Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

The answer to his dilemma should be simple. A person would have to be insane to choose the latter. But there was nothing simple about this instance. Not when he factored in Sadie and Dylan.

“Are you ready for this?” Kristen stood by Emmy’s truck, which she’d parked nearby, sliding a long wooden pole from the bed and over the tailgate. “I brought the sign, too.”

Then there was Kristen to consider. Where she fit into all of this, he wasn’t quite sure, but her questions yesterday had stayed with him all night, making him toss and turn. And had left him questioning whether leaving this afternoon, without Emmy’s goodwill or a solid plan for Sadie and Dylan, was the right thing to do.

“Yeah.” Mitch waited as she carried the pole toward the anchor—knowing better than to offer help—then strode over and lifted the sign from the truck bed. He hesitated. The eye-catching whirls of green vines surrounding large red strawberries on the sign caught his attention. “This is good.” He studied it more closely, his gaze tracing the intricate design. Impressive work, especially in such a small window of time. “Better than good.”

After visiting the field yesterday, they’d eaten dinner; then Emmy had gotten the kids settled in bed, while he and Kristen had cleaned the kitchen. Kristen had slipped off when they’d finished, saying she needed to finish the sign. She’d looked exhausted, dark circles stamped beneath her eyes, but there’d been a note of determination in her voice, so he hadn’t argued. He hadn’t seen her again until this morning, when she’d come down for breakfast and offered to help him wash the rest of the buckets, then hang the sign.

“You did all this last night?” he asked.

She nodded, a strand of blond hair escaping her ponytail, gleaming beneath the morning sunlight, as she dug around for metal mounts in a toolbox on the ground. “There was a portable fan on the porch, which I used to dry it faster. Hope that was okay.”

“Of course.” He waved a hand. “But this . . . all of this last night, you say?”

“Yeah. Emmy wanted it dry and ready to put up before you left and before we headed to the meeting this afternoon. I promised I’d finish it, so I finished it.”

“Just like that?”

Her shapely arms stilled, and she raised a brow at him from her bent position. “Yeah. Just like that.” Shrugging, she grabbed a hammer and stood. “It’s no big deal. I just slapped some paint on it.”

“Believe me, slapping some paint on it would not turn out like this for most people.”

She turned away. The hat he’d given her obscured her eyes, leaving him staring at the smooth curve of her cheek and the graceful line of her neck . . . again.

He carried the sign over. “Have you done this type of thing before?”

She crouched by the pole, positioned one mount, then hammered in a nail.

He waited until she had finished securing the other three mounts, then asked, “Painting professionally, I mean?”

She dropped the hammer, lifted the pole, and slid it into place on the anchor.

He gritted his teeth as she grabbed the drill and squatted. “What did you do before you started working farms? Did you—”

The high-pitched spit of the drill cut off his question and echoed across the grounds and the empty highway in front of them. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes up at him as she finished securing the pole.

After kneeling beside her, he placed the sign on the ground, holding her stare. She proceeded to ignore him, of course, and continued to drill away. Her toned biceps flexed with each push of the drill as she leaned forward for a better angle. The action tugged the hem of her shirt loose, exposing a creamy expanse of flesh above the waistband of her jeans and drawing his attention to the smooth curve of her backside.

Clearing his throat, he jerked his eyes away and refocused on her face. It was the damnedest thing—this pull she had on him. Not just the way her body tempted him, stirring a latent hunger within him, making his blood rush. But the piercing way she looked into him, those green eyes delving deep beneath his skin, plundering his thoughts and emotions but sharing none of her own.

She finished securing the last mount, cut the drill off, then tossed it aside. The tight-lipped look she tossed in his direction—the exact opposite of the welcoming smile she’d flashed at Lee yesterday—made his jaw clench.

That was another aggravation to add to the list. Irrational jealousy.

He shook his head. “You are the most . . .” Elusive? Intriguing? “Frustrating woman I’ve ever met.”

“I’m frustrating?” After pressing her hands to the ground, she swiveled around and faced him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I feel like I’m being given the third degree every time you show up.” She frowned. “Why is it you always throw a thousand questions at me?”

“Maybe because I want to get to know you better.”

“You know my name. You know I’m working for Emmy. What more is there to know?”

“A lot. Maybe I find you interesting.”