Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“Works like a charm,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Kristen, standing on the front lawn, near the bottom porch step, shielded her eyes against the low-hanging sun, looked up at him and flashed a crooked smile. “And it only took you two and a half hours. Impressive.”

Mitch laughed. “All right, now. That included the trip to town to pick it up, haul it back, unbox it, and install it without directions and a missing part. I think that speaks volumes as to my handyman skills.” He looked pointedly at Dylan, who stood beside Kristen as she slid a hand-painted gourd onto the arm of a small gourd rack. “Let that be a lesson to you, Dylan. A Hart doesn’t need much to pull off great feats.”

Dylan shared an amused look with Kristen, then smirked. “Whatever you say, Uncle Mitch.” He handed a cotter pin over to Kristen, then watched as she used it to secure the gourd in place. “Is that one yours or Sadie’s?”

“Mine.” Kristen stepped back, then adjusted the gourd so it hung more evenly. “Sadie wants to hang her own.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and Sadie pressed her palms and face against the screen door. “Can we come out yet?”

Mitch chuckled, pressing a finger to her nose as it smooshed against the screen. The decorative white trim surrounding the screen provided a perfect frame for her small face. “Just you, little bit, so you can set up your present. Tell Nana to wait a few more minutes.”

As she shouted his request toward the interior of the house, he laughed harder and looked back at Kristen. Her attention was firmly focused on Sadie, and the carefree grin she’d sported minutes earlier had dimmed.

“Kristen?” He waited until those gorgeous green eyes met his. “Everything okay?”

She shrugged her shoulders slightly, her grin returning full force. “Yeah. Just anxious to get Emmy’s b-day started.”

Mitch tensed. B-day, at least today, had more than one connotation. Today might be the twenty-eighth of June and Emmy’s seventy-fourth birthday, but it could also be classified as a bad day—at least for Emmy.

It had started this morning. He had left early, prior to sunrise, had picked up a freshly baked batch of blueberry and cream cheese sweet rolls from the Dutch Restaurant, then had returned in what he’d thought would be plenty of time to get coffee started and greet Emmy when she woke up and made her way to the kitchen. Only, when he’d returned, Emmy had been pacing the house, wringing wet hands and frantically searching for soap. She had opened every cabinet in the kitchen, had pulled out every drawer in her bedroom dresser, and had left a trail of shoes throughout the house, having overturned every pair, apparently searching inside each one for what eluded her.

No one else had been up at the time, and he’d spent the better part of an hour calming her down and setting everything back in its rightful place. Over coffee and quiet contemplation as the sun began to rise outside the kitchen window, she’d eventually managed to regain her bearings.

Her cheeks had flushed, and she’d patted his hand awkwardly, pleading softly, “Please don’t tell Kristen. All of you have worked so hard preparing for my birthday. Let’s just go on as usual.”

At the time, he hadn’t been sure Emmy even knew the full extent of what she was asking him not to tell. And though he would’ve hated to burden Kristen, he’d desperately wanted to seek comfort in her arms to lighten the heavy pain that grew inside him at the confused, frightened look in Emmy’s eyes.

But Emmy’s wish had been too heartfelt for him to deny. Especially on her birthday.

So, he’d nodded in agreement, and they’d finished their coffee. When Kristen and the kids joined them in the kitchen shortly afterward, they’d returned to the normal morning routine.

Everything had continued as it had every day for the past month—except for the way Mitch had found his eyes returning to Emmy throughout the morning and well into early afternoon, studying her wary expression for any signs of renewed confusion or fear, until he’d finally had to drive to town to pick up the screen door.

The screen door burst open, the frame bumping into Mitch’s legs, as Sadie ran out onto the porch. “Whoa there, sweet Sadie.” He caught her elbow and steadied her when she stumbled. “That gourd of yours isn’t going anywhere.”

Bouncing with endless energy, she squeezed his forearms. “It turned out perfect, didn’t it? Just like Ms. Kristen said it would.”

His smile returned. “It sure did, baby.”

That, he had no trouble admitting without reservation. He watched Sadie skip down the front porch steps, join Kristen and Dylan by the gourd rack, and pick up her gourd from the ground. It was purple with big, colorful daisies adorning each side.

Over the past several weeks, Kristen had spent one hour with Sadie every night after dinner, guiding her hand across blank sheets of paper, helping her sketch flowers and color them in with colored pencils Kristen had picked up in town. When Sadie had asked Kristen for a more challenging practice, they’d moved on to oil-based paint, using several small canvases Mitch had ordered online and had shipped to the house.

Emmy had admired them from afar, usually seated at Mitch’s side, and had commented on how patient a teacher Kristen was. How caring and kind.

It had taken every ounce of restraint Mitch had not to divulge Kristen and Sadie’s secret project and let Emmy know that all the practice was for her benefit. Or that the hours Kristen spent on the front porch each night after Emmy went to bed had been used to piece together a scrapbook of Emmy’s favorite memories using photos he’d removed from her shoebox when she wasn’t around. All this effort on behalf of creating the perfect birthday.

And oh, man. Just watching Kristen—the gentle way she cradled Sadie’s hand in her own as she taught her

to paint, and the careful, precise way she pieced together Emmy’s photos, rubbing her tired eyes as she bent closer to the task at hand, her blond hair sliding over her shoulders—had melted his heart that much more.

“Can I hang mine now?” Sadie asked, stretching up on her toes and lifting her gourd toward one of the metal arms protruding from the rack.

“Of course.” Kristen walked around the fourteen-foot pole that supported a large rack, placed her hands at Sadie’s waist, then lifted her high enough so that she could reach the metal arm, which was lowered to half-mast. “Got it?”

Sadie giggled, wobbling in Kristen’s grasp, as she slid the gourd onto the metal arm. Dylan moved swiftly and tacked it in place with a cotter pin.