Cole tucked an arm beneath his head. Too early to be awake. The sun had barely peeked above the trees on the far side of the pastureland. He’d left the windows open last night, and a cool morning breeze stirred the air. Tugging the covers higher to ward off the slight chill, he imagined Jenni Beth curled up beside him. The two of them could heat up a room till a man thought he’d die from the fire they created. But he’d sure as heck die with a grin on his face.
This morning, though, Jenni Beth wasn’t here.
He loved this old barn and didn’t regret for an instant the hours and hours he’d spent turning it into his Misty Bottoms home.
His folks were the best, and he loved them, tried to spend time with them at least once a week. But no getting around it. They all needed their own space. The instant he stepped foot inside his mom’s house, he lost his adult status and became her little boy. Sometimes, he was okay with that, enjoyed the pampering, the favorite foods. Other times, he found it annoying. He wasn’t used to having to account for his time, for his whereabouts. He’d been on his own too long to check in on the hour.
With this setup, he had the best of both worlds. Since the barn was on their property, he could be close without being underfoot. A two-minute walk landed him in his mom’s kitchen for a hug, a cup of coffee, and, when he was really lucky, a homemade meal. But that same two-minute walk took him right back to his own place where he could sprawl on the sofa in his boxers with a football game or the music cranked up, and nobody nagged him to turn down the volume or pick up the socks he’d dropped in the middle of the floor.
This morning, though, he had more on his mind. Jenni Beth. Richard Thorndike. Both caused a tight little stress knot in his stomach, though not for the same reason.
A glance at the clock told him it was only a few minutes past six. His folks would probably be up but not ready for breakfast yet. Throwing back the covers, he reached for a pair of the freshly laundered jeans his mom had left neatly folded on his dresser.
Time to take a ride down by the river. He brushed his teeth, ran a quick comb through his bed hair, and decided he’d shave later. Stuffing his feet into a pair of scuffed work boots, he buttoned up an old denim shirt and headed for the door.
On the way to his truck, he decided on a short detour.
A quick rap on the old wooden screen door and he walked into the kitchen of his childhood. His mom, her short hair still a golden auburn, stood at the sink. She turned, a fast smile on her face, and he wrapped her in a hug.
“The waffles aren’t started yet.”
“I know, but—” He sniffed the air. “The coffee is.”
He released her and moved to a cupboard. Pulling out a mug, he asked, “You need one?”
“Already have mine.” She held up her cup. “In fact, I’m on my second. Doc Hawkins keeps nagging me. He tells me I should probably think of changing to decaf, but I’m fighting it.”
Coffee poured, he sipped gratefully.
“You’re up early,” his mother said.
“I know. Bad habit.”
“Nothing wrong with that. It gives you a jump start on the day.”
“Speaking of,” he said. “I’ve got something I need to take care of. I’ll be back inside an hour, though, for those waffles.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you will. You bringing any friends with you?”
“Nope. Just me. But I’m hungry as a bear, so make plenty. Is Laurie here?”
“No, your sister and Nick are in Charleston.”
“You let her go out of town with him?”
“Honey, they’re engaged.”
“Still—”
“Still nothing.” She arched her brow at him. “You’d do best to stay out of it. Your sister’s a grown woman.”
“Is this the same Emma Bryson who raised me?”
“Times change.”
“Yeah, they sure do.” After another quick, one-arm hug, he saluted her with his mug. “You brew the best coffee. Ever. Anywhere.”
“Better than those fancy Savannah restaurants?”
He grinned. “Much better.”
Roscoe, the family’s old beagle, waited for him on the porch. Kneeling, he rubbed the dog’s back. “Wanna go for a ride?”
If the dog’s tail whipped any faster, he’d have been airborne.
“Roscoe’s ridin’ shotgun with me, Mom,” he called through the screen.
“Okay. Don’t let him run the rabbits, though. He’ll come home a mess, and I don’t have time today to give him a bath. He had one yesterday—after a chase that took him through the creek down back.”
Cole stared at the dog. “You’ve been warned, Roscoe.”
The dog grinned and followed him to the truck.
The beagle’s head hung out the window, ears flopping, as the two set off toward the Savannah River and Jenni Beth’s bottomland.
He should stay out of this. He really should.
Every time they ran into each other, he felt, well, disconcerted. She threw him off stride, did something to him. Something way too dangerous.
One single time, he’d given in to that feeling. Once. A huge mistake, and one he absolutely couldn’t make again.
As he and Roscoe bumped along the dirt track, he thought of her yesterday in that hot, red suit, the fabric showcasing that tight little body. Pushed aside the urge he’d had to haul her to his place and remove that suit, the fancy silk blouse, and find out what she wore beneath.
And if that hadn’t been enough, he’d driven over to her house and found her there on the porch, wiggling her hips in those skimpy shorts and that body-hugging tank top. When she’d toyed with the shorts’ frazzled ends, he found himself holding his breath. If any more of the fabric unraveled, well, he’d have been undone.
He swiped a hand over his forehead. The temperature inside his Ford pickup had spiked a good ten degrees. He cranked up the air.
Rounding another corner, he hit the brakes and whistled. Did she realize what she had here? What she’d offered to Richard as collateral?
He opened the truck door and called for Roscoe to join him. The dog jumped out, nose working the air.
“No hunting, boy. This is a reconnaissance trip. You get filthy, Mom will have both our heads.” He slapped a hand on his jean-clad thigh. “Stay right here with me.”
The dog blinked once, then rubbed his head against Cole’s leg.
“Good boy.”
The sun had yet to burn through the fog, and it shimmered around him, dampened his face and hair. Misty Bottoms. The town’s name couldn’t be more apropos. Cole took a minute and simply breathed in the feel of the place. No sound. No movement. He and Roscoe could have been the only living creatures on the planet.
“Let’s go.” They set off through the high grass. The Savannah drifted by, slow and calm this far down the river. In the 1700s, they’d have grown rice on this land. His brow furrowed. What plans did Richard have for it?
The bottomland hardwoods stood tall and proud. Twenty minutes later, the sun finally peeked through the clouds, turning the water golden. A couple ducks splashed down, and Roscoe started beside him.
Grabbing the dog by his collar, Cole warned, “Don’t even think about it.”
Hand shading his eyes, he studied the area and tried to remember exactly where Jenni Beth’s land ended. And then he knew. A “No Trespassing” sign had been nailed to several of the trees on the north side.
Hurrying, he walked closer, Roscoe zipping around him, barking, obviously picking up on his sense of urgency. Disappointment crept in, though, as Cole realized the sign wouldn’t give him any more information, wouldn’t tell him who’d posted the land. Just a cheap plastic, generic hardware store sign.
Determined now, he walked the edge of the property. He’d be late for breakfast, but it couldn’t be helped.
Roscoe stopped for a drink. “Watch out for snakes, buddy.” The dog barked once and ran back to his side.
Before he even got to the far boundary, he saw another sign. The land on this side was posted, too. The same cheap, black-and-orange sign. No doubt Richard Thorndike had some whopping plans for Jenni Beth’s acreage.
But who was the banker in bed with? Because sure as shootin’, this land was way too rich for Richard’s blood. Over five hundred grand for Jenni Beth’s piece, then add the land on both sides into the mix? He smelled an even bigger rat than he had yesterday. Something was in the works here, and Magnolia House had been anteed up without Jenni Beth fully understanding the stakes.
Time for them to have another talk.
After waffles with his mom and dad.
* * *
Richard Thorndike knotted his tie and checked the mirror one last time. He slid into his jacket and shot his cuffs. By this time next year, he wouldn’t be wearing off-the-rack suits. No, sir. His would be custom tailored.
Halfway downstairs for a much-needed cup of coffee, he glanced at the wall clock and revised his plans. He had plenty of time, and his wife had already left for her office. Instead of making his call from the bank, he’d do it here where he had complete privacy. No snooping ears. The whole town was a bunch of busybodies.
When the phone was answered on the second ring, he said, “Things are under way.”
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to be up.”
“I am up, and I have been for quite a while already.”
“Fine. I’ll slap a gold star on your forehead next time I see you.”
“Don’t get all sarcastic on me. You need us more than we need you.”
“Understood. But did you hear what I told you?” Richard asked. “Everything is in place.”
“I know. I’ve talked to Jenni Beth.”
“I’d rather we not use names over the phone.” Even to himself he sounded prim, but a person couldn’t be too careful. Not with this much at stake.
“Oh, come on. Loosen up. We’re in Misty Bottoms, for heaven’s sake, not in the bowels of some espionage pit. You honestly think your phone or mine is being tapped—just in case?”
“Laugh if you want, but stranger things have happened.”
“How about I call you a little later?”
“No. I don’t want you calling me at the bank.”
“Fine.”
“If we intend to get hold of that land—”
“I understand what I need to do. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”
“No, it doesn’t. You can feel sorry as all hell for the Beaumonts and their plight. You can feel sorry for yourself that you’re involved in this. I don’t care. The only thing I do care about is that the loan she signs, the one with her bottomland as collateral, is defaulted on and we end up with the land. Period. And you’ll do well to keep that in mind.”
* * *
Jenni Beth wondered if Richard would call today or if he intended to keep her cooling her heels for a while longer. She stood by what she’d told him. As far as a business loan went, this was one of the best he’d had in front of him in a long time.
What she hadn’t mentioned were her own fears. As she wandered slowly down the stairs, the bright early morning sun spotlighted and intensified all the old house’s flaws. Every water stain, every cracked and chipped baseboard glared at her, taunted her.
Could she pull this off? Or would her efforts be as futile as sticking a cork in the Titanic, hoping to stop the leak?
Cole had offered to help. She reminded herself, though, that he’d shown up out of a sense of responsibility. Nothing more. If she failed, he’d no doubt suffer a little remorse, but it wouldn’t be the end of life as he knew it. For her, for her parents, it would be.
She struggled to recapture some of yesterday’s anger, but it seemed to have evaporated. All she could dredge up was gratitude for his offer to help her—even if his motives were suspect.
As for the rest of it? He and Wes had been best pals; she’d been the tagalong baby sister. That sexual zing yesterday? The result of a stressful situation. Nothing more.
Today? She had a lot to do.
Vernon, the family gardener, had long ago passed his prime, so she’d hired a couple of teens to help him. Jeeters, one of Beck’s guys, had come in with a huge mower and knocked down the worst of the high grass and weeds. The boys had done the trimming and hauling.
She carried her coffee outside to the patio table and sat down with Vernon. “Let me show you the plans I’ve sketched out for the gardens.” She spread out her drawings, the different areas numbered according to priority.
“I plan to start small and work my way through this as money comes in. We’ll tackle the most visible parts first.”
“I’m real sorry everything’s such a mess, Ms. Jenni Beth. The grounds got ahead of me.”
“It’s not your fault.” She laid a hand on his gnarled one. “Things have gotten away from all of us. And you used to have help,” she soothed.
He pointed at one of the flower beds. “Caught a coon in there this morning diggin’ things up. Animal was as big as a bushel basket.”
“They can be real rascals.” She rolled up the plans and rubber banded them. “Why don’t you keep this set? I have another copy if these get torn or misplaced.”
Nodding, Vernon stood slowly. “No wind right now, so I’m gonna burn that pile of branches the boys hauled out back.”
“Sounds good, but keep your eyes on it. Thought I’d work in the rose garden before it gets any hotter. I need a great shot of it for the website I’m designing.”
As she watched him amble away, she remembered the days he’d pitched to Wes and his friends for batting practice. The time he’d climbed the tree to rescue her cat.
Then her mind got busy figuring photo shots and angles. Some bride, somewhere would pull up her site, see the rose garden, and realize it was her perfect wedding destination.
Right now? The garden had disintegrated to nothing much more than a jumble of overgrown roses and weeds. And it was up to her to restore it.
She sighed and ran upstairs to her bedroom. As she hit the top landing, she huffed out her breath. Who needed a pricey gym membership when you could hike up two flights of stairs twenty times a day?
In the corner, by the oversized rattan chair, she’d hung her collection of straw hats, everything from big brimmed ones with fancy decorations to cowboy hats to well-worn plain Janes. She made good use of them. After all, a Southern lady always, always protected her skin.
And her family.