by Susan Crosby
He shut the truck door and jogged up to the tractor, where Austin was sitting, already forming an attachment to the man. “You allowed to drive?” Annie heard Mitch ask her son.
He shook his head. If Austin said anything, Annie couldn’t hear it. It’d been a bone of contention between them. He thought he was old enough. Maybe he was. Maybe she babied him too much, overprotected him. Farm life was different for kids. Several of his friends drove tractors already.
But Austin was likely the only child she would have, because she sure wasn’t getting married ever again, so she probably clung to him too much. She would only have him for eight more years before he was a man, and she’d pretty much been mother and father to him since her ex left. If Austin really did get to fly to San Diego to visit his dad, Annie would be amazed, because he made a lot of promises he never kept.
At least Mitch didn’t interfere. He told Austin to slide over, then squeezed himself next to her son. After the first jerk to get the chain taut, it was a smooth, slow ride into the shed. She wondered if the truck really could be fixed. How did he get parts for a nearly sixty-year-old vehicle?
“Is this home for you? The Red Valley?” she asked him as he crouched to unhook the chains from his truck. Austin had taken off with his dog, an Australian shepherd named Bo, who loved to chase the chickens, satisfying his herding instincts.
“Yep.” Mitch moved to the tractor. Her gaze dropped to his rear as he crouched down again.
She could stare at that fine feature all day. The rest of him, too. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips. All man. She deliberately looked away. “Why were you in Argentina?”
“For work.”
Great. Now he’d decided to act more like a cowboy and go almost silent. “Cattle, you said.”
“The opportunity came up. I went.”
“Is your family still living in the area?”
“Yep. We’re not estranged. I’m just kinda independent.”
“Stubborn, you mean?”
He smiled at that as he stood, chains in hand. Using his wrist he tilted his hat back a little. His teeth were white and straight, his lips tempting. “Some have said so.”
“So, you’ve worked cattle. Have you farmed?”
“I’ve picked up a lot of life skills along the way. I’m thirty-six, in case you’re wondering.”
“I’m thirty. In case you were.”
He nodded but didn’t comment. No flattery. No, “you sure don’t look your age” compliment. Did she look older? Worn-out? Technically she should, since she was tuckered out from stringing her little farm along, hoping to turn it into a thriving enterprise again, needing to make enough money to live on with a few more comforts than they had now, which were pretty much nonexistent.
Mitch reached into the truck. “If I could stow my gear, I’ll get started on the old greenhouse.”
“I’ll show you which room is yours,” she said, walking beside him. “Austin, grab some gloves so you can help with the demo work. We’ll be right back.”
Annie led the way down the narrow hallway, pointing out Austin’s room and her own, then Mitch’s. It was beyond sparse, containing only a double bed, a dresser and a lamp.
“It’s not much,” she said, no apology in her voice.
“It’s fine. Don’t need more’n this. Thanks.” He tossed his duffel on the floor next to the bed.
She moved into the doorway, blocking his exit. He cocked his head. His mouth curled up on one side.
“Ma’am?” he said politely, pointedly, his eyes taking on some sparkle.
“I’ll be needing you to dump the contents of your bag onto your bed.”
The smile left his face. He crossed his arms. “That would be an invasion of my privacy.”
She moved into the room, shutting the door behind her in case Austin came flying in. “No. This would be your background check.”
Chapter Two
Mitch didn’t have anything to hide, but her command annoyed him nonetheless. Hell, he was doing her a favor, not vice versa. Although, to be fair, she didn’t know that....
He refrained from jerking the bag open, acting casual instead. He lifted out the contents. First, five pairs of Wranglers, the same ones he’d been wearing since he left home, so they were a little worse for wear. Then four T-shirts, four long-sleeved shirts, an extra pair of boots, swim trunks, socks, briefs, belt, gloves and a couple of different weight jackets. Nothing fancy. He’d lived as a gaucho, although he’d been employed by one progressive ranch, not roaming the plains looking for work as many did. He hadn’t needed possessions beyond the basics.
Mitch pulled out his shaving kit, unzipped it and passed it to her. Nothing was American-made, so the words were in Spanish, but each product was recognizable, including a strip of condoms, which brought color to her face when she pulled them out.
“Safety first,” he said, enjoying her discomfort. “They’re not for show. I always use ’em.” The last thing he’d wanted was to deal with an unplanned pregnancy in a foreign country—or anywhere else, for that matter.
“That’s important,” she replied a little stiffly, uttering her first words since he’d started unpacking. She examined the empty duffel bag, checking for anything he might have tried to hide, he guessed. There were no pockets, no hidden contraband.
“I don’t do drugs, Annie. Never have.”
“Are you a drinker?”
“I like a cold beer now and then.” He’d done his share of drinking when he’d first arrived in Argentina. Still grieving his grandfather’s death, he’d sought oblivion from the pain, but it hadn’t taken him long to see how stupid that was. Granddad would’ve knocked him alongside the head for hanging on to his grief—and his guilt.
“You and your son are safe with me,” he said calmly as he transferred his clothes to the dresser, getting past his resentment, glad she hadn’t been stupid about the situation, after all. He almost felt Granddad patting his shoulder. “You’re welcome to check out my truck, too.”
“Thank you.” She opened the bedroom door.
“Like I had any choice,” he muttered under his breath as he followed her out. He’d lived in the Red Valley forever, not counting the past three years and during college, coming home to work the ranch during summer breaks. People knew him, trusted him. It was strange not to be trusted automatically. Although, maybe he would’ve been if he’d given her his last name.
Outside, Mitch attached a long, low trailer to the tractor and drove it up to the demolished greenhouse. The new structure she’d bought was lighter, and could be erected by one person, according to the packaging. High tunnel greenhouses had become familiar sites in farm country over the years, their Quonset-hut appearance easy to spot, their walls made of almost-clear plastic covering, a less expensive option to the old-style greenhouses.
The three of them hauled debris all afternoon. The dog and chickens got in their way frequently, but the atmosphere was congenial. Mitch caught Annie looking at him now and then. Whether she was taking his measure as a worker or giving him the eye, he didn’t know. He just hoped she wasn’t catching him doing the same thing in return. She was physically strong, able to carry much more weight than he’d anticipated. And she was tenacious, stopping only for a drink of water now and then, making sure that he and Austin did the same.
“What are you gonna plant in your new greenhouse?” he asked during one of their water breaks.
“Specialty potatoes and baby lettuces. I’ll get most of my seedlings started in there, too.”
“There’s a big market for baby lettuce?”
“An incredible one, especially organic. And a fairly new clamoring for organic flowers.”
“Who buys those?”
“People who care about the chemicals being used by the big international growers
, which is where a large percentage of the flowers sold in this country come from.”
Austin piped up. “I pick off the bad bugs.”
Mitch knew all about organic, humane cattle ranching. His family had pioneered it, one of only a handful in the country who were certified. But flowers? “No one eats flowers.”
“Sure they do,” Annie said. “The upscale restaurants—and a lot of home cooks—use certain flowers in salads all the time. But mostly I’m talking about table flowers, not edible. Whether or not we eat them, we handle them. If a restaurant is going to all the expense and trouble to provide chemical-free food for their customers, shouldn’t their table flowers also be organic?” She drained her water bottle, set it aside, then tugged on her gloves. “My goals were taken into consideration when I applied for a federal grant for the high tunnel and got it. I want to build a standard greenhouse, as well. But first I need to prove I have enough business to warrant it. I’m not certified yet, but I’m working on it. I’ll succeed. I have to.”
“I gathered that,” he said, then shook his head. “Flowers. Who knew?”
She smiled, which took years off her face. “You probably don’t make a habit of decorating your dining room table with a bouquet.”
“How’d you guess?” He set his bottle next to hers.
“I didn’t know how successful the flower business could be. I found out by accident when I worked the farmer’s market for the first time last year. I brought a bouquet from the yard to decorate my stall. It was the first thing that sold. The next week I took along as many as I could put together. They all sold. This year I made it an official crop.” She pointed toward the back of her property. “I’ve got all that acreage out there that’s not being used. I’m thinking about having a real flower farm after I’m certified.”
“You’re ambitious,” he said as they carried a long, unwieldy beam together.
She nodded but didn’t add anything. The determined look on her face said more, however. He wanted to dig deeper and find out why, to understand. He’d never had to start a new venture on his own, had always known what his place in life would be.
And had sometimes fought against it.
He’d never struggled like Annie, although he’d often worked long, hard hours and fought Mother Nature on plenty of occasions. He’d been bone-weary, ached from head to toe and wished he was anywhere but on a horse chasing stray cattle, but he also loved it. Couldn’t imagine himself being anything but a cattleman.
Around six o’clock, Annie went inside to make dinner. The old greenhouse was mostly taken care of, split into two piles, reusable and trash. The salvageable items would be stacked in the barn, the rest hauled to the dump.
Mitch opened the hood of his truck, which brought Austin and Bo over to investigate. Austin climbed up on the bumper and looked inside, mimicking Mitch.
“What’d you think is wrong with Lulu?” the boy asked.
Mitch fiddled with various parts. “There’s some rust from sitting for so long. Could be that’s all it is, ’cept I drove her about fifty miles before she conked out. The gas is fresh, but the oil isn’t. Know much about engines?”
“Nope. Mom’s always mad if something goes wrong with our truck because she can’t fix it. Too many computers in it or something. She calls it a con...cons something.”
“Conspiracy?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty funny when she’s mad.”
Mitch enjoyed that image for a minute. “She fixes trucks?”
“Her dad taught her when she was a kid. She fixes everything. Or tries to, anyway. Repairmen are not in our budget.”
The way Austin said that made Mitch smile. “Your mom seems like one mighty strong woman.”
Austin shrugged. “She cries sometimes. At night. In bed. When she thinks I can’t hear.”
The thought twisted Mitch’s gut tight. “Farming’s hard work.”
“Yep.”
“For you, too,” Mitch added, fiddling with a belt.
“I can handle it.”
The grown-up way the boy said the words got to Mitch as much as hearing that Annie cried sometimes. Once again, it reminded him of how simple his life had been in comparison. He’d always known there would be hearty food on the table and a solid roof over his head.
Mitch gathered his tools and started pulling parts. He explained the function of each piece to Austin and let him handle them, showing him how they fit together to make a working unit. Bo padded over and sniffed Mitch now and then, giving him a good stare with his direct blue eyes, finally lying down between them as they worked. Then a chicken came into view, taunting him, and the dog was off and running.
The peacefulness of the moment struck Mitch after a while. He couldn’t remember a time like it, except— Mitch swallowed around a lump in his throat. Except when he was a kid and his grandfather was teaching him how to work on the truck. It was their time, uninterrupted by chores or other demands. The bond they’d forged because of that time together never once weakened.
After a few minutes the screen door creaked open. “Dinner in five,” Annie called out.
“That means come in and wash up,” Austin said.
“Think we’re having chili?” Mitch asked as they climbed the front porch stairs.
“That or omelets.”
But the scent that hit Mitch when he opened the door was of frying onions. His mouth watered. “Smell’s great,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the kitchen wall, waiting for Austin to finish up in the bathroom before taking his turn.
“Cheese omelets,” she said. “Fried potatoes and onions, sliced tomatoes. Plenty of bread, too.”
He spotted an electric bread maker on the counter. She must’ve put the ingredients in earlier.
“Anything I can do?”
“It’s under control, thanks.”
Mitch watched her turn out a large omelet onto a plate, then she pulled two plates from inside the oven, with smaller omelets already on them, and started piling them with potatoes and onions. She knew her way around her kitchen, her movements smooth and practiced. His gaze landed on the apron bow that rested just below the small of her back, inviting a playful tug, he thought, then a sweep of his hands over her smooth, tight rear.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He turned to one side, the doorjamb blocking her view before she could notice he was getting aroused. That would be the quickest way to be sent packing, for sure.
“Thanks for your patience with Austin, Mitch. He’s a very curious boy. I know he asks a lot of questions.”
“He’s a good kid. You’ve raised him well.” He hears you cry during the night, and he worries about you, is protective of you. “He told me you can fix just about everything.”
“‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ I’m grateful for the internet. I can pull up instructions on how to do most anything.”
“Then why’d you need a handyman?”
“Muscle. Can’t get that online, can I?”
Austin came running down the hall and took a seat at the table. Mitch didn’t spend a lot of time cleaning up, either, anxious to dig in. The omelets were light, perfectly cooked, the bread fresh and hot, no butter necessary, which was a good thing, since she hadn’t put any on the table. The potatoes and onions were browned and mouthwatering.
“I’d forgotten how good a tomato can taste,” he said.
“From vine to table in ten minutes. Can’t get better than that,” Annie said.
Mitch saw her shoulders drop, her face smooth out, and was glad for the visible signs of relaxation. “What do you do after dinner?”
“We commune with nature,” Austin said, grinning.
Annie swatted him playfully. “We chase the chickens into their roost. Actually Bo herds them, and we shut them in. After that we tidy up the g
rounds, do a little raking, that sort of thing. Then we sit on the porch and admire our land.”
“Or play video games or watch TV,” Austin added.
“And I have lots of computer work to do. Then we’re in bed pretty early.”
“The life of a farmer,” Mitch said.
“And ranchers,” Annie said.
“Definitely. So, who does the dishes?”
“Mom washes. I dry.” Austin stood and gathered plates.
“How about if I dry tonight?” Mitch suggested.
Annie zeroed in on him, wondering why he would volunteer to help with dishes. Because it would put them close to each other? She hadn’t missed all the looks he’d given her while they’d worked.
“Unless there’s a chore you want me to tackle instead, boss?”
Boss? She saw his mouth twitch just slightly. She was also aware of Austin waiting for her answer. Drying dishes wasn’t his favorite task. “If you feel like raking, Mitch, I’d be happy to turn that task over to you.”
“No problem.” He took his own plate to the kitchen, winked at her, then left the house.
She let out the breath she’d been holding. The man was easy to be around. Too easy—except for the feelings he stirred inside her, dead so long she’d forgotten such feelings existed. Those weren’t easy at all, creating a complication she didn’t want or need.
At least he uses condoms.
The thought made her smile.
“What’s so funny, Mom?”
She rinsed a handful of silverware and passed them to Austin. “I just feel good.”
“It’s Mitch.” Austin nodded sagely. “Even Bo likes him, and Bo doesn’t usually let strangers near me. I hope he’s around for a while,” he added in almost a whisper, as if wishing it out loud would destroy the possibility.
“Can’t afford him for long, honey. Sounds like he doesn’t stay in one place for any amount of time, either.”
“I know. Why doesn’t he tell us his last name? Do you think he’s hiding from someone?”
“I don’t have an answer for that, Austin. He must have a good reason.”
