Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“That’s another reason I need help,” Emmy said as Sadie darted back inside. “I have two great-grandkids I need a hand with.”

Kristen clenched her fists, the paper crinkling in her grasp. “There was no mention of taking care of children in your ad.”

“Well, I’m mentioning it now. Sadie’s five, and her brother, Dylan, is ten.” Emmy shoved the door open wider. “Come on in. I’m expecting Mitch soon and was about to cook supper. Figure if his mouth is busy chewing, he won’t be able to gab all night about why he thinks I should sell. We can discuss particulars while I fry up some chicken.”

Kristen turned away and watched the rain form red rivers in the clay driveway, stomach growling at the mention of food. Clearly, Emmy was juggling more than she could handle, and ordinarily, Kristen wouldn’t hesitate to take the job, to make ends meet and keep her mind off painful memories. But that was before she knew kids were part of the bargain. Especially, a five-year-old girl so reminiscent of—

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart.” Kristen struggled to keep her words steady. “I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.”

“You’re the only one I’ve found,” Emmy said. “I’m offering a free meal and bed for the night in exchange for a little shop talk. It’d be rude to turn me down without hearing me out first.” She scowled. “You’re not trying to be rude to me in my own house, are you?”

“No, ma’am, but—”

“Good. Then call me Emmy and come on in. You can’t leave now anyway. That clay’s too slick to drive on, and it’s your own fault.”

Kristen frowned, glancing back at her. “Why?”

Emmy smiled. A big one that creased her cheeks and brightened her cloudy eyes. “Because you brought the rain.”

* * *

“She’s superstitious. Always has been.” Mitch Hart pressed a button on the steering wheel, increasing the volume of the call, and raised his voice above the rain pounding the rental car’s hood. “Don’t take anything Emmy said personally. Hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Trouble?” Brad Swint, a friend and coworker at Harrison Architects, issued a sound of grumbled amusement. His voice cut in and out as the car descended a hill, the headlights casting long shadows over the pine trees lining the highway. “Said I had shifty eyes. Stabbed me with her cane . . . refused to listen to reason and called me a thief.”

Mitch’s neck tingled with embarrassed heat. “Sorry, man. My flight was delayed. Otherwise I’d have been there to meet you. Emmy hasn’t been herself for a while now, and it gets worse every year.”

She’d been worse than ever when he’d seen her at his sister’s funeral two months ago. Could’ve been grief. Or anger. Lord knows, he’d struggled to come to terms with his own rage at Carrie’s selfishness.

His sister had been an addict—his head understood and accepted that. What his heart couldn’t accept or understand was why Carrie had consistently prioritized getting high above taking care of her kids. Enough so that she’d dumped them at Emmy’s, then taken off for a monthlong stint, which had culminated in a deadly heroin overdose.

Mitch gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. He and Carrie had both grown up watching their alcoholic father drink himself se

nseless and had spent almost every night of their childhood protecting each other from either the cut of his tongue or the bruising force of his fist. Yet Carrie had followed right in his footsteps, and Emmy had broken her back trying to save her. Just as she had with their father—at the expense of everything and everyone else.

“Look, I hate that I put you in that position,” Mitch said. “But I had to give it a shot, and I seriously doubt it would’ve gone any better with me there. Emmy and I have never seen eye to eye.”

A silence crossed the line; then Brad asked, “Why don’t you come back to New York tomorrow? My plane doesn’t take off until three. You could visit Emmy tonight, say your good-byes, then leave that place for good first thing in the morning. Get a head start on the Emerson project and put all this behind you.”

Mitch rubbed his temples, an ache throbbing behind his eyes. “I wish I could.”

And he would, except for the fact that he had a niece and nephew to consider. Not only had Carrie’s death exacerbated the long-standing rift between him and Emmy, but it had also left Sadie and Dylan in Emmy’s care. A scenario that was far less than ideal.

“There’s no way I’m leaving those kids on a dead-end farm in the middle of nowhere,” Mitch bit out. “You saw the place. Not to mention once the county takes over that land, they’ll all be homeless. They deserve better, and it’ll take me at least the weekend to convince Emmy of that.”

“I agree with you, but Emmy’s already digging in her heels. She insists she’s planting new crops this month. As a matter of fact, she was in the middle of hiring someone when I left.”

Hell, that sounded like Emmy. She never went down without throwing the last punch.

“Who?” Mitch scoffed. “One of Judd Harvey’s laid-off factory boys?”

“No. Some wo—”

The speakers crackled and then went silent. “Brad? You still there?”

Nothing.

Mitch stifled a curse, flipped the windshield wipers on high and peered through the deluge of rain for the turnoff. It’d been a while since he’d come out here, but he had to be close. No place was as dark or as dead as Hart’s Hollow.