I’m leaving on a business trip that I have to take, don’t know if I’ll have Internet access, so I may go radio silent for a few days.
[email protected]: I thought you just finished up that big project for work? Figured you could take a break.
[email protected]: I did finish it up, but it sort of imploded on me. I screwed up. So this trip is a penance of sorts.
[email protected]: Your job’s not on the line, is it? Because if you’re short on rent money there in the big city, you can always head down here, grab a hoe and remember what it’s like down on the farm.
[email protected]: I miss being on a farm…well, my grandparents’ farm, at least. Sometimes I wish I could go back.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHOA, LADIES! Easy! No call for fighting!”
But Ryan MacIntosh’s exhortation fell on the deaf ears of a pair of six-year-olds bent on destruction. He pulled back just quick enough to escape a female fist flying for the other’s face.
He made a grab for the fist, saw that the nails were done in a metallic purple nail polish with a constellation of stars. He closed his fingers around the wrist and shoved—as gently as he could—the two girls apart.
Stepping between them, his chest heaving, Ryan struggled for some earthly clue as to what to do next. “Enough!”
“But she started it!”
“She did! She was holding!”
Ryan squelched back his own temper, not an easy thing to do with the August sun beating down on his red hair. He set his jaw and gazed at the upturned faces of the two soccer players.
“Both of you. On the bench.”
When they would have argued with him, he shook his head and pointed toward their respective benches. “Go on and you might get a shot at playing again before the game ends.”
As the girls trudged off the field, Ryan could feel parental wrath lasering in his direction. A fight had to break out on the one game that the referee didn’t show up for.
The other coach shrugged his shoulders and called for a time-out. Ryan indicated for his crew to get a drink. He didn’t have to say it twice. They gathered around the Thermos like cows around a salt lick.
Cows would be easier, he thought. A chuckle brought him back from a momentary image of cows in shin guards, kicking a soccer ball up and down the field.
The chuckle came from Jack MacIntosh, his cousin—and the reason Ryan was here rather than on his John Deere, plowing his sadly neglected back forty.
“What?” he asked.
Jack laughed again. He adjusted the casted leg he had stretched out on a folding chaise lounge. “You nearly got clocked by a six-year-old. Doesn’t say much for your reaction time.”
“Hey. It was supposed to be you out there, remember? I could have left your sorry—” Ryan did a quick edit, mindful of the small fry around him “—rump in a sling after you broke your leg.”
“Begging your pardon, cuz, but you forget that I broke this leg hooking up your satellite antenna.”
True enough. Despite Ryan’s griping he enjoyed coaching soccer. This was Jack’s cup of tea usually, what with Jack’s daughter, Emily, involved in whatever the rec department offered. But since Jack was laid up with a bum leg, Ryan had discovered just what a great feeling it was to coach the kids.
He caught the glowering looks scorching between the two girls involved in the fight and sighed, amending his last thought. He liked coaching soccer—not preventing hand-to-hand combat.
He’d done enough of that earlier in the day dealing with Murphy.
Crooked SOB. Murphy’s words came back to him.
“Some investigator type’s supposed to be coming down here to sign off on these claims, Ryan. Now, don’t muck it up. Just say what you gotta say, keep your mouth shut and we’ll have a check cut before you know it.”
Right. Slugging Murphy probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to do, but the guy just would not take no for an answer. He wanted Ryan neck-deep in his scam, for insurance purposes if nothing else. It didn’t matter that Ryan was as good as an accessory for knowing about the plan, even if he kept his mouth shut.
If I could only be sure Gramps hadn’t been involved.
The Blue Devils coach hollered, “Hey, MacIntosh! You ready to finish up this game?”
Returning to the present, Ryan swigged down a healthy gulp of the orange atrocity he’d gotten from the Thermos. As he headed back for the game, he saw a woman pushing her way through the gate.
Even if she hadn’t been a knockout, he would have noticed her. It was the way she dressed—a lightweight blazer paired with jeans that clung to well-proportioned legs. Who wore a blazer to a kids soccer game in south Georgia?
As he hollered for Emily to throw the ball in, Ryan stole another glance in the new arrival’s direction. Honey-brown hair that would go golden in the summer sun, a little smile playing on her lips, more than a dab of confidence in her walk. This was a woman who knew what she wanted—and where to find it.
Ronnie Frasier’s girl took off on a long drive the wrong way. Ryan hollered for her to stop, but his soccer player never heard him. Instead, the ball went into their own net with frustrating ease.
He stood, moved his cap from his head and used his forearm to wipe away the perspiration that had beaded there. Honestly, this was harder work than getting the harvest in.
If there is any harvest this year.
Ryan pushed the thought from his mind. He glanced over at Jack, saw his cousin talking to the new arrival.
Saw Jack pointing in his direction.
Ryan’s stomach sank. Had to be that private investigator the insurance company had said they were sending.
Just his luck.
But then, he’d had a crop of bad luck for the past six months. If Ryan had believed in karma, he’d be convinced he’d been a scuzzball of the first order in a previous life.
All he’d wanted to do was save his grandfather’s farm and look after Mee-Maw.
And avoid Murphy.
Somehow Ryan didn’t think his goals would mesh with those of the pretty little thing waiting for him on the sidelines.
Just his luck.
BECCA SURVEYED the pack of girls running after the soccer ball. Some of them were pretty good for their age. Well, compared to her. But then Becca had entertained herself picking dandelions from a forsaken corner of whatever athletic field she’d graced.
Give her tai chi any day; it was more her style. No scoreboard to let her know how far along the game was. From the looks of the
