by Janet Dailey
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 a place to stay.”
“You gonna steal from me?” Emmy scrutinized her through narrowed eyes.
Kristen shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Lie to me?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Murder me in my bed?”
Kristen’s lips twitched despite the awkward situation. “Definitely not.”
A slow smile spread across Emmy’s face. “Then I’ll show you around and we’ll talk. Which makes you my guest.” She poked her cane at the man’s chest again. “And you’re not. So take your tail on out.”
He muttered something under his breath, got in his car and left. Clouds of red dust rose behind his tires, then dissipated as the rain fell more heavily, cutting through the dirt particles and pummeling the red clay.
Emmy clucked her tongue. “You ever come across a man as arrogant and stubborn as that?”
Kristen nodded. “Unfortunately.”
“Come on, let’s get out of this.” Emmy walked up the front steps, cane tapping as she went.
Kristen followed, then stood by Emmy’s side as she leaned on the porch rail and stared at the front lawn. Trees bowed in the wind, leaves scattered across the front steps and rain splashed into rapidly forming mudholes in the driveway. The orange cat that had been circling the porch balusters trotted over and snuggled against Kristen’s leg.
“You from around here?” Emmy asked. “I know any of your people?”
“No.” Kristen focused on the ad in her hand, folding it over several times. It was damp from the rain, and the soggy corners clung to her shaky fingertips. “My name’s Kristen Daniels. I drove up from Adel. The farm where I was working went out of business, and no one local was hiring. Then I saw your ad. I was going to call but . . .” She looked up. “May I ask why you didn’t include a phone number?”
Emmy waved a hand. “I’m the only one working this land. Ain’t in the house except when I’m eating, cleaning, or sleeping, and I don’t much want to be bothered then. Rest of the time, I’m outside, and I don’t care for cell phones. Service is spotty out here. Besides, you can tell a whole lot more about a person face-to-face.” She studied Kristen’s face, eyes warming. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For helping me run that fool off.” Emmy glanced at the driveway. “I won’t lie to you. I’m struggling, and a lot of people want to get ahold of this land. They think ’cuz I’m seventy-three, I got no more use for it, and they want to pave it over. Even my grandson’s been trying to talk me into selling, though today’s the first time Mitch has sent someone out here to bulldoze me. I know he means well but . . .” She sighed. “I got a plan, but I need help. Lots of it. That ad’s been out for two months, and you’re the first person to answer it.” Her voice rose above the steady pounding of the rain. “I got crops to plant by the end of this month, or the first week of May at the latest. My garden needs attention, and my house could use”—her nose wrinkled—“a bit of everything.”
Heavy sheets of rain pummeled the land, obscuring the empty fields.
Emmy grew quiet, then said, “That ground hasn’t felt a drop of rain in weeks. Usually, if the good Lord doesn’t see fit to send us any, my sweet Joe does it for Him. But I don’t think it’s either one of them this time.” She stretched out her arm, leathery palm upward, and watched the rain bounce off her hand. “Can’t tell yet if it’ll help for planting. Too little and the soil will harden. Too much and it’ll weaken.”
The front door squeaked open. “Nana?”
Kristen stiffened at the sound of the young female voice. Heart skipping, she turned slowly in the direction whence it had come.
A little girl stood behind the screen door, her brown curls and blue eyes framed in the torn gap. “Can we have ice cream for supper?”
“Course we can, honey. Long as you and your brother eat all your greens first.” Emmy left the railing and opened the screen door. “Say hello to Ms. Kristen, Sadie. She’s gonna help us get this place back on its feet.”
Cheeks flushing, the girl glanced up at Kristen, then hid behind Emmy’s leg.
Curiosity shined in the girl’s wide eyes, but a wariness shadowed her expression. She had the same height, build, and shy disposition as . . . Anna.
When I get better, we can go back home, can’t we, Mama?
A sharp pain tore through Kristen’s chest, stealing her breath, the memory cutting deeper than ever. She couldn’t speak but forced herself to nod in greeting.
“That’s another reason I need help,” Emmy said as Sadie darted back inside. “I have two great-grandkids I need a hand with.”
Kristen clenched her fists, the paper crinkling in her grasp. “There was no mention of taking care of children in your ad.”
“Well, I’m mentioning it now. Sadie’s five, and her brother, Dylan, is ten.” Emmy shoved the door open wider. “Come on in. I’m expecting Mitch soon and was about to cook supper. Figure if his mouth is busy chewing, he won’t be able to gab all night about why he thinks I should sell. We can discuss particulars while I fry up some chicken.”
Kristen turned away and watched the rain form red rivers in the clay driveway, stomach growling at the mention of food. Clearly, Emmy was juggling more than she could handle, and ordinarily, Kristen wouldn’t hesitate to take the job, to make ends meet and keep her mind off painful memories. But that was before she knew kids were part of the bargain. Especially, a five-year-old girl so reminiscent of—
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart.” Kristen struggled to keep her words steady. “I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.”
“You’re the only one I’ve found,” Emmy said. “I’m offering a free meal and bed for the night in exchange for a little shop talk. It’d be rude to turn me down without hearing me out first.” She scowled. “You’re not trying to be rude to me in my own house, are you?”
“No, ma’am, but—”
“Good. Then call me Emmy and come on in. You can’t leave now anyway. That clay’s too slick to drive on, and it’s your own fault.”
Kristen frowned, glancing back at her. “Why?”
Emmy smiled. A big one that creased her cheeks and brightened her cloudy eyes. “Because you brought the rain.”
* * *
“She’s superstitious. Always has been.” Mitch Hart pressed a button on the steering wheel, increasing the volume of the call, and raised his voice above the rain pounding the rental car’s hood. “Don’t take anything Emmy said personally. Hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.”
“Trouble?” Brad Swint, a friend and coworker at Harrison Architects, issued a sound of grumbled amusement. His voice cut in and out as the car descended a hill, the headlights casting long shadows over the pine trees lining the highway. “Said I had shifty eyes. Stabbed me with her cane . . . refused to listen to reason and called me a thief.”
Mitch’s neck tingled with embarrassed heat. “Sorry, man. My flight was delayed. Otherwise I’d have been there to meet you. Emmy hasn’t been herself for a while now, and it gets worse every year.”
She’d been worse than ever when he’d seen her at his sister’s funeral two months ago. Could’ve been grief. Or anger. Lord knows, he’d struggled to come to terms with his own rage at Carrie’s selfishness.
His sister had been an addict—his head understood and accepted that. What his heart couldn’t accept or understand was why Carrie had consistently prioritized getting high above taking care of her kids. Enough so that she’d dumped them at Emmy’s, then taken off for a monthlong stint, which had culminated in a deadly heroin overdose.
Mitch gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. He and Carrie had both grown up watching their alcoholic father drink himself se
nseless and had spent almost every night of their childhood protecting each other from either the cut of his tongue or the bruising force of his fist. Yet Carrie had followed right in his footsteps, and Emmy had broken her back trying to save her. Just as she had with their father—at the expense of everything and everyone else.
“Look, I hate that I put you in that position,” Mitch said. “But I had to give it a shot, and I seriously doubt it would’ve gone any better with me there. Emmy and I have never seen eye to eye.”
A silence crossed the line; then Brad asked, “Why don’t you come back to New York tomorrow? My plane doesn’t take off until three. You could visit Emmy tonight, say your good-byes, then leave that place for good first thing in the morning. Get a head start on the Emerson project and put all this behind you.”
Mitch rubbed his temples, an ache throbbing behind his eyes. “I wish I could.”
And he would, except for the fact that he had a niece and nephew to consider. Not only had Carrie’s death exacerbated the long-standing rift between him and Emmy, but it had also left Sadie and Dylan in Emmy’s care. A scenario that was far less than ideal.
“There’s no way I’m leaving those kids on a dead-end farm in the middle of nowhere,” Mitch bit out. “You saw the place. Not to mention once the county takes over that land, they’ll all be homeless. They deserve better, and it’ll take me at least the weekend to convince Emmy of that.”
“I agree with you, but Emmy’s already digging in her heels. She insists she’s planting new crops this month. As a matter of fact, she was in the middle of hiring someone when I left.”
Hell, that sounded like Emmy. She never went down without throwing the last punch.
“Who?” Mitch scoffed. “One of Judd Harvey’s laid-off factory boys?”
“No. Some wo—”
The speakers crackled and then went silent. “Brad? You still there?”
Nothing.
Mitch stifled a curse, flipped the windshield wipers on high and peered through the deluge of rain for the turnoff. It’d been a while since he’d come out here, but he had to be close. No place was as dark or as dead as Hart’s Hollow.
Granted, it was past seven o’clock, and spring hadn’t sprung enough for the sun to stay up that late yet. Night had fallen, and the wild beat of the storm didn’t help matters.
The wind gusted, rocking the small sedan; then a dingy flash of red appeared in the glow of the headlights. Mitch slowed the car and carefully maneuvered the left turn. Mud slushed beneath the tires, slapping the underside of the car in chunks.
“Figures,” Mitch muttered, struggling to keep the car moving in a straight line on the slick surface.
Every time he set foot on this land, something went wrong. Which was exactly why he’d hauled ass at eighteen. After his father had died of heart failure, Mitch had worked the farm with Emmy for two years. Every month, he’d grown more eager to kick the clay off his feet, scrape the dirt out from under his nails and set off to achieve a better life. He’d been determined to shed the filth of his father from his genes and reinvent himself into something more than an ignorant backwoods kid. New York, Cornell University, and an architectural career had fit the bill for fourteen years.
But here he was—thirty-two and back again. It was as if this damned place had a hook in him, yanking him back at its whim.
The steering wheel jerked beneath his hands as the car slid to the left. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal and wrestled with the mud’s pull to regain control, but the tires spun uselessly across the wet clay until they jerked to a stop in a deep muddy rut.
Groaning, Mitch cut the engine and dropped his head back against the headrest. Rain continued pummeling the hood, and deep booms of thunder rattled the car’s interior. He waited for the worst to pass, and soon the onslaught slowed to a steady rhythm, and the once sharp stabs of lightning dulled to distant sporadic flashes.
Stuck, with no decent hope of rocking the car out of the clay’s vicious grip, he yanked off his tie and suit jacket, shoved open his door and got out. Rain soaked his hair and clothes, seeping into his skin and sending a chill through him.
He stood still for a moment and stared at the dark barren fields. Their stark outlines appeared with each pulse of lightning. The storm renewed its fury, battering his face with wind and rain. The sting against his flesh was a painful reminder of the back of his father’s hand. He could still taste the tang of dirt on his tongue from the hundreds of times he’d been knocked down over the years.
“Yeah.” His lip curled. “I’m back, you bastard.”
After wrenching his feet free of the sucking mud, Mitch retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk and trekked toward the house. He stumbled upon a car parked at the edge of the circular driveway. Pausing, he bent, cupped a hand over his brow to block the rain, and read the license plate.
COOK COUNTY
Wasn’t Emmy’s car. Probably belonged to the new hire. Some desperate guy from out of town, with no clue how dismal the outlook was for this place. Who else would take a job on rotten land with no prospects for recovery?
Mitch shook his head and trudged on. The massive oak trees bent and groaned beneath the slash of rain. Gnarled branches clacked together in a rhythm eerily similar to the one his father’s belt had made as it smacked against his palm when he’d stood on the front porch, shouting at Mitch drunkenly.
Where are you, boy? Ain’t no place to hide. Might as well come on out.
Mitch swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. Man, he hated it here. Dreaded what lay ahead even more. It soured his gut and spread a sick, unsettling feeling through his veins.
The best thing to do would be to get this over with fast. He would talk Emmy into selling, would prove it’d be in the kids’ best interest to be placed in a good, stable home, then would return to New York and finally put this place—and all its painful memories—behind him.
After reaching the shelter of the front porch, he dropped his bag on the floor, then glanced at the faint light from inside glowing through the dank curtains. He frowned down at his clothes. Thick clay caked his dress shoes and lower pant legs, and water dripped from his hair and soggy shirt, plopping onto the wood planks beneath him.
Lord, he could hear Emmy now. Not in my foyer!
Wouldn’t do to tick her off first thing. Mouth twisting, he toed off his shoes and socks, then peeled his collared shirt over his head and draped it over the rotting porch rail. The brisk kick of cool air against his bare chest made him shiver as he propped the screen door open with his shoulder and knocked on the front door.
“That you, Mitch?” The thick wood muted Emmy’s shout and subsequent murmur, “Get the door, would you, please?”
Footsteps thumped inside, drawing closer with each creak of the floorboards. The rustic lanterns mounted above him lit up, and the large door swept open.
He’d expected Emmy, frowning and disapproving, along with the flood of memories that assailed him every time he entered the place. Instead, a younger woman stood before him. Tall, with a slim build and wavy blond hair framing deep green eyes and a small smile.
The polite greeting he’d reluctantly prepared for Emmy stuck in his throat as his attention strayed to the soft curves of her mouth. Those pink lips parted and her tanned complexion reddened as her gaze drifted over his naked chest.
“E-excuse me,” she whispered, looking away briefly. She shifted from one foot to the other, then faced him again, attention locked on his face. “Are you Emmy’s grandson . . . Mitch?” At his nod, she held out her hand, her smile fading. “I’m Kristen Daniels. It’s nice to meet you.”
Hesitating, he lifted his hand, clasped her smaller one and squeezed. Calluses lined her palm, but the back of her wrist was soft and smooth beneath the sweep of his thumb. Her warm, gentle hold was a soothing comfort to his cold, wet grip. A rare find in this hell of a so-called home.
Shivering slightly, she tugged her hand free and took a step back from the door.
“Emmy’s been expecting you.”
Mitch caught himself following her and froze. Sharp metal cut into his bare foot as it pressed against the threshold, but the warmth in the woman’s soft voice lingered on the stale air that emanated from the house, wrapping around his chilled body and tugging at something buried deep within him.
It was the first time he’d found himself actually wanting to enter the dilapidated structure, and strangely, at the same time . . . he’d never wanted to escape more.
CHAPTER 2
“Oh, my sweet Mitch, it’s about time you came home.”
Mitch stiffened as Emmy rushed over as fast as her tapping cane would allow, pushed past Kristen and wrapped her arms around his waist as she pressed her cheek to his chest. He glanced down, and errant strands of her gray hair tickled his nose.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
He patted her shoulders awkwardly. His hands tangled in the strings of her long apron, his fingertips grazing the hard, angular bones of her back, where plump, cushiony flesh had once been. He gentled his touch, shivers chasing themselves up his spine at the evidence of how much her aging frame and strength had deteriorated.
As a child, he’d resisted when she’d cradled his flaming face—usually bruised or bleeding from one of his father’s rampages—against her neck, rocking him back and forth in her lap and whispering, “Cry, sweet boy. It’s okay to cry. I won’t let him hurt you again.”
But she had. Every time Emmy had kicked his father out, he would return months later, repentant, claiming to be sober, and she’d welcome him right back into their lives. Then, after a few weeks, his father would return to his old ways, and it would all begin again.
“Let go, Emmy.” Mitch tugged her arms from him, then nudged her back to a steady position.
The flash of hurt on her face conjured up guilt he normally ignored. He supposed she had tried her best to protect him and Carrie. As much as she could, considering her overly sympathetic view of his father. Her love for her son—and her desperate need to redeem him—had always been her biggest weakness.