Crossing the Line (The Cross Creek Series Book 2)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Mallory’s exhale wobbled over the phone line. “Tequila.” Pause. “Top-shelf. Bottomless glass.”

  “Holy shit.” Scarlett’s pulse tripped in her veins, and she pulled a chair from beneath her dining table-slash-desk, planting herself over the bright-turquoise-and-gold cushion. “Talk to me, Mal.”

  Thankfully, the prompt was all her best friend needed. “Things have been kind of bumpy at FoodE for the last four or five months.”

  “Four or five months?” Scarlett pressed her teeth into her bottom lip, too late. But subtlety had never been one of her strong suits, so screw it. She added, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “At first, I thought it was just a normal slowdown in the market. You know how publishing is,” Mallory said.

  Although Scarlett was on a different side of things as a freelance photographer, she definitely did. The publishing world had more ups and downs than a carnival roller coaster on crack. “Being a smaller publication in a sea of online magazines is tough,” she admitted. “But FoodE has such a great vibe with the whole farm-to-table focus.”

  “Yeah, but unfortunately it’s not entirely unique,” Mallory sighed. “A lot of the big-name publications have caught on to the fact that people don’t just want a meal, they want a food experience. There’s a ton of competition. With all these other magazines upping their emphasis on digital distribution and online subscriptions lately, we’ve really been struggling for visibility.”

  Realization trickled into Scarlett’s brain, her shoulders growing heavy against the back of her dining room chair. “And lower visibility means less advertising dollars.” Dammit. Those dollars were a huge part of how Mallory’s business stayed afloat, from covering her costs to paying salaries—including her own.

  “Exactly. I’ve cut every corner I can think of, but our site hits are at an all-time low, and our subscriptions are even worse. FoodE is hemorrhaging money. My reserves are as shot as my nerves.” Mallory grew quiet, to the point that Scarlett wondered whether the call had dropped. But then her friend whispered, “I lost my last big advertising client about an hour ago. Without a high-impact, high-velocity spread to start generating major buzz ASAP, I don’t think I’ll be able to stay in business.”

  Scarlett’s heart pitched against her rib cage, but oh no. Hell no. No way was she going to sit by and let her best friend’s business go under. Not without one hell of a knock-down-drag-out.

  “Well, I guess that leaves us with only one option,” she said. “We need to find you a blockbuster.”

  Mallory’s laugh was all disbelief. “Are you kidding? No big-name locales are going to want to waste their time hosting a dying magazine for a layout article. In fact, the only nibble of interest I’ve had in weeks is from a farm in the foothills of the Virginia Shenandoah. I don’t even think the town has a mapdot. Truly”—Mallory broke off, her voice wavering in earnest now—“I have no idea how to fix this.”

  An idea formed in Scarlett’s head, brash and bold and absolutely perfect. “Send me.”

  “Send you where?” Mallory asked, taking a full three seconds to connect the dots before she gasped. “To the mapdot? Scarlett, that’s crazysauce!”

  “Maybe,” Scarlett agreed. “But we’re still going to do it. This farm. What’s it called?”

  “Cross Creek.”

  “Right.” The idea snowballed in her head, gaining both speed and momentum. “They reached out to you for coverage, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. Their business manager, Emerson . . .” Mallory paused, the soft tap-tap-tap of laptop keys clicking on the other end of the phone. “Got it! Emerson Montgomery. She and one of the farm’s operators, Hunter Cross, sent me an e-mail about a week ago asking if I’d like to visit to write an article. I’d put off answering because I didn’t know if I could pay a freelancer to cover the story. Now I know I can’t.”

  “But you checked the place out, right? And it’s a location you’d normally feature.” Although Scarlett hated to admit it, no matter how hard the two of them worked, if the farm didn’t mesh with FoodE’s theme, all the articles on the planet wouldn’t garner interest.

  But Malory said, “Yeah. They’ve got seven hundred and fifty acres of combined agriculture, with both produce and livestock. It’s the biggest family-run farm in the area, and they’re transitioning to a lot of specialty produce and ecologically conscious farming. To be honest, between that and the agritourism market they’re trying to build on, there’s probably enough subject matter there for an entire series of articles.”

  Eeeeeeeven better. “Email them back and tell them today is their lucky day. You’re not going to do an article. You’re going to do bunches of them.”

  “Bunches of them.” Doubt and disbelief clung to Mallory’s answer, but Scarlett met both head-on.

  “You just said there’s a ton there. Why not go big? I can go down to the farm and shoot a series of photos, do the hands-on fact gathering and interviews, and send it all to you. Then you can turn the information into articles, recipes—the sky’s the limit, really.” Scarlett popped to her feet, pacing out the excitement thrumming through her veins. “Ooooh! You said people want the whole experience, right? If this is a family-run place, why not play up the personal-interest angle along with the food? I could do an immersion-type thing with video clips if you want. You know, to give a real-life depiction of what true, hands-on, farm-to-table looks like, but with a reality TV–style twist. It’s freaking click fodder.”

  “People do love video,” Mallory said slowly. “It gives a stronger sense of personal connection, and I bet our readers would love to see the people behind the process. But still, we’re talking about weeks to shoot something like this, and not one or two. I couldn’t possibly ask you to cover this story. I don’t even know how I’d pay you.”

  Scarlett shook her head even though Mallory couldn’t see the gesture. “I don’t want you to pay me.”

  “Um. Spoiler alert. You’re one of the most in-demand photographers on the East Coast. Possibly in the entire United States. Since when do you work pro bono?”

  “Since now. Look, if it makes you feel any better, you can consider it an advance for when FoodE becomes a household name.”

  Scarlett paced her way to the foyer, sending a glance from her duffel to the view of the city, where the sun was just beginning to set behind a backdrop of brick and glass. Okay, so the turnaround time was a little bit tight, but she wasn’t exactly a stranger to living out of her duffel. She didn’t have anything set in stone on her schedule for another six weeks—hello, Brazil—plus, she’d covered everything from end zones to war zones. Other than having to tough out not having a Starbucks on every corner and the fact that her hosts were likely to count overalls as a positive fashion statement, how hard could an extended shoot and some videos at a farm be, for God’s sake?

  Mallory loved her online magazine, and Scarlett loved Mallory. Her best friend had always been there for her. Even when no one else had.

  And now Scarlett was going to return the favor.

  “Mal,” she said softly. “I haven’t taken more than a week off total in the last two years. I have the time and the ability to cover this story for you, and I really want to help. So what do you say?”

  For a heartbeat, then another, then a dozen more, Mallory said nothing, and Scarlett’s gut filled with unease.

  “Mallory—”

  “Okay.” Mallory’s answer collided with Scarlett’s, and the single word was enough to send an ear-to-ear grin over Scarlett’s face. “I’ll send you to the farm,” Mallory said. “But only if you agree to let me pay you as soon as I’m able.”

  “Done!” Scarlett could fight that battle when they got to it. “Just give me twelve hours to do some laundry and a little research. I can be on the road tomorrow.”

  “You want to go so soon? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  But Scarlett just laughed. “You need a blockbuster ASAP. There’s no time like the present to get you one.”
>
  CHAPTER THREE

  Eli walked down the aisle in the horse barn with an apple in one hand and a plastic gallon jug of water in the other. Compared with yesterday evening’s near brawl with his brother and mouthy throwdown with Greyson freaking Whittaker, today had been pretty quiet, although a large part of that was probably owed to the fact that Owen, their old man, and two of their farmhands had left for the farmers’ market in Camden Valley at the whip-crack of dawn. The Cross men usually rotated farmers’ market duty between among the four of them, but Owen had been so gung ho about specialty produce lately that he’d been taking Eli’s turn more often than not. I just want to keep my finger on the pulse of the competition and make sure we’re offering the very best of the best, had been the excuse du jour.

  Of course, while Eli might be a lot of things, a dumbass wasn’t one of them. He heard the translation as loud and clear as the Fourth of July fireworks over Willow Park.

  I don’t trust you to know or care about farming trends the way the rest of us do.

  Eli shook his head, loosening the twinge of tension that went with the thought. Owen’s disdain wasn’t exactly a news flash, and in truth, Eli was more fine than not with taking a pass on the farmers’ market. It allowed him a whole hour to write on Saturday mornings; plus, he was used to odds-and-ends duty around Cross Creek. No sense in thumbing his nose at what worked.

  Speaking of which. He brought his boots to a stop on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of the horse barn’s last—and biggest—stall, sending his gaze over the one animal in the entire structure who, ironically, wasn’t a horse.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” Eli said, the sight of Clarabelle, his fourteen-year-old Jersey brown cow, making the corners of his mouth edge up into a grin. “Sorry it took so long for me to get to you today. I’ve been playing catch-up since I got up.”

  He stepped into the stall and offered up part of the apple he’d halved before heading down here, the muscles in his back throbbing with the threat of a labor strike. He’d run the gamut with scut work today, from mending fences in the east fields to hauling hay down to the back half of the farm where they kept their cattle, to site-mapping the corn maze they’d be putting together in the next couple of weeks as part of the agritourism side of their business, complete with apple and pumpkin picking as the weather turned. While he put in the work because he had to, the nine hours of manual labor in the dropdown heat was putting his body to the test.

  The feeling of unease that had been sinking hooks in his gut all too easily lately? Definitely wasn’t doing him any favors in the chill department, either. All the Shakespeare in the galaxy couldn’t change the fact that sooner or later, this roller-coaster ride with Owen was going to go off the rails.

  And when it did, Eli had no idea where he’d be left standing.

  The thought brought his chin up with a snap, his awkward laugh bouncing through the dusty, musty space of the horse barn. Damn, this heat must really be getting to him if he was getting all torqued up over yet another stupid fight with his brother. He needed to shake it off and cover it up with a cocky smile and an even cockier “whatever” just like he always did so he could get back to normal.

  Blowing out a breath, Eli rolled his aching shoulders beneath his T-shirt. His muscles began to loosen as he fed Clarabelle the other half of the apple, double-checking to make sure she had enough feed and clean hay before pouring some of the water over her back.

  “Feels good, huh?” he asked, his grin growing in both size and intensity when Clarabelle chuffed in reply. “I know. It’s hell-hot out here.” He paused to rub the cool water into the silky hair on Clarabelle’s back and sides, inhaling the earthy, slightly sweet scents of fresh hay and sunbaked barn boards. “That’s August for ya. But don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”

  Eli continued Clarabelle’s rubdown, which was no small feat seeing as how the old girl was pushing twelve hundred pounds. He’d no sooner upended the last of the water over her butterscotch-colored back than the two-way radio clipped to the waistband of his Levi’s let out a staticky crackle.

  “Eli, what’s your location?” Hunter’s normally laid-back voice carried a thread of seriousness that slid right between Eli’s ribs.

  “Just finished up in the horse barn. Everything alright?” His pulse picked up the pace against his throat. God, ever since their father had gone and had that scare with heat exhaustion, every call on the two-way gave Eli the fucking shakes.

  “Yeah,” Hunter said slowly, allowing Eli to let go of the breath that had been trapped in his lungs. “But if you’re done in the barn, can you come on up to the main house?”

  Eli stuck his head out of Clarabelle’s stall, examining the angle of the sun through the barn’s double-wide entryway. While there was no such thing as a Saturday off in the busy season, they usually managed to start early and finish early, giving all four men the opportunity to carry on the Cross family tradition of a weekly supper together. It was still a little early to chow down, but Hunter probably just wanted a hand in the kitchen to prep.

  “Roger that,” Eli said into the two-way. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  Hooking the radio back over the faded denim at his hip, he stepped out of Clarabelle’s stall, triple-checking the latch on the chest-high swinging door before heading toward the exit at the far end of the barn. Although the sun was starting to drop lower in the cloudless blue sky, the heat still hit him like a wrecking ball gone bad, and by the time he’d finished the five-minute walk to the white, two-story Colonial that served as his father’s residence and Cross Creek’s central hub, he’d broken his four hundredth sweat of the day.

  Eli turned the corner from the side of the house, a pop of surprise working its way up his spine as he caught sight of his brother standing on the wide-planked porch steps.

  “Oh, hey, Hunt. Did you want some help getting some stuff together for dinner, or . . .”

  The rest of Eli’s question met a quick end in his throat as he realized both Owen and their father stood two steps up on either side of Hunter, and when the hell had they even gotten back from Camden Valley?

  More importantly, why did Owen look like that vein in his forehead was about to go ground zero?

  As usual, his brother didn’t dispense with any pleasantries. “You bet Greyson Whittaker five thousand dollars we’d bring in more revenue than Whittaker Hollow by Fall Fling? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  Eli blinked, his brain tilting in an effort to catch up with Owen’s obvious anger. “Who told you that?” Christ, that stupid wager wasn’t even twenty-four hours old, and not that big a deal, to boot.

  “Well, let’s see.” Owen lifted a hand to start ticking off his list, finger by finger. “Daisy Halstead was first, followed by Harley Martin and Mrs. Ellersby and—oh, right. Can’t forget Moonpie Porter. By about noon, I’m pretty sure every damned vendor at the farmers’ market—along with more than half the regular patrons from both Millhaven and Camden Valley—had heard all the gory details, because guess what? Amber Cassidy posted them all over her Facebook page. At this point, I’d be shocked if there’s anyone left in the county who doesn’t know all about this high-dollar, higher-profile bet you seem to have made . . . except for me and Hunter and Dad.”

  Oh. Shit.

  Eli’s gut dropped like a stone in still water before tightening in defense. “Greyson was being a total dick yesterday at the co-op, giving me a raft of crap because we’d maxed our line of credit without paying the balance.”

  “What?” Hunter asked, his brown brows winging upward. “I dropped that payment off yesterday morning.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t know that when Greyson was all up in my grill, jawing about how Cross Creek was going under.” Of course, getting to the bottom of the payment mix-up had been Item Number One on Eli’s to-do list this morning. Not that knowing there’d been a lag in processing the payment helped him now. “Anyway, he’s the one who popped off with the bet. Not me.”

 
“But you accepted,” Owen said, the words slipping between his teeth as he stood straighter on the porch boards. “Jesus, Eli. You and Greyson have been at each other since grade school. How could you take that kind of bait again?”

  Anger flashed, hot and reckless in his chest. “Right. Because I’m sure if Greyson had been in your face, mouthing off at you with a bunch of horse shit about how Whittaker Hollow’s so much better than Cross Creek, you’d have given him your prettiest smile and told him to have a right nice day.”

  “No, but I damn sure wouldn’t have bet him our entire co-op tab that we’d do more business than him, either!”

  Eli fought the urge to roll his eyes, choosing instead to shoot a glance at their old man. He stood a half step behind Owen, his expression as readable as the Great Wall of China as he took in the argument wordlessly, per usual. Their father was the sort of man who watched and listened about four times as much as he spoke. But whether he was waiting for Owen to get all the pissiness out of his system before stepping in to mediate or biding his time to dish out his own verbal ass-whupping, Eli couldn’t quite be sure, so he dialed up a cover-everything-including-your-ass smile and returned his attention to his brothers.

  “Look, this isn’t that big of a deal. Greyson and I talk smack all the time.” Okay, so this particular brand of shit slinging was a pretty amped-up version of the norm, but still. This bet was hardly anything to shit crab apples over.

  Hunter crossed his arms over the front of his T-shirt, the frown taking over every feature on his stubbled face marking his disagreement. “This hardly sounds like a little smack talk, E. You really bet him the whole five grand we’d bring in more revenue?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Eli asked, incredulous. “Not defend the farm?”

  Hunter tipped his head in a nonverbal okay, decent point. “Still. You’ve got to admit, taking a bet that big when business has been iffy at best? In front of Billy Masterson? That was a pretty dumb-shit move.”