Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

When he didn’t answer, she touched the back of his hand. “Do you think that sometimes things can work out? No matter what you’re up against?”

Her words were unsure, and her voice trembled. And dear God, he wanted to ease her fears. Wanted to tell her that despite what he knew of Emmy’s illness, she’d recover. That she, Sadie, and Dylan would be fine no matter what became of the farm. That if he had to leave Hart’s Hollow at the end of the summer, return to New York and the status quo, he wouldn’t spend the next fifty years regretting that he hadn’t built a new life here with what little time he had left with Emmy. With Sadie and Dylan. And with Kristen.

Only, that tight knot in his chest and every instinct he possessed screamed otherwise. And there was a small, quiet voice inside that whispered he might still be able to do something about it.

“I didn’t used to think so.” Mitch lifted one hand from the steering wheel, threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed them tightly. “But I’m beginning to believe it.”

* * *

Every time Kristen returned to Hart’s Hollow Farm, a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on rushed through her veins, filled her chest, and moistened her eyes. She’d never experienced the sensation in her old life, but when Mitch rounded a sharp curve as he drove Emmy’s old truck back from their shopping trip, and the familiar red driveway appeared, it returned full force.

The three deep ruts embedded two feet up the driveway were still there, making her smile as they were jostled in the cab while passing over them. Sunlight hit the strawberry sign by the road at just the right angle to draw her eyes, and the recognizable style of her own art widened her smile even more. Fields, previously empty, were now filled with healthy green soybean plants to the point of overflowing. And the familiar clang of a broken gourd against the metal rack greeted them as they—

“Good night above,” she whispered, sitting up straighter. “Why are all those cars here?”

They were everywhere: compact cars and sedans were parked in single file down the driveway, a few SUVs straggled over the slight slope of the field to the left, and a slew of heads, striding legs, and waving arms flashed in the empty spaces between as people milled about near the house.

“I don’t know.” Mitch stopped the truck behind the long line of parked vehicles and cut the engine.

“We’ve been in town a couple of hours.” She glanced at him, and the tight clench of his jaw sent a chill through her. “Do you think something happened to E—”

He’d thrust his door open, jumped out, and jogged halfway up the driveway by the time she’d unbuckled her seat belt and managed to follow, weaving her way awkwardly between vehicles.

She skidded to a stop just inches from his back at the end of the driveway. He stood frozen in place, his eyes on the scene before him and his broad shoulders blocking the view. “Mitch?”

“Look.” He reached back, and his hand fumbled along her hip before grasping her fingers and tugging her close to his side. A slow smile stretched across his face. “Before long, Emmy won’t have a strawberry left.”

She followed the direction of his gaze to the crowd that had gathered toward the back side of the farmhouse, right at the edge of Emmy’s strawberry field. There were dozens of people walking the paths between the rows of fruit, carrying white buckets—including Elena Martinez, Al and Stephanie Jenkins, and Jenny Yarrow from the Citizens Advisory Committee

meeting.

A few middle-aged men in jeans and light blue collared shirts were bent over rows of plants, chatting and laughing with each other as they picked. A group of older women kneeled on blankets they’d spread on the ground, inspecting each berry closely through thick glasses, passing it to the woman seated next to them for approval, then placing it gently in a large box.

And children . . . Gracious, there were so many. Several boys and girls Dylan’s age stood on red dirt beyond the field, tossing a football, with dozens of strawberry-filled buckets at their feet. Toddlers held tight to their parents’ hands, some bending awkwardly to pick a berry and others chewing with happy expressions, red juice spilling down their chins.

And Emmy was smack-dab in the middle of it all, her deep belly laugh traveling across the front lawn as she spoke with a group of women.

“Well, it’s about time the two of you showed up.” Ruth Ann squeezed sideways between two cars, with Sadie skipping behind, long braids bouncing.

“This your handiwork?” Mitch asked, lifting his chin toward a big white van parked at the edge of the front lawn, with PEACH GROVE METHODIST CHURCH written in elegant font on the side.

Ruth Ann smiled. “No. It’s Emmy’s.” She motioned over her shoulder to the strawberry field. “I may have called a friend or two last night, after my visit here, and told them how delicious our strawberry shortcakes turned out and that Emmy’s fresh crop was the reason why.”

“Just one friend or two?” Mitch teased, one dark brow lifting.

“Well”—Ruth Ann spread her hands—“one friend happened to be a minister, and the other a schoolteacher who wanted to do a good deed.” She stepped closer and whispered, “I may not have always shown it, but I care for Emmy a great deal, as do a lot of other people.” She waved one hand to the side. “But don’t tell Emmy that. She’d throw everyone off the farm within ten seconds if she thought there was even a whiff of charity in the air, and right now she’s enjoying herself.”

“You always were a sweet soul, Mrs. Ruth Ann.” Mitch bent his head and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Oh, the thrill,” Ruth Ann simpered, pressing a palm to her cheek. “Had I known that was the thanks I’d get, I’d have done it a long time ago, my dear handsome boy. What a shame I was born two generations too soon.” She narrowed her eyes and lifted one shoulder coquettishly at Kristen. “Otherwise, I’d give you a run for your money, Kristen.”

Mitch tossed his head back and laughed. His throaty chuckle took Kristen’s mind off the heat scorching her cheeks and gave her a thrill of her own.

“Did you get the swing, Ms. Kristen?” Sadie asked, tugging at Kristen’s jeans.

Kristen looked down and smiled. “We did. And we found the perfect cushion. It’s red with white stripes.”

Sadie’s eyes brightened. “And squishy?”