The Men of Thorne Island

“Thank you. I may take you up on that offer, but if there’s a real wine cellar down those steps, I want to see it.”

He leaned back and studied her face, as if judging the level of her enthusiasm. “How would you feel about seeing six acres of real vineyard?”

Amusement underlined his offer and prevented Sara from taking him seriously. “And just where might this vineyard be?” she asked skeptically.

He hitched his thumb toward the back door. “Out there.”

Amusement or not, he’d hooked her and was reeling her in. “Here? On the island?”

“You don’t know much about your inheritance, do you?”

All commitment to cleaning fled from her mind. She ran to the door and looked out, but all she saw was a row of overgrown box hedges, wild winter cress and the yellow tops of dandelions. “I don’t see any vineyard,” she said.

He’d come up behind her and startled her by taking her elbow. “Then come with me, Miss Sara Crawford, because it’s definitely out there.”

Even with his limp, Nick easily navigated the un-pruned shrubs and prickly pears that poked their stubborn twigs between the flagstones in the pathway behind the Cozy Cove Inn. Sara had a more difficult time and was thankful when they emerged into an area only moderately suffering from nature gone wild. And as far as she could see, the gently rolling terrain before her was lined with rows of equally spaced posts and clinging twisted vines of various thicknesses. Definitely a vineyard!

She knew enough about cultivating grapes to be captivated by the prospect of owning a vineyard. She’d been fascinated by her tour of the California wine country the year before and had listened avidly to experts explaining the wine-making process. The dry acreage of Thorne Island was far different from the lush green carpet of Napa Valley, but it was obvious that there had once been a flourishing wine business on her island.

She wandered among the rows of thick trunks, stopping to examine the cordons and canes that split from mother plants and ran along wires from post to post. She used her thumbnail to scrape the bark off several plants, found green wood underneath and determined that the core trunks were very much alive. She called over her shoulder to Nick, who had stopped trying to keep up with her. “When was wine last made on this island?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been six years at least. You won’t even get one dried-up old raisin to harvest now.” He spread his arms to encompass the whole six acres. “Look at this mess, Sara. For Pete’s sake, I was kidding about this island having a real vineyard.”

“Then the joke’s on you, Bass,” she hollered back. She plucked a cluster of shriveled fruit from a healthy shoot and ran back to him. “See this, Nick? Once upon a time these determined little ‘raisins’ probably made a fine chardonnay.”

HIS LITTLE JOKE had backfired. Nick had figured if he took Sara out among the arid field that had once been a vineyard, she might see the futility of trying to make something of her flagging inheritance. Thorne Island’s glory days were long over. She simply needed to recognize that and leave the island and its crusty inhabitants to themselves.

He took a beer and a sandwich to Brody’s cottage and joined his companions for lunch. It killed him to have to admit the error in judgment he’d made this morning, especially since the other guys were counting on him to rid them of their interfering landlady.

At first he tried to put the blame on the little guy. “Hell, Ryan,” he said, “this is all your doing. You just had to go out there and pluck and prune and probably baby-talk those plants into staying alive.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Ryan argued. “I was just passing time thinking it’s a shame to let anything die in the winter frost. My clipping was just dumb luck.”

Brody scowled at him and ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I told you to leave those plants alone. What do we care about growing a bunch of sissy grapes, anyway? We’re fishermen and fortune hunters.”

“Leave him alone, Brody,” Dexter said. “I think his baskets hanging over at the inn look real pretty. If it weren’t for Ryan here, we wouldn’t have anything nice to look at.”

Nick took a long swallow of beer. “It’s not going to help if we argue among ourselves.”

“Nick’s right,” Brody said. “It’s that darned woman who’s the enemy.”

Nick held up his hand. “That’s kind of a harsh way of putting it, Bro. It’s not like she’s entered our no-fly zone.” He smiled at the image of Sara that suddenly came to mind. “You should have seen her this morning, running all around those dumb vines, scraping and plucking and cooing over them like a mother bird. She brought me a scrawny old cluster of dried-up fruit and presented it as proudly as if she’d grown it herself.”

The image sent a quick spurt of warmth to Nick’s groin, a reaction he hadn’t had in a long time without seeing at least part of a naked breast. “It was kind of sweet, actually.”

All three men stared at Nick as though he’d left his mind baking in the noon sun in the middle of the vineyard. He cleared his throat to knock Sara’s face from his thoughts. “Still, though, we’ve got a problem.”

Brody nodded. “That darned woman’s messed up the chemistry around here. Pretty soon she’ll be telling us to do a whole lot more than just pay the rent. That’s the way women are.”

As the other men uttered similar groans of agreement, the door to Brody’s cottage swung open, admitting the object of their despair. Sara stepped inside and smiled sweetly at each of them. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “I assume this is the commissary I’ve heard so much about.”

Nick gave hasty introductions.

“Mr. Brody,” Sara said, “I’d like to buy some food, and if it’s all right with you, I need to use your cell phone.”

He squinted up at her, age lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. “What do you want my phone for?”

“I understand Captain Winkleman will be back tomorrow. I’d like him to bring some fertilizer.”

Ryan jumped down from the up-ended barrel he was sitting on. “There’s a compost pile over by the old press house.”

Sara brightened as if the words compost pile were equal to diamond bracelet. “There is?”

And if looks really could kill, Ryan would have been compost.

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER SHE MADE her call to Captain Winkleman, Sara gave her grocery list to Brody. He quickly packaged her items and slid two bags across the counter toward her, jerking his hand back as if coming into direct contact with her would endanger his life. She muttered a succinct and insincere thank-you and left his cottage, making sure the screen door slammed loudly behind her.

“What a rude, ignorant, narrow-minded…” She let her voice trail off. There were simply too many adjectives that fit that anachronism with the tattered fishing hat. While she’d been in his presence, Brody had grumbled the whole time about women in general, and “one certain trespasser” specifically.

Nick Bass, thoroughly amused at her expense, watched the whole comedy of manners with a smirk on his face. At least Dexter Sweet had the decency to pick up a sports magazine and pretend he wasn’t aware of his companion’s rudeness. And poor little Ryan—he’d scuttled out the back way after his mention of the compost pile had turned the gathering quite hostile.

It was only a hundred yards on a narrow path through budding maple trees from Brody’s small cottage to the Cozy Cove Inn. Aware that Nick was following her, Sara stomped her feet as loudly as her Nikes allowed. She wanted the determination in her step to let him know she did not desire his company. When she reached the back door of the inn, she swung the screen open wide, stepped into the kitchen and let the door bang shut behind her.

“Damn it, woman!” he hollered. “You know I can’t keep up when you walk this fast.”

She slammed the bags on the clean counter, catching a glimpse of her catlike grin in the side of Nick’s gleaming toaster. “I wasn’t aware we were out on a stroll, Bass,” she said when he came through the door.

He sat on a stool and whipped the Indians cap off his head. Dark curls tumbled onto his forehead. For the first time she noticed coarser strands of gray at his temples. They lent an air of dignity to a man who certainly didn’t deserve it.

“That’s not the only thing you’re not aware of,” he snapped.

She began yanking her purchases out of the sacks. “If you’ve come to spy on me, don’t worry. I won’t take much of your space.”

“Yeah? Starting when?”

She slapped a package of bologna onto the counter, gripped the smooth pine edges and stared at him. “We’re hardly overcrowded here, Bass. We’re five people on forty acres. This isn’t a ghetto.”

He almost smiled, and since she was mad at him, she was glad he didn’t.

“Look,” he said, “if it makes you feel any better, I agree that Brody acted like an ass back there. But you’ve got to give him a break. He’s hard to get along with even on his good days, and he started out grouchy this morning. At times like this, it’s good to give him some space.”

“I’d like to put him on a raft, tug him halfway to Canada and leave him in the middle of the lake. That ought to be enough space even for him.”

Nick got off the stool, picked up the bologna and put it in the refrigerator. “Forget about Brody. I think Ryan’s decided to give you a chance.”

Sara refolded one of the bags and placed it in a lower cabinet. “At least he understands about the vineyard,” she said. “But it won’t be long before Brody turns him against me.”