie’s always been secretly proud of her hands. “Another Murphy through and through, God help me,” Frank would say, shaking his head and looking at her. “Except for the hands—those came from your mother.”
    Now she holds them up to the light. Her fingers are long and slender, but strong, with smooth oval nails. Cort places his right palm against hers, dwarfing it.
    “You’ve got that Murphy jaw, though,” he says. He brings his hand up slowly and cups her face, tracing his thumb along her jaw. “And the eyes.”
    Andie’s urge to push Cort away is lessened by just how good his touch feels, like water on a plant that’s been neglected for weeks. She makes no move to stop him from leaning closer. She can feel the heat of his skin, the soft cotton of his shirt against her arm. Her face is growing flushed, and her breath is coming faster. She closes her eyes. There’s a touch of warmth against her lips, and then an ungodly crashing noise.
    Andie’s eyes pop open and she jerks away from Cort. A second later Nina comes tearing through the undergrowth. The dog dashes into the creek, paddles straight out, then turns and swims back. She claws her way up onto the bank and races in crazy circles around them, stopping just long enough to shake and spray them with water. Finally, she collapses panting at