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Molly's Garden
Roz Denny Fox
Love is blooming in Molly's garden… Molly McNair needs someone tough to work for her. An oil company is pressuring her to sell her farm, and she's losing workers to intimidation. When Adam Hollister applies, she knows she's found the right man. Solid, fair-minded…and handsome, too. But there's something she doesn't know. Adam, a widower who's been drifting since he lost his family, is a former wildcatter. And his onetime business partner sent him to obtain soil samples from her farm.Molly, whose life is dedicated to providing healthy food for hungry families, has to discover if her love for Adam is deep-rooted enough to survive the truth.


Love is blooming in Molly’s garden...
Molly McNair needs someone tough to work for her. An oil company is pressuring her to sell her farm, and she’s losing workers to intimidation. When Adam Hollister applies, she knows she’s found the right man. Solid, fair-minded...and handsome, too. But there’s something she doesn’t know. Adam, a widower who’s been drifting since he lost his family, is a former wildcatter. And his onetime business partner sent him to obtain soil samples from her farm.
Molly, whose life is dedicated to providing healthy food for hungry families, has to discover if her love for Adam is deep-rooted enough to survive the truth.
“Your heart is beating a hundred miles an hour,” Adam said.
Molly couldn’t deny it.
“Come inside,” he offered. “I’ll make coffee. We’re both spooked.”
“I left the dog alone, and my house is wide-open.” Molly didn’t think she could go into the small tack room where he was staying. Where the only place to sit would be on Adam’s rumpled bed. “I had coffee with my friend Tess. More caffeine this late would keep me up all night. I’m fine. Really. I don’t think there’s a cricket stirring tonight.”
“All the same, let me put on my boots. I’ll walk you back to the house. It’s dark, and the barn lights and your porch light don’t reach into the shadows.”
“Okay.” She rubbed away goose bumps from her upper arms as Adam turned away. “And maybe put on a shirt,” she added feebly.
Dear Reader (#u8ebb2ef0-ee2b-55bd-8e98-23faefc0782e),
Book ideas come from so many different places. This one seeped into my head little by little, from a variety of sources. I’m a big clipper of newspaper articles. I cut a couple from our Sunday paper about some new farm-to-fork gardens that involved children in the planting process. The idea was that they’d learn to like vegetables after helping to grow a garden. At the same time that I saw those articles, I watched a documentary on TV about child hunger in the US and how schools are collecting food from area grocers to send home in backpacks so kids and their families have food over a weekend. I learned this is happening in my area schools, and our community food bank is desperate for more help feeding hungry families.
Molly McNair came into my head as someone who loves to garden and wanted to fill a need. Another article mentioned that crop yields around here are plummeting as more land is used to explore for fossil fuels. So I had Molly’s conflict but needed to find her a suitable hero. Adam Hollister appeared as a contender. He has the background to cause Molly trouble. But nice guy that he is, he recognizes that what she’s doing to help poor families survive is more important than his former friends drilling for more oil. Oh, and Molly has a dog, a Doberman, that Adam wins over, too. I hope you like the good times I’ve given this couple (and that you enjoy seeing them triumph over the bad ones!).
Sincerely,


Email: rdfox@cox.net
Molly’s Garden
Roz Denny Fox


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ROZ DENNY FOX’s first book was published by Mills & Boon in 1990. She writes for several Mills & Boon lines and for special projects. Her books are published worldwide and in a number of languages. She’s also written articles as well as online serials for www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk). Roz’s warm home-and-family-focused love stories have been nominated for various industry awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award, the Holt Medallion, the Golden Quill and others. Roz has been a member of the Romance Writers of America since 1987 and is currently a member of Tucson’s Saguaro Romance Writers, where she has received the Barbara Award for outstanding chapter service. In 2013 Roz received her fifty-book pin from Mills & Boon. Readers can email her through Facebook or at rdfox@cox.net, or visit her website at korynna.com/RozFox (http://www.korynna.com/RozFox).
To Paula Eykelhof, the dedicated, insightful editor who catches my goofs and makes my books better with her expertise. A mere thank-you will never be enough.
Contents
Cover (#u704bab5d-a2c0-53af-936d-2c9107cdd595)
Back Cover Text (#u0aa5b6db-4bbb-5bab-98a2-c2f0578267a8)
Introduction (#u2bd5dfdd-5850-502c-924f-384d9aaf2e17)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u2d53008c-2d67-5172-9af8-9ffa88a86163)
About the Author (#ubc615a97-0918-540d-a0cd-01f33af7bcaa)
Dedication (#u006f286c-cf04-5694-8854-1b5945bcf84c)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_243dafd4-dce7-50d8-ae60-9fa86d0a61a1)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_4005de51-2ded-5e1e-a6f0-f1674f8128f3)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0fcad609-a7ef-5fc6-8ef8-5cd62c3f4728)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_fc348ca1-f087-59ed-9657-9a37a3e158ad)
MOLLY MCNAIR TIGHTENED her grip on Nitro’s leash and charged up the steps. Bursting through the double doors into the sheriff’s station, she stood looking for Deputy Roy Powell.
A uniformed clerk set down the phone, eyeing her big guard dog warily. “May I help you?”
The woman stepped out from behind her desk and the black-and-rust Doberman growled low in his throat. The clerk immediately retreated.
“I got a message from Deputy Powell. Ramon Flores was in some kind of an accident. He was driving one of our McNair trucks to markets in Laredo.”
The woman turned as Roy Powell, in his khaki uniform, emerged from a back room and signaled with a hand. “Park your dog outside and come with me, Ms. McNair.”
Molly tightened her grip on Nitro. “My dog stays with me, if you don’t mind, Deputy Powell.”
She spoke a low command and the animal relaxed.
“Then see he behaves.” Powell went into the room and waited for her.
She stepped past him and pulled up short. “Ramon. Good grief, what happened?”
Her driver sat hunched over in a straight-backed chair. His hair was matted with blood. One eye was nearly closed and beginning to bruise. His shirt and pants were torn and dirty. Fresh blood oozed from several cuts on his arm and through one pant leg.
“Why is he here and not at the hospital?” Molly asked Powell, who’d gone to sit behind his desk. Nitro sniffed at Ramon and sat. She remained standing.
“Mr. Flores told officers at the scene that he wasn’t sure he had a medical policy. He has no identification. Frankly we contacted you, as the registered owner of the vehicle, not knowing whether he’d stolen your truck.”
“Ramon, where’s your driver’s license?” She turned to Powell. “I provide all employees an insurance card.”
Looking miserable, Ramon continued to clutch his ribs as he spoke. “Three men in a black SUV forced me off the road before I reached the highway. They pulled me out of the cab. One beat me while the others destroyed the crates...and the produce inside. One took my wallet.”
Molly gaped at him. “He plainly needs medical treatment. What do I have to do for you to release him so I can take him to the emergency room? Or, Ramon, do you need me to call an ambulance?”
He shook his head even as the deputy drummed his thumbs on a manila folder. “Can you prove he’s in Texas legally?”
“Prove? Ramon’s parents migrated from Mexico a long time ago. Daddy helped them become naturalized. And you know my father was a straight arrow.” Her voice trembled as she spoke and Nitro sat up. Reaching down, she stroked between his pointed ears.
“It’s been a year since your dad passed. A lot has changed. Rumors say you aren’t as choosey about who you hire as Mike was.”
“What? That’s not true. Daddy supported me and all the farm decisions I had to make after he got prostate cancer. I’ve been at this long enough now...why are there suddenly questions? I was in the Peace Corps, for crying out loud, doesn’t that warrant some kind of respect for my decision-making?”
“Raising cattle is a worthy occupation. Your dad’s wranglers were mostly local cowboys.” The deputy delivered a dark look as he closed the folder. “You should have stuck with raising beef.”
Molly stiffened. “Meaning you don’t think providing fresh fruit and vegetables to hungry families is admirable?”
“Depends on who you’re feeding. You don’t want to be encouraging people to come here who don’t belong.”
“You know what? None of that matters. This man works for me. He belongs and he needs a doctor. I’m taking him to the hospital. If you plan to detain us, I’ll phone Gordon Loomis.”
Molly pulled out her cell phone. Loomis, her godfather, was the most respected lawyer in the area. His name carried weight. He’d been their family attorney even before Molly’s mom died. And she had few memories of her mother.
“Out of curiosity, are you looking for the men who did this?” she abruptly asked.
Powell stood. “I don’t need you to tell me my job, little lady. Your produce truck might’ve been hijacked by the very folks you’ve been feeding. Maybe you should sell your farm and go back to your old job in... where was that again?” he drawled. “Africa?”
“You mean where we were treated with respect?” Pocketing her phone, Molly dealt the deputy a dirty look. Shifting Nitro’s leash to her left hand, she leaned down to help her driver to his feet. “I’ll send someone from the farm to collect my truck to see if we can salvage any of the load. I assume you have no reason to hold it.”
“If you have known enemies, Ms. McNair, I’ll take their names. The mischief-makers were gone by the time a passerby phoned our dispatch.”
Molly indicated Ramon’s injuries. “This looks like more than mischief to me.”
“A lot of old-timers hate the influx streaming across our border. You ought’a be extra careful about who you put on your payroll. I’ll be checking.”
Ignoring the arrogance of the paunchy deputy, Molly slowly led her driver out of the office, through the main room, which had fallen silent, and out the door.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save the vegetables.” Ramon spoke with effort. “I think one man was the same one I told you hassled me at the market on Monday.” He faltered and she stopped to steady him. “I can’t be your driver anymore,” he said slowly, staring down at his feet. “Elena worries. And we have three children. You pay me more to drive, but I’ll go back to hoeing or picking... They threatened to hurt my family.”
She took a sharp breath before nudging him forward again. “None of this makes sense. Why would anyone be so upset that I’m selling fresh vegetables at local farmers’ markets?”
Frowning, Molly unlocked the doors to her old SUV. She removed Nitro’s leash and he bounded into the backseat. Carefully she helped Ramon into the front passenger’s seat.
“I don’t want to get dirt and blood on your upholstery.”
“This is a working farm vehicle. The seats will come clean. I’m sorry this happened. I should have paid closer attention when Danny Ortega quit. To be honest, he griped about everything so I assumed he’d finally had enough or had heard they were hiring in Brownsville for an offshore oil rig that paid more. Maybe he was being harassed, too.”
She circled around, climbed in and started the motor. “You don’t suppose the guys who jumped you were FDA vigilantes or food safety activists? I’ve complied with the new rules of organic agriculture. We even installed water filters to the irrigation that the government won’t require until next year.”
She knew the FDA had become more aggressive in its inspections. But what grower wanted to sell tainted food? She’d gotten her degree in agriculture because she wanted to grow crops that helped families be healthier. It had been her main mission in going to Africa.
At the hospital, she found a shady spot and parked. Again assisting Ramon, she rolled the windows down a few inches and told Nitro to stay. The hospital only allowed service dogs inside. But the sun was waning and a nice spring breeze had sprung up. Later, when summer arrived, she wouldn’t be able to leave him in the vehicle.
The emergency waiting area overflowed with moms and crying children. Molly found Ramon a seat and then went to the counter to check him in. A harried clerk gave her a clipboard with a sheaf of papers, which she handed to Ramon to fill out while she phoned her insurance agent.
“Lawrence, Molly McNair. I have an employee in the emergency waiting room.” She quickly explained the situation, including the news about Ramon’s missing insurance card, and was advised to pay the bill and the agent would arrange for reimbursement.
“Do you happen to know anyone looking for a truck-driving job?” she asked Lawrence. “Someone big and burly? Or, failing that, someone proficient in martial arts?” She laughed, but there was truth in her statement.
“You need to work with the police, Molly. And be extra careful. Last time I visited your dad, Mike was concerned about you being left alone out there.”
“Dad carped on that,” she said, a smile in her voice.
“I understand why he’d worry. The ranch is about as remote as they come. Considering the increase in Rio Grande crossings...well, it’s dangerous for anyone alone.”
“Rather than lasso a husband, Lawrence, I got a Doberman.”
The man chuckled. “I’m just saying, when jobs get scarce some men get aggressive. I hope Roy Powell finds who ran your driver off the—” He broke off, then added, “Listen, I have a call coming in on another line. I’ll have my secretary see to Mr. Flores’s replacement card.”
“Thanks.” Molly clicked off and went back to Ramon, picking up the clipboard from the empty seat beside him. Looking at him for permission, he nodded, and she quickly scanned the paperwork. Uncapping the pen, she filled in the lines Ramon had left blank, showing him before returning it to the clerk.
Back in her seat, she called the farm to ask Henry Garcia, her dad’s long-standing ranch manager, to drive another of her hands out in the Jeep to collect the delivery truck. “Henry, see if there’s anything salvageable of the load. Maybe there’s stuff we can give to the food bank.”
She hesitated before adding, “Watch yourselves.”
She signed off and idly picked up a tattered magazine. She tried to think what next steps she could take to keep what had happened to Ramon from happening again. She remained at a loss as to why anyone would do such a thing.
While he was being examined, Molly stepped outside to call the weekly newspaper to place an ad for an experienced truck driver. She added a line about having to be able to heft fifty-pound crates. A crate rarely weighed that much, but maybe it would net her a brawny guy capable of holding his own against miscreants.
Going back inside, she sat again until Ramon came out of the examining room.
“The doctor didn’t find any bad injuries. He cleaned my cuts and gave me an antibiotic cream. He says I should do light duty for a week because my ribs are bruised.”
“I’m glad it’s not worse.” Molly paid with her farm credit card and they left.
They didn’t talk much on the drive.
As she dropped Ramon off at his house, she said, “Plan on potting in the greenhouses until you heal. Once you’re better you can join the irrigation crew where you’ll make a little more money.”
“I’ll work hard at whatever you want me to do.”
“I know that, Ramon.”
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER the newspaper with her ad came out and Molly alerted Henry to take phone numbers from interested applicants.
But for three days no one called. Busy harvesting lettuce, Swiss chard, radishes and bush beans, and with spring weather warming and ripening the tomatoes, Molly, who disliked driving the flatbed, packed her SUV and made extra trips to the markets. She took Nitro and remained vigilant. Luckily there were no incidents.
By Wednesday of the following week she’d only talked to two candidates. Both unsuitable. She began to worry that she’d blown it with the weight requirement...and had been too quick to dismiss those applicants. Although one had had no references and the other had been fired from his previous job for drinking, clearly thinking that wouldn’t come up in a reference check.
Thursday morning, as she prepared to go to a market in Carrizo Springs, Molly noticed a well-dressed man talking to a field hand in a newly plowed area earmarked for local students: a planting program she’d established for third-graders from two low-income schools.
“Henry, who’s the guy talking to Rick?”
The manager stepped out of the barn. “I don’t know. I saw him a couple of weeks ago walking the spinach rows. I thought from his clothes he was an inspector.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that?”
She stripped off her gloves and snapped her fingers to rouse Nitro from his snooze.
“I know all the food safety inspectors,” she said, clipping on the dog’s leash. The man in question wore pants, a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. She saw him squat and sift dirt through one hand. “Considering what happened to Ramon, I don’t like strangers wandering my land.”
It only took her a couple of minutes to cross the field and come up on the man from behind.
Nitro began to growl.
The stranger sprang up, dusted off his hands and backed away.
Molly delivered a hand command to Nitro, but the big dog strained at his leash.
“May I ask what you are doing? I’m Molly McNair. I own this land.”
“You grow some fine-looking vegetables. Good soil, I assume?”
“Very. Are you a state inspector?”
“Nope.” The man stepped farther away from Nitro.
“I don’t sell direct to the public.” She named a few farmers’ markets. “You can find us there. I open for U-pick at the end of harvest.”
The man said nothing.
“I see a Humvee parked up on the main highway. Most visitors drive through our gate and down the lane. I’ll ask again... Who are you?”
Molly had learned from her years in the Peace Corps to judge friend and foe quickly. She absorbed the stranger’s toothy smile, noting it didn’t reach his cold blue eyes.
He dug a business card out of his shirt pocket and extended it—jerking back his hand when Nitro bared his teeth.
“Settle, Nitro.”
Molly picked up the fallen card and was surprised that it had nothing on it about farm implements, fertilizers or any possible outlet for her wares.
“Branchville Oil? Not what I expected. That’s a group my dad wanted nothing to do with.”
“I’m a new subcontractor. I understand they tried to buy mineral rights from Mr. McNair. Branchville is on the hunt for new oil fields in South Texas. If you still hold those rights—” he motioned one hand in a circle “—I’m prepared to offer you a fair sum to let the company sink a dozen or so small test holes. It’s lucrative income for doing nothing on your part. If I find oil, we’ll bargain for significantly more money.”
Molly tried to pass back his card, but his hands were now in his pockets.
“I’ve no interest in letting anyone search for fossil fuel on my land. The answer is no.”
The man’s jaw tensed.
“Your name is...?” Molly persisted. “There’s none on this business card.”
“Think the offer over. When you’re ready to deal, call the number at the bottom. A few pumping oil wells will earn you a lot more than slaving over crops that depend on many more variables.”
“Such as?”
“Drought. Floods. Tornadoes.”
She stared at the man for a moment before he turned and walked away.
Molly watched him weave through her field of pole beans and up the bank to the black Humvee, where he got in and quickly drove off.
Only then did Nitro settle.
Henry materialized at Molly’s elbow. “What did he want? Did he say why he didn’t come in through the main gate?”
Giving a half laugh, she showed Henry the card. “He’s a man with no name who wants to dig test wells in the middle of my crops.”
The old man took the card in a gnarled brown hand. His eyes remained on the road. “Your papa thought you should fence along the highway. Maybe it’s time.”
“Maybe.” Molly strode out of the empty field to her SUV. “Right now I have produce to deliver.”
* * *
ADAM HOLLISTER FINISHED setting up a row of clean pilsner glasses and gave the glazed oak counter a last wipe before he opened the bar. It was midweek. He didn’t expect much traffic other than the few regulars who stopped by after work.
He straightened stools on his way to put out the Open sign. Heading back, he plugged some coins into the jukebox and again stood behind the bar as Miranda Lambert belted out her latest he-done-me-wrong song.
Catching a glimpse of his image in the leaded mirror on the wall behind the liquor bottles, Adam barely recognized the man he saw. He’d let his hair, once clipped short, curl to his shoulders. He’d taken to wearing a headband to hold it out of his eyes. He should probably shave more often, he thought, stroking his prickly cheek.
He might be a bit gaunt, but this lazy job working the Country-Western bar for his old college friend in the dusty outskirts of Catarina, Texas, hadn’t diminished his six-three stature or turned the muscles that he’d honed over his years as a wildcatter flabby. His imposing size was probably why Frank had begged him to manage the bar he’d inherited from his father in the rough border town.
One look and few, if any, messed with Adam Hollister.
The door opened. Two regulars walked in and took seats at the far end of the bar. One held up two fingers and Adam pulled two dark ales from the tap. No words passed between them as he delivered their drinks.
Three old-timers Adam knew by sight wandered in next and ordered. They opted for a booth near the jukebox. They fed the machine and Willie Nelson crooned a series of his old hits.
Predictable, Adam thought, wiping at a nonexistent spill. Weeknights were dead. He hoped Frank finished renovating his dad’s old house soon, so Adam could quit this place.
The door swung open again. As was his habit, Adam looked up. He did a double-take and was more than a little shocked to recognize Dave Benson.
His former business partner strolled up to the bar and took a stool in front of him.
The last time Adam had seen Dave had been at Jenny and Lindy’s funerals.
A pain that never quite went away stabbed him anew. He’d tried running away from that memory, that pain, that guilt, for more than two years.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Dave said.
“Thanks. What brings you slumming? You still drink light beer?”
Benson made a rude gesture before admitting he hadn’t changed his preference. “I’ve been looking for you, good buddy. Jim Stafford’s secretary finally broke down and told me where to find you. Kevin Cole wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
Adam popped the top on a bottle and watched as Dave took a long swallow. This was the man Adam had entrusted with his thriving multimillion dollar company, Hollister-Benson Wildcatters.
Dave wore a white shirt and tie—so out of place here.
“Why are you hunting for me? Didn’t Cole, Cole and Stafford cross all the T’s to make the company transfer legal?”
“They did. Although it sticks in Kevin’s craw that you gave me the company.” Dave tore a loose piece of label from the bottle and wadded it into a tiny ball he dropped in the ashtray. “Business has been slow. Then two months ago I got a call from a guy we did a job for in Kuwait. He’s a new partner in Branchville Oil, based out of Corpus. It seems the government is offering big-buck contracts to anyone who can open up rich new in-ground veins. If you’ve watched any global news lately, you know the foreign oil markets are stagnant. Domestic is the way to make a killing.”
“I don’t watch much news.” Adam stepped away to get refills for the two at the end of the bar. “How does any of that affect me?” he asked on his return.
“Branchville had a chemist do soil studies for them last year. He thinks there could be a major field below a ranch not far from here.”
“So?” Adam leaned back against the bar sink and crossed his arms.
“Ranch owner refused to sell the mineral rights or to allow testing. He died and left the property to an equally stubborn woman. I talked to her yesterday. She’s as anti-oil as the old man was.”
“Tough for you. Sounds like you’ve hit a brick wall, Dave.”
“That’s why I thought of you. This could mean millions, and you have a sixth sense when it comes to making sure there’s oil and talking people out of it.”
“Money doesn’t mean squat to me now. I made more than I’ll ever need and I was wrong to let it dictate my life.”
“Well, even if you’re not interested in personal profit, think of doing it for your country. Help wean the good old US of A off foreign oil.”
Adam considered Dave’s words. Perhaps thirty months was too long to wallow in self-pity. Oil definitely used to spark an adrenaline rush for him. “This isn’t the most stimulating job. But if the landowner won’t allow testing, that’s pretty final.”
Dave pulled a folded piece of newspaper out of his pocket. “Maybe there’s another way. This morning the big boss at Branchville gave me this ad. The woman in question first ran it a week ago. Apparently the job hasn’t been filled.”
Taking the paper, Adam read the ad. “You could do this. Why don’t you apply?”
“I spoke with her, so she knows me. She’s not stupid, just stubborn. We hear she’s not well liked in the area. Not by some townsfolk at least. Word is she makes life easy for border crossers. Authorities haven’t caught her hiring or hiding illegals, but she’s a sympathizer. At the local café I found out she supplies crossers with food and water.”
“Why get in the middle of a hostile negotiation, Dave?”
“For a spanking-new oil supply.”
Adam pursed his lips and read the ad again. “Maybe I don’t qualify. Anyway, if she’s a hard-nose like you suggest, if she caught me testing her dirt she’d probably fire me on the spot or toss my body in the Rio Grande.”
Dave took another swig from the bottle. “You’re complaining to a guy who’s seen you charm your way out of many a hot spot, friend. I can tell you’re interested. Of course, I trust you have a barber.”
“Hmm. How would you figure to play this? I’ve no desire to work for Branchville or to renew my ties to Hollister-Benson Wildcatters. If I’m hired by the woman I’d want to remain unencumbered. Say I take a gander? It’s gotta be at my pace and aboveboard. No pressure from you or your people. If she refuses to deal, I walk away regardless.”
Dave circled his sweating beer bottle around and around in circles of condensation, frowning all the while.
“What’s the matter? That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“It’s just that the government offer runs out the first of July. That’s what—six weeks? Not a lot of time. It also occurs to me Branchville might be uneasy if you don’t have any skin in the game. I mean, your name is synonymous with the best wildcatter in the world. My bosses will want assurances you won’t undercut them and blow in a well on your own.”
Picking up the rag he’d used earlier to polish the bar, Adam wiped up the rings under Dave’s bottle and shoved the empty into the return crate. “I’m not signing any contract except for a W-4 tax form if the farm owner hires me. It’s your call.”
His one-time partner stared at Adam for what seemed like a long time. Finally he muttered, “Give me a napkin. I’ll draw a map to McNair Gardens. That’s what she calls it. Used to be McNair Cattle Ranch.”
“I’ll find it. And write down a phone number where I can get in touch with you if I decide it’s worth drilling there. Your people have nothing but the word of a chemist. They’re known to be wrong. Or maybe you’ve forgotten the sheikh who bet a fortune on such a report and we drilled what turned out to be a duster.”
“I remember you tried to tell him and he wouldn’t listen. There are a number of people at Branchville who think the chemist is right.” Dave scribbled a phone number on a clean bar napkin and slid it across to Adam. “Do you have to give notice here? I’d hate for someone to beat you to that truck-driving job.”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll mosey on over there tomorrow and decide if I want to quit here.”
As if he knew he’d pressed hard enough, Dave slid off the stool and hitched up his pants. “By the way, I don’t recommend snooping around much in advance. The woman owns a killer dog. The Doberman didn’t bite me, but only because she held him in check. Good luck, buddy. I’ll touch base later.”
Adam let Dave go without further response. He stared at the raggedly torn-out ad and the scribbled phone number on the napkin. His drive to become a multimillionaire had lost him Jenny and Lindy, the two most precious things in his life. He’d let chasing after big bucks mean more than his family. The money still sat untapped—where it could stay.
Dave might be betting on the wrong man, though, Adam thought. He’d been out of the oil business for more than two years. Admittedly it had once been his life. Work he’d chosen at seventeen. Next week he’d turn forty-one.
But he couldn’t resist the lure of the hunt. For old times’ sake he’d have a look-see at McNair Gardens.
Looking around the bar, he knew he owed Frank a lot for this job. Frank had seen Adam’s reckless attitude toward life. Good friend that he was, Adam knew Frank would understand his desire to help out a former partner.
After seeing to the old-timers’ refills, he picked up the phone.
“I figured this day would come,” Frank Tully said. “I’m grateful you stuck around and helped out for as long as you did while I renovated the house. Diane said it’s time I get behind the bar, anyway. But, listen, if you go over there and don’t want to get involved, there’s still a job here for you. We’ll work something out. I told you my dad used to bring in live music on weekends. I’d like to do that again. It’s bound to draw crowds, so I’ll need help with control if nothing else.”
“I appreciate your friendship. I’ll take a run over there tomorrow. If the woman hires me, I’ll still need to rent your travel trailer, if I may.”
“Sure. She’d be stupid to not hire you. On the other hand, bud, you may want to lose the scruff.”
“I’ll shave and maybe get my hair trimmed. But why get gussied up?” Adam laughed. “Oh, one other favor. Will you provide a reference? Just don’t mention my past work.”
Adam finished out the night at the bar, all the while his mind straying ahead to hunting for oil again.
* * *
THE FULL-THROATED growl of a motorcycle roaring down her laneway jarred Molly from her task at hand. She stood from where she’d been kneeling among two dozen or so third-graders.
“That’s a cool Harley,” one big-eyed boy said. “My uncle had one, but it got stoled,” he added when Molly took her eyes off the biker to glance down at him.
She signaled one of her teacher helpers. “Callie, would you help them finish this row of carrots? If I’m not back by the time you finish, start on those flats of sugar peas. There’s enough for two long rows.”
“He looks yummy from a distance,” Grace, a teacher, added with a grin.
“Hmm,” was Molly’s response.
Removing her gloves, she tucked them under a sisal belt that held up her ragged jeans.
She stepped out of the raised bed and collected Nitro who’d been dozing in the shade afforded by one of several pecan trees that had been on the property since Molly had played here as a child.
The Doberman seemed to like the kids.
Adults were a different matter.
“Hello?” Molly called out to the stranger, who’d gone into the barn but then come out and gotten on his bike.
* * *
HEARING A SHOUT, Adam paused. He noticed a woman standing at the edge of a newly plowed field. She was a distance away, which gave him time to assess her and the monster dog Dave had mentioned, which hugged her side as she approached.
If she was the current property owner, she was younger than Adam had expected. Slender and willowy, she had a fresh-scrubbed face capped by curly hair, black as a moonless night sky. As shiny and black as her dog’s coat. And her gardens were more extensive than he’d pictured.
What gave him the biggest start was seeing she had young children working in raised dirt beds. Did she employ child labor?
The sound of laughing youngsters hit him like a punch to his gut. The kids looked to be about the age his daughter Lindy would be.
Last month she would have turned seven.
* * *
MOLLY STOPPED WELL short of the man seated astride his motorcycle like a cowboy sat his horse. Up close he looked big and brash in his threadbare jeans and motorcycle boots.
Edging nearer, she saw her own hesitant self in mirrored sunglasses he had yet to remove and she shivered. He held a helmet, wearing a narrow red, white and blue headband that held back taffy-blond hair curling around his ears and collar. He reminded her of a young Brett Michaels, and that wasn’t a bad image.
“I’m Molly McNair. May I help you?” She watched him unsnap a pearl button on the breast pocket of a blue Western-style shirt. She blinked as he extended a piece of paper.
The action was enough to make Nitro do something he’d never done before. He jerked his leash right out of Molly’s grasp and bounded up to the Harley.
She made a grab for him and missed. The next thing that happened was more shocking.
The man, who had yet to identify himself, stripped off his sunglasses with one hand and reached down with the other, murmuring soothingly until the dog dropped to the ground. Nitro rolled onto his back and wriggled in the dirt as the man laughed and scratched his exposed belly.
Molly’s jaw dropped. Impressed but wary, she crossed to the biker and took back her traitorous pet’s leash. It was then she saw the paper that had fluttered from the man’s hand. Her ad, torn from the newspaper. Bending, she picked it up.
“I came about the driver’s position.” The biker twirled his sunglasses by one arm. “Has the job been filled?”
Molly’s cell phone rang and she answered it before replying. It was Henry. He’d seen the man ride down the lane. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m two minutes away.”
“I’m fine. He’s an applicant for the job. Yes, I see you at the barn now. Good. I need to get back to the students. I’ll leave you to give him an application.”
“Okay.” Henry disconnected.
“My manager, Henry Garcia, has applications in the barn office.” She gestured toward the children in the field. “My class awaits.”
“By the way, I’m Adam Hollister,” the man said. He bent and gave Nitro a last few head rubs before climbing off the bike and striding toward where Henry waited.
Molly silently watched him leave. He certainly looked as if he could stand up for himself.
For the farm.
Still, she wondered about the newcomer. Adam Hollister. His eyes, more gray than blue, had roamed over her with disturbing ease. Unless that was her imagination...
Certainly the way he’d made friends with Nitro left her feeling jittery.
She wasn’t one to be smitten by the way a man looked. She’d grown up around good-looking cowboys. And she’d worked with a wide range of men in the Peace Corps.
Nothing had quite piqued her curiosity or affected her equilibrium as quickly as this brief encounter with Adam Hollister.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_6beead70-d2b1-55a5-8fd2-6a9b30a403ba)
MOLLY WAVED GOODBYE to the children and teachers who’d loaded onto the school bus. For their first day at the farm they’d accomplished an amazing amount of work.
When she had first approached two elementary schools with her idea, she hadn’t expected immediate support. In her nine years with the Peace Corps she’d come to accept that every request got bogged down in tedious bureaucracy. So she’d gone to the initial school meeting armed with proof that programs of the type she proposed were successful in other areas, including in urban settings where kids grew flowerpot gardens.
Surprisingly she had found a dedicated staff already deeply worried about an excess of poverty-stricken families. She’d only had to mention that kids loved to eat what they grew and the principals and their staff were all in. In addition to arranging to transport third-graders out to her farm once a week, teachers at all grade levels asked if she might provide fresh vegetables for their Backpack Fridays, where they sent every child home with a backpack filled with foodstuffs. For some it was all they’d have to eat over the weekend.
Of course she’d agreed. But the meeting had opened her eyes to how many families in her area were in need. She hadn’t expected to hear that US families ever went without food. In truth, she’d like to give away everything she raised, but that wasn’t possible. She needed to sell enough to make ends meet and to pay her workers. She was still dipping into her savings and her dad’s insurance.
The bus stopped at the end of the lane, waiting for the automatic gate to open. After it drove out Molly watched the gate close again. She stood there thinking back to the other day when the man from some oil company had parked on the main road and hiked onto her land.
A closed gate couldn’t keep somebody out if they really wanted to get in.
She shivered.
Henry was probably right in saying the whole perimeter should be fenced. But fencing was costly. And what about the land sloping to the river? She irrigated from there. Yes she had seen people cross the river who shouldn’t. Her dad’s philosophy and that of her grandfather’s had been to live and let live. She did the same.
Now that the children were gone, she unhooked Nitro’s leash. He never roamed far from her side, but he liked being free to sniff out a rabbit or two.
“Come on, boy. I need to go to the barn to look at the latest application.” The man who’d ridden in on the motorcycle.
As she made her way to the office Molly wasn’t sure she should hire Adam Hollister, even if he ticked all the boxes. Something about him had thrown her off balance. It went beyond how easily he’d won over her dog—her supposed guard dog.
Revisiting the impression the man had left brought him squarely back into focus.
At thirty-two she could count on one hand the men who’d stirred her. A fellow Ag student in college. He’d changed his major to computers, eloped with his high school sweetheart and gone on to make his mark at IBM.
The other had been a doctor volunteering in Kenya while he did advanced studies on jungle fevers. She’d thought they’d had a future until a female physician had showed up to work as part of Molly’s extended team. Mark Lane, MD, had broken her heart when he and Penelope Volker, having snagged twin fellowships at Johns Hopkins, had left without even a backward glance.
Worse, the couple’s dual departure had left only a nurse and a nurse practitioner to care for the desperately ill who showed up at their village Peace Corps compound.
Shaking off the memory, she entered the barn and strained to see in the dim light. Nitro loped over to drink water from a big bowl they kept filled for him.
Henry stepped out from the office. “Molly, I think we’ve found you a truck driver. I checked his references and the folks he listed all said you’d be lucky to get him.”
“Really?”
He handed her the double-sided application she’d put together after placing the ad.
“Where has he worked before? Why isn’t he working there now? Or, if he is, why is he looking to change jobs?”
“He’s currently working at a bar near Catarina. For a friend. The guy said Hollister has done everything from ordering to serving to cleaning up to being his bouncer in just short of two years. He pretty much ran the place, because the owner was renovating a house. Oh, and he also said when the bar was closed Hollister picked up housing materials and helped with construction.”
“Hmm.” Molly glanced over the form. On the line about education he’d written “some college.”
“His second reference, Kevin Cole, has a Dallas address and phone number. Did Hollister work in Dallas?”
“That’s Cole’s private cell number. He said Hollister handled a lot of different projects. I asked if he could drive a diesel truck. Cole laughed and said Hollister never met a job he couldn’t handle. I gathered he lived in Dallas but worked in different places—even doing contract jobs overseas. Cole was vague. I figured it must’ve been for the government. Government guys are hard to pin down.”
Molly chewed on that. Even working in remote Africa she’d met some black ops guys. Tough men. Shadowy figures. From her brief assessment of Adam Hollister, he fit the image.
Did she want someone like him on her payroll? Perhaps she should do more of a background check.
On the other hand, she needed someone now. It was worth giving him a trial, she supposed.
“You can always fire him if he doesn’t work out,” Henry said, making Molly wonder if her thoughts were that transparent.
“I can, but you know I’m better at hiring than firing.”
Her cell phone rang, cutting off Henry’s remark. Dragging it out of her pocket, Molly saw the call was from Tess Warner, an artisan bread maker she’d met at a farmers’ market near Cotulla.
“Hey,” Molly said as she answered, gesturing to Henry that the call was going to take a while. “I haven’t seen you out and about at any markets for a while. Is everything okay?”
“Great!” Tess replied. “Has it really been that long?”
“A few weeks at least. Where’ve you been?”
“Corpus, if that counts as going anywhere.” She laughed. “I guess we haven’t seen each other since I tracked down an old friend of my grandmother’s. The woman still lives in Sicily.
“Gabriella sent me a bunch of recipes in Italian. I needed my mom and my aunts to translate them, so I’ve been in Corpus trying out the recipes and transcribing them into English.”
“I miss you! I toasted my last slice of your cranberry-pecan bread this morning for breakfast.”
“Funny, I have loaves waiting to bake. I called to invite you over and to ask if you could bring some fresh dill. I’m home and baking up a storm. If you come over, we’ll have warm bread slathered with butter and some wine my mother made.”
“How can I refuse an offer like that? I have a lot to tell you, too, Tess. My truck driver got beaten up. He’s the second one—the other guy quit on me.”
“That’s horrible. I hope you’re okay.”
“I’ve been hauling loads to markets all week in my SUV and nobody seems to bother me.”
“Just the thought is bad enough. Hey, bring Nitro. Coco misses him.”
“Wait until you hear how my big scary dog totally caved over a guy I may hire as my next driver.”
“A new man? Wonderful, I can’t wait to hear.”
Molly said goodbye and turned to leave the barn.
Henry called out, “Tomorrow we’ll have a large load. A lot of buyers stock up midweek. Do you want me to call Hollister to see if he can be here and ready to hit the road by seven?”
Frowning, Molly again scanned the application she forgot she still held.
“Do you have time to run a check at the DMV on his license?”
“Sure. You’re doing too much on your own. If we hire Hollister, it’ll free you up to do what you like best—dig in the dirt.”
“You know me too well. Okay, if his license is current, offer him the job. Did you talk to him about salary?”
Henry plucked at his lower lip. “I don’t recall him asking about money. Not usual. But he didn’t strike me as a man with champagne tastes. Know what I mean?”
“Okay. Suggest the same rate I paid Ramon. If he wants more, go up fifty dollars a week. But that’s tops. If he’s good with that and can work tomorrow, no need to let me know. If he backs out and I have to juggle my workload again, put a note on my kitchen door. I don’t know how late I’ll be at Tess’s. She’s offering bread and wine.”
“Your papa would like seeing you get out with friends your age. But he would’ve liked it better if you were going out with a young man.”
Snorting, Molly handed back Adam Hollister’s application. “Don’t you be stepping into Dad’s shoes and giving me a hard time. Maybe I’ll choose to remain single.”
The old man, who’d been like a grandfather to Molly, raised an eyebrow but ducked back into the office without saying another word.
Molly went to the house with Nitro, stopping to cut and bag stalks of dill from the herbs lining her front porch. She added rosemary and thyme to the burlap bag. That barely left time for a speedy shower.
After dressing, she worked equally fast and tossed together ingredients for a summer salad. Placing the bowl on ice in a small cooler, she pocketed dog treats and left the house with twelve minutes to reach Tess’s.
The freeway made the drive easy. Still, she was a tad late. Because her windows were rolled down, she smelled the fresh bread when she turned onto her friend’s street. There weren’t a lot of homes nearby, but the people living closest must drool a lot, she thought. Few things set a person’s taste buds tingling as did warm, fresh bread.
She parked behind Tess’s car, collected everything and clipped a leash on Nitro.
Tess had already thrown open her front door, greeting Molly with a hug as she crested the top step. Her friend’s chubby three-year-old beagle barked and dashed out to rub noses with the much taller Doberman, who acted silly again, the way he had with Adam Hollister. The big dog scooched toward Coco on his belly, uttering what could only be described as crooning. “You ham,” she accused him as she and Tess laughed.
“I thought my last batch of bread would be out of the kiln out back before you got here,” Tess said. “I’ll pour us each a glass of Mom’s sangria and we can let the dogs run in the backyard while we wait. It feels like ages since we even talked.”
“It all sounds heavenly. I’ve scarcely sat down all day.” Molly handed Tess the burlap bag of herbs and followed her through the dimly lit living room into the bright, cheery kitchen. Molly had only been here once before.
Now, as Tess poured wine, Molly opened her cooler and stored the salad in the fridge. Then she unhooked Nitro’s leash. It took about ten seconds for the dogs to dash out through the doggie door, and for Molly to wind his leash through the handles of the cooler. Straightening, she noticed the wall of floor-to-ceiling metal racks filled with cooling loaves of bread.
“You’ve been baking up a storm.” She accepted the glass of chilled sangria from the woman who was four years her junior, six inches shorter but much curvier. “Cheers,” Molly said, touching the rim of the stemware to Tess’s glass.
“I’m making up for lost time. When I visited my family as long as I did, I put a dent in my bank account. Let’s go outside.”
Tess elbowed open the back door and the smell of baking bread wafted in on the evening breeze. A red glow flickering in the domed wood-fired oven emitted enough light to make the porch feel cozy.
Molly sat on the bench that flanked a rustic table. “How do you know the right amount of wood to make bread bake at the temperature you need?”
“Practice,” Tess said, taking a sip of wine. “Also, when I had the stove built I installed temperature gauges in the fire box and the oven. See that digital readout? The oven is basically like one my grandmother would have used in Sicily, but with modern bells and whistles.” She went over to check both gauges. Returning, she sat and said, “A few more minutes and I can pull the loaves. Is that long enough to tell me who in the world beat up your truck driver and why?”
Molly heaved a sigh. “I still don’t know. Ramon didn’t recognize any of his assailants. The local deputy claims they have no suspects. Between us, I doubt he’d tell me if they found the culprits... Has anyone objected to how you sell your bread?”
“How so? I’ve got two types of ovens, which lets me operate under cottage food industry laws. Why would they object? Who objects to you selling organic vegetables? Wait, don’t answer. Let me pull out the loaves first.”
The dogs raced up the steps and flopped near Molly, who took two treats from her pocket and fed one to each dog.
“Where were we?” Tess asked, stepping over Coco to take her seat.
“Discussing the harassment of my drivers. I’m disheartened after talking to Deputy Powell. He insinuated that locals think I hire undocumented immigrants, or at least supply them with food. He didn’t mince words when he said I should be more circumspect about which hungry families I give produce to.”
“Why is that their business? It’s your food. If I didn’t take pre-orders, which pretty much ensure I sell out every time, I’d donate leftovers. Also, are they leaning on the big ranchers or area builders? For sure they don’t check status when they hire.”
Molly shrugged and dipped a slice of orange out of her glass and ate the pulp.
“What are you going to do about a driver?”
“With luck, Henry’s hired a guy today who answered an ad I ran. I didn’t interview him, but we spoke. He’s...well, he rides a Harley, dresses like a biker and doesn’t strike me as the type to take any guff.”
Tess grinned.
“So, tell me. It’s not my imagination that your tone changed when you described him. I take it he’s hot?”
“Don’t be silly.” Molly sipped her wine. “When do we eat? The smell of your cranberry bread makes me want to tear into a loaf right now.”
Tess hopped up again to check. “The bread is cool enough to move. But don’t think changing the subject will make me forget about your hot biker guy. I’ll ply you with more of Mom’s wine.”
“I didn’t say he was hot. And one glass is my limit. I’m driving.”
“Hot was implied. I understand if you want to keep him for yourself. How old is he, out of curiosity?”
Molly jumped up and stepped over dogs to help carry in the rack. “Honestly, Tess, did I even say he’s single?”
“A motorcycle jock? Of course he is.” The younger woman juggled her end of the rack, walking backward into the house.
“Hey, that’s judgmental! I’d say he’s close to forty. At that age—if he’s single—he’s probably divorced. Enough about my maybe new driver. I’ll get the salad. I see the table is set.”
“Spoilsport.” Tess sighed. “My mom bugged me about not having a man in my life while I was visiting, so it’s been on my mind. She thinks twenty-eight is over the hill. Of course she was married at seventeen and had me at eighteen. And at forty-six, she’s outlived three husbands. Preferred older men.”
“Wow, don’t tell her I’m thirty-two and still single. She’ll think I’m a bad influence.” Molly held up a cruet filled with oil and herbs she found in the fridge. “Is this the dressing?”
“That’s a new recipe I got from Aunt Luisa. And grab the blue container, will you? I whipped some butter with fresh berries.”
Molly eyed everything once it was on the table. “I wish I liked to cook. For me it’s a chore,” she said, sitting. “My dad hired a cook. I tracked after Dad with the cattle, in the barn, riding horses. I was too much of a tomboy to care about cooking.”
“We’re both products of our backgrounds. My mom has five sisters, and being a big Sicilian family, every meal is reason to gather and eat big. Everyone cooks, and bread is a staple.” She tore off a chunk of warm bread and passed the loaf to Molly.
“If you hire that new driver,” she asked, “will you quit going to your booths at the markets?”
“I’ll still deliver on weekends. My drivers typically work five days. And, during peak season, we have high demand six or seven days a week.”
“Good. Let me know what days and which markets you’ll be at. I’ll adjust my schedule so maybe we can grab lunch or dinner together. I didn’t make friends here until I met you.”
Molly nodded. “It’s the same for me, even though I grew up here. Most of my high school friends have left the area. My college friends weren’t from around here. They’re spread all over the globe now.”
“Mom says if I’d gone to college I’d be married by now. But of my former friends who went on to university, those who moved back to Corpus act like I’m a lamebrain or something.”
“They’re the lame ones.” Molly sat back with a sigh. “You have tons of talent.”
“Oh, you are good for my ego. Do you have time to watch a movie?”
“I’d love it, but unfortunately I’ve got to get home.”
“Well, here, let me send you off with a loaf of cranberry bread at least.”
“No, you won’t. I’m buying one of those and a loaf of dark rye. It’ll save me chasing you down at one of the markets only to find you’ve sold out.” She pulled out her billfold.
“Shall I put you on my weekly e-newsletter?
“Please do.” Molly counted out cash and set the bread aside, admiring Tess’s logo on the bags: colorful hearts around the words Bread From The Heart.
“I wish I had something clever to call my business other than McNair Gardens. But Dad already had the arch that said McNair Cattle. It was simpler to change out Cattle for Gardens.”
Taking her cup to the dishwasher, she said, “We’ll have to do this again. My house next,” she said, picking up the bread she’d bought.
“Perfect. I guess if I miss anything about home, it’s that my aunts, uncles and cousins were always popping in and out, bringing food and games.”
Molly tickled Nitro. He got up, shook himself and yawned. Coco sprang up and wagged her tail. “The few times we’ve talked I’ve never thought to ask if you have siblings.”
“No. My mom picked older husbands who didn’t want kids of their own. And she was honest about saying her big family lacked money to go around. She wanted better for me. My dad died when I was five. Luckily I had cousins who were like siblings.”
“I used to wish my dad would remarry and have kids so I’d have siblings,” Molly mused. “Dad claimed he was a one-woman man. People said that was noble. Now that I’m older I think it was an excuse to not risk being hurt again. Cowardly, even.”
“Maybe not. None of us can really know why another person makes the choices they make.”
“I guess I feel so alone in the world since he died. My mom was orphaned and grew up in foster care. Dad’s family all died before him.”
Tess put a hand out and squeezed Molly’s arm. “I’ll be your pretend sister. Truly, if anything says we need to get away from our work and mingle more, you just reminded us that we’re both such loners.”
“Did I sound totally pathetic? All this talk of family made me melancholy.” Striving to regain her earlier joy, Molly hugged Tess and headed for her SUV. The dogs both whined.
Tess captured Coco and they stood on the porch until Molly backed out onto the street.
Nitro hunkered down in the backseat.
It wasn’t that late. But traffic on the freeway seemed extra light. Normally this section was heavily traveled by trucks crossing the border at Nuevo Laredo, although her dad had thought more traffic crossed south at Reynosa, which lead into McAllen. Molly sometimes sold produce in small towns inland from Laredo. But the lion’s share of her business was north of the ranch, toward San Antonio.
It was dark by the time she exited the freeway onto the two-lane road angling toward the ranch. A crescent moon brought out the glitter of stars high overhead. Molly recalled how she used to like riding herd with her father at night.
African nights in the village were even darker, and the stars bigger, closer, for lack of any outdoor lighting.
A rare shooting star caused Molly to brake. She looked for others, but when there weren’t any more, she took the one as a good omen.
Her SUV bumped for a short distance along the private lane that cut across McNair land to the archway entrance. An automatic eye registered her vehicle and she let the engine idle while waiting for the big gate to swing open. Where, as a girl, sagebrush had lined the route from here to the house, now carefully tended vegetable fields flashed green in the arc of her headlights.
As if sensing where they were, Nitro sat up, stuck his head over the seat and panted in Molly’s ear. She reached back and rubbed his nose. “Almost home, boy. Tonight was fun, wasn’t it?”
All at once she saw a slight movement off to her left near the path that ran between bush and pole beans. Her SUV hit a pronounced dip in the road and by the time she’d climbed out onto level ground again, whatever she’d seen was gone.
Nitro began growling and sprang against the right back window.
“Easy, boy. I don’t see anything now.”
Instead of driving head-on into the carport, she turned around and backed in, which left her high beams illuminating the field. Her dad had always carried a loaded handgun beneath his front seat, and often had a rifle prominently displayed in a back window gun rack. Molly had lost count of the number of times he’d counseled her to do the same since she’d come back to nurse him through the cancer.
She knew how to shoot. He’d taught her well. But she didn’t like handling guns and believed they could be turned against a hesitant owner.
Nitro continued to paw at the window even after she shut off the motor and let the lights die. She could turn him loose to investigate, but didn’t, because the shadow might be a coyote. Instead, she clipped on his leash, collected her bread, left the cooler and ran up the three steps to her front door with her key out. She quickly unlocked it and turned on a hall light and the one on the porch.
It was plain by his frenzied barking that Nitro’s keen senses had picked up a scent.
Locking the door, she dragged Nitro into the kitchen and snapped on the bright overheads. Her heart racing, she unleashed Nitro and quickly turned out the kitchen light again. Silencing the dog with a treat, she eased over to the window and scanned the area where she’d seen—something.
Nothing moved. Not even a leaf.
Nitro padded over to his water bowl and proceeded to lap at it noisily.
Still, it took time for Molly’s nerves to settle. Not normally easily frightened, she chalked it up to the attack on her two truck drivers followed by the veiled warnings from the deputy and the less-veiled caution from her insurance agent. He, of course, probably felt compelled to act in her father’s stead as they’d been lifelong friends.
Belatedly she remembered asking Henry to stick a note on her front door if he wasn’t able to hire the new driver so she could prepare to go to market again herself. Eventually, convinced she’d let herself be spooked over something that meant her no harm—even if a poor, hungry person had been trying to steal green beans—she opened the kitchen door and checked all around for a note. Finding none, she closed it with a sigh of relief. For now one problem had been solved. She had a driver.
Setting her alarm for 5:00 a.m., she spent a moment drawing a rough map of Adam Hollister’s first-day route.
Since one person couldn’t sell at all farmers’ markets at once, she had local moms manage her booths. The women kept careful records and never cheated her out of a dime. She trusted them more than, say, for instance, men who ran oil companies.
Which reminded Molly she hadn’t looked up the company listed on the card that rep had given her. Maybe tomorrow. Now she was too tired.
* * *
IN THE MORNING, right after breakfast, Molly walked out to the spot where last night she’d seen an unclear motion. The area hadn’t been irrigated so the path had no distinct footprints. She didn’t see any sign to indicate someone had tried to pick in the dark. Peering down into the rows of the pole beans, she thought dirt may have been disturbed in a few places. Coyotes wouldn’t dig. They chased mice and squirrels. But if a migrant happened to be traveling with a dog...
She met the first crew of pickers and directed them to the fields with the produce slated to be sold later that morning in a series of small towns that fell in a circle. The eastern sky banded with faint streaks of gold, and Molly’s crew had just fanned out to pick when she heard the rumbling of a motorcycle. Shading her eyes, she watched her new driver stop next to the silo. Glancing at her watch, she noted that he had showed up about two hours earlier than she’d expected him.
Nitro left his favorite spot under the pecan tree and made a beeline for the newcomer. Molly ground her back teeth together. What was it about Hollister, she wondered, watching her guard dog act like a puppy chasing his tail?
She stepped nearer, at once noticing the man’s broad grin as he removed his helmet. She took in the wrinkles around his eyes, which yesterday she’d termed stormy but altered her perception today. He seemed more approachable.
“You’re early,” she said.
He straightened, still smiling. “Henry said I’d need to fill out tax withholding forms. He suggested I might tour the farm to get an idea of what’s planted where.”
“Oh, sure.” Taking off her gloves, Molly tucked them under her belt. She grew warm feeling the man’s gaze follow her movement. She wore a faded red tank top and jeans with a ripped knee.
Today he was wearing a moss-green, long-sleeved, snap-buttoned shirt and jeans a few washings newer than hers.
Striding past him, she twirled a dial lock and started to open one of the double barn doors. Feeling suddenly surrounded by bulky warmth, Molly froze and glanced back, only to find Adam reaching around her to help.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “That door looks heavy. I thought I’d give you a hand. Do you want it all the way open?”
“Uh, fine.” She let go and ducked out from under his solid arm. “Henry generally has them wide open. The office is there. Well, you’d know that from filling out the application—” she said, breaking off with a shrug. “I’ll get the W-4 forms and a map of how the gardens are laid out.” She stopped again, feeling as if she was running off at the mouth.
“Would you have time to give me the fifty-cent tour?”
It wasn’t a task she’d choose, but since he hadn’t listed farming on his application form, it said something that he was eager to see what she grew.
“I’ll show you around the upper fields planted with produce you’ll be hauling to market this week. My land slopes a mile down to within fifty feet of the river. I have a few hundred acres stretching into McMullen County. The lower part is planted in cabbage and some cranberries. The adjacent section lies fallow now. I hope to add nut trees and citrus soon.”
He finished filling out the two forms she’d handed him, and looked up in surprise. “I didn’t realize you owned so much land.”
“My dad ran cattle until he got too sick. Some say my plan to plant it all so it produces year-round is too ambitious.”
“Hmm.” Adam cleared his throat. “Does your husband do the plowing, harrowing and irrigating? You know...the heavy work.”
Molly set his forms on Henry’s desk and scowled. “I’m single. This is all my bailiwick. I have degrees in agriculture and organic farming. Come on, we’ll start your tour.”
Inclining his head, Adam fell in behind her.
“I’m impressed,” he said some half hour later when they ended up at the truck he’d be driving.
She reached inside the cab and removed a ring with several pages attached. Flipping a few, she selected one. “My crates are color-coded. This sheet shows the code and your stops for today. It lists addresses for the open-air markets. My booths have signs that read McNair Gardens. Your contact is listed above each address.” She turned the page. “This tells which colored crates you leave at which market. You’ll offload those, pick up empties and a money bag with the previous day’s receipts.”
He took the binder, but pinned her with a serious look. “Henry said you’d be accompanying me today and tomorrow.”
“What? No. Why? He didn’t leave a note telling me that.”
“He said Spanish is the primary language of your sales staff. To say mine is rusty would be stretching my abilities. He also said they may hesitate to trust me because your last driver had some problems.”
“My booth handlers are all studying English if they aren’t already fluent.”
But other things ran through Molly’s mind. For one, she pictured running into Tess, to whom she’d vehemently denied that Adam was hot. Today he totally fit the description.
After waging a fierce internal debate she conceded Henry had a point about her staff’s anxiety. “All right. Here’s the ignition key.” She dug the fob out of her pocket. “Drive down to the lower road. Park between the tomatoes and kale and we’ll load up.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9c46ba5f-b729-524c-9506-53595500a1b3)
“I DIDN’T SEE any kids working in your fields today,” Adam later said casually, trying to hide that he was relieved. Seeing them had been like plunging a knife in his heart. Until then he hadn’t realized how he’d painstakingly avoided going places where he might run into moms and their kids.
“They’ll be back Thursdays until their planting is ready to harvest. I sprouted their seeds in my greenhouse so they won’t have to wait so long to see results. Hopefully the plants they set out will all be edible before school ends.”
“I don’t get it. Are you teaching a class in gardening or is it a class kids take in school?”
The two of them were moving crates from the ends of rows where pickers had steadily filled them. Molly carried crates to the truck and Adam lifted them onto the flatbed in the order she dictated—the order on the chart she’d given him.
“It’s not a formal class,” she said, and jumped up onto the truck to arrange the crates. “I consider it a hands-on learning experience that leads to good eating habits. Kids gain an appreciation for healthy foods because they like to eat what they help grow. Don’t you agree?”
Adam sort of bobbed his head as he stacked two crates of tomatoes in the spot where she pointed. “I’m impressed by how you have all of this committed to memory. I’m sorry, but you’re getting ahead of me.”
Molly smiled. “If you stick around long enough, remembering which color crate goes to which market becomes a habit.”
“You mean markets receive the same color crate on set days even if the contents change? Today we have lettuce, tomatoes, peas, carrots and radishes. But in looking over your fields, the harvest will change. I notice your corn has good-size ears.”
“Right. See, you’re getting the hang of my process already, and you didn’t start out working with the earth like my previous two drivers.”
“Do you mind if I ask why they left?” Pausing, Adam leaned on a stack of crates and gazed up at Molly.
“I would’ve thought Henry had told you.” Molly sighed. “Last fall my first driver claimed he was hassled by some men he said followed him to a market and shoved him around. He was known to complain a lot, so I ignored him. He quit and left the area.” She frowned. “My second driver’s reliable. He used to work cattle for my dad. A couple of weeks ago he was run off the road and beaten up. Maybe by the same men. They frightened him into quitting driving. He still works for me, but behind the scenes. Listen, I’ll understand if you don’t want the job. I can rerun the ad.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Looking down on him, standing tall and loose-limbed, wearing a crooked little smile, Molly debated with herself about how to answer. She settled on muttering, “No, no, of course not. I hate driving the truck in freeway traffic. During my time with the Peace Corps I only drove a beat-up Jeep on what would be considered here as cow paths. Pass me more crates, please. Markets open before the sun gets too high.”
“Sure.” Adam quickly set half a dozen full crates at her feet. “So you served in the Peace Corps?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She gave a noncommittal shrug.
He jogged past the truck to other rows and returned with more crates of ripe tomatoes. “Getting back to your former drivers. What do you think they did to make enemies?”
“Funny, the sheriff I spoke to seemed to think the enemies are mine.”
“Really?” Adam shaded his eyes and gave her a thorough once-over. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d irritate men.”
His close scrutiny sent a hot flush to Molly’s cheeks. Recovering, she shot back, “Don’t count on that. May I ask what gives you such insight into how someone makes enemies? Might it correlate to jobs you did for Mr. Cole?”
Adam fumbled and almost dropped the crate he’d picked up. “Uh, you talked to Kevin?”
“Henry did.”
“What did Kev have to say? I haven’t seen him in a while. I only spoke to his secretary.”
Molly tossed her head. “Henry said he was vague. He guessed you handled some kind of government job. Mr. Cole told Henry you did some work out of the country. Were you a mercenary?” she asked abruptly.
Adam laughed. “Nothing so exciting. Try engineering.” He dropped three crates at her feet and left to retrieve a new batch.
“Oh.” It wasn’t until he glanced back over one wide shoulder, his eyes curious, that Molly realized she may have sounded disappointed.
And maybe she was.
The rough-and-tumble life she’d made up for him meant he could handle whatever guys wanted to disrupt her business. Also, soldier of fortune fit him. At least it fit his looks.
Adam squinted up at her again. “I have another question. Since you send certain produce to specific markets each day, do buyers always go there looking for those foods? I’m trying to understand this business.”
“Dedicated shoppers may travel to more than one market a week. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, but what does your sales staff do, say, if more people show up in a morning than they can accommodate? Are there food fights? I’m thinking of a tool sale I attended once where guys came to blows over a limited number of drills.”
She laughed. “Food fights? Farmers’ markets...aren’t like that. Have you never been to one?” When he shook his head, she took a deep breath and explained. “Regulars know to go early. They buy what’s available. Occasionally we have a few vegetables left over. People who can’t afford to buy wander back at the end of the day to see if vendors have produce to give away.”
Adam straightened. “Is that a racket? I mean, couldn’t someone who can afford to buy food game the system?”
“Why would they? People are proud. No one wants a handout.”
He might have made another remark, but Henry drove up, parked and climbed from his aged pickup.
She still had questions about Adam. For instance, he’d said he’d been an engineer for Mr. Cole, but on his application under education, he’d written “some college.” The engineers she’d met in the Peace Corps had had a lot of years of university and bragged about it. So had this man quit college?
Nitro jumped up from his shady spot between the bean rows. He remained on alert until he recognized Henry, then he sank down again in the cool dirt.
“Good morning, you two. Glad to see you showed up early, Adam.” The older man plucked a couple of pea pods out of a crate and ate the peas. Dropping the pods, he smiled. “Sweet. Way better than in the supermarkets.”
Molly stopped shifting crates on the truck bed. “Why would you buy peas at the supermarket when you can walk out in the field and pick all you want?”
“Shouldn’t we check out the competition? Just kidding. I tagged along while Alma did our grocery shopping last night. You aren’t charging enough for peas or string beans.”
Henry and Molly discussed pricing while Adam collected more crates he then set at Molly’s feet.
Henry turned his attention back to Adam. “You wearing a back support belt?”
Molly paused in lashing down a row to stare at the man who’d just shed his long-sleeved shirt. A white undershirt molded to bands of rippling muscles, making Henry’s question seem silly. Adam Hollister had back muscle and every other kind of muscle to spare.
“We have back belts in the barn for the taking. I know, I know...” Henry waved a hand as if to erase Adam’s anticipated objection. “At your age, I scoffed, too. Now I have a bad back. Miss Molly’s daddy grumped because she never wears one.”
She realized that comment brought Adam’s scrutiny to her again. “I should set a good example,” she said. “But they’re hot.”
“How much do you suppose one of these full crates weighs?” Adam asked.
“They vary.” Molly scooted crates filled with eggplant into four separate lines.
Henry answered. “According to OSHA rules those cucumbers are heavy enough to do some muscle damage.”
Molly made a face. “Okay, okay. Point taken. This is the last of this load. We’ll stop at the barn and get back support belts, and use them when we unload. The last thing I need is a squabble with the government’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration.” She lashed down the last two rows of crates and jumped off the truck.
“Adam, if you’ll drive up to the barn, I’ll get Nitro and meet you and Henry there.”
Nodding, he retrieved his shirt from a bean pole and climbed into the cab.
Henry got into his pickup and, after a sputter or two of the ancient motor, drove off.
Molly stopped to thank the pickers whose day was done. “Come to the office for your pay. Anyone who can return tomorrow will pick summer squash, carrots and radishes. Some of you will cut romaine lettuce. If you’ve done lettuce, you know it goes slower since we twist Organically Grown marketing bands around each head.” She repeated what she’d said in Spanish. When no one asked questions, she got Nitro and set off for the barn.
The men stood talking inside the open double doors.
“Henry, would you mind giving Adam the back belts to put in the truck? I’ll open the safe and pay the workers.”
“Are they finished?” Adam said in clear surprise. “They can’t have earned very much in such a short day.” He followed Molly to the office, but took the belts Henry handed him.
“You maybe didn’t notice. They are all women. Most have school-age children at home caring for younger siblings until Mom gets back. They start here at dawn. The short work day suits them.” She spun the dial on a big floor safe, opened the heavy door and took out a stack of clipboards and a money sack.
Adam disappeared with the belts. He came straight back and watched Molly spread clipboards across a big oak desk. She opened a money bag and pulled out stacks of bills and smaller sacks of coin. Taking a seat behind the desk, she glanced past Adam and smiled at a petite woman in a worn cotton housedress. “Luisa, bring me your crate slips.”
The woman made herself smaller to slip past the big man in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he said, scrambling to step aside.
Molly took the woman’s colored slips, counted them out and recorded numbers on pages clipped to the boards. “You picked like a whirlwind today,” she said. Wasting no time, she counted out money and handed it to the woman, who tucked it in a pocket of her dress. In a soft voice she said she’d be back the next day.
One at a time the others filed in to be paid. The entire exercise took only fifteen minutes.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall, Adam asked, “Why do you pay people every day?”
“I don’t pay everyone. Only the pickers. The farm crew get checks each Friday because they make a set wage. As you will, too. I trust that works for you.”
“Sure. Whatever,” he said.
“Henry,” Molly called. “Could you put this away and lock the safe? We need to hit the road. I’ll post to the computer when we finish. Since you volunteered me to ride along with Adam, I’ll collect the market receipts and do the banking. It’s only a few blocks out of the way of our last stop.”
Henry bustled into the office. “I figured you’d show him the ropes. I’d do it, but when I finish here I’m needed in the east pasture—sorry, old habits die hard. I mean the east garden. Rick phoned. Someone stole our irrigation heads.”
Molly stopped short of the door.
“Good thing you bought extra when you upgraded the filtration system,” Henry added. “I’ll take him new ones and help install them. I think we need to get water on the onions.”
“Who on earth would steal irrigation heads?” she asked.
Henry shrugged as he stacked her paperwork back in the safe. “Dunno. Maybe migrants who think they’re worth selling for junk.”
“Are they copper?” Adam asked. He’d moved into the conversation and now stood directly behind Molly. “It’s been all over the news lately that thieves are stripping every possible shred of copper wire and fixtures. Apparently that’s a lucrative black market.”
“I think our fixtures are brass,” Molly said, her brow furrowed. “Do we even have a dozen new heads, Henry?”
“I checked. We have exactly twelve. I’ll pull the paperwork so you can reorder. With the weather turning warmer, you’ll lose crops aplenty without regular irrigation.”
Molly’s frown deepened. “Who would steal sprinkler heads?”
“You already asked that.” Adam shifted his gaze from Henry to her.
“Yes, and I may ask it again. Let’s go.” She whistled for Nitro and he bounded out of the shadowy barn.
Lengthening her stride, she reached the truck before Adam, and she had the passenger door open with the dog inside by the time she felt his big hands close around her waist. She jerked away in shock. “What are you doing?”
His expression turned puzzled. “Helping you into the cab.”
“I’m capable of climbing into a truck. Get in your own seat and start this beast.” She tried to prove her agility, but her right boot slipped off the high step. Had Adam not still been in a position to steady her, she probably would have fallen on her backside.
To the man’s credit, he didn’t say a word. He gave her a boost and put his sunglasses on as he rounded the white cab of the Ford F-650.
“Uh, thanks,” she muttered. “That’s what comes from being too cocky,” she added, nudging Nitro over so she had room to sit and buckle in. Still, she glanced at Adam out of the corner of her eye. He seemed fully engaged with starting the truck, shifting it into gear and driving toward the gate.
Point in his favor. No matter that she’d like to think, under similar circumstances, likely she would’ve rubbed it in. Or laughed at least.
He pulled out a cell phone, set it where he could see it on the dash, and tapped it a few times. “I took the liberty of loading the market addresses into my GPS.”
Downshifting, Adam passed through the gate and pulled onto the county road.
“Ramon always ground the gears. Have you driven commercial big rigs?”
Adam spared her a glance that fell away when Nitro flopped down and used his thigh as a head pillow.
“I’ll move him if he’s bothering you,” Molly said. “It’s really odd. We took classes so he’d be my guard dog. He growled at Henry for months. Yet you’re his instant buddy.”
“I haven’t got an explanation. I haven’t had a dog since I was a kid. But he doesn’t bother me. And to answer your previous question, I’ve driven more kinds of vehicles than I can name, including some with the steering wheel on the right.”
Molly studied him. “You didn’t give me any references from abroad. I assume the company you worked for was based in Dallas.”
“Yes.” Slowing, Adam swung onto the freeway on-ramp.
“According to Henry, your boss in Dallas was light on specifics. His guess was that you did government work.”
His eyes on the side-view mirror as he merged with traffic, Adam mumbled, “Some. Yeah.”
“Sounds like that job would be way more exciting than bartending in rural Texas. Why did you leave?”
Silence stretched between them for several seconds. Long enough for Molly to look directly at him and see his jaw tighten and throat muscles working. She thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“I left Dallas for personal reasons,” he said with a ragged edge to his voice. As if to put a defined period at that end of his statement, he stabbed a finger at his phone. “My GPS indicates I should exit at the next ramp. What’s the procedure at the first market?”
“Oh, uh...” Molly felt she’d crossed some line she hadn’t meant to. Quickly she gathered herself. “There’s a road of sorts that runs behind the stalls. Vendor vehicles enter at the north end. You can stop behind our booth. Pull up as close as possible to give other trucks room to pass. Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
This time he didn’t remark but concentrated on driving, navigating the poorly marked streets that led to the outdoor market.
By then the sun had burned through the morning smog that hung over Laredo. Molly directed Adam down an alley and told him where to stop.
Her two helpers were already at the booth. “Eva, Inarosa, meet Adam, my new driver.”
He left off unhooking bungee cords and touched two fingers to his head by way of a greeting. The women knew Ramon had quit. Still, they gaped at him a moment, said, “¡Hola!” in unison and took the crates he handed down.
“Adam doesn’t speak much Spanish,” Molly told them. “Be patient. Look at it as a great chance to practice your English.” The pair nodded. Then, because people had begun to gather at the booth, they worked to unload, and Eva went to help customers.
Adam loaded the empty crates stacked at the back of the booth without being told. Inarosa handed Molly the bank bag. She exchanged it for an empty one and they were ready to head to the next market.
“That’s a well-oiled operation,” Adam said. “It puts me in mind of—” He broke off and checked his phone GPS. Clearing his throat, plainly he changed what he’d started to say. “I assumed everyone shopped in grocery stores like me.”
Molly wondered what he’d held back. He was obviously a man who kept his private life and thoughts close. She could respect that. Even as it made her more curious about his past. When someone claimed to have left a job and a city for personal reasons, it smacked of something like a bad romance. Or was that a woman thing? Maybe men weren’t so sentimental or vulnerable. Men were more likely to pack up and leave over a disagreement with a boss. Except Adam had given his old boss as a reference. And Henry had said the guy had given Adam a glowing one.
Deep in thought, she missed his next comment until he poked her arm. “I asked if my GPS is correct. Is our next stop Laredo?”
“Sorry. We’re going into the heart of the city. This market caters to foot traffic. Border day-crossers. Have you been to Old Town? A lot of pushcart vendors operate on both sides of the Rio Grande.”
When Adam shook his head, she pointed out glimpses of the river.
He braked to a crawl because the narrow street had become congested with people on three-wheeled bicycle carts.
“Some of those riders will be our customers. Most of them fill their carts and pedal over to Nuevo Laredo where they resell the food for a profit.”
“Does it bother you? I mean, if you know you could drive over there and make more money yourself?”
“It’s not worth it to me to have to deal with customs. They need to scrutinize every crate going and coming. My lettuce could wilt in the time it’d take to wend my way through border officials.”
“Gotcha. Oh, I see the market. It’s a lot more colorful than the last one.”
“This market doesn’t cater to the American trade. Stop right in front of our booth and let’s unload as fast as we can to keep from getting ticketed for holding up traffic. ”
Adam parked in front of the stall Molly pointed to. It resembled a small circus tent. A red banner, stretched between the posts, read Fresco Producer in yellow.
Molly let Nitro out and made short work of introductions than at the last site. The younger of the two women set out a bowl of water for the dog. He nosed around inside the booth and found a meat bone.
“Marisol, you spoil him.” Laughing, Molly paused in handling crates to hug the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman.
Luz, though, teased Molly about hanging on to her hermoso new driver. She seemed freer with her jokes once she learned Adam didn’t speak much Spanish.
Feeling her cheeks burn, Molly rolled her eyes at the laughing women. She collected the receipt bag and hoped Adam was too busy to hear what was said. Anyone who knew a few words of Spanish could figure out Luz had pronounced him a handsome catch. Fortunately, he acted oblivious.
“Phew, this place is crazy,” Adam exclaimed as he inched the truck to the end of the street.
“I love Old Town. It’s teeming with color and life. The old and the new in this part of town blend really well. It’s something I imagined would work in African villages,” she mused. “The difference here is that big chain stores recognize they can make a profit and invest. People in rural Africa are so poor investors won’t risk capital.”
Adam listened attentively but she noticed he didn’t venture his thoughts, so she was surprised when he eventually said, “So, your Peace Corps work was partly in Africa?”
Molly nodded. “All nine years,” she admitted. “I’d still be there if not for my father being diagnosed with prostate cancer that he did nothing about until it got too bad to treat.” She smudged away a tear.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shrugged and they were silent for a moment.
“Dad raised me,” she finally said. “My mom died when I was a toddler. I wanted to think he’d live forever.”
Adam faced the front, gripped the steering wheel and then, one at a time wiped his hands down his thighs. “Uh. So our last stop of the day is still in Laredo?”
“Yes, but on the way out of town. You’ll see the next market serves a very different clientele. Instead of the colorful tiered skirts Luz and her daughter wear, my next managers wear jeans and T-shirts like what I have on.” She grimaced and wished she hadn’t brought his inspection back to her. His eyes had a way of not missing any flaw, and she had her share. “Be careful what you say around them,” she warned him. “These women understand English, but aren’t above pretending they don’t so people gossip in front of them.”

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