Emmett carried both bags of apples through the back door into the kitchen, muscles protesting after his unaccustomed activity in the orchard. He looked at Miss Boyd. “Where do you want these?”
“Over there.” She pointed to an empty spot on the floor near the sink. “I appreciate the help.”
Standing up, he brushed his hands on his trousers. “I enjoyed it. It’s been years since I had a reason to climb a tree.”
Mrs. Boyd came into the kitchen. “Would you care for some iced tea, Mr. Dewey?” She squeezed her daughter’s shoulders with one arm and Miss Boyd leaned into her. Emmett swallowed, missing his mother. He was long overdue for a visit home.
“If it’s no trouble, ma’am.”
“Momma, I need the table. I’ve got to prepare these apples if we’re to have pie before midnight,” Miss Boyd said.
“We’ll take our tea to the porch, dear. We won’t be in your way.” Mrs. Boyd faced Emmett. “Mr. Boyd’s out there now, if you’d like to join him.”
Emmett found Mr. Boyd on the porch swing, feet propped on the railing, eyes closed, and head back. Emmett took a seat in a nearby chair. “Long day, sir?”
Mr. Boyd’s eyes flickered open. “I’ve the gout. Had to come in before I was finished.”
Emmett made a sympathetic sound. “Do you have help?”
“I’ve got a couple local boys. And we usually hire a crew for harvest.”
Emmett frowned. He’d seen the fields of sugar beets today, frothy green tops marching along in tidy rows. Twenty-five of the forty-acre parcel was in sugar beets. It was a lot of work for one man and some part-time helpers.
Mrs. Boyd shouldered the door open, carrying a tray with tall glasses of iced tea garnished with sprigs of mint. Emmett took one. She handed one to her husband and took a seat next to him.
Mr. Boyd kissed his wife’s cheek. “You’re a good woman, Mary Margaret Boyd.”
Her blush took ten years off her face. She turned eagle eyes on Emmett. “So, Mr. Dewey, tell us what brought you to the wilds of western Colorado.”
He opened his mouth to reply, and the door opened.
“Momma, where’s the crust you made?”
“I put it in the icebox. Here …” Mrs. Boyd pushed up and bustled through the door after her daughter.
The men sat in silence for a time, sipping tea and listening to the magpies and redwing blackbirds chattering in the cottonwoods behind the house. When Mrs. Boyd reappeared with her daughter in tow, Emmett smiled at them both.
“Now, where were we?” Mrs. Boyd retook her place on the swing. “You were about to tell us where you were from.”
“I’m from Kentucky, ma’am. My family settled there before Daniel Boone came through. Coal miners.” He nodded toward Mr. Boyd.
“So how did you find your way here?” Miss Boyd hopped up to sit on the porch rail, feet dangling.
“I left home at sixteen, ended up in Florida, and made a connection with a real estate broker who helped me get started. I made some money and headed west, state by state. In short, I buy property—mostly at auction—improve it, and sell it for a profit. I follow the property auctions.”
Miss Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an opportunist.”
He dipped his head. “You could say that.”
Mrs. Boyd frowned. “Mr. Otto’s property, you bought it to sell it again?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Once I fix it up a bit.”
Mr. Boyd snorted. “More than a ‘bit,’ I think.”
Emmett chuckled. “It is pretty rough. I’ll start working on it this week. I ordered some things from the hardware store this morning.”
“You do your own construction?” Mr. Boyd asked, brows lifted.
“I do, for the most part.”
“And once you sell the property?” Mrs. Boyd asked. “Then what will you do?”
“Move on. Head to California or Arizona for the winter, look for more opportunities there.” He glanced at Miss Boyd. She looked away.
“Don’t you want to settle down? Have a place to call home?”
Emmett flinched. He did want that. Someday. His mother regularly asked him if he’d found a place to “land” and a girl to “settle” him. Again and again he told her no. But now he felt the first stirrings of change.