Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

Maintaining an ambling pace, he glanced around. The beach was a lot more crowded than usual—if two dozen people could be called a crowd—but it was Sunday, after all. A day of rest and relaxation.

  For some, anyway.

  He toed a piece of beached kelp, the blades as twisted as his emotions, the bulbous, balloon-like bladders that kept the plant afloat as bloated and ready to pop as his taut nerves.

  This was crazy.

  Why should he be more stressed now than when he’d arrived? The beginning of his trip might not have been quite as smooth as he’d expected, but he’d finished his Helping Hands report yesterday, Anna had a live-in helper and didn’t need his assistance, and he was now free to devote himself to the solitude and escape he’d craved when he’d left Chicago.

  Yet the ability to dial things down, to sit on the beach in total relaxation like that woman by the rock, eluded him.

  He cast another glance at her as he prepared to pass.

  Froze.

  It was Tracy.

  He gave her a quick sweep. Her head was tipped back against the boulder, as if she was enjoying the parade of clouds across the blue sky, her eyes masked by sunglasses. Not an unusual sight on the beach. But the black slacks, crisp green blouse, and blazer draped over her shoulders were more suited to Sunday services than sand.

  Why was she here, all dressed up like that?

  He hesitated. Should he interrupt her solitary respite and try to find out or keep walking?

  Keep walking, Hunter.

  His jacket whipped around him as he debated . . . and all at once a gust of wind caught the Frisbee being tossed by the family group and sent it sailing directly toward Tracy.

  Letting his reflexes take over, he ran toward the soaring disc, leaped, and grabbed it midflight.

  “Sorry about that!” One of the kids jogged toward him.

  “No problem.” He threw it back, and the youngster caught it.

  Given the shouted exchange, he expected to find Tracy watching him once he turned back.

  She wasn’t.

  In fact, she hadn’t moved a muscle.

  Weird.

  He walked closer . . . and her even breathing and slack hands explained her lack of response.

  She was sound asleep—her purse beside her a tempting target for a fleet-footed thief.

  Michael did another scan of the beach. Hope Harbor might be a small town, but bad stuff happened everywhere. He couldn’t walk away and leave her vulnerable . . . could he?

  Ignoring the voice in his head that reminded him she was a native and would understand better than him the risks—if any—of falling asleep with an unattended purse on the beach, he strode across the sand and dropped down to rouse her.

  But up close and in repose, her features relaxed, Tracy Campbell short-circuited his lungs. The slender arch of her throat, her soft lips, and the gentle curve of her jaw . . . lovely.

  And much too appealing.

  He needed to get out of here before . . .

  She stirred, and from his position beside her he could see her eyelids flutter open behind the dark glasses.

  No chance of escape now.

  Better warn her she had company before she discovered him watching her.

  Using the first excuse that came to mind for invading her turf, he grabbed her purse and dangled it in front of her.

  With a soft gasp, she sat up straighter and twisted toward him.

  “I could have walked off with this.”

  “Michael.” She said his name in a voice husky with sleep that stirred his long-dormant libido.

  The red alert warning in his mind began to flash with more urgency.

  He set the purse back down and eased away as a cloud covered the sun, dimming the glare. “You might want to tuck this somewhere safer.”

  With a wry smile, she relaxed back against the rock. “A purse snatcher would be disappointed if he took that. My wallet is in my other bag. Not that he or she would get much even if it was in there.” A shadow passed over her face that had nothing to do with the cloud activity above—followed by a yawn. “Sorry. To tell you the truth, I’ve never passed out on the beach like this before. Instead of detouring here after church, I should have caught a quick nap at home before I tackle my to-do list at the farm.”

  “You work on Sundays too?”

  “Not when Uncle Bud is in charge. But what he doesn’t know while he’s down with the flu won’t hurt him. Besides, there isn’t much choice. The work has to get done, and if your crew is cut in half . . .” She shrugged.

  Frowning, he lowered himself to the sand beside her and took off his sunglasses. “Are you telling me you and your uncle run that whole farm by yourselves?”

  She removed her glasses too, revealing faint shadows under her lower lashes that hadn’t been there in their previous encounters. “Sixteen acres of beds can be handled by one person most of the year, but since we both have outside jobs too, the farm really needs the two of us. And during harvest we hire a couple of part-time people.”

  “You mean you’re doing everything out there yourself, plus your accounting work and the Helping Hands stuff?”

  “I’m trying to. Whether I’ll keep all the balls in the air remains to be seen. How are things going with Anna?”

  He had to forcibly switch gears at her abrupt change of subject. “Fine, as far as I can tell. I stopped by yesterday and met Grace, who was very polite and seems conscientious. Anna said it’s working out fine so far.”

  “At least that’s one crisis I can cross off my list.” She checked her watch, let out a small groan, and reached for her purse. “I need to get going. I only meant to sit here and rest for five minutes. Somehow that morphed into half an hour. But the sun felt good.”

  “It’s gone now, though.” He scrutinized the sky. The clouds that had been on the horizon were fast covering up the expanse of blue. “I haven’t yet gotten used to the rapid weather changes out here. One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s gray and gloomy and depressing. I have to admit I much prefer the sun.”

  She slipped her sunglasses back on, snatched her purse and shoes, and stood—all in the space of a few heartbeats.

  It took him a second to recover from her sudden move, and by the time he rose, she’d slung her purse over her shoulders and backed off.

  Bad vibes wafted his way.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  Her denial was definitive, but her taut posture and pinched features said otherwise.

  “Tracy, I . . .”

  She retreated a few more paces. “I need to go. I’ll see you around.”

  Shoulders stiff, she swiveled around and hurried toward the steps that led from the beach to the bluff road above.

  He propped his hands on his hips and followed her progress. What was with that prickly reaction? Could she be mad because he’d startled her?

  No. She’d been amiable as she’d answered his questions about the farm.

  After that, they’d talked about Anna and . . . what?

  Another gust of wind kicked up some sand at his feet. Weather. The last thing he’d said had been some innocuous comment about the changeable weather.

  Why would that tick her off?

  Mystified, he watched as she stopped at the base of the stairs, slipped on her shoes, and began to ascend. Was she annoyed out of some misplaced sense of civic pride, interpreting his comment as an insult to her hometown?

  That was a stretch.

  Maybe she was just tired. Fatigue often left people touchy and out of sorts. He certainly hadn’t been in top form after his all-nighter at the ER, and sleep seemed to be a luxury in Tracy’s life at the moment. Plus, she was under a lot of pressure.

  Yet as she disappeared over the top of the bluff, never once looking back, he had a feeling there was more behind her reaction than lack of shut-eye or stress.

  A lot more.

  Might it be connected to Anna’s suggestion early on, that he should ask Tracy for
advice about how to deal with regrets?

  Possibly.

  But given her miffed attitude just now—not to mention a brutal work schedule that wasn’t liable to put their paths on a collision course in the near future—there wasn’t much chance he’d have an opportunity to say hello, let alone ask her for advice.

  Unless he could think of some way to make their paths intersect.

  Not a smart idea, buddy. It’s safer to stay away.

  Right.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he resumed his walk.

  Yet even as he acknowledged the soundness of that advice, his mind was already working through scenarios that might give him a chance to spend more time in the company of a lovely cranberry farmer.

  Pausing in the middle of the bed to swipe her forehead on the sleeve of her T-shirt, Tracy surveyed her progress.

  Not bad.

  Assuming the weather held, at this rate she’d have the fungicide done by noon tomorrow. Then she’d finish the fertilizer application. Also on the plus side, the evening rains were eliminating watering from her list of chores for now.

  But man . . . She assessed the lush growth around the beds. The grass on the dikes and roads was getting out of hand. Mowing would have to wait, though. Fungicide and fertilizer were a much higher priority—

  She blinked as a blue-jeans-clad man appeared on top of the dike, spotted her, and lifted his hand.

  Michael?

  Why would he be here after her rude departure earlier on the beach?

  The man must be a glutton for punishment.

  She shut off the engine and stood, wiping her palms down the denim on her thighs. Stay cool, Tracy. He has no idea why he touched a nerve this morning—or why you’ve spent the past few hours down in the dumps.

  But she did—and the implication wasn’t sitting well. An innocuous remark about the weather should only have an impact if she was attracted to the man who’d made it.

  And she wasn’t.

  She wouldn’t let herself be.

  Especially after that remark.

  Straightening her shoulders, she crossed the bed, climbed the dike to stand beside him, and summoned up a smile. “I didn’t expect to see you again today.”

  “I don’t have any plans for the afternoon, and I thought you might be able to use a hand.”

  She furrowed her brow. “With what?”

  “This.” He swept his arm in an arc. “It sounds like you have a long list of chores to do.”

  She tried to digest his offer. “You want to work on the farm?”

  “Yeah.” He exhaled. “I think I offended you this morning. I have no idea why, but I apologize. I hoped we might be able to mend our fences if I backed up that apology with some sweat.”

  She folded her arms. “You don’t have to do that—and no apology is necessary. It was my fault. I’m just . . . a little tired. I’m sure you have better things to do on a Sunday than work on a farm.”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. And I need some exercise beyond my casual strolls on the beach. In Chicago, I tried to get to the gym two or three times a week. Here, I’ve been more or less a couch potato—and my body is telling me to get moving before everything atrophies.”

  Atrophy? No danger of that as far as she could see, with those lean hips and the muscles bulging below the sleeves of his T-shirt.

  “I can’t let you spend your Sunday doing manual labor.”

  “You are.”

  “I own this place.”

  “And I’m bored.” He gave her a cajoling wink. “I promise to try my best not to do any damage, if you’re worried about that.”

  The man had some serious charisma.

  “No. Cranberry farming isn’t rocket science.”

  “Then put me to work. What can I do that doesn’t require a lot of training?”

  Tracy eyed the overgrown dikes around them. If he was sincere . . .

  She tucked her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans. “How are you with a weed eater?”

  “I know how to use one.” He cocked his head. “But isn’t there a more substantive way I can contribute?”

  “Keeping the grass on the dikes and road under control is a huge task. It’s not hard, but it’s labor-intensive and difficult to stay on top of this time of year, even with both Uncle Bud and me working. If I had some help with that, I could focus on the fungicide and fertilizer applications without the grass chore hanging over my head.”

  “In that case, weed eating it is. Point me in the right direction and I’ll let you get back to your . . .” He regarded the sprayer in the middle of the bed. “Whatever you were doing.”

  “Fungicide.” She gestured toward the equipment shed, the peak of its roof visible through the trees. “The weed eater’s hanging on the wall in that building. It’s ready to go. There are work gloves and goggles in there too. You could start with this bed. The sides of the dikes are a mess.”

  “What about the top?” He inspected the grass beneath their feet.

  “We have a riding mower for that. If you get tired of weed eating, you can switch.”

  “Got it. I’ll find what I need.”

  He started to turn away, but when she touched his arm, he froze and looked over his shoulder.

  “This is above and beyond, you know. Manual labor couldn’t have been on your agenda for Hope Harbor.”

  “I’ve done a lot of things since I’ve been here that weren’t on my agenda.” His focus shifted to her hand on his arm, and she yanked it back as he slipped his sunglasses on, masking his eyes. “And this one’s a win-win—you get some help, and I get some exercise.”

  “Way more than you probably need—or want.”

  “If I get tuckered out, I’ll let you know.”

  Before she could respond, he retraced his steps across the dike.

  She watched him for a few moments, then slowly returned to the sprayer and revved up the motor again.

  Talk about a strange turn of events.

  Maybe Michael did want an activity to replace his gym visits back home—but there were plenty of opportunities for exercise in Hope Harbor that didn’t involve dirt and bees and calluses.

  So what was the real reason the Chicago nonprofit executive had volunteered for such scruffy duty?

  Was it possible he just liked her company, despite what he’d said about following a solo road?

  She guided the machine down the length of the bed, trying to squelch the little trill that possibility sparked. What silliness. She was reading far too much into this simple gesture of kindness. Michael Hunter wasn’t the type to walk away from someone in need, and that’s all his offer of help was—an example of his caring, generous nature. Reading anything more into it was foolish.

  Yet once he returned and began cutting the grass with measured, methodical sweeps of the weed eater, biceps bulging, broad shoulders flexing, she found her gaze straying to him far too often.

  And more than once, she found him looking her direction too.

  Which did nothing to tamp down her heightened sense of awareness—or tame her misbehaving heart.

  So she finished the bed as fast as she could and moved to the next one, several hundred yards away.

  Unfortunately, the physical separation didn’t help a whole lot. She could still hear the weed eater, still picture the easy swinging rhythm he’d established.

  And for a fleeting moment, she could almost pretend that her old dreams about having the companionship of a special man in the fields on a regular basis had come true. A man who relished the farm she loved as much as she did.

  This was how it should be.

  How she’d always wanted it to be.

  A sudden wave of yearning swept over her, so strong she almost lost control of the sprayer.

  Clamping down on the wheel—and her foolishness—she managed to keep herself on course. Dreams were fine, as long as they were grounded in reality. As long as you pursued them with your eyes wide open and understood the ri
sks. As long as you didn’t let wishing and hoping and rose-colored glasses blind you to reality.

  Michael Hunter was a nice man. In another time, another place . . . who knew what might have happened?

  But he was a nonprofit executive, not a cranberry farmer. He was going back to his life in Chicago soon. He was still in love with his wife. And he wasn’t crazy about cloudy weather.

  None of which would bode well for a future with him if she did happen to be interested.

  So she’d be grateful their paths had crossed for these few brief weeks, and for all the help he’d given her—but when the time came, she’d say good-bye and do her best to forget about him.

  Because this was her home . . . and unless she could find a way to mitigate her grief and guilt, unless someone came along who could embrace Hope Harbor and love the cranberry farm as much as she did, she’d go it alone.

  13

  This was hard work.

  Shoulder-straining, backbreaking work.

  The kind of work Tracy did every day.

  Michael propped his foot on the slanted edge of the dike, resting the weed eater on his thigh while he gave his screaming biceps a break. So much for all those weights he’d lifted in Chicago.

  No wonder Tracy was lean and fit to the extreme.

  Hard work aside, however, it wasn’t too difficult to understand why she loved the farm. Taxing the body instead of the brain was a refreshing change of pace. So was filling your lungs with fresh air and enjoying the sun on your shoulders and petting the dogs when they trotted by.

  If it wasn’t for the pesky bees swarming all over the place, the farm would be idyllic.

  As if on cue, another one buzzed around his ear. How many had he swatted away since arriving three hours ago?

  Too many to count.

  Just as he prepared to resume trimming the dikes, a slender woman with short, gray-streaked hair appeared at the end of the bed. The uncle’s new wife?

  When she motioned him to join her, he shut off the weed eater, laid it on the grass, and walked across the top of the dike.

  As he drew near, she held out her hand and confirmed his guess. “You must be Michael. I’m Nancy Sheldon, Tracy’s aunt. I called Tracy’s cell to let her know I had an afternoon snack ready, and she mentioned you’d volunteered to help. She doesn’t want to stop, but I’m hoping you can convince her to take a break. That girl would work till she drops if someone didn’t rein her in.”