He’d laughed out loud at that—typical Emma. One time, Emma had stopped by the firehouse and asked him how much money he would want to dig her a grave on her property.
“That’s not happening, Emma,” he’d told her. “Is it even legal?”
She’d gone on a long rant about lawyers at that point.
Amen to that. None of his experiences with lawyers had been good. Divorce, liability, fire department lawyers—he’d rather forget all of them. One nice thing about Lost Harbor was that there were only three lawyers in town, and one of them was on the verge of retirement.
He looked at the subject line of her latest email and burst out laughing.
Subject: Your refusal to be reasonable.
Excellent. He was getting under her skin. Maybe she’d give up trying to evict him. His stubborn streak had been activated and he truly believed that he was in the right here. Emma had never told him that she didn’t actually own the property. He only had three months left on the lease, anyway. Why couldn’t Ms. Attorney-at-Law leave him in peace until then?
He scanned her email and composed his own subject line.
Subject: Chickens
If you can prove that you know the names and varieties of Emma’s chickens, I’ll consider your suggestion that I move out.
P.s. She has thirty-two chickens, at last count.
P.s.2 They all have names.
P.s.3 You’re lucky I’m not asking what their favorite treats are.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the porcupine Kate had warned about. Its quills were settling back into place.
Okay, enough fun tweaking the attorney at law. He had to zip home to his house—while it was still his—grab his bass and find something else to wear tonight.
Chapter Three
Back at Petal to the Metal Peony Farm, Kate changed into her mud boots and unloaded the bags of fertilizer into a wheelbarrow. She trundled them down the path past the Duchesse de Nemours plot, where the creamy crown-shaped beauties were cultivated. Right now, all the peonies looked more or less like spears rising from long Typar-covered beds, but soon they’d be leafing out into a glorious symphony of white, deep rose, coral, and blush-pink blooms.
The farm consisted of an enchanting spread of grassy slopes punctuated by outbuildings, peony fields, and plastic-covered greenhouses known as “high tunnels,” where Emma grew vegetables and a few other flowers. Perched on a ridge above the town of Lost Harbor, overlooking Misty Bay and the stunning peaks of Lost Souls Wilderness, its thousand-foot elevation and southern exposure were perfect for growing peonies.
Right now, at eight in the evening in mid-April, the fluffy clouds drifting past the bluff held a hint of apricot from the oncoming sunset. The view was enough to make this property spectacular, and when you added in the beauty of the peonies in summer bloom, it could have come straight from a fairy tale.
And then there was Emma Gordon, Kate’s mother’s mother and the most ornery being on the planet. At eighty-two, she still worked her ass off on the farm, in mud boots and track suit, with a bomber jacket for warmth.
“Did you make that steer manure yourself?” Emma grumbled as Kate brought the wheelbarrow to a halt next to her in the high tunnel. The moist air inside smelled of rich soil and fresh growth.
“I ran into some trouble.”
Kate didn’t feel like admitting she got stuck in the mud. Alaska had a way of humbling a person, and she’d already been humbled enough by recent events.
“Trouble, trouble. Always in trouble. Reminds me of your teenage years.”
Kate took one end of a bag of fertilizer, Emma picked up the other, and together they unloaded it onto the ground.
“With a granny like you, what else would you expect?” Kate gave her a sunny smile. She and Emma had always enjoyed a kind of affectionate bickering relationship.
“I sure wouldn’t expect a lawyer. I blame your father for that.”
Kate let that jab pass, because it had a big foundation of truth. Her father bore the blame for a lot of things. Her current career implosion was completely due to him.
But when her father—a charming but mostly harmless grifter—somehow ended up with a choice between a dire prison sentence and a vengeful ring of criminals, she couldn’t very well abandon him. She’d left her respectable law firm, represented him on her own, gotten him a sweet deal, then hightailed it out of LA to avoid her father’s former “associates.”
“Can we not go there right now, Emma?” she muttered. “Yell at me about some other stuff, why don’t you.”
Emma’s black eyes snapped at her. “Don’t mind if I do. Got a call from Maya. She says you’re ignoring her. That’s rude, and I raised you better than that.”
“Oh my God, I’m not ignoring her, I’m helping out my favorite ancestor.”
“I’m not in the ground yet. Though I did pick out a good spot the other day.”
“If you’re going to talk nonsense like that, you’re on your own tonight. I will go out clubbing with Maya.”
They both chuckled at the word “clubbing.” Lost Harbor didn’t have “clubs.” It had bars and saloons.
“Good, then she’ll get off my ass and go solve some crimes.”
“What crimes? The biggest crime here is that we have to wear these mud boots everywhere.”
“Then go change and get outta here. Have some fun.”
“Are you implying that fertilizer isn’t fun?”
“Never.”
Kate laughed at her grandmother’s dry humor.
“Go. Dance a little, drink a little. See Maya. Let off some steam.”
Honestly, it sounded like exactly what she needed. The past few months had been unimaginably stressful. “Maybe I will, if you’ve got this.”
Emma waved her away, and Kate dashed back to the old farmhouse to change into some “clubbing” clothes—really, anything that wasn’t mud boots and Carhartts would do.
In the tiny cramped guest room filled with unpacked suitcases, a new wave of frustration came over her. She had to move into the house on Fairview Court. It wasn’t optional. She needed more space, and between the roosters crowing in the morning and the geese honking, she was getting grouchy.
If Project Evict Boone didn’t pan out, she’d just move into the upstairs apartment, which was empty. The upstairs space was about half the size of the downstairs because it had a huge front deck. But it would be more livable than this, and it had what she most wanted—some quiet and privacy.
To brighten her mood, she threw on a red halter top and her best pair of skinny jeans, along with her favorite sparkly, strappy dancing shoes.
Her LA life felt incredibly far away right now. But for one night, she could pretend that life wasn’t dead and gone, and that angry criminals hadn’t threatened to find her and make her pay for the deal she’d gotten her father.
A twinge of pain pulsed across her skull. No. Not a migraine, not now. Not when she was finally about to have a little fun. She took a few deep breaths and it dissipated. Thank God.
Bring on the fun! Maybe there’d even be a man to flirt with. She needed to exercise her flirting muscles. That way, if she ever met Darius the Knight in White Armor-All again, she’d be ready.