Читать книгу When Love Came to Town - Lenora Worth, Rachel Hauck - Страница 8

“Boys, we’ve got ourselves one big mess here.”

Mick Love looked around at the devastation and destruction, wondering how anyone had survived the predawn tornado that had hit the small town of Jardin, Louisiana, more than twenty-four hours ago. He understood why his friend at the power company had called him and his crew to come to the rescue.

Due to a nasty storm churning in the Gulf of Mexico, a series of powerful thunderstorms had rolled through most of Louisiana, leaving enough damage to tie up the local power companies for days to come. Both the governor and the president had declared the state a disaster area, so utilities workers from Texas and Mississippi had been called in to help.

Apparently, Jardin had been one of the worst-hit spots this side of the Mississippi River. Trees were down all across the tight-knit rural community, causing power outages and damage to many homes and businesses. This particular spot had suffered some of the worst damage Mick had seen. Just two days ago, the vast acreage had been breathtakingly beautiful, an historical showplace that attracted hundreds of tourists during the spring and summer when its gardens were in full bloom.

But not today. Today, the fertile, riotous gardens looked as if they’d been trampled and smashed by a giant’s foot, the tender pink-and salmon-colored azalea blooms and crushed bloodred rose petals dropped across the green grass like torn bits of old lace. Heavy magnolia branches and limbs from the live oaks, some of them hundreds of years old, lay bent and twisted, exposed, across the lush, flat lawn. And everywhere, broken blossoms and hurled bushes lay crushed and bruised amid the split, shattered oaks of Bayou le Jardin.

Bayou le Jardin. The Garden in the Bayou, as some of the locals liked to call this place. Mick glanced back up at the house that stood towering over him like something out of a period movie set. Right now, the white-columned, pink-walled stucco mansion with its wraparound galleries and green-shuttered French doors looked as if Sherman himself had marched right through it. Shutters and roof tiles dangled amid the rubble of tree limbs and broken flower blossoms. A fat brown-black tree limb had just clipped one of the dormer windows on the third floor, taking part of the roof with it.

And yet, the house had somehow survived the wrath of the storm. Mick had to wonder just what else this centuries-old house had survived.

No time for daydreaming about that now though. He had work to do. Lots of work.

“Okay, let’s get this show on the road,” he called, issuing orders as he pulled his yellow hard hat low on his brow, his heavy leather work gloves clutched in one hand. “This won’t be easy, but we’ve got to get these trees off those lines and out of this yard and driveway.”

Soon, his crew was hard at work, cutting and removing some of the smaller limbs. These great oaks shot up to well over forty-feet high, and some of the limbs measured wider than a man’s waist. Luckily, though, only a few of the thirty or so huge oaks had suffered damage. And most of those were in the back gardens.

Deciding things were well under control here, Mick headed around the front of the huge house. He wanted to see what needed to be done with the few broken limbs along the great alley of oaks that lined the driveway up to the house from the Old River Road that followed the Mississippi River.

In the back gardens, people were buzzing around here and there. Utility workers, concerned tourists and employees of the popular bed-and-breakfast—all hurried and hustled, some of them underfoot, some of them offering to help out where they could.

But now, as Mick came around the corner and into the long, wide front yard, he looked up to see one lone figure standing a few feet away, underneath the canopy of the double row of towering oaks.

Right underneath a broken limb that was hanging by mere splinters from a massive tree.

Mick squinted, then waved a hand as he ran toward the person—who looked like a teenager, decked out in jeans and a big T-shirt, an oversized baseball cap covering his head. That cap wouldn’t help if the limb fell on him.

Which is why Mick waved and shouted. “Hey, little fellow, be careful out there. Watch for those limbs—”

The wind picked up. The hanging limb moved precariously, then with a shudder began to let go of the branch to which it had clung.

Mick didn’t even think. He just dived for the tiny figure in front of him, knocking the boy and himself to the wet ground as the limb crashed to the very spot where the teenager had been standing.

Winded and angry, Mick turned from the still-shaking leafy limb, tickling and teasing just inches from his feet, to the body crushed underneath his, fully prepared to tell this interloper to save himself and everyone else some grief by getting out of the way.

And looked down to find another surprise.

This was no boy. No teenager, either. The cap had fallen off in the scuffle, only to reveal layers of long, thick red-blond hair. And incredible eyes.

Green. A pure and clean green like freshly mowed grass—and they looked every bit as angry as Mick felt. Maybe even more angry.

“I’m not a ‘little fellow,”’ she said in a voice that moved between southern sultry and cultured classy. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d get off me. Now.”

Mick rolled away as if he’d been burned by a dancing electrical wire. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, his Mississippi drawl making the words sound too slow to his own ears.

Then he glanced over at her, watching as she sat up and lifted that veil of hair off her shoulders. It rippled and fell in soft strawberry blond-colored waves and curls down her back.

Regaining some of his anger, he said, “Well, you should have enough sense not to stand underneath a broken limb like that, little fellow or not.”

Blowing red-gold bangs out of her mad green eyes, the woman got up and brushed off her bottom, then grabbed her bright purple-and-yellow LSU baseball cap, her eyes flashing like a lightning bolt. With a long sigh, she tried with little success to pull all that hair up into a haphazard ball so she could put her hat back on. Finally giving up, she let her hair drop back down her back, then plopped the hat against her leg in frustration. “I was surveying my property. And just who are you, anyway?”

Her property. Mick gave her the once-over again, then grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re Aunt Hilda? Hilda Dorsette?”

“Hardly,” she replied in a haughty tone, still flapping her hat against her damp jeans. An expression bordering on arrogant moved across her delicately freckled face. “I’m Lorna Dorsette, her niece. And I believe I asked you first.”

“So you did,” he said, still grinning, his heart still beating hard after that near collision with the limb. Or maybe because of the beautiful, petite woman standing in front of him. Extending his muddy hand, he said, “Mick Love.”

She ignored his hand, then glanced at his hard hat, which had landed on the ground a few feet away, her neck craned as she read the bold black lettering stamped across the front. “Love’s Tree Service?”

“That’s me. Claude Juneau called us yesterday. Said you had some major tree problems out here.”

She relaxed a bit, then nodded. “Claude and his crew took care of the worst of the power lines, so we do have electricity now, at least. But they had too much to handle to bother with the tree limbs. He said he’d have to call in reinforcements from Mississippi.”

“That’d be me,” Mick said, extending his hand again in what he hoped would be forgiveness. “I’m sorry I knocked you down, Miz Dorsette.”

“It’s Lorna,” she said, returning his handshake with a firm, no-nonsense grip. “And I appreciate your concern.” Glancing over at the jumbled mass of branches and leaves behind him, she added, “I didn’t realize the limb was so badly broken.”

“Could have been worse,” Mick replied, as they turned to head back toward the mansion. “The backyard sure is bad off. It’s gonna take us a few days to get it cleared up.”

Lorna nodded again. “When I heard your trucks pulling up, I threw on some clothes and came out to supervise.” She stopped walking, then looked up at the house. “But the sight just made me so sick to my stomach. I had to find a quiet spot.”

To compose herself, Mick reasoned. Lorna Dorsette didn’t strike him as the type to burst into tears, but he reckoned from the flash of anger he’d seen in her eyes earlier, she’d gladly throw a fit or two. Yeah, she’d probably just grit her teeth and keep on going, telling everyone exactly what she thought. Even through a disaster such as this. What, besides being a glorious redhead, had made her so strong-minded? he wondered.

“I understand,” he said. “These spring storms can really do some damage, and this one was a doozy. It’s hard to look at, when it’s your own place.”

She turned back to him then, her face composed and calm, shimmering from the building early morning humidity. “Yes, but we’re blessed that no one got hurt or killed—some did in other parts of the state. We’ve mostly got property damage. That, at least, can be repaired.”

Mick didn’t miss the darkness in her eyes. Or the way she’d almost whispered that last statement. Curious, and against his better judgment, he asked, “What exactly were you doing out there underneath those big old trees?”

Lorna put both hands on her hips, then gave him a direct look. “Praying, Mr. Love. Just praying.”

That floored him. The intense honesty in her eyes left no room for doubt. And made Mick feel foolish. Most of the women he knew rarely prayed. This woman was as serious as the big trees shading them from the sun. And apparently, just as rooted. A provincial country girl. Quaint and pretty. And toting religion. Double trouble.

Which only made Mick, the wanderer, the unsettled bachelor, doubly intrigued.

When he didn’t speak, she lifted her head a notch. “Do you pray, Mr. Love?”

“Call me Mick,” he said, all of a sudden too hot and uncomfortable to be reasonable. “Does it matter if I do or don’t? I’ll still get the job done.”

Her smile made him edgy and immediately put him on alert. “Yes, it matters. Aunt Hilda will have you out in the garden in a heartbeat, reciting the ‘Lord’s Prayer’ if she finds out you don’t pray.”

“Oh, I see.” He laughed, relieved to see that she had a sense of humor right along with her sense of piety. “So you pray to impress your aunt?”

“No, I pray to remain close to God,” Lorna explained, slowly and in that voice that poured like soft rain over Mick’s nerve endings. “We have a tradition here at Bayou le Jardin. We take our troubles to the garden. And there we walk and talk with God. It’s based on my aunt’s favorite hymn.”

Okay, so he’d just stumbled on a praying, hymn-singing, petite redhead with eyes that looked like green pastures. But Mick couldn’t help being cynical. “Well, that’s nice, but what did God tell you to do about these broken limbs and destroyed property?”

She smiled at him then, and brought his heart hammering to his feet. “He told me He’d send you.”

Floored, dazed, winded, Mick couldn’t think of a snappy reply. Until he remembered he’d saved her butt from that limb. That gave him some much-needed confidence.

Glancing up at the gaping open space where the limb had once hung, he said, “And just in the nick of time, I do believe.”

Lorna only smiled and stared. “That remains to be seen, but yes, I guess you did come to my rescue back there.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he retorted, glad to be back on a human level of understanding. All this business about walking and talking with God made him jumpy.

“Oh, I won’t.” She marched ahead of him around the corner, her faded navy tennis shoes and frayed jeans making a nice melody of sounds as she walked.

The nice melody ended on the next beat, however, when she groaned and whirled to glare up at Mick. “Just what in blazes are your men doing to my beautiful gardens, Mr. Love?”

“Lorna’s out there pitching a fit,” her older sister Lacey said as she watched from the open dining room doors. “Think I should go play referee?”

Hilda Dorsette reached for her silver-etched walking cane, then slowly made her way to the French doors leading out onto the flat stone gallery. Without a word, she watched as her great-niece went nose to nose with the handsome man named Mick Love. Then she chuckled. “Good thing he’s wearing that hard hat. He’ll need protection from Lorna. She sets such high store in those live oaks.”

Lacey shrugged, her floral sundress rippling as she moved away from the window. “He’ll need more than a hard hat if he damages those gardens. I’ll be right there with Lorna, fighting him.”

Hilda gave Lacey a fierce stare. “The man came here to do a job, dear. The gardens are already damaged beyond repair from the storm. What more can he possibly do? He’s trying to clear things up.”

Lacey heard her sister’s raised voice coming through loud and clear from the many open doors and windows. “But you know Lorna thinks she has to be the one in charge. She’s obviously upset because his crew with all that big equipment has just about mashed what little garden we have left.”

“The garden will grow again,” Hilda replied. “It always does.”

Lacey turned back from checking the urn of strong coffee Hilda had suggested they brew for the workers and few remaining guests. “Lorna needs to get in here and see to breakfast. They’ll all be hungry.”

“Rosie Lee has breakfast well under control,” Hilda reminded her over her shoulder. Even as she said the words, they could hear dishes rattling in the large industrial-sized kitchen located off the main dining room. “Lacey, calm down. We’re all going to make it through this.”

“I’m calm,” Lacey retorted, then rubbed her forehead to ward off the headache clamoring for attention. “I’m calm, Aunt Hilda.”

But she knew in her heart that she wasn’t calm. How could any of them be calm after surviving the intensity of that storm? No wonder Lorna was taking out her anger on the very man who’d come to help them. It was Lorna’s way of dealing with the situation, of finding some sort of control over the chaos. Because they both knew only too well that, in the end, they had no control over either joy or tragedy.

When her baby sister’s heated words turned from English to French, however, Lacey knew it was time to take the matter into her own hands. “I’m going out there,” she told Hilda as she brushed past her. “I’ll drag her in here by her hair if I have to.”

Hilda stood leaning on her cane, her chuckle echoing after Lacey. “Maybe our Lorna has finally met her match.”

Lacey didn’t find that so amusing, but it would serve Lorna right if this Mick Love brought her down a peg or two. Lorna loved to boss people around, and she loved being the center of attention. Lacey was used to reining in her firebrand little sister, and, truth be told, she was getting mighty tired of it. How their brother Lucas could just take off and paddle away in his pirogue, heading out into the swamps and leaving Lacey to cover things, was beyond her. But then, she was the oldest and used to handling things.

“Lorna, we can hear you all the way to the river,” she said now as she made her way through branches and bramble.

Lorna turned to find her big sister standing with her hands on her hips, that disapproving look on her lovely face. Lacey, looking so cool and collected in her sundress and upswept hair, only added to Lorna’s aggravation. “Well, I don’t care who can hear me. This man and his big machines! Look what they’re doing to the garden, Lacey. Je voudrais—”

Mick held up a hand. “Don’t start that French again. If I’m being told off, I’d like it in plain English, please.”

Lorna ground her teeth and dug her sneakers in for a good fight. Deep down, she knew she was making a scene. Deep down, she realized she was still in shock from the storm and the tremendous damage it had left in its wake. Deep down, in the spot where she’d buried her most horrific memories, in a place she refused to visit, in the dark place she denied with each waking breath, her emotions boiled and threatened to spill forth like a volcano about to erupt. And the storm and Mick Love had both provoked that hidden spot, bringing some of her angst right to the surface. It didn’t help that she’d purposely gone out underneath the trees to find some semblance of peace, only to be broadsided by both a limb and a handsome stranger. It didn’t help that she hadn’t even had her coffee yet.

She let out a long-suffering sigh, then returned to English. “I would like…” She stopped, took time to relax, find control. “I would like for the past day or so to go away. I want my trees back, I want my garden intact again.”

She couldn’t stand the sympathy she saw in Mick Love’s deep blue eyes. So she ignored it. And the way the memory of his hands on her, his body falling across hers to protect her, kept coming back to bother her when she only wanted to take out her anger on someone. Anyone. Him.

“I can’t fix your garden until we get these trees out of here,” Mick told her, his hands held out palm down, his head bent as if he were trying to deal with a child.

“I understand that,” Lorna said, trying to be reasonable. “But do you have to stomp and shove everything that is still intact. Look at that big truck over there. They pulled it right up on top of that camellia bush. That bush has been there for over a hundred years, Mr. Love.”

“And if you let me do my job, I guarantee it will be there for a hundred more years, at least,” he told her, all traces of sympathy gone now. “How can you expect us to clean this up, if we don’t get right in there on top of those trees and limbs?”

“It’s a reasonable request, Lorna,” Lacey said from behind her, a firm grip on her shoulder. “Come inside and get something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Lorna huffed back. Her sister, always the mother hen. “But I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Then let’s find you one. And you, too, Mr. Love,” Lacey said, her voice so cultured and cool that Lorna wanted to throw up. Whereas Lorna pretended to be calm and in control, her sister’s serene countenance was no act. Lacey had it down pat. She never wavered. She never threw fits.

Lorna tossed her scorn back in Mick Love’s face, daring him to make nice. She had only just begun to make a scene.

He didn’t seem willing to take that dare. Eyeing Lorna with those arresting blue eyes, he said, “I don’t think—”

“I insist,” Lacey said, shooting Lorna a warning glare. “Come onto the gallery so we can talk. I want you to meet our aunt Hilda, anyway. You can explain to all of us exactly how you plan on clearing away all this debris.”

“Would that calm her down?” he asked, glaring at Lorna.

Lorna didn’t flinch, but that heated blue-velvet gaze did make a delicate shudder move down her spine.

“I think the coffee would help immensely,” Lacey stated, pinching Lorna to make her behave. “And some kind of explanation would certainly put all of us at ease. This has been so traumatic—we thought surely we were going to be blown into the swamp. I think we’re all still in shock.”

“Obviously,” Mick replied, his gaze shifting from Lorna to Lacey.

Lorna watched as Mick listened to her sister. Oh, he’d probably fall for Lacey’s charms, bait and hook. Lacey did have a way of nurturing even the most savage of beasts. And Lorna had a way of sending men running. No, she didn’t send them running, she just sent them away. Period.

Oh, she didn’t need this right now. The bed-and-breakfast mansion was booked solid for the spring season, and the Garden Restaurant located out back was always busy. But what choice did she have? They had to get things cleared up.

Feeling contrite, Lorna turned back to Mick. “I’m sorry. I’m at a loss as to what to do next, and I took it out on you. We do appreciate your help.”

Mick’s expression seemed to relax then. He had a little-boy face, tanned and energetic, playful and challenging. Mischievous, as Aunt Hilda would say.

And tempting. Very tempting. Like a rich pastry, or a fine piece of ripe forbidden fruit.

“Apology accepted,” he said. “And coffee would be most welcome.”

“Then come on inside,” Lacey told him, giving Lorna a nudge toward the gallery.

“Let me just talk to my men a minute,” Mick replied. “I’ll be right back.”

Lorna watched as Mick instructed one of the men, his hard hat in his hand. He had thick, curly ash-brown hair, sunny in spots and as rich as tree bark in others.

“Don’t break a stitch staring at him,” Lacey warned.

“Don’t pop a button telling me what to do,” Lorna retorted.

Then she gasped in surprise. The man Mick had been talking to headed to one of the big white equipment-laden trucks they’d pulled into the backyard—the truck parked over the camellia bush.

“He’s moving the truck,” Lacey whispered. “Lorna, do you see?”

“I have eyes,” Lorna stated, her hands on her hips, her brow lifted. Her heart picking up its tempo.

She looked from the groaning, grinding truck to Mick Love’s gentle, gracious eyes. And felt as if the storm was still raging around her.

She had eyes, all right. But she could see right through Mick Love’s kind gesture. Kindness always came with a price, didn’t it?

And Lorna had to wonder just what Mick Love expected in return for this kindness.