by Janet Dailey
A low sound escaped him, half laugh and half frustrated growl. “I figured as much.” The whisper of paint strokes moved between them. “You know, Sadie might be young, but she’s intelligent and mature for her age. Living with my sister . . .” His boot moved as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Well, I imagine she became overly sensitive to what was occurring around her. Had to because she never knew what mood her mother would be in at any given moment.” He hesitated, then said, “Carrie was an addict.”
Kristen froze, the burning sensation pricking at her eyes traveling lower to constrict her chest. She’d never felt smaller or more insensitive in all her life.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” She set the paintbrush down and looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “But I could see I did, and I’m truly sorry for that.”
He nodded slowly, his blue eyes roving over her face. “Have you been around kids much? Younger brothers or sisters maybe?”
Kristen grabbed the paintbrush and started painting again.
The sign slipped to one side of her lap, and Mitch nudged it back. “Do you have family waiting on you back in Cook County? Parents or—”
“No.” She dragged the brush harder, paint speckling her jeans. “There’s no one. You?”
“It’s just me back in New York. Did you grow up in Cook County?”
Desperate to escape the hot seat, she dropped the paintbrush and met his eyes. “Are you going to take them?”
He blinked, his brow furrowing. “Take what?”
“The kids. Sadie and Dylan,” she clarified. “If you’re so sure this farm is going under and you’re that concerned about their welfare, are you planning to take them home with you?”
His face flushed, and he moved his legs, shifting his balance again. “For a little while, once I talk Emmy around, but not permanently.”
“Why not?”
His mouth opened soundlessly, and he shook his head. “I’m not equipped to raise two kids right now. My apartment is too small, my work hours are too long, and I wouldn’t be able to give them the undivided attention they deserve.”
“So you’re going to take a chance on their finding a better home?” A foster home, maybe? Or even a children’s home, like the one she grew up in, where she wished and dreamed someone would come for her, only to walk out alone years later? “Without Emmy?”
He twisted the blade of grass around his finger, and his fingertip turned red. “Anything stable would be better than here.”
“How would you know that for sure?”
He raised a brow and returned her stare. “What makes you so certain it wouldn’t?”
A screen door slammed, and Emmy reemerged onto the porch, the cane she leaned on tapping against the steps as she walked toward them and Sadie and Dylan trailing behind with cups of sweet tea. “Before my knee gives out for the day, I’d like to show Kristen the field she’s gonna be responsible for. Y’all feel like taking a short ride?”
Mitch tossed away the blade of grass, and Kristen heaved the sign off her lap, and then both of them stood at almost the same instant.
Kristen bit back a smile. It was hard to tell which one of them was more eager to change the subject.
“I’ll drive,” Mitch said, heading for the truck. “Which field?”
“The one Lee’s going to wrestle away from Ruth Ann for us.”
Mitch sighed. “You heard him say that was a long shot.”
Emmy smiled. “And you heard him say he was gonna try anyway. Have faith, Mitch. Now, bring that truck around.”
The seven-minute drive to the back of Emmy’s extensive property passed in silence except for the occasional squeak of shifting gears and the acceleration of the engine. The whir of the air conditioner, the sporadic rock of the cab as the tires dipped over potholes, and the glare of the setting sun’s rays streaking across the horizon had the kids leaning their cheeks against the cool windows, struggling to stay awake. Kristen sat between them, her head lolling against the headrest on more than one occasion.
“Stop right here.”
Her eyes sprang open at Emmy’s command, and Mitch drew the truck to a gentle halt. They all climbed out. Mitch lowered the tailgate, and Dylan helped his sister climb onto it, then joined her, settling beside her and swinging his legs.
“Stay put,” Emmy said. “We’ll be back shortly.”
Kristen fell in step at Emmy’s side while Mitch led them off the dirt road to the field. He glanced back several times, his somber gaze watching Emmy’s slow movements, then lingering on Kristen’s as she maneuvered between ridges of soil.
The day was slipping away, the sunlight thinning to sharp lines that glared over the thick tree line. It lengthened the shadows between the neatly plowed rows of red soil, which stretched as far as her eyes could discern. A hawk, which she’d glimpsed often around the area, drifted in slow circles over the field as the evening breeze approached.
Kristen inhaled, the faint scent of honeysuckle tickling her nose and the clean air filling her lungs.
“What do you think, Kristen?” Emmy asked.
“It’s big. Twenty acres, you said?”
“Eight hundred, seventy-one thousand, and two hundred square feet, to be precise.” Emmy smiled. “Or roughly twenty football fields minus the end zones. That’s how Joe liked to put it.”
Mitch stopped between rows, sat on his haunches, and scooped up a handful of red dirt. Clumps of damp clay fell off the sides of his palm as he squeezed it gently, looking into the distance.
“How ’bout it, Mitch?” Emmy asked.
He uncurled his fist and shook his hand, watching the red clumps fall back to the ground, then stood. “It’s still too wet. Needs at least two more days of sun before it’s ready, and that’s only if you manage by some miracle to get ahold of this land.” He walked back toward the truck, calling out over his shoulder, “It’s late, the kids are tired, and I imagine Kristen is, too. We need to head back to the house soon.”
Kristen watched him reach the truck and hop onto the tailgate with the kids; then she turned back to the field, tracing the path of the sun’s thin rays as they strolled across the red earth.
“What do you see?”
Kristen glanced at Emmy. Her blue eyes, measuring and weighing, stared back at her. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, what do you see?”
Shoving her hands into her pockets, Kristen rocked back on her heels. “Dirt. Lots of it.”
Emmy grunted. “You can do better than that.” She reached out, tugged Kristen’s hand from her pocket and, leaning heavily on her cane, pulled her to a squatting position. “Here.” She placed Kristen’s hand on the ground, then pressed her palm tight to the soil. “What do you feel?”
A frustrated laugh broke past Kristen’s lips. “Dirt. Why? Am I supposed to feel something different?”
Emmy gave her a sharp look, her mouth thinning into a tight line. “That’s not for me to say.”
Kristen sighed, looked down at the red ground beneath her hand and softened her tone. “Soil.” She curled her fingers around a loose pile of earth. “Moist and cool.”
“Lean into it,” Emmy said, then nodded as Kristen did so. “What’s below?”
Kristen stared, the red dirt blurring in front of her. The feel and smell of the earth against her skin was the same as it had been the day she’d sprinkled it onto Anna’s grave and said good-bye for the last time. Something broke deep within her. Widened into a gaping hole.
Don’t cry, Mama.
“Nothing.” Kristen blinked hard and tried to steady her voice. “It’s dark and empty.”
So dark and so empty, her chest ached to sink into it, and her limbs longed to curl in on themselves and absorb the black stillness. To grasp deep for something no longer within her reach.
“Hollow,” she whispered.
Emmy struggled to her feet.
Kristen cupped her elbow, helped her rise, and stayed by her side. They looked on
as dusk enveloped the land, smearing the sky with lavender, gold, and pink. With a cry, the circling hawk changed course and floated off toward the trees. The air cooled; the damp field darkened beneath the cloak of approaching night; then the rhythmic chirps of crickets and frogs emerged, pulsing all around them.
“A hollow,” Emmy said, “is just another place for something new to grow.”
* * *
New York, an exciting project and an abundance of opportunities to nurture and stretch creativity? Or backbreaking work, endless squabbles with Emmy, and a slow erosion into obscurity?
Mitch grabbed a sledgehammer, positioned a steel signpost anchor by the edge of the farm’s driveway, and hammered it hard. It cut through the grass and into the ground. He hit it several more times to secure it, then tossed the sledgehammer down and dragged his hands over his face.
The answer to his dilemma should be simple. A person would have to be insane to choose the latter. But there was nothing simple about this instance. Not when he factored in Sadie and Dylan.
“Are you ready for this?” Kristen stood by Emmy’s truck, which she’d parked nearby, sliding a long wooden pole from the bed and over the tailgate. “I brought the sign, too.”
Then there was Kristen to consider. Where she fit into all of this, he wasn’t quite sure, but her questions yesterday had stayed with him all night, making him toss and turn. And had left him questioning whether leaving this afternoon, without Emmy’s goodwill or a solid plan for Sadie and Dylan, was the right thing to do.
“Yeah.” Mitch waited as she carried the pole toward the anchor—knowing better than to offer help—then strode over and lifted the sign from the truck bed. He hesitated. The eye-catching whirls of green vines surrounding large red strawberries on the sign caught his attention. “This is good.” He studied it more closely, his gaze tracing the intricate design. Impressive work, especially in such a small window of time. “Better than good.”
After visiting the field yesterday, they’d eaten dinner; then Emmy had gotten the kids settled in bed, while he and Kristen had cleaned the kitchen. Kristen had slipped off when they’d finished, saying she needed to finish the sign. She’d looked exhausted, dark circles stamped beneath her eyes, but there’d been a note of determination in her voice, so he hadn’t argued. He hadn’t seen her again until this morning, when she’d come down for breakfast and offered to help him wash the rest of the buckets, then hang the sign.
“You did all this last night?” he asked.
She nodded, a strand of blond hair escaping her ponytail, gleaming beneath the morning sunlight, as she dug around for metal mounts in a toolbox on the ground. “There was a portable fan on the porch, which I used to dry it faster. Hope that was okay.”
“Of course.” He waved a hand. “But this . . . all of this last night, you say?”
“Yeah. Emmy wanted it dry and ready to put up before you left and before we headed to the meeting this afternoon. I promised I’d finish it, so I finished it.”
“Just like that?”
Her shapely arms stilled, and she raised a brow at him from her bent position. “Yeah. Just like that.” Shrugging, she grabbed a hammer and stood. “It’s no big deal. I just slapped some paint on it.”
“Believe me, slapping some paint on it would not turn out like this for most people.”
She turned away. The hat he’d given her obscured her eyes, leaving him staring at the smooth curve of her cheek and the graceful line of her neck . . . again.
He carried the sign over. “Have you done this type of thing before?”
She crouched by the pole, positioned one mount, then hammered in a nail.
He waited until she had finished securing the other three mounts, then asked, “Painting professionally, I mean?”
She dropped the hammer, lifted the pole, and slid it into place on the anchor.
He gritted his teeth as she grabbed the drill and squatted. “What did you do before you started working farms? Did you—”
The high-pitched spit of the drill cut off his question and echoed across the grounds and the empty highway in front of them. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes up at him as she finished securing the pole.
After kneeling beside her, he placed the sign on the ground, holding her stare. She proceeded to ignore him, of course, and continued to drill away. Her toned biceps flexed with each push of the drill as she leaned forward for a better angle. The action tugged the hem of her shirt loose, exposing a creamy expanse of flesh above the waistband of her jeans and drawing his attention to the smooth curve of her backside.
Clearing his throat, he jerked his eyes away and refocused on her face. It was the damnedest thing—this pull she had on him. Not just the way her body tempted him, stirring a latent hunger within him, making his blood rush. But the piercing way she looked into him, those green eyes delving deep beneath his skin, plundering his thoughts and emotions but sharing none of her own.
She finished securing the last mount, cut the drill off, then tossed it aside. The tight-lipped look she tossed in his direction—the exact opposite of the welcoming smile she’d flashed at Lee yesterday—made his jaw clench.
That was another aggravation to add to the list. Irrational jealousy.
He shook his head. “You are the most . . .” Elusive? Intriguing? “Frustrating woman I’ve ever met.”
“I’m frustrating?” After pressing her hands to the ground, she swiveled around and faced him. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I feel like I’m being given the third degree every time you show up.” She frowned. “Why is it you always throw a thousand questions at me?”
“Maybe because I want to get to know you better.”
“You know my name. You know I’m working for Emmy. What more is there to know?”
“A lot. Maybe I find you interesting.”
“Oh, okay.” Her mouth twisted. “Shoulda known. The most standard line in the book of men. Got any more?”
“And maybe,” he added, “I find you attractive.” He studied her balled fists on the ground, the lithe strength in her graceful frame and the passionate spark of her eyes. “No . . . Scratch that. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen up close.” He grinned. “Except for Heather Andrews, maybe.”
She stayed silent, her gaze drifting toward his mouth, then asked, “Heather Andrews?”
His grin grew. “She was five years older than me and knew algebra like the back of her hand. Had long red hair, told the best jokes, and gave the softest kisses on earth.” He laughed. “I know only because I finagled a seat beside her on the school bus every day. I had the biggest damn crush, and she must’ve known, because on the last day of her senior year, she kissed me good-bye right here.” He tapped his left cheek. “I was thirteen and felt it for days.”
Smiling, Kristen sat back on her heels and scratched her chin. “Hmm.” Her fingertips left behind a smudge of dirt. “As beautiful as Heather Andrews, huh?”
“Well, you’ve got her beat in the mystery department.” He reached out and rubbed her chin clean with the pad of his thumb. “As for the kiss,” he said, focusing on the gentle bow of her lower lip, “I can’t say how that’d compare without firsthand experience.”
Though, if the pleasurable tingles dancing over his skin were any indication, he’d bet his last dime he’d feel Kristen’s kiss for a lot longer. And in a whole lot more places as a thirty-two-year-old man.
“But”—noting her blush, he lowered his hand—“to be fair to Heather, I’d also have to take into account the way you constantly assume the worst about me.” He looked away, striving for a wounded tone. “How you always turn your back on me. Drill right over me when I’m talking.”
She laughed. “Okay, okay. I won’t turn my back on you anymore, and I won’t—” Her chest lifted on a swift breath when he faced her, and her attention returned to his mouth. “I won’t drill over you while you’re talking.”
He
smiled and held out a hand. “Shake on it?”
She put her hand in his, allowed him to pull them both to their feet, then said, “Yes. I’ve done it before.”
“Done what?”
The tip of her tongue swept over her bottom lip before she answered. “Painted.” She motioned toward the sign. “Professionally, I mean.”
He studied her expression. “When did—”
Brakes squeaked as a small sedan slowed on the highway, then turned and stopped in the entrance of the driveway behind him. A voice called out from the open window, “Mitch, do you have a moment?”
Ruth Ann. He silenced a groan. It figured that the second he made an inch of progress with Kristen, he’d be deterred.
“Excuse me.” He smoothed his thumb over Kristen’s soft skin once more before reluctantly releasing her hand and walking over to the car. “I always have time for you, Mrs. Ruth Ann.”
“Thank you.” Ruth Ann got out, nudged her sunglasses farther up her nose, and glanced over his shoulder. “Good afternoon, Kristen.” After Kristen returned the greeting, Ruth Ann returned her attention to Mitch. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, ma’am.” Mitch gestured toward the sign still lying on the ground. “We’re just putting up a sign for Emmy.”
Her mouth pursed. “Strawberries?”
He nodded.
Sighing, Ruth Ann removed her sunglasses and snapped them closed. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy. “I came to apologize to you for my behavior Saturday. It was silly, rude, and entirely inappropriate. I’m very sorry it happened. I stayed in church an extra hour yesterday, praying, but I didn’t feel any better about it. I understand if you think less of me.”
Mitch smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t give it another thought.” A wry laugh escaped him. “Emmy has a way of bringing out the best in all of us.”
Ruth Ann patted his hand, then looked down. “But it was my fault for overreacting. And in front of the children . . .” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I felt awful about it. Just awful.”
“Oh, I think your pound cake went a long way toward consoling Sadie, and Dylan got a good laugh for the day. Matter of fact, that was the first real smile I’ve seen on his face in months.” He released her and stepped back. “Like I said, don’t worry about it.”
