Hart's Hollow Farm

by Janet Dailey

  “Shh.” Mitch leaned toward her, his big hands cupping her face, his broad thumbs sweeping over her wrinkled cheeks. “You have nothing to apologize for. You hear me, Emmy? Not a thing.” He kissed Emmy’s forehead, wet lashes and hands, cradling them in his own. “Not a thing.”

  Shoulders sagging, Emmy closed her eyes. “I—I want to go home.”

  Mitch kissed her forehead once more, whispering against her skin, “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  He started the truck, pulled back onto the worn highway, and continued driving. The windshield wipers squeaked in a steady rhythm for the rest of the ride. Kristen studied Mitch’s reflection in the rearview mirror along the way. She knew that the stoic strength he exhibited masked his real feelings, as it was so reminiscent of the brave face she’d struggled to maintain years ago, while sitting at Anna’s bedside after yet another new treatment, listening to the words of a tight-lipped doctor with skeptical eyes.

  Hope for the best, but nothing is certain.

  They were halfway up the farm’s driveway before Kristen realized that she’d rested her damp cheek against the top of Sadie’s head and that the little girl had fallen asleep in her arms.

  * * *

  Slow afternoon rain intensified as night fell. Fat raindrops pummeled the roof of the farmhouse and slapped against the window in Dylan’s room. The heavy sound did nothing to drown out Mitch’s thoughts or distract him from the throbbing pain in the tender flesh along his cheekbone. And it didn’t stop Dylan from insisting on answers to his questions—ones Mitch was not prepared to provide.

  “But what’s wrong with her?” Dylan sat up in his bed, the sheet slipping down his bare chest.

  When they’d returned to the farm a couple of hours ago, Dylan had hovered by Mitch’s side as he’d helped Emmy to her room, and then the boy had stood by silently as Mitch had asked Kristen to help Emmy change and get settled in bed for the night. He had followed Mitch to the kitchen, had eaten the sandwich and chips Mitch managed to pull together for supper, then had taken a shower and crawled into bed early without protest as Mitch had gotten Sadie settled, too. But now he demanded attention.

  Mitch sat on the edge of the mattress and cupped his hand around Dylan’s ankle through the covers. “Emmy’s having trouble with her memory. And with recognizing the difference between the past and the present.” He swallowed hard. “Sometimes she mixes up the two.”

  Dylan looked down and picked at the blanket, his forehead creasing. “Will she get better?”

  “I . . .” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’ll only get worse from here on out.”

  “How much worse?”

  “A lot. Eventually to the point that she won’t be able to take care of herself.”

  Dylan raised his head, those blue eyes—so like Mitch’s own—locked on his uncle’s with piercing intensity. “Or me and Sadie?”

  Mitch sat back, his hand tightening around Dylan’s ankle. “Yes.”

  “What will happen then?”

  God help him. He’d known the question would come, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t arise until later. When he’d had time to rest. To think. Lord . . . to at least figure out what step to take next and prepare for how to break the news to the kids.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” He held Dylan’s gaze, hoping like hell he sounded more confident than he felt. “You have nothing to worry about, Dylan. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, Sadie, or Emmy.” His throat tightened. Dipping his head, he added, “I am going to ask something of you, though. I need you to trust me. I need you to understand that whatever decisions I’ll end up having to make, I’ll be making them in your, Sadie’s, and Emmy’s best interests. And I’ll need your help running this place until it’s time to make those decisions.”

  Dylan remained silent for a minute, his guarded eyes peering into Mitch’s; then he settled back against his pillow and tugged the sheet up to his chin. “Okay.”

  Mitch patted his ankle, stood, and walked to the door.

  “Uncle Mitch?”

  Mitch stopped, his hand tensing around the doorknob. “Yeah?”

  “I know I told Emmy I didn’t like it here—and sometimes I still don’t—but . . .” Dylan’s voice trailed away, its tone hesitant. “But sometimes I do, you know?”

  Mitch closed his eyes, the weight of the day washing over him. The enormity of the pain, loss, and uncertainty Dylan and Sadie had already suffered in their young lives and were facing now hit him in the chest, stealing his breath. “I know.” He glanced over his shoulder and forced a smile. “Now get some rest.”

  He flipped off the light, moved into the hallway, then shut the door behind him. The house was still, quiet, and dark in the midst of the storm’s onslaught save for a muted slant of light slipping beneath the closed door of Emmy’s room. Kristen was still in there, probably sitting at Emmy’s bedside, watching her chest lift and lower on deep breaths as she drifted off, and wondering just what the hell she’d gotten herself into by coming here.

  Wincing, Mitch rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger, then moved to the next bedroom. He nudged the door open a bit farther and eased his head around the doorframe to look inside.

  Sadie was peaceful and still beneath the pink sheet, her long brown hair lying over her shoulder and covering her smooth cheek. Her gentle breaths moved an errant strand against her lips.

  He walked to her bedside and brushed the lock of hair back, tucking it behind her ear. A small whimper escaped her before she settled back to sleep.

  How would Sadie take the news? Unlike Dylan, she had always had a close relationship with Emmy and had embraced the farm right away. Even through the worst months here with Carrie, she’d always seemed at home when he’d come to check on her.

  This is your home, too, Mitch.

  Eyes burning at the memory of Emmy’s words, he balled his shaking hand into a fist, then left the room. He forced his weak legs to carry him to the front door and out onto the porch.

  A thick swath of moist, humid air enveloped him, and rain poured off the eaves in dense waves, the relentless pounding of the storm stretching for miles. A tangy mix of rainwater and clay misted the breeze and clogged his nostrils with its pungent smell.

  You don’t just throw someone away.

  Gripping the rotten porch rail, he ducked his head and shoved it into the heavy stream of rain. The cool water rushed down the back of his neck, around his jaw, then dripped from his chin.

  Why hadn’t he returned to help Emmy years ago? Why hadn’t he fixed this dilapidated porch so she could enjoy it while she still owned the place? Offered to help with the crops as soon as he arrived, instead of waiting for guilt to push him into it?

  You suits are all the same. Selfish. Hateful. Useless.

  Shoulders heaving, he clamped his lips together and choked back the guttural roar shoving its way up his throat.

  Can’t you see I’m trying to make things right?

  He should’ve come back sooner. Should’ve talked to Emmy long before now—should’ve listened. Should’ve tried to understand.

  Instead, time had slipped away, and he was alone now. Alone in deciding Emmy’s, Dylan’s, and Sadie’s futures. Left with the challenge of salvaging what little absolution he could for himself and Emmy from the remnants of her fading memory. From what was left of her weakened heart.

  “Mitch?”

  He tensed at the sound of Kristen’s voice. Then a broken sound parted his lips, and shame heated his face. “In all my life,” he said, “Emmy’s never lifted a hand against me—not even to spank me when I cut up as a kid.”

  Her footsteps drew close, and he could feel the warmth emanating from her slender frame.

  “I can’t remember the first time my dad hit me—” His throat closed. “Seemed like that’s just how it always was. But I remember every time Emmy threw him out of this house because of it, and I remember every time she let him right back in. Mine
and Carrie’s childhood was nothing but pain, blood, and fear. I’ve never been able to accept that or find peace with it.” The splintered wood of the porch rail cut into the soft flesh of his palms. “I don’t care if Emmy forgets this damn place or my father. He was a rotten bastard, and we’d all be better for it. But for her to forget Sadie or Dylan . . .” His eyes burned. “For her to forget me . . .”

  Kristen’s hands were on him, smoothing over his back, gripping his shoulders, then tugging him toward her.

  Giving in, he drew back from the fall of rain and buried his wet face in the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her smooth skin was warm and dry against his cold, soaked cheek, and he moved his mouth along the pulse fluttering beneath her jaw, up over her delicate chin, then hovered above her lips, their breaths mingling.

  “One day she may not know me anymore.” Droplets of water clung to his mouth, mixing with his tears, shaking with his heavy inhale. He focused on the pink curve of her bottom lip. It trembled. “She won’t know my name. Won’t know Sadie’s or Dylan’s.”

  A tear rolled over her cheek, settled in the corner of her mouth. He traced its path with the tip of his finger.

  “After losing Carrie, how can I look those kids in the eyes and tell them they’re going to lose someone else they love, too? How can I explain that they’ll have to leave the only home—the only family—they’ve known because it’s empty and dead?” He raised his eyes to hers, and the pain in their green depths pulled the knot in his chest tighter. “How do I say it without breaking down?”

  Something moved through her expression, something dark and heavy; then a fiery determination lit her eyes as she speared her fingers through his wet hair and cupped the back of his head. “You won’t.”

  She lifted to her toes and pressed her lips to his.

  Her soft kiss swept through him on a rush of comforting warmth. Groaning, he slid his arms around her slim back, curled his hands into her shirt, leaned into her. He parted her lips with his tongue, delved deep and collected her sweet taste. Salty tears and the crisp flavor of rain mingled together on their tongues, and he deepened the kiss, absorbing her soft cry of pleasure.

  The welcoming feel and delicious taste of her joined the pounding of the storm, and for a moment, the painful memories embedded in the land around them faded.

  Mitch raised his head and dragged in a deep breath, a strong bolt of need shooting through him as her chest lifted against his, her soft breasts pressing tight to him, and as one slim leg slipped between his.

  She looked up at him, her fingers sliding down the back of his neck, kneading his shoulders. Pink flushed her cheeks, and her mouth moved the smallest fraction of an inch closer to his before she stepped back, trailed her soft palm down his arm. She took his hand. “Come with me?”

  He should stop this now. Should thank her for her help, apologize for taking advantage of a weak moment, then climb the stairs to his room. Avoid complicating matters further by saying good night, shutting the door between them, and grieving in private.

  But his arms longed to hold her close, and his heart ached for her to hold him back.

  He brushed a blond curl away from her forehead, then nodded.

  Kristen led him across the porch to the lone chair around the corner, then eased him into a seated position. She sat on his knee, wrapped her arms around him, and tucked her head beneath his chin. He pulled her close and breathed her in, her soft hair tickling his nose, as they watched the heavy curtain of rain, dimly lit by the porch light’s glow, lower over the front lawn.

  “This place isn’t empty or dead,” she whispered.

  Rain pounded the roof harder above their heads, and water cascaded in swift currents around them. The air grew cooler, and she snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around his biceps, her strong heartbeat heavy against his chest.

  “It’s spacious,” she continued, “with plenty of room to grow. It’s trying to now, right out there in that beautiful field we planted. The good that’s left in this place is trying to push its way through the ground, and we’re going to help Emmy make it strong.”

  Mitch closed his eyes, her reassuring words, delivered in a firm tone, washing over him.

  “We’re going to bring it back to life,” she vowed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Orange, glowing heat seeped through Mitch’s closed eyelids and stirred him awake. He blinked, then inhaled, and the aroma of honeysuckle and fresh dew swept through his nose and filled his lungs.

  The sun was up, the bright eye rising slowly above the horizon. Its rays cut through the rain-induced mist that still lingered over the fields, and cast crystal-like shimmers across the deep puddles scattered along the red driveway. Stronger shafts of light reached the steps of the front porch, stretched over the broad floor beneath his boots, then trailed lazily over the smooth skin of Kristen’s bare arm that rested against the arm of the rocking chair.

  He smiled. The act stretched the tender flesh along his cheekbone, but her comforting weight pressed against his chest soothed him in this moment of discomfort. He lifted his hand, smoothed his palm over her soft blond hair, and studied the sprawling landscape surrounding them.

  We’re going to bring it back to life.

  And strangely enough, that was how he felt. His limbs, like his eyes, were light, filled with purpose and a renewed sense of energy. That gnawing ache in his gut had receded, a pleasant sense of calm having taken its place.

  Pushing with one foot, he rocked back in the chair and eased it into a gentle rhythm. Each flex of his leg was met with a creak of weathered wood and the chipper calls of birds, the sounds an odd sort of comfort. The kind he’d never experienced at Hart’s Hollow and savored all the more for it.

  “Mmm.” Kristen shifted against him, rubbing her cheek against his chest, and sighed. “We fell asleep?”

  His smile grew. “Yeah.”

  She placed one palm to his thigh and one to his chest, then straightened and looked up at him. Sunlight caressed her sleep-flushed cheek, highlighting her freckles, and brightened the tender, concerned look in her green eyes.

  It was enough to bring a man to his knees.

  “It bruised,” she whispered, trailing a fingertip across the sore flesh along his cheekbone. “Does it still hurt?”

  “A bit.” He caught her hand in his, brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each one in turn, grinning. “But this helps.”

  She smiled, all dimples, flirtatious expression and soft comfort, then cupped his jaw. Her thumb glided across the stubble lining his chin. “And this?”

  A sweet ache stole through him, and he lowered his eyelids. “Yeah. That too.”

  “And this?” She leaned closer. Her soft lips brushed his in the lightest of kisses, but it burned right through his skin, flooding him with heat and curling his toes.

  He cupped the back of her head, covered her mouth with his, and answered her with restrained urgency in his kiss. Her pleased sigh awakened him even more, stirring his body and heightening his senses.

  When he drew back, allowing them both to catch their breath, she murmured teasingly, “Better than Heather Andrews?”

  A rusty chuckle escaped him, and he pulled her closer. “Hell, yes.” More than that. “Perfect.”

  He’d give anything to hold her like this all day. Explore her body, mind, and heart. Uncover all her secrets, fears, and dreams and lay out his own. But there were more pressing matters at hand, and others to consider. So he’d have to wait. For now.

  “Thank you for listening last night.” His voice was husky. Clearing his throat, he speared his hands through her hair and massaged the soft skin behind her ears. “And for . . .” Easing his mind? Taking away the pain? Giving him the first glimmer of hope he’d had in a long damn time? “Everything.”

  She rubbed his forearms, her palms rasping over his rough hair. “I meant what I said. I’ll help however you need me to.”

  He glanced around, eyed the rotting porch rails and the paint that was
peeling from the weather-beaten balusters. “We’ll need to make the rounds for several weeks, check the fields, scout for weeds and pests, but I want to fix this house up, too. Maybe start with the porch. Replace the railings and balusters. I could use your help painting them, if you’re willing?”

  “Of course.” She squeezed his wrists, eased away, then stood.

  Her body heat clung to his chest and thighs despite her absence, making him smile even more.

  “I imagine Emmy will wake up soon.” She craned her neck and peered through the window behind him. “Would you like me to check on her?”

  “Please.” Reluctantly, he stood. “I need to speak with her. Thought I’d get some coffee going, freshen up, then take her some.”

  She nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

  Mitch watched her walk into the house and allowed himself a small sigh of regret before following. He fixed a pot of coffee, then went upstairs and took a shower while it percolated. After shaving and dressing in clean jeans and a T-shirt, he made his way back downstairs and rummaged in several cabinets to find two ceramic mugs with delicate wildflower patterns—Emmy’s favorites—washed them, then poured coffee in each.

  He carried them down the hallway to the back bedroom, then paused outside the door as Kristen exited. “How is she?”

  “Better.” She glanced over her shoulder and said quietly, “A little embarrassed, though. She doesn’t remember all of it, but enough for it to hurt.” She sighed. “I thought I’d fix some breakfast. Emmy said Sadie and Dylan like pancakes. That okay with you?”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Kristen smiled as she eased past him, the slight press of her hand on his upper arm helping him take the few steps into Emmy’s bedroom.

  She was sitting up in bed, lavender sheet tucked across her middle and under her arms, her gray hair disheveled across her forehead. Her eyes widened on his face as he approached, and a small gasp escaped her. “Oh, Mitch.” Her voice shook. “Did I—”

  “Aw, now. None of that,” he said softly, walking over and sitting in a chair by the bed. “We covered that yesterday.”