Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

Mitch waited, watching Dylan’s expression for any signs of aggravation at the endearment. Dylan had been so put out by the term when Emmy had used it the night Mitch had returned to Hart’s Hollow. But he didn’t seem bothered by it today.

“You’re welcome.” Dylan grinned, blushing a deeper shade of red. “And happy birthday.”

“I got something for you, too, Nana.” Sadie grabbed Emmy’s hand and pulled.

“Easy, Sadie.” Mitch walked over, loosened Sadie’s grip on Emmy, then helped Emmy make her way down the front porch steps to the small gourd rack.

“That’s the one I made for you,” Sadie said, pointing at her purple, daisy-laden gourd.

Emmy cupped it in her palm and examined it more closely. “It’s gorgeous, Sadie. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Mitch guided her hand over to the other gourd. “Kristen made this one.”

He examined it with Emmy. Though he’d watched Kristen paint the gourd in its beginning stages, this was the first time he’d seen her finished handiwork.

She’d painted the top of the gourd a deep yellow reminiscent of sunlight; the bottom, a deep red in the form of Hart’s Hollow’s winding dirt driveway; and in the center, she’d painstakingly sketched and detailed Joe’s original tractor.

Emmy leaned closer. Her eyes glistened as they traced the path of vibrant blue that outlined Joe’s favorite machine. “Why, it’s Joe’s tractor. That’s it, exactly.”

“She’s captured a memory,” Mitch said, admiration filling him when he glanced at Kristen. “One of your favorites.”

“And there’s more.” Kristen sprinted up the front porch steps, grabbed the gift bag from the swing, and brought it to Emmy. “Happy birthday, Emmy.”

Emmy, still enthralled with the painting cupped in her palm, stared at Kristen, then the bag. “What is it?”

Smiling, Kristen set the bag on the ground, removed the tissue paper, and pulled out the scrapbook. The cover was made of wood and it had a black leather binding. In the center, she’d carved a large heart with Emmy’s and Joe’s initials entwined inside, and two large oak trees resembling those in front of the farmhouse framed the edges.

“All your favorites are inside.” Kristen opened the album, then slowly turned the pages. Each one held two or three of Emmy’s photos. Some were just of Joe, others were of Emmy and Joe, but all of them were arranged elegantly with a loving hand. “Here’s Joe fishing in the pond.” She turned another page. “And here’s his tractor. This one’s—”

“Where did you get those?”

The sharp bite in Emmy’s voice startled them all. Sadie flinched, and Dylan stepped back.

Kristen’s hand froze on the scrapbook, her fingers digging into the picture she was displaying.

“I gave them to her.” Mitch moved to Kristen’s side and covered her hand with his. “Kristen wanted to make something special for you and asked me to h—”

“Asked you to steal for her?” Emmy’s mouth tightened, and bright red blotches formed on her neck and cheeks.

“No.” Mitch swallowed hard. Tried to steady his voice. “Kristen asked me to help her put together a scrapbook for your birthday, so all your pictures could be kept safe in one pla—”

“Safe?” Emmy snatched at the scrapbook, wrenched it out of Kristen’s hands, and clutched it to her chest. “She stole from me.” Her eyes flashed, and she pinned Kristen with a look of hatred, which Mitch had never seen on her face. “What’d you bring, girl? What’re you trying to do?” She stabbed a gnarled finger in Kristen’s direction. “You said you wouldn’t steal from me. Said you wouldn’t lie. And here you are, doing both.”

“I-I’m sorry, Emmy,” Kristen whispered.

Mitch nudged Kristen’s back, stepped in front of her, and spoke calmly. “Kristen didn’t lie, and she didn’t steal from you. She was trying to do something nice for your birthday.”

“You’re just like the rest of them,” Emmy continued, shouting at Kristen, her face crumpling, tears streaming down her cheeks. “A thief and a liar. You came to tear down my house. To steal from me. Get off my land. You hear me, girl? This ain’t your home.”

Kristen’s face paled, and the hurt flashing in her green eyes stabbed Mitch on the inside, making his hands shake as he guided Emmy toward the house. “Emmy, everything’s all right. We’ll take the pictures back out if you’d like.”

“She stole from me.” Emmy trembled in his hold. “I won’t let someone steal from me.”

“It’s okay,” he repeated, helping her up the steps and into the porch swing. He knelt in front of her, covered her hands with his on the scrapbook. “We’ll take them all out and put them back in the shoebox if that’s what you want.” He waited for a few minutes, until her sobs began to subside. “Is that what you want to do, Emmy? Do you want to take them out and put them back in the shoebox?”

The panic left her eyes and her brow furrowed as she focused on the task he’d suggested, then said calmly, “Yes. I want to take them out.”

“Okay.” He squeezed her hands and stood. “Come with me. I’ll get the shoebox, and we’ll take them out, okay?”