Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

Her look of affront made his fingers freeze around his wallet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend y—”

“I’m not offended.” A muscle ticked in her delicate jaw as she studied him. “Emmy invited me to dinner and offered me a room for the night. That’s payment enough.”

She stared at him for a moment, the guarded look in those beautiful green eyes making him long for the hint of warmth that had entered them upon her initial greeting.

“I told Emmy I’d help her set the table.” With that, she turned and left.

Mitch dragged a hand through his wet hair. Lord, wasn’t this just his luck? The first woman he’d met in months who stirred his interest seemed more impressed with his grandmother than with him. And deservedly so, since here he stood, a soaked, uncouth jerk being everything but gallant.

Grimacing, he retrieved his bag from the porch and shut the front door. After changing into a dry oxford dress shirt and khakis in the downstairs bathroom, he stowed his bag in the hallway and joined them in the kitchen.

It was the same as he remembered. Rich wood paneling lined the walls. Dark hardwood floors, scuffed and worn, contrasted sharply with the worn white cabinets and countertops. A large wood table took center stage, draped with a lacy tablecloth and loaded with deep dishes of fried chicken, cabbage, creamed corn, and lacy corn bread. The only pleasurable aspect of Hart’s Hollow Farm had always been Emmy’s cooking, and judging from the decadent aromas, it seemed that hadn’t changed.

Emmy moved from seat to seat, folding cloth napkins by each place setting, and Kristen followed, arranging gleaming silverware in appropriate places and shooting him glances. Ice clinked inside a glass pitcher, and then a small girl with curly brown hair and a furrowed brow carried it slowly toward the table, tea sloshing over her small hands.

“Oh, gracious!” Emmy scrambled around the table and took the pitcher. “Thank you for helping, baby, but I think this is a mite too heavy for you.”

The little girl’s expression fell. She looked down and picked at the hem of her shorts.

Mitch’s heart clenched. After squatting on his haunches, he held out his arms and asked softly, “Is that my sweet Sadie?”

She perked up, her head lifting and her blue eyes widening as she smiled. “Uncle Mitch!”

Sadie barreled against his chest, rocking him back on his heels. He laughed and squeezed her tight. She was taller than he remembered from two months ago, and, man, it was good to hear her voice again. “I believe you’ve grown a few inches since I last saw you.”

“I have,” she piped, pulling back and brushing her bangs away from her eyes. “And one of my tooths is loose.” She touched a fingertip to her lower baby teeth and rocked one back and forth. “See? Nana says when it comes out, the tooth fairy will visit.”

“I’m sure she will. So be sure to put it under your pillow, okay?”

She nodded.

Her cheerful chatter was a welcome relief. For weeks after Carrie’s death, Sadie had barely spoken, and eventually, Emmy had stopped handing her the phone when Mitch called to see how she was doing. There was no hope of conversation when the other party remained mute.

Smoothing a hand over Sadie’s hair, Mitch stood and glanced around. “Where’s Dylan?”

Emmy motioned toward the hall. “Washing up. He’ll be here in a minute.” She leaned over the table and nodded, seemingly satisfied that all was ready, then waved a hand in the air. “Y’all grab a seat.”

They did, Sadie climbing into the chair beside Mitch, Emmy sitting at the head of the table, and Kristen taking a seat in the empty chair by Emmy’s side.

“Come on, Dylan,” Emmy called. “Everyone’s waiting on you.”

Slow footsteps approached down the hallway, and then Dylan entered the room. He stood motionless in the doorway, darting glances at each of them. His shoulders hunched, and he made no move to join them.

Mitch rose from his seat. “Hi, Dylan.”

He looked up but didn’t speak, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mitch added gently, though the boy still looked as lost and withdrawn as he had at Carrie’s funeral two months ago. “How’ve you b—”

“I’m not hungry.” Dylan jerked his chin in Emmy’s direction. “I’m going to my room.”

“No.” Emmy spoke low but firm. “You’ll join us at the table, please. You need to eat, but even if you choose not to, we’d like your company all the same.”

“What company?” Dylan’s chin trembled. “There’s nothing to talk about, and there’s nothing to do. There’s nothing out here but dirt and weeds.”

“I’d like to introduce you to our guest, Ms. Kristen,” Emmy sa

id. “I know you’re lonely out here, son. That’s why I want you to—”