Chapter 1: Unexpected Job Offer
Halle Garrett stared at the handsome stranger holding open her car door, wishing he wasn’t being so nice. It would’ve made it easier to say what she was about to say.
“You’re trespassing, sir. It sounds like an honest mistake, though. I’m sure it won’t take long for us to sort things out.” He’d probably purchased the farm down the road and turned his moving truck onto the wrong driveway.
She sure hoped that was the case as she climbed out of her no-longer-so-white sedan to face him. She’d been on the road for hours, kicking up dust and gathering bug splatters on her windshield.
“Uh-oh!” Lightheadedness slammed into her. His tousled auburn hair and worried expression blurred, making her slap a hand against the side of her car to steady herself.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” He stepped closer, cupping a hand beneath her elbow. It wasn’t a creepy touch or an overly personal one. He sounded harried,yet gentle, speaking in a slow, soothing voice like one might use on a small child. If the two redheaded boys tossing a baseball back and forth were his, it would certainly explain his “dad” voice.
She shook off his hand. No, she wasn’t okay. She was far from okay, but now wasn’t the time to show it. Drawing a deep breath, she straightened and faced him, blinking a few times until his face came back into focus. “I’m fine.” Or she would be the moment he and the two small boys climbed back into their moving truck and drove off her property. “Seriously, I think there’s been a mistake. You’re parked on the driveway of one oh seven Garrett Creek Lane.”
It was the road she’d grown up on, leading to the poultry farm that had been in her family for generations. She wished she’d moved back home right after college. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t have spent the last year of her life in a legal battle with her ex-fiancé to win back the deed to it.
“That is correct, ma’am.” The man didn’t sound the least bit contrite over the mistake he’d obviously made. “I closed on the property located at one oh seven Garrett Creek Lane a few days ago. I’m not sure why you think it belongs to you, but like you said,” his voice took on a firmer edge, “I’m sure we can figure it out.”
“I-I grew up here!” As she stared in consternation at him, the distant clucking of chickens grew louder. Though it was just shy of three o’clock in the afternoon, a rooster added his crowing to the mix. “My parents, um…” She stopped and cleared her throat, unable to finish the sentence. The tragic crash of their crop-duster plane two years earlier was something she’d probably never get over. Grief was the biggest reason she’d stayed away for so long. That, and her rapid-fire engagement to the flashy investment banker, who’d come out of nowhere and swept her off her feet. She should’ve known he was too good to be true. Under the guise of “managing her accounts,” he’d robbed her blind. She’d escaped with the clothes on her back and the deed to her family farm that was folded in her purse on the passenger seat.
“Ah.” The man’s expression relaxed. Unlike most auburn-haired people, his features were unusually tan beneath his freckles, like someone who was accustomed to spending a lot of time outdoors. “You must be Halle Garrett.” As he held out a hand to her, his biceps flexed beneath the short sleeves of his navy t-shirt. He looked more like a bodybuilder than the hardworking country boys she’d grown up with in Heart Lake. No Stetson. No cowboy boots. The frayed legs of his jeans were dragging the tops of a pair of rubber-soled, all-terrain sneakers. The kind hikers wore.
“I’m Private Investigator Owen Tolliver.” His piercing hazel eyes had flecks of green in them. “And the two ragamuffins who nearly hit your car with a baseball when you first drove up are my boys, Ryder and Cooper.”
“Yes, I’m Halle Garrett. How did you know?” If he was trying to intimidate her with his job title, it wasn’t working. Kindergarten teachers were far from wimps. To prove it, she shook his hand and squarely met his gaze. The curiosity pooling there and the way his strong fingers pressed against hers felt oddly reassuring, which underscored what an overly trusting idiot she was. The man she’d fallen in love with had conned her out of the deed to her childhood home. Now here she was, shaking hands and chatting with the next guy trying to take it away from her. She was a hot mess, as her southern-born mama used to say. Her whole life was a hot mess at the moment.
Owen Tolliver shrugged his marvelously broad shoulders, probably to show them off. “My realtor mentioned that the woman who’d grown up here was moving back to town to teach kindergarten. Since my sons will be attending?—”
“Halle!” An exultant shout made her spin toward a very familiar and very welcome voice.
“Jensen!”Just in time!Relief flooded her as she tugged her hand away from the ridiculously good-looking trespasser and hurried around the front of her car to face the aging caretaker of her family’s chicken farm.
Jensen Carter was limping her way as fast as he could on his bad knee. It was an old war injury that had healed imperfectly. His son, Kenny, was right behind him. Though Kenny was in his thirties, he’d been born with developmental issues that kept his mind as sweet and as innocent as a small child—someone who would never live alone. He was fortunate to have such a loving, devoted father to look after him. The hardworking father-son duo lived on site and served as her full-time farmhands. They would surely set the confused newcomer and his sons straight about who the rightful owner of Garrett Farm was.
“It’s so good to see you again.” The stocky former soldier reached her and drew her into a dusty, sweaty bear hug. “I’ve been trying to reach you ever since you put the farm up for sale.”
Kenny threw his arms around her from behind, making a Halle sandwich out of her.
As wonderful as the group hug felt, Jensen’s words sent alarm crashing through her. She wiggled free to get a better look at him. He knew better than anyone that she nevereverwould’ve sold the only place on earth that felt like home—certainly not before the authorities completed their investigationinto her parents’ deaths. How could he possibly claim he’d been having trouble reaching her?
“We text each other all the time,” she reminded. It was how they communicated with each other about the day-to-day operations of the chicken farm. “The only radio silence between us was the day you dropped your cell phone into the fish pond.” He’d replaced his phone the next day and had texted her with his new number.
Jensen lifted his slouched Stetson, looking uneasy as he ran a hand through his longish gray hair. His gloves left a dusty trail on either side of his receding hairline. “I’m not the one who changed my number, hon. You are.”
“No, I didn’t,” she gasped. “I’ve had the same phone number since I was in junior high.”
“Me, too.” He replaced his hat and dug his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ve had the same phone for ages as well.” It was encrusted with dirt, and the paint on the buttons had long since worn off. “They keep telling me I should replace it, but it still works, so what’s the point?”
“You mean…?” Seeds of horror took root beneath her ribcage and sprouted. She hurriedly rattled off his phone number—the one she’d been texting ever since he’d supposedly replaced the phone he’d dropped into the pond. “My ex told me that was your new number.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized who was to blame. She and Jensen hadn’t simply gotten their wires crossed; their communication had purposely been disrupted.
Jensen shook his head. “Why would I need a new number?”
Why, indeed?Halle took a few steps back to lean against the hood of her car. She’d been so naïve. Her trusting nature had made it all too easy for her ex to take advantage of her. Now that she was thinking about it, of course Jensenwouldn’t have had to change his number, even if he’d lost or damaged his phone. It had struck her as odd at the time, but she’d ultimately dismissed it as none of her business.
I shouldn’t have.
Something was terribly, terribly wrong here. She glanced away from him so he couldn’t see her tears. “I-I think we should call the police.”
“Good idea,” Owen Tolliver agreed in a low voice filled with so much compassion that she wanted to weep.
