She had the most amazing face. Emmett watched the play of thoughts and emotions cross her features. It was like reading a living book.
“You do live around here, don’t you?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s not far. I can walk.”
Another gust of wind scoured the orchard, silencing them both.
“It’s getting dark.” He gestured toward the western horizon in full sunset. “You shouldn’t be walking alone on the road this late.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Nor I yours.”
She examined him in the deepening twilight. He offered what he hoped was a trustworthy smile.
“Lorelei Boyd.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Boyd. My name is Emmett Dewey.”
“Mr. Dewey.” She pointed at her shoes. “May I have those, please?”
He extended his hand. She plucked her shoes from his grasp, plopped onto the dirt, yanked her balled-up stockings out of the toes, and put them on. Emmett averted his eyes to avoid staring at her slender ankles and shapely calves.
“My car is parked by the cabin.”
“If I let you drive me home, I can use the apples?” she asked.
He held out his hand to help her up. She hesitated. To his surprise, she slipped her small, cool fingers into his palm. He pulled her to her feet then released her. He shoved his hand in his pocket, trying to ignore the tingle where their skin had met.
“It’s a start,” he replied. “I’m still thinking about it.”
He thought he heard something like a growl from her throat.
“Fine,” she muttered, stomping toward the cabin.
Emmett followed. He had to hurry to keep up on the half-mile jaunt. Had he not decided to walk through the orchard after a cursory examination of his latest acquisition, he wouldn’t have heard or seen her. She could have fallen and been injured, he thought.
When she spotted his 1919 yellow Paige roadster, her sudden intake of breath swelled his pride. The car was his sole luxury, his splurge. Beyond basic expenses and the costs to renovate properties he bought, his profits were sent home to his mother.
“She’s beautiful,” Lorelei murmured, hands hovering over the sleek curve of the front fender.
“I think so.” He opened the passenger door for her.
Miss Boyd trailed her slender fingers over every available surface in the interior, appreciation evident in her soft sigh and gentle touch. Emmett swallowed, unnerved by his response to this woman. He climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the door with more force than he intended. “So, where’s home?”
She pointed. “Two miles west, then take a left at the big stand of cottonwoods.”
He started the engine. Reaching over, he popped open the glove box and withdrew two pairs of goggles. He handed Lorelei a pair. “You don’t want a bug in your eye.”
She put them on. “Thank you. I’ve already got a hornet sting on my toe. I’d rather avoid any more contact with insects this evening.”
“A hornet sting?” he asked as he pulled on his goggles.
“Did you think I just fell from the tree?” Her tone was incredulous, as though the concept was inconceivable. “I was stung by a hornet.”
Emmett shifted the car into gear and gave it some gas. “I’ve fallen from trees for lesser reasons,” he replied, steering the automobile into a U-turn.
“I haven’t.”
They both fell silent. He had to drive slowly. The Paige wasn’t designed for rural Colorado roads.
“Do you often go to the orchard alone?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stared straight ahead, body tense, fingers curved around the door handle.
Questions raced through his mind. Was she married? Single? Didn’t anyone care that she was out alone so late?
“Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it,” she said. “It would have been a long walk in the dark.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry about your friend Otto.” He thought she might be fighting tears, but when she spoke, her voice was strong.
“Me, too. I wish I’d had a chance to say good-bye.” Otto had gone into town to see the dentist and collapsed. He’d died just a few hours later.
Emmett slowed at the stand of cottonwoods.
“You can let me out at the turn, if you’d like.”
“What kind of gentleman only takes a lady partway home?”
Emmett steered the roadster onto a narrow dirt lane, slowing even more to navigate around the deeper potholes. He should have rented a truck or something else more suitable for the rural roads. He braked outside a modest single-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch. She slithered out of the passenger seat.
“Thank you for the ride,” she called, already halfway up the porch steps. The door flung open, and light flooded out. Emmett blinked at the glare.
“Where have you been, young lady?” boomed a baritone voice in an accent Emmett couldn’t place. “You know I don’t like you out after dark alone.”
“Sorry, Da. I was at the orchard.” Miss Boyd attempted to slip past the bulky figure, but instead of letting her pass, the man stepped forward. Emmett’s eyes adjusted to the light. He identified a bearlike man, thick in the middle, with arms that seemed too long for his body. While Miss Boyd had called him Da, Emmett couldn’t see a single similarity.
“Lorelei, where are your manners? You could at least introduce the gentleman who brought you home in his automobile.” The word automobile was spoken syllable by syllable.
Emmett shut off the engine. He steeled himself and got out of the car. Back straight, head up, he ascended the steps and extended his hand. “Emmett Dewey, sir.”
The man engulfed Emmett’s hand in his own. “Brian Boyd.”
Emmett kept his expression mild, even though the bones in his hand were grinding together in the man’s grip.
“Is that Lorelei?” Another voice rang from within the cozy confines of the farmhouse.
Emmett shoved his bruised hand into his pocket. A soft, round woman came into view, drying her hands on her apron. She had the same strawberry-blond curls as her daughter, hers sprinkled with white; the same smattering of freckles over nose and cheeks; and the same steady gray eyes.
“Child, you’ll be the death of me.” The woman wagged a reproving finger at her daughter.
Miss Boyd frowned. “Please don’t say that, Momma.” In a rush, she flung herself into her mother’s arms. “Otto’s family auctioned off his land.”
Mr. Boyd peered at Emmett through small, dark eyes. “Is that true? The wee German fellow’s family sold his orchard?”
Emmett nodded. “I bought the property at auction.”
“Otto was a good man.” Mr. Boyd shook his head. “I suppose I should thank you twice, once for bringing my daughter home and once for not having her arrested for trespassing.”
“It’s not a problem—”
“You’ll join us for pie and coffee.” It wasn’t a request. “Maggie, dear, would you put on a fresh pot of coffee and take out Lorelei’s pie for our new neighbor?”
“Of course, Brian.” Mrs. Boyd patted her daughter’s shoulder then leaned toward Emmett. “It’s nice to meet you, young man. Thank you for bringing my girl home.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Mr. Boyd clapped him on the back hard enough to make him suck air and propelled him inside after the ladies.
They took a sharp left into a warm kitchen. The men sat opposite each other at the scarred kitchen table while the women prepared cups of steaming coffee and plates of warm apple pie.
“So you’ve bought an orchard and a rattrap of a cabin.” Mr. Boyd appraised Emmett. “Judging from that automobile, I wouldn’t have pegged you for the orchard-owning type. Is this a new venture for you?”
“I intend to fix the place up and sell it for a profit,” Emmett replied.
Mr. Boyd chuckled. “You might be better off to dismantle the cabin and start over from scratch.”
Emmett rubbed his forehead. He’d thought the same when he first saw the place, but that would take far more time and expense than he was accustomed to investing on a single property. “What is it that you do, sir?”
Mr. Boyd flexed massive arms. “I came here from Wales to work the New Castle coal mines. After the second mine explosion in 1913, I bought land. I’m a sugar beet farmer now.” He grinned. “My Welsh ancestors, all coal miners, are turning in their graves.”
Emmett’s own father had died in a Kentucky mine cave-in, leaving his mother to raise five small boys on her own. His three older brothers had followed their father’s example: one died in an accident, one was ill with black lung disease at thirty, and one continued to pry coal out of the earth day after day, biding his time until the next disaster struck. Unwilling to perpetuate the tradition, Emmett had left home at sixteen to find his fortune. He’d done well for himself as an entrepreneur, and as a result, his youngest brother was currently at Princeton studying architecture.
“I’d say that was a wise choice, with a family to provide for,” Emmett said.
“We do what we must for our womenfolk,” Mr. Boyd agreed.
“And your womenfolk, in return, take care of you.” Mrs. Boyd placed mugs of dark, rich coffee before them.
Miss Boyd followed, distributing plates laden with thick slices of apple pie. “This is number twenty-three,” she said to her mother.
Emmett examined the pie. The crust was flaky and golden brown. Chunks of apple tumbled onto the plate, speckled with spices. He stabbed a piece of apple with his fork, added a bit of crust, and raised it to his mouth.
Delectable. He closed his eyes as flavors burst across his senses like fireworks: golden apple coupled with rich red cinnamon and clove and allspice and a surprising hint of citrus. It was reminiscent of the clove-studded oranges his mother had made every Christmas and surpassed all the apple pies he’d ever tasted. Delicious. Decadent. Delightful.
“So?”
His eyes sprang open. All three Boyds stared at him.
“It’s excellent.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin Mrs. Boyd had passed him.
“Do you taste the citrus?” Miss Boyd asked.
“I do, yes. It’s definitely different.” Emmett swallowed his second bite, which was at least as good as the first.
A wide smile graced Miss Boyd’s face. “That’s the Colorado Orange from Otto’s orchard.”
“I think this one is a winner,” her father said between bites.
Miss Boyd shook her head. “You say that about all of them.”
Emmett swallowed his third bite. “What do you mean by ‘number twenty-three’?”
“She’s been working on the best recipe for Apple Pie Days next week. This is her twenty-third version.” Mrs. Boyd said.
She speared Emmett with a steely gaze. “But without Otto’s apples, it would be an ordinary apple pie.”
Emmett’s mind danced with possibilities, not the least of which was finding a way to see more of Miss Lorelei Boyd. He’d trained himself to see potential, to analyze opportunities, and to choose the course most likely to guarantee success. He took another bite. Lorelei Boyd’s pies oozed with juicy potential. He wiped his mouth again and placed the napkin on the table.
“I tell you what, Miss Boyd. Now that I’ve tried your delicious pie, I’d like to consider affording you the use of my apples as your new silent partner.”
Relief washed over her face. Then a frown creased her lovely forehead. “On what terms?”
She was sharp—something he appreciated.
He pushed back from the table. “I never make a business deal without sleeping on it.”
“A wise practice.” Mr. Boyd nodded his approval.
Mrs. Boyd sipped her coffee, her gaze shifting between Emmett and her daughter.
Emmett focused on Miss Boyd. “I’ll come by to present my terms tomorrow.”
Her frown remained. She hesitated so long he thought she might turn him down flat. When she finally murmured her agreement through pursed lips, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. So did her parents.
“Excellent,” he said. “When is a good time for you?”
Mrs. Boyd stood and collected the empty plates and forks. “Why don’t you come for lunch, around one o’clock?”
“Mother!” Lorelei hissed.
“I’d like that very much, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Lunch it is,” Mr. Boyd said, hefting his bulk out of the chair. “I’ll see you out.”
“Good night, Miss Boyd,” Emmett said.
“Mr. Dewey.” She was still frowning.
He followed Mr. Boyd to the porch, said a polite good evening, and got back in the Paige. On the drive back to his tiny room at the Clark Hotel, his mind whirred with possibilities.
Lorelei Boyd’s pie was nothing short of amazing, worth far more than a blue ribbon and a title in a local contest. The excitement he sensed when he came upon a lucrative prospect stirred his senses. Usually that meant property of some sort in an excellent location, but he’d invested in other things over the years on a hunch, and those hunches had almost always benefited his bank account.
Lorelei rose before dawn, nerves abuzz over the terms—ransom—Emmett Dewey would demand for the use of “his” apples. She dragged on clean overalls, this pair blue-and-white-striped, over a plain white blouse. Her mother would urge her to put on a dress, but since Mr. Dewey—whose sparkling smile and beguiling dimples had invaded her dreams—had already seen her in her overalls, what was the point?
By the time the sun cast its light through the kitchen window, Lorelei was sifting flour into the speckled enamelware bowl she used for mixing piecrust.
Momma shuffled in, yawning. “My goodness, you’re up bright and early.”
“I want to have a fresh pie for lunch in case Mr. Dewey needs added encouragement to let me use Otto’s apples.” She squeezed the sifter handle faster, until flour flurried into the bowl like a miniature blizzard.
“Do you think he’ll change his mind?”
Lorelei measured salt, dumped it into the bowl, and stirred the dry ingredients together. Then she pried the lid off the tin of lard. “How would I know? He’s a perfect stranger, and now I have to partner with him on the most important thing I’ve ever done.” She counted spoonfuls in her head as she scraped lard into the bowl.
Momma filled a cup with coffee from the pot on the stove and took the seat opposite her daughter. “Now, Lorelei, it’s just a pie contest. It isn’t life or death.”
Lorelei pressed her lips together. She hadn’t told her parents her real reason for wanting to win the contest. She used the tines of the fork to cut the lard into the salt and flour mixture. “Well, it’s something I care about very much, and he doesn’t care about the apples or the orchard.”
Momma sipped from her cup. “It would seem he does. Have you prayed about it, Lorelei? Perhaps you’re putting too much stock into this contest, allowing the idea of winning to become an idol in your mind.”
Lorelei grimaced. She knew it probably looked like that from her mother’s perspective. “I’m sorry, Momma. I should pray about it. Who knows?” She shoved a fist into the bowl of dough with unnecessary force. “Maybe Emmett Dewey is a godsend.”
Momma smiled. “Perhaps he is, dear girl.” She rose and put her cup beside the sink. “I need to get the eggs. One of the hens has turned into an egg eater. If I figure out which one it is, we’ll be having chicken and dumplings for supper.”
The back door banged shut after Momma. Lorelei kneaded the crust a few more times before turning the lump of dough onto the oilcloth. When she picked up her favorite rolling pin, she knocked loose a stack of envelopes that hadn’t made it to her father’s desk. She bent to pick them up. Cold dread prickled her flesh when she saw the return addresses. All six letters were from the bank.
They’d been getting letters for months. After the first few, her father stopped opening them. Curious, Lorelei had read one and discovered the bank was threatening to foreclose on the family’s modest, forty-acre homestead if they didn’t pay additional funds, citing incorrect paperwork and errors in establishing property value. For weeks after opening the letter, she’d mulled solutions. An article in Ladies’ Home Journal about a woman who sold a cookie recipe to a high-end restaurant inspired a plan to sell a winning pie recipe for enough money to save the farm.
Lorelei shoved the letters back into place. Whatever Emmett Dewey’s terms were, she would agree to them because Otto’s apples were the secret to winning the contest.
“Is something wrong?”
Lorelei jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. “No. Just tired.”
Momma transferred the morning’s eggs from her apron to a wooden bowl on the Hoosier cabinet. “None of the eggs had holes pecked in them today, so maybe that hen was being temperamental.”
Lorelei offered her mother a benign smile. “We can hope so. Da gets cranky when he doesn’t have his fresh eggs in the morning.”