It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch 2)

Emmy faced off with the man. Her chin trembled and the solid line of her shoulders, which had stood so proud before, slumped.

It was a look Kristen knew well. Her face heated, a familiar nausea roiling in her gut. She should walk away, get back in her car and keep driving. This wasn’t her business or her fight, and the last thing she needed was to get tangled up in a stranger’s troubles. But even so . . .

“Excuse me.” Kristen sucked in a strong breath, the sharp scent of rain filling her nostrils, then ducked beneath the branches and stepped forward. Fat raindrops plopped onto her cheek and bare shoulder, cooling her skin. “I’m looking for Mrs. Emmy Hart.”

They turned toward her. Stared.

She moved closer to Emmy. “Are you Mrs. Hart? Owner of Hart’s Hollow Farm?”

Emmy nodded. The haunted look in her eyes deepened. Her focus strayed beyond Kristen to the darkening sky above, her whispered words barely discernable. “What’d you bring, girl?”

Kristen hesitated as she searched Emmy’s expression. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean?”

Emmy remained silent.

Kristen glanced at the man, who shook his head and looked down. “I-I’m looking for work. I brought two overnight bags,” she continued, gesturing behind her. “And I parked my car over there behind the trees.”

Emmy blinked, then refocused on Kristen.

Thunder boomed again, shaking the windows of the farmhouse and the ground beneath Kristen’s feet. She flinched then tugged the wrinkled ad from her pocket. “I’d like to speak to you about a job, if I might?”

“That my ad you got there?” Emmy asked.

“Yes. The one with decent pay and board. I was interested in—”

“There won’t be any board, ma’am.” The Suit shoved off the car to a standing position and straightened his tie. “At least not for long. In six months, the county will give the green light to pave a bypass on this land.” He pointed behind her. “Across those fields and right over this house. Something Mrs. Hart’s grandson thinks is important she understand.”

“Forgive me,” Kristen said softly, “but I wasn’t speaking to you. I was speaking to the owner, who’s already asked you to leave.”

He frowned, his measuring gaze raking over her from head to toe. “And you are . . . ?”

A has-been artist. Rootless stranger. Alone. Kristen swallowed the thick lump in her throat and squared her shoulders. “No one. Just a hard worker looking for a job and place to stay.”