by Marin Thomas
On occasion, he wondered if the constant need to keep busy was an inherited genetic disorder. Neither of his brothers harbored a compulsion to toil away 24-7. Why him? Even on those rare occasions when he wanted nothing more than to return home, put his feet up on the coffee table and watch a football game, more often than not he opened his briefcase and became sidetracked. By the time his eyes grew tired from reading, the game had ended and he’d missed every play.
His foot firmly on the gas pedal once again, Nelson zipped by some businesses at the intersection of RR 7 and Mueller Road, then another sign: Thank You For Visiting Four Corners.
What the heck? He slammed his foot on the brake for the second time in less than an hour. Shifting into Reverse, he returned to the intersection he’d blown through. He pulled on to the shoulder and studied the four brick-and-stone-fronted buildings—each occupying a corner.
The words quaint and artsy entered his mind as he took in the hanging flower baskets outside Flo’s Diner. Ethel’s Diner sat catty-corner to Flo’s. A couple of rocking chairs and an old claw-foot tub overflowing with plants decorated her business.
The Fuel Stop and Fred’s Pack ’n’ Save claimed the other two corners. Fred’s business had colorful writing across the glass windows, advertising in-store specials, and a garbage can chained to the light pole outside.
Four businesses…four corners…nothing else. No movie theater. No pizza parlor. Not even a bar.
Movement near the front window of Flo’s Diner caught his attention. A waitress with blond pigtails moved about, wiping off tables—probably a local. He’d ask inside about the Tanner farm. If no one had heard of the place, he’d return to Chicago and end this wild-goose chase his grandfather had sent him on.
“OH…MY…LORD. Would you look at that.” Flo smacked her bubble gum and pointed to the front window.
“Don’t tell me Billy Joe finally bought the Mustang he’s been jawing about for the past year and a half.” Ellen Tanner didn’t bother glancing toward her boss’s long neon-pink fingernail. She equated Billy Joe to a big black fly—pesky, always buzzing around her and someone she just flat-out wanted to slap at with a wet dishtowel.
“No Mustang. Can’t say for sure what kind of car. Fancy, though. Must have cost a pretty penny.”
Interest piqued; Ellen peered out the window. “Oh, my,” she murmured, unaware the sugar shaker she’d been filling overflowed on to the blue Formica table-top. “He’s lost.” Had to be. No man that handsome had ever stopped in Four Corners on purpose.
“You think?” Flo popped a bubble. “Yeah, probably.” She left the lunch counter and zigzagged through the tables to pause at Ellen’s side. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a man in dress pants. You?”
“Nope.” Ellen craned her neck to gain a better view of the newcomer as he made his way to the door. The men around these parts wore jeans or overalls, even to church. Only for a funeral or wedding did a man drag a suit out of the closet.
“He’s headin’ in here.” Flo scurried across the room, patting her graying bob in place. “How’s my hair?” she asked.
The older woman had great bone structure and appeared ten years younger than her true age—early fifties. “Your hair’s fine,” Ellen assured her.
“Hey, Flo,” the lone customer in the diner called. “How about a refill on my coffee?”
“Get your own refill, Howard. Can’t you see I’m busy?” Smile pasted on her face, Flo stood ready to pounce. When the door opened, she gushed, “Welcome to Flo’s Diner. I’m Flo.” She pumped the man’s hand like a tire jack.
“Good afternoon,” he answered, his rich baritone voice eliciting a silent sigh from Ellen.
Handsome, deep voice and at least a couple of inches over six feet—the total package demanded respect. Ellen had no idea what he did for a living, but she’d bet every dollar in her Folgers-coffee-can bank he wasn’t a salesman.
Flo motioned him to the lunch counter. “Stopping for a bite to eat or just coffee?”
“I’ll take a club sandwich if you’ve got one.” Without a glance at Ellen, he sat on a stool two seats from Howard, who still held out his coffee cup for a refill.
It figured the stranger wouldn’t notice her. The only man who ever paid Ellen any mind was Billy Joe—because he wanted her farm. They’d gone through school in the same grade, but he’d run with a wild crowd and Ellen had been Miss Goody Two-shoes—until she’d ended up pregnant the summer before she’d entered twelfth grade. After her husband, Buck, had died in a construction accident a little over a year ago, Billy Joe had become a nuisance—a big, painful oozing canker in her backside.
Ignoring the stranger, she considered the mess she’d made with the sugar shaker. You seriously need to get a life, Ellen.
“Coffee, soda, water?” Flo’s voice carried across the tables.
“Water will be fine.”
Probably a health nut. Ellen searched for the plastic bin she used to clear the dirty dishes from the tables and spotted it at the end of the lunch counter. Shrugging, she bent at the waist and swept the spilled sugar into the pocket of her apron, then brushed the remaining grains onto the floor.
“Passing through or staying a spell in Four Corners?” Flo asked.
“Here on business.”
Go, Flo, go. Give the older woman ten minutes and she’d have the man’s life story. Not that Ellen blamed her boss. Like herself, Flo had been born and raised in Four Corners. Flo’s deceased parents had left the diner to her. Twenty years ago, she’d sold the property and run off with an insurance man from West Virginia. After two years she’d returned to town a disillusioned and divorced woman. She’d bought the business back, and had lived in Four Corners—single and bored to death—ever since.
Ellen envied her boss. For a short time Flo had had the opportunity to experience something other than cornfields and cows. As a little girl—truthfully, up until she’d gotten pregnant—Ellen had dreamed of leaving the farm and moving to the city. She studied the fancy black car parked outside—a bold reminder that life didn’t always accommodate a person’s dreams.
Flo skipped into the kitchen and two minutes later returned with the stranger’s order. Howard continued to wave his cup in the air, until Flo finally thunked the coffeepot on the counter in front of him. She shuffled back to the other man. “You a feed salesman?”
Cheeks bulging with lunch meat, he frowned. Guess the guy wasn’t a feed salesman.
“Fancy wheels you got out there. You a gambler?” Flo could be such a pest.
“I don’t gamble.”
Pink fingernails drummed against the countertop. “A movie star?”
That brought a grin to his face.
Ellen edged a bit closer to better scrutinize the man’s profile. He wasn’t drop-dead-gorgeous—more like the boy next door, but with rough edges. He had a large nose and an intriguing scar along one side of his square jaw. His mocha-colored hair was mussed—not his preferred style, she suspected. She wasn’t sure about the color of his eyes, but figured they were the same dark brown as his eyebrows. Appealing. Sexy.
Out of your league.
“What about sports? You play hockey or baseball?” Flo refused to give up.
“I crewed at Harvard.”
Harvard? Yeah, he had the look of an Ivy Leaguer.
Flo set a slice of key lime pie in front of Mr. Harvard. “Never heard of crewing.”
“Rowing. Four-man boat. I was the bow man. Sat in the back and coached my teammates.”
“Well, the only thing we use a boat for around these parts is to catch fish. You gonna tell me what business you have in Four Corners?”
“I’m searching for the Tanner farm.”
Ellen’s hand froze in midair as she reached for the dirty ketchup bottle on the table.
“What business do you have with the Tanners?”
Her heart pounding, Ellen’s mind raced. Was the man a creditor? She’d mailed a payment to the credit-card company last week
, but the check had only covered the finance charge on the credit card. Or maybe he was a county tax assessor intending to inform her that they’d refused her request for an extension. The man claimed he wasn’t a salesman, so she doubted he planned to sell her a cemetery plot. Had her deceased husband been involved in something illegal like gambling? Deep in thought, she almost missed the stranger’s answer.
“I need to speak with Ellen Tanner. Patrick McKade corresponded with her several weeks ago and arranged for a hired hand to help on her farm this summer.”
“Oh, yeah. Ellen mentioned that a while back.”
“I understand Mrs. Tanner is a widow.”
Flo nodded. “Been just over a year since Buck died. She has a boy named Seth.”
“How old is her son?”
“Thirteen as of this past Christmas.”
“I assume he helps his mother with the farm.”
Flo shrugged. “Seth’s a typical boy. Would rather hang out with his friends than do chores.”
“The boy shouldn’t be allowed to shirk his responsibilities.”
Ellen’s ire rose. She acknowledged she was having trouble with Seth since Buck had passed away. And yes, her son should be helping out more. But darn it, who’d asked the guy for his opinion?
“How old is Mrs. Tanner?” Five large bites of pie disappeared in record time. The know-it-all had a sweet tooth.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Flo motioned across the room. “She’s right there.”
The handsome stranger swiveled on the stool. Stared. Then snorted. “A teenager? If she’s a farmer, I’ll eat my shoe.”
Insulted, embarrassed and a tad amused, Ellen wandered closer to the counter. She toed off her sneaker, flipped it into the air, caught it with one hand, then slapped the shoe on the counter. “How about eating mine, instead?”
Chapter Two
Nelson glanced at the size 6 stamped on the inside of the white canvas shoe, then at the woman whose foot it had enclosed. Blond pigtails, a fresh-from-the-farm face—smattering of freckles across the nose, soft blue eyes framed by light-brown lashes, a pair of dainty eyebrows and a mouth that should have been too wide for the heart-shaped face. Sweet and innocent. “You’re Ellen Tanner?”
The dainty chin jutted. “And who are you?”
Cross off sweet and make that sarcastic. “Nelson McKade.”
Her eyes rounded into big blue circles. “Patrick McKade’s grandson?”
No mistaking the disbelief in her voice. “Yes, I’m his grandson, and you don’t look like a farmer.”
The blue circles narrowed to slits. “And you’re no farmhand.”
All that belligerence made his pulse race and his heart thump erratically. Never had a woman had such an effect on him. “I’m the CEO of McKade Import-Export. I run the Chicago office.”
In a battle of wills, they glared at each other, neither willing to break eye contact. The miniature bully’s blue slits narrowed even further, until he wondered if she could see anything.
“I’ve been conned.” Her bare foot slapped the linoleum floor.
“No, I’ve been conned.” What did Ms. Daisy Maisy care if her summer hand was a greenhorn? Nelson had no experience driving a tractor or harvesting a crop, but he’d approach his responsibilities the same way he tackled a day at the office—work until he’d accomplished every task.
The bell on the door clanged. Nelson had forgotten about the other customer at the lunch counter. The older man had left without a word and now headed across the street to Ethel’s Diner. Wouldn’t be long before news spread that the widow Tanner’s farm hand had arrived in town.
Flo, who’d been quiet until now, mumbled something about checking pies in the oven, then vanished into the kitchen, leaving him and Farmer Blonde alone. Nelson seized advantage of Ellen’s distraction. The pink T-shirt she wore had a picture of Tweety Bird on the front. The overalls did nothing to enhance her figure, which appeared trim and fit beneath the ten yards of denim. And the dainty toes on her shoeless bare foot sported peach-colored nails decorated with tiny white flowers. Amused by the sight, he grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“The women in my office wouldn’t be caught dead with flowers painted on their toenails.”
“You figure out a better way to spend a Saturday night around here and I’ll consider it.”
Great. If the hard work didn’t kill him, boredom would.
Ellen rubbed her temple, no doubt suffering the same malady as Nelson—a full-blown migraine. “Your grandfather insisted you wanted to take a sabbatical from your job.”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m all ears.” Five toes tapped agitatedly against the floor, creating the illusion of flowers blowing in the wind.
Impatient little thing. “I’m here because I have to be.”
“And you have to be…because?”
Never one to shy from the truth, he confessed, “My grandfather believed I should be taught a lesson.”
The corners of her mouth curved upward, lending a decidedly sexy charm to the pixie face. “Couldn’t he have just spanked you?”
Mesmerized by her mouth, Nelson didn’t immediately react to the comment. Then her sarcasm registered and he grinned. “If given the choice, I would have picked the spanking. But grandfather insists I learn my lesson on your farm.”
Dainty eyebrows scrunched over her nose. “What lesson is that?”
“Acquiescence.”
The flower toes ceased moving. “Acquiescence?”
“I don’t receive orders very well,” he conceded.
“How are you going to work for me if you won’t do what I tell you to?”
“I promise to be on my best behavior. Three months max and I’m back in my office and out of your hair.” Speaking of hair…he had the insane urge to yank her pigtail. Were the shiny strands as silky as they seemed?
“Your grandfather said you had experience in shipping. I’d assumed you were employed as a dock worker.” Her gaze raked over his body. “You don’t have the body of a man who unloads freight all day.”
This was a first—coming up short in a woman’s eyes. The idea that the widow found him lacking nipped his ego like a nasty dog bite. “No, I don’t juggle freight for a living, but I intend to give you an honest day’s labor.”
Blue eyes deepened to indigo as she mulled over his promise. “Farmers don’t keep executive hours.”
Little imp. “I’m at the office by five in the morning and don’t arrive home until eight or nine at night.”
“We’re up at four-thirty and in bed by nine.”
What was this—a game of tit for tat? “I can handle the hours.”
“I don’t cook three meals a day.”
So much for the room and board advertised with the low wages.
She nibbled her lip again. A nervous habit? Or something she did when she wasn’t being truthful?
“I’ll eat here once in a while.” The club sandwich had tasted fine. By Labor Day he’d probably have sampled every item on the menu. “And there’s always the diner across the road.”
“Ethel can’t cook worth spit!” Flo shouted from the kitchen.
Ellen smiled, the gesture chasing the worry from her pretty blue eyes.
“You mind telling me why you’re working as a waitress when you have a farm to run?” The smile slid off her face, dragging the sparkle in her eyes along with it. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“I doubt you’d be interested in the whys. Suffice it to say, I wait tables to make ends meet. You’d be amazed at the food a thirteen-year-old boy puts away in one day.”
Nelson recalled how he and his brothers had astonished their grandfather’s cook by the amount of food they’d consumed during adolescence. Didn’t farmers grow most of their food?
“We have a small vegetable garden.” Reading minds must be an inherent trait in rural people.
“According to my son, tomatoes don’t stand a chance against a
Quarter Pounder from McDonald’s.”
Although fast food didn’t excite him, he sympathized with the boy. He’d rather throw tomatoes than eat them. “What does your son do while you’re working?”
“I have weekends off and my shift ends at three, so I’m able to beat the school bus to the farm.”
He checked his Rolex. “It’s four o’clock.”
“The band is having an end-of-the-year party today.”
“What instrument does your son play?”
“The trombone. Your grandfather mentioned in his letter that you wanted to marry and have kids of your own soon.”
Nice segue. “Grandfather lied.” Just because his younger brother, Aaron, had ended up engaged to his boss after learning his life lesson on a construction crew didn’t mean Nelson planned the same with this woman. “And where teenagers are concerned I don’t have a clue.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“But you’re a mother. Shouldn’t you—”
“I gave birth to a human being. I’m not sure what my son is right now…possibly an alien.”
“He’s a difficult kid, then?”
“No more than any other boy his age.” She focused on the front window. “He’s had a difficult time since his daddy’s death last year.”
Nelson wondered if Ellen still struggled with the loss of her husband. “Your son isn’t going to be a problem for me, is he?”
“You won’t have to worry about Seth.”
“I won’t?”
“Nope. Because you won’t be working on my farm.” Ellen Tanner grabbed her sneaker off the counter, wiggled her foot into it, then stuffed her hand into the front pocket of her apron and pulled out a handful of change—sugar-coated nickels, dimes, pennies and quarters. She slapped the coins on the counter, sending white particles spewing in all directions. “That’s all I have to compensate you for your time and trouble. Good day.” Chin in the air, she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Wait just a damn minute,” Nelson called.
“Tell him I left through the back door,” Ellen whispered to Flo, who stood at the sink, arms in suds up to her elbows, mouth sagging.
