The meal was excellent, but the pie was exquisite.
The Boyds deluged their daughter with praise. Her pie was amazing, the filling incomparable, the best they’d ever had. They wiped their mouths and gushed.
Emmett worked his way through his piece silently. Miss Boyd’s focus on him was like sunbeams through a magnifying glass while he scooped up a new bite, chewed, and swallowed. He repeated this process until his plate was empty. When he finished the final morsel, he laid his fork down and dabbed his mouth with the cotton calico napkin Mrs. Boyd had provided.
“It’s good,” he said. The Boyds sighed with relief.
Miss Boyd leaned toward him. “It’s good, but what? What’s missing? I know something is missing. More cinnamon? More nutmeg? Clove?”
Emmett pushed his chair back. “I said it’s good.”
“But it’s not good enough,” Miss Boyd insisted. “What would make it perfect?”
Emmett closed his eyes and considered. “Is there such a thing as a perfect pie?”
Chairs scraped across the floor, and he heard footsteps leaving the room. When he opened his eyes, her parents were gone. Miss Boyd’s eyes glittered, chips of volatile shale.
“What would make this one”—she waved a hand over the remaining pieces in the dish—“better?” Leaning toward him, she whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “You saw how my parents responded.”
He nodded.
“That’s how they react to every pie. Every. Single. Pie. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, what it tastes like, or what I put in it. I could probably switch the sugar with salt and they’d still gush.”
“They love you.”
She rolled her eyes, which were fringed with dark lashes. A testament to her father’s Welsh origins, Emmett surmised.
“And I love them, too, but for this I don’t need a pat on the head. I need an honest opinion.”
Emmett looked at her. Honesty, eh? All right. “The pie is delicious. Yesterday’s pie was delicious. I’d be willing to bet all your pies are delicious.”
“So will you let me use Otto’s—your—apples to win the contest? Are you willing to take Otto’s place as my silent partner?” she asked.
“Will you agree to my terms?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What terms?”
Emmett took a deep breath. “I want a sample slice of every pie you make between now and the festival.”
“All right.”
Emmett held up one hand, palm out. “And one more thing.”
She grimaced. “I knew that was too easy.”
“I get to decide which pie recipe you enter in the contest.”
Gray eyes widened then narrowed to slits. “Why?”
He considered his answer. He didn’t want to tell her about Jimmy or his notion that her pie recipe was saleable, lest she get her hopes up and then be disappointed.
“Because they’re your apples?” A rosy flush mottled her fair neck and cheeks.
He stretched a conciliatory hand across the table. “Listen, you’re right. If your pie wins the contest, the property value of Otto’s orchard will increase. I want to be involved in the process. You can understand that, right?”
Oh, she understood. It was all about the money. But for him it was adding some extra zeros to his plump bank account. For her, it was survival.
Should she tell him her parents’ property was in danger of foreclosure? Would he change the terms of their silent partnership? Her mind raced, recalling his words. He was an opportunist. He’d admitted it. If he knew their farm—which bordered Otto’s on one side—was in trouble, he was liable to run straight to the bank and snatch it up for himself. She looked around the familiar kitchen and pushed down her panic.
“I’ll bring you a sample of each pie and allow you to choose which recipe I enter in the contest,” she said. And then, mimicking him, she held up one hand, palm out. “But that’s all I’ll agree to. Your name will not be on my contest entry. My entry will be mine alone.”
He smiled.
Lorelei blinked. “What are you grinning about?”
“You’re a formidable negotiator, Miss Boyd. That’s a skill I appreciate.”
A smile flickered around her mouth, but she stifled it. “So we’re in agreement, then?”
“We are.”
She gestured toward the remaining pie in the dish. “So what about number twenty-four? What’s wrong with it? Is it something with the crust, or with the filling? I know it’s not the apples.”
That made him laugh. She had such incredible faith in the Colorado Orange and so little in her own ability.
“I’ve only tried two of your pies. That’s not a good basis for comparison.”
“But what do you think?” She gripped his forearm. “Am I on the right track?”
Her desperation was tangible. He understood competition and wanting to win, but her intensity bordered on obsession. He chose his words with care.
“I believe if you continue to produce such excellent samples, your chances of winning any apple pie contest are excellent.”
She averted her gaze and released his arm. “I hope you’re right,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Have faith, Miss Boyd. Your pies are excellent.”
She blinked. “Thank you.” For a beat their eyes met and held. “I usually bake in the morning, so I’ll bring your sample tomorrow afternoon after lunch.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you.” He stood. “And now I should get going. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He bid good evening to her parents, who were snuggled together on the porch swing like newlyweds.
He thought about the Boyds on his drive back to his empty hotel room. Mrs. Boyd had asked him if he wanted to settle down. He did, someday. That was how he answered his mother when she asked him about it, every time he spoke to her.
He genuinely liked Lorelei Boyd. But his lifestyle, his livelihood, would force him to leave her behind in a matter of weeks. And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
Lorelei pulled pie number twenty-five out of the oven. She placed it on the table to cool and took off her apron.
“I feel terrible that you are only taking Mr. Dewey a piece of pie. Why don’t I make him a lunch?” Momma said, coming into the kitchen.
“No, Momma. This is a business deal, that’s all.”
“But he seems like such a nice young man. And handsome, too.”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
“So you don’t deny it?”
“Are you testing my vision? Of course, he’s handsome, but—”
“Who’s handsome?” Da interrupted.
Lorelei’s face flamed. “Nothing, Da. Momma is being silly. I’m going to walk down to the orchard and deliver Mr. Dewey’s pie after lunch. And then I’ll probably stop to visit Opal.”
“All right, dear.”
“You be cautious, Lorelei. There’s been talk of vagrants in the area again. Be back before dark.”
Lorelei shuddered, thinking how easily Mr. Dewey had come upon her in the orchard. “I’ll be careful, Da.”