Spring Flowers, Summer Love. Lois Richer
glinted golden with barely suppressed humor.
“Don’t ask.” She laughed at his expression. “Anyway, the only thing that worked with Corilla was to lay your hand on her head. She rode perfectly fine as long as she felt that hand on her head. Try it.”
Connor sighed then lifted his hand and set it on the dog’s head. Immediately Tobias put his paw on the floor and sat perfectly still. Connor lifted his hand; the paw went back up.
“Amazing.” He grinned at her.
When he let go of his stuffiness, Connor Wingate would be fun to know. Not that she was likely to be around to watch. Rowena got the sense that once he’d done his duty to his great uncles, Connor would hightail it out of town faster than a rabbit chased by a fox. She didn’t blame him.
She shifted gears, pressed the accelerator and eased her way out of the mud toward the paved road.
“Look! Over there. By the cliff.”
She followed his pointing finger, saw a flicker of light through the trees.
“Is it a campfire?”
“Looks like it.” She turned onto the main road and headed toward Wingate.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll call Bud Neely tomorrow. Ask him to come out and take a look around. If somebody’s camped there, he’ll suss them out. He’s the chief of police around here.”
“Good.”
Rowena dropped Connor and the dog at the door of Wingate, then headed for the big bank of mailboxes at the top of Hill Road. Nothing but fliers, certainly no responses to her ad for landscape assistants.
Sighing, she climbed back in the truck and drove up the hill toward home. Home. It was a funny feeling after all those years of living in tiny apartments in Toronto. Here there was so much space, so much silence. And yet there was noise; it was just different. The whisper of the wind through the giant spruce pushed out the cobwebs and freed the mind for reflection.
She reflected on her new neighbor and how his presence would impact her life for the next few weeks. Connor Wingate was rich, handsome and no doubt grieving. But he in no way resembled the shattered shell of a man who’d lost the most precious person in his life. Of course he wouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but still—something was off.
Rowena pulled up in front of the house, telling herself to forget about him. The most pressing problem in her life wasn’t Connor Wingate’s broken heart, it was how in the world she could possibly accomplish all that needed doing at Wingate Manor without a crew.
And what her father would say when she told him she’d done this so he could get back on the land he’d once loved.
“Please heal him,” she prayed, staring at the black outlines of the buildings that made up Davis Nurseries. “Please make him well.”
She waited for something, anything. But God was silent on the subject.
All she could do was keep going. It was too late to back out now.
Chapter Three
“April showers may bring May flowers, but this is only March and we’re drowning. Lord, can’t You put an end to this rain?”
The downpour splashed even harder against her yellow slicker as if to chide her for her complaint.
With a sigh of acceptance that she’d be soaked in less than an hour, Rowena set her chain saw inside the truck bed, added a handsaw, a couple of shovels and some rope. A movement to the left caught her eye. Somebody was here and they hadn’t arrived in a vehicle. She froze, waited for the husky figure in jeans and a thick rain jacket to approach her.
“Are you the woman who’s been looking for help?”
“Yes. You have experience in landscaping?”
“Some.” He glanced around. “Place needs a lot of work.”
Her bristles went up. “And it’ll get it. But this isn’t the job I’m worried about. Can you tell me about your experience? And your name. I’m Rowena Davis, by the way.”
“Kent Ardell. Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand, his grip strong, powerful. “Ever hear of Ardell and Son?”
“Sorry. I haven’t been around the Bay for a long time.”
“Our place was farther west.” He named a small town about three hours west of Serenity Bay. “My son and I started it up about five years ago. He got into some financial trouble and we lost our business. I’ve been doing odd jobs ever since. Felled trees for the forestry service. Worked for the federal parks department for a while. Did a couple of jobs in Toronto, too. I saw some of your work. You’re good.”
“Thank you.” Rowena described the basics of what Wingate needed. “Is that going to be too heavy for you?” she asked.
“Meaning am I too old?” A slanted grin tilted his mouth. “I’m fifty-eight. Not quite in the grave.”
Two years younger than her father. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just that—”
“Don’t apologize. You’re about the age of my son and I’m quite sure he’d have asked the same thing if some fellow had waltzed into his yard the way I just did yours.”
“You don’t have a vehicle?”
“Broke down halfway up the hill.”
“I see.” It took only a couple of minutes for her to think it over. “Why don’t we go to the site and you can show me what you can do? Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see the place.”
“Not likely. I like the challenge of making a difference.”
Exactly her sentiment. “I can’t pay you city rates.”
“It’s fine.”
This was better than she’d expected. “Okay. Hop in. I was just about to leave.”
They rattled toward Wingate with Kent sitting silently in the cab. That was all right with Rowena. She preferred to get her thoughts organized. They passed his truck on the way down. The lettering on the side backed his story. She turned through the gates of Wingate, slowing down, waiting for his assessment.
“Wow! Somebody did a number on this place.” Kent surveyed the grounds and whistled. He climbed out of the truck, waved one hand. “You’ll want to start in the east and work your way down, I’m guessing.”
“Yes. We’ll take out as little as we have to, but make sure every tree that stays is healthy.”
“You got any other help?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Not yet.”
“Then I’d best get to limbing. One person can do a lot of that without help. Specially on those evergreens.” He pulled on a helmet from the box in her truck bed, checked the gas tank on the power saw. “Are you looking to hire more people?”
“Eventually.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“My kid’s out of work and he’s got a baby on the way. He’s a big, tough guy who could give you a good day’s work, if you want.”
A solid month of praying and advertising had turned up no one with the skills and experience she needed. Maybe this was God answering her prayer.
“Give him a call,” she said, handing him her cell phone. “I don’t know about accommodations around here, but—”
“I rented an apartment in town, above the florist’s shop. It’s got two bedrooms. Quint can bunk in with me. The owner, Mrs. Michaels, is really sweet. She even packs a lunch for me.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but what about your