Читать книгу Where Love Grows - Cynthia Reese, Cynthia Reese - Страница 7

“WHOA, LADIES! Easy! No call for fighting!”

But Ryan MacIntosh’s exhortation fell on the deaf ears of a pair of six-year-olds bent on destruction. He pulled back just quick enough to escape a female fist flying for the other’s face.

He made a grab for the fist, saw that the nails were done in a metallic purple nail polish with a constellation of stars. He closed his fingers around the wrist and shoved—as gently as he could—the two girls apart.

Stepping between them, his chest heaving, Ryan struggled for some earthly clue as to what to do next. “Enough!”

“But she started it!”

“She did! She was holding!”

Ryan squelched back his own temper, not an easy thing to do with the August sun beating down on his red hair. He set his jaw and gazed at the upturned faces of the two soccer players.

“Both of you. On the bench.”

When they would have argued with him, he shook his head and pointed toward their respective benches. “Go on and you might get a shot at playing again before the game ends.”

As the girls trudged off the field, Ryan could feel parental wrath lasering in his direction. A fight had to break out on the one game that the referee didn’t show up for.

The other coach shrugged his shoulders and called for a time-out. Ryan indicated for his crew to get a drink. He didn’t have to say it twice. They gathered around the Thermos like cows around a salt lick.

Cows would be easier, he thought. A chuckle brought him back from a momentary image of cows in shin guards, kicking a soccer ball up and down the field.

The chuckle came from Jack MacIntosh, his cousin—and the reason Ryan was here rather than on his John Deere, plowing his sadly neglected back forty.

“What?” he asked.

Jack laughed again. He adjusted the casted leg he had stretched out on a folding chaise lounge. “You nearly got clocked by a six-year-old. Doesn’t say much for your reaction time.”

“Hey. It was supposed to be you out there, remember? I could have left your sorry—” Ryan did a quick edit, mindful of the small fry around him “—rump in a sling after you broke your leg.”

“Begging your pardon, cuz, but you forget that I broke this leg hooking up your satellite antenna.”

True enough. Despite Ryan’s griping he enjoyed coaching soccer. This was Jack’s cup of tea usually, what with Jack’s daughter, Emily, involved in whatever the rec department offered. But since Jack was laid up with a bum leg, Ryan had discovered just what a great feeling it was to coach the kids.

He caught the glowering looks scorching between the two girls involved in the fight and sighed, amending his last thought. He liked coaching soccer—not preventing hand-to-hand combat.

He’d done enough of that earlier in the day dealing with Murphy.

Crooked SOB. Murphy’s words came back to him.

“Some investigator type’s supposed to be coming down here to sign off on these claims, Ryan. Now, don’t muck it up. Just say what you gotta say, keep your mouth shut and we’ll have a check cut before you know it.”

Right. Slugging Murphy probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to do, but the guy just would not take no for an answer. He wanted Ryan neck-deep in his scam, for insurance purposes if nothing else. It didn’t matter that Ryan was as good as an accessory for knowing about the plan, even if he kept his mouth shut.

If I could only be sure Gramps hadn’t been involved.

The Blue Devils coach hollered, “Hey, MacIntosh! You ready to finish up this game?”

Returning to the present, Ryan swigged down a healthy gulp of the orange atrocity he’d gotten from the Thermos. As he headed back for the game, he saw a woman pushing her way through the gate.

Even if she hadn’t been a knockout, he would have noticed her. It was the way she dressed—a lightweight blazer paired with jeans that clung to well-proportioned legs. Who wore a blazer to a kids soccer game in south Georgia?

As he hollered for Emily to throw the ball in, Ryan stole another glance in the new arrival’s direction. Honey-brown hair that would go golden in the summer sun, a little smile playing on her lips, more than a dab of confidence in her walk. This was a woman who knew what she wanted—and where to find it.

Ronnie Frasier’s girl took off on a long drive the wrong way. Ryan hollered for her to stop, but his soccer player never heard him. Instead, the ball went into their own net with frustrating ease.

He stood, moved his cap from his head and used his forearm to wipe away the perspiration that had beaded there. Honestly, this was harder work than getting the harvest in.

If there is any harvest this year.

Ryan pushed the thought from his mind. He glanced over at Jack, saw his cousin talking to the new arrival.

Saw Jack pointing in his direction.

Ryan’s stomach sank. Had to be that private investigator the insurance company had said they were sending.

Just his luck.

But then, he’d had a crop of bad luck for the past six months. If Ryan had believed in karma, he’d be convinced he’d been a scuzzball of the first order in a previous life.

All he’d wanted to do was save his grandfather’s farm and look after Mee-Maw.

And avoid Murphy.

Somehow Ryan didn’t think his goals would mesh with those of the pretty little thing waiting for him on the sidelines.

Just his luck.

BECCA SURVEYED the pack of girls running after the soccer ball. Some of them were pretty good for their age. Well, compared to her. But then Becca had entertained herself picking dandelions from a forsaken corner of whatever athletic field she’d graced.

Give her tai chi any day; it was more her style. No scoreboard to let her know how far along the game was. From the looks of the tall redheaded coach—Ryan MacIntosh, she knew from one of the parents—it had lasted too long already.

Still, MacIntosh seemed to remember why they were here. A few minutes after one girl scored on her own net, he stopped to give high fives for effort when his team managed to recover a turnover.

He looked even better in real life than he had in the few photos she’d dug up on the Internet. He didn’t look like the brain trust of a complicated farm scam.

At that thought, her father’s words when she’d said as much came back to her:

“Becca, remember, he’s a crook. A scammer. You’re just buying into the stereotype that crooks look like crooks.”

MacIntosh had that going for him. With his red-blond hair and his muscled legs that showed off a tan darker than usual for guys his coloring, he certainly didn’t fall into the Wanted-poster category. He was good with the kids, patient. She’d seen him break up a fight earlier. He’d handled that well. Odd for a guy who didn’t have kids of his own.

Becca had made it her business to find out all she could about Ryan MacIntosh before she’d arrived. Thirty-two. Never been married. No scrapes with the law. He’d graduated with an associate’s from Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College and a bachelor’s and a master’s from University of Georgia. Then he’d taken a sales position with an agriculture chemical company. Moved to middle Georgia to run his grandfather’s farm after his grandfather’s death the year before.

The farm had been in his family for five generations. On it, Ryan MacIntosh had grown soybeans, corn and cotton. Lately, though, it seemed that MacIntosh’s chief crop was desperation.

Right now, the farm was the smallest in acreage owned by any full-time farmer in the county—and in the past it had been in tax trouble. She’d turned up a few closed-out liens, as well.

Yup. Ryan MacIntosh was a desperate man.

And, according to her dad, probably a crook, even if he did give peewee-soccer players high fives.

The game played on with Ryan’s Bulldogs taking a beating at the hands of the Blue Devils. Had he chosen that team moniker out of loyalty for his alma mater? What did a person do with a degree in agronomy, anyway?

“Hey, shove that Thermos over and have a seat. This thing could take awhile.”

Becca glanced over at the dark-haired guy with the cast. “Really? I figured it was just about over.”

“Nah. We got started late—the referee stood us up. I’m Jack MacIntosh.”

She moved the Thermos and reached over to shake his hand. “Becca Reynolds. Any relation to Ryan?”

“Sure, first cousins, but we’re more like brothers. Ryan hadn’t mentioned meeting any ladies.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she thought how Ryan was not going to like meeting her in the slightest. “We haven’t actually met.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh. One of those online deals?”

His words made her feel a little guilty as she thought about her own Rooster—whom she owed an e-mail and hadn’t had a chance to pay that debt since she’d been researching MacIntosh and the other players in this scheme.

“No. This is business.” Becca fished out a card and handed it to him.

“Reynolds Agricultural Investigations.” Jack looked up from the card, a chill in his eyes. “You’re what? A hired gun for a crop-insurance firm?”

Becca had seen that chill before. Farmer types didn’t much care for her or her dad.

At least he didn’t make a cutesy remark about me investigating how many peppers Peter Piper picked. “I’m a private investigator. I work as a consultant for the insurance company that covers several of the farmers in this area, yes. I wouldn’t say a hired gun—”

“I know about people like you. I own an insurance agency.”

Her alarm bells started jangling. “Crop insurance?”

He laughed, a derisive snort. “You kidding? You can’t make any money selling crop insurance in south Georgia. No, strictly homeowners and auto, as well as life and a few health-insurance policies.”

Becca nodded, staying quiet to see what else Ryan MacIntosh’s cousin would volunteer. She didn’t have to wait long.

“So why are you investigating Ryan?”

“Who says I’m investigating your cousin?”

A shadow fell across her, and Becca looked up to see the man in question standing over her.

“Hand me that stack of cups, if you don’t mind.”

Ryan’s voice was clipped. She picked up the requested cups and extended them his way.

He knelt down beside her to get a refill. The hair on his muscled forearms glinted golden in the late-afternoon sun, and his T-shirt clung damply to a well-sculpted set of pecs that indicated he lifted something besides bales of hay.

He downed the sports drink and crumpled the cup in his hand. Rising to his feet on those marvelous legs of his, he stuck out a hand.

“I gather you’re looking for me. I’m Ryan MacIntosh.”

His clear blue gaze unsettled her. She felt heat rising in her face, struggled to remind herself that he was the one who should be on the defensive, not her.

“Becca Reynolds.” She started to reach for another card, but Jack reached up and handed Ryan the one she’d just given to him.

It was telling that Ryan didn’t even look at it. He never took his eyes off hers. Funny. She’d have sworn that a man with his coloring would have had green eyes.

“Richard Murphy told me somebody would be sniffing around. You already inspected his farm?”

“No. I thought I’d start with yours. I called ahead, and a lady gave me directions here, said I’d find you at the rec department.”

“That’d be Mee-Maw.” A small trace of pain flickered over his features. “She’s my grandmother—our grandmother. She’s nearly eighty-five.”

“Really?” Becca chose to ignore his veiled hint to back off in deference to his grandmother. “On the phone, she sounded younger than that.”

“Longevity runs in our family. Right, Jack?” But again, Ryan never took his eyes off Becca’s.

“Yup. Gramps worked that farm till the day he died—and he was eighty-six when he passed on.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Becca said.

Again pain crossed Ryan’s features. Truth be told, Becca did feel a stirring of remorse. She hated the way the firm’s investigations caused so much collateral damage.

But as her dad so frequently reminded her, they simply exposed the ugly truth people tried to hide. They weren’t the ones who’d created it. No, that lay at the feet of scammers.

Like this guy?

But he looks…honest. Direct. Straight.

“You want to see the farm now?”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Get it over and done with,” Ryan agreed. “I hope you like chicken-fried steak. That’s what Mee-Maw is cooking for supper.”

Panic bubbled through Becca. Getting up close and personal with the family of her target wasn’t in her plans. It was better to avoid all the messy touchy-feely stuff that could cloud an investigation. That was her father’s mantra.

The beauty of analyzing satellite images was they couldn’t charm the pants off you.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

But Becca’s attempt to politely decline Ryan’s invitation was met with a decisive shake of his head. “Mee-Maw would count it a personal insult if you came at suppertime and didn’t stay to eat. Besides, if you’re gunning for me, you’d best get a little nourishment before you get started, because it’s going to be a long and thankless job.”

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: No four-star lodging for me. The mattress is like concrete and the walls are so thin that I can hear people scurrying around in the next room.

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Sure it’s people? Could be a mouse, you know.

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Well, you’re comforting!

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: How come a farmer’s daughter is afraid of a little ol’ mouse?

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: If you could see the size of the cockroaches in this place, you’d be scared, too.

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Where are you? Chernobyl?

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Waaay in the backwoods, not a Starbucks in sight.