Crossing the Line (The Cross Creek Series Book 2)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “So,” Scarlett said as he pulled out onto the dirt-and-gravel road leading away from the house, drawing out the word just long enough to trip his uh-oh sensors. “Now that it’s nice and light out, I was thinking about shooting some video.”

  Eli used the entire length of his inhale to temper the slam of his heartbeat before throwing on a cocky smile. “Be my guest, but I have to be honest. That old adage about watching the grass grow is sadly pretty true.”

  “And that is precisely why I want to give people something more exciting to watch than the grass.”

  His knuckles tightened a fraction over the smooth leather of the steering wheel, and he tried a different tack. “I’m sure Hunter or Owen would be happy to oblige.”

  “Okay, but they’re not here and you are,” Scarlett pointed out, and jeez, how could her smile be so pretty and so merciless at the same damned time? “Plus, between all the work Owen does in the greenhouse on the other side of the property and Hunter’s meetings with Emerson to develop marketing strategies, I barely ever see either of them in action, and I need a story today. Now.”

  For a brief second, Eli wondered whether Scarlett had a setting other than all-in-right-this-second. But as much as he hated it, he’d known that dodging the camera for the entire month was going to be impossible. Better this than copping to the fact that the reason they barely ever saw his brothers on any given day was that Eli always got the grunt work and extra jobs.

  He went for a haphazard shrug. “If you need a warm body in a still shot or two, I guess I can stand in. But no video.”

  Scarlett’s smile faltered, and she pushed her windblown hair from her face as he pulled the truck to a less than seamless stop in front of the footpath leading to the apple grove. “Shooting video is easy. All you have to do is talk about how much you love the farm. You can even pretend you’re talking to just me if you want.”

  Translation: you can pretend you’re pretzeling the truth for just me instead of the entirety of the Internet. No frigging thanks. “I’ve got too much work for this,” he said, pushing his way out of the driver’s seat and heading to the bed of the truck as a case in point.

  Scarlett followed on the other side of the F-150, her falter turning into a frown. “Let’s get something straight. Cross Creek is pretty and all, but I’m not out here for shits and giggles. I have a job to do, too.”

  “And I’m not keeping you from it,” Eli reminded her. “All I’m telling you is that if you want someone to play reality TV, you’re going to have to ask Hunter or Owen.”

  “But I’m here right now with you. You’re my point of contact, Eli, and—”

  Just like that, his frustration tipped. “Scarlett, I’m not changing my mind. I have enough work on my plate to keep three of me running all over hell’s half acre, and believe me when I say that even if by some miracle I can get to all of it, there’ll be plenty more waiting. So could we please stop wasting precious time here? These apples aren’t gonna jump off the trees in surrender.”

  For a second, she said nothing, simply standing in front of him with her hands on her hips and her mouth flattened into thin, pale line. But then she let out a curt “Fine,” turning toward the sun-strewn path leading to the apple grove, and halle-freaking-lujah. Maybe now she’d stop bugging him, and he could get a jump on this damned bet, once and for all.

  Eli hooked a palm beneath the handle of one of the stepladders in the bed of his truck, grabbing a sturdy wooden crate with his other hand before following Scarlett down the path. Although she remained uncharacteristically quiet, he had zero doubt her brain was pinging a mile a millisecond, and that as soon as they reached their destination, both her body and her questions would follow suit.

  Because they always did.

  Taking a deep breath to nail down his resolve, Eli made his way toward the grove. A soft breeze cut through the sun’s efforts to make the morning unbearable, rustling through the bright-green leaves of the trees in front of him and carrying just a hint of the crisp scent of apples. With the commonsense layout of eight rows of twenty-five trees each, the grove wasn’t much to look at from the scenic standpoint. But the branches were studded with enough fruit to send a shot of fuck-yeah through Eli’s blood, and finally, finally, a check mark for his utterly anemic win column.

  He didn’t waste any time crossing the grass and lowering both the stepladder and the crate in his grasp. “Yesssss,” he murmured, 90 percent under his breath but still out loud. Reaching up into the low branches of the tree in front of him, he cupped a freshly ripe Gala in his palm, the skin of the apple smooth and warm from the sunshine hugging its red-gold curves. “So when you pick apples, the most important thing to remember is . . .”

  But the rest of his tutorial fell prey to the fact that Scarlett had slipped past him and shouldered her way under the thick of the branches, headed directly to the tree trunk.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Eli asked, even though it was painfully obvious that she was A) climbing the tree in front of them, and B) in all probability, insane.

  Scarlett didn’t even spare him a backward glance as she maneuvered higher into the network of branches. “I’m playing Tiddlywinks with manhole covers. What do you think I’m doing? If I want a great shot, I’ve got to go get it.”

  “You can’t climb to the top to take pictures,” he warned. Okay, so the trees were a few decades old, and the branches weren’t exactly toothpicks. But they weren’t indestructible, either, and even though she’d shrugged out of the backpack and second camera she normally lugged all over God’s green earth, any abrupt shift in weight could spell danger. Not that a little thing like bodily harm would probably deter her.

  Case in point. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can.”

  As if to prove her claim, she wrapped her fingers around the branch to her right, planting the sole of one bright-red sneaker, then the other, into a juncture of tree limbs to propel herself even higher into the lush foliage.

  Dread crowded Eli’s chest. How had she already made it ten feet off the ground? “I’m not trying to argue semantics, Scarlett. What I meant was—”

  “You think it’s dangerous, I could get hurt, blah, blah.” She surprised him with a laugh that was more humor than heat, and for the love of Christmas, this woman’s tenacity knew no bounds. “Seriously, Eli. I know you think I’m some sort of brainless city girl who can’t take care of herself, but trust me. I’ve done far worse than a little tree climbing to get a good shot. And God knows I need to send Mallory pictures of something.”

  Fuck if that one didn’t land a direct hit. Still . . . “You need to stop climbing.”

  “What I need is to do my job. And I’m perfectly fine. See?” Scarlett turned her chin over her shoulder, her sassy smile holding enough brass for a marching band. “As a matter of fact, I bet if I go a little higher, I’ll be able to clear this branch here and see half the farm.”

  Eli saw where she intended to go. Realized a split second later what lay hidden in the leaves directly beside it. And lurched forward with his heart in his windpipe.

  “Scarlett, stop!”

  The cut-glass tone of his voice must have gotten through her shit-stubborn determination, because—thank fuck—she paused. But in that moment, she must have also heard the soft, insidious buzzing of the yellow jackets in the softball-sized hive now just over her shoulder, because she whipped around, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. The shock on her face lasted for only a time-stopping instant before it morphed into pain. Scarlett yanked her arm from the tree branch with enough force to kill what was left of her already precarious balance.

  And in the next breath, she tumbled all the way out of the apple tree.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Scarlett!”

  Eli’s pulse hammered the word from his throat, and he moved out of pure, undiluted instinct. Stabbing his boots into the soft, uneven grass beneath the apple tree, he surged forward, his arms shooting out just in time for Scarlett to crash in
to them in a tangle of jerky motions and top-shelf curse words. The force made him stagger despite the crush of adrenaline sending his muscles into lockdown, and he squeezed his arms even more tightly around Scarlett’s body as he fought to regain his balance.

  “Camera,” she gasped, her body curled in over the equipment still hanging by a miracle around her neck.

  “Screw the camera,” Eli bit out, but she struggled hard enough in search of the damned thing that he had to either relent or lose the footing he’d just fucking gained. “Okay, okay. Let’s get clear of the tree so we can take a look.” That he’d be looking at her just as closely as she’d surely look at the camera was beside the point. But shit, she had to have been stung at least once or twice, and no way had she fallen from that high without tagging a couple of branches on the way down.

  If he hadn’t caught her . . .

  “Right.” He smashed the thought before it could fully form. Setting her down in the grass about ten paces from the tree, he scanned her from head to heels for any obvious injuries, relief skidding through him when he found none. “Did you get stung?”

  “I . . . um. Yeah, I think on my back.” Scarlett’s rapid-fire blink told him her adrenaline had kicked in nice and hard, but her voice stayed steady, tough. “I’m not allergic or anything, though. I’m fine.”

  Yeah, no. “You’re not fine. Let me take a look.”

  She opened her mouth, and if past experience was any indicator at all, it was to protest. But Eli cut her off before she could even start.

  “You fell ten feet out of a goddamn tree and got stung by some of the nastiest insects going. I know you’re tough, Scarlett, but you’re not indestructible. If you’re hurt, you need to let me help you.”

  After a microsecond’s worth of a pause, she nodded, and Eli would bet the concession smarted as much as the yellow jacket stings. Still, he wasn’t going to sit around and wait for her to change her mind. He moved over the grass to kneel behind her, gently placing one hand on her shoulder and the other at the hem of her flowy black-and-white-striped top.

  “Oh, ow,” Scarlett cried out, arching away from his touch a mere second after his fingers skimmed up to make contact with the middle of her cotton-covered back. With good goddamn reason, too, Eli realized as he shifted her shirt away from her skin to get a better look.

  “Jesus.” Eli winced at the trio of furious red welts on the back of her rib cage, then again at the cluster of scratches below them, closer to her spine. “A yellow jacket must’ve flown under your shirt,” he said, eyeballing the loose armholes beneath her short sleeves. “They’re vicious bastards, good for multiple stings when they’ve got a mind for it. Looks like you banged into a branch on the way down, too.”

  “Great,” she said, and although her toughness took center stage with that set of her chin over her shoulder, the way she had her lips pressed together betrayed the truth.

  She was hurting, and not a little.

  “Alright,” Eli said, his gut going for a full corkscrew before his resolve took over. “We’ve got to get this scrape cleaned up and the welts treated with some baking soda before they get too swollen. Your back’s probably going to ache like crazy for a day or two, but the good news is, I promise you’ll live.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t need all that first aid. Really, I’m fine.” Scarlett shifted her weight over the grass, likely in an effort to stand up and prove it. “The light right now is perfect, and—” He’d moved back in front of her before his brain had fully registered the command to go. But she’d gotten hurt on his watch. Superficial or not, he was going to make damned sure her injury was taken care of. “And the longer we argue, the longer the first aid will take. Is your camera okay?”

  She looked down to the equipment she hadn’t let go of since the second Eli had put her down. “I think so. Yes.”

  “Good. Then we can get right back to business when we’re done. But first, I’m taking you to the house to patch you up. Now are you coming, or do I have to carry you?”

  Whether it was the dead certainty he’d pinned to the words or the promise to get straight back to work after he’d cleaned up her cuts, Eli couldn’t be sure. But something propelled Scarlett to give in with a nod.

  Gathering her backpack and spare camera took less than a minute, and the trip to his truck was equally short. After a quick drive back to the now (thankfully) empty main house, they got situated at the kitchen table, with Scarlett sitting backward in one of the Windsor chairs and Eli behind her, first aid kit in hand. Shifting forward, she dropped her hands down low to lift the hem of her T-shirt. But now that Eli’s adrenal gland had slid back out of the stratosphere, he realized Scarlett would have to reveal a not-small amount of skin in order for him to treat her stings and scrapes, and whoa, yeah, that was definitely a bunch of petal-pink satin and lace wrapped high around her rib cage.

  “Uh,” Eli blurted, a bolt of heat laddering down his spine as he forced his focus to the cream-and-tan pattern of the kitchen tiles. “I can get you a towel or something. You know, to wrap around your shoulders if you want.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable, if that’s what you mean. Not about that, anyway.” She tucked the bottom edge of her shirt under her bra, baring the middle of her back down to the top of her jeans but effectively covering everything else.

  “Yeah, I know the yellow jacket stings hurt,” he said, slipping to the sink to wash his hands. Between the apples and the handful of different berries they’d taken to growing in higher quantities over the last decade, yellow jacket stings tended to be an occupational hazard around Cross Creek. Still, they hurt something fierce. Uncomfortable was probably an understatement.

  Scarlett huffed out a laugh, humorless and soft, as she rested her arms and upper body over the back of the chair in front of her. “I didn’t mean that, either. You can go ahead and say it.”

  “Say what?” Eli asked, moving back in behind her at the table.

  The brows-up look she sent over her shoulder clearly outlined her disbelief. “I told you so.”

  Eli matched her laugh, only his was actually genuine. “And what’s that going to get me, exactly? If I say I told you so, is that gonna make you any less hurt? Little burn,” he added, spraying the scrape on her back with the antiseptic from the first aid kit.

  “Ow! Mother f—” Scarlett’s muscles flexed as her spine went bowstring tight, and she sucked in a breath on an audible inhale. “No,” she said after a second. “It’s not going to make me any less hurt. But climbing the tree was stupid. Obviously.”

  “Climbing the tree was impulsive,” he corrected, an unwelcome pang arrowing deep into his gut at the fresh memory of her falling from the branches. “But saying I told you so won’t change the fact that you did it. Seems like the only thing it would do is add insult to injury, and I’m fairly certain you won’t leap before you look again. At least, not where apple trees are concerned.”

  “I won’t.” She tucked her chin to her chest, not even flinching as Eli dabbed at the welts on her back, even though by now, they’d damn near doubled in size. “I just . . . Mallory’s my best friend. FoodE means everything to her. I came here to get her a blockbuster story that will bolster her business, and I wanted the perfect shot.”

  “I get that,” Eli said, and as fucked up as the admission was, he did.

  “Really?” Clearly, she was as shocked about the whole thing as he was. But whether it was her straight-up honesty or the uncharacteristic softness in her voice, something pushed the truth out of his mouth and into the space between them.

  “Last week I bet a rival farmer five thousand dollars that Cross Creek would make more money than his family’s farm this harvest.”

  Scarlett turned to stare at him over her shoulder, realization beginning to spread out over the surprise on her face. “Is that why you’ve been working like a madman? To try and make good on a bet?”

  Eli’s gut knotted, but since he wasn’t about to get gabby about the love/hate thing he had go
ing on with his brother—or anything else, really—he went with, “That’s most of the reason, yeah. It’s kind of a long story. Anyway, I get where you’re coming from, wanting that perfect shot. I’d love a perfect solution right about now, myself. I can’t really blame you for throwing your all into trying to get that. Although”—he paused with his hands halfway over the first aid kit, hardening his tone by just enough to hammer his next words home—“you do something impulsive that could put you in harm’s way again, me and you are gonna have words, and they won’t be ‘happy birthday.’ There’s a thousand different ways to get hurt around here, and I’m none too interested in showing you any more of ’em firsthand. You got it?”

  “Yeah.” Scarlett gave up a small nod. “I’ve got it. I promise.”

  “Good.” Eli turned back toward the supplies laid out over the table. Patching her up the rest of the way took only a few quick moves; after all, baking soda and water might be an old-fashioned remedy for swelling, but it was an easy fix that worked the same as all those fancy drugstore creams. With a few gauze pads and some well-placed medical tape, she was good to go.

  “All set,” he said, taking a step back and reaching for the discarded packaging littering the table’s worn, honey-colored surface.

  But as quickly as he’d created the space between them, Scarlett stood up and closed it. “We could help each other out, you know. I understand that you think getting in front of the camera is a bad idea,” she added before he could cut her off with a thanks, but no thanks. “But it sounds as if you need the word of mouth, and I damn sure need something more to send to Mallory. I don’t want to sensationalize what you do, or turn farming into a joke. I really am here to make Cross Creek look good.”

  Eli’s thoughts winged back to the shots she’d taken of his old man in the kitchen, realization working a path through his brain. “I know.”