The Kissing Tree

by Karen Witemeyer

  She stopped and tugged at her ear. If no one was meeting tonight, why bother going to town? But maybe Adam was there somewhere. If he wasn’t working in a field, there was a good chance—

  The hairs on her arms tingled. Someone was standing in the corner of her sight. Someone she hadn’t noticed before. He was nearly hidden in the branches of the oak tree, but there he was.

  “Adam?”

  The sun’s rays hit beneath the boughs and washed him in gold. “It’s me.”

  “What are you doing in there?” She didn’t see his horses or machinery. No sign that he was doing anything other than loitering on the road.

  “I’m waiting for you. How was the exam?”

  “Wonderful. I did wonderful.” She wished he’d come closer, wished he’d take her in his arms, but he seemed rooted to the spot, determined not to step away from the oak of shame.

  “I’m proud of you. And you, no doubt, saw the conclusion of the threshing contest?”

  “You could’ve beat Pa by a mile, but what you did was even better.”

  “And what he did was just as fine.”

  What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he offer to walk her home, or walk her to town, or something? “I guess everything worked out satisfactorily.”

  “Not yet.” His countenance fell. “Something has been bothering me for a spell, and I won’t rest easy until it’s fixed.”

  Bella arched her eyebrows. Had something happened that her parents hadn’t told her about? Had the school board already determined to send for the student teacher?

  But instead of allowing her to ask, Adam stepped back, holding one of the low limbs of the oak tree aside. “After you,” he said with a bow.

  What was he up to? Another jab at her past? Another reminder of her failures? No, they’d grown past that. It had to be something else.

  “I have a school board meeting to attend,” she said.

  “There isn’t a meeting, not with them. Just with me.”

  “But Pa said . . .” Then, seeing his smile, she said, “You put Pa up to that, didn’t you? Alright. What do you want me to see?”

  She stepped past the low-­hanging branches and into the airy shelter beneath, and then Bella caught her breath. Beneath the canopy of green hung dozens of paper hearts suspended on strings. They spun with the leaves, fluttering like butterfly wings. She lifted one in her palm and laughed. It was covered in her penmanship. “Are these my practice tests?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t leave them for the students to find.”

  “You cut them all?” Her grin was so big her cheeks were getting sore. “And the thread . . .” She ran her fingers up the strand, then looked at the other hearts and the variety of colors that held them aloft. “I’m sorry for refusing your gift. The thread is beautiful, Adam. You created a true fairyland. Better than I could imagine.”

  “There’s more.” With his hands clasped behind his back, he leaned forward, his face full of eagerness.

  “What? What are you hiding?” She grabbed his arm, thinking he was holding a present behind his back, but he spun around, and she found herself face-­to-­face with the trunk of the old oak.

  The marks of three years ago were still there—­the heart with her initials—­but there was an addition. Bella pressed her finger into the first stroke of the A, then traced every inch of the carefully carved message.

  “AF & BE,” Adam said. “It took me long enough, but it’s there for good. Nothing is going to erase the message that I love Bella Eden.”

  Bella’s heart felt near to bursting. Adam was everything she’d been looking for, but God had waited until just the right time to remove the blinders from her eyes.

  “There’s only one thing lacking—­that kiss you were hankering after. Now, I’m no Jimmy Blaggart—”

  “Don’t you ever say that name again,” she warned.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes held her warm and secure while paper hearts danced around them. “I’ll just say your name, Bella, and I’ll endeavor to have either you or your name on my lips as often as possible.”

  His fingers brushed her cheek, making her yearn for more. Before she could turn toward his touch, his mouth captured hers—­sure, joyful, and more intoxicating than she’d imagined.

  After a hearty kiss, Bella laid her head on his shoulder and watched the paper hearts spin in the breeze.

  “It’s this tree that brought us together,” Adam said, “and I’m going to predict that our love will be as rooted and strong as it is.”

  “The oak of shame?” she asked.

  “Oh no. That episode is forgotten. As of today, it’ll have a new name.” His gaze darkened as it met hers. “This oak is now known as the Kissing Tree.”

  Bella smiled. “Then it had better start living up to its name.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. He bent his head and kissed her again, like he’d never stop. But stop he must, for as fine as his kissing was, they had fields to harvest and a future to plan.

  And Bella was already imagining what romantic adventures lay ahead.

  Contents

  Return to Main Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Epilogue

  To my editors, Dave Long and Jessica Barnes.

  Your counsel is always worth hearkening unto. Thank you for fine-­tuning my romantic whimsy with your practical insight. My inner Phoebe is always better once your constructive Barnabas guidance comes alongside.

  Thank you for sharing my vision, believing in my abilities, and encouraging me every step of the way. You are a blessing!

  The way of a fool is right in his own eyes:

  but he that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise.

  Proverbs 12:15

  one

  1891

  HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS

  Illogical business proposals made Barnabas Ackerly’s skin itch, but this one irritated like a hundred mosquito bites treated with a poison ivy poultice.

  Barnabas eyed his employer warily. He’d been with Hollis Woodward for over five years, long enough to have earned his mentor’s respect and trust. Yet as brilliant as Mr. Woodward was when it came to land development, he had a blind spot the size of a house when it came to his daughter.

  Tread carefully. “Mr. Woodward, perhaps this isn’t the best—”

  “Don’t give me that you-­think-­I’ve-­got-­a-­screw-­loose look, Ackerly.” Hollis Woodward shoved up from the chair behind his imposing mahogany desk and braced his fingertips against the well-­polished surface with enough force to turn his knuckles white. “I assure you, all of my mental hardware is fully fastened and functioning.” He chuckled good-­naturedly, but Barnabas wasn’t fooled. The steel in Hollis Woodward’s eyes wasn’t the type to bend.

  Barnabas rose from his seat and set the papers he’d just examined atop the desk in front of him. “I respect what you’re trying to do here, sir, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t point out the flaws in this proposal. It’s simply not a viable investment.”

  “Bah.” Hollis pushed away from the desk and waved a dismissive hand through the air as he advanced around the corner and invaded Barnabas’s territory. “I know this project is a bit afield of the usual work I assign you.”

  A bit afield? Apparently the moon was a bit afield of the earth.

  “But you’re the magician, Ackerly. You’ll find a way to get the job done. You always do.”

  Magic had nothing to do with it. Yes, Barnabas had carved himself a place in the Woodward Land Development Company by cultivating the ability to sell the unsellable, but that came from long hours and hard-­won experience. Not a wand covered in pixie dust or whatever concoction Hollis expected him to employ to transform this sow’s ear of an idea into a silk purse. Barnabas might specialize in r
epurposing unwanted vacant properties into desirable real estate, but Merlin himself couldn’t conjure a spell strong enough to turn this wisp of nonsensical whimsy into a profitable venture.

  “Sir, I believe this endeavor is beyond my powers. A romantic rendezvous retreat? In Oak Springs? No offense, sir. I know it’s your hometown, but no one outside a fifty-­mile radius of the place is even aware it exists. And few, if any, within that radius would”—­waste their hard-­earned money on such impractical lodgings—“be interested in paying for a night at your daughter’s inn when they could visit the, ah . . . what did she call it?” He glanced down at the first page of the proposal, where the inanely sentimental name smiled up at him, completely unaware of its own imbecility. “Ah, yes. The Kissing Tree. When they could simply visit the Kissing Tree of their own accord without staying at the inn.”

  Hollis crossed his arms. “I suggested we fence in the tree when we bought the acreage for just that reason, but Phoebe wouldn’t hear of it. She said the tree belongs to everyone. The only reason she built the inn is to make it more accessible to outsiders.”

  “Built?” A boulder of dread sank in Barnabas’s gut. “You’ve already built the inn?”

  “Yep.”

  That didn’t bode well. If Hollis had already invested funds, there would be no going back. Their only hope was to throw the lever and switch tracks before the entire train derailed. But what lever could he pull?

  “Perhaps we can turn it into a . . . community center of sorts. Or a boardinghouse.” Yes, a boardinghouse. Practical. Feasible. He’d just have to find a manager. A cook. Maybe a groundskeeper.

  “Ma Granger already runs a boardinghouse in Oak Springs,” Hollis said with a shake of his head, “and it’s only full up around harvest time. We don’t get many visitors.”

  “Exactly my point!” Could he not see the gaping holes in this plan?

  Hollis unfolded his arms, pointed his right index finger, and deliberately prodded Barnabas in the hollow of his shoulder. “That, my boy, is precisely why I’m bringing you on board. You’re a genius at finding ways to make the improbable possible. Besides, Phoebe will help. She has several ideas about how to bring in clientele.”

  Somehow Barnabas doubted a woman as out of touch with reality as Phoebe Woodward would be much help. Not that he would ever say so aloud. Hollis would sack anyone who disparaged his daughter. Besides, the young lady didn’t deserve his censure. She was kind-­natured and bookish, two qualities Barnabas generally admired. Not to mention that she possessed enough sense to avoid the grasping guests at her father’s quarterly dinners at their home in Huntsville. Men clamored to strengthen business ties with the most successful developer in a dozen counties, and women hunted the wealthy widower for a more intimate connection. Few attended out of true friendship. Barnabas had run across Miss Woodward more than a time or two hiding in her father’s study, a book in her lap. A definite mark in her favor. He’d passed many a pleasant hour reading in her company without the pretense of polite conversation while other guests entertained themselves with vapid parlor games.

  Until today, he’d considered Miss Woodward a thoughtful, intelligent soul. Now he realized the truth. All that novel reading had rotted the poor lady’s brain.

  Barnabas cleared his throat and carefully weighed each word before letting it out of his mouth. “Even if she found a way to entice customers who possess the time, money, and inclination to travel to her inn, the logistics would create a barrier. The nearest rail stop is the Great Northern spur here in Huntsville. That would leave the clients twenty miles short of their final destination. I fear couples seeking a romantic getaway will be disillusioned by the realities of renting a buggy from the local livery and braving the unpredictable Texas weather for a four-­hour trip to Oak Springs.”

  Hollis’s expression hardened. “I guess you’ll just have to find a way around that snag.”

  “Sir, I simply can’t advise—”

  “I’m not asking for your advice.” Hollis’s unyielding tone cut Barnabas off like a hatchet severing a tree limb. “I’m giving you an assignment.”

  Barnabas’s pulse kicked so hard, he swore he could feel the vein in his neck knocking against his chin-­high starched collar.

  “You will find a way to make the Kissing Tree Inn work, Ackerly. I’ll accept no less.” The man Barnabas had long considered a mentor and friend clasped his shoulder with a firmness that communicated confidence, yet at the same time inspired a terrifying level of dread.

  Disappointing Hollis Woodward was not an option. Not if Barnabas wanted to keep his position in the company. Woodward was fair, but he was first and foremost a man of business. Any employee who turned a profit and satisfied the customer was rewarded with more responsibility and a more lucrative clientele. Mediocre performance earned a loss of trust and, therefore, a loss of clients. Outright failure? Well, that tended to leave a fellow searching for a new position.

  Barnabas wanted to believe that his excellent performance over the last several years would prevent one failure from costing him his career. But this was no ordinary project. No ordinary client. If Barnabas failed, so did Woodward’s daughter. And that, he feared, would not be tolerated.

  OAK SPRINGS, TEXAS

  Phoebe Woodward nibbled on the edge of her thumbnail as she waited for the verdict. She never mailed a story to her editor at Lippincott’s without first getting her former teacher to look over her work. Mrs. Fisher was one of the few people who’d never counseled Phoebe to take her head out of her books and engage more fully with reality. Instead, from the time Phoebe was barely able to sound out her ABCs, Mrs. Fisher had encouraged her to delve even deeper into her stories and stretch her imagination.

  When Phoebe’s mother had died during her first year of school, it was the stories Mrs. Fisher read in class that offered an escape from the devastating loss handed to her by the real world. She’d been escaping into them ever since.

  A tiny gasp from Mrs. Fisher cut through the silence of the Woodward parlor. Phoebe tensed, her hand falling back to her lap.

  “Paper hearts?” Mrs. Fisher glanced up, a suspicious moisture gleaming in her eyes.

  Phoebe’s stomach cramped. “I’m sorry. I never should have taken such liberties. I can rewrite the ending, take them out.” She tried to snatch the offending page back, but her friend proved too quick, dodging to the left and stretching her arm to keep it out of Phoebe’s reach.

  “Don’t you dare take them out! They’re as beautiful on this page as they were the day Adam proposed.” Bella Fisher smiled even as she wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “To have a piece of our story immortalized in print . . . it’s a gift, Phoebe. A beautiful, precious gift. I can’t wait to show Adam and the children once it’s published. Oh!” She suddenly straightened, her back thrusting away from the pale green upholstery of the chair. Her smile bloomed into a grin of pure delight. “I can order an extra issue and make new paper hearts. I can add the story hearts to the ones I kept from Adam’s proposal and have them framed for our anniversary. Oh, Phoebe. It will be perfect!”

  Relief untwisted the knot in Phoebe’s stomach. “Are you sure? I changed the names and the entire plot of the story.”

  When she’d started penning stories for her Tales from the Kissing Tree quarterly column, Phoebe had made an unspoken vow to Oak Springs to protect the anonymity of its residents. While each of the romantic tales she wove featured real initials carved into the bark of the giant oak locals had taken to calling the Kissing Tree, she never used true names or circumstances. To do so felt too much like stealing. Love between a husband and wife was a sacred gift bestowed by God. The stories surrounding that love were sacred as well. Deeply personal and private. Phoebe would never intentionally profit from someone else’s love story. Until now, her tales had been inspired by unidentified sets of initials and had been pure figments of her imagination. But when Mrs. Fisher had read her column and volunteered the details of her own personal
Kissing Tree love story, Phoebe had been so enchanted that she had borrowed a few of the details.

  “The story isn’t so different.” Mrs. Fisher winked. “Betina the seamstress—­an occupation I planned to pursue until I injured my wrist—­paired with Abram the blacksmith—a man familiar with mechanics and machinery? I can see the similarities. Though it was the paper hearts that gave it away.”

  “You truly don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Fisher returned the final page to the stack in her lap, then leaned forward to tidy the pile by tapping the edges on the tea table positioned between their chairs. “In fact, I insist you mail it off today.”

  Phoebe accepted the slender stack from her mentor, fighting the urge to clutch it to her bosom like a secret she wanted to hide from prying eyes. It made no logical sense to be shy about her work when hundreds, if not thousands, of subscribers would be reading it in a couple months’ time. But those readers were strangers. Mrs. Fisher was a dear friend. As much as Phoebe trusted her former teacher, these encounters always left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. The stories might not be a part of her real life, but they were a real part of her soul.

  “Now all we have to do is find you a love story of your own.” Mrs. Fisher patted Phoebe’s knee, then pushed to her feet.

  Phoebe stifled a groan. She set the manuscript aside and fiddled with the wire rims of her spectacles to avoid making eye contact with her friend. She’d long ago learned it was better to say nothing and let the subject of beaus and marriage die a quick death. Refuting it only prolonged the torture.

  Twenty-­three-­year-­old spinsters who were plain of face and odd in temperament did not attract suitors. A fact proven to Phoebe year after year as her schoolmates paired off and married while she remained unattached and largely ignored. Oh, a few hearty fellows had tried wooing her in a misguided effort to win her father’s favor and advance their careers, but she’d developed a talent for ferreting out motives. Decades of watching life unfold from the sidelines taught a girl a thing or two about relationships. Which ones would last. Which ones would lead to heartache. Which had little to no emotion invested at all. Phoebe had always been a good student, and love was her favorite subject. It fascinated her. Lured her. Sparked her imagination.