Crossing the Line (The Cross Creek Series Book 2)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  As usual, Hunter wasn’t wrong. But of course, Owen’s heels were dug in good and hard. “No one wants to make up for this weak season more than I do,” Owen said, a frown marking his darkly stubbled face. “But you and Dad and I can’t work together with Eli when he won’t work at all.”

  Oh, for Chrissake . . . “I just told you I’d load the crates,” Eli pointed out.

  “When, exactly?” Owen shot back. “The farmers’ market opens up at seven tomorrow morning, all the way in Camden Valley, which means the truck’s gotta be loaded in time to roll out of here by five. We’ve got maybe two more hours of good daylight to get these crates filled and ready to go.”

  Eli looked out the double-wide barn door, measuring the slant of the sunlight with a glance. “I know how much daylight we’ve got left.”

  Which sucked, because in this particular case, Owen happened to be right. Eli would have to put the pedal to the floorboards in order to get all the produce prepped and packed for transport before he lost enough daylight to do the job, and even then, he’d probably have to grab some floodlights in order to finish. Not that he’d give Owen the satisfaction of saying so.

  His brother arched one dark-brown brow high enough for it to disappear beneath the hair tumbling over his forehead, and shit, looked like Owen didn’t need the out-loud satisfaction to keep pushing. “Then you know at this point, it’s a two-person job.”

  “I’m good for the help,” Hunter said, but the buffer bounced off Owen like a pebble hitting a tractor tire.

  “Thank God somebody is.” He pivoted on the heels of his work boots, beelining directly for the crates. “Let’s get these up to the greenhouse, Hunt. Between me and you, we should be able to fill ’em fast enough to get you home for dinner with Emerson.”

  Shock merged with all the irritation pumping through Eli’s veins. “And what is it you want me to do, then?”

  Owen paused before saying, “We need baling twine for the hay in the east field. The co-op’s open for another hour.”

  Freaking stellar. He’d just been reduced to errand boy. Shit couldn’t get any worse. “Fine,” Eli said, although he slapped the word with enough of an edge that it came off like a different F-word altogether. At least the trip into town would buy him some space so he could get his no-big-deal attitude back into place.

  “And stay out of trouble, would you?” Owen called after him, the words making Eli’s muscles tense beneath his work-damp T-shirt. “The last thing we need around here after the season we’ve had is more heartache.”

  “Kiss my heartache,” Eli mumbled, stowing the words under his breath as he gave Owen the rest of his back. Walking the rest of the way to his dust-covered pickup, he gripped the door handle hard enough to make his knuckles protest before yanking the door open and pulling himself into the driver’s seat. A fresh sheen of sweat formed beneath the brim of his work-worn baseball hat, and Eli adjusted the thing against the glaring, late-afternoon sunlight.

  He reeled in a deep breath, but still, his frustration lingered like the smell of old, stale smoke. He might not have an all-work ethic like Owen or feel like he’d been born to farm like Hunter and their old man, but he wasn’t a degenerate. He did his share on the farm—maybe not as often or as hard as everyone else, but he still knew how to put in a long day just like the rest of them.

  Man, the days had felt as if they’d each lasted a week lately. And the labor was the least of the hardship.

  After all, hard work was a whole lot easier if you were actually meant for what you were doing.

  Eli’s chin snapped up, the thought jamming his chest chock-full of don’t go there before he mashed down on it completely. Yeah, he might be the odd man out at Cross Creek, and yeah again, tensions were at an all-time high from all the unforeseen circumstances they’d been fielding lately and the slower-than-usual business they’d seen as a result. But he’d been born and bred on Cross Creek soil, just like his brothers, his father, and his grandfather besides. He’d never even set so much as a baby toe outside the state of Virginia, for God’s sake.

  He couldn’t exactly tell anyone he knew he didn’t belong there. And he sure as hell couldn’t tell anyone where his true, fire-in-the-belly passion lay.

  Not when it was far, far easier to just grin, do the bare minimum at the farm, and cover the rest up.

  Eli turned the key in the ignition, sending the F-150’s engine into a low rumble. All of this scrapping between him and Owen was just making him stupid. What Eli really needed was to forget about his brother’s sky-high expectations and just go through the motions of getting back to normal.

  Until their next argument, anyway. Then it would be rinse and repeat all over again, and dammit, he needed more than a little distance to get his mind right.

  He needed Shakespeare.

  Eli angled his truck over the two-lane road leading into Millhaven proper, tapping the touch screen on the F-150’s sound system until A Midsummer Night’s Dream started rolling through the speakers. Yeah, he knew the Shakespeare thing was weird—enough so that he went to great lengths to hide it from his brothers and his buddies and pretty much anyone with a pulse. Most folks around Millhaven were content to blow off steam the old-fashioned way, with a cold beer or hot sex, and Eli had to admit, he wasn’t unhappy to go that route, either. But when shit got really critical, the best way for him to get right side up again was to hit the classics. Shakespeare. Twain. Hemingway. He’d loved to read since middle school. And writing? Even freaking better.

  Fire, meet belly.

  The trip into town was short but scenic, and Eli’s truck ate up the dozen or so miles of sun-drenched farmland in about as many minutes. The two-lane ribbon of faded asphalt became Town Street about a half mile from downtown, which was probably a misnomer, although with the highly limited travel in Eli’s past, he couldn’t really say with any authority. But the neatly kept cobblestone walkway lining the four blocks of “downtown” Millhaven had always seemed right nice to him, even if they weren’t fancy. The town had the essentials—The Corner Market, Clementine’s Diner (Best. Cheeseburger. Ever.), Doc Sanders’s office, and the fire station, plus a handful more businesses to round out the bunch. The farming co-op sat smack in the middle of things on the corner of the second block, and Eli was careful to switch his sound system over to the local country station before pulling within earshot of the place.

  “Freaking great.” A sour taste filled his mouth at the sight of the dusty, rusty Chevy Silverado parked front and center by the co-op’s main entrance. While under normal circumstances Eli had no problem engaging in the ongoing pissing contest he’d had going with Greyson Whittaker since about puberty, he so wasn’t in the mood to tangle with the only son of Cross Creek Farm’s biggest rival today. Maybe he’d get lucky and Greyson would be in the back, placing an order for feed or fertilizer. Better still, maybe the stars would align, and the guy would just sense Eli’s utterly shitastic mood and leave him be for once.

  Or maybe Greyson would be leaning against the front counter with a toothpick tucked into one corner of his mouth while the other side kicked up into a smirk that broadcast very bad things on the immediate horizon, and shit, shit, shit. Eli needed this like he needed a prostate exam with a tax-audit chaser.

  His heart kicked at his sternum as he lifted his chin at Billy Masterson behind the counter, ignoring Greyson altogether. “Hey, Billy. I need to grab a half dozen bales of Poly Baler.”

  “Sure thing, Eli,” Billy said, shifting a nonsubtle glance at Greyson before turning toward the computer system set up behind the counter. “So how’s it going?”

  It was a bit of a loaded question, coming from Masterson. The guy was cool enough, but he also had a thing for lighting up the small-town grapevine like a fifty-foot spruce on Christmas Eve.

  “Alright,” Eli said, jamming a thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. Greyson’s smirk felt like an army of hornets buzzing over him, just waiting for an excuse to attack, and yeah, today had offici
ally hit the redline on his Suck-o-Meter. “You want me to pull around back to help load them?”

  “Hang on a sec.” Billy’s brows lowered for just a second beneath the brim of his John Deere baseball cap before his expression grew uneasy. “Did you want to put these on Cross Creek’s line of credit?”

  Hell of a weird question. They’d used the farm’s account at the co-op for the past . . . well, ever, as far as Eli knew. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because it looks like y’all have reached your limit. There’s a hold on your account until the balance is paid off.”

  Eli’s pulse hopscotched through his veins. That couldn’t possibly be right. The Cross men might be way better farmers than number crunchers, but no way would they have missed something as big as paying off their co-op tab.

  Before Eli could say so, though, Greyson butted in with a snort. “Jesus, Cross. Haven’t you got anyone over there at that two-bit operation to run your books for you?”

  “Shut up, Greyson.” The adrenaline pumping through Eli’s body was putting a hard limit on his creativity, but at least the directive got his point across.

  Unfortunately, Greyson didn’t budge, his dark eyes turning junkyard-dog mean as he narrowed them on Eli. “Who’s gonna make me? You?”

  Billy’s stare went wide, moving back and forth between Eli and Greyson as if he were watching a testosterone-soaked tennis match, and Eli struggled to pull a breath past his tightening lungs. His laid-back attitude only stretched so far. He needed to get Greyson out of his face so he could fix the misunderstanding with Billy, get the baling twine he’d errand-boyed himself out here for, and get the hell out of Dodge before the last of his patience hit the skids.

  Knotting his arms over his chest, Eli fixed Greyson with the most bored up-and-down he could possibly muster. “Your village called. They’re missing their idiot, so why don’t you run along home.”

  “That’s rich, coming from someone who can’t even keep his books straight.” Greyson paused to raise one black brow. “Or is it more than just the books? Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise over there at precious Cross Creek Farm.”

  The words made a direct hit in the center of Eli’s sternum. “Everything’s fine at Cross Creek,” he snapped.

  But dammit, the response came out too sharp and too fast, and for as big of a dick as Greyson Whittaker was, he sadly wasn’t stupid. “Bullshit.”

  “What did you say?” Eli asked, his heart thundering in his ears as he clung to the last thin thread of his control.

  “I said bullshit.” Greyson took just enough of a step forward over the linoleum to back up the taunt in his voice. “I see what everyone else around here sees. The crap weather might be affecting all of us, but with the way you Cross boys have been droppin’ like flies and can’t pay your bills now on top of it . . . I’m calling you out. I think your business is going under.”

  Eli’s composure vanished in a white-hot instant, all the tension of the day, the week—hell, the entire fucking season—cranking his jaw and turning his hands into fists. He was in Greyson’s dance space before his brain had fully registered the movement of his legs, but not even the sight of Billy’s shock in his peripheral vision or the fact that Greyson actually met him halfway for a chest bump could make him stand down.

  “You’re as dumb as you look,” Eli bit out, each syllable more bitter than the last.

  “Put your money where your mouth is and prove it, asshole.”

  Shock replaced the tiniest bit of the anger pulsing through Eli’s veins, and Greyson took full advantage of the pause to tack on, “I’ll bet you all the money on that tab of yours that Whittaker Hollow brings in more business than Cross Creek between now and Fall Fling.”

  Whoa. The challenge was a hell of a step up from their normal shit slinging. Millhaven’s town-wide harvest celebration was second only to the Watermelon Festival that kicked off the summer season, and Eli’s old man had five grand on the farm’s line of credit. But far be it for him to balk if Greyson wanted to let his attitude write the check that would pay it off.

  Still . . . “Like I’m going to trust you to give up honest numbers,” Eli said. Integrity had never been Greyson’s strong suit, and the Whittakers had been trying to best Cross Creek Farm for frigging decades. No way would Greyson take the honesty path if he thought that was in his reach. Which it wasn’t, but—

  “My mom could be the judge,” Billy offered. “She does both y’all’s business taxes anyway, right?”

  Both Eli and Greyson turned to look at the guy, whose mother was the only accountant in Millhaven.

  “Yeah,” they said simultaneously.

  Billy nodded, his head moving up and down on his beefy neck. “So she could figure out which farm brings in more revenue over the next four weeks without disclosing any business details, and she’s impartial.”

  “Perfect,” Greyson drawled, squaring his shoulders and settling himself right back in Eli’s face. “So what do you say, Cross? Are you ready to prove once and for all which one of us has the better farm?”

  Adrenaline, impulse, and something a whole lot deeper that Eli couldn’t name pushed the words out of his mouth before he could think twice.

  “Hope you’ve been saving your pennies, Whittaker, because I’m about to take them. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Scarlett Edwards-Stewart needed a shower. No, check that. What she really needed was a steamy, two-hour bubble bath followed by an equally long massage and enough sleep to make people wonder whether she was still breathing. She might love her job the way most people loved spouses or sports teams or anything else that could be invested in with a sheer ton of energy, sweat, and devotion, but even she had physical limits. Spending her day trekking through three different international airports and twice as many time zones with thirty pounds of photo gear slung over each shoulder after three weeks of nonstop of work?

  Apparently her ticket to finding them. At least temporarily.

  She lowered the duffel bag she’d been living out of for the better part of the month to the threshold of her Upper East Side apartment, following it with the gear case holding her lenses, rechargeable batteries, and portable tripods. Keeping the well-padded, bright-red bag holding her primary camera (aka Baby) on her hip, Scarlett moved through her living room, her five-inch platform wedges clack-clacking against the hardwood floors as she tugged open the blinds to reveal the gorgeous New York City skyline.

  “There. That’s better.” She grinned. Three weeks in Europe—first to shoot a photo documentary in Spain, then to cover the last two legs of the Tour de France before finishing up with a weeklong independent film festival in which an A-list Hollywood star was making his producing debut—had made her miss the city. Of course, as soon as Scarlett spent a week, maybe two, in the Big Apple, she’d be antsy to get up and go someplace else. That was the best thing about being a photographer, really.

  There were great images all over the world just waiting for her to frame them up and capture them forever. Bright, brilliant colors. Nuances of black and white. Snapshots hidden in plain sight, some existing for milliseconds, some outlasting time itself, each one waiting to be seen.

  All she had to do was hit the ends of the earth to uncover them.

  Scarlett placed her camera bag gently on one end of the walnut dining table that doubled as her desk space whenever she was in New York. Even though this was the only apartment she kept on a permanent basis, calling it “home” never felt quite right since she was gone more often than not. Yes, her adoptive dads still lived in New York, and they’d raised her happily in their Brooklyn brownstone, less than ten miles from the spot where she currently stood. But as far as Scarlett was concerned, the concept of a place to settle down in and call home was more like a unicorn than anything else.

  It might be magical for some people, but for her? It was just a great, big, sparkly myth.

  Her cell phone sounded off in a buzz-and-chime combo that
sent her heartbeat into the ozone layer and her awareness on a straight shot back to reality. Reaching into the back pocket of her vintage 501s, she slid her iPhone into her palm, a fast and easy smile lifting the edges of her mouth at the sight of the name on the caller ID.

  “Mal!” Of course, her best friend’s built-in sonar would be pinging like mad now that Scarlett was back on New York soil.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d be on the ground yet,” Mallory said, her voice oddly muffled.

  A thread of guilt stabbed through Scarlett’s belly. Dammit, she should’ve known Mallory would be worried about her flying. Not even twenty-one years could erase the fact that her best friend’s parents had been killed in a plane crash. God, Scarlett could still remember how sad and scared Mallory had been that first night in foster care.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t text you when my flight landed. Customs took forever, and they went over every last piece of my gear.” Thankfully, Scarlett had the whole hand-check-the-bags, these-are-my-credentials thing down to an art form. “But yes, I landed safe and sound about ninety minutes ago, and you have great timing because I literally just walked into to my apartment. So what’s up? Did I miss anything juicy in the last three weeks of city life?”

  Mallory paused. “Oh, you know. Not too much.”

  Nope. Sadly for Mallory, Scarlett had a titanium-reinforced bullshit meter, and right now, the thing was going apeshit. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “What is this, Opposite Day? We’re not nine anymore. Spill it, Parsons.”

  “Fine. I . . . I’m just having a little trouble at work,” Mallory started. But she didn’t elaborate, and jeez, what was that sound in her voice?

  “Trouble at work,” Scarlett repeated gently. Mallory ran an online food magazine that, while relatively small, was the product of her heart and soul and more than half a decade’s worth of sleeves-rolled-up effort. “Okay. So on a scale of ice cream to chick flick movie marathon, how bad is it?”