Peter sat back, trying to untangle what Maude had told him. The orchard would be lost. But Neva needed that orchard to fulfill her contract. So was Maude’s plan putting Neva’s business at risk?
No. So long as Neva got this year’s crop in, she could locate another certified organic apple orchard for next year. “How soon will all of this happen?” he asked.
“We’ll sign off on all of the papers tomorrow. Roberto has an orchard removal company on retainer. They’ll rip out the orchard by next week.”
A vice squeezed Peter’s chest. “But what about the apples? I signed a lease with Neva. That crop won’t be ripe for several more weeks.”
“Was it the standard lease I’ve used over the years? The one I had set up with the Hendricksons?” Maude asked. When he nodded, she continued. “According to the terms, the lease terminates with a change in ownership. We have to provide her with written notification, and pay her $300 an acre plus fifty percent of the projected net profit of the crop she’ll lose.”
“But no chance to harvest this year’s crop.”
Maude tipped her head. “I’m sorry, Peter.”
“Why such a rushed timeframe?”
“Roberto’s crew has a small window in their schedule in which to get this all completed. There is no other option.”
“You don’t understand. Neva needs that crop.” Peter shoved himself to standing, ignoring Maude’s gasp when yet another Adirondack chair toppled into the pond. What did it matter? In a week, the pond would be bulldozed over, anyway. And the orchard… “Neva has a contract dependent on our orchard. She’ll lose the contract—lose her client. Maude, this puts her entire business at risk.”
“Your friend will find another organic orchard. I’m sure everything will be fine.” Maude’s words, meant to be reassuring, were anything but.
“No. It won’t be fine. Not for Neva. Fuck!” He plowed a hand through his hair, worked to calm his racing heart. He turned back to his aunt. “Sorry, Maude, for shouting.”
Maude gave him a tight tip of her head. He strode off, leaving his aunt alone under the willow tree. This wasn’t happening. Not to Neva. Not now. And there wasn’t any way he could help—this situation was nothing like yanking her out of a ditch. Not that Neva would ever want anyone’s help, but god—he’d insist she take it, if he only had something to offer.
When he reached the porch, a chortling sound caught his attention. A familiar sight waddled out, into the sun. Damn. Brat wanted to nibble on his bootlaces yet again.
“Not now,” Peter snarled. “Stop being friendly. I am not your family. Do I even look like a porcupine? Get the hell out of here!” he shouted.
Brat backed up, blinking rapidly, no longer mumbling or chittering.
Regret slapped Peter upside the head. Now why had he gone and yelled at an innocent animal? And why had his voice sounded so familiar?
His father.
That’s who he’d sounded like. Hell. Would he ever get that man out of his head? For years, he’d looked only to the future, hoping to leave his past behind. He’d dreamed of an escape from the man, an escape so dramatic it crossed the entire globe. But running forward had gained him nothing if he was to end up like his old man, yelling at every affront, frightening those around him with his anger.
It dawned on him. Neva had been right. He needed to face his past as much as she needed to walk away from hers. Why hadn’t he listened to her?
He bent down and reached out a hand to the now blinking porcupine. “I’m sorry, Brat. I shouldn’t have yelled.”
But the porcupine turned and waddled away.
He’d fucked up, but good. All this time, he’d been telling Neva she needed to embrace change, to open herself up to growth. But in truth, he’d been the one who needed to change.
He knew with certainty his hands were tied when it came to saving the orchard. What Maude wanted, Maude got. Rescuing Neva’s farm was a lost cause. But at least he’d done right by the Tipton twins in helping the reconnect. Neva had listened to him. Maybe it was time he listened, paid attention to the lesson she’d tried to teach him.
With a deep breath, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and placed a call, waiting until he heard a slightly familiar voice on the end of the line. “Can you be here in the morning?”
Peter knew he was dreaming—the fire he was fighting in his mind twisted and tumbled, not behaving like a typical fire. Plus, a dragon was what caused the flames to appear, so there was that. But for a dream, it was awfully vivid.
Several of Meadowview’s buildings were fully engulfed in flames but people danced on Main Street under the lights draped overhead, woven into the maple trees framing the street. Neva’s face would fan up in front of him and then disappear into the smoke, making his heart clench each time he saw her disappear.
Why weren’t the people running? Why couldn’t they see the fire? In his dream he felt like he was suffocating, but he had to rescue the town. He had to save Meadowview…and Neva.
God, he had to save Neva!
The smoke grew thick, and in his dream he coughed. Suddenly he jolted awake. This was no dream. He bolted upright and held still for a moment, letting his training take over. Assess first, act second. He grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and checked it—no calls had come through from Dispatch. And he couldn’t hear the siren that would sound to call in the volunteer crew.
He sniffed again—the smoke was heavy but without the acrid scent associated with a burning building. This was no house fire—this was the scent of the forest burning. He leaped out of bed and dragged on his jeans as he headed to the French doors, still holding the phone. He threw the doors wide-open and stared into the dark. Over the eastern ridge, the dim light of dawn showed, but the light had not yet erased the dark of night. He squinted, trying to locate the blaze as he put in a call to the fire station. Right as the dispatcher, Gail, picked up, he found the flicker, off in the distance.
There. On the other side of the canal, up along the ridgeline, flames danced and glowed, moving slowly. Good. The fire was on the surface only, gobbling up the dry grasses under the trees and had not yet spread to the treetops. It shouldn’t take much to put out, so long as it stayed localized. He barked out orders, letting Gail know the location and telling her to call in the regional fire department. Satisfied help would arrive soon, he clicked off the call and ran back inside his bedroom and grabbed a shirt.
On his back deck, he shoved his feet into his boots and called Neva.
“Peter?” Her voice was groggy, thick, carrying sleep and unspoken emotion on its edges.
He fought back the desire to tell her what she meant to him. What she’d always meant. How he regretted what he’d said, how he wanted to try again. Start fresh. Instead, he barked out, “The forest is on fire. On the other side of the canal.”
For a moment, there was silence. Her voice came back on the line, stronger and firmer. “What do I do?”
Boots tied, he leaped off the porch and started running toward the orchard. “I called it in already—help is on its way.”
“Are we in danger?”
“Looks like it’s a surface fire only. Plus, it’s on the other side of the canal.”
“Meaning—”
“The canal’s a natural break. No tree canopy to connect and act as a fuel ladder. And there’s no wind, which is good. But you should put whatever valuables you have in your truck and head into town,” he said, panting as he ran.
“Peter, you’re not out there, are you?”
At the edge of the orchard, he stopped running and glanced around, assessing the situation. The fire was still north of his property. It had yet to move to the crowns of the trees, which was good. The air tankers could hit it with a few buckets of water and a dousing of fire retardant. Wouldn’t take long to put it out. He glanced down the length of the canal. Fortunately, with the canal so wide and the setbacks so far, the fire had not leapt over to the side. His property and Neva’s would be save
d.
Unless the fire jumped the canal. And there was one sure way that could happen.
He started north, following the path along the canal. “There’s a moveable wooden footbridge that crosses the canal at the north end of my property—”
“I know what one you’re talking about,” Neva interrupted. “Trudy told me I could use it to cross over to her side of the ridge. And I saw it this morning when I was taking a walk.”
“Do you remember if it was pulled to the side, or—”
“It crossed the water,” she said firmly, confirming his fears.
“Damn,” he muttered, and picked up his pace. He should have taken the time to move the footbridge when he noticed it before. Had it really been only nine since he’d rescued Neva? “I have to move the bridge to this side before the fire comes any closer.”
“Do you need help?”
The footbridge was a bitch to crank over. A frayed rope, a wobbly pulley…it took work. Effort. He could use the help. Neva wasn’t in danger. And even if the fire jumped the canal, she’d have plenty of time to get to safety. But the memory of seeing Lia Sawyer bursting out of the Goldpan Pub, flames flickering after her, grabbed Peter tight and wouldn’t let go.
He’d fucked up once. He’d never fuck up again.
“No,” he said shortly. “Just get the hell out, Neva. Better safe than sorry.” He clicked off the call and picked up the pace, running hard.
The wind suddenly shifted and Peter realized the fire had picked up in its intensity and was coming even closer. At least the smoke was blowing in the other direction, even though the fire was heading south. He reached the footbridge and stopped, sucking in deep breaths of air. Leaning forward, he placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Once he regained control over his breath, he reached out and grabbed the rope that was tied to the footbridge. He slid it through the pulley and gave a yank.
Nothing. No movement. Not even a squeal or squeak. He yanked again, putting his weight into it. Still no movement.
“Damn,” he muttered. He got down on his hands and knees and examined the pulley, looking for a stick or rock that might have gotten stuck. There. He found it—a small oak branch had jammed the unit. Precious seconds slipped by as he fumbled around with the branch, jiggling until it finally broke free and came away from the pulley. He stood, grabbed the rope, and and tugged, relieved to see movement, slight as it was.
“Peter!”
He jerked. A mixture of frustration and anger jolted through his system. He turned around and looked. Out of the dark, Neva ran to him, in jeans and a tank top, work boots loosely tied.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I told you to get in your truck and go!”
“I’m not leaving until you do.”
“Neva, the forest is on fire—you need to leave.”
“No!” She came closer, then reached out and grabbed the rope right below where he held it in his grip. “I can help.”
“You’re not a firefighter.”
“No. But I am a landowner, and I’ll do what I need to protect my property. Besides, the minute you run, I’ll run.” She positioned her hands on the rope and pulled it taut. “Let’s do this thing.”
“Goddamn you Tipton women, always so bullheaded.”
“Thanks for the compliment. Now, pull!”
Together, they heaved on the rope. The pulley groaned, let out a high-pitched squeal. On the other side of the canal, the flames flickered, coming closer. Peter kept an eye on the fire—it had not yet crowned, thank god.
The bridge finally broke free of its base on the other side and swung, ever so slowly, over to their side.
“We did it!” Neva exclaimed.
Peter used his foot to nudge the footbridge into place, and then tied the rope off into a knot. They were safe. Their properties were safe.
Neva sank to her knees, shaking. “That was close.”
He dropped down next to her and placed an arm around her shoulder. “You could say that again. But we need to get out of here—the wind’s turned and we’ll get hit with smoke soon.”
“My knees are shaky,” she admitted.
“Need to carry you back? I’ve got a hot tub I can dump you in,” he joked.
She chuckled as she made it to her feet. “I can walk.”
He stood, too, then reached out and brushed off a piece of ash that had fallen on her forehead. Things were still awkward between them and he ached to take her in his arms and kiss the hell out of her. The light changed—the dawn slowly breaking over the ridge, not quite giving off full rays of sun, yet allowing him to see a little better. Neva’s eyes shimmered and she held his gaze in hers.
“Let’s get you home,” he said gruffly.
A strange sound caught his attention. He glanced down at Neva. She looked back at him, tipped her head quizzically.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
She peered across the canal, off into the distance. “Oh, no! Is that Brat?”
He followed where Neva pointed. There, on the other side of the ditch, limping along, was the porcupine. Brat bawled loudly at them.
“What’s he doing? Did he get hurt in the fire?” Neva asked. The animal held up a front paw, refusing to put weight on it.
“Looks that way.”
The young porcupine continued to jabber and moan, weaving back-and-forth on the other side of the ditch.
“He’s asking for help,” Neva said.
“I think you’re right.”
“What do we do?”
“I have no clue how to rescue a porcupine.”
“I do,” Neva said firmly.
Peter turned around to see her untying the rope to the bridge. “No!” he shouted.
Neva stopped and stared at him, stricken. “We need to give him an escape route. If he stays on that side of the bank, he’ll die.”
“I know,” Peter said grimly. He looked back over the porcupine, who continued to grumble and mumble and do his little back-and-forth dance, then let out a squeal. Peter had never heard anything like that before. The animal needed his help.
“I’ll go get him,” he said.
Neva clapped hand over her mouth, but she didn’t try to stop him.
He had no clue how to rescue something wild and covered in barbed quills, but Brat needed to be saved. Peter went to the spot where the where the base of the bridge been dug into the bank. Clinging to the base of the footbridge, he lowered himself into the freezing cold water. Fortunately, this spot in the canal wasn’t as deep as where Neva had gone in. The water only reached up to his shoulders. He’d be able to carry Brat out…carefully.
Very, very carefully.
He slogged his way forward, pushing against the strong current and carefully balancing as his boots sunk into the graveled bottom. He crossed the twenty feet in what he felt was record time. Using the pylon that the bridge normally rested on, he hauled himself up and out of the water. Brat was a good ten feet off.
“Um, Peter?” Neva called out quietly. “I can see the flames coming your way. You don’t have long. Get Brat and get out of there.”
He crawled to his feet and slowly made his way over to the weaving porcupine. Brat grumbled and limped back a few feet—scared or maybe confused. Peter slowed down. Waiting would be the only way to get the animal to trust him enough to come closer. Slowly, ever so slowly, Brat hobbled forward on three legs until Peter was able to kneel down and touch him. Brat muttered his old-man grumble but let Peter stroke his face.
“Now what?” Peter asked the creature, looking him over.
“Is he okay?” Neva called out. “Did he get hurt?”
“His one foot seems burned,” he called back quietly. The poor thing had probably been up in a tree, nibbling on bark when the fire came through. Somehow the critter had made it to the ground and had known to come to the ditch.
“Come on kiddo,” Peter said quietly. “Time to get you to safety.” He bent down and slid his hands under the creature�
�s legs and tail. No quills pricked him, just thick, firm guard hairs and pelt under his hands. “At least you’re still a young one,” he said soothingly. Full-grown porcupines could get over twenty-five pounds. This guy weighed about as much as a sack of sugar.
Peter turned and made his way back to the canal. Carefully, he sat on the bank, then slid into the water, holding Brat up in his hands.
Holding the porcupine over his head, Peter made his way back to the other side of the canal, slowly and surely, keeping his pace steady and the animal well above water.
Neva kneeled at the edge of the canal, her arms outreached. “I’ll take him so you can get out. How do I hold him?”
“Under his belly. Brace his weight on your forearms, as if you’re carrying a cat. Or a really weird baby.”
She nodded, bit her lower lip, but took Brat from Peter’s arms with ease.
Peter hauled himself out of the water, sucked in a huge breath, then lumbered to his feet and took Brat back from Neva. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Now let’s all go home.”
“Home.”
At first, he thought the encroaching fire had made the soft sound, but then he realized Neva had repeated his word. The dawn broke fully then, and in the light, Neva’s jaw was tight and she wouldn’t look at him.
And that made his heart ache even more.
He brought them both to Neva’s—the porcupine who’d known to ask for help and the woman too stubborn to accept it. In her barn, Neva found a box and a soft blanket. Peter settled Brat down, careful of his burned front leg. The critter mumbled and then went silent, staring intently at Peter as if trying to tell him something important.
“Will he be okay?” Neva kneeled down at his side.
Peter inhaled her scent. He missed her—her touch, her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she got excited, and the way her lids fluttered shut when she was in ecstasy. He missed how she challenged him, setting him on fire, setting him loose from his self-imposed restraints. She’d said what they had was only sex, but she’d been wrong. Why couldn’t she have seen that the two of them had rekindled the friendship they’d both desperately missed?
Charming the One: (Meadowview Heroes # 3) (The Meadowview Series Book 7) Page 20