Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“What?”

“I bought it for you to wear today, if you’d like.” Emmy flipped the dress around, pressed it against Kristen’s shoulders, then smoothed it across her middle. “It’s not real fancy, but it’s a good style for a Fourth of July party, and you’ve done nothing else but work for months now, so I thought it was high time you had something nice to enjoy. I had to guess your size, but it looks like it’ll be a perfect fit. And I could curl your hair. All that blond will look just gorgeous against this deep blue. That is”—she shrugged meekly—“if you want to wear it.”

“If I want to . . . ?” Throat thickening, Kristen shook her head and smiled. “I’d love to wear it. Thank you, Emmy.”

Emmy smiled back, her face flushing. Then she crossed to the window, pushed the curtain to one side, and peered out at the sky. “Looks like rain’s a-coming. It’ll do the corn good. Just hope Joe doesn’t get stuck in it.”

Kristen’s hands stilled on the dress hem as she smoothed it against her thighs. She studied the rigid line of Emmy’s back. The way her hands twisted tight against her middle.

“The truck gets trapped in the mud a lot on account of the rain soaking the clay roads between the fields,” she continued. “If those clouds will just hold off for a while. At least until the morning. Give him time to get back home.”

Kristen’s hands clenched around the soft denim, the warm, pleasing glow of moments before fading.

* * *

“I have to hand it to you, Mitch. You sure know how to throw a party.”

Mitch eased onto the porch swing next to Emmy and smiled at Charles. “Can’t take all the credit. Everyone’s chipped in, and Kristen has been a godsend. None of this would’ve been possible without her.”

He glanced to his right, where Kristen sat in a rocking chair, Sadie perched on her lap and Dylan seated in the chair beside her. The soft glow of the porch light highlighted her blond curls, caressed her flushed cheeks, and bathed her bare shoulders above her flirty neckline. Heaven help him, he’d had no idea denim could be so damned sexy.

“It took all of us,” she said softly.

Us. There was that word again—the sweetest syllable he’d ever heard when it was on Kristen’s tongue.

“When are the fireworks starting?” Sadie licked the ice cream cone she held, then rubbed her eyes with a grubby hand, smearing dirt across her forehead. “Is it dark enough now?”

Mitch chuckled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Though I’m beginning to think you might not manage to stay awake through ’em.”

Or Dylan, either, for that matter. They both blinked heavy eyelids, sported ruddy cheeks and tousled hair, and slouched in their seats with a general look of summer-fun exhaustion. And Emmy looked equally exhausted, despite the fact that she’d refused to call it a night and insisted on staying outside with them for the fireworks. She kept nodding off beside Mitch as he nudged the swing slowly back and forth, her chin bumping her chest occasionally.

None of that was surprising considering the way the afternoon had worked out. After showering and dressing hours ago, he had returned outside and had been greeted by a line of cars already forming at the end of the driveway. Guests had arrived in a steady stream from one o’clock to three, and by that time, the empty fields Mitch and Lee had quartered off for parking and fireworks watching had been busting at the seams with cars, pick-up trucks, and SUVs.

Over the next five and a half hours, a constant hum of exuberant conversation, sporadic laughter, and the low beat of country music had pulsed on the humid summer breeze. Lee had done a jam-up job on the grill, having chosen good ole charcoal instead of gas to cook seasoned hamburger meat and hot dogs, and he’d even thrown about five pounds of sliced Vidalia onions on the rack, too. The mouth-watering scents

had traveled for what seemed like miles, had hovered over the children’s games of tag, water balloons, and baseball on the front lawn, and had wafted over the strawberry fields, where guests picked the last of the strawberries still hanging on the vine, begging to be eaten.

The sun had beaten down on the milling crowd the hardest between five and seven, which had lured several groups to the front porch to lounge on the steps, rock in the chairs, or fan themselves on the swing. As night approached, tall tales, humorous gossip, and a wealth of treasured stories birthed during the early days of Peach Grove’s establishment had peppered the air, echoing against the walls of the farmhouse, mingling with the rattle of cicadas and passing from one group catching their breath to the next.

And even now, the distant bursts of small orange flames in the dark, the subsequent sweet smell of tobacco, and the deep chuckles mingling with the curls of smoke conjured up one of the few pleasant memories Mitch had of his dad. The one night Mitch could recall his being sober, holding a poker game with the boys and inviting Mitch to sit by his side as he smoked Joe’s old pipe.

Strange that this was the most comforting memory he had of his father, but the fact that he’d managed to recall one at all was worth the discovery.

“I think Dylan and Sadie can find another ten minutes of energy if it involves fireworks.” Kristen reached over and ruffled Dylan’s hair. “Whatcha think, little man?”

The boy grinned. “Definitely.”

Charles checked his watch. “Lee and Zach should be finished packing up the grill by now. I’ll let him know we’re ready for the big show.”

“Y’all need some help?” Mitch made to rise.

“No, no.” Charles held up a hand and headed down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “Put your feet up and spend some time with your family. We’ll take it from here.”

Mitch sat back in the swing and met Kristen’s eyes. A small spark of pleasure and want moved through her gaze; then she looked away, shuttering her expression.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hart are?”

Catching the tail end of the question over the distant murmur of the crowd, Mitch peered through the dark toward the bottom of the porch steps. Footsteps ascended, and then Dana Markham entered the circle of the porch light.