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“I’ll do that tonight,” she promised, inwardly groaning at her expanding to-do list. “Thanks for checking.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you go getting a soft heart if they’re kids trespassing, Rowena. Any problems and you call me immediately,” he ordered.
Bud Neely might look like a hick but he had a steel-trap mind and an eye for detail.
“Yes, sir.” Rowena stood to attention and saluted.
“Don’t give me any of that back talk, girl. I was here when you and those two chums of yours were terrorizing the tourists’ kids with your smuggling stories. I know your history.”
“Forgive and forget, Bud. That’s what the Bible says.” Rowena stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for looking after us, you old softie.”
“Hey. Don’t be doing that in public!” He scrubbed his cheek but his eyes sparkled. “Folks on the Bay gotta watch out for each other. That’s just part of living here. Say, how’s your dad? Is he up here with you?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping I can bring him a little later on, once I’ve got Wingate on track.” If he isn’t too depressed, she didn’t add.
“You let me know. I’ve missed him. Nobody else around here can play a decent game of chess. Victor used to give me a run for my money.”
“Dad hasn’t played in a long time, Bud,” she warned. “He hasn’t been well.”
“Best thing is to get him up here in the fresh air, then. Anyway, playing chess is like riding a bike—the mind never forgets.”
Rowena glanced at her watch and waved. “Gotta get back to work. Thanks, Bud.”
“You’re welcome.”
While Connor continued to talk to the sheriff, she hauled brush. A short while later Bud left. Connor looked mad about something.
Because her arms were sore again, Rowena changed jobs, sliding down the wet slope to take a quick look at the first flower bed.
“What do you think? Are you going to meet the deadline?” Connor stood beside her, watching.
“No problem.” Rowena quickly schooled her face to hide her doubts that being finished by June 1 was possible.
“What are you doing now?”
“Checking out this soil,” she explained, scooping out a handful to get a better look. She leaned against the brick supporting wall to balance herself and dipped her hand into the soil again. The wall shifted.
“Uh-oh.” She moved from one terrace to the next, checking for stability. In each terrace, mud oozed through gaps in the corners where the mortar had broken down, in some cases given way completely.
Wingate needed a stonemason before it needed a landscaper and that would cost time and money—neither of which had been calculated into the original project.
“‘Uh-oh’ means something bad, guessing by your face.”
“I need to show you something. Can you handle some mud?”
He favored her with a mocking look, glancing at his filthy jeans. “I’ll try not to fuss too much,” he promised as he stepped down, holding out a hand to help her.
Rowena accepted his hand but let go as quickly as she could, her fingers feeling scorched by the contact.
“See here?” She pointed out the defects, forcing her breath to modulate. What was wrong with her? “The mortar isn’t holding. The saturated ground is straining the wall. It’s oozing out here.”
He hunched down beside her, slid his fingers into the gaps she indicated. “Can’t you patch it?”
“It’s been patched too many times. It needs to be rebuilt.”
“Or what?”
“Or it will slide down into the next one. It’s unstable. The walls will collapse as soon as I try to work on it.” She noticed his eyes were a kind of liquid gold. That made her knees rubbery. She needed space, oxygen—something.
“What’s your solution?”
Solution to what? Oh, yeah…
“You’ll have to hire a stonemason to install some new bricks.” Maybe she shouldn’t have had that coffee. Her nerves were way out of control.
“You said I’ll have to hire. But this is your project, Miss Davis.”
“I don’t do stonework. That was never part of the agreement.” She cleared her throat. “I did ask your uncles about the condition of the terraces when I agreed to take on the work. They assured me the masonry was solid. It looked okay under drier conditions. It’s not now.”
“I see.” His face tightened; his eyes grew stormy. “How much?”
“I told you, I don’t do masonry. If I had to guess—” She thought for a moment, then offered a figure. Connor’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to protest but Rowena kept talking. “A man in town does excellent work. Whether he’d be able to fit Wingate in is another question. He’s always booked fairly heavily.”
Connor Wingate glared at her.
“There is no way I’m prepared to authorize such a huge expenditure. You’ll have to come up with something else.”
“I’m not deliberately trying to cause problems, you know. And there’s no other way. Unless you want me to remove the terraces completely?”
He frowned. “But then everything would eventually slip downhill, wouldn’t it?”
“As it’s doing now, yes.” She pulled out a diagram she’d drawn yesterday. “This is Wingate now. This is what I propose.” Using her pencil she outlined the small changes. Anger had chased away her case of nerves, thank goodness.
“Cost?”
“It wouldn’t cost any more to do it at this stage. We could slip in an underground watering system, make your uncles’ lives a lot easier in future drier years.”
“It sounds great but the uncles are hoping to retire soon. They haven’t got the cash on hand to cover something like what you’re talking about. You’ll have to come up with something else, Miss Davis, or work with what’s already here. That’s my decision.” He turned to leave.
Why didn’t he call her by name? And would it hurt him to unbend just a bit?
“I want it on the record that I feel the terraces are unstable, Mr. Wingate.” Rowena sighed. “As soaked as they are now, they’re dangerous. I can’t begin really working with them until they dry out, so my timetable is on hold indefinitely. I’ll try a couple of ideas on the lower one, see how it reacts. That’s all I can promise.”
“June 1. That’s the deadline.” His bossy tone carried through the rain. “Remember that everything has to be finished by June 1.” He strode across the yard, sprayed his boots off beneath the outside faucet, then climbed the steps without so much as a backward glance.
“I suppose I should have bowed or something,” she muttered sourly. “Don’t want to get above my station.” It was times like this that Rowena wished her work permitted her to wear a power suit that carried weight, to force people like Connor to accept her as a professional and not just some crazy woman mucking about in the mud.
Instead she tromped across the sodden grass in her rubber boots to resume work on the trees. She could forget about the terraces for now, anyway, since there was so much pruning to do.
“Maybe you could send a little sun, Lord,” she prayed. “Just so I could figure out how in the world I’m supposed to accomplish this.”
That she would accomplish it was beyond question. Completing this job was the only way she had to get the nursery back and she was going to get her father back on that land if it was the last thing she did.
Her two workers had taken a break with a drink in the cab of her truck. She waved them forward.
“Okay, guys. Let’s get back to work.”
She’d been at it for a week and a half, sawing, cutting, mulching. And all of it done in a steady rain or drizzle. Her crew was good, he’d seen that for himself. But even two skilled men and one tiny woman couldn’t make an Eden out of that mess, even though Rowena Davis was a powerhouse.
Connor had come to think of her by her first name in spite of his desire to remain aloof until he got the job done and could leave this place and get on with his future. Whatever that was.
He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to get Wingate Manor up and running, to see it successfully through another season and then hand it over to his uncles, preferably with a tidy profit.
Connor was used to managing. His first job had been supervising a portfolio no one else wanted. His success had led to one management position, then another. Eventually he’d worked his way into his own company and a very hefty client base. His reputation for getting the job done was what Cecile claimed she’d loved most.
Connor deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. The past was finished. He’d assumed he’d be halfway around the world trying to forget his mistake. Instead he was sitting here in Serenity Bay, watching a woman and two men manhandle trees twice their size.
What would he do when his great-uncles came back, when it was time to leave the Bay?
He’d sold the New York condo Cecile chose as quickly as possible after her death. Even his car was new. The only thing that remained from the past was Tobias. Sooner or later he’d find him a good home, too.
Then Connor would start fresh. Somewhere else.
Suddenly aware that the dog hadn’t stopped barking for several moments, Connor pushed back a curtain and gritted his teeth. Escaped again. He hoped Tobias hadn’t caused worse problems than covering everyone in mud.
Connor strode through the house, shrugged into his slicker and slid his feet into the boots he hadn’t yet returned because he hadn’t wanted to go into town to buy replacements, preferring not to face the curious stares. He stepped onto the porch, noticed the dog was above him, shielded by the house.
Once he was around the corner Connor saw an orange earthmover perched at the top of the hill. Suddenly he heard a sucking noise. He twisted his head, gasping as a huge pine toppled over. The sopping earth around it immediately pooled into a slick mass that oozed down onto the first terrace. He could see immediately that it was too much for the weakened walls. Before his eyes, the stones loosened, the wall crumbled and the seeping black tide slithered down onto the next terrace, gathering momentum as it broke through that and moved faster downhill.
Someone gave a shout. Connor scanned the area, saw Kent yell at his son, point. He turned to look, watching as the mud slipped over the slick grass to the bottom terrace. Rowena was bent over, hitting a mallet against the rocks around her, earplugs making her totally unaware of the danger above.
“Rowena!” The wind grabbed his warning, tossed it away.
Connor took off, racing downhill as fast as he dared. At the last moment she looked up. Terror filled her eyes as a huge pillow of mud bulged over the edge, capturing her before she could escape. Then she was gone, drowned by the black flood.
She would smother if she didn’t get out of there fast!
Connor slid over the edge, reached into the muck, feeling for something, anything, as he prayed.
“Not another death, God. Please, not again.”
Back and forth he slid his arms through the mess, grasped an object, pulled it out. A clump of sodden grass. He kept working, heard the pounding footsteps of the other two men.
“Don’t jump in,” Connor warned. “You could step on her. Stay at the edge and reach in. Pull on anything you find.”
Seconds drummed past, his heartbeat thudding in his ear as he searched. Finally his fingers found purchase on a bit of fabric. Connor pulled, but it would not come free.
“One of you, come on this side. Reach here. Now pull.” After several tugs, part of her sleeve emerged. “Kent, we’ll pull. You scoop it away from her.”
They worked feverishly as the words circled round and round Connor’s brain.
A few dollars could have prevented this.
If she dies it’s my fault.
“No one else dies,” he muttered. “Do you hear me, God?”
Finally Rowena’s head emerged, covered in mud, her face barely visible. Connor smeared his hands across her cheeks, scooping the mud away from her mouth and nose.
“Get a pail of water, quickly,” he ordered.
Quint raced away.
“Is she breathing?” Kent asked.
“I don’t know.” Using his sleeve, Connor wiped her face clean and pulled on her chin to open her mouth. “Come on, take a breath,” he coaxed.
Suddenly they were both doused in icy-cold water. Rowena gasped, opened her eyes. She spit out some mud, then raised her head to glare at Quint.
“I’m not wet enough?” she complained.
“Wet and very dirty,” Connor agreed, amazed and utterly relieved by the anger widening her hazel eyes. “We all are. Let’s take a break.” He boosted her up to Kent, who pulled her the rest of the way out, then slogged out of the muck himself.
Tobias remained some distance away. He’d stopped barking and was now sniffing around the fallen tree.
“We’ll rinse off under the tap, then go inside and take hot showers,” he told them. “Rowena first.”
“I’m too dirty to go inside Wingate,” she argued. “I’ll go home.”
“Forget it. Just do as I say.”
“Do you always have to give the orders?” she demanded before ducking her head under the tap.
“Yes.” He helped her peel off her coat, took her boots and rinsed them out, sprayed the major portion of soil off her shirt and pants. “Go inside. First floor. Third door to the left. Get in the shower.”
“Yes, master.” Tossing him a glare that promised later discussion, she complied, shudders racking her body.
“You two next. Come on.” Once they’d shed the worst of the mud he showed them the public washrooms at the back of the house. “My uncles had them installed for the cast of the summer stock group that performs. They’re on a separate system from the house,” he explained. “You won’t interfere with Rowena’s shower. Take as long as you like. There are towels in the long metal cupboard and some clothes in a box by the door. I was going to give them away.”
The two men nodded, removed their filthy boots and moved inside. Connor cleaned himself off. Tobias raced up to him, barking once.
“Yes, I know you sounded the alert. Good boy. You’ll get a treat tonight.” He reached out to touched the dog’s head, saw his own hand tremble and knew exactly why.
She’d come so close to tragedy.
If Rowena Davis had died, he would have been guilty of causing a second death. And for what—a few dollars? He had plenty of those, more than he would ever spend.
So why had he been so cheap? Sure, he wanted to protect the uncles, but underneath there was another motive, one he hadn’t wanted to face.
The truth was he needed a barrier between them, a clear line of employer, employee. Why?
Because Rowena Davis was a woman, a very attractive woman whom he’d like to know better.
“Never again,” he vowed, an image of Cecile’s sad face filling his mind. This time he’d keep his mind on business and not let himself be swayed by feelings he misread. One mistake was more than enough.
Chapter Four
“What’s with you?” Rowena pushed her freshly shampooed hair off her face, glaring at Connor. “There’s no one to blame here. I told you before that several trees were unstable. Today one fell before we could get to it. That’s all.”
“If you’d gotten to it any later you might have been killed today,” he shot back, his face brimming with anger. “It pushed a pile of the mud onto the terrace. That’s what started the whole slide.”
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” She fixed him with a stare that had quelled lesser men. It didn’t have much effect on him.
“It matters.” Connor turned an accusatory glower on the two men, homed in on Kent. “How long is it going to take to get the rest of those damaged trees down?”
Rowena bit her tongue. She was going to do this job whether Connor Wingate liked it or not. But the way she did it, whether or not she could trust her workers to follow her orders, very much depended on Kent’s answer right now.
“You’re talking to the wrong person, man.” She could have kissed Kent. “Rowena’s the boss.”
Connor rocked back in his chair, turning his icy glare back on her. “So how long?”
Oh, she longed for those easy jobs in the city where once the client knew the plan, he left you alone to finish it.
“Look, Connor. This isn’t an exact science.” She cupped the mug of coffee he’d given her and told herself patience was a virtue. “We work as best we can. If we have to stop, adjust the schedule to accommodate a problem, then we do it. But we get the job done. You have to stop pushing so hard.”
“I have to push.” His face tightened; his hands clenched. “Maybe you should scrap the big fountain idea. That would shave off some time. I mean, you’ve been at this for almost three weeks and there’s hardly anything to show for it.”
Quint set his coffee cup down with a thunk, his face dark as a thundercloud about to dump on everyone. “If our clothes are dry, Dad and I should get back to work.”
“They’re not dry yet so sit down. Everybody just take a deep breath. And you.” Rowena turned her attention on Connor. “Listen to what I’m about to say, because I’m not going to repeat it. We are doing this job the way it is supposed to be done. Between the three of us, you’ve got a lot of experience sitting in this kitchen, and I’m telling you we’re making the fastest progress we can, given the circumstances. Maybe it doesn’t look like it to you, but you’ve never gone through this before. Am I right?”
He had the decency to look sheepish. “No.”
“I realize you’re used to being in control but this time you’re just going to have to find someone else to push around while we do our job.” Rowena held his gaze.
Tobias sent up a mournful round of howls that rent the tense silence.
“What now?” Connor muttered under his breath. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He donned a coat and left. When he returned, he bore a big splotch of mud on one cheek and one knee looked soaked but the howling had stopped.
“He got tied up in a rope.”
“Which is why I asked you to keep him penned up. He could get hurt.”
“Don’t worry. He’s back in the pen. I pushed a big stone urn against the place where he’d dug it out.” Connor stood in the kitchen under the overhead fixture, his face solemn. The light cast a glow on his hair, illuminating tiny silver droplets that glinted like diamonds.
“As long as he’s out of the way. I like dogs. I don’t like seeing them hurt.” She gave him her severest glare.
“I’m sorry I questioned your professionalism,” Connor said softly. At least he sounded genuine. “I’m nervous about running this place for the uncles and not running into any hitches. I guess I took it out on you. I apologize. To all of you.”
“I think it’s the weather. It’s getting to all of us.” Kent swallowed the last of his coffee. The dryer buzzer broke the awkward silence. He rose. “Our clothes are dry and we’ve still got work to do. Might as well get back at it. Come on, Quint.”
“Do a quick assessment of the worst of them but don’t start any more cutting until I’m out there. Got it?” she emphasized when they didn’t respond.
“Got it.” Kent shared a look with his son, jerked his head toward Rowena. “She’s worse than your mother ever was.”
Quint burst into laughter, winking at Rowena. “I’ll make sure he bundles up and has a clean handkerchief, too. Okay?”
“Very funny. Get back to work,” Rowena ordered, hiding her smile. She watched them unload the dryer and return to the basement to change. Then she faced Connor, intent on getting this settled once and for all.
“You look mad. You’re going to bawl me out, aren’t you?” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his self-mocking smile.
“Yes, I am,” she assured him.
“Don’t bother. I know I shouldn’t have questioned your authority. I won’t do it again.”
“Uh-huh. Until tomorrow, anyway.” How could she stay angry with someone like him? “I’m not kidding about this, Connor. These men work for me. If I went to your staff without talking to you, you wouldn’t like it.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve already apologized, Rowena.”
He’d called her by her first name. Wonder of wonders.
“Yes, you have.” That zap of awareness fluttered in her stomach. She ignored it.
“You want me to repeat it?”
“No.” She almost smiled at the thought of Connor Wingate apologizing twice for the same misstep—unthinkable!
“Then…”
Rowena settled back in her chair. “What is it about me that’s so hard for you to trust? Do I look like a crook or something?”
“Hardly. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you you’re a beautiful woman.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, watching her.
Beautiful? With mud oozing from every pore of her grimy body? Yeah, right. Gorgeous.
“Now you’re being mean.”
“Mean?” Confusion darkened his eyes to bronze.
She was so not going to argue about her unbeautiful self.
“Forget it.” Rowena rose, stared down at her odd attire. “I think my clothes should be dry by now. I need to get back to work.”
He checked her out, a little grin twisting his lips. “That shirt looks better on you than it ever did on my Uncle Henry.”
She found his appraisal uncomfortable, and stayed silent.
He chuckled. “As compliments go, I guess that one missed the mark. Let me rephrase.”
She shook her head. “Don’t bother.”
Who wanted to be told she looked better than a sixty-five-year-old balding man with a potbelly? Even if that old gent was a sweetheart? Rowena stepped around Connor, walked to the dryer and lifted out her clothes.
“Mind if I use the bathroom again?”
“Help yourself.” Connor remained silent until she was almost out of the kitchen. “Rowena?”
“Yes?” Surprised by his stern tone, she turned, frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“Stay away from the terraces. I’m calling someone in to repair them. Until the work is done, they’re off-limits—to all of you.”
That rendered her speechless for about ten seconds, long enough for him to leave the room. By then it was too late to say thank you. Connor had disappeared.
“I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.” Connor switched the phone to his other ear. “I just want it done as soon as possible. You’ll stop by to give an estimate tomorrow? Good. Thanks.”
He hung up, paused to study the threesome working outside. Actually, his interest rested primarily on the small woman manhandling brush into some kind of chopper.
How did she do it? She could have died out there this afternoon, yet she picked herself up, cleaned herself up and got on with the job.
Connor knew it would be a long time before the picture of Rowena sucking in that first breath of life was erased from his brain. No way he was going to let anything like that happen again, regardless of the cost. He’d gladly pay to be free of the image of one or both of his uncles one day buried in just such a mess with no one around to help.
“Mr. Wingate?”
Esther Padderson had been his uncles’ trusty office assistant for as long as Connor could remember. He couldn’t get used to her calling him “Mister.”
She stood in the doorway, shorthand tablet in one hand.
“I don’t know why you can’t call me the same name you’ve used for years,” he complained. “I’m still Connor.”
She ignored him. “Yes, Mr. Wingate. Chef Pierre is on the line. He says he’s not coming back this year.”
Connor jerked upright. “According to his contract, he is. Or else he’s going to owe Wingate Manor a lot of money.” He translated the look on Esther’s face to mean she wasn’t going to be the one to tell the temperamental chef what he’d said. “Okay, I’m coming. But while I’m talking to him I’d like you to prepare some advertising copy.”
“To replace Pierre, you mean?” She looked scandalized. “But he does this every year.”
“Really? And my uncles put up with not knowing whether he’ll show or not?” Connor shook his head. “I don’t operate like that. Either he’s going to be here or we make other plans.”
“He won’t like it.” Esther worried as she followed him to the office.