The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene

  “As long as lunch involves more than pie, we should be all right.” Emmett opened his door and stepped out of the car.

  “You don’t understand,” Mr. Boyd explained as they fell into step. “Winning the pie contest has become everything to her. You’d think her life depended on it.”

  Inside they found Miss Boyd and her mother on opposite sides of the table, a blackened apple pie between them like a coffin awaiting its pallbearers.

  “It’s my fault,” Mrs. Boyd said to her husband. “She asked me to take it out of the oven. I didn’t hear the timer.”

  “It’s all right, Momma. I’ll make another.”

  “You’re out of apples.”

  Miss Boyd groaned.

  “Perhaps Mr. Dewey could run you down to his new orchard and collect some more?” Mrs. Boyd suggested.

  Three pairs of eyes focused on Emmett. “I’d be happy to do that, if it would help you out.”

  Miss Boyd shot him a wary glance. “Momma, could you mix up another crust?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Boyd dusted her hands on her apron. “Mr. Dewey, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay for supper.”

  Miss Boyd’s gaze snapped to her mother then back to Emmett, who blinked and swallowed. Miss Boyd did not look like she welcomed the invitation.

  “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Boyd waved a dismissive hand. “We’re glad for the company.”

  “I’ll need to get those apples started soon if we’re to have pie in time for supper.” Miss Boyd gave him a wide berth on her way out of the kitchen.

  “I made up some sandwiches for you to take along.” Mrs. Boyd reached for a small basket on the table and passed it to Emmett.

  “Thank you very much, ma’am.” Emmett hurried after Miss Boyd.

  Chapter 4

  Miss Boyd was silent on the ride to the orchard. At the cabin, Emmett switched off the engine. He leaped out and hurried around to open her door.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He helped her out of the car. “You’re welcome.”

  “Have you made a decision? About the apples?”

  “I have. But I would prefer to share the terms of my offer after dinner.”

  Her lips compressed into a flat, thin line.

  “I’m going to eat what your mother sent along.” He plucked the basket out of the car and flipped back the calico napkin. Inside he found two sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, a mason jar full of lemonade, and two cookies. He handed one of the sandwiches to Miss Boyd.

  “I don’t understand how my mother could forget about the pie and still remember to make sandwiches she didn’t know we’d need,” Miss Boyd muttered, unwrapping the sandwich. “Eat fast. I need to get back soon if we’re to have a pie today.”

  “How many pies have you made to prepare for this contest, Miss Boyd?” Emmett unwrapped his own sandwich and took a bite. His brain went blank. Toasted slices of homemade bread wrapped around tangy egg salad. Maybe the best egg salad he’d ever had. He might be able to get Jimmy to buy Mrs. Boyd’s egg salad recipe, too.

  Miss Boyd chewed and swallowed. “I’ve made a lot. I’ll make as many as it takes.” She took another bite then rewrapped the remainder and dropped it into the basket. “Let’s get to it. The best trees are on the other side of the orchard.”

  He followed her through a pathetic excuse for a gate dangling on a single broken hinge. A brisk breeze cooled the air, warning of autumn’s impending arrival, reminding Emmett he intended to be gone before winter, off to California or Mexico or somewhere else warm and sunny.

  The orchard was a less peaceful setting than he’d envisioned when he signed the paperwork. Hornets and yellow jackets gorged on fallen fruit. Flocks of starlings squawked their disapproval at being interrupted from their feasting. The sickly sweet smell of decaying fruit filled the air.

  When she reached for the rickety ladder she’d been using the day before, he laid a hand on her arm.

  “You can’t use this. It’s not safe.”

  “I’ve been using this for months.”

  “Isn’t there a better one around here?”

  She laughed. “Have you looked at this place? Everything is at least thirty years old. I think the ladder is one of Otto’s newer purchases.”

  “Then I’ll climb. You can direct me to the apples you want.”

  She eyed him with unabashed skepticism. “You’re going to climb trees in your suit?”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a branch. “There. I’m at least as ready to climb trees as I was when I was a boy.”

  She laughed again. He liked the sound.

  “I can’t picture you as a boy.”

  “I was a terror.”

  “I bet you were,” she murmured.

  She stopped beneath a squat tree and craned her neck to inspect the fruit overhead. “These look good.” She stretched on tiptoe for one particular apple, but it was out of reach.

  Emmett gripped her around the waist and boosted her into the air like a ballerina. The apple popped off its tether. He lowered her to the spongy ground.

  She held out the fruit. “Perfect.”

  Yes, she was. He inhaled sharply. She was also an unexpected complication.

  Lorelei tried to keep her head from spinning off her shoulders and into the clouds. Her flesh tingled where he’d touched her, and her legs were weak. Was she coming down with something?

  He plucked the apple from her palm and rubbed it against his shirt until the rosy-gold skin glistened. “Can I eat it?” he asked. “Or do they all have to be saved for pies?”

  “Go ahead.” She gestured at the fruit-laden branches. “This is the best crop Otto ever had. He would have been proud.” Her eyes prickled with unshed tears.

  Emmett bit into the apple with a satisfying crunch. A smile spread across his handsome face as he chewed. “Excellent,” he mumbled.

  “I’ve forgotten a bag for the fruit. I’ll run back to the cabin. Otto kept a stash of old flour sacks on hand,” she said.

  “I’ll do it.” He swiped a drop of juice off his chin with the back of his hand. “While I’m gone, you decide which apples you want.” He took another bite and strode toward the cabin on long legs that ate up the distance.

  Envisioning the dapper gentleman as a wild little boy brought a smile to her mouth.

  Don’t get used to having help, Lorelei. He’s a short-timer. Focus. There’s more at stake here than a handsome man who plans on leaving as soon as he can make a profit.

  She sat on the ground, careful to avoid squishy apples and hornets—her toe still throbbed—to remove her shoes and stockings. With muscles honed by years of experience, she hauled herself into the arboreal realm where she’d spent much of her childhood. She was, in some ways, more comfortable in the branches of a tree than she was on terra firma.

  She scooted from one branch to the next until she found one that gave her perfect access to a swath of fruit untouched by birds, insects, mule deer, or the voracious ground squirrels that inhabited the region. She straddled the branch, thankful for her overalls, and began plucking apples and tucking them into her pockets.

  She’d expected to hear him return, so when he cleared his throat just below her, she shrieked, clutching the branch to keep from falling. Apples tumbled out of her pockets, pelting his head and shoulders.

  “Ouch!” He jumped back, rubbing his scalp.

  Lorelei sucked in air. “Stop sneaking up on me!”

  He scowled at her. “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. Maybe you need your hearing checked.”

  She returned his glare. “My hearing is fine.” She glanced at the apples that had fallen. “Did you find a bag?”

  He raised one arm, dangling not one but two grubby canvas sacks from his hand. “I told you I could do the climbing.”

  “I saw no reason to wait for you, and”—she ignored his disapproving look—“I found a perfect branch to pick from
. Can you hold one of those bags open?”

  “As long as you promise not to bean me with any more apples.” He rubbed his head again.

  She chuckled. “No guarantees. I climb trees well, but my aim is terrible.”

  “I guess if I want more pie I’ll have to take the risk.”

  He dropped one sack on the ground by her shoes and used both hands to hold the other one open. Lorelei pulled the remaining apples from her pockets and began loading the bag. When her pockets were empty, she reached for more fruit from the surrounding branches, using her legs for balance.

  “This spot is cleared. I need to switch.” She scooted back to the trunk and shimmied to the ground. The full sack sat beside her boots, but Mr. Dewey was gone. She rotated. The man moved like a ghost.

  “Up here,” called a deep voice.

  A shiver rippled down her spine. She jerked her head up. He was perched on a branch in the next tree, exactly where she would have gone. She’d never met a grown man who could—or would—climb trees.

  And he did it for her.

  When they returned to the car, Mr. Dewey scooted the bags of apples to one side to make room for her feet. It was a sweet gesture.

  He opened her door, waited for her to get in, then rounded the front of the car and slid behind the steering wheel.

  “Have you considered what you’re going to do with the rest of the harvest this year? It’s a shame to let it go to waste,” she said.

  The engine roared to life. “I hadn’t thought about it. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Lorelei inhaled, surprised he would ask for her opinion. “A few families around here are really struggling right now. If they could come in as gleaners, it would help them.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Mr. Dewey replied. The car lurched forward, and the wind hit her face.

  Chapter 5

  Emmett carried both bags of apples through the back door into the kitchen, muscles protesting after his unaccustomed activity in the orchard. He looked at Miss Boyd. “Where do you want these?”

  “Over there.” She pointed to an empty spot on the floor near the sink. “I appreciate the help.”

  Standing up, he brushed his hands on his trousers. “I enjoyed it. It’s been years since I had a reason to climb a tree.”

  Mrs. Boyd came into the kitchen. “Would you care for some iced tea, Mr. Dewey?” She squeezed her daughter’s shoulders with one arm and Miss Boyd leaned into her. Emmett swallowed, missing his mother. He was long overdue for a visit home.

  “If it’s no trouble, ma’am.”

  “Momma, I need the table. I’ve got to prepare these apples if we’re to have pie before midnight,” Miss Boyd said.

  “We’ll take our tea to the porch, dear. We won’t be in your way.” Mrs. Boyd faced Emmett. “Mr. Boyd’s out there now, if you’d like to join him.”

  Emmett found Mr. Boyd on the porch swing, feet propped on the railing, eyes closed, and head back. Emmett took a seat in a nearby chair. “Long day, sir?”

  Mr. Boyd’s eyes flickered open. “I’ve the gout. Had to come in before I was finished.”

  Emmett made a sympathetic sound. “Do you have help?”

  “I’ve got a couple local boys. And we usually hire a crew for harvest.”

  Emmett frowned. He’d seen the fields of sugar beets today, frothy green tops marching along in tidy rows. Twenty-five of the forty-acre parcel was in sugar beets. It was a lot of work for one man and some part-time helpers.

  Mrs. Boyd shouldered the door open, carrying a tray with tall glasses of iced tea garnished with sprigs of mint. Emmett took one. She handed one to her husband and took a seat next to him.

  Mr. Boyd kissed his wife’s cheek. “You’re a good woman, Mary Margaret Boyd.”

  Her blush took ten years off her face. She turned eagle eyes on Emmett. “So, Mr. Dewey, tell us what brought you to the wilds of western Colorado.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, and the door opened.

  “Momma, where’s the crust you made?”

  “I put it in the icebox. Here …” Mrs. Boyd pushed up and bustled through the door after her daughter.

  The men sat in silence for a time, sipping tea and listening to the magpies and redwing blackbirds chattering in the cottonwoods behind the house. When Mrs. Boyd reappeared with her daughter in tow, Emmett smiled at them both.

  “Now, where were we?” Mrs. Boyd retook her place on the swing. “You were about to tell us where you were from.”

  “I’m from Kentucky, ma’am. My family settled there before Daniel Boone came through. Coal miners.” He nodded toward Mr. Boyd.

  “So how did you find your way here?” Miss Boyd hopped up to sit on the porch rail, feet dangling.

  “I left home at sixteen, ended up in Florida, and made a connection with a real estate broker who helped me get started. I made some money and headed west, state by state. In short, I buy property—mostly at auction—improve it, and sell it for a profit. I follow the property auctions.”

  Miss Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an opportunist.”

  He dipped his head. “You could say that.”

  Mrs. Boyd frowned. “Mr. Otto’s property, you bought it to sell it again?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Once I fix it up a bit.”

  Mr. Boyd snorted. “More than a ‘bit,’ I think.”

  Emmett chuckled. “It is pretty rough. I’ll start working on it this week. I ordered some things from the hardware store this morning.”

  “You do your own construction?” Mr. Boyd asked, brows lifted.

  “I do, for the most part.”

  “And once you sell the property?” Mrs. Boyd asked. “Then what will you do?”

  “Move on. Head to California or Arizona for the winter, look for more opportunities there.” He glanced at Miss Boyd. She looked away.

  “Don’t you want to settle down? Have a place to call home?”

  Emmett flinched. He did want that. Someday. His mother regularly asked him if he’d found a place to “land” and a girl to “settle” him. Again and again he told her no. But now he felt the first stirrings of change.

  Chapter 6

  The meal was excellent, but the pie was exquisite.

  The Boyds deluged their daughter with praise. Her pie was amazing, the filling incomparable, the best they’d ever had. They wiped their mouths and gushed.

  Emmett worked his way through his piece silently. Miss Boyd’s focus on him was like sunbeams through a magnifying glass while he scooped up a new bite, chewed, and swallowed. He repeated this process until his plate was empty. When he finished the final morsel, he laid his fork down and dabbed his mouth with the cotton calico napkin Mrs. Boyd had provided.

  “It’s good,” he said. The Boyds sighed with relief.

  Miss Boyd leaned toward him. “It’s good, but what? What’s missing? I know something is missing. More cinnamon? More nutmeg? Clove?”

  Emmett pushed his chair back. “I said it’s good.”

  “But it’s not good enough,” Miss Boyd insisted. “What would make it perfect?”

  Emmett closed his eyes and considered. “Is there such a thing as a perfect pie?”

  Chairs scraped across the floor, and he heard footsteps leaving the room. When he opened his eyes, her parents were gone. Miss Boyd’s eyes glittered, chips of volatile shale.

  “What would make this one”—she waved a hand over the remaining pieces in the dish—“better?” Leaning toward him, she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “You saw how my parents responded.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s how they react to every pie. Every. Single. Pie. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, what it tastes like, or what I put in it. I could probably switch the sugar with salt and they’d still gush.”

  “They love you.”

  She rolled her eyes, which were fringed with dark lashes. A testament to her father’s Welsh origins, Emmett surmised.

  “And I love them, too, but for
this I don’t need a pat on the head. I need an honest opinion.”

  Emmett looked at her. Honesty, eh? All right. “The pie is delicious. Yesterday’s pie was delicious. I’d be willing to bet all your pies are delicious.”

  “So will you let me use Otto’s—your—apples to win the contest? Are you willing to take Otto’s place as my silent partner?” she asked.

  “Will you agree to my terms?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “What terms?”

  Emmett took a deep breath. “I want a sample slice of every pie you make between now and the festival.”

  “All right.”

  Emmett held up one hand, palm out. “And one more thing.”

  She grimaced. “I knew that was too easy.”

  “I get to decide which pie recipe you enter in the contest.”

  Gray eyes widened then narrowed to slits. “Why?”

  He considered his answer. He didn’t want to tell her about Jimmy or his notion that her pie recipe was saleable, lest she get her hopes up and then be disappointed.

  “Because they’re your apples?” A rosy flush mottled her fair neck and cheeks.

  He stretched a conciliatory hand across the table. “Listen, you’re right. If your pie wins the contest, the property value of Otto’s orchard will increase. I want to be involved in the process. You can understand that, right?”

  Oh, she understood. It was all about the money. But for him it was adding some extra zeros to his plump bank account. For her, it was survival.

  Should she tell him her parents’ property was in danger of foreclosure? Would he change the terms of their silent partnership? Her mind raced, recalling his words. He was an opportunist. He’d admitted it. If he knew their farm—which bordered Otto’s on one side—was in trouble, he was liable to run straight to the bank and snatch it up for himself. She looked around the familiar kitchen and pushed down her panic.

  “I’ll bring you a sample of each pie and allow you to choose which recipe I enter in the contest,” she said. And then, mimicking him, she held up one hand, palm out. “But that’s all I’ll agree to. Your name will not be on my contest entry. My entry will be mine alone.”