by Janet Dailey
Kristen shook her head, a heavy ache pulling at her chest. Oh, but it’d be impossible for anyone to deny this place must have once been majestic.
“Emmy!”
The screen door slammed and a man stumbled out onto the porch, clutching a briefcase to his chest and fumbling his way backwards to the front steps. A second slam, then a wiry woman stomped out after him, leaning heavily on a cane.
Kristen eased back beneath the cover of the tree’s branches, watching.
“Now, Emmy,” the man sputtered as he reached the grassy lawn. “There’s no need to get upset—”
“Mrs. Hart.” The woman—owner Emmy Hart, Kristen supposed—clomped down the stairs, her cane clacking along the way. “My sweet Joe, God rest his soul, may have died over thirty years ago but I’m still his wife, and if he were here right now, he’d toss you out on your butt for making such an insulting offer. Joe wouldn’t stand for it. He gave his life to this place, raised it from ruin. This land was in his blood.”
“I didn’t come out here to cause trouble, Mrs. Hart. I came to help.”
“No, you didn’t. I agreed to humor you on account of thinking you were a decent man, but you suits are all the same.” Emmy stopped on the bottom step, gripped the thin handrail, then sagged against it. Her chest lifted beneath her worn T-shirt on heavy breaths. “You came to take my land. To tear down my home.” Blue eyes flashing, she stabbed a gnarled finger at him. “To steal from me.”
The Suit held up a placating hand. “Now, that’s not true at all. I’m offering you a more than fair price for this . . .” He waved careless fingers toward the second floor of the house. “Establishment.” He grimaced. “Believe me when I say you won’t find a better offer. No one else would be willing to pay what I am for this place, and if it weren’t for Mitch, I wouldn’t even be out here.”
The man’s cheeks reddened. He drew his head back and clamped his mouth shut.
“My Mitch?” Emmy’s mouth opened then closed silently, the gusty wind blowing her short gray hair against her wrinkled cheeks. “What’s he got to do with this?”
He sighed. “Mitch is a friend of mine. He’s the one who asked me to come out here and make you an offer. I was surprised he wasn’t here when I arrived. Said he was flying down today himself and wanted us all to sit down and talk it over. He knows it’s just a matter of time before—”
“He wouldn’t do that to me.” A wounded light entered her eyes.
Kristen cringed and shrank back, feeling like an interloper. Sporadic raindrops smacked against the leaves overhead, shaking them.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart,” the man continued. “I know this is hard for you, but Mitch is just doing what any decent grandson would. He’s trying to get you something to live on for a short time at least.” He blinked and jerked his head as rain hit his face. “This place is done and you’re the only one who won’t admit it.”
“No.” Expression contorting, Emmy straightened and stepped toward him. “You’re just like all them others. You came to steal from me. And you’re lying about Mitch.”
He hissed out a breath, mumbled something involving the word ridiculous, then frowned up at the black cluster of clouds. “This is my final offer. You’d do well to take it.”
She poked her cane at his chest, shoving him back. “Get off my land.”
“Please reconsider.” His tone softened. “For Mitch’s sake if not your own. He deserves the chance to put this place behind hi—”
“Go!” Her voice broke. “You don’t know nothing about Mitch—or me. This is my home. My family still lives here. You probably never worked a day in your life. Don’t have a clue what real work is.” She continued stabbing her cane at him, backing him up until he fell into the gleaming bumper of a sedan. “You’re a thief. And a liar. Nothing but a damned lying th—”
“This place is dead and buried.” He slapped her cane away, voice curt. “Mitch is trying to help you, though hell if I know why he even bothers anymore. He won’t tell you like it is, so I’ll do it for him. Dead and buried, Mrs. Hart.”
Emmy faced off with the man. Her chin trembled and the solid line of her shoulders, which had stood so proud before, slumped.
It was a look Kristen knew well. Her face heated, a familiar nausea roiling in her gut. She should walk away, get back in her car and keep driving. This wasn’t her business or her fight, and the last thing she needed was to get tangled up in a stranger’s troubles. But even so . . .
“Excuse me.” Kristen sucked in a strong breath, the sharp scent of rain filling her nostrils, then ducked beneath the branches and stepped forward. Fat raindrops plopped onto her cheek and bare shoulder, cooling her skin. “I’m looking for Mrs. Emmy Hart.”
They turned toward her. Stared.
She moved closer to Emmy. “Are you Mrs. Hart? Owner of Hart’s Hollow Farm?”
Emmy nodded. The haunted look in her eyes deepened. Her focus strayed beyond Kristen to the darkening sky above, her whispered words barely discernable. “What’d you bring, girl?”
Kristen hesitated as she searched Emmy’s expression. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean?”
Emmy remained silent.
Kristen glanced at the man, who shook his head and looked down. “I-I’m looking for work. I brought two overnight bags,” she continued, gesturing behind her. “And I parked my car over there behind the trees.”
Emmy blinked, then refocused on Kristen.
Thunder boomed again, shaking the windows of the farmhouse and the ground beneath Kristen’s feet. She flinched then tugged the wrinkled ad from her pocket. “I’d like to speak to you about a job, if I might?”
“That my ad you got there?” Emmy asked.
“Yes. The one with decent pay and board. I was interested in—”
“There won’t be any board, ma’am.” The Suit shoved off the car to a standing position and straightened his tie. “At least not for long. In six months, the county will give the green light to pave a bypass on this land.” He pointed behind her. “Across those fields and right over this house. Something Mrs. Hart’s grandson thinks is important she understand.”
“Forgive me,” Kristen said softly, “but I wasn’t speaking to you. I was speaking to the owner, who’s already asked you to leave.”
He frowned, his measuring gaze raking over her from head to toe. “And you are . . . ?”
A has-been artist. Rootless stranger. Alone. Kristen swallowed the thick lump in her throat and squared her shoulders. “No one. Just a hard worker looking for a job and place to stay.”
photo credit: copyright © Sigrid Estrada
About the Author
JANET DAILEY’s first book was published in 1976. Since then she has written more than 100 novels and become one of the top-selling female authors in the world, with 300 million copies of her books sold in nineteen languages in ninety-eight countries. She is known for her strong, decisive characters, her extraordinary ability to re-create a time and a place, and her unerring courage to confront important, controversial issues in her stories. You can learn more about Janet at www.JanetDailey.com.
