Spring Flowers, Summer Love

Wingate Manor had never looked so pathetic.

Well, not the actual house. The stone structure built by some wealthy industrialist as a lavish vacation villa in the 1920s stood enduringly solid and sturdy. But the grounds were a disaster.

Connor Wingate stepped out of his BMW, closed the door and winced as his Italian loafers sunk deep into the mud.

“Why did I agree to this?” he asked himself out loud.

Because the uncles took care of you when you needed it and it’s time to reciprocate.

Connor shut down the voice of his conscience, glanced sideways at the yapping dog with his face pressed against the passenger’s window and shook his head. No way was he letting Tobias run free in this muck. He’d be filthy in two seconds flat. Ignoring the animal, he turned his attention back to his surroundings.

Winter had caused much of the damage. The ice storm Uncle Hank had mentioned was probably responsible for felling those big oaks behind the house. He saw evidence that lightning had sheared off a massive pine he’d once climbed. There were also signs that something combined with gravity had helped sag the flower beds.

But the marks on the spruce trunks in front of him were not caused by weather. Those trunks had been chipped at by an ax.

“A very dull ax,” he muttered grimly, aghast at the damage.

A small shed stood to one side of the house. The place where his uncles kept a stock of firewood to supply Wingate’s charming but voracious fireplaces lay completely barren when it was usually bursting with logs ready to burn.

“It’s a mess, isn’t it?”

He wheeled around and found himself staring into a pair of almond-shaped hazel eyes fringed by the longest lashes he’d ever seen. He was quite sure they weren’t artificial, given that the woman’s only makeup was a streak of mud decorating one cheek and a sprig of pine needles perched atop her flattened auburn hair.

“Somebody’s been helping themselves to wood while the brothers have been away,” she said, lifting a chip from the soaking ground and rubbing it between her fingertips as if she could tell from that who the culprit might be.

Connor took one look at her Goodwill coat and the ancient rubber boots that swallowed her legs to her knees and narrowed his gaze.

“You don’t happen to know who would have done such a thing?”

“No idea.” She shook her head, glanced right, then left, as if she were assessing the damage. “It looks really bad but it’s reparable. If this moisture would ever stop, that is.”

The rain droplets became sleet. Connor winced at the sting against his cheek. He’d be in Australia right now if Cecile hadn’t—

“Does that dog want out?” his visitor asked, head tilted to one side as she studied the drooling beast.

“No.”

“Oh.” She blinked the spiky bangs out of her eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Tobias.” He did not want to talk about the dog.

“The Lord is good.”

“Pardon?”

“Tobias. It means the Lord is good.” Her eyes twinkled when she grinned. “Names and their meanings are a fascination with me. What’s yours?”

“Connor.” It slipped out without thinking.

“Hmm. Gaelic. It means high longing, I think.”

High longing. Well, that about covered his recent past. Conner huffed out an indignant snort to cover his frustration.

“You’re the brothers’ nephew.”

Clearly the meaning of names wasn’t her only gift.

“Great-nephew. Look, Miss, er, Ms.—what is your name?”

“I should have introduced myself.” She wrinkled her nose and chuckled. “Sorry. Rowena Davis.”

This was the landscape designer? Connor choked on his disbelief. She was all of what? Nineteen? Twenty? Maybe a hundred pounds if she stayed out in the rain all night?

This elf was going to cut down trees and carry them away?

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wingate,” she said after studying his face for several moments. “I can do the job. That’s why Hank and Henry hired me. They know my work.”

“I see.” The dog had started up a mournful howl that made conversation difficult. On second thought, maybe he should let Tobias out before he wrecked his brand-new car. “Excuse me.”

“Sure.”

Connor turned and opened the door, but before he could step out of the way, Tobias, in his usual blustering way, jumped against him, knocking him to the ground. Mud oozed through Connor’s fingers, splatted his coat and began to seep through the seat of his trousers.

The dog licked his face in apology.

“Perfect.” He shoved the chocolate lab’s muddy paws aside and rose, disgusted with everything to do with his life.

The landscaper, on the other hand, seemed to welcome the dog’s affection. She knelt, let him swipe his pink tongue across her face as she ruffled his fur and smoothed his ears.

“Oh, you’re a beauty. Thank you for the welcome. Do you know how to fetch?” She picked up a stick and tossed it. The dog raced after it, grabbed it in his jaws, but after one last look at his new friend, took off into the bush.

“He doesn’t know how to do much except eat and sleep. And run away.” Connor stopped, reading her expression. Dog hater. He wasn’t, but she couldn’t know Cecile had died because of Tobias.

“Does he belong to your children?” she asked sympathetically.

“I’m not married.” Struggling for composure, Connor cleared his throat. “Look, Miss Davis…”

“Rowena.”

“Miss Davis,” he repeated, wishing he’d waited another day. Or week. Till the rain had stopped. Or until the trees were cleaned up. Until he’d figured out his future and life made sense.

“I realize my uncles made an agreement with you to do the work around Wingate Manor and restore it to its former glory.”

She smiled at that, her lips spread wide across her face in a grin that lit chips of gold in the green of her hazel eyes.

“Maybe not glory,” she agreed. “But at least I can make it look a whole lot better than it does now. In return for the nursery,” she added, her smile disappearing like the sun behind a cloud.

“Nursery?” Connor struggled with that for a few moments. “Oh, you mean that land they bought years ago. Yes, I believe it did used to be a nursery. Don’t worry. They told me about your, er, understanding.”