“While you’re having cocktails maybe I’ll swing by and check on Tracy.”
He surprised her by remaining silent.
A frisson of apprehension skittered over her skin. She stared out across the wet landscape, trying to recall the details of Mr. B.’s map, letting the patter of rain fill the silence.
Gradually, she noticed the breathtaking 360-degree perspective from beneath the weeping willow. Sheep dotted the green grass of Mr. Mionetti’s farm. Plump, green grapevines grew across the road, advancing up the hillside. The valanced branches of the willow shifted with sinuous grace. And the rain softened every view, deepened the multiple shades of green with a gemlike polish.
She’d start the painting with the sky, brushing in layers of gray. Then she’d paint the rich umber of the earth and the iron gray of the puddles. She’d paint the grapevines next. Neatly. A regimented order with tendrils reaching like a mother’s hand to sweep up a wandering child into a loving embrace. Then she’d paint the willow’s branches, some of which dragged on the ground like fashionable drapes. And far off in the distance a sliver of—
“What? You’re not talking to me now?” Will’s voice carried more than a hint of annoyance.
The rest of what he said or didn’t say was drowned out by the memory of protesting brakes and the whine of a large, powerful engine. The landscape she’d been composing faded away as her vision fogged over.
Emma reached out. Her hand connected with the willow’s tree trunk. Cool, rough bark. She wiped at her damp forehead with her other hand, fighting the clammy, dank feeling of fear and failure.
“You look awful.” Will stepped into Emma’s line of tunneled vision. “Sit,” he commanded, tugging her down, kneeling next to her. “Put your head between your knees.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re too bossy?”
“Only Tracy and you. And you don’t count.”
Emma pushed at Will’s hands with her own, but his were steadier, stronger in purpose. Under his guidance, her knees became earmuffs. She closed her eyes when her brain started registering the soil’s various brown shades contrasted against the blues of her skirt. She breathed in the scent of fabric softener, of rich, musty earth, cleansing rain and Will’s woodsy aftershave.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, its grumbling slower than her heart rate.
Emma tried to sit up, but Will kept her head firmly between her legs. It became harder to fill her lungs with air. “Please...”
“Tell me what’s wrong. I can help.” Will Jackson at his most annoying.
“Let me breathe!” She pushed up hard enough to break free of his hold. The back of her head bounced off the tree trunk. “Ow.”
He draped his arm across her shoulders as if to keep her from falling over. “What is it with you and head wounds?”
Emma gritted her teeth. “You don’t have to hold on to me. I’m not going to pass out.”
“You could have fooled me a minute ago.” His arm stayed. Steady. Reassuring.
“Seen a lot of people faint, have you?” The pain chased away the last of the fog around the edges of her vision, but not the woodsy scent of Will.
“You’d be surprised at how often women faint at the sight of me.”
“You wish.”
Thunder rumbled above the hills to the east, over the vineyards.
Emma refused to look. She focused on the ground at her feet.
A fat raindrop splashed onto the nape of her neck. It rolled down her spine in a haphazard way that made her shiver.
Will rubbed her shoulder.
She risked a glance at him.
His blue eyes were gentled with concern. How could such an overbearing, infuriating man have such expressive, beautiful eyes? They brimmed with the promise of a gentleman, of doors held open, chairs pulled out, of concern for others.
Yeah, right.
He cupped her chin and examined her face so intently, she blushed.
“I’m fine.”
“Tell me what happened.” An order. No surprise there.
“Nothing happened.”
“Panic attack,” he surmised. “You were somewhere else for a while. Battling demons.”
Emma clamped her lips shut. She didn’t want to say anything. Her fears were her own. She hadn’t told anyone—not even Granny Rose—about the debilitating dread she felt when she tried to paint or sketch. For a moment, Emma gave her own fears priority instead of Tracy’s condition. What would she do if she couldn’t reclaim her art? Who would she become?
She wanted to curl in on herself. But she knew that however adrift she felt, Tracy felt much worse. If Tracy could bear it, so could she.
The rain eased. Just a few more minutes and she’d be able to walk away. What she wouldn’t give to be able to retreat to Granny Rose’s house and crawl into bed.
“I had a fear once,” Will said softly.
This was a media moment. Perfect specimens like Will never admitted weakness. “Only one?”
“I was afraid of spiders.”
“Really?” Emma didn’t believe him for a minute.
“Big ones. Little ones. Hairy ones. It didn’t matter. If they had eight legs, they freaked me out.” There was something in his husky voice, an earnestness that drew her gaze to his and wouldn’t let go. She could spend hours trying to capture the layers of hurt in his eyes with her sketch pencil or brush.
Time slowed as they stared at each other, as she realized that behind his pain was something softer. Warmer. Something she had to be imagining. Something that answered the longing that she knew must be in her own eyes.
Holy raging wildfire.
Emma tugged her gaze free. She needed to defuse the moment, to return to their combative state. Now she knew why she’d categorized Will as public enemy number one. He was attractive. To her. And she...
“This fear of spiders... Did it start when you were four?” she whispered, half-jokingly.
“I was fifteen.”
Whatever comeback she felt forming dissipated in a whoosh of air. She knew what had happened to him at fifteen.
“My mother had just died and I didn’t like the idea of her in a coffin.” His eyes softened to a deeper blue and his gaze met Emma’s, but she suspected he was seeing a memory, not her. Will never looked at her that way. “I saw a spider outside my window the morning she died. And another the day we buried her. I thought it was a sign. An omen of death.”
“That’s silly.” But Emma had to force the words past a throat tight with compassion. Many times she’d wished Will’s mother had been her own. Emma’s mom always put the needs of others ahead of her daughter’s. Will’s mom never had. She baked cookies, talked about boys and gave the best hugs, next to Granny Rose, of course. When she’d died in that explosion, Emma had grieved almost as much as Will and Tracy.
“Every fear is silly when you say it out loud.” Will stood and held out his hand to her.
Emma accepted his help. His hand was larger than hers—strong, warm, the hand of a man you could rely on. His touch was as intimate as a caress, a promise of more caresses to come. Tempting. So tempting, this need to be held and let someone else shoulder her fears.
Emma knew she should pull away, knew she should step back.
Instead, her gaze drifted up his arm, an arm waiting to draw her closer. Drifted farther to his mouth, to his lips, slightly parted, waiting to meet her own. Drifted higher to his intense blue eyes, and a gaze waiting for her to forget that they were at cross purposes.
Will seemed to hold back, as if looking for any indication that she would accept the promise of this something, so nebulous, that swirled intangibly between them, yet at the same time so strong she could almost feel it—
feel him—
warm and solid and real.
Air became trapped in her lungs, sending heat flaming through her veins.
If she leaned forward, the wait would be over, the promise of more accepted.
From the next valley over, thunder murmured.
And still Will held her hand. Still, they gazed at each other. Still, neither of them moved to submit to the need swirling between them.
The need to touch, to feel, to kiss.
“No!” She couldn’t kiss Will. She couldn’t want to kiss Will. He hadn’t forgiven her for the accident. And probably never would.
Emma snatched her hand free and stepped out of reach, flexing her fingers as if she could banish his warmth. But she couldn’t banish what he’d awoken in her, this unwanted awareness. She could only deny it.
Will’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t laugh off what had almost happened. Was the idea of a kiss all in her head? His nonreaction almost made her rush forward and kiss his indifference away.
Foolish idea, that. Emma drew a deep breath and licked her lips.
Will, Mr. Control, dropped his gaze to Emma’s mouth. Heat flickered in his eyes. His gaze locked on hers once more.
Emma held her breath. He was going to kiss her now.
Dread scuffled with anticipation in her belly as she waited for Will to decide.
But nothing happened. Will didn’t move.
The rain tapered off to an intermittent mist. A blue jay swooped past with a squawk of indignation.
Emma swallowed and stepped back. She was knee-quakingly grateful that neither of them had succumbed to temptation. She’d almost made a colossal mistake on multiple levels. It was as if the willow tree they’d stepped beneath was neutral territory. She edged closer to the border of branches. “I know what you think of me. In your eyes, I’m the loose cannon. The one people get hurt around.” They needed to get that issue up front, not talk about kisses. “But your opinion doesn’t matter to me. Tracy’s does. I’m not going to give up on our friendship. And I don’t think Tracy is, either.”
Will’s brow furrowed.
“And I’m against change here, just like Granny Rose. I’m trying to stop your winery.” Emma drew a deep breath, remembering too late her grandmother’s warning about Will and his ability to charm her. “I won’t let you have your way without a fight.” Not with Tracy, not with the town and certainly not with her own feelings.
“There’s more at stake here for me than a dying town,” he said, his voice a husky threat.
The rain stopped. The sun winked at the edges of the willow.
She’d almost kissed Will. If it had been anyone else she’d almost kissed, she’d be rushing to tell Tracy.
Instead, she tossed out a challenge. “Snarky Sam’s. Last one there can’t talk for five minutes.” Emma slipped through the damp willow branches and took off at a run, picking up her skirt, sandals slapping against the wet pavement as she reached Madison Avenue.
Will overtook her in twenty yards and quickly put an ever-lengthening distance between them.
Emma had been counting on that. She needed breathing room.
And Sam didn’t take kindly to interruptions.
CHAPTER TEN
S
NARKY
S
AM
’
S
WAS
part antiques store, part pawn shop, located at the entrance to town on Main Street, where the sidewalks started. It was a mile away from the weeping willow where Emma had had her panic attack and Will had come close to kissing her.
Thankfully, Will hadn’t given in to that system-shaking chemistry. A kiss was something even Edwin couldn’t strategize around.
There would be no kisses.
Not with the woman who’d almost killed his sister.
Under the willow, Will had watched Emma shrink from an energetic, confident beauty to a withdrawn, fragile woman. It was like watching a spring flower wither on the vine. He’d meant to soothe her, to chase away her fears and bring that annoying grin back to her face.
Backfired. Big time.
He didn’t know where this attraction had come from, but he needed to get rid of it. Fast.
The rain had moved on and the sun was breaking through what remained of the clouds.
In a way, Will would have been better off if he’d kissed Emma. Then he wouldn’t be obsessing about how her lips would feel on his, how her body would feel pressed against him. This was Emma, for crying out loud. He’d bandaged her skinned knees, pulled her pigtails and dunked her in the river, same as he’d done to his sister. But if she was like a sister to him, he wouldn’t be feeling this attraction.
Will needed to focus on Sam Smith. Sam’s business was barely hanging on, and Will was ready to offer him an opportunity. Emma was three blocks back. Will had more than enough time to break the ice with Sam and make his point before his five minutes were up.
The sidewalk in front of the shop was littered with antiques and what Will would call junk, all dripping with raindrops. A wooden baby cradle, a washboard, an old bicycle, a wood chipper.
He opened the wood-framed glass door, setting off a bell. The air in the shop was stale and musty; the merchandise dusty and dated. Hanging on didn’t begin to describe Sam’s business.
“You pawning or buying?” A gnarled sprite of a man in a blue-checked flannel shirt put his comic book down to eye Will. He sat behind a display counter loaded with old jewelry, but his suffer-no-fools attitude was front and center.
Will felt about as welcome as a fat tick on a show dog. “Neither.”
“No soliciting. Says so on the door. You get me?” Sam raised his comic book again. Spider-Man swung across the cover. The edges of the page were as yellow and age-worn as Sam.
Edwin’s notes had indicated Sam would be open to more sales, but sales of what? It was hard to get a handle on the man when the store seemed to sell everything from knickknacks to small appliances to jewelry to really bad taxidermy. A skunk wearing a Sherlock Holmes outfit stood on a table to his right, while a raccoon wearing a bikini strutted to his left.
The eight-week marathon of activity to obtain approvals for the winery finally kicked in. Will’s body felt heavy, his motivation sagged. But he was here, so he ignored both and assembled his smile. “I’m not buying or selling.”
Sam lowered the comic book, revealing a deeply set scowl. “If you ain’t pawning and you ain’t selling, you’re in the wrong establishment. I’m a man of business. Don’t have time to waste.” Spider-Man swung back into place.
Will’s smile remained locked on target. “I’m Will Jackson. My business partners and I are building a winery on the old Henderson property.”
Sam dropped the comic book on the glass counter, a puff of dust rising in protest. “I call bull. The town council hasn’t approved a nail you plan to hammer.”
“That’s true. The town council is holding hearings.”
“They’re stalling. Supposed you’d be smart enough to know that. Although if you ain’t, you might as well give up now.”
Will considered his options.
“Looks like one of Felix’s cats got your tongue.”
Will forced a self-conscious chuckle and brushed off a few more cat hairs from his polo. “You boxed me into a corner. If I agree that the council is stalling, I’ll look critical of the council. If I disagree, I’ll look naive.”
“Very smart, but Edwin should have told you, I don’t take sides. I won’t hang signs for you or tolerate protestors on my sidewalk.”
Will switched topics, indicating the collection of coffee tables, ceramic statues and lamps with a wave of his hand. “What’s your bestselling item?”
“Nobody buys anything from me anymore,” Sam snapped. “I lend money. Ninety-day terms. Come about day seventy-five I put their item out on the sidewalk as a reminder that I’ll need my money or I’m going to own whatever they’ve pawned. Folks here need short-term loans to make ends meet.” Sam thumbed his fist toward the back of the store. “I’ve got ten blenders back there, seven bread machines, three treadmills and one rusted-out wheelbarrow. I don’t plan to sell any of it.” His gaze landed on a locked set of glass shelves to his left filled with colorful glass plates, cups and bowls. Some of the snark blew out of him. He almost smiled. “My wife used to sell antiques, back when there were people working in this town. She loved Depression glass.” The scowl returned. “But folks in Harmony Valley have more than enough things. You get me?”
Sam had tipped his hand and exposed the heart of his concerns. “How would you like to sell Depression glass again?”
“I’m an old man. I don’t think I want to work that hard.” Sam tapped the Spider-Man comic on the counter with one gnarled finger. “This is starting to sound like a solicitation. I think it’s time for you to move along. You get me?”
The bell rang behind Will. He didn’t turn. The very air in the room shifted and his body tensed as if readying to pounce. He knew who’d come in. Emma.
Anger rooted him to the scuffed linoleum. Anger at Emma. Anger at the corner he’d backed himself into. She’d wanted him to get to the shop first or she wouldn’t have challenged him to that race, giving him five uninterrupted minutes with Sam. Which he’d blown.
“Well if it ain’t Emma Willoughby.” Sam snorted. “I can see this is shaping up to be another civil war. No, no. Don’t deny it. I can see it by the way you’re looking at this young man there ain’t no love lost between you. I’m not much interested in wine or art. And since I’m very busy, and neither of you have commerce with me, I’ll have to ask you both to leave.”
“If you’d let me explain,” Will began.
“You two are disrupting my workday. I’d call the sheriff, but he’d take thirty minutes to get here from Cloverdale.”
“I’m going, Sam. And I’ll take this bit of rubbish out with me.” Emma opened the door, waiting until Will was outside to grin.
It was hard to believe that sometime in the past hour he’d wanted to kiss those lips. “You knew! You knew Sam wouldn’t take sides when you challenged me to that race.”
“Did you ever pay attention to anything besides the farm and your computers when you lived here?” She laughed, but the sound died off when her gaze landed on Sam’s window.
She was looking toward the corner of the display, at something half-hidden behind the wood chipper. Will shifted so he could see what had caught her attention. It was an oil painting of Harmony Valley as seen from the top of Parish Hill.
The amused, upward crinkle to Emma’s eyes fell. Her smile flattened. Her body stilled. The teasing air of superiority from seconds ago vanished, revealing the vulnerable woman he’d discovered beneath the willow. The woman he yearned to hold again.
Residual anger grappled with the need to comfort and protect.
Protect?
For a moment, Will was perplexed. And then he realized his was a natural reaction. He’d protected Emma most of the early years of her life. After his mother died, his focus had turned primarily to Tracy and by extension Emma. It was only logical his old habits would reassert themselves when he saw Emma’s distress.
“Did you paint that?” His voice jarred her, although he hadn’t spoken much louder than a whisper.
She drew a breath and looked away. “I captured the heart of this place, don’t you think?” She turned and walked briskly toward the town square, as if she couldn’t get away from the painting fast enough.
Will wasn’t an artist. He couldn’t distinguish passion in a painting, this one or otherwise. What he did see was the burned silo frame, the empty parking spaces along Main Street, the lack of life. Now that she’d put some distance between them, his brain kicked back into gear.
He hurried to catch up to her. “How prophetic that you painted the town without people, since that’s where it’s headed if the town council doesn’t rezone the Henderson property.”
“You see everything too literally.” There was strength in her voice again, although her eyes still had a worried slant.
“It’s why I’m good with computers.”
“And why you stumble with people.”
“Do you know why everyone under the age of sixty left Harmony Valley?” Will managed to speak in a measured voice, as if he were an outsider with nothing at stake. “They had mouths to feed, college bills, mortgages. The town council forced them out with a no-growth policy that was shortsighted. It’s why everyone left.”
Emma frowned.
Sensing he was near scoring a point, Will pressed on. “You heard what Sam said. It takes emergency services thirty minutes to get here. Heaven help someone if there’s a fire. Or worse.” With the advanced age of Harmony Valley’s older residents, it was only a matter of time until tragedy arrived.
His father drove by, his white pickup truck headed toward the center of town. He saw Will and waved.
“Harmony Valley has a volunteer fire department.” Emma’s information was maddeningly out-of-date.
“Had. They shut it down when Felix failed the fitness exam. Property-insurance rates increased when they lost that service. That’s what finally broke Agnes’s daughter. She couldn’t afford to live here anymore.”
Emma stopped at the corner of what had been the town’s grocery store. Its brick wall was faded and crumbled at the base. El Rosal had picked up the grocery slack, selling staples out of their restaurant lobby. She cocked her head as she considered him. “Are you telling me you’re only building this humongous winery and investing in town so they can restore emergency services? There’s nothing in it for you?”
Will didn’t refute her quickly enough.
“Come on. Spill it.” She laughed.
A few minutes ago her laughter had danced across the bounds of his anger. Now he recognized it as something more—her armor against the world. Against him.
She smirked. “I can wait all day. Cleared my calendar, remember?”
He didn’t want to tell her about his hopes for Tracy. He knew what her response would be—worse than Slade’s. But he didn’t see that he had a choice. “You’re going to take this wrong.”
“Try me.” Her grin lit a fire in his gut, challenged him to defend his intentions.
They were good intentions. And good intentions deserved a good defense. Always. “I want Tracy to work here. At the winery. Or somewhere in town.”
“There you go again.” Emma’s hands bobbed and floated and accused. “Wrapping Tracy up, boxing her in, shipping her off. Taking charge when you know Tracy wouldn’t want this.”
“I know what I’m doing. You may consider it overbearing—”
“Consider?” She huffed. “Do you have a plan for everyone in town? Including me?”
If she hadn’t read him so well, he might have denied it or changed the subject.
But Emma was too perceptive. “You do! I should have known.” She gestured for him to continue, quickly.
“All right. Since you want to know. I have no concrete plans, only preferences.” Not all of which would see the light of day, like kissing Emma. He definitely wasn’t making plans for that, but some niggling part of him refused to let go of the idea.
“Give. What are you thinking?” That grin again. Soon to disappear. “I can’t wait to hear your preferences about me.”
She wouldn’t appreciate hearing what he had to say, but she’d asked and it was better to lay it out in front of her now. Her reaction might squelch his attraction to her. “I’d like some council members to retire so we can accelerate progress in town. I’d like to tear down some buildings that aren’t up to earthquake code. This is California. You never know when or where the next big one will strike.” He pointed to the crumbling brick at the bottom of the old grocery-store wall. And then came the personal stuff. “I’d like Tracy to give up her half of your apartment and move in with Dad. I’d like you to go paint somewhere far away from Tracy.” And him. “I’d like you to—”
“That’s enough.” Emma’s chin was up, along with her hackles. “I get your point, especially when it comes to me. You don’t care about this place or anybody but yourself.”
It was exactly the opposite. He cared more than he wanted to admit. He should leave and let her think poorly of him. Instead, he tried to reason with her. “Careful, Emma. You’re letting emotion get in the way of logic. I care more than you know.”
“Then you have a funny way of showing it. I have emotions. I express them. And I respect free will.” Her hands fisted her skirt. “It’s Tracy’s future. The same for the town. And my life. They’re our choices, not yours.”
Her verbal jabs landed, striking a nerve. Will’s shoulders pinched. She was acting as if he didn’t care when he often felt he cared too much. It was why he pushed so hard for change.
But she wasn’t finished. “I agree the town council should try to restore emergency services, but don’t fault people like my grandmother and Mayor Larry for trying to protect the town’s heritage and way of life just because you can’t recognize how important that is.”
Another blow landed. He was supposed to form a negative opinion of her, not the other way around.
“Protect their lifestyle?” Will closed the distance between them until he could smell the flowery scent of her hair. He lowered his voice until she had to angle her head toward him to capture every word. “They grew pot up on Parish Hill. Did you know that? I left that out of my little history lesson last night at the council meeting, but apparently it was once a vital part of the economy here.”