All Chapters of HIS BEAUTIFUL CAGE : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Zara’s POV By mid-afternoon, the curtain of soft mountain drizzle had lifted entirely, drawn up into the high atmosphere by a warm, lingering breeze that swept down the valley from the north. The gray overhang parted over the Ramapo ridge, revealing broad, brilliant bands of robin’s-egg blue. Bright, washing sunlight struck the soaked timber of the farmhouse, turning every hanging raindrop into a tiny, glittering lens of amber light. Down in the lower field, the long, dark furrows had absorbed the moisture like a sponge, leaving the turned earth rich, dark, and smelling faintly of sweet, crushed roots and warm stone. I stood near the eastern fence line carrying a heavy wicker basket woven from peeled willow shoots. Inside rested twenty young apple rootstocks—hardy Northern Spy and Honeycrisp whips that Gideon Miller had grafted and winter-stored in his root cellar up in the Hudson Valley. They were slender, re

Zara’s POV The heavy oak door of the farmhouse closed with a solid, deep-chested thud that cut off the rising mountain breeze, leaving only the crackle of hickory logs in the central stone fireplace and the soft, steady ticking of the long-case clock by the pantry wall. Inside, the room was thick with heat and the rich, mouth-watering scents of home—thyme-roasted venison, simmered root vegetables, and the crisp, yeasty crust of fresh sourdough loaves resting under a linen cloth on the long pine counter. Luciano didn't immediately put down his canvas vest or the leather tool wrap. He stood just inside the entry hall, his broad back against the heavy doorframe, watching me step out of my muddy work boots. His dark eyes were heavy, quiet, and completely fixed on my every movement with that unhurried, possessive intensity that had become as natural to our evenings as the sun dropping behind the Ramapo ridge. I unbuttoned my can

Zara’s POV The sun hit the crest of the Ramapo ridge at noon, spilling a thick, golden warmth across the lower pasture that burned away the last clinging patches of morning frost. From where I stood on the knoll behind the barn, the valley looked wider, cleaner, and more settled than it ever had in the three years since Luciano and I drove our first load of pine timbers up the gravel road from Suffern. The three acres of sweet dent corn had already pushed their first pale green blades through the rich, dark loam, standing in twenty straight, unbroken lines that caught the midday light like thin ribbons of silk. Along the eastern stone wall, every single one of the twenty Honeycrisp saplings had taken root; small, tightly furled green leaf buds were breaking open along the slender gray whips, promising a heavy canopy by the time the summer heat set in. I held a basket of woven willow on my hip, filled with hand-forged iron staples and

Zara’s POV The sun reached its zenith around noon, suspended like a heavy bronze medallion over the high crest of the Ramapos. The morning’s crispness gave way to a dense, radiant warmth that pulled the resin straight out of the cedar fence posts along the western perimeter. The air smelled intoxicatingly rich—a heavy, sweet mixture of hot wood pitch, damp clover, and the dark, mineral tang of the creek water rushing through the shale bed fifty yards below. I sat on a flat slab of mica-flecked granite near the third fence line, a heavy iron oilcan in one hand and a strip of thick flannel in the other. My dark hair was pinned up loosely at the crown of my head to keep it off my warm neck, and the sleeves of my white linen shirt were rolled past my elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine cedar sawdust. I was wiping down the heavy iron tensioners that held the galvanized mesh to the lower posts, working the dark machine oil into the

Zara’s POV The autumn night had turned razor-sharp by eight o'clock, the high Ramapo wind sweeping down off the granite ledge to scour the valley floor of the last remaining amber leaves. Inside the farmhouse, the cold didn't exist. The massive central fireplace was fed with three-foot split logs of seasoned hickory and red oak, throwing a deep, roaring heat across the wide pine floorboards that made the air smell richly of resin, dried lavender, and sweet apple cider simmering in an iron kettle on the crane. Jay and Leo had retired early to the warm stone quarters above the barn, leaving the main house in a profound, unbroken quiet that settled into every timber and notch. I sat on the wide leather sofa before the hearth, my legs tucked beneath me, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. On my lap lay the heavy leather-bound ledger—the record we had started when the first spring furrows were cut into the lower field. The pages we