Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“Heck no.” Grinning despite her racked nerves, she sat up straighter and moved the transmission knob forward. “I got this. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

He laughed harder, leaned back, and crossed his arms behind his head. “Well, hell. That I can handle.”

Maybe it was his suggestive tone and the devilish gleam in his eyes. Or maybe it was the bulge of his biceps; his strong, sprawling frame; and his spicy masculine scent. Whatever it was, it kicked her heart rate up a notch, set her cheeks aflame, and had her laughing just as hard.

A little while later, they arrived at Kristen’s field—safely and without bulldozing Emmy’s house, thank the Lord—and Mitch reviewed several steps before they lowered and unfolded the planter and turned on the seed units again.

“Let’s hop out and check the planter,” Mitch said.

She followed Mitch’s lead. As he demonstrated ways to ensure the planter was level, she tore her eyes from his jeans, which clung in an appealing way to his attractive backside and, instead, listened carefully.

“You need to make sure seeds are coming out of all twelve exit points at the right angle,” he said. “If you don’t have uniform seed depth, emergence and height will be affected, which means lower yields.” He shook his head. “And this year, Emmy’s betting her bottom dollar on what comes out of this ground.”

After they returned to the cab, Mitch set up a few auto features in order for the tractor to take over most of the work. Then Kristen sucked in a deep breath, focused on the empty field in front of her, and reminded herself of how important it was to succeed.

“Too much at once?”

She glanced at Mitch, whose expression was patient and kind, and shook her head. “No. I just want to get this right for Emmy.”

“Well”—Mitch stretched across her toward the controls—“in that case, you forgot the most important part.”

He pressed a button, and static emerged from the cab’s speakers. A few movements of Mitch’s long fingers over the controls and a steady beat filled the cab.

“Country?” She laughed. “Is that a prerequisite for planting a field?”

“Nope.” He stretched an arm along her seat’s headrest, his boyish grin stirring warmth low in her belly. “I’m all for vibrant, hard-hitting rock at the end of the ride. But to start off right, you gotta inject a bit of soulful guitar into the air.” He tapped his chest with a fist. “It feeds the soul and the seed.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine Mitch as a charismatic young man, energetic and adventurous, working and exploring the farm. Or even driving a date to an empty field lit up with stars, turning on the music, and flashing that charming smile.

“Did you ever sneak out here and rock out when you were young?” she teased.

His grin slipped, and his voice faded to a low murmur as he replied, “Once upon a time. When I was able to.”

She watched him closely. His previous lighthearted tone had disappeared, and his expression was closed. It was the same look he’d had when he’d confronted her about agreeing with Emmy and taking the job.

This farm may be precious to Emmy, but it’s been nothing but mud and blood for me.

A cold shiver crept over her damp skin. It had been obvious since he’d arrived that he was still struggling with the loss of his sister. Her lips twisted. She was acquainted well enough with grief to pick up on that. But other than his brief comment about Carrie’s addiction the other day, he’d given no details about his family history or his childhood here. What had happened to make him hate the farm so?

She longed to lean against him, settle her cheek on his chest, and ask him to unload his burden. Share his secrets.

But . . . that would also mean sharing her own.

Seeking to shift the mood, she cleared her throat and tapped the steering wheel with her fingertips. “Was this one of the fields you, uh . . . streaked across as a toddler?”

A burst of laughter left his lips, and his lean cheeks flushed. “Really? After all the hard work I’ve put in showing you how to run this thing, that’s the thanks I get?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and looked at the top of her head. “Careful. You might offend me to the point that I reclaim my hat.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d go along with that.” She tapped the hat down firmly on her head. “I’ve grown kinda attached to it.”

His smile widened, and she returned it, holding his gaze for a few moments before facing the field and easing the tractor forward.

Over the next few hours of planting, the wind picked up, sweeping over the red soil in waves, stirring up clouds of dust, which billowed out behind them and sparkled in the bright sun. Wispy clouds drifted high above them in a wide blue sky. Green trees in the distance bent and swayed almost in time to the soothing music, and the rhythmic bounces of the tractor had her leaning back against the welcoming strength of Mitch’s outstretched arm on more than one occasion.

It was almost as if the land itself was in tune with them, lifting and lowering with their breaths, lulling them into a tranquil silence of contemplation.

Once upon a time . . .

Kristen smiled as she recalled Mitch’s words, drinking in the beauty surrounding her and breathing in the slight aroma of honeysuckle and freshly turned earth trickling through the air vents into the cab. At the moment, Hart’s Hollow did feel magical. As though, at one time, it might have been sturdy and spacious enough to hold any dream that could be imagined, and to offer the promise of it coming true. Or at least to make it seem within reach.