Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

They walked downstairs and onto the porch, but there was no sign of Emmy. Just wet oak leaves scattered along the bare wood-planked floor.

“I’m over here.”

Mitch shrugged, then led the way toward Emmy’s voice. Kristen followed, keeping her eyes fixed firmly ahead and not on the strong swagger of Mitch’s lean hips and thick thighs as they walked along the wraparound porch to the side of the house.

Emmy, her jeans muddy and her gray hair escaping its bun, stood just around the corner, by a small white table, holding a stainless-steel coffeepot. An assortment of muffins filled one woven basket sitting at the end of the table; green grapes and sliced apples were piled high in a glass bowl next to it; and a plate of big, beautiful strawberries was positioned at the opposite end.

Lifting a mug from the table, Emmy asked, “Do you drink coffee, Kristen?”

Kristen nodded, her stomach growling at the aroma. “Yes, please.”

Emmy poured the rich brew generously, handed it to Kristen, then pointed at two glass jars with spoons nestled inside them. “Sugar and cream are there. Mitch?”

He frowned but nodded. As Emmy grabbed another mug, he asked, “How long have you been up, Emmy?”

Her lips pursed. “Oh, since about four. Kids aren’t up yet. Figured I’d go ahead and start breakfast anyway.”

“You should’ve woken me,” Kristen said, stirring in a bit of cream. “I’d have been happy to help.”

“Yeah?” Emmy smiled as she handed Mitch his coffee. “Well, I’m bribing you with breakfast, so that would’ve defeated the purpose.”

Kristen sipped the strong brew, and a hum of appreciation escaped her as the flavor filled her senses. “Bribing me for what?”

Emmy’s smile widened. “Look over there.”

She pointed to her left, toward the back side of the farmhouse, where rows upon rows of lush green plants sprouted from raised beds covered with black plastic. Sunlight glinted off puddles along the dirt paths between the beds, and from this distance, the plants’ dewy leaves sparkled like crystal.

“Strawberries.” Emmy’s chest lifted with pride. “The reddest, sweetest berries that ever grew out of the ground.” She set the coffeepot on the table, then nudged the plate of strawberries closer to Kristen. “Go on. Try one.”

Kristen hesitated, glancing at Mitch, whose frown deepened, and then she picked a strawberry from the plate. She took a small bite. Sweet juice spilled from the plump flesh, rolling over her tongue and trickling down her chin.

“Mmm.” Kristen wiped her face with the back of her hand and smiled. “It’s delicious.”

“Yeah, and if those four acres of land can produce fruit that perfect,” Emmy said, “imagine what the other three hundred acres can do.”

A spicy, masculine scent surrounded Kristen as Mitch reached around her, the rough dusting of hair on his brawny forearm brushing her smooth skin, and grabb

ed a strawberry. He squeezed the fruit gently, turned it over in his strong palm, then narrowed his eyes at Emmy.

“One decent patch of strawberries doesn’t guarantee a substantial crop of any kind on this farm,” Mitch said.

“Maybe not.” Emmy’s jaw stiffened. “But it proves it’s not dead and buried. I can do this. I’ve already done a lot of prep for early soybean production and better corn. I just need help. Someone with strong legs and plenty of energy.” She looked at Kristen. “That’s where you come in.”

Three hundred acres. And just the two of them? Kristen shook her head. “Emmy—”

“It’s a long shot, at best.” Mitch tossed the strawberry back on the table. It bounced against the coffeepot, rolled off, then hit the porch floor. “A waste of time and what little money you have left.”

“What’s a waste?” Emmy picked up the strawberry and dusted the dirt off with the hem of her shirt. “Fighting to hold on to our family’s land? Wanting to feed people? Our fields alone could fill the bellies of over a hundred and fifty people for a year.”

Mitch’s mouth twisted. “There are a lot of people who’d debate you on that. Most of the corn you grow goes into making fuel and—”

“Even so, every kernel is worth the effort,” Emmy said. “And if those fields produce only enough to keep one person from starving next year, they’re worth plowing.” Her cheeks reddened. “No one should have to go hungry. This land fed you your entire childhood, Mitch, so I don’t expect you to know how it feels to not have enough to eat. But I do. I know what it’s like to not know where your next meal is gonna come from, and it’s not a waste, as you put it, to try to keep that from happening.”

Kristen flinched, the reality of Emmy’s words hitting hard. She’d missed only two days’ worth of meals before arriving at Hart’s Hollow, but the resulting weakness in her limbs and gnawing hole in her gut had been enough to want to avoid repeating the painful predicament. And she couldn’t imagine how it would feel to go hungry on a permanent basis.

“Or maybe”—Emmy’s mouth shook as she stared at Mitch—“it’s not the land you lack faith in but me. Maybe you think that ’cuz I got a bit of age on me and move slower than I used to, I can’t do the job. Or maybe, ’cuz I speak slow and plain, you think I’m just an ignorant backwoods bumpkin who doesn’t have the smarts or wherewithal to pull it off.”

“I never said that, Emmy.” Mitch stepped back, his cheeks flushing. “Would never say that.”