Spring Flowers, Summer Love. Lois Richer
call yesterday his great-nephew was a stockbroker who’d just sold his brokerage. For a mint. Rowena knew that was true. She’d checked the Internet at the library.
She studied Connor, wondering what it was like to be able to buy anything you wanted, anytime you wanted.
“Do you have employees, Miss Davis?”
It was the one hole in her plan and Rowena knew it. There was no way she could tackle Wingate without help—and that would cost money. Though she’d prayed and prayed about it, she hadn’t yet found an answer.
“I’m planning to begin hiring tomorrow,” she told him. “Why?”
He shrugged.
“If they weren’t your employees, I suppose there’s nothing you can do about it,” he muttered. “I just assumed that since I followed them here they—”
“Wait a minute.” Rowena blinked at the memory of two figures, backlit by a shaft of light. “You followed someone onto this property? From Wingate?”
He nodded. “The northern edge. Wingate has a high spot that sits above the rest of the property. I thought if I could get a look from there I’d find that st…Tobias,” he corrected with a sideways glance at the dog. “Two people were leaving that area. That animal seems to like people so I thought maybe he’d be with them.”
“Where did you follow them to?” she asked quietly, bothered by the notion of someone sneaking around her property. Well, almost hers.
“I don’t know.” He looked embarrassed. “They were way ahead of me. I caught a glimpse of them near the greenhouse. Then they were gone. I came here because I saw your light.”
“I see.”
“You look upset.” He raked a hand through his precisely cut dark hair, rumpling it so he looked less forbidding. “Is anything wrong?”
As if he cared. But then she stared into those golden eyes, and Rowena sensed his concern. It was reassuring.
“I don’t know. There’s an old mine shaft at the back of my property. I haven’t been to check on it since I’ve come back, but tomorrow I’ll make sure it’s boarded up. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” She shrugged. “Or it could have been trespassers. Years ago we used to get transients that stole food from our garden.”
“But there isn’t any garden to steal from now.”
“True.” She held his gaze.
Rowena hated being short. People towered over her and they often assumed her size made her incapable of doing her job. Connor Wingate’s height was different somehow. She guessed he was about six foot one but instead of feeling puny his height made her feel a sense of daintiness she’d always wished she possessed and knew was about as far from her style as possible. Landscapers were not dainty.
Stop daydreaming, Rowena.
“So what are they doing here?”
“I don’t know.” She closed the door of the rooting room, locked it. “I’ll take a look around in the morning when the rain stops.”
“Don’t you mean if the rain stops?”
Rowena caught her breath at the transformation a grin made to his face. His forehead smoothed out, his deep-set eyes twinkled, his Roman nose seemed less haughty and the belligerent chin pulled back as his lips parted, showing strong white teeth.
He looked like a hero from an action movie.
He looked like he was in pain.
“Do you have a chair I can use?”
“Excuse me?”
“A chair,” he repeated patiently. “I need to take off these boots. They’re killing me.”
Rowena remembered the way he’d hobbled into the room.
“A stool.” She drew it out from under the counter. “Will that help?”
“Anything. Ooh,” he groaned, closing his eyes and sighing with relief as he massaged toes clad in the most bilious purple socks Rowena had ever seen. He glanced at her, reading her expression. “I borrowed some of my uncles’ things. We’re not exactly the same size,” he muttered defensively.
“Yes, I can see that.”
She tried to swallow her laughter, but when he opened his slicker so he could more easily free his other foot, she gave up.
“Stop laughing at me. It’s the dog’s fault.”
“He picked the shirt?”
“Funny girl.” He made a face. “Actually it’s Uncle Hank’s. I gave it to him for Christmas one year. I was ten, I think.” He stood, rested his feet flat on the cement floor. “Oh, the relief. I thought they were broken.”
His pants dangled just below his knees showing a smidgen of hairy leg before the purple wool took over. Rowena lifted a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, go ahead. Make fun of me. At least I’m warm and dry. Or I was.” He shifted the hood away from his neck, grimacing at the water that trickled down his cheek. “If I can just get home in these things without maiming myself I’ll be ecstatic.”
“Actually, I’m usually the one plastered in mud or fertilizer. I’m sure you had a good laugh at me earlier today.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“Oh.” An awkward silence fell between them. Rowena glanced around, scrounging through her brain for something to talk about.
“I didn’t know landscape designers got dirty.”
“This one does.”
“Good for you.” After a moment Connor grabbed a boot and began trying to squeeze his foot back into it. Rowena had an idea.
“Wait a minute.” She tugged open a cupboard on the wall, pulled out the old boots that had sat there for so many years. “These were my dad’s. Maybe they’ll fit better. He’s tall like you.”
“I guess you didn’t inherit his genes,” Connor murmured. He accepted the boots, thrust one foot inside. “Wonderful,” he pronounced with a broad grin. “I promise I’ll return them tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother. My dad won’t be coming down for a while. There’s no rush.”
“He’s going to be helping you?”
“I hope so.” But she didn’t want to talk about her father, so Rowena took her raincoat from the peg on the wall and thrust her arms inside. “I’ll give you a ride home. No reason you should get any wetter.”
Conner rose, too, and shook his head.
“It’s all right. There’s no point in dirtying your vehicle.”
“It’ll clean. And I want to check the mailbox, anyway.” She waited until Tobias followed Connor out the door, then locked it. She pulled open the door of her truck. “Get in, Tobias. Sit.”
He sat very politely until Connor got in beside him. Then he laid a paw on the too-short pant leg.
“Get down!”
Rowena closed the door, walked around to the other side and climbed in. She started the motor, turned on the fan. Man and beast were still vying for supremacy.
“Is Tobias a purebred?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He belongs—belonged to my fiancée.”
The one who’d died. She’d read about that, too.
“Why are you asking?”
“I had a friend who had a chocolate lab like Tobias, only she was a cross between a lab and a springer spaniel. The way Tobias jumps and bounces reminds me of Corilla.”