She swiveled her seat around to check the planter through the window and watched with drowsy eyes as it moved along behind them. Something tickled her neck, and she could almost swear she felt Mitch’s big hand glide lightly over her hair, his long fingers brushing through the strands. But when she turned around and smiled at him, he just nodded, complimented her, then resumed staring somberly at the land ahead.
* * *
Two weeks of checking fields, loading planters, and driving tractors across hundreds of acres for fourteen-hour stretches under an increasingly scorching sun and in stifling air could wilt the best of men. But Kristen wasn’t a man.
Mitch eased back in his chair at the kitchen table, looked across at her and smiled. The bright sparkle in her green eyes, her cute freckled cheeks and her excited smile awakened every inch of his body. No. She was a strong, tenacious woman who’d thrived taking on the daily battles of grit and grime. And now she was fresh from the shower, scrubbed clean, damp hair curling sexily around that luscious mouth and smelling sweet, and it was damn near all he could do not to ease around the table and beg for a little of her attention.
“And this one.” Kristen pointed a slim finger at one of the photos Emmy had scattered over the table, between emptied supper plates. “Is that Joe?”
Emmy, seated beside Kristen, shifted Sadie in her lap and leaned closer. “Yep. That’s my Joe, all right. He’s on the same tractor Dylan drove last week.” She picked the photo up and held it out across the table. “See, Mitch? It was bright and shiny at one time.”
He took the picture and studied it. The focus was off and the edges were worn, but the blue frame of the tractor and Joe’s young, smiling face were clear. “How old was Joe in this one?”
“Hmm . . .” Emmy’s brow wrinkled. “Around his midthirties, I think.” She toyed with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers. “Was during the eighties when we got that tractor brand new. Joe was proud. He loved that tractor.”
Dylan leaned over in his seat, bumping Mitch’s arm, and looked at the photo, too. “He looks like you, Uncle Mitch.”
“Yeah.” Mitch examined the blue eyes and the wide smile staring back at him, the sincerity in Joe’s expression a far cry from the hateful sneer and bleary gaze his own father had sported. “Guess I do favor him some.”
“Some?” Emmy smiled. “You’re the spitting image. Just as handsome and just as strong.” She reached across the table, her smile slipping, and squeezed his forearm. “And just as giving. Thank you for all you’ve done these past days, Mitch. We never would’ve gotten all that seed in the ground without you.”
He dropped the photo back on the table, patted her hand, then gently tugged his arm free. “It was the least I could do.” He spread his hands toward the dinner dishes, which still housed leftovers of grilled pork chops, fried okra, and sliced tomatoes. “Supper was delicious, as usual. If I’m going to eat your food and sleep under your roof, I ought to be putting myself to work.”
The lift of her happy expression fell. “You’re entitled to those things. This is your home, too, Mitch.”
Ah, hell. If he could physically manage it, he’d kick himself in the butt for his thoughtless words. But . . . he couldn’t force his tongue
to move in agreement. Hart’s Hollow had never really been a home for him. It’d been a stark, barren place, with fear and pain saturating every square inch of mud. No matter how much he hated hurting Emmy’s feelings, he couldn’t find a way around that sad fact.
Lately, he’d disappointed her on a routine basis. Every day last week, after he’d finished in the fields, Emmy had met him at the front door, hooked her arm through his, and ushered him inside to reminisce over piles of old pictures stored in shoeboxes under her bed. He’d hoped she would spend the time he freed up for her resting or, at most, selling strawberries at a leisurely pace. But there had been no strawberry customers, and she’d kept busy working in her garden, cleaning house, and cooking two, if not three, big meals every day.
And every day, her eager greeting had dimmed a bit more at his obvious lack of enthusiasm for painful memories he’d rather ignore.
Mitch waved a hand toward the opposite side of the table. “Wasn’t just me doing all the work. Kristen worked as hard, if not harder, than I did.” He met Kristen’s eyes and savored the pink rising in her cheeks and her shy smile before gripping Dylan’s shoulder. “And Dylan. He knocked out two fields last week. Showed me up more than once with the way he wielded that tractor around with dead-on precision.”
That had been more of a surprise than Mitch wanted to admit. Not that he didn’t think Dylan capable of hard work and attention to fine detail, but he hadn’t expected the unsolicited sweaty high fives at the end of the workday. Or anticipated the steady growth of pride and self-assurance in Dylan’s stride each evening, as they’d trekked from the fields to the house with the sun setting at their backs.
No. That had been more than a pleasant surprise.
“Wish spring break wasn’t over.” Dylan slumped back in his chair and thumped his half-empty glass of tea. “I could’ve stayed home this week and done the big fields by the road with you instead of going to school.”
Emmy’s smile resurfaced. “I’m proud of you, Dylan. You’ve done a great job. You like working the farm, huh?”
Dropping his head to the side, Dylan shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“Better than a cell phone?” Mitch asked.
Dylan sprang upright again and shook his head. “No way. Can I have it back?”
“Well, let’s see.” Mitch rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Kristen?”
She looked up, holding another photograph, as Dylan glanced her way and stiffened. “I’d say . . .” That gorgeous grin of hers emerged, dimples and all. “I’d say he’s earned it.”
Dylan spun back to face him, thrust his hand out and smiled.
Hemming and hawing, Mitch crossed his arms behind his head. “Gimme a minute, all right? I might grab it for you after my stomach settles. After all that planting, I’ll need the extra rest to regain my strength.”
“Aw, man.” Dylan slumped back in his chair, but the smile stayed. “Whatever. When do you think we’ll see the crops come up?”