Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

Granted, it was past seven o’clock, and spring hadn’t sprung enough for the sun to stay up that late yet. Night had fallen, and the wild beat of the storm didn’t help matters.

The wind gusted, rocking the small sedan; then a dingy flash of red appeared in the glow of the headlights. Mitch slowed the car and carefully maneuvered the left turn. Mud slushed beneath the tires, slapping the underside of the car in chunks.

“Figures,” Mitch muttered, struggling to keep the car moving in a straight line on the slick surface.

Every time he set foot on this land, something went wrong. Which was exactly why he’d hauled ass at eighteen. After his father had died of heart failure, Mitch had worked the farm with Emmy for two years. Every month, he’d grown more eager to kick the clay off his feet, scrape the dirt out from under his nails and set off to achieve a better life. He’d been determined to shed the filth of his father from his genes and reinvent himself into something more than an ignorant backwoods kid. New York, Cornell University, and an architectural career had fit the bill for fourteen years.

But here he was—thirty-two and back again. It was as if this damned place had a hook in him, yanking him back at its whim.

The steering wheel jerked beneath his hands as the car slid to the left. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal and wrestled with the mud’s pull to regain control, but the tires spun uselessly across the wet clay until they jerked to a stop in a deep muddy rut.

Groaning, Mitch cut the engine and dropped his head back against the headrest. Rain continued pummeling the hood, and deep booms of thunder rattled the car’s interior. He waited for the worst to pass, and soon the onslaught slowed to a steady rhythm, and the once sharp stabs of lightning dulled to distant sporadic flashes.

Stuck, with no decent hope of rocking the car out of the clay’s vicious grip, he yanked off his tie and suit jacket, shoved open his door and got out. Rain soaked his hair and clothes, seeping into his skin and sending a chill through him.

He stood still for a moment and stared at the dark barren fields. Their stark outlines appeared with each pulse of lightning. The storm renewed its fury, battering his face with wind and rain. The sting against his flesh was a painful reminder of the back of his father’s hand. He could still taste the tang of dirt on his tongue from the hundreds of times he’d been knocked down over the years.

“Yeah.” His lip curled. “I’m back, you bastard.”

After wrenching his feet free of the sucking mud, Mitch retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk and trekked toward the house. He stumbled upon a car parked at the edge of the circular driveway. Pausing, he bent, cupped a hand over his brow to block the rain, and read the license plate.

COOK COUNTY

Wasn’t Emmy’s car. Probably belonged to the new hire. Some desperate guy from out of town, with no clue how dismal the outlook was for this place. Who else would take a job on rotten land with no prospects for recovery?

Mitch shook his head and trudged on. The massive oak trees bent and groaned beneath the slash of rain. Gnarled branches clacked together in a rhythm eerily similar to the one his father’s belt had made as it smacked against his palm when he’d stood on the front porch, shouting at Mitch drunkenly.

Where are you, boy? Ain’t no place to hide. Might as well come on out.

Mitch swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. Man, he hated it here. Dreaded what lay ahead even more. It soured his gut and spread a sick, unsettling feeling through his veins.

The best thing to do would be to get this over with fast. He would talk Emmy into selling, would prove it’d be in the kids’ best interest to be placed in a good, stable home, then would return to New York and finally put this place—and all its painful memories—behind him.

After reaching the shelter of the front porch, he dropped his bag on the floor, then glanced at the faint light from inside glowing through the dank curtains. He frowned down at his clothes. Thick clay caked his dress shoes and lower pant legs, and water dripped from his hair and soggy shirt, plopping onto the wood planks beneath him.

Lord, he could hear Emmy now. Not in my foyer!

Wouldn’t do to tick her off first thing. Mouth twisting, he toed off his shoes and socks, then peeled his collared shirt over his head and draped it over the rotting porch rail. The brisk kick of cool air against his bare chest made him shiver as he propped the screen door open with his shoulder and knocked on the front door.

“That you, Mitch?” The thick wood muted Emmy’s shout and subsequent murmur, “Get the door, would you, please?”

Footsteps thumped inside, drawing closer with each creak of the floorboards. The rustic lanterns mounted above him lit up, and the large door swept open.

He’d expected Emmy, frowning and disapproving, along with the flood of memories that assailed him every time he entered the place. Instead, a younger woman stood before him. Tall, with a slim build and wavy blond hair framing deep green eyes and a small smile.

The polite greeting he’d reluctantly prepared for Emmy stuck in his throat as his attention strayed to the soft curves of her mouth. Those pink lips parted and her tanned complexion reddened as her gaze drifted over his naked chest.

“E-excuse me,” she whispered, looking away briefly. She shifted from one foot to the other, then faced him again, attention locked on his face. “Are you Emmy’s grandson . . . Mitch?” At his nod, she held out her hand, her smile fading. “I’m Kristen Daniels. It’s nice to meet you.”

Hesitating, he lifted his hand, clasped her smaller one and squeezed. Calluses lined her palm, but the back of her wrist was soft and smooth beneath the sweep of his thumb. Her warm, gentle hold was a soothing comfort to his cold, wet grip. A rare find in this hell of a so-called home.

Shivering slightly, she tugged her hand free and took a step back from the door.

“Emmy’s been expecting you.”

Mitch caught himself following her and froze. Sharp metal cut into his bare foot as it pressed against the threshold, but the warmth in the woman’s soft voice lingered on the stale air that emanated from the house, wrapping around his chilled body and tugging at something buried deep within him.

It was the first time he’d found himself actually wanting to enter the dilapidated structure, and strangely, at the same time . . . he’d never wanted to escape more.