Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

Ruth Ann sucked in a horrified breath. “I did love Daryl. How dare you imply otherwise, you . . . you . . . !” Her slender frame shook, and a vein throbbed in her neck, her temper getting the best of her. “Damn devil.”

Silence fell over the porch. Cheeks flaming, Kristen shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at the others.

Mitch and Lee were poised on the edge of their chairs, looking on in dismay. Wide-eyed, Sadie sat perfectly still, both hands clutching pound cake and crumbs dangling from her lips, as she stared. Dylan smiled, lifted his cell phone higher, and focused the screen on Emmy and Ruth Ann.

“I think that’s enough visiting for today,” Mitch said quietly.

The cell phone buzzed as Dylan zoomed in.

Mitch thrust out his palm. “Hand it over.”

“But—”

“Hand. It. Over.”

Dylan issued a sound of disgust but placed the phone in Mitch’s hand.

Standing, Lee winced. “I’m sorry about this, Mitch.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mitch nudged Dylan off the swing, then Sadie. “Thank you for the refreshments, Ruth Ann, but it’s time for us to go.”

Sadie stopped by his thigh. She looked up, garbling around a mouthful of cake, “She said a bad word, Uncle Mitch. The real bad one. Worse than Dylan.”

He smoothed a broad hand over her hair. “I know, baby. Please get in the truck with your brother.”

Mitch waited as she followed Dylan down the front steps, and then he walked over and took Emmy’s other elbow. “Time we got going.” Expression strained, he looked over Emmy’s head and asked in a sardonic drawl, “Right, Kristen?”

Urging Emmy forward on trembling legs, Kristen had to admit that in this instance, she agreed with Mitch.

CHAPTER 4

“Paint it white. Then add Hart’s Hollow Farm: Fresh Strawberries,” Emmy said, framing her hands and punctuating each phrase in the air.

Kristen looked up from her seated position under a tree on the front lawn and curled her fingers tighter around the wooden sign balanced on her lap. “Do you have any spray paint? It’d be faster to spray it.”

“No spray.” Emmy tugged two paintbrushes, one large and one small, from her waistband and tossed them on the grass, beside several paint cans. “Use those and dress her up as best you can while I help finish washing the buckets. Mitch said he’d get that sign on posts before he leaves tomorrow. If we don’t get it painted now, it won’t be dry by then.”

She ambled off and joined Mitch by the porch. He grabbed a dirty bucket from a large pile on the lawn, dipped it in a small metal tub filled with sudsy water, scrubbed hard, then handed it to Emmy. She sprayed it off with the water hose and passed it to Dylan, who rubbed it dry with a towel and stacked it with dozens of clean ones on the porch steps.

Yesterday, hours after Emmy’s bitter round with Ruth Ann, Old Beaut had rumbled up the farm’s driveway just as they were clearing dishes from supper, its bed filled to the brim with dusty buckets and a large sign. Lee had hopped out, apologized for the unpleasant scene earlier, and made Emmy a counteroffer regarding the strawberry endeavor.

In exchange for the buckets and the sign, Lee would take a bigger cut of the profits instead of cash, saving Emmy money up front and making money only if she did. It was the respectable thing for a neighbor to do, he’d explained, then offered assurances that he’d ask Ruth Ann to reconsider renting Emmy the twenty acres of land. Though he had made it clear it was a long shot.

Emmy had quickly agreed, thanked him, then put them all to work unloading the truck and washing buckets. Save for seven hours of sleep, they’d been washing ever since.

“I’m tired.” Dylan puffed his matted bangs out of his eyes, and a bead of sweat rolled down his red cheek, the late afternoon air having grown hot and sticky. “It’s Sunday. It’s supposed to be a rest day. Isn’t that what you always say?” he asked, glancing at Emmy.

“Not when there’s buckets to wash and fields to plow,” Emmy said as she sprayed the hose again. “God understands and forgives farmers.”

Dylan scoffed. “We’ve been doing this forever, and I’m sick of it.” He glared at Mitch. “When can I get my phone back?”

Mitch paused after dipping another bucket and dragged his forearm over his face. He wore jeans and a thin T-shirt instead of his usual khakis and collared shirt, and it did nothing to dampen his appeal. “When you’ve earned it.”

“When will that be?”

Mitch leveled a stern look in Dylan’s direction. “When you do as you’re told without complaining.” His jaw hardened. “And when you learn that it’s cruel to take pleasure in other people’s pain. You had no business recording that argument between Emmy and Ruth Ann.”

Dylan shrugged. “I thought it was funny, and I couldn’t upload it to anything anyway, because the Wi-Fi’s so slow out here.”