Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“The thought shouldn’t have even crossed your mind.” Mitch frowned. “I was surprised at that. You’ve always been kind and considerate to others, Dylan.”

The boy looked down and twisted the toe of his shoe in the grass, muttering, “What does that ever get anyone?”

Mitch started to speak, then shook his head and returned to his task.

“It got us buckets,” Kristen said, then stilled as Mitch and Dylan turned in her direction. “And a sign.”

Though she wasn’t looking forward to the idea of painting it. She hadn’t touched a paintbrush in years and had planned on never doing so again. Yet here she was, getting paid to paint. The task was a world apart from her previous career for sure, but it still managed to uncoil that dread lurking deep in her middle.

Tipping down the brim of her hat, she hid her face from Mitch’s scrutiny, then bent forward and dragged the paint cans and brushes closer.

Leaves rustled and a branch creaked overhead. Kristen glanced up just as Sadie shimmied toward her across a low branch, her arms and legs wound snug around the rough bark. She’d kept a moderate distance for most of the day, drying buckets for a while with Dylan, but when Kristen sat on the grass and began sanding the sign smooth, she’d climbed a tree and watched from above. She had asked Kristen questions occasionally, her cute face often hidden behind a clump of leaves, and had shown no reaction to the curt responses she received.

“What color you gonna paint the words in?” Sadie asked, her long hair cascading around her shy but curious expression.

A knot tightened in Kristen’s chest as the excited lilt of Anna’s voice whispered through her mind. What color should I use for the flowers, Mama?

She pulled in a strong breath and popped the tops off the cans. “I thought I’d use red.”

“Because it’s for strawberries?” Sadie loosened her grip on the branch, slid both legs to one side, then hopped down. She moved close, and her soft breaths brushed the back of Kristen’s neck as she leaned over and studied the materials. “Can I help?”

Mine doesn’t look as good as yours. Will you help me?

Be patient, Anna. Try again.

Chills spread across Kristen’s skin despite the heat, making her hands shake. She grabbed the large paintbrush and dunked it in the white paint. “I won’t need it, but thank you.”

“I can do it.” Sadie’s voice drew even closer as she squatted beside Kristen. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Look, Mama. Eyes stinging, Kristen pressed the paintbrush to the wood. The memory of Anna poised in front of a small canvas, looking over her shoulder and smiling, superimposed itself on the sign. I did it almost as good as you, didn’t I?

Kristen’s throat tightened. Why hadn’t she helpe

d Anna that day? Exchanged teaching an artistic skill for the feel of Anna’s warm, healthy hand in hers one more time before it was lost to her forever?

Sadie touched the back of her hand, her small, unfamiliar fingers a painful press against Kristen’s flesh. “I can—”

“I said no!”

Sadie jumped to her feet, her face turning pale and her chin trembling. Tears welled onto her lashes.

Stomach dropping, Kristen winced as she backed away and whispered, “I’m sorry, Sadie. I—”

Sadie spun around, then ran across the front lawn into Mitch’s outstretched arms. He hugged Sadie close, murmuring low words of comfort and frowning at Kristen. Emmy stared in her direction, too. Only, her expression probed rather than admonished.

Face burning, Kristen put her head down again and resumed painting the sign with rough strokes. Nice. Real nice. Not only had she made Sadie cry, but she’d also made an absolute fool of herself.

Her mind raced and her mouth opened, then closed, as she wanted to explain. But how could she? There was no way to rationalize or defend the selfish pain that sometimes flooded her at the sight of other kids smiling, laughing—heaven help her, just playing —when Anna wasn’t. When Anna never would again.

“Come on, Dylan,” Emmy said, dropping the hose. “The sun’s dipping and it’ll be dark before long, so I guess you can knock off early and get a cool drink.” She started for the steps, holding out her hand. “Sadie, how ’bout some sweet tea?”

After shooting Kristen one last glance, Sadie slipped out of Mitch’s hold, took Emmy’s hand, and entered the house. Kristen continued painting, but the low snaps of twigs underfoot alerted her to Mitch’s approach.

His rough work boots stopped by her tennis shoes; then he sat on his haunches, his jeans pulling taut across his muscular thighs, and his damp T-shirt clinging to his wide upper body. He plucked a long blade of grass from the ground, held it with one tanned hand, and dragged his broad fingertips from one end to the other.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” he asked.

Kristen dunked the paintbrush into the paint again and attacked the lower half of the sign. “Not especially.”