Chapter One
Emmy Tate took off her soiled leather work gloves, stuffed them partially into the front pocket of her jeans and ran the back of her right wrist over her forehead to wipe the sweat away. Then she pressed both fists into the ache in the small of her back.
Enough for today, she decided.
As she surveyed her progress on the field that had, until two days before, been growing spring vegetables, she fought feeling discouraged and overwhelmed.
Bad enough that the record-breaking hailstorm had wreaked massive destruction on the organic farm on the outskirts of small-town Northbridge, Montana. But why did her progress clearing the damage have to be so slow? She’d barely made a dent.
Mandy would have done better, she thought.
Of course, her late sister would have known what she was doing, and that wasn’t true for Emmy.
But she was trying—and trying, and trying, for months now—to make the best of a bad situation.
But tomorrow was another day, she told herself, surveying the farm. She looked beyond the field to the apple orchard behind it, where branches were nearly bare of leaves now, where many limbs were dangling or left broken on the ground.
It would have made an effective photograph. One she would have taken long ago when she’d worked for the Red Cross documenting their good works in natural disasters or war zones.
But those weren’t the kinds of pictures she took now. Not that she had time for pictures at all lately, with all she had to do. At least cleaning up the field left her out in the open. She was dreading getting into that orchard.
She’d called the only arborist in the area to come and take a look at it. Because he’d known and liked Mandy, he’d come despite the fact that he was overbooked with all the damage in the area. But he refused to deal with anything under ten feet high or to start work before the already-downed limbs and the ground debris were cleared.
He’d assured her that it wasn’t anything she couldn’t take care of herself. Drag out the downed limbs. Rake the leaves. Use the pole saw and pruner to cut down the broken branches below ten feet.
He’d shown her how to do that, confident that she could manage.
It wasn’t that she didn’t think she could, it was just that she’d have to be in that orchard to do it. Under those broken branches that could—would—fall to the ground, sometimes without warning. If she wasn’t far enough back or quick enough to get out of the way, they’d trap her...
It’ll be fine, she told herself impatiently, tamping down on the panic trying to rise to the surface. It isn’t the school in Afghanistan, it’s a bunch of trees, for crying out loud.
And she was over what had happened. She was okay now, she insisted to herself.
But still she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, repeating the process again and again until the panic wasn’t looming.
Or at least until it was looming less.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna get in there, Mandy...” she confided to her late sister in a whisper.
But cleanup had to be done. She needed the place in perfect condition if she was going to find someone to lease it so she could get back to her everyday life in Denver. Back to what she’d been doing since leaving her work with the Red Cross—taking photographs of happy occasions like engagements and weddings and taking portraits of newborns.
“It’s just a bunch of trees,” she said out loud this time before she headed for the farm’s truck, assuring herself that it was only a matter of time before she could go home to Denver.
Although it wouldn’t exactly be back to her everyday life. Not when she’d be taking her three-year-old niece and two-month-old nephew with her to raise.
But even unexpected single parenthood was less daunting than the farming her sister had loved—and mastered. She reached the truck and saw her reflection in the driver’s-side window.
She’d never seen Mandy look as bad after a day’s work as Emmy did at that moment.
“You’re a mess, Em,” she told her reflection.
Strands of her chin-length reddish-brown hair had come free of the topknot she’d put it in this morning and fell limply around her face.
She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup, so there was no blush on her high cheekbones, no eyeliner or mascara to accentuate her chestnut-colored eyes, no highlighter dusting her thin, straight nose or lipstick on full lips that craved balm at that moment.
But there was a dirt smudge across her forehead and a general griminess to her appearance.
Not wanting to get into the truck with too much of that grime, she took the work gloves from her pocket, slapped them against the side of the truck until no more dust billowed out of them, then used them to whack the loose layer of soil off her jeans and faded red crew-neck T-shirt.
Once that was done, she kicked her boots against the truck’s running board to clear some of the crusted dirt from them and then climbed up behind the wheel, glad no one but her mother and the kids would see her looking like this before she could climb into a much-anticipated shower.
A shower, after which she would dry off with a clean towel before
