The Girl From Summer Hill (Summer Hill 1)

When Tate turned to grin at her, he almost hit a tree stump. They were near the back of the property, and it looked as though it hadn’t been trimmed in a century. “Of course they said it was haunted. One time they sneaked there at midnight, but Mr. Gates caught them, picked them up, and carried them back to the house. I’ve always wondered what he was doing outside at midnight.” Tate backed the truck up and went to the left, but there was a clump of thorn-covered bushes.

“I’m not sure, but I think those are gooseberries,” Casey said.

He was backing up again and glanced over at her. “Aren’t they pie material?”

“They are. Pies and tarts and jams and— Look out!”

He slammed on the brakes just in time to not hit a family of opossums. The mother glared at him, then started walking again, her two babies following her.

“Now we see who really owns this place.” He turned off the engine. “I think we should walk. Or if you don’t want to, I could take you back to civilization.”

Casey got out. “Remember that I’m good at following.”

“And you know that idea sends me into spirals of lust.”

She frowned. “I thought I was pledging to follow the peacock.”

“That’s cruel,” Tate groaned as he got the pie carrier out of the back. “Speaking of the devil, where is he?”

Casey, holding the buckets, crouched down enough to see the long tail disappearing into the bushes. “He’s going that way.”

It took them another thirty minutes of following the peacock, sometimes fighting their way through six-foot-tall overgrown patches of weeds, before they found the blackberry tangle. It was tall, with branches twisted together to make what appeared to be an impenetrable clump. Not far away, plants had been cleared for the newly erected fence. They were at the very back of the plantation.

The peacock—who had not deigned to acknowledge their presence—was lazily pecking at the ground.

Casey started pulling blackberries off the vines while Tate looked around.

“See that?” He pointed.

She had to stand on tiptoe, but she saw the point of a roof. The little building was surrounded by a mass of thorn-covered branches.

“Maybe I should go back and get a chain saw.”

Casey looked at him in horror. “And destroy wild blackberry bushes? Are you out of your mind? These need to be pruned professionally, not by some redneck with a chain saw.”

“I grew up in California. How do I get labeled a redneck?”

“Ancestry can always be told,” she said seriously.

“I—” He broke off because the peacock, beak in the air, had strolled between them, arrogantly ignoring them. It lowered its head and went into the bushes. Tate crouched down to see where the bird had gone. “There’s a tunnel here. Someone has bent sheets of galvanized steel to make it. It’s old, but…” He stood up. “I think we may have found Mom’s hideout. If I have to slither like a snake, I’m going in.”

“Tunnel or not, those thorns will tear you apart. You can’t—” A crack of thunder cut her off and she felt the first sprinkles of rain.

“The keys are in the truck and it’s that way. No. Wait. It’s over there. No, that’s not right. I’m sure it’s that way. Or maybe—”

“Go!” Casey said. “I’m right behind you.”

“If we end up crawling on our bellies, I’d rather get behind you and watch.”

“No.” She motioned for him to go first. Under her breath, she said, “And I’d rather see you naked and wet.” She spoke so quietly that he didn’t hear her.

Tate went in front of her,

the pie container before him. “The path is a bit overgrown,” he said over his shoulder.

Pebbles and dried, thorny branches littered the ground, and, above them, blackberry stalks had found their way through the sheets of metal. It took a while to get through the tunnel, and the rain was coming down harder.

But before they got to the center, the rain hit them. It came down through the canopy of crisscrossed branches and gaps in the old tunnel. By the last few feet, they were soaked.