by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene
He smiled.
Lorelei blinked. “What are you grinning about?”
“You’re a formidable negotiator, Miss Boyd. That’s a skill I appreciate.”
A smile flickered around her mouth, but she stifled it. “So we’re in agreement, then?”
“We are.”
She gestured toward the remaining pie in the dish. “So what about number twenty-four? What’s wrong with it? Is it something with the crust, or with the filling? I know it’s not the apples.”
That made him laugh. She had such incredible faith in the Colorado Orange and so little in her own ability.
“I’ve only tried two of your pies. That’s not a good basis for comparison.”
“But what do you think?” She gripped his forearm. “Am I on the right track?”
Her desperation was tangible. He understood competition and wanting to win, but her intensity bordered on obsession. He chose his words with care.
“I believe if you continue to produce such excellent samples, your chances of winning any apple pie contest are excellent.”
She averted her gaze and released his arm. “I hope you’re right,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Have faith, Miss Boyd. Your pies are excellent.”
She blinked. “Thank you.” For a beat their eyes met and held. “I usually bake in the morning, so I’ll bring your sample tomorrow afternoon after lunch.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you.” He stood. “And now I should get going. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He bid good evening to her parents, who were snuggled together on the porch swing like newlyweds.
He thought about the Boyds on his drive back to his empty hotel room. Mrs. Boyd had asked him if he wanted to settle down. He did, someday. That was how he answered his mother when she asked him about it, every time he spoke to her.
He genuinely liked Lorelei Boyd. But his lifestyle, his livelihood, would force him to leave her behind in a matter of weeks. And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Lorelei pulled pie number twenty-five out of the oven. She placed it on the table to cool and took off her apron.
“I feel terrible that you are only taking Mr. Dewey a piece of pie. Why don’t I make him a lunch?” Momma said, coming into the kitchen.
“No, Momma. This is a business deal, that’s all.”
“But he seems like such a nice young man. And handsome, too.”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
“So you don’t deny it?”
“Are you testing my vision? Of course, he’s handsome, but—”
“Who’s handsome?” Da interrupted.
Lorelei’s face flamed. “Nothing, Da. Momma is being silly. I’m going to walk down to the orchard and deliver Mr. Dewey’s pie after lunch. And then I’ll probably stop to visit Opal.”
“All right, dear.”
“You be cautious, Lorelei. There’s been talk of vagrants in the area again. Be back before dark.”
Lorelei shuddered, thinking how easily Mr. Dewey had come upon her in the orchard. “I’ll be careful, Da.”
Chapter 7
With less than a week until the festival, Lorelei’s days fell into a pattern. She rose early, did her chores, tweaked her latest recipe, and baked the day’s pie. After lunch, she packed a piece of pie for Mr. Dewey and walked to the cabin.
Today she spotted him on the roof, unrolling tar paper over the places where he’d removed rotted shingles. His sleeves, rolled up past his elbows, exposed strong forearms as he wielded a shiny new hammer. She shaded her eyes with one hand and watched him. She hadn’t expected an opportunist to be such a hard worker. But then, many of the things she’d learned about Emmett Dewey were unexpected.
Their daily visits afforded opportunities to chat, either before or after he critiqued the day’s pie, and every day he had surprised her with his wit, his intellect, and his faith.
“Hello!” she called out. “Do you want to take a break?”
He stopped, hammer in midswing, and turned. When he saw her, he smiled and waved. “Perfect timing! I’ll be right down.”
Good grief, she could see those dimples from a distance.
He unrolled the last bit of tar paper and tacked it down before swinging over the side of the roof onto a shiny new ladder. She met him beside a small folding table and chairs, which had been delivered with the ladder. She placed the container with his slice of pie on the table while he washed his hands at the cistern spigot.
“So, what’s special about number thirty-six?” he asked, smoothing his hair off his forehead with damp fingers. He always asked, which surprised her. And he remembered what she said, which surprised her more. It was as if he took a genuine interest in the process. Or maybe he was interested in her? She set that notion aside as unbelievable.
“I adjusted the cinnamon, as you suggested, and added a tiny bit of molasses as an experiment,” she said, taking a seat opposite him.
He picked up his fork and took his first bite. He chewed, closed his eyes, chewed some more, and swallowed.
“Nope. The molasses takes away from the distinct flavor of the apples,” he said. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but this isn’t your winner.”
She sighed. “I thought so, too.”
He finished the piece of pie and stretched. “Listen, I’m done for the day. Can I give you a ride home?”
“Driving me home wasn’t part of our contract,” Lorelei said.
“Doesn’t have to be part of a contract,” Emmett drawled. “I’d like to take you home.”
The dimples appeared, and she couldn’t help but acquiesce.
Lorelei’s heart pounded when she approached the cabin the next day. She had a sample of pie number thirty-seven in one hand and two fishing poles in the other.
She’d protested her da’s suggestion. Emmett Dewey was an opportunist, she’d insisted, and he was headed out of town as soon as he could sell Otto’s place for a profit. Her father had frowned, his thick black brows forming a V. The young man was alone in a strange place and deserved kindness and friendship, he said. When Momma chimed in with the scripture about being kind to strangers who might be angelic visitors, Lorelei yielded, mostly to silence her parents.
Emmett came out of the shed, brushing cobwebs and dust off his clothes in a choking cloud.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He looked up, startled. “I’m fine. I upended what I thought was an empty box.” He swiped a hand over his face. His eyes brightened at the sight of the fishing poles. “You going fishing?”
She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. “My da thought you might want to go along. He said you told him you missed fishing.”
A broad smile spread across Emmett’s face. “I haven’t been fishing in years. I’d love to join you.”
She propped the fishing poles against a tree and handed him his slice of pie. “No molasses today, and a little more lemon zest, as you suggested.”
Emmett was impressed by Miss Boyd’s ability to unearth worms and drop the wriggling creatures into an empty can.
“Where to?” he asked once they were in the car, fishing poles poking above the seats. She gave him directions to the river.
The waters of the Colorado River were far different from the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers he was accustomed to. White-capped rapids alternated with smooth, still places where, Miss Boyd informed him, the undercurrent was dangerous.
He followed her through a marshy stretch of willows. She stopped at a small clearing on the bank where wide, flat rocks offered perches.
“This is a good spot,” he said, watching her settle onto a rock near the edge and begin to prepare her pole.
“It’s my favorite,” she said. “Sometimes I just come down here to sit and watch the river. It’s hard to believe this water will end up in the ocean.”
She had that dreamy look again. The one that made Emmett wonder what she was thinking. “Have you ever
been to the ocean, Miss Boyd?”
“No. But I’d like to see it someday,” she said.
They both fell silent. Emmett found himself thinking he’d like to be the one to show Miss Boyd the ocean for the first time. She yawned and stretched.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Thinking about the contest has been keeping me awake at night.”
Thinking about her had been keeping him awake at night. He was watching her when his fishing line went taut. The pole, which he’d been holding in one relaxed hand, flew into the water. He lunged and caught it just before it bobbed downstream but lost his balance in the process. He hit the water face-first, arms outstretched, with a splash.
The water was deeper than he’d expected, and shockingly cold. He floundered, keeping hold of the pole, and struggled to find his footing. When he got his feet under him on the slippery rocks, he turned and headed back toward the bank.
Lorelei had propped her pole in the sandy soil and hurried to where he had toppled into the river. Her hands were pressed against her mouth, as if in horror, but her gray eyes danced with mirth. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing at him.
He strode through the water with some difficulty, tossed the pole, with its empty line, to the bank—the trout had made a break for it during Emmett’s gyrations—and reached for Miss Lorelei Boyd.
She squealed when he tugged her against his cold, soggy frame, river water soaking them both. She put both hands against his chest and pushed back, but he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers.
After a moment her hands slipped around his neck, and she drew him in for a deeper kiss. Her response caught him off guard, so when her hands moved back to his chest and shoved, he was unprepared. He tumbled backward but managed to catch her by the wrist and pull her into the water with him.
They came up sputtering, spitting river water. Together they struggled back to the riverbank and collapsed, dripping muddy water.
“I’m sorry,” Emmett said, once he caught his breath.
“For kissing me?”
Caught off guard again, he stilled. “No. I’m sorry for drenching you.” He reached for her hand, streaked with mud, and raised it to his lips. “I’m not at all sorry for kissing you, Lorelei.” Her name rolled off his tongue like sweet, golden honey, making him want to say it all over again.
“Oh.” She brushed water off her face with her hand. “Oh,” she repeated. Then she shoved up to her feet. “We should get back.”
Emmett rose as well, feet unsteady in the soft ground. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
She met his gaze. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable, but I think we should get back.” Her color was high, and he was somewhat gratified to realize she was as affected by their kiss as he had been. “You wouldn’t want to start something you can’t finish,” she said, and before he could come up with a retort, she whirled, snatched up her pole, and strode away through the willows.
Lorelei fixed her attention on the road ahead as Emmett—he was now Emmett in her mind, not Mr. Dewey—drove her home. If she looked at him, all she could think about was kissing him. And finding a way to kiss him again.
It’s good that he’s leaving soon, she told herself. Lest I wind up heartbroken and pathetic.
Emmett parked in the drive. As he helped her out of the car, Mrs. Boyd burst onto the porch. “Oh Lorelei, we’ve got trouble.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The boys your father hired to help have the mumps. Their uncle came by to let us know.”
Da hobbled onto the porch. “It’s fine, Maggie darling. I can manage without them.”
Momma’s gaze shifted from Lorelei to Emmett. “Why are you both all wet?”
“We fell in the river,” Lorelei said. “Da, we’ll hire a few more workers. We can put an advertisement in the Rifle Reveille.”
Emmett cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to help out.”
Two pairs of dove-gray eyes turned toward him, reflecting relief and suspicion.
“I can’t do much at my place.” He shrugged. That wasn’t entirely true. He could fix the listing gate, and mend the fences, and clean up the pathways and outbuildings. But he knew when God was nudging him, and helping the Boyds in a time of need felt right.
Da extended a hand. “That would be much appreciated, Mr. Dewey. And I’d be glad to return the favor.”
Emmett shook the man’s beefy hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 8
Rosy light caressed the eastern horizon when Emmett parked the Paige at the Boyds’ house again. Fatigue dogged him. He’d spent much of the night questioning God’s leading. He never got involved. He came in, improved property value, and left town with the profits in his pocket. Yet here he was, inserting himself into the life of this family, kissing their daughter…. It was as if he was planning on sticking around. And that wasn’t the case. Was it?
Mr. Boyd sat on the porch, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and his gouty foot propped on the railing.
“Good morning, sir.”
“I didn’t expect to see you until midmorning at best.” Mr. Boyd chuckled and then scanned Emmett from head to toe. “But before we get started, Lorelei will find you some suitable clothes.”
“What was that, Da?” Lorelei asked, drying her hands on an embroidered kitchen towel as she approached the screen door.
Emmett cleared his throat. “I work in these every day, sir. I’m sure it will be fine.”
Mr. Boyd dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Find this fellow some overalls, would you, Lorelei?”
Emmett flinched under Lorelei’s inspection. She held the door open and waved him inside. “This way.” He followed her into the house, past the parlor and kitchen, and toward the back rooms. He caught a glimpse of Lorelei’s room, with a colorful quilt on the bed and dried flowers pinned to the walls. She led him into her parents’ room—a utilitarian affair that smelled faintly of liniment—and opened an armoire. From its recesses she dragged a pair of faded canvas overalls and a checkered flannel shirt that had seen better days.
He took the clothes, conscious of the fragrance of the soap flakes the Boyds used for their laundry. He’d smelled the same scent when he’d caught Lorelei in the orchard.
“Boots?” She interrupted his reverie.
“They’re in my car.”
“I’ll go grab them for you while you change.”
“Thanks.”
She marched out of the bedroom and closed the door. The overalls and shirt were too big, but Emmett rolled up the sleeves and the pant legs. Catching a glimpse of himself in the cheval mirror, he smiled wryly. The last time he’d worn overalls, he’d been a gangly, awkward twelve-year-old convinced he could make a career out of his proficiency with a slingshot.
He folded his regular work clothes into a neat bundle and padded back to the kitchen in his socks, nearly colliding with Lorelei when he rounded the corner.
They both stepped back. She held out his boots. “I was expecting shiny new ones.”
He took the scuffed work boots from her hand. “I’ve had these a long time. They come in handy.” He didn’t know why he was explaining himself. Most women were more impressed by his usual attire—fancy suits and shiny shoes—than by his old boots.
“Have you ever abandoned a project?”
Was she hoping he would quit work at Otto’s and leave? He pulled out one of the cane-backed kitchen chairs and sat down.
“No,” he replied, lacing one boot. “Although, I once purchased a building in Florida near the Everglades. When I arrived to start work, I found a six-foot alligator asleep in the sun, blocking the entrance.”
She gasped. “An alligator?”
He nodded, picked up his other boot. “I hired local fellas to come in and do the necessary work at twice their normal rate. It was worth it.”
“I would say so!” She busied herself with something at the apron-fronted sink, her back to him. “How many prop
erties have you … owned?”
He tucked his laces into the top of the boots, counting in his head. “A dozen, I think. Give or take a few.” He looked up. She was staring out the kitchen window, slender fingers drumming rhythmically against the edge of the sink. “What are you thinking?”
“What is it like to buy and sell land the way a grocer buys and sells eggs?” She faced him. Fine lines of tension on her forehead and around her lovely mouth revealed more than she said aloud.
“It’s not quite that simple.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not. I just wondered….” Her voice trailed off.
Were the Boyds in financial trouble? Or was Lorelei simply daydreaming? The farmhouse around him was clean and well maintained but small. He could understand a young woman imagining what it would be like to have more. He had spent much of his youth dreaming about more. Was that what was driving her to win the pie contest?
Before he could construct a gentlemanly way to ask, she dazzled him with an unexpected smile.
“I’d like to return the favor you’re doing for my da.”
He blinked. “That’s not necessary.”
“I know, but it’s fair. I was thinking I could go clean Otto’s cabin before you start on the renovations.”
Emmett looked at her in surprise. It was going to be an unpleasant task. The old man’s cabin was one big mouse nest. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Otto was my friend. I know what was important to him. I know the cabin was a disaster while he was alive, and whatever happened after his death …” She swallowed. “Let me clean Otto’s cabin. Please.”
How could he refuse? It would be a help to him, and it meant something to her.
“All right. If you insist.”
She smiled again. “I’ll head over there now and get started.” He followed her glance toward a wooden toolbox filled with cleaning supplies. She’d expected him to agree to her plan.
“I could drive you.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m used to the walk. It gives me time to think.” She crossed the room and leaned toward him, so close he could smell the soap scent again, and a fresh, green fragrance that reminded him of sunshine and mountaintops. Her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears.