Читать книгу Spring Flowers, Summer Love - Lois Richer - Страница 11

Rowena’s fingers moved nimbly over the twigs she’d received from Oren Yelland’s personal nursery. With any luck she’d get the cuttings finished and into the rooting compound tonight. Ash, elm, poplar. She counted mentally, nodded. Three thousand so far.

It was a start.

A noise outside made her pause.

Not that there hadn’t been noises before. Every night she was out here she heard something. So different from living in the city. She’d forgotten that. If the rain ever stopped she’d take a walk, see what else was sharing her land.

A soft “woof” made her smile.

“Hello, Tobias.” She opened the door, let him inside. “My goodness, you’re soaked.” She stepped back as he shook himself off, then bent to rub his ears. “Does your master know where you are?”

He gave her a soulful look then flopped down in front of the heater she’d turned up just enough to take off the chill. The cuttings wouldn’t be in here long enough to notice.

“Make yourself at home.” She chuckled. “Are you hungry?”

His ears lifted as if he understood that word. Rowena tugged the lunch bag from her coat pocket, took out the half sandwich that was left and tossed it to him. It disappeared in a millisecond.

“Wow! You’re starved. Either that or you’re not very polite.” She held up her hands to show they were empty. “Sorry, chum, but that’s all I’ve got.”

Rowena turned back to her work, musing about the dog’s owner. Connor Wingate had been stressed today. She’d noted the weary lines beside his eyes, the tired droop he’d tried so hard to hide. It couldn’t have been easy to put his own life on hold and move up here to take over while his uncles recovered from their accident. From all reports the brothers were healing nicely but it would be a while before either would be able to manage on their own, let alone run Wingate Manor.

Another noise. More like a loud thump this time. Then she thought she heard a voice. Somebody was out there.

Rowena set down her knife and moved to the door. She glanced at the dog. His head was up, his ears perked. A low growl rumbled from his throat.

“Quiet now, Tobias,” she murmured. She dragged on her coat, pulled up the hood, switched off the lights then yanked open the door.

The night was dark. She’d deliberately left the yard light off to save on power. But a ripple of lightning illuminated two figures racing away from her. A moment later they disappeared behind the greenhouse structure which the Wingates had erected years earlier.

Rowena walked to the end of the planting shed, aware that the dog padded along beside her. But though she watched in the pouring rain for several minutes, she saw no one else.

“Probably teenagers sneaking back from Lookout Point,” she mused. Turned back toward the shed, she stopped.

“You’d better go home, Tobias. Your master is probably wondering where you are.”

The brown tail swished happily back and forth at the words but the dog never moved.

“Go home, Tobias.” She ignored him, slopping over the grass.

At the door Rowena paused, peeked over one shoulder. He’d followed her. She stepped inside, closed the door and went back to work. But her conscience made her check outside the door five minutes later. He was still there, sitting, waiting.

“Oh, all right,” she mumbled. “Come on in and get dry. But when I leave you have to go home. Got it?”

A funny squawk of sound emerged from the dog. Apparently he’d accepted her terms. He flopped down in front of the heater and closed his eyes. Rowena picked up her knife and resumed cutting. It was rather nice having company, even if it was just a dog.

By the time she’d finished, her stomach was complaining bitterly. That half a sandwich would have come in handy about now. She carried the bundles into the adjoining room, thrust the fragile stalks into the rooting compound.

A rap on the door scared the wits out of her.

Tobias, on the other hand, didn’t seem too bothered. He was on his feet, but he didn’t bark or growl.

“I sense that being a watchdog is not your forte,” she scolded as she opened the door.

Connor Wingate glanced over her shoulder, shoved down his hood and stepped inside. “I might have known.”

“Pardon?”

“That animal is in here safe and warm while I’ve been slogging through acres of mud, worried that he was hurt.” He looked as if that was her fault.

“He showed up here a while ago. I tried to send him home but he wouldn’t go.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” He glanced around. “Oh!” His eyes glowed like topaz.

“Oh?” What on earth was wrong with him?

“I’ve just put two and two together. Davis Nurseries. You’re Davis Nurseries.”

Rowena motioned him inside, closing the door to shut out the cool air.

“Actually that was my father.”

“And now it’s you.”

She grinned. “Yes, I guess it is. For now.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Cuttings.” She showed him. “Most of the trees on the property are too large or too old to sell as nursery stock so I have to start new ones. These will root and I’ll plant them this summer. By next year I’ll have some to ship out.”

“It’s a long time to wait for a return on your investment.”

She nodded, surprised by his knowledge.

“Yes. But I have to start somewhere. Besides, I’ll have a few other sources of income this year. I’ve got bedding plants going in the greenhouse. I’ll use some for Wingate, sell the rest. I’ve also got a contract to do some baskets and stuff for the town, so that will help.”

He didn’t look impressed. Why would he? Compared to him she was small potatoes. According to Henry’s 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.”

“That’s a dog’s name?” His disgust was obvious. “I thought Tobias was bad.”

“Corilla Barker Dog.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me the meaning of Corilla?” His eyes 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.