Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“I want Emmy to be able to stay here for as long as she wants. That means creating an alternative to that bypass. One that’s so persuasive, it’ll turn the most stubborn head.” Tugging her hands from his chest, he entwined his fingers with hers. “These hands of yours are magic. I need ’em a little longer than just for today.” He touched her temple with his thumb. “I need this sharp, magnificent mind.” Mitch placed his palm on the upper swell of her breast, felt her heartbeat thumping strong against his skin. “I need that creative passion you hide in here.”

Her chest lifted rapidly against his touch, and her gaze slid away, then focused on the base of his throat.

“We have one week from Tuesday until the next county meeting,” Mitch urged. “One week to make a plan that will help this place breathe again.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

The uncertainty in her tone chilled his blood. “Then at least we tried.”

Kristen was silent for so long, his hand shook against her skin and his mind struggled to string together a more convincing argument. But then she lifted those beautiful green eyes back to him and spoke.

“Nine days, Mitch. I’ll help you for nine days.”

* * *

Kristen secured a gourd to the last empty metal arm on the rack in front of her. A particularly large one, the gourd had made a perfect canvas for a bright sunflower, and the brown background made the yellow paint pop in an appealing way. The other fifteen gourds she, Sadie, Emmy, Dylan, and Mitch—and even Zach—had painted were equally as impressive in terms of creative passion, if not artistic skill.

“Man, that’s a whole lotta gourds.”

Kristen smiled and glanced over her shoulder toward the sound of Zach’s voice. He stood several feet farther up the driveway, with Dylan and Sadie by his side. Their heads were tipped back, eyes shielded from the late afternoon sun, as they looked up, admiring the view.

And it was most definitely a view to admire.

Since Sunday’s early morning project with the stained-glass window almost one week ago, she and Mitch had gone straight to work. The house had been first on his list—“Revamp from the inside out,” he’d said—so they’d started upstairs. They’d swept, mopped, then shined the hardwood floors and the staircase railing in the upstairs hall until every inch of wood gleamed beneath the sun pouring through the vibrant stained-glass window.

Bedrooms and bathrooms had been next. The guest rooms upstairs had been thoroughly cleaned, dusted, then redecorated with fresh bedding, antique oil lamps, and framed art Emmy had stored away in the shed for years. New shower curtains and fluffy towels had been placed in the bathrooms downstairs, and patchwork quilts Emmy had sewn years ago had been cleaned and added to the children’s beds as well as Emmy’s.

Downstairs, they’d knocked spiderwebs and dust bunnies out of nooks and crannies with brooms, scrubbed the kitchen countertops, and painted faded and chipped cabinets. Colorful area rugs and runners, which Mitch had purchased in town, had been spread across the living room floor and down the hallways; a welcome mat had been placed at the front door.

And the porch lights by the door . . . Oh, that had been the final touch. Already restored beautifully by Mitch’s skilled hands, the Gothic trim and immaculately crafted porch rails beckoned every passing soul to take a seat on the new outdoor furniture, smile, converse, and rest beneath the gentle yellow glow of the new lantern-style fixtures Mitch had installed.

Even from where she stood now, with half of the long, winding driveway between her and the front porch, the white house seemed to rise higher from the lush green landscape surrounding it. Wide windows sparkled in the sunlight, the red chimneys stood proud, and Mitch’s painstaking renovations had brightened the façade so much, it looked as though it had lifted slightly to cast a pleased, confident eye over the long line of gourd racks adorning both sides of the winding driveway.

Mitch has the magic touch....

Emmy’s comment had been an understatement.

“How many is it altogether, you think?”

Kristen blinked, shook herself slightly, then faced Zach. “Gourds?”

He nodded.

“Oh, about forty maybe.”

Give or take. It’d taken hours and hours after long days of field work, but they’d all pitched in, each of them painting at least five gourds and Kristen crafting several more well past two in the morning each night over the past few days.

Even Zach, who’d finished his father’s assigned community service and earned his skateboard back long ago, had continued to return to the farm each summer day to hang out with Dylan, help Mitch in the fields, and play baseball in the front yard.

With the house spiffed up, the fields packed full of lush green crops, and the sound of children’s laughter echoing across the landscape, Hart’s Hollow Farm vibrated with renewed energy.

“And it’s all because of Kristen.” Mitch strode up behind the boys, placed his big palms on the top of their heads, and ruffled their hair. “She’s gonna turn us all into artists, if she hasn’t already managed it.”

His smile, adoring and warm, stirred flutters inside her that spread. “I don’t think you needed much help from me.”

Tamping down a familiar surge of desire, she turned away and studied the half dozen racks filled with colorful gourds of all shapes and sizes. New patches of painted circles and lines were revealed as the lazy rays of the setting sun roved over the gourds at different angles. Cicadas rattled in the distance, and the rhythmic vibrations, coupled with the slow-moving sunlight and the breeze-ruffled soybean plants, gave the scenery around her a gentle, throbbing presence. One that could be felt as much as seen.

Kristen unwound the rope from the pole’s anchor and pulled, activating the pulley and raising the racks with smooth movements to the top of the pole.