“I should’ve brought one. I never remember until times like this.” Laurel nudged the mare with her heels. She whistled up Dog, who’d raced after a burrowing animal of some kind. A small rabbit, probably. Rising to stand taller in her stirrups, Laurel exclaimed, “Have you ever seen a more gorgeous place in your life? If I’d been Granddad, this is where I would’ve built my home. Right in this clearing.”
Alan’s heart sank. He hadn’t counted on the view making her even less likely to sell him the land. If she saw this as a prospective home site, hell, his chances of talking her out of twenty acres had just gone down. Hardy and the board wouldn’t thank him for meddling in something they wanted their lawyers to handle.
“Where your cottage sits is more protected from the elements,” he ventured, attempting damage control. “Like I told you, during a harsh winter you’d be snowed in for months up this high. Hard rains mean flooding even below.”
“Says you. Show me water marks proving that.”
Alan leaped off his horse. “Let’s take the horses down to drink. Then we’ll cross to the other side and I’ll show you.”
Laurel trailed him through the underbrush. She let Cinnabar drink, then passed Alan her reins. Scrambling up the side hill, she slipped several steps backward before reaching her goal, an outcrop of stone extending out over the creek by several feet.
“Watch out,” Alan called. “Hey, you’re making me nervous. What are you doing? Limestone can be brittle. I don’t want to be packing your broken body out of here.”
“I’m trying to see my cottage. I thought I’d be able to.” Clearly disappointed, she came off the boulder in short hops.
“When we get to the top it’ll be visible through binoculars. I did remember to bring those. I want you to see for yourself where the last bad rain took a swipe through the trees. You’ll see how close the creek came to lapping at your door.”
“It can’t be too huge a danger. My grandparents never lost their house.”
“By the grace of God. Each year the channel erodes more of the soft earth that protects tree roots. I think Ted and my grandfather used to haul chainsaws up here after every major storm to do some selective thinning.”
“Ted died nine years ago. If it’s been that long since anyone thinned, the problem can’t be that colossal.”
“How do you know Hazel didn’t hire someone to continue on where Ted left off?”
“Did she?”
Alan blew out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know. A lot of neighbors would’ve come if she’d asked for help.”
“You said she cut herself off from everyone in Ridge City.”
“There were her craft friends from Berea. Their husbands or sons may have helped her in exchange for the wood. A lot of folks in smaller communities put in wood-burning stoves to keep from using so much coal.”
“Hazel heated with oil. Which reminds me, I need to have someone check the level in the tank. I’d hate to run out of fuel in the dead of winter.”
Leaning over, Alan snapped off a yellow wildflower and twirled it between his fingers. “You’re planning to stay, then? People in town were laying odds that you’d keep this place as a vacation property, but spend most of your time back at your home in Vermont.”
“I have no home in Vermont.”
“You didn’t get the house in your divorce settlement?”
Her head shot up. “Oh, I forgot you checked my background. I guess you missed finding out that we lived in a cubbyhole apartment. What I inherited from my marriage was a pile of unpaid debts. Thanks to Hazel leaving me her house and land, if I live frugally I might be able to pay off my ex-husband’s creditors in five years.”
Alan didn’t have to think twice about pouncing on that tidbit. Being the accountant he was, he barely let her finish. “What I’m willing to pay—from this fork in the creek up over the virtually worthless rocky top of that hill—would go a long way toward clearing those debts, Laurel.”
If ever she wavered, it was then, as they stood toe to toe, with the sky above and the music of the gurgling waterfall in the background.
“Name your price,” he said, recognizing a chink, however small, in her armor.
“I’ve got no idea what raw land here is worth.”
“There are two Realtors in Ridge City. Either would give you an honest appraisal.”
“I don’t know, Alan. I’m feeling hustled, and I don’t like it.”
He tucked the wildflower behind her ear and slowly pulled back. “The gold in that flower brings out the hazel in your eyes. Back on the bridge, the reflection from the water made them almost turquoise.”
Laurel stepped away and yanked the stem from her wind-tangled hair. She didn’t know how to act, what to do, what to say.
Seeing her discomfort, Alan widened the space between them. It allowed them both more breathing room. He rammed his hands into his rear pockets, and smiled briefly. “You’ll probably think this is another line of bull, but I wasn’t going to bring up one thing today about you selling. I wanted you to see how ill-suited this land is for development. I hoped you’d draw your own conclusions as to its future worth.”
Laurel turned her back on him, twirling the flower much as he’d done. “Yet isn’t development exactly what you have in mind?”
“No. Come on. Dog’s restless and so are the horses. Let’s ride on. From the top you’ll be able to visualize what my manager and architect have planned.”
“All right.” Unwilling to throw the silly flower away, Laurel wound it around the bridle up near Cinnabar’s ear. The mare twitched her ears a few times, but didn’t dislodge it. Once Laurel had stepped up on a rock to remount, and settled in the saddle again, the mare clearly decided the flower wasn’t a fly.
Alan had been right, the steady climb, even with occasional switchbacks, was grueling. Her mare moved in fits and starts. She’d have balked completely had Coal Fire not led. Dog panted, pausing often to poke his nose under low-growing shrubs.
“What’s he hunting, do you think?” Laurel yelled to Alan as they crowded close to the wall of one overhang.
“Ground squirrels. I’ve seen their burrows here and there.”
“I’m too busy trying to stay in the saddle to watch the ground.”
“Ah, greenhorn. That’s exactly what you need to watch for if you’re out riding these ridges. Your horse can step in a chuck hole and break a leg in seconds. I’ll bet you don’t carry a rifle to put him down if that happened.”
“I couldn’t! I couldn’t kill any living thing. I wish you’d stop imparting such depressing information. Besides the obvious sheer beauty, tell me something else that’s good about Kentucky.”
“Well, our preacher once described heaven as a Kentucky kind of place. If you haven’t already figured that out, though, I reckon you will after you’ve lived here awhile. Few states can hold a candle to ours.”
“Funny, that’s what the tour books for Vermont say, too.”
“That’s good. I’d hate for everyone up north to rush down here to live.”
Laurel cleared her throat. “Is that a polite way of saying Yankee, go home?”
“You have roots here. And kin buried in Kentucky soil. Before we learned you were related to Hazel, I told Grandmother it was curious a stranger would choose Ridge City.”
“I should probably take offense. But I suppose I can see why you might be suspicious of me.”
“Not suspicious of you, but of why someone like you would move to an out-of-the-way town.”
She laughed and the sound rained over him. “Distrust was written in every twitch of your jaw that first day we met. Maybe even the second and third times.”
Alan, who’d reached the top of Bell Hill, reined his horse to the right, giving Laurel room to join him at the crest. He rested a forearm on the saddle horn and propped his elbow on his thigh, smiling at her. “I have to say, Laurel, I didn’t notice you rolling out the welcome mat for me at first.” Holding her gaze, he casually
reached in the knapsack lying across Coal Fire’s rump and pulled out a pair of field glasses, which he offered her.
Even though she’d ducked her head, Laurel failed to hide a guilty flush as she dismounted and tied Cinnabar to a branch. She marched up to Alan and took the glasses. “Just so you know, my welcome mat still isn’t out.” Spinning on a boot heel, she went to the rim and adjusted the glasses.
He sat still, watching her and her dog for a long moment as he digested her words. Weighing his choices, he decided silence might be the better part of valor. He, too, swung down, but stayed where he was, leaning against a boulder.
“If you angle the glasses twenty degrees left of where you’re looking, you’ll see the roof of our distillery. Adjacent to that is the warehouse. About a mile farther downhill, you can probably see the lawn around the house. Right under your feet, bubbling out from the limestone you’re standing on, is the mouth of the spring. We’d like to build a canal, and channel the left tributary into it. Instead of letting the arms reconnect at the fork, we’d funnel our branch into a new mash barn we plan to add onto the rear of the existing facility.” He thought it best to be straightforward, despite her avowed disapproval of anything to do with liquor.
“What makes you think there’s enough water to support your…needs and yet not cause my creek to dry up?” Laurel perused the entire area below, identifying damage created by the flood he’d mentioned. Lowering the glasses, she made her way back to him and sat on a flat rock balanced on two smaller ones.
“You’re sitting on our lunch table. And I’m starved. Shall we see what Birdie concocted before I bore you with engineering details?”
Laurel slid off the rock. She swiped a hand across it, then across the back of her pants. Removing her jacket, she spread it out as a tablecloth. “Didn’t you say you’d asked for peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches? That looks like a whole meal.”
“I asked Birdie to fix something simple. But she never does anything halfway.” He set out a container of cold chicken before handing Laurel the knapsack.
He’d piqued her interest. She dug inside like a kid searching for candy, and pulled out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Wrinkling her nose, she hastily set them on the table rock. “Did you request wine?”
“What? No. I specifically told her sodas or bottled water. So, you don’t drink wine, either?”
“No.” The bag’s next layer produced a container of mixed fruit, another of a green salad sprinkled with olives, cherry tomatoes and blue cheese. Birdie had packed dressing separately. “This all looks delicious, but—” Laurel glanced distastefully at the wine.
“There’s no water? Give me a glass, and I’ll fill it at the spring. It’s ice cold and drinkable, I promise.”
“Are you planning to drink all that wine yourself?” she asked nervously.
“Not all of it. I don’t drink to excess, Laurel.” Then he hesitated. “I won’t have any if it bothers you. I think, though, I deserve an explanation,” he finished quietly. “I don’t know anyone with quite your aversion to alcohol.” But he wondered if she was a recovering alcoholic—which would explain a lot.
Laurel had picked up a goblet and stared vacantly into it. Deep frown lines creased her brow, and her fingers shook slightly.
“If we’re going to be friends—” he began.
She interrupted him. “We’re not.” She set the goblet back on the rock. “I’m a loner. Always have been, and I prefer it that way.” Laurel clasped her hands tightly over her elbows and turned to face the valley again. Above them, the wind whistled through a cell tower that seemed at odds with its surroundings.
Alan walked up behind her and gently squeezed her shoulders before brushing his fingers to her elbows and back. “Neighbors, then. You can’t deny we’re neighbors.”
She shivered from the friction of his flesh against hers. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with such care. The seductive movement of his palms set off alarms in Laurel’s head. Her voice caught in her throat. Whirling, she found they were standing much too close; their knees collided, and he kept her from stumbling.
Suddenly she blurted, “I was married for seven years to an alcoholic. I…tried so hard to make the marriage work. I’m sorry if I don’t respond the way you’re used to women responding, Alan. I’ve heard all the pretty speeches. All the charming, endearing lies. I’m immune. Completely.” She took a step back, then ran to Cinnabar, where she began tightening the mare’s cinch.
Alan supposed he should’ve been prepared. Should’ve added it all up, considering what she’d said earlier about being left with debt. Seven years. Her life must have been hell. “We’ve got a hard ride ahead of us. I’m still hungry. Aren’t you?” Not looking at her, he shoved the wine bottle back in the knapsack. Grabbing both glasses, he dropped flat on his stomach and leaned over the ledge to fill them with water. He heard Laurel slowly loosen Cinnabar’s cinch. Under other circumstances, he might have smiled. But, that remark she’d made about other women, as if he made a habit of seducing them—annoyed him.
Scrambling up, he faced her, ready to set her straight. The vulnerable expression on her pale face changed his mind. Laurel Ashline affected him as no woman had for so long he’d nearly forgotten the exciting escalation of a heartbeat. “Tell me how you got started weaving,” he said, handing her a frosty glass.
Laurel took it and drank deeply. When she set the glass aside, she picked up a plate. “If we’re going to make small talk, I don’t think either of our jobs is a good topic.”
“What, then?” Alan said, settling on the ground with his back resting against a boulder.
“Louemma. You have a dear, sweet daughter. I can see she badly wants to join her friends. If I’m to have any hope of helping her achieve that goal, I need to know exactly what the doctors say is holding her back.” Laurel filled both plates.
Alan picked at his salad, releasing a shaky sigh. She might as well have asked him to turn his soul inside out. “I begin and end every day praying that she’ll miraculously wake up one morning and be her old self. I have stacks of files from dozens of doctors. Between now and her next lesson, I’ll run off copies and drop them by your house.”
“So many doctors? I had no idea. Alan, if you’re expecting me to pull off a miracle, you have the wrong woman. I barely have my own life back on track.”
“Vestal’s the one who called you the miracle worker. I’m going along with it, albeit reluctantly, because it’s the most interest Louemma’s shown in anything since the accident.”
“Well, that’s brutally honest,” Laurel mumbled, biting into her chicken. “But it takes us back to my job. Like I said, it’s dangerous for either of us to talk about our work. So I suggest we eat fast and call it a day. Unless you can give me more specific details about Louemma…”
As always, when Alan felt put on the spot with regard to his daughter’s accident, he clammed up. It was just simpler all the way around.
Chapter Eight
OVER THE DAYS AND NIGHTS following her ride with Alan up Bell Hill, Laurel replayed many of their conversations in her head. They’d settled nothing, she realized, including her question concerning the amount of water supplied by the spring. Alan had jumped in to say something about not boring her with engineering details, and then never returned to the issue. He was a master at dodging questions he didn’t want to answer. But…so was she.
Or maybe Alan had changed his mind. She hadn’t heard from him. She didn’t dare believe he’d lost interest in diverting the water. Hazel’s lawyer had pointed out that the creek was what made Laurel’s inheritance worth a lot in monetary terms.
At the time, money hadn’t interested her nearly so much as having a place to disappear. Now, she knew she should think more long-term. Before, she’d rarely considered anything beyond a day at a time; living with Dennis had caused that. Even after her move, he’d tracked her down. Often drunk, he phoned at all hours, day or night. For two weeks, though, he’d been ble
ssedly silent. Either the phone company had cut off his service or he’d been evicted or both. She could only hope he’d given up. Now there was Alan… He’d arrived on the scene to complicate things further.
Laurel rubbed under Dog’s collar. “You’re misnamed,” she murmured. “You’re woman’s best friend,” she murmured, “not man’s.” He raised his head from the rug she’d spread at the foot of her jack loom, and licked her left hand.
Pushing back her chair, Laurel decided it was time to phone Alan. If he had reports on the creek and its water flow, he might as well bring them along with Louemma’s medical file. Unless he didn’t plan to let his daughter continue with her lessons. Hard to tell. Laurel and Alan had hardly spoken on the return ride. He’d unsaddled Coal Fire and said goodbye. But…why put this off?
Going to a wall phone she’d had installed in the loom cottage, she punched in his home number, and was startled to hear a woman’s soft Southern drawl. Not his grandmother, Laurel knew her voice. “Have I reached the Ridge residence?”
“Yes. Who’s calling, please?”
“Uh, Laurel Ashline. I’d like to speak to Alan. If he’s busy he can call me at his convenience.” Laurel thought the woman covered the mouthpiece. She heard mumbles in the background. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was just past 8:00 a.m. Early. But he’d phoned her earlier that first day. Had she interrupted him and a woman friend? Laurel debated hanging up. Then his deep voice crossed the line.
“Laurel? Is it really you? What’s the matter? I hope you’re not calling to cancel Louemma’s lesson tomorrow.”
“No. Is the lesson tomorrow? Goodness, I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time. I’ve been putting in long hours on a project—a tablecloth and thirty matching napkins for a woman who’s giving a political dinner party this weekend.” She stopped, realizing she was babbling. “Uh…why I’m calling. You said you’d let me read Louemma’s medical record. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d also like to see the spring’s hydrology study.”
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