by Nora Roberts
And the first year he'd met government standards for organic cotton, had harvested and sold his crop, he'd celebrated by getting quietly drunk, alone in the tower office that had been his father's.
He bought more cattle because he believed in diversification. He added on more horses because he loved them. And because both horses and cattle made manure.
He believed in the strength and value of green cotton. He studied, he experimented.
He learned. He stood by his beliefs enough to hand-chop weeds when it was necessary, and to nurse his blisters without complaint. He watched the skies and the stock reports with equal devotion, and he plowed the profits back into the land just as he plowed the cotton after harvest.
Other areas of the operation were necessary, the leases and rentals and factories. He used them, worked them, juggled them. But they didn't own his heart.
The land did.
He couldn't explain it, and had never tried. But he loved Beaux Reves the way some men love a woman. Completely, obsessively, jealously. Every year his blood thrilled when it gave birth for him.
Cool morning had become steamy afternoon by the time he finished the bulk of his chores and errands. He carried the list in his head, ticking them off systematically.
He stopped by the nursery two blocks off the town square to pick up his mother's weed killer. The flats of flowers distracted him. He selected a tray of pink rosebud impatiens on impulse and carried them inside.
The Clampetts had run the nursery for ten years, starting it as a roadside operation to supplement their soybean farm. Over the decade, they'd done better with flowers than crop. The more successful the nursery, the bigger the burr that lodged in the craw of the Clampett men. "Get another one of them for twenty percent off." Billy Clampett puffed on Camel, directly under the "No Smoking sign his mother had tacked to the wall.
"Charge me for two then. I'll pick the other up on the way out.” Cade set the flat on the counter. He'd gone to school with Billy, though they'd never really been friends. "How's it going?"
"Slow but sure." Billy squinted through smoke. His eyes were dark and discontented. He wore his hair in a vicious buzz cut that looked sharp as needles to the touch and was no particular color at all. He'd put on weight since high school, or more accurately, had lost the muscle that had made him a star tackle.
"You gonna plant those as another cover crop?”
"No." Unwilling to get into a pissing match, Cade wandered over to study a collection of pots. He picked two in a verdigris shade, set them on the counter. “I need some Roundup.”
Billy pinched off the cigarette, dropped the butt into the bottle he kept under the counter. He knew better than to leave evidence his ma would find and scald him over. “Well now, didn’t think you approved of such things. When'd you stop hugging trees?"
"And a bag of potting soil for the impatiens," Cade said easily. "Might could get you some aldicarb, too; you in the market for insecticide?"
"No, thanks."
"No, that's right." Billy gave a wheezy laugh. "You don't go for insecticides and pesticides and that nasty chemical fertilizer. Your crops, they're virgin pure. Got yourself wrote up in a magazine 'cause of it."
"When did you start reading?" Cade said pleasantly. "Or did you just look at the pictures?"
"Fancy magazines and speeches don't mean squat around here. Everybody knows you just sit back and take the benefits from the expense your neighbors put into their fields."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah, that's so," Billy lashed out. "You've had a couple of good years. Just dumbass luck if you ask me."
"I don't recall asking you, Billy. You want to ring me up here?"
"Sooner or later it's going to cave in on you. You're just inviting pest and disease." It had been a long, boring day, and Cade Lavelle was one of Billy's favorite targets. The pussy never fought back. "Your crops get infected, others will, too. Then there'll be hell to pay."
"I'll keep that in mind." Cade took some bills from his wallet, tossed them on the counter.
“I’ll just carry this out to the truck while you ring it up."
He kept a choke chain on his temper, much as he would a vicious dog. Unleashed, it was a cold and savage thing. Billy Clampett wasn't worth the time and the effort it would take to yank it back in line once it was loose.
That's what he told himself as he set the pots and the two flats in the truck.
When he came back, the Roundup and a twenty-pound bag of potting soil were on the counter.
"You got three dollars and six cents coming." With deliberate slowness, Billy counted out the change. "Saw that sister of yours a time or two 'round town. She sure looks good these days." He raised his eyes, smiled. "Real good."
Cade shoved the change in his pocket, kept his fist in there, as it wanted to plant itself on that sneering mouth. "How's your wife these days, Billy?"
"Darlene, she's just fine. Pregnant again, third time. I expect I planted another strong son in her. When I plow a field, or a woman, I do it right." His eyes glinted as his smile spread. "Just ask your sister."
Cade's hand was out of his pocket and yanking Billy to his toes by the collar before either of them was prepared for it. "Just one thing," Cade said softly. "You want to remember who holds the deed on that house you're living in. You want to remember that, Billy. And you want to stay clear of my sister."
"You wave your money around fast enough, but you haven't got the balls to try your fists like a man."
"Stay clear of my sister," Cade repeated "or you'll find out just what I've got the balls for."
Cade released him, picked up the rest of his purchases, and strode out. He drove out of the lot, and to the first stop sigh. There he simply sat, eyes closed until the red wash of fury dulled.
He wasn’t sure which was worse, all but coming to blows with Clampett while the two of them were surrounded by posies, or having the seed rooting in this mind that his sister had let scum like Clampett put his hands on her.
Shoving the truck into first, he turned and headed over to Market. He found spot half a block from Tory's shop, just behind Dwight's truck. Doing his best to smother his temper, he hauled the pots out, carried them down to set them outside the door.
He could hear the high whine of a skill saw before he walked inside. The base of the counters was in place, and the first line of shelves set.
She’d gone with pine, and had them clear-varnished. A smart choice, Cade thought. Simple and clean, they'd show off her wares instead of distracting from them. The floor was covered with tarp and tools, and the air of sawdust and smelled sweat.
"Hey, Cade." Dwight walked over, skirting tools. Cade gave Dwight’s blue and gold striped tie a tap. "Now, aren't you pretty?"
"Had a meeting. Bunch of bankers." As if just remembering it was over, Dwight reached up and loosened the knot in the tie. "Just came by to check on the job before I go into the office."
"You're making progress."
"The client has definite ideas about what she wants and when she wants it." Dwight rolled his eyes. "We're here to accommodate, and let me tell you, she don't give you an inch of wiggle room. That skinny little girl grew up to be one hardheaded businesswoman."
"Where is she?"
"In the back." Dwight nodded toward the closed door. "Stays out of the way, I'll give her that. Stays out once she gets her way is more like it."
Cade took another moment to scan the work-in-progress. "Her way looks good," he decided.
"Gotta admit, it does. Listen, Cade . . ."
Dwight shifted his feet. "Lissy's got this friend."
"No."
"Well, Jesus, just hear me out."
"I don't have to. She's got a friend, a single female friend who'd be just perfect for me. Why don't I give this single female friend a call, or come on by and have dinner with this single female friend and y’all at the house, or meet for drinks?" "Well, why don't you? Lissy's going to be on my back until you do."
&nb
sp; "Your wife, your back, your problem. Tell Lissy you just found out I'm gay or something."
"Oh yeah, that'll work." The idea amused Dwight so much his laughter rolled up from the gut. "That'll work just fine. Way things are, she'll just start lining up men for you."
"God almighty." It wasn't, Cade realized, out of the realm of possibility. "Then tell her I'm having a blazing, backstreet affair with someone."
"Who?"
"Pick somebody," Cade said, waving it off, and heading for the back-room door. "Just tell her no." He knocked, then shoved inside without waiting for an answer.
Tory stood on a stepladder, replacing a fluorescent tube in the overhead light fixture.
"Here, let me do that."
"I've got it. This is a tenant's obligation, not the landlord's." It still grated, just a little, to realize he owned the building.
"I see they got the glass replaced on the front door."
"Yes. Thank you."
"Feels like they fixed the air-conditioning."
"That's right."
"If you need to be pissed off at me today, you're going to have to get in line. There's quite a wait."
He turned away, hands in pockets. She'd gone for metal shelves in here, he noted. Gray, ugly, sturdy, and practical. They were already jammed with cardboard boxes, and the boxes meticulously labeled by stock number.
She'd bought a desk, again sturdy and practical. A computer and a phone were already on it as was a neatly stacked pile of paperwork.
In ten days, she'd organized considerably. Not once had she asked for, or accepted, his help. He wished it didn't irk him.
She was wearing black shorts, a gray T-shirt, and gray sneakers. He wished they didn't appeal to him. He turned back as she came down the ladder, took hold of it to fold up just as she did. "I'll put it away for you."
"I can do it."
He tugged, so did she. "Goddamn it, Tory."
The sudden hiss of temper, the dangerous flash in his eyes, had her stepping back, clasping her hands. He slapped the ladder together, shoved it into a small closet.
When he just stood there, his back to her, she felt a pang of guilt, and of sympathy. It was odd to realize she didn't feel fear or trepidation as she usually did around angry men. "Sit down, Cade."
"Why?"
"Because you look like you need to." She walked over to where she'd hauled in a minifridge, found a bottle of Coke, twisted the top. "Here, cool off."
"Thanks." He dropped down on the chair at her desk, took a long swig from the bottle.
"Bad day?"
"I've had a score of better ones."
Saying nothing, she opened her purse and found the cloisonne pillbox where she kept aspirin. When she offered him two, he lifted his brows.
She felt heat rise fast and dark to her cheeks. "I didn't .. . It just shows, that's all."
"Appreciate it." He popped the aspirin, sighed, rolled his shoulders. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to make it some better by coming over here and sitting on my lap."
"No, I wouldn't."
"Had to ask. How about dinner and a movie? No, don't say no without even thinking about it," he said before she could speak. "Just dinner and a movie. Hell, a pizza, a burger, something friendly. I promise not to ask you to marry me."
"That's a relief, but not much of an incentive."
"Just think about it for five minutes." He set the bottle on her desk, then rose. "Come on outside. I got something for you."
"I haven't finished in here."
"Woman, do you have to argue about every damn thing? It wears me out." To solve the problem, he took her hand, pulled her to the door and through.
She might have taken a stand, just on principle. But there were two carpenters in the shop, which meant two sets of eyes and ears. There would be less for them to talk about if she calmly stepped outside with Cade.
"I liked the look of these," he began, gesturing toward the pots while he continued to pull her down the sidewalk to his truck. "If you don't you can exchange them at Clampett's. Same goes for these, I suppose."
He stopped, took one flat out of the truck bed. "But I think they suit well enough." "Suit what?"
"You, your place. Consider them a kind of good luck gift, even though you have to pot them yourself." He pushed the first flat into her hand, took out the second and the bag of soil.
She stood there, baffled and touched. She'd wanted flowers, she remembered, flowers in pots for the front of the shop. She'd thought of petunias, but these were prettier and every bit as friendly.
"This was kind of you. And thoughtful. Thank you."
"Could you look at me?" He waited until she shifted her gaze, met his eyes. "You're welcome. Where do you want them?"
"We'll just set them out front. I'll pot them." As they started up the sidewalk together, she gave him one sidelong glance. "Oh hell. You could come by around six. I wouldn't mind the pizza. If we get through that all right, we can talk about the movie."
"Fine." He set the flowers and soil down in front of her display window. "I'll be back."
'Yes, I know," she murmured when he strolled off.
8
Maybe people didn't actually die of boredom, Faith decided, but she didn't know how the hell they lived with it, either.
When she'd been a child and complained she had nothing to do, the words had fallen on unsympathetic adult ears, and chores had been assigned. She'd hated chores nearly as much as she'd hated boredom. But some lessons are hard-learned.
"There's nothing to do around here." Faith lounged at the kitchen table, picking at a breakfast biscuit. It was after eleven, but she hadn't bothered to dress. She wore the silk robe she'd bought on a trip to Savannah in April.
She was already bored with that, too.
"Everything's the same around here, day after day, month after month. I swear, it's a wonder every blessed one of us doesn't run screaming into the night."
"Got yourself a case of ennui, do you, Miss Faith?" Lilah's rough-as-sandstone voice cruised over the French pronunciation. She used it partly because her grandmother had been Creole, but mostly because it just tickled her.
"Nothing ever happens around here.
Every morning's the same as the one before, and the whole day stretches out in a long thin line of more nothing."
Lilah continued to scrub at the counter. The truth was, she'd had the kitchen tidied up for more than an hour, but she'd known Faith would wander in. She'd been lying in wait.
"I guess you're hankering for some activity." She sent Faith a soft look out of guileless brown eyes. As guile was something Lilah had in spades, this look had taken some practice.
But she knew her target. She'd looked after Miss Faith since the day the girl had been born—born, Lilah recalled with some affection, wailing and waving bunched fists at the world. Lilah herself had been part of the Lavelle household since her own twentieth year, when she'd been hired on to help with the cleaning while Mrs. Lavelle had been carrying Mr. Cade.
Her hair had been black then, instead of the salt-and-pepper it was now. Her hips had been a mite more narrow, but she hadn't let herself go. She'd matured, she liked to think, into a fine figure of a woman.
Her skin was the color of the dark caramels she melted to coat apples every Halloween. She liked to set it off with a good strong red lipstick, and carried a tube in her apron pocket.
She'd never married. Not that she hadn't had the opportunity.
Lilah Jackson had had plenty of beaux in her day. And since her day was far from over, she still enjoyed getting herself gussied up to go on the town with a good-looking man.
But marrying one? Well, that was a different kettle.
She preferred things just as they were, and that meant having a