by Amanda Wen
“Absolutely. Anytime.”
Lauren’s rapid footsteps retreated through the living room, and the front door thudded shut a moment later.
Much as she’d have loved to linger, Sloane couldn’t spare the time. On impulse, though, she pulled out her phone and snapped a couple pictures of Granny Annie as well as one of Orrin and Rosie Spencer.
As Sloane slipped out the front door, a large white Lexus SUV pulled into the gravel driveway, and a glamorous-looking, fortysomething woman stepped out. The wind harassed carefully styled auburn hair; she corralled it with a manicured hand and took a look around.
“Can I help you?” Sloane asked, keys in hand.
“Hi. Kimberly Walsh with Carter and Macy Realty. Are you”—squinting, she consulted her notes—“Erin?”
Sloane frowned. “No …”
“I’m sorry, it’s just I’m supposed to meet someone named Erin here at four.”
It was odd to see such a put-together woman fumbling to this extent. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“This is the address.” Another gust of wind caught Kimberly’s hair, and she fought it back. “So if you’re not Erin, then who are you? And who am I supposed to meet?”
Tires on gravel underlined her last words, and a beige Toyota Camry with a bike rack on the back rolled up beside the Lexus.
Wait a minute.
Sloane had seen that Camry here before. Just last weekend.
The car stopped, and Garrett stepped out. An eager smile beamed toward her, but it wobbled slightly when he looked at the real estate agent.
He cleared his throat. “Hey, everybody.”
CHAPTER NINE
GARRETT HAD MADE an appointment with Rick Macy. So who was the redhead with the flustered expression and the fluttering clipboard? Was Rick still on his way?
More importantly, what was Sloane doing here? She wasn’t supposed to be here. And she definitely wasn’t supposed to be making chitchat with someone from the real estate office. Not before he even had a chance to ask questions or assemble anything resembling a plan. And why did it matter so much what this tweed-skirt-wearing historian with wind-tossed hair thought?
Her quirked brow brought an uncomfortable awareness that he was staring, and probably not in a hey-there’s-my-friend kind of way. He shut the car door and pulled in a quick breath, praying she’d ignore the implications of him meeting a real estate agent at Grandma’s house.
“Hi,” he said.
Sloane pushed her glasses up on her nose, a half smile on her lips and the expected questions in her eyes. “Hey.”
High heels crunched on gravel as the redhead stepped forward and extended a hand. “I’m Kimberly Walsh with Carter and Macy Realty. Are you the Aaron who had an appointment with Rick?”
Garrett returned the handshake. “I am Rick’s four o’clock, but my name’s not Aaron. It’s Garrett Anderson.”
“Aha.” A triumphant smile crossed Kimberly’s face. “So I am in the right place. Rick had a family emergency last night and had to fly out to California. I took over most of his appointments today. And Rick’s a little hard of hearing, so that explains the name mix-up.” She glanced from Garrett to Sloane and back again. “But anyway, hi. You two were interested in having me look at the property?”
Garrett drew back. “Oh, we’re not—I mean, she’s—”
“Leaving.” Sloane bailed him out with a jangle of her keys. “I’m with the historical museum, and Lauren wanted to show me some old pictures.”
Lauren and Sloane? Together? That could be dangerous. “Maybe you can fill me in tonight?”
“Sure.” Her smile was a twitch of the lips rather than the full-on one he’d hoped for. “Six thirty, right?”
“Six thirty. Looking forward to it.”
“See you then.” With a wave, she climbed into her car and took off, and the tension across Garrett’s shoulders loosened slightly. Her demeanor left him feeling like having Kimberly out to the house was a mistake somehow. But the house and Grandma weren’t Sloane’s responsibility. They were his and Lauren’s. Not that he was keeping Lauren in the loop either.
Later. He’d sort things out with Sloane later. For now, it was time to talk business.
He turned to Kimberly to find her staring after Sloane’s retreating Elantra, a frown creasing her features. But when the car’s taillights disappeared around the bend, she erased the confusion from her face, slapped on a bright smile, and gestured toward the house with her clipboard. “Shall we?”
Garrett led her across the driveway to the listing porch. “My grandfather was fixing this up last fall when he passed unexpectedly.”
Kimberly gave the predictable sympathetic murmur. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’ve been looking into contractors to finish the job.” The wooden steps seemed more warped and faded than he remembered. One corner of the screen, sagging loose last time he visited, had fallen down completely, the newly freed corner scraping against its frame with each gust of wind.
Had the porch always looked this bad? Or was he simply seeing it with more critical eyes?
“I’ve got a couple carpenters I can recommend.” Unfazed, Kimberly stepped into the living room. Garrett held his breath as her keen gaze swept over every nook and cranny.
“Wow. This place has been here a while, hasn’t it?” Lines around her eyes deepened with her smile. “It’s a good size. Cozy, but not cramped. Loads of charm and character. The wallpaper’s got to go, of course.” She pointed to a chunk of peeling floral paper in the corner.
Garrett switched on the reading lamp beside Grandma’s recliner. “That’s already on my sister’s master plan. Our grandma has Alzheimer’s, but Lauren’s trying to keep her here as long as possible.”
Kimberly arched a brow. “I take it you feel differently?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
She conceded his point with a nod.
He stuffed a stack of magazines into the end table drawer and winced at the dust left behind. “Our research on Alzheimer’s care suggested bright paint instead of patterned wallpaper.”
Kimberly’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor. “If you plan to list the place soon, I’d recommend neutral rather than bright. Gray is superhot right now.”
Gray? He frowned. Couldn’t picture it. “I’ll talk that over with Lauren.”
But Kimberly had already stepped through the wooden-framed doorway into the kitchen. “What’s all this?”
Oh no. Lauren hadn’t been kidding about the pictures. The table was so covered with them he couldn’t see its surface.
“Sorry about the mess.”
“What mess? I love old photos.” A smile softened Kimberly’s features as she picked up one of the black-and-white pictures. “Relatives of yours?”
Garrett craned his neck for a better look. “My grandparents.”
“You really favor your grandpa.” Kimberly replaced the photo, then picked up another, slipping on a pair of reading glasses. She blinked a few times, and her mouth fell open a fraction. “Bet these gals have some stories to tell. Do you know who they are?”
The black-and-white photo captured a pair of young women in what looked like 1920s-era garb. The blonde bore a vague resemblance to Grandma, though if the photo really was that old then it couldn’t be her. Her mother perhaps? The other woman had dark hair and wore a sequined headband. The photographer had caught her mid laugh, her face turned to the side. Garrett could almost imagine her dancing the Charleston to one of the jazz standards Sloane had sung at the club. She and Sloane would get along famously, no doubt.
Where had Lauren even found this picture? Maybe it had been stuffed behind another photo in the frame, as had been Grandma’s custom for as long as he could remember. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Kimberly flipped the photo over, but the back was blank. “No worries. I’m just being nosy.” She replaced the photo and clipped her glasses to the front of her s
hirt. “Shall we take a peek at the kitchen?”
After a quick survey of the rest of the house and a good portion of the land, Garrett and Kimberly returned to the living room and settled on the sofa.
“Okay, here’s where I think we stand.” Kimberly consulted her notes. “The house has good bones, but it needs a lot of cosmetic work. Fresh paint indoors and out, fix the porch, replace the roof, things like that. The kitchen could use some updating if you’ve got the budget. New countertops, new appliances, replace the cabinets. Outdoors, the landscaping’s pretty neglected, but nothing professionals can’t fix.” She peered up at him, the lines across her forehead deepening. “But if I may be frank?”
“Please.”
“With this property, you’re looking for a very specific buyer. I’m seeing a young family who want their kids to grow up with the best of both urban and rural living. People who want to grow their own vegetables. People whose HOA won’t let them have chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“Oh yes. Our hipster homesteaders will definitely want chickens. And you’ve got the barn, the creek, the acreage, plus you’re not far from shopping and restaurants, and you’re in a good school district. That all works in your favor. But most buyers who’ve got the cash for a place like this want a cul-de-sac lot in a gated subdivision with a playground and a pool. You need to find people who don’t care about those things.”
Garrett nodded. “And if we do find these people, what might they be willing to pay?”
“Provided you take my suggestions, have it updated, fixed up …” She named a figure that didn’t lift the weight from Garrett’s shoulders but did make it lighter. That figure could see Grandma comfortable for several years, especially if he invested wisely on her behalf. Given her condition and her age, it would likely be enough.
“But that’s only if everything breaks in our favor,” Kimberly said. “This place might get snapped right up, but it could also linger on the market for a while.” She crossed her legs at the ankles and leaned forward. “Now, we do have other options. Given the location and the acreage, developers would definitely be interested. And selling it for the land would save you the time and expense of fixing the place up.”
Garrett’s lips tightened. Watching a developer bulldoze the old farmhouse wouldn’t fly with Grandma and Lauren. Truth be told, he wasn’t wild about the idea either.
“And our last option is to put it up for auction.”
Garrett straightened. “Like for foreclosures?”
“Foreclosures or anyone who wants a guaranteed minimum and a quick sale with no need for renovations.”
Guaranteed. The word feathered into his soul. Guaranteed money for Grandma’s care. A guaranteed sell-by date. No renovations. No contractors. And it could move quickly, so if his grandmother’s health deteriorated faster than expected, there’d be no need to wait for those perfect buyers and their flock of fictional chickens.
In an ocean of chaos, an auction presented him with an island of calm.
But he’d have his work cut out for him. Lauren would be apoplectic if she knew he was even talking to Kimberly, let alone entertaining the possibilities of gray paint and new countertops.
Or an auction.
Or a developer.
Sloane wouldn’t be thrilled with any of the options either. Especially that last one. He could practically hear her passionate defense of the history that would be forever destroyed.
Not that she was part of this. Friend though she might be, he couldn’t afford to factor her opinion into the equation.
“Anyway.” Kimberly’s crisp voice broke into his thoughts. “It looks like you have a few things to think about.”
A few? Ha.
Understatement of the decade.
June 4, 1871
A bank of heavy clouds to the east was all that remained of the morning’s downpour, and rays of sunlight cast dappled shadows on the puddle-strewn ground in front of Uncle Stephen’s porch, where Annabelle stood with her aunt and two other women from the congregation. She’d been a lively participant in the conversation, but now their words flitted only on the surface of her awareness.
Jack was striding around from behind the house toward a group of youngsters tumbling in the grass. He called to Oliver, then crouched, heedless of mud and mess, to speak with his nephew. He was far enough away that his words were inaudible, but there was softness in those rugged hands, cradling the boy’s cheeks. Love in those gray eyes, crinkled at the corners and glinting with amusement as Oliver chattered on and on.
Warmth spread through her. Why, Jack looked at Oliver like he was the most important thing in the world. Many men didn’t even look at their own children that way, much less someone else’s. The memory of her papa brought a twinge. He’d once looked at her that way … until the call of adventure grew too loud to ignore.
“He’s a good man, that Jack Brennan.” Uncle Stephen’s deep voice jolted Annabelle from her reverie. The group of women with whom she’d been half conversing had dispersed, but when? Had Jack really commanded the sum total of her attention?
Annabelle’s gaze fell to the black tips of her shoes, peeking from beneath her flowered go-to-meeting dress. “Yes, he is.” She glanced up with a smile. “He reminds me a little of you, Uncle.”
Uncle Stephen’s brown eyes softened behind his spectacles. “How so?”
“The way he loves Oliver. Took him in as his own.” As surreptitiously as possible, she glanced toward Jack, who’d taken Oliver’s hand and shortened his normally long stride to match the boy’s. “Like you did for me.”
“You’ve been a blessing, Annabelle, and I’m grateful you insisted on making this journey with us. The Lord’s plans were indeed far better than mine.”
Annabelle frowned at her uncle. There was something of goodbye in his tone. In his words. His tender expression.
His lips curved in response to her silent curiosity. “I had quite the conversation with Mr. Brennan just now.”
“You did?” She smoothed her skirts and tried to look nonchalant, but the lift of Uncle Stephen’s silvered brow told her he didn’t believe her ruse.
“You know he lost his wife last year. Their son. It’s been … difficult for him.” Uncle Stephen weighed his words, as though debating what was prudent to share. “But today was a big step. Though he was raised in the faith, recent tragedy caused him to doubt God’s goodness. His very existence. But the Lord used today’s sermon to remind our Mr. Brennan of the true depth of his love and faithfulness.”
Tears stung Annabelle’s eyes, and emotions tumbled within her breast. She blinked furiously and swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. When at last she felt in control, she smiled up at her uncle. “God be praised.”
With a nod, Uncle Stephen started to go, then stopped and turned back, eyes twinkling. “That wasn’t all we spoke about.”
Annabelle’s stomach knotted. Her hands went numb. Uncle Stephen was wise. Perceptive. Could he see the evidence of Jack’s impulsive kiss? The signs that its memory had kept her awake more than one night, that she’d been astir since the moment it happened, wondering how it would’ve felt on her cheek. Or—have mercy—on her lips …
But her uncle’s expression was one of kindness, not reproach. “He asked my permission to court you.”
Annabelle’s breath stopped, suspended between inhale and exhale. “And … what did you tell him?”
Uncle Stephen’s face relaxed into a wide, easy smile. “I told him it was fine by me, but your answer is the one that really matters.”
Her body was incapable of motion, but her heart leaped for joy.
“He also said he planned to take Oliver out fishing again this afternoon, though at a much less active part of the creek. A bit farther downstream.” Uncle Stephen eyed her over his spectacles. “I assume you catch his meaning.”
Annabelle’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Speech, why had it deserted her? All she managed was a piteous-sou
nding squeak.
It didn’t matter. Uncle Stephen was already gone.
Jack was on his way too, having climbed astride a waiting horse, Oliver seated safely in front. But the delicious grin he tossed her as he flicked the reins did nothing for her ecstatic, terrified, stunned state.
This afternoon. By the creek. Downstream.
Perhaps by then her words would have returned.
CHAPTER TEN
June 4, 1871
IT WAS SUNDAY. An ordinary Sunday by the creek.
That’s what Annabelle told herself time and again, though her hands and heart fluttered like cottonwood leaves in the relentless wind.
She’d no guarantee of seeing Jack. No promise save that knee-weakening wink. But she’d remained clad in her best dress anyway. Brought along a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of homemade cookies just in case. And she’d taken great care to spread out her quilt in a spot that, while secluded enough for comfort, remained in full view of her uncle’s cabin.
No sooner had she put trembling pen to diary page than a cheerful greeting lifted her eyes and her spirits. Jack. Accompanied by Oliver and an energetic spaniel, ears flopping in the breeze as he bounded after his masters. With a smile that turned her heart to liquid, Jack sat down next to her.
She’d never been courted this way, out in the open, bathed in warmth beneath a summer sky unable to decide between sunshine and clouds. Yet, for him, it seemed right. She almost laughed at the image of a formally dressed Jack perched uncomfortably in their stuffy makeshift parlor while Aunt Katherine fluttered in and out, pouring weak tea into tiny cups far too fragile and fussy for a man of the frontier. Here, with the wind tugging his clothes and his features dappled by shadows, his smile easy and his posture relaxed, Jack Brennan was in his element.
He and this prairie land were one.
After thanking Annabelle for the two glasses of lemonade and handful of cookies he’d downed, Oliver turned hopeful eyes on his uncle. “May I go play fetch with Buster?”