Stale, caked-on sweat, bulk soap, soybean meal and ground wheat. She smells like all of them. That hammer of a cogent thought swings purposefully wide of the nail in his heart that is Prairie, and breaks something less vital.

The tug on his lip hitches his blood and rips a grunt out of him. Hap steadies himself on her jaw, blanching her pale skin under his thumb and fingers. His brow is balanced against Joan's. His eyes and breath bore into her; he pulls back to free space over which his gaze can stumble. Her mouth, her hair stuck to her neck, her flesh in the ferocity of his grip.

Hap eases it. His hand slides skittishly down the length of her throat before he looks into her eyes again. Simmering. His fingers curl round the back of her neck. He kisses her decisively, his temperance fueled by resentment, his passion by jealousy.