Daddy's Little Matchmaker

by Roz Denny Fox

  ALAN ARRIVED HOME just in time for the evening meal.

  “I thought you’d gone up to the distillery,” Vestal said. “Hardy phoned here looking for you.” She passed Alan the pork chops Birdie had marinated and baked in the juice from homemade bread-and-butter pickles. That, together with mashed potatoes, was another of Louemma’s favorite meals. Alan glanced up from feeding the girl a small bite he’d cut.

  “What did Hardy want? There’s no problem with the new bottles, is there? I know the crew planned on bottling today.”

  “No problem. He called to say he liked what you did with the Web site. If you weren’t at the distillery, where did you go?”

  “I went to see Laurel Ashline. Since you persist in planting a garden we don’t need rather than taking care of your health, I decided to see if she’d hold the girls weaving classes here.”

  “And?”

  “And if a more uncooperative female exists, I don’t know where.”

  “So she turned you down?”

  Scowling, Alan fed Louemma several more bites without replying. His daughter choked before he realized he’d fed her too much, too fast. “Sorry, sweet pea.” He dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

  Louemma swallowed, then said, “I like Ms. Ashline. I don’t want lessons here, Daddy. You wouldn’t let her bring Dog into the house.”

  “I don’t recall saying he wasn’t welcome.”

  Louemma’s eyes widened. “But…you always said I couldn’t have a puppy or a kitty, ’cause pets mess up a house.”

  “That was Emily’s—er, I went along…” He sucked in an unsteady breath. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. Laurel refused to come here, with or without Dog.”

  “Perhaps if I invited her…” Vestal ventured.

  “Don’t waste your breath. If this were 1860, she’d be banging her drum, heading up the local temperance league.”

  “What’s a temperance league?” Louemma asked after chewing and swallowing another forkful of meat and potatoes.

  “Ask Miss Robinson. Temperance leaguers were the bane of your great-great-great-grandfather.”

  Vestal wagged a finger. “Not true. If a temperance-preaching woman hadn’t forced Dan Call to sell his small-scale whiskey-making business to Jasper Daniel, and if he hadn’t moved it from Lynchburg to the limestone quarry at Cave Spring Hollow, Jim Ridge would never have apprenticed under the famous Jack Daniel. His unique distilling process was a forerunner to the one we still use at Windridge. History lecture finished,” she said. “Maybe you should treat Laurel a bit more charitably, Alan.”

  He snorted. “I’ve heard the story about Dan Call. He was a Lutheran minister, and that was the big beef against him by the temperance league ladies.” He hesitated. “Laurel said her reasons for disliking our business aren’t religious. But she didn’t tell me what they are.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  He cast a nervous glance at Louemma. “Uh, she more or less said her reasons weren’t my business.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I should phone and extend the olive branch. She isn’t to blame for the fact that Hazel and I parted ways.”

  “Please, Daddy, may I be excused? I’m full, and Miss Robinson set up some voice-activated story problems for me today on the new computer. I want to surprise her and finish the whole set by tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” Alan offered a sad smile as he stood and helped her slide off the chair. “One of these days, I wish you’d surprise me by eating everything on your plate.”

  “I will if you stop fighting with Ms. Ashline. How come you do, Daddy? You’re never cross with Miss Robinson.”

  “Yes,” Vestal noted, also pushing back from the table. “That is curious, Alan. I mean, we hardly know her.”

  Alan had no answer, so he didn’t attempt to give one. He only said, “Are you finished, too, Grandmother? If so, will you have a second cup of coffee? I’ll be back as soon as I settle Louemma. There’s some business I need to discuss with you.”

  She sank back into her chair again, and was still toying with her cup when Alan returned. “What business?” she asked abruptly. “You know I’m happy leaving company matters to you and Hardy these days.”

  “I know. But something you said a moment ago reminded me.” Resuming his seat, Alan set aside his untouched meal. “Hardy and the board are adamant about needing the water from the spring on Bell Hill in order to expand. He’s had the spring water tested and its mineral makeup is perfect for mixing mash.”

  Vestal turned to gaze out of the dining room window, into the darkness beyond. “Do we need to expand, Alan? I’ve studied our profit sheets. We’re making money—for ourselves and our shareholders.”

  He contemplated her question for a time. “What if I decide to take Louemma out of state to see other doctors? I’ve been considering Sloan-Kettering in New York. It’s costly, plus we’d have to hire someone to do the accounting while I’m gone. I’ve looked into it. They’d want to run their own independent tests. It’d take three to four weeks, minimum.”

  “Shouldn’t you give Laurel a chance to see what she can do with Louemma first, before you run off to New York?”

  Alan dropped his chin to his chest. “You and I just don’t agree on this weaving stuff, Grandmother. And…I’m worried that Louemma may grow too attached to Laurel. You heard her say she likes the woman—and her dog.

  “Is that so bad? I believe there’s a lot to be said for trust in the healing process.”

  “The thing is, if Louemma’s not healed, I’ve got to expand Windridge in order to sell more the expense. That means laying claim to the natural spring on Bell Hill.” Noting Vestal’s obvious discomfort, Alan gritted his teeth and added, “It’s our land, you know.”

  She rose regally if a bit unsteadily. “I agree. I just can’t bear to think of what your grandfather would say. If Ted Bell hadn’t knocked Jason aside and shot the man holding a rifle on him, Windridge would’ve been sold. There’d be no Ridge males to carry on. For all we have, we owed Ted so much more than forty acres. It’s just…what Hazel did, and how. It was so sneaky and underhanded. I don’t want to discuss it, Alan.”

  Alan watched his grandmother walk stiffly away, leaving a chasm between them. Ordinarily he’d have smoothed over their disagreement. At what cost, though? Ted Bell and Grandfather Ridge were dead, but Alan had his child’s welfare at stake. Dammit, he wished Laurel Ashline had stayed the hell in Vermont.

  Chapter Six

  LAUREL HAD SPENT Wednesday in a remote hollow with a woman purported to be a hundred and one years old. Though her face was lined and she was toothless, her weathered hands worked a loom with a speed Laurel doubted she’d achieve if she lived twice as long. She discussed weaving with the old woman for three hours, and stayed longer than she’d intended. However, she’d come away with three jars of persimmon jelly and two weaving patterns she’d never seen before. Patterns Laurel didn’t recall having seen in her grandmother’s scrapbook, either. In weaving circles they’d be considered a great find.

  She cantered home, loving every chance to ride again. Working her way over the hills and through the forest, she thought about what a good day it’d been. As the roan mare trotted into her yard, Dog kept pace. Glancing up, she saw her students crossing the footbridge.

  Laurel hadn’t heard a word from Alan Ridge after their last shouting match. Until this minute, she hadn’t known whether to expect Louemma. But there she was, with her father, trailing the others. So it was a good thing Laurel had set up three looms, she thought, swinging out of the saddle. She waved to the girls before leading her horse past them, toward the corral.

  Brenna and Jenny turned to wave at their departing driver, then ran to catch up with their teacher.

  Louemma, seated in her wheelchair, shrieked and begged her father not to go anywhere near the horse. Her fuss attracted Dog, but also made the roan edgy. The mare, already winded, snorted and blew more than normal, which Laurel thought might have added to Louemma’s fright.

 
“It’s all right, honey,” she called. “The horse isn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about. Horses snort to help cool themselves down after a ride.” Her calm voice had no effect on the distraught girl, who seemed not to hear her explanations. At a loss as to what to do next, Laurel attempted to rush the mare out of sight.

  “Jenny, the cottage is locked. I’ll unsaddle Cinnabar and give her a quick rubdown, if you’ll take this key to Mr. Ridge. Ask him to open the door. The looms are laced, so you and Brenna can start. Rather than mug mats, I decided you could do scarves. You did say you wanted to make gifts for Christmas. Scarves are easy to weave, and practical.”

  “Can Brenna and me help brush your horse first? Why did you call her Cinnabar?”

  “She was already named when I bought her. Cinnabar is a reddish-brown color—like her coat. The man I purchased the horses from was a painter. The black gelding, Cinnabar’s son, is named Coal Fire. I was told it’s because his black coat occasionally has a red cast when he’s standing in the sun. Uh, Jenny, why is Louemma afraid of horses?” They could hear her crying.

  The energetic girl, who never stood still as far as Laurel could tell, shrugged and continued hopping from foot to foot. “I dunno. Louemma’s way different since she was in that car wreck. Sarah says she’s weirded out. I’m glad it wasn’t me. I feel sorry for her,” Jenny added, darting a troubled glance toward her former classmate. “She doesn’t sound glad to be here, does she, Ms. Ashline?”

  “No, she doesn’t. I’ll have a word with her dad later. Hurry and take him the key.” Louemma’s sobs were unnerving Laurel. She’d thought the girl wanted lessons, but if she was somehow being coerced into coming, either by her dad or her grandmother, well, Laurel didn’t want any part of that.

  From inside the corral, she kept one eye on the group, all the while unsaddling the mare. The horse stood quietly, nuzzling Laurel’s shirt pocket, looking for treats. This was a docile mare, not intimidating in the least. Louemma’s discomfort couldn’t be over all animals, either. Last week she’d reacted favorably to Dog.

  Laurel hung the bridle on a peg before removing the precious patterns from her saddlebags. She set them on a box and turned to look for a curry brush. She yelped as she bumped into someone.

  “This what you’re looking for?” Alan Ridge dangled the brush between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Thanks.” She grabbed it from his hand and began to brush the muddy horse in long strokes. “Did you let the children into the cottage?” She peered around him, but couldn’t see all the way up the path.

  “The kids’ll be fine for a few minutes. Jenny and Brenna are excited about starting a new project. Louemma’s content for now being in the company of the dog.”

  “I don’t like leaving them unsupervised.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have been late for their lesson.”

  Laurel felt her mouth gape like that of a landed fish. She drew back, astonished by his nerve, then saw him sifting through her stack of patterns. “Leave those alone, please. They represent three hours and a lifetime of work.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  She noticed that he set the papers carefully back on a stand inside the shed. “Sorry. I spent three hours filling in detailed reed charts on each of those patterns. A reed chart shows the number of threads per inch needed to form the design. The woman I got them from has used variations of these same patterns for ninety years. She and her daughters make nearly all of what their families wear on a loom her great-grandfather carried up the mountain on a mule. Six generations have lived miles from civilization in a place called Little Rose Hollow. Their only record of family births or deaths is handwritten in a worn Bible. Yet they’re a talented, fascinating family. Proud and independent. Oh, you don’t care about any of this, do you?”

  “You’re wrong,” Alan said, crossing his ankles and casually propping an elbow on the casing of the shed door as he studied her. “In all our encounters, this is the most passionate I’ve seen you get over anything—with the exception of when you’re taking a strip off my hide.”

  “That’s a blatant exaggeration.” Changing the subject, she said, “Are you forcing Louemma to attend my weaving class?”

  “What?” Alan sprang away from the casing. “You heard me try and talk her out of coming. I have a business to run, after all.”

  “Yes.” Laurel pursed her lips. “Let’s not discuss your business. Maybe your grandmother’s subtly pressuring Louemma. You said she thinks I can create some miracle with her.”

  “My grandmother might pressure me, and does regularly. Never Louemma. She’s the light of Vestal’s life. It’s the horse.” He shook back the hair that fell stubbornly over his forehead. “None of us, doctors included, can figure out why she suddenly became scared to death of horses. She used to own a pony that she loved. Her mother taught her to ride. Shortly before the crash, I gather they passed one of the largest horse farms in the state.” Pausing again, he took a deep breath. “Louemma has no memory of the accident. The theory of one psychiatrist is that maybe a rider heading in from an evening jaunt startled Emily—uh, my wife—causing her to go into a spin as she reached the crest of an icy hill. From the tracks, they know her car spun out of control at that point and slid right over the cliff.”

  “Wouldn’t a rider have heard the crash and gone to investigate?”

  “You’d think.” Alan kicked at a clod, falling silent when Laurel led the roan mare to a water trough.

  “If you’re sure she’s reacting to seeing my two horses, there’s a simple fix. I’ll keep them out of sight during lessons. I truly didn’t intend to be late today,” she added. “Sometimes the directions I’m given to locate these hill families are pretty sketchy. I swear their kids, whom I generally meet through the college, have no grasp of how far out of the mainstream their families are.”

  “You ride the ridges a lot? That’s risky. The majority of our hill folk don’t like or trust outsiders.”

  “In my experience, they’re down to earth, delightful men, women and children. Anyway, just in case you’re right, I always take Dog along. He looks like a guard dog, even if he’s a pussycat under all that bluster.” She gave Alan a sideways smile.

  The change that came over her face when she smiled tapped into a yearning Alan thought he’d suppressed. And she was the last woman he wanted stoking his long-banked fires. Deliberately putting distance between them, he changed his tone from friendly to businesslike. “Another thing before we go in. I’ve got a proposition to offer you. A business proposition.”

  “For me?” His sudden stillness brought out her wariness, as well.

  “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m not going to ask you to partner in the bourbon trade. I’d like to buy the upper twenty acres of your land, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “For water. You have a headwater spring up there that bubbles out through several feet of limestone. I need access to it.”

  Laurel frowned. “You intend to divert this beautiful creek?” She flung out an arm.

  “Not divert it. Siphon off some of it. He rubbed a hand over his chin. “I’m making a mess of this, although last night it sounded fine. I only need one tributary coming out of the spring. Have you ever ridden to the top?” When she shook her head, he knelt and, with a stick, drew some lines in the dirt. “The original spring feeds two branches of the creek. It splits around a large boulder and runs for several hundred yards, and then the two loop back together. At most, I’d divert half your flow. You have my word on that.” Alan raised his right hand. “Frankly, come next spring, if we get a big snow runoff, you’ll thank me. Otherwise you could be stuck here, unable to cross until the water recedes. Sometimes for weeks at a stretch.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, really. I wouldn’t lie. We’re currently enjoying a mild spring after an unusually mild winter. Most years, that footbridge is under water, by now. Occasionally in the fall, too, if our neighboring sta
tes to the south get hit with hurricanes. According to Grandmother, Ted and Hazel rebuilt the footbridge every other year. I can’t think why they never built something more permanent. I mean, to cut themselves off from help for days at a time seems foolish, if you ask me.” He rose, dusting his hands on his jeans.

  Heading toward the cottage, Laurel said, “I hope you don’t mind if I take my chances with Mother Nature. My land’s not for sale. I’ll deal with runoff if and when it proves to be a problem.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her this was Ridge land. But they’d already reached the steps. As Laurel grasped the knob, Alan’s hand shot out and circled her wrist.

  “I can’t believe you’d turn me down without first visiting the headwaters and weighing the paltry difference it’ll make to your creek against the money I’m prepared to offer. Look, before you say no, let me ride with you up to the top of the hill. Tomorrow. I can carve out time to go while Louemma’s with her tutor.”

  Laurel felt her pulse leap at the warmth created by his palm. She ought to refuse to even consider his outlandish proposal. But she’d never explored her property fully. Alan Ridge probably knew the best, safest route up there. Maybe she should see how difficult it was for someone to trek across her land. She’d felt safe here. Had never imagined that anyone—Dennis, for example, if he came looking for her—might sneak in on her from above.

  Indecision played across her face. Alan saw it, and kicked up the wattage of his smile. “A two-hour ride is all I’m requesting. According to the weatherman, tomorrow’s supposed to be nicer than today. The wild rhododendrons might even be starting to bloom. If nothing else, they’re worth the trip.”

  “I have a lecture at the college scheduled for ten. I can be home by noon. I need time to change and eat. I could be ready to go by one o’clock.”

  “Forget about eating. I’ll have Birdie pack us a lunch. Nothing fancy. We can break up our round-trip ride by stopping to eat. There’s a table rock that’s perfect for enjoying the view at the top.”