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  “WHY DID YOU DO IT?”

  He leaned around the side of the car, glaring as she froze and looked back at him, one of her slim legs poised in the front floorboard of the driver’s seat. “Why did you say yes and give Emmy false hope like that?” He shook his head. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you, and you can see the state of the place for yourself. Why join a project you know will fail? Take a job I told you right off would be a dead end?”

  A muscle in her jaw ticked. “Why is it guaranteed to be a dead end? Because you say so?” One blond brow rose. “Your word is gospel—is that it?”

  “No.” He scoffed, glancing up at the ceaseless stretch of blue above. “We’ve got enough gospel out here. I’m just stating facts. Sensible, practical truths.”

  “Is that why you’re taking the kids from her? Because it’s the sensible thing to do regardless of how it’ll affect Emmy or the children?”

  “You just met them. You don’t know enough about any of us to pass judgment—”

  “You’re right. It’s not my place to judge and that’s not my intention.” Her tone softened. “But I know what it feels like to lose something precious. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

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  JANET DAILEY

  HART’S HOLLOW FARM

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  “WHY DID YOU DO IT?”

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Revocable Trust Created by Jimmy Dean

  Dailey and Mary Sue Dailey Dated December 22, 2016

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4873-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4874-9 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4874-5 (eBook)

  CHAPTER 1

  Kristen Daniels stood at the mouth of a red dirt road. The long path in front of her sloped eastward, weaving its way through sprawling fields to meet dark, low-lying clouds on the horizon. Warm late afternoon sunshine peeked between the gathering masses and dappled the flat landscape. The spring breeze, a gentle whisper for the past hour, intensified. It kicked up a cloud of dust that drifted across the road, sparkling briefly in the sunlight before a massive thunderhead rolled in and covered the sun completely.

  Stomach dipping, Kristen glanced over her shoulder at the isolated stretch of Georgia highway she’d been traveling for hours. The paved road was unlined, the white and yellow markings having faded long ago, and the worn edges were either buried beneath weedy overgrowth or cracked beyond repair. With no cell service, landmarks, or street signs, it was impossible to tell if she’d made it to the right place—if there even was such a thing.

  At this point, one road would serve just as well as the other. So long as she kept moving in the opposite direction from the life she’d had three years ago, when she was twenty-six and optimistic. When she’d been sure, without a modicum of doubt, that life had more to offer if she just believed and prayed and hoped. Even when the devastating truth had literally stared her in the face.

  All the way up until the day she’d had to bury her five-year-old daughter.

  The straight line of ragged pavement warped into the distance, making the earth feel as though it tilted beneath her feet. Her stance faltered, and she strained to hold on to the empty numbness she’d clung to for more miles than she’d ever be able to count.

  “You break down?”

  Kristen started, the shout and the slow crunch of gravel beneath tires jerking her to alertness. A rusty truck idled nearby, the male driver leaning out the window, studying her.

  The wind blew harder. It swirled her long hair around her neck and spit grit in her face, stinging her eyes.

  “No.” Teeth clenching, she blinked hard and dragged her forearm over her dry cheeks. “Just trying to figure out where I am, is all.” She gestured toward her beat-up Toyota parked at the edge of the dirt road. “Do you know the name of this road?”

  The older man laughed and scrubbed the heel of his hand over his stubble-lined jaw. “It ain’t got a name. It’s just one long driveway.”

  “To where?”

  “Hart’s Hollow.” He shook his head, his salt-and-pepper hair falling over his creased brow. “Doubt that’s the direction you wanna go. There’s nothing out there.”

  Kristen fumbled in her jeans pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. She pressed it flat against her thigh, then smoothed the edges that flapped in the wind.

  Help wanted: Jane-of-all-trades. Hard work.

  Decent pay and board.

  Hart’s Hollow Farm. 762 Hart Rd.,

  Stellaville, Georgia. See Emmy Hart, owner.

  “Hart’s Hollow Farm?” she asked. “Could you please tell me if I can find Emmy Hart there?”

  “Yep, that’s the place.” He cocked his head to the side, a slow grin appearing. “And Emmy’s there, all right.”

  Kristen nodded, stuffed the paper back in her pocket, then headed toward her car. “Thank you.”

  “Might want to make it a quick visit.” Squeaky gears shifted; then the truck rolled forward as the man tipped his chin toward the overcast sky. “If those clouds open up, that clay’s gonna turn to sludge, and that low car of yours won’t make it out. You don’t want to be stuck
in a storm with Emmy Hart.”

  Her steps slowed. “Why?”

  “She’s ornery enough to make a saint cuss. My own mama—good Christian woman—says she’s the damn devil.” He laughed again and revved the engine.

  The big truck moved swiftly down the center of the worn highway.

  Kristen returned to her car and, after staring at the red dirt road through the dusty windshield for a few minutes, decided a lot of nothing—even if it was owned and run by an ornery devil—was preferable to sleeping in the backseat and going hungry for the second day in a row. She didn’t do charity and needed a job. The last farm, where she’d worked for a year, had gone belly up due to drought and financial woes, and this position was the only promising one she’d come across that offered the silent, wide-open space she’d grown to crave.

  It was, at the very least, worth checking out. Especially since she’d spent the last of her emergency stash on a full tank of gas to make the drive.

  She cranked the engine and drove slowly down the driveway. The deep ruts in the dirt rattled the bottled water in the cup holder and bounced her around in the driver’s seat. The bottom of the car thumped over a pothole, metal scraping the firm ground.

  Wincing, she slowed the car even more and continued to creep along. A tall pole stood near a bend in the road. She leaned closer to the window, squinting up at the makeshift birdhouse. Several battered gourds hung from the top rack, but one dangled loosely at half-mast, and the thick shell clanked against the pole with each gust of wind. There were no passerines, not even purple martins, perched on the rack. And just two buzzards circled high above the stripped field, then swooped low in tandem with the air current.

  After reaching the final leg of the circular driveway, she eased around a sharp curve, then stopped the car abruptly at the edge of lush grass. Large oaks towered toward the stormy sky, framing an aging two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch and large windows. Tall red chimneys were aligned on each side of the white structure, and Gothic trim along the porch roof added an elegant air.

  Kristen whistled low as she climbed out of the car. “Nothing out here, huh?”

  That wasn’t altogether accurate. She strolled across the expansive lot, her tennis shoes squashing the soft grass and thunder rumbling overhead. The magnificent oaks swayed with the approaching storm, their leaves ruffling. Ducking beneath the lower branch of one, she reached up and trailed her palm across its rough bark as she passed.

  Tall and sturdy. Broad, thick trunk. Long, sprawling branches.

  “You’ve been around awhile, haven’t you, beauty?” Kristen whispered.

  She looked at the house, its details clearer from this vantage point. Time and the elements had chipped the white paint of the house and faded the deep red tones of the chimneys. The wooden front door had lost its luster, and a hole was punched through the flimsy screen door covering it. An orange cat weaved in and out of the exquisite—but rotted—porch balusters.

  Rather than strengthening with age like the old oaks, the structure presented a tired, resigned veneer. One at odds with the sweet aura of home beckoning from the wide, welcoming steps. One that clearly said the glory days of this house had passed.

  Her fingertips jerked at her sides as she imagined breathing it back to life on canvas—a dab of yellow ocher here and there to re-create the shingles, long sweeps of ivory to define the walls, several pushes and drags of crimson to erect the chimneys. The structure was so reminiscent of the house she’d dreamed of as a child, when she’d lived in shelters and longed for a home—and a family—of her own.

  Kristen shook her head, a heavy ache pulling at her chest. Oh, but it’d be impossible for anyone to deny this place must have once been majestic.

  “Emmy!”

  The screen door slammed and a man stumbled out onto the porch, clutching a briefcase to his chest, and fumbled his way backward to the front steps. A second slam, then a wiry woman stomped out after him, leaning heavily on a cane.

  Kristen eased back beneath the cover of the tree’s branches, watching.

  “Now, Emmy,” the man sputtered as he reached the grassy lawn. “There’s no need to get upset—”

  “Mrs. Hart.” The woman—owner Emmy Hart, Kristen supposed—clomped down the stairs, her cane clacking along the way. “My sweet Joe, God rest his soul, may have died over thirty years ago, but I’m still his wife, and if he were here right now, he’d toss you out on your butt for making such an insulting offer. Joe wouldn’t stand for it. He gave his life to this place, raised it from ruin. This land was in his blood.”

  “I didn’t come out here to cause trouble, Mrs. Hart. I came to help.”

  “No, you didn’t. I agreed to humor you on account of thinking you were a decent man, but you suits are all the same.” Emmy stopped on the bottom step, gripped the thin handrail, then sagged against it. Her chest lifted beneath her worn T-shirt on heavy breaths. “You came to take my land. To tear down my home.” Blue eyes flashing, she stabbed a gnarled finger at him. “To steal from me.”

  The suit held up a placating hand. “Now, that’s not true at all. I’m offering you a more than fair price for this . . .” He waved careless fingers toward the second floor of the house. “Establishment.” He grimaced. “Believe me when I say you won’t find a better offer. No one else is willing to pay what I am for this place, and if it weren’t for Mitch, I wouldn’t even be out here.”

  The man’s cheeks reddened. He drew his head back and clamped his mouth shut.

  “My Mitch?” Emmy’s mouth opened, then closed silently, the gusty wind blowing her short gray hair against her wrinkled cheeks. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  He sighed. “Mitch is a friend of mine. He’s the one who asked me to come out here and make you an offer. I was surprised he wasn’t here when I arrived. Said he was flying down today himself and wanted us all to sit down and talk it over. He knows it’s just a matter of time before—”

  “He wouldn’t do that to me.” A wounded light entered her eyes.

  Kristen cringed and shrank back, feeling like an interloper. Sporadic raindrops smacked against the leaves overhead, shaking them.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hart,” the man continued. “I know this is hard for you, but Mitch is just doing what any decent grandson would. He’s trying to get you something to live on, for a short time at least.” He blinked and jerked his head as rain hit his face. “This place is done, and you’re the only one who won’t admit it.”

  “No.” Expression contorting, Emmy straightened and stepped toward him. “You’re just like all them others. You came to steal from me. And you’re lying about Mitch.”

  He hissed out a breath, mumbled something involving the word ridiculous, then frowned up at the black cluster of clouds. “This is my final offer. You’d do well to take it.”

  She poked her cane at his chest, shoving him back. “Get off my land.”

  “Please reconsider.” His tone softened. “For Mitch’s sake, if not your own. He deserves the chance to put this place behind hi—”

  “Go!” Her voice broke. “You don’t know nothing about Mitch—or me. This is my home. My family still lives here. You probably never worked a day in your life. Don’t have a clue what real work is.” She continued stabbing her cane at him, backing him up until he fell into the gleaming bumper of a sedan. “You’re a thief. And a liar. Nothing but a damned lying th—”

  “This place is dead and buried.” He slapped her cane away, voice curt. “Mitch is trying to help you, though hell if I know why he even bothers anymore. He won’t tell you like it is, so I’ll do it for him. Dead and buried, Mrs. Hart.”

  Emmy faced off with the man. Her chin trembled, and the solid line of her shoulders, which had stood so proud before, slumped.

  It was a look Kristen knew well. Her face heated, and a familiar nausea roiled in her gut. She should walk away, get back in her car and keep driving. This wasn’t her business or her fight, and the last thing she needed was
to get tangled up in a stranger’s troubles. But even so . . .

  “Excuse me.” Kristen sucked in a strong breath, the sharp scent of rain filling her nostrils, then ducked beneath the branches and stepped forward. Fat raindrops plopped onto her cheek and bare shoulder, cooling her skin. “I’m looking for Mrs. Emmy Hart.”

  They turned toward her. Stared.

  She moved closer to Emmy. “Are you Mrs. Hart? Owner of Hart’s Hollow Farm?”

  Emmy nodded. The haunted look in her eyes deepened. Her focus strayed beyond Kristen to the darkening sky above, her whispered words barely discernible. “What’d you bring, girl?”

  Kristen hesitated as she searched Emmy’s expression. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Emmy remained silent.

  Kristen glanced at the man, who shook his head and looked down. “I-I’m looking for work. I brought two overnight bags,” she continued, gesturing behind her. “And I parked my car over there, behind the trees.”

  Emmy blinked, then refocused on Kristen.

  Thunder boomed again, shaking the windows of the farmhouse and the ground beneath Kristen’s feet. She flinched, then tugged the wrinkled ad from her pocket. “I’d like to speak to you about a job, if I might?”

  “That my ad you got there?” Emmy asked.

  “Yes. The one with decent pay and board. I was interested in—”

  “There won’t be any board, ma’am.” The suit shoved off the car to a standing position and straightened his tie. “At least not for long. In six months the county will give the green light to pave a bypass on this land.” He pointed behind her. “Across those fields and right over this house. Something Mrs. Hart’s grandson thinks is important she understand.”

  “Forgive me,” Kristen said softly, “but I wasn’t speaking to you. I was speaking to the owner, who’s already asked you to leave.”