pad stuck to the refrigerator, Jake sipped his coffee and studied the enormous kitchen. It was a large square room papered in a soft blue-and-cream pattern. The woodwork was Williamsburg blue and the high cupboards were oak. Children’s artwork and schedules covered the beige refrigerator, and something with a rich, beefy fragrance simmered in a deep pot on the stove.
The table at which he sat was bordered on two sides by sparkling countertops. The third wall was painted creamy white and covered with what appeared to be antique kitchen implements and an ancient pitchfork that must have been hand-carved all of a piece. He was wondering who had used it how long ago when three kittens, one white and two spotted black-and-white, suddenly ran across the kitchen from the room beyond. They tumbled over one another in a rolling heap, then raced back the way they’d come.
He had turned his attention to the pitchfork again when the widow Hansen joined him at the table.
Pale blue eyes smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “My great-grandmother pitched hay with that,” she said, “and once held an amorous neighbor at bay while my great-grandfather was off hunting. I believe her father carved it. Would you like something to go with your coffee?”
“Ah...no, thank you.” He straightened in his chair. It was time to state his business. “Actually, I’m from Winnebago Dairy. I’m here to talk to you about...” He looked into her eyes and experienced a glitch in his thought processes. His brain disengaged and he couldn’t remember simple words. All that seemed to work were his eyes, which couldn’t stop looking into hers.
They were like Lake Geneva under a cloudy sky, softly gray-blue and suggesting unimagined depths. He felt pulled in, like a diver who’d forgotten to draw a breath before jumping.
“About?” she prompted. She lowered her cup and a subtle change took place in her cheerful, friendly expression. That helped him pull himself together.
“About your bill.” He forced out the words and groped for his professional persona. “You’re eight months overdue, Mrs. Hansen.”
She looked at him levelly across the table, her eyes now like the lake in February—with a six-foot, impenetrable ice crust. “So you’re not Dudley Doright, after all,” she said, pushing away from the table.
Jake half expected her to order him to leave. Instead, she went to the sink, a deep old porcelain one with ancient faucets, around which a more modern counter and cupboards had been built. She looked out the window, and he supposed she could see the cows grazing.
“You’re here to cut me off,” she guessed.
He mentally went through all his options. It didn’t take long. There weren’t any. “I’m afraid so,” he said finally. He added, “The moment you pay the outstanding balance, I’ll send a truck out with the order you put in two days ago.”
She turned and leaned against the edge of the sink, both hands behind her, gripping it. “I can’t pay right now, but I’ve been to the bank about a loan. I should have an answer in a few days. And I’m getting a desserts business going on the side for extra money. I—”
“Our rep,” he interrupted quietly, “said you thought you’d be able to pay when you rented out pasture.”
She nodded. “It went to the mortgage. I thought having my payments almost current would give me a better shot at getting a loan.”
Robbing Peter to pay Paul was a sign of real trouble. But Jake knew that was how half his customers made it from year to year.
He shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry. We’ll ship to you the moment—”
“But I could have the money for you in a week,” she said, trying desperately to keep the plea out of her voice. She wanted to convey competence, reasonableness.
“Or the bank could turn you down,” he said gently.
She tilted her chin. “I believe they’ll approve me.”
Jake stood. If he had to hurt her feelings, he felt he had to do it on his feet. “I’ve seen your credit file, Mrs. Hansen. I think you’re deluding yourself.”
Anger sparked in her eyes, which were suddenly like the lake in an electrical storm. “At the moment, hope is all I have, Mr....” She hesitated over his name.
“Marshack,” he provided.
“Marshack,” she repeated. “If you’re going to tie me to the train track, let me at least hold on to the hope that the real Dudley will come along.”
Jake wanted out of the warm, cozy kitchen and out from under her judgmental glare more than he wanted anything else at that moment. Yet something rooted him in place. He guessed the reason was that she looked so touchingly brave that he couldn’t do anything cowardly.
So he decided to tell her what he thought. “Mrs. Hansen, small farms run by strong men are going under left and right. Why continue to fight the inevitable? We’ve offered to buy you out twice. Maybe it’s time you considered it.”
She was now rigid with anger, but he gave her credit for controlling it very well. Had their roles been reversed, he’d have had her on the porch by now, on the business end of the pitchfork.
“This is a heritage farm,” she said, her voice very quiet. “It’s been in my family for four generations—five, counting my children. I’m not interested in turning it over to a dairy that now owns more of Wisconsin and Illinois than the state park systems.”
He nodded. “I’ve been empowered to raise the offer.” He named the sum Stan Foreman, vice president of sales, had brought to his office that morning with the subtle reminder that acquiring her property for the company would speed Jake’s rise up the corporate ladder. The offer was generous and was intended to knock her off her feet and out of her stubbornly negative stance. It didn’t.
For an instant the blue eyes widened and he saw a flash of longing, then it was gone and he was treated once again to the February lake. “You don’t understand,” she said, her patience obviously strained. “Four generations of Bauers were born here. It’s been like a gift passed from hand to hand. I couldn’t sell this farm any more than I could sell one of my children.”
“How are you going to provide for those children’s education, Mrs. Hansen?” he asked. “You’re in considerable debt already, with little chance of fighting your way out without selling—or marrying a wealthy man. Would you rather the bank got your memories?”
She paled, holding both arms rigidly to her sides. “How dare you worm your way into my kitchen—”
“You invited me in,” he reminded her quietly, “after I prevented you from breaking your neck.”
“—drink my coffee,” she shouted over him, “then proceed to call me a deadbeat?”
This wasn’t going at all the way he’d hoped. “I said no such thing,” he denied, pushing the chair he’d occupied back to the table. “I mentioned only what is public record. If you sell, you can pay all your debts, buy a nice little place somewhere and still have enough left over to start four college funds.”
She did not appear appeased. “You even know how many children I have.”
“Details are an important
