Spring Flowers, Summer Love

“June 1. That’s the deadline.” His bossy tone carried through the rain. “Remember that everything has to be finished by June 1.” He strode across the yard, sprayed his boots off beneath the outside faucet, then climbed the steps without so much as a backward glance.

“I suppose I should have bowed or something,” she muttered sourly. “Don’t want to get above my station.” It was times like this that Rowena wished her work permitted her to wear a power suit that carried weight, to force people like Connor to accept her as a professional and not just some crazy woman mucking about in the mud.

Instead she tromped across the sodden grass in her rubber boots to resume work on the trees. She could forget about the terraces for now, anyway, since there was so much pruning to do.

“Maybe you could send a little sun, Lord,” she prayed. “Just so I could figure out how in the world I’m supposed to accomplish this.”

That she would accomplish it was beyond question. Completing this job was the only way she had to get the nursery back and she was going to get her father back on that land if it was the last thing she did.

Her two workers had taken a break with a drink in the cab of her truck. She waved them forward.

“Okay, guys. Let’s get back to work.”

She’d been at it for a week and a half, sawing, cutting, mulching. And all of it done in a steady rain or drizzle. Her crew was good, he’d seen that for himself. But even two skilled men and one tiny woman couldn’t make an Eden out of that mess, even though Rowena Davis was a powerhouse.

Connor had come to think of her by her first name in spite of his desire to remain aloof until he got the job done and could leave this place and get on with his future. Whatever that was.

He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to get Wingate Manor up and running, to see it successfully through another season and then hand it over to his uncles, preferably with a tidy profit.

Connor was used to managing. His first job had been supervising a portfolio no one else wanted. His success had led to one management position, then another. Eventually he’d worked his way into his own company and a very hefty client base. His reputation for getting the job done was what Cecile claimed she’d loved most.

Connor deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. The past was finished. He’d assumed he’d be halfway around the world trying to forget his mistake. Instead he was sitting here in Serenity Bay, watching a woman and two men manhandle trees twice their size.

What would he do when his great-uncles came back, when it was time to leave the Bay?

He’d sold the New York condo Cecile chose as quickly as possible after her death. Even his car was new. The only thing that remained from the past was Tobias. Sooner or later he’d find him a good home, too.

Then Connor would start fresh. Somewhere else.

Suddenly aware that the dog hadn’t stopped barking for several moments, Connor pushed back a curtain and gritted his teeth. Escaped again. He hoped Tobias hadn’t caused worse problems than covering everyone in mud.

Connor strode through the house, shrugged into his slicker and slid his feet into the boots he hadn’t yet returned because he hadn’t wanted to go into town to buy replacements, preferring not to face the curious stares. He stepped onto the porch, noticed the dog was above him, shielded by the house.

Once he was around the corner Connor saw an orange earthmover perched at the top of the hill. Suddenly he heard a sucking noise. He twisted his head, gasping as a huge pine toppled over. The sopping earth around it immediately pooled into a slick mass that oozed down onto the first terrace. He could see immediately that it was too much for the weakened walls. Before his eyes, the stones loosened, the wall crumbled and the seeping black tide slithered down onto the next terrace, gathering momentum as it broke through that and moved faster downhill.

Someone gave a shout. Connor scanned the area, saw Kent yell at his son, point. He turned to look, watching as the mud slipped over the slick grass to the bottom terrace. Rowena was bent over, hitting a mallet against the rocks around her, earplugs making her totally unaware of the danger above.

“Rowena!” The wind grabbed his warning, tossed it away.

Connor took off, racing downhill as fast as he dared. At the last moment she looked up. Terror filled her eyes as a huge pillow of mud bulged over the edge, capturing her before she could escape. Then she was gone, drowned by the black flood.

She would smother if she didn’t get out of there fast!

Connor slid over the edge, reached into the muck, feeling for something, anything, as he prayed.

“Not another death, God. Please, not again.”

Back and forth he slid his arms through the mess, grasped an object, pulled it out. A clump of sodden grass. He kept working, heard the pounding footsteps of the other two men.

“Don’t jump in,” Connor warned. “You could step on her. Stay at the edge and reach in. Pull on anything you find.”

Seconds drummed past, his heartbeat thudding in his ear as he searched. Finally his fingers found purchase on a bit of fabric. Connor pulled, but it would not come free.

“One of you, come on this side. Reach here. Now pull.” After several tugs, part of her sleeve emerged. “Kent, we’ll pull. You scoop it away from her.”

They worked feverishly as the words circled round and round Connor’s brain.

A few dollars could have prevented this.

If she dies it’s my fault.

“No one else dies,” he muttered. “Do you hear me, God?”

Finally Rowena’s head emerged, covered in mud, her face barely visible. Connor smeared his hands across her cheeks, scooping the mud away from her mouth and nose.

“Get a pail of water, quickly,” he ordered.

Quint raced away.

“Is she breathing?” Kent asked.

“I don’t know.” Using his sleeve, Connor wiped her face clean and pulled on her chin to open her mouth. “Come on, take a breath,” he coaxed.

Suddenly they were both doused in icy-cold water. Rowena gasped, opened her eyes. She spit out some mud, then raised her head to glare at Quint.

“I’m not wet enough?” she complained.

“Wet and very dirty,” Connor agreed, amazed and utterly relieved by the anger widening her hazel eyes. “We all are. Let’s take a break.” He boosted her up to Kent, who pulled her the rest of the way out, then slogged out of the muck himself.

Tobias remained some distance away. He’d stopped barking and was now sniffing around the fallen tree.

“We’ll rinse off under the tap, then go inside and take hot showers,” he told them. “Rowena first.”

“I’m too dirty to go inside Wingate,” she argued. “I’ll go home.”

“Forget it. Just do as I say.”

“Do you always have to give the orders?” she demanded before ducking her head under the tap.

“Yes.” He helped her peel off her coat, took her boots and rinsed them out, sprayed the major portion of soil off her shirt and pants. “Go inside. First floor. Third door to the left. Get in the shower.”

“Yes, master.” Tossing him a glare that promised later discussion, she complied, shudders racking her body.

“You two next. Come on.” Once they’d shed the worst of the mud he showed them the public washrooms at the back of the house. “My uncles had them installed for the cast of the summer stock group that performs. They’re on a separate system from the house,” he explained. “You won’t interfere with Rowena’s shower. Take as long as you like. There are towels in the long metal cupboard and some clothes in a box by the door. I was going to give them away.”

The two men nodded, removed their filthy boots and moved inside. Connor cleaned himself off. Tobias raced up to him, barking once.

“Yes, I know you sounded the alert. Good boy. You’ll get a treat tonight.” He reached out to touched the dog’s head, saw his own hand tremble and knew exactly why.