by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
“Because”—he leaned down, his lips so close to hers she felt their heat—“I’m going to kiss you so’s you know exactly what’s waiting for you when you come home to me.”
Epilogue
One year later … plus a week for travel
Robert kept his cold fingers wrapped around the steering wheel of the Model T.
“Darling?” Jolene twisted on the passenger seat to face him. “What’s wrong? You haven’t said a word since we left the church.”
He dared a look. Dressed in her bridal clothes, she was so beautiful his eyes hurt.
“This is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives, but you look like you’ve swallowed a persimmon.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes were pinched at the corners.
The celluloid collar around his neck tightened. “I … well, I have another surprise for you.”
Her expression eased. “You mean other than this new car? Which is lovely, by the way.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He’d spent a year refurbishing what had started out as a shell. Last September, Jolene’s dad had offered him a car too beat up to drive to the next fair. His dad, not to be outdone by the generous offer, donated a new set of tires. Over the following twelve months, Robert spent every night after work piecing the car together. Some of his coworkers at the Boeing Airplane Company caught the spirit and started picking up bits and pieces—a hood ornament, running boards, and even some leather seats—as they found them.
It had been a good way to pass a year while waiting to marry his sweetheart. And saved him enough money that he’d put a sizable down payment on a little house near the Duwamish River, where he’d already planted blueberry bushes, a plum tree, and some berry vines. That was his third surprise for Jolene, and a good thing, too, if the second one turned out to be a huge mistake.
Robert let go of the steering wheel and set the brake. “Remember how your dad lectured me about one day us needing to forgive each other. That it might be for a small thing or … or maybe a big thing.”
Wariness crept back into Jolene’s blue eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, I did something I thought would be funny, but it just occurred to me that a woman might not want her wedding reception plans messed with, not even by a husband who thinks she’s the bee’s knees.”
Jolene’s skin turned pink. “What did you do?”
“Maybe I’d better just show you.” He popped out of the car and headed around the hood to open the door for his wife.
His wife!
He was never going to get tired of calling her that. As long as she forgave him for this.
They walked toward the small Elks Club they’d reached ahead of their wedding guests. He opened the door and let Jolene walk inside first. His surprise was front and center.
Jolene broke into peals of laughter. “That’s … perfect.”
Relief filled his lungs. “Thank goodness.”
She set her bouquet down on the table. “And the best part is that I can do this.” Jolene picked one golden triangle from the tower that substituted for a wedding cake and sank her teeth into a freshly baked Fisher Scone.
Becca Whitham (WIT-um) is a multipublished author who has always loved reading and writing stories. After raising two children, she and her husband faced the empty nest years by following their dreams: he joined the army as a chaplain, and she began her journey toward publication. Becca loves to tell stories marrying real historical events with modern-day applications to inspire readers to live Christ-reflecting lives. She’s traveled to almost every state in the United States for speaking and singing engagements and has lived in Washington, Oregon, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Alaska. She can be reached through her website at www.beccawhitham.com.
Chapter 1
Western Colorado, 1920
It was a perfect apple: round, smooth, undamaged by birds or insects. But it was just beyond her reach. Lorelei wedged one bare foot into the fork between two branches and stepped off the ladder. Leaning into the trunk, she reached into the fruit-studded limbs. The apple snapped loose with a twist of her wrist.
She rubbed the fruit against her sleeve, gratified by the shine that appeared. A smile curved her mouth. She tucked the apple into the voluminous front pocket on her black-and-white-checked overalls. Then grabbing the trunk with both hands, she inched her free foot toward the top rung of the battered ladder. When her toes found purchase, she shifted her weight back.
The sharp sting on the base of her big toe took her by surprise. She jerked her foot away. The hornet escaped unscathed. The ladder crashed to the ground behind her with a clatter. Lorelei scrabbled to find a secure grip. Rough bark bit into her fingers as the force of gravity overrode her attempt to save herself.
Emmett Dewey had himself an apple rustler. The idea spurred a crooked smile. Surely an apple rustler wasn’t too dangerous. He crept forward, spotting an ancient ladder and a small, bare foot poised on the top rung.
When the ladder crashed to the ground, Emmett leaped forward, arms out. He caught the falling figure. The impact took them both to the ground.
The creature stealing his apples came up punching and kicking like an Irish street brawler. Emmett scrambled to his feet. Fists raised for battle, he faced the thief. His red haze of fury cleared. He dropped his hands, along with his jaw.
Her strawberry-blond hair, cropped in a chin-length bob, was mussed, random tendrils tickling the sides of a heart-shaped face. Her baggy overalls failed to disguise her feminine attributes.
“You’re a girl. I’m sorry,” he blurted, appalled that he’d apprehended her.
“You’re sorry because I’m female?”
Emmett shook his head. “No, I’m not sorry about that….” He flushed. “I’m sorry for … for catching you the way I did.”
It was her turn to redden. “You broke my fall. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re welcome. Are you aware this is private property? You’re trespassing.”
She blinked cool gray eyes. “This property belongs to Otto Starkey.”
“I beg to differ. Mr. Starkey is the former owner. It was sold at auction. To me.”
Lorelei examined her rescuer. He was tall—at least six feet—and strong, judging from the way he’d caught her free fall. He was also well versed in self-defense. Even when she’d used most of the tricks her Welsh father had taught her, the man hadn’t flinched.
Then what he’d said registered. Her clenched fists dropped to her sides, horror and grief marching over her soul. She’d attended Otto’s funeral, offered her condolences to his relations. They’d said nothing about selling the property. Grief gripped her. The orchard had been Otto’s life, but his family wouldn’t have cared. They’d abandoned the old man years ago. With their ambivalence they’d stolen her last hope for the future.
“What about his will?”
The stranger shook his head. “Wasn’t one, as far as I know. The deed passed to his next of kin.”
Lorelei suppressed a groan. She’d urged Otto to draw up a will. He’d promised to do so, promised to leave word that she would always have access to the orchard. But his death had been sudden, and he hadn’t followed through.
“Why did you buy it?” She fisted her hands on her hips.
“It seemed like a good idea.”
“What do you know about apples?”
“I like to eat them,” he replied with a lazy drawl that made her think of warm summer afternoons and tall glasses of fresh-squeezed lemonade.
She stomped her foot to shake off the image. “What are your plans for the property?”
He grinned. Lorelei rocked back on her heels, struck dumb. No man should be graced with a cleft chin and dimples, in addition to sparkling blue eyes and a headful of wavy golden hair. It wasn’t fair.
“I’m leaning toward selling the place.”
Lorelei’s heart lurched. It was bad enough that Otto had shrugged off this mortal coil before the trees he’d planted with such care produced their bes
t crop. It was worse that this stranger had no comprehension of the treasure he now owned.
“You can’t do that!”
He cocked his head. “Why not?”
Her eyes stung. “Otto was my friend.” She’d spent the last year and a half making sure he was getting enough to eat. She sought a distraction to stop the tears before they started. Her shoes. Where had she put her shoes?
He cleared his throat. Her serviceable black lace-ups—courtesy of the 1918 Sears catalog—dangled from his outstretched hand. She lunged toward them, but he held them out of reach.
“Why shouldn’t I have you arrested for trespassing?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t even know what you’ve bought.”
“I’m fairly sure it’s an orchard, with a very ramshackle cabin in one corner. That’s what the deed said, at least.”
She gasped again. “You bought the cabin, too?”
“I did, and for much more than it was worth, but that’s one of the risks of buying sight unseen.”
“He built that cabin with his own hands when he homesteaded this place,” Lorelei said.
“That explains the lack of amenities. Adding indoor plumbing and electricity is at the top of my list of things to do.”
The man was confusing. “So you intend to stay? I thought you were going to sell.”
“I can’t sell the place as it is and make a profit. I’ll be here for a time.”
“How long?”
“Isn’t that a rather personal question when we haven’t even officially met? Why don’t you tell me what’s so important to you about this orchard?”
The apple in her pocket banged against her breastbone. Without Otto, if she were to have any hope of winning the Apple Pie Days contest she would need this man’s cooperation. She shifted from side to side. Her toe was beginning to itch. She withdrew the apple from her pocket and balanced the golden fruit, kissed with a rosy hue on one side, on her palm.
“This is a Colorado Orange.”
The stranger narrowed his eyes. “That’s an apple.”
“The variety of the apple is called Colorado Orange. Otto grafted these trees years ago from cuttings he brought from Fremont County. They’re quite rare.”
“What does that mean, in layman’s terms?”
Lorelei cupped the apple in her palms, warming to her topic. “It means this variety of apple is unique and, I believe, particularly well suited for pies.”
“So that gives you a license to steal them?”
She stared him down. She was not a thief. “Mr. Starkey was my silent partner.”
A brisk breeze swirled through the orchard, sending dust and debris flying and making speech impossible. When the air settled around them, Lorelei tucked the apple back in her pocket.
“Partner in what?” Emmett asked.
“Mr. Starkey was helping me create a contest-winning pie.”
“What contest?”
She blinked. “It’s nothing.”
“Seems like it’s something to you.”
Good grief, were all her thoughts revealed on her face? All her hopes for the future were pinned on winning the contest, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Apple Pie Days is Rifle’s annual festival. Every lady in town bakes six pies. People come from all around to enjoy free pie and coffee. An Apple Pie Days queen will be crowned, based on who has the best pie. I think I can win if I use Otto’s apples.”
His scrutiny burned like a brand. She resisted the urge to squirm.
“What do you get if you win?”
Lorelei dug her fingernails into the fleshy pads of her palms. Did the man ever stop asking questions?
“A lovely blue ribbon and the Apple Pie Days Queen title.” She peered at him from beneath her lashes, unable to meet his straightforward blue gaze. How did you explain desperation to a stranger? He would think her real idea foolish, at best. An idea struck her. “It would increase the value of the orchard for you when you’re ready to sell.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “So you want to use my apples, and if you win this contest, it will benefit me when I sell the property?”
Could he not simply give her the apples and move along?
“Yes, I believe it would.” She raised her chin. If he refused to cooperate, she’d come up with another plan. Silence stretched between them until her nerves zinged with tension.
“I’ll think about letting you use my apples, if you’ll allow me to give you a ride home.”
Chapter 2
She had the most amazing face. Emmett watched the play of thoughts and emotions cross her features. It was like reading a living book.
“You do live around here, don’t you?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s not far. I can walk.”
Another gust of wind scoured the orchard, silencing them both.
“It’s getting dark.” He gestured toward the western horizon in full sunset. “You shouldn’t be walking alone on the road this late.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Nor I yours.”
She examined him in the deepening twilight. He offered what he hoped was a trustworthy smile.
“Lorelei Boyd.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Boyd. My name is Emmett Dewey.”
“Mr. Dewey.” She pointed at her shoes. “May I have those, please?”
He extended his hand. She plucked her shoes from his grasp, plopped onto the dirt, yanked her balled-up stockings out of the toes, and put them on. Emmett averted his eyes to avoid staring at her slender ankles and shapely calves.
“My car is parked by the cabin.”
“If I let you drive me home, I can use the apples?” she asked.
He held out his hand to help her up. She hesitated. To his surprise, she slipped her small, cool fingers into his palm. He pulled her to her feet then released her. He shoved his hand in his pocket, trying to ignore the tingle where their skin had met.
“It’s a start,” he replied. “I’m still thinking about it.”
He thought he heard something like a growl from her throat.
“Fine,” she muttered, stomping toward the cabin.
Emmett followed. He had to hurry to keep up on the half-mile jaunt. Had he not decided to walk through the orchard after a cursory examination of his latest acquisition, he wouldn’t have heard or seen her. She could have fallen and been injured, he thought.
When she spotted his 1919 yellow Paige roadster, her sudden intake of breath swelled his pride. The car was his sole luxury, his splurge. Beyond basic expenses and the costs to renovate properties he bought, his profits were sent home to his mother.
“She’s beautiful,” Lorelei murmured, hands hovering over the sleek curve of the front fender.
“I think so.” He opened the passenger door for her.
Miss Boyd trailed her slender fingers over every available surface in the interior, appreciation evident in her soft sigh and gentle touch. Emmett swallowed, unnerved by his response to this woman. He climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door with more force than he intended. “So, where’s home?”
She pointed. “Two miles west, then take a left at the big stand of cottonwoods.”
He started the engine. Reaching over, he popped open the glove box and withdrew two pairs of goggles. He handed Lorelei a pair. “You don’t want a bug in your eye.”
She put them on. “Thank you. I’ve already got a hornet sting on my toe. I’d rather avoid any more contact with insects this evening.”
“A hornet sting?” he asked as he pulled on his goggles.
“Did you think I just fell from the tree?” Her tone was incredulous, as though the concept was inconceivable. “I was stung by a hornet.”
Emmett shifted the car into gear and gave it some gas. “I’ve fallen from trees for lesser reasons,” he replied, steering the automobile into a U-turn.
“I haven’t.”
They both fell s
ilent. He had to drive slowly. The Paige wasn’t designed for rural Colorado roads.
“Do you often go to the orchard alone?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stared straight ahead, body tense, fingers curved around the door handle.
Questions raced through his mind. Was she married? Single? Didn’t anyone care that she was out alone so late?
“Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it,” she said. “It would have been a long walk in the dark.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry about your friend Otto.” He thought she might be fighting tears, but when she spoke, her voice was strong.
“Me, too. I wish I’d had a chance to say good-bye.” Otto had gone into town to see the dentist and collapsed. He’d died just a few hours later.
Emmett slowed at the stand of cottonwoods.
“You can let me out at the turn, if you’d like.”
“What kind of gentleman only takes a lady partway home?”
Emmett steered the roadster onto a narrow dirt lane, slowing even more to navigate around the deeper potholes. He should have rented a truck or something else more suitable for the rural roads. He braked outside a modest single-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. She slithered out of the passenger seat.
“Thank you for the ride,” she called, already halfway up the porch steps. The door flung open, and light flooded out. Emmett blinked at the glare.
“Where have you been, young lady?” boomed a baritone voice in an accent Emmett couldn’t place. “You know I don’t like you out after dark alone.”
“Sorry, Da. I was at the orchard.” Miss Boyd attempted to slip past the bulky figure, but instead of letting her pass, the man stepped forward. Emmett’s eyes adjusted to the light. He identified a bearlike man, thick in the middle, with arms that seemed too long for his body. While Miss Boyd had called him Da, Emmett couldn’t see a single similarity.
“Lorelei, where are your manners? You could at least introduce the gentleman who brought you home in his automobile.” The word automobile was spoken syllable by syllable.