Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“Y’all ’bout ready?” Emmy stood several feet ahead on the grassy stretch between the oak trees, Sadie leaning against her hip and Dylan slouched behind her. “The kids are up and raring to go.” She glanced down and smiled. “Aren’t you?”

Sadie yawned. Dylan rolled his eyes.

It took Mitch five minutes to bring the truck around, four minutes to get everyone settled inside the extended cab, and one second of driving up the driveway before the trouble started.

“It’s spring break,” Dylan muttered. “We shouldn’t have to get up at the butt crack of dawn when we’re out of school.”

Mitch frowned and glanced in the rearview mirror. Dylan sat in the middle of the backseat, wedged between Sadie and Kristen, attention glued to the cell phone in his hand. “Language, Dylan.”

He scowled. “Butt isn’t a cussword.”

Sadie gasped. “He said it again, Uncle Mitch.”

“Hush up, you tattletale,” Dylan spat.

“I’m not a tattletale—”

“Oh, I’ve heard a lot worse in my time,” Emmy said, twisting in her seat to eye Dylan. “But I’d rather not hear it from you, and I’d especially rather not hear it in my sweet Joe’s truck. Put that phone up.” She flicked a hand toward the truck door. “And, Mitch, open the windows. The sun’s shining, the birds are chirping, and the fresh air will blow the grump right off him.”

Mitch pressed the button on the door, and the windows squeaked open halfway.

“All the way, please,” Emmy added, then nodded when he complied.

A strong breeze flooded the car, ruffling the gray hair at Emmy’s temples and scattering dust particles around the cab. Sadie batted at her nose, then started sneezing.

“You all right, baby?” Mitch asked.

“Ye . . .” Another sneeze. “Sir.”

“Move to the left a little, Mitch,” Emmy directed. “That big hole’s coming up on the right, and it’ll knock the truck out of alignment.”

He did so, palming the steering wheel and shifting the truck’s path toward the left.

“Watch out for the drop at the end of the driveway. It’ll be steeper after all that rain.” Emmy flapped a thin hand at the worn highway as they approached. “Keep your ears open for those big trucks, too. They’re few and far between, but they’ll run you right over, given the chance.”

He gritted his teeth and accelerated.

“And keep an eye out for deer. They—”

“Would you like to drive, Emmy?”

“Nope.” She reached out and patted his forearm. “You’re doing just fine.”

Sighing, he glanced in the side mirror and caught Kristen’s eyes on him. Her lips twitched and her shoulders shook as she turned away, lifting her face toward the swift breeze.

By the time he turned the truck onto the paved highway, a small smile had fought its way to his own lips.

Ten minutes later, Mitch took a left, then guided the truck over rain-filled potholes up a straight dirt driveway. Cornstalks about three feet tall stood in proud rows along large fields on both sides of the road. Green leaves glistened with dew above the saturated red soil and stretched toward the horizon, where the morning sun had emerged, warming the land.

“I didn’t think you were in the habit of paying Mrs. Ruth Ann visits anymore.” Mitch lowered his visor to block the sharp rays of the sun, then glanced at Emmy. “You sure this is a good idea? Thought the two of you had decided to keep your distance from each other.”

Emmy’s mouth twisted. “Wasn’t my decision. I’ve never been nothing but polite to her.” Her hands moved restlessly in her lap. “Well . . . except on the occasions she’s forced me to behave otherwise. With any luck, she won’t be there. Either way, it’ll be fine. Right, Kristen?” she prompted, looking in the backseat.

He glanced in the side mirror.

Kristen hesitated before answering, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“And besides,” Emmy added, “I’m not going to see Ruth Ann. I’m going to see Lee.”