Louemma’s face clouded. “She’s nice. She’s not our enemy. Daddy’s taking her on a picnic. Tomorrow. And I’m glad,” she said shyly.
“Who told you that?” Alan demanded.
Meekly, the girl confessed. “Jenny listened at the door when you guys were talking on the porch. That’s why she and Brenna were acting silly and giggly when you came in. They said—Jenny did—that Ms. Ashline’s only being nice to me ’cause she’s got her eye on you.” Louemma frowned. “Is that the only reason, Daddy?”
“That is simply not true, Louemma.” Alan wished this whole day hadn’t happened. Vestal gazed at him over the rim of her old-fashioned glass, a calculating gleam in her eyes.
Hardy’s disdain told him that after they closed themselves into the office after dinner, his manager was going to give him hell. And why? For nothing. Alan’s hope for a compromise that would give them the land and allow Laurel to stay on in the cottage was doomed to failure from the start. She wouldn’t give up without a fight. Damn, he hated that prospect. As Louemma said, Laurel was nice—except for some unrealistic feelings about his occupation. But he didn’t want to fight with her. In general, he preferred to avoid conflict. Life with his mother and with Emily had resulted in one clash followed by another, reason enough not to get involved with another woman. With Laurel, though, it wasn’t personal, and maybe the situation was salvageable without lawyers.
“Hardy, back off on the expansion for now. Stall Bentley. I’ll handle this water crisis, my way.”
Hardy downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. “I hope you don’t screw around too long, Alan. Remember, our competition marches on. Plus, we have Dave’s crew on retainer. It’s costing us big bucks.”
Birdie called them to come and eat, saving Alan from saying something he might later regret. He already imagined he felt an ill wind blowing down the back of his neck.
Chapter Seven
AS LAUREL LEFT the college where she’d been lecturing on historic Kentucky weavings for the home economics program, she looked forward to the upcoming ride with Alan Ridge. An oddity for her. It’d been years since she’d eagerly anticipated a leisure activity other than weaving. That was something else she had to thank her ex-husband for. It wasn’t that Dennis hadn’t made exciting plans, but more that he’d rarely followed through—like her mom. Lucy’s circumstances and a constant shortage of money had prevented her from keeping promises. Excessive drinking not only interfered with Dennis’s ability to keep his word, but touched off other problems. Laurel sometimes found herself trying to talk him out of his plans. The result was an unpleasant kind of dance that ended in bitter arguments.
Probably that was why her stomach began cramping in an old familiar way as she drove home. Laurel couldn’t help it. All the what ifs… What if Alan forgot? What if he just plain didn’t show up? Or worse, what if he did and she threw up on his boots or something out of sheer nervousness?
“Idiot,” she muttered, licking dry lips as she checked her pale reflection in the sideview mirror. Laurel reminded herself that she was a grown woman who at long last didn’t answer to anyone. She had plenty of things to do if the man didn’t put in an appearance, for heaven’s sake.
It’d been a groundless fear, she saw when she noticed Alan’s blue Jeep parked in her clearing. Interestingly, he didn’t seem any more relaxed than she felt. He stood on the bridge skipping rock after rock in nervous succession across the stream. Laurel automatically checked her watch to be sure she wasn’t late. Nothing made Dennis explode as quickly as being kept waiting. But that was silly; Alan had no say in her schedule. And he didn’t strike her as a man who’d be unnerved by a simple afternoon outing with a woman.
Except that she was a woman he wanted something from-namely access to the creek—and he already knew where she stood on that subject.
Power. She had some for a change. Delicious, she thought, her butterflies abating enough to free up a smile. “You’re early,” she said mildly, stopping to remove her briefcase and lecture boards from the bed of her pickup.
“Yeah.” Alan skipped a last rock. “Right after Louemma’s tutor showed up, I went in to ask Birdie to make us sandwiches. I shouldn’t have used the word picnic. That started her probing. It doesn’t take long for Birdie or Grandmother to turn a request for a couple of PB & J sandwiches into a candlelit dinner à deux.”
If that hadn’t shaken Laurel, Alan’s disgusted expression would’ve been laughable. “I hope you set them straight about our ride today being strictly business. I mean, otherwise it could easily be misconstrued in your town of eleven hundred and fifty-two gossips.”
Alan relieved her of her gear. “Eleven hundred and fifty-two must be the whole town.”
“I know. That’s the population listed on the Welcome, You Are Entering Ridge City sign. I think every person in this town gossips.”
“I suppose. Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to bring lunch,” he said, appearing more flustered. “But it’s too late to backtrack now. I threatened those two schemers at my house with dire consequences if they blabbed. At dinner Louemma mentioned that we were doing this—in front of my general manager. But he won’t say anything. Anyway, if you’d like to go change, I’ll saddle the horses. Is all the tack in the shed?” Alan set her things on the porch.
She brushed past him to unlock the door, and felt a shiver run down to her toes. “Oh, watch the mare—she bites. I’d show you her handiwork, but she nailed me in an unmentionable spot. What the heck.” Laurel gave a nervous laugh. “I’ll mention it. I probably have the only rainbow-colored posterior in the county.”
“Ouch. Would you rather not ride today?”
“And let that little turkey get the upper hand? Uh-uh. I make it a point to saddle and ride her every day. It’s really my only retribution.”
Alan laughed. “Thanks for the warning. You could’ve kept quiet and let me find out the hard way.”
“Why would I?” Laurel’s gazed at him curiously.
“I don’t know,” he said, hiking a shoulder negligently. “For starters, you might consider me a bigger turkey.”
She tossed her head to one side in a way that sent her unfettered hair rippling across her shoulders. Reddish strands, mixed in with the blond, glittered in the sun. Alan had noticed before that she had a direct way of observing a man, which suggested an honesty and lack of artifice that was very different from his experience with Emily and her friends.
His fingers itched to touch Laurel’s hair. It looked so shiny and soft. He slowly released his breath and slapped his palms against his thighs. “If you have to think on it that long in order to decide if I’m the bigger turkey, I’ll take it as a yes. Well, forewarned is forearmed,” he said, stumbling down the steps to make a beeline for the shed. With luck she wouldn’t have read his mind.
Him developing an itch for Laurel Ashline didn’t serve Windridge’s purpose—or his own. His intent was to win her over to their side through logic and sincerity, not by wooing her. “Jeez,” he muttered, grasping one-handed the first saddle he came to. He flung it up on the gelding’s back with enough energy to surprise them both.
Engrossed in tightening the cinch, he found himself considering reasons he might hanker after such an unsuitable woman.
Alan forgot to watch the mare. Her teeth snapped near his shoulder, and he dodged in the nick of time. Damn, maybe a good bite on the butt would get his mind back on business where it belonged, and off…other things.
If only he hadn’t glanced up to see Laurel and Dog running up the hill. She looked beautiful, sexy as hell…and happy. As if this outing with him wasn’t only about business. For the second time in as many minutes, Alan barely avoided the mare’s teeth. Deciding it was anything but smart, and probably the result of not being with any woman for a long time, he gave in to the reckless pleasure of watching Laurel’s shapely body moving toward him.
She stopped some distance away and bent, placing her hands on her knees until she caught her brea
th. “You…uh…were right yesterday when you said this would be a beautiful day for a ride,” she said. “Dog agrees.”
“You asked him, did you?” Alan gave her a teasing grin as he untied both horses and handed her one set of reins.
“Give me a minute. I need to throw a plastic bowl in a saddlebag and fill some water bottles for Dog and the horses.”
“Why? We’ll follow the creek most of the way. We won’t lack for water on this trip.”
“I didn’t realize the creek went to the top of the hill. By the way, I thought of something in the middle of the night that I want to ask you. What supplies the water? Does it come from a well?”
“All around this valley, the hills are honeycombed with wet and dry caves. Old timers spin yarns about the bald crest of the hill being a gathering place for Southern Choctaw and Eastern Cherokee powwows during the Civil War.” Alan held her stirrup steady and boosted her up into the saddle. Then he vaulted into his with ease.
“Are you saying there may be native artifacts on my land?”
Alan, who’d cantered out of the corral first, swore succinctly under his breath. That was a stupid move on his part, raving on about Indian campgrounds when he wanted to buy that section of terrain. Now she’d think he’d discovered something worthwhile up there. “They’re old men’s tales, Laurel. I’ve never found so much as an arrowhead. Nor did my dad, far as I know. And he roamed all over this area as a boy.”
“Hmm. I found one of my grandmother’s photo albums. It’s filled with pictures of my mother and your dad as kids. There are two photographs of them as teens, in formal wear. Like they went to a prom together. We’re almost the same age, you and I. When did our parents stop being an item?”
“I didn’t know they ever were. But I just remembered I need to stop at my Jeep and grab the lunch knapsack.”
As they’d already splashed across the creek and were abreast of the parked vehicles, Alan slid from the saddle and reached behind the driver’s seat. He drew out a canvas bag and quickly secured it to his saddle. Coal Fire stood patiently, even though it was clear the roan and Dog were anxious to charge ahead.
Laurel expected Alan to resume discussing their parents. He didn’t. Instead, he nudged the black with his heels and shot off. Dog, sensing an adventure, bounded forward, too. The shepherd seemed determined to stick with their leader. Every so often, though, he loped back to make sure his mistress followed.
About ten minutes into the ride, Dog dived into the underbrush. He flushed fifteen or twenty big birds that squawked and flew in different directions.
Laurel reined in the mare, then moved up beside Alan. “Wow, are those wild turkeys?” she whispered.
“Yep. The first of many we’ll see today, I imagine.”
“How fantastic! To think they’re here on my property. I’ve seen one or two in the distance on previous rides. But these are…mine.”
“Yes, I suppose. If you’re still here at Thanksgiving, you can sneak up here and bag yourself a nice fat hen to roast for dinner.”
“As if I would! Look at them, so beautiful and free. They were here first.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “I will be here for Thanksgiving. Where else would I go?”
“I don’t know. To see your mom? Thanksgiving is reportedly the biggest holiday of the year.”
“She’s dead. I’m all that’s left of my family.”
She looked and sounded so forlorn, Alan was moved to cover her hand, which rested on the saddle horn, with his own.
Shaken out of her reverie by his unexpected touch, Laurel tensed. Seeing nothing in his expression but genuine sympathy, she remained as they were. “My mom died fifteen years ago. I only ever met my grandmother through letters. I found an address when I was packing up Mom’s things. I thought Hazel and Ted should know about Lucy’s death—and, well, know I existed. I had hoped they’d provide a link to an extended family, but my grandmother was only interested in the present.” Laurel’s voice caught. She breathed deeply, and let the mare shift to the side, which disconnected her hand from Alan’s. “I imagine you knew Hazel far better than I did. Maybe someday when we’re not jaunting through the woods, you’ll share your memories of her.”
Alan found himself wishing Laurel hadn’t let go. “I knew Ted pretty well. Hazel cut herself off from neighbors long ago. My grandmother’s the one to ask about her. Vestal, Jason, Hazel and Ted were once best friends. Our grandfathers worked together, and from my earliest recollection, Ted always came to Windridge alone. He did most everything alone.”
“How old are you?” Laurel asked abruptly.
Alan laughed. “Now, wouldn’t you be offended if I asked you that question?”
“No. I’m thirty. Well, and a half.”
“Me, too. So, you were right about us being near in age. I feel older, though. Comes from having a nine-year-old daughter,” he said with another laugh.
Laurel made some rough calculations. “There’s a picture in Hazel’s album of your father at what I’d guess was his high-school graduation. You must’ve been born before he graduated.” She frowned, doing the calculation in her head.
“My parents were both sixteen when I came along. Dad finished high school and college. Mom quit. It was a sore spot between them until he died. Carolee actually took correspondence courses and got her GED. She went to college when I was in elementary school. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s sad, don’t you think? They were so young. My mom wasn’t quite sixteen when I was born. She didn’t go back to school. That made it almost impossible for her to support us.”
“It seems young to us because times have changed.” Alan nudged his horse forward, and as the path widened, Laurel kept pace. “Kentucky history will tell you that until recently, our marriage laws were pretty lax.” He turned to study her. “You’ve never mentioned your dad. Is he…dead, too?”
“I never knew him. Well, I have vague memories of a man I think might’ve been him. What about your mom? Someone in town said your father was killed by lightning. I find it hard to believe, but I hear it’s still common.”
“Yes. As for Mother—Mark’s death released her. She never got along with her in-laws. I was raised by Grandmother and a nanny. I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that if my father hadn’t died, my parents would’ve divorced. Or maybe not. Divorce isn’t prevalent here. People tend to stick with their mistakes.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“You sound like the voice of experience.”
“Unfortunately, but we’re not talking about me. I’m working hard to close the door on my past.” She let a scant moment go by. “Getting back to your mom. She just ran off and left you with your grandmother?”
“No. She talked my grieving grandparents into hiring her to be a sales rep for Windridge. For all her failure as a mother, Carolee had great business sense. A week before I announced my engagement, though, she married a California wine grower. Within days she’d moved on and forgotten all about us. They didn’t attend my wedding, and she’s never seen her grandchild. Her loss, not Louemma’s.”
Laurel was aware of the longing behind his resentment. Despite everything she’d seen on the surface, leading her to decide that this man had a life anyone might envy, she’d been wrong. He and she had more in common than Laurel would ever have guessed. She preferred to think of him as the bourbon king. But like it or not, Hazel’s album touched both their lives. And that made Laurel even more uncomfortable. Reining in, she deliberately dropped back.
“Hey, where’d you go?” He twisted in his saddle.
“We’re coming to that thickly wooded area you told me about yesterday. I need to untie my jacket and put it on. I’m feeling chilled. As well, it looks as if the trail narrows quite a bit.”
“It does for a half mile or so. Then it breaks out into a natural clearing. That’s where the stream forks. We’ll rest our horses there and let them drink their fill. From that point, on the grade steepens and the going gets to
ugher. I hope heights and switchbacks don’t spook you. Over the years, the creek wore grooves in the limestone, but it follows the ridge switchbacks.”
“I’ll keep up, don’t worry. So far this is nothing compared to finding some of the weavers’ homes I’ve gone to visit.”
“Right. I forgot you travel the hill country in search of…what exactly?”
“Weaving patterns handed down from generation to generation. My grandmother left a scrapbook full of them. Her mother started it.”
“If they’re handed down, you must be duplicating the same ones over and over.”
“A nonweaver might think so. Good weavers are always trying unique variations on tried-and-true patterns. Hill-country women still make cloth for what they wear and use in the house. Well, except for men’s overalls, which they buy through a catalog or at a company mining store. I’m awed by their skill, to say nothing of their grit. Most of the homes have electricity now. Some folks own a car and a TV. But basically they still wash dishes in a sink that empties straight onto rocks. They sew on treadle machines. It’s fascinating. I may be one of the last to record their designs.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“The kids flock to the city to be educated. Their parents hate to see them go, but want them to have easier lives. And the mining is almost gone. The truth is, once they leave, the kids almost never return home.”
“In addition to the loss of mines, the tobacco industry has taken such a huge hit, those jobs are gone, too. One day, estates like Windridge will be fighting urban skylines, too. Unless we expand.”
“Hard to imagine urban sprawl out here where the pine needles are so thick our horses’ hooves don’t make a sound. Oh, God, will you look at that!”
Alan whirled around to see where Laurel was pointing. They’d reached the edge of the clearing he’d mentioned. In the distance, sun filtered through wisps of white cloud. There was a smattering of deciduous trees, which in a month would shade the forked stream. Sunlight glinting off the water seemed to merge earth and sky and stream. A pair of hawks floated on early spring updrafts, putting the finishing touch to the picture. “That would make a perfect photograph,” he said. “I have a camera, back in the Jeep.”
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