Spring Flowers, Summer Love. Lois Richer
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January, yes.”
Piper frowned. “Wait a minute. This revamp—it’s coming out of your pocket?”
Rowena nodded. “I get the land free and clear in exchange for the job.”
“Which means you’ll quit at Yelland Gardens.”
“Yes. If everything at Wingate comes together as I’ve planned, I can decide whether or not to return to my old job later.” Their doubts echoed her own. “The opportunity to get the land back was there. I couldn’t ignore it.”
“Because of your father,” Piper murmured.
“Yes. If I can just get him back on the land, I’m sure he’ll finally be able to shake off this depression. It’s my fault Dad had to sell Davis Nurseries’ land to the Wingate brothers for pennies on the dollar. It’s my duty to get it back.”
“But how are you going to pay for it, find workers, the equipment?”
“I’m not saying it will be easy. But I am going to do it.”
Ashley hugged her. “If you need any help, you just ask.”
Ashley—with her elegant hair, three-inch heels and designer clothes—up a tree, limbing? Rowena had to smile.
“I mean it.” Ash’s gray eyes pinned her. “I’m here for you, Rowena. You’re my friend and I want to help.”
“Thank you both. In the meantime, does our annual birthday bash include food? I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved.” Piper rose, headed for the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Rowena let herself daydream of better days and a thriving nursery. It would be that way again, she promised herself. And it would be worth giving up her career for. It had to be.
“Moving back is perfect, of course,” Ashley mused. “It will be wonderful to have both you and Pip nearby. But I think it would be even nicer if you could meet someone.”
Rowena tucked her ragged nails under her thighs and wished she’d found something more stylish than jeans and a T-shirt for the weekend. “Forget it.”
“I’m going to pray about it.” The glint in Piper’s eye promised she’d do exactly as she said.
“Me, too,” Ash agreed. “You just never know what God has in store.”
Rowena opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. She knew what lay ahead: months of backbreaking work at Wingate Manor and sweat equity in a nursery left untended too long—with nary a prince in sight.
But that was exactly what she owed her father.
Chapter One
Wingate Manor had never looked so pathetic.
Well, not the actual house. The stone structure built by some wealthy industrialist as a lavish vacation villa in the 1920s stood enduringly solid and sturdy. But the grounds were a disaster.
Connor Wingate stepped out of his BMW, closed the door and winced as his Italian loafers sunk deep into the mud.
“Why did I agree to this?” he asked himself out loud.
Because the uncles took care of you when you needed it and it’s time to reciprocate.
Connor shut down the voice of his conscience, glanced sideways at the yapping dog with his face pressed against the passenger’s window and shook his head. No way was he letting Tobias run free in this muck. He’d be filthy in two seconds flat. Ignoring the animal, he turned his attention back to his surroundings.
Winter had caused much of the damage. The ice storm Uncle Hank had mentioned was probably responsible for felling those big oaks behind the house. He saw evidence that lightning had sheared off a massive pine he’d once climbed. There were also signs that something combined with gravity had helped sag the flower beds.
But the marks on the spruce trunks in front of him were not caused by weather. Those trunks had been chipped at by an ax.
“A very dull ax,” he muttered grimly, aghast at the damage.
A small shed stood to one side of the house. The place where his uncles kept a stock of firewood to supply Wingate’s charming but voracious fireplaces lay completely barren when it was usually bursting with logs ready to burn.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?”
He wheeled around and found himself staring into a pair of almond-shaped hazel eyes fringed by the longest lashes he’d ever seen. He was quite sure they weren’t artificial, given that the woman’s only makeup was a streak of mud decorating one cheek and a sprig of pine needles perched atop her flattened auburn hair.
“Somebody’s been helping themselves to wood while the brothers have been away,” she said, lifting a chip from the soaking ground and rubbing it between her fingertips as if she could tell from that who the culprit might be.
Connor took one look at her Goodwill coat and the ancient rubber boots that swallowed her legs to her knees and narrowed his gaze.
“You don’t happen to know who would have done such a thing?”
“No idea.” She shook her head, glanced right, then left, as if she were assessing the damage. “It looks really bad but it’s reparable. If this moisture would ever stop, that is.”
The rain droplets became sleet. Connor winced at the sting against his cheek. He’d be in Australia right now if Cecile hadn’t—
“Does that dog want out?” his visitor asked, head tilted to one side as she studied the drooling beast.
“No.”
“Oh.” She blinked the spiky bangs out of her eyes. “What’s his name?”
“Tobias.” He did not want to talk about the dog.
“The Lord is good.”
“Pardon?”
“Tobias. It means the Lord is good.” Her eyes twinkled when she grinned. “Names and their meanings are a fascination with me. What’s yours?”
“Connor.” It slipped out without thinking.
“Hmm. Gaelic. It means high longing, I think.”
High longing. Well, that about covered his recent past. Conner huffed out an indignant snort to cover his frustration.
“You’re the brothers’ nephew.”
Clearly the meaning of names wasn’t her only gift.
“Great-nephew. Look, Miss, er, Ms.—what is your name?”
“I should have introduced myself.” She wrinkled her nose and chuckled. “Sorry. Rowena Davis.”
This was the landscape designer? Connor choked on his disbelief. She was all of what? Nineteen? Twenty? Maybe a hundred pounds if she stayed out in the rain all night?
This elf was going to cut down trees and carry them away?
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wingate,” she said after studying his face for several moments. “I can do the job. That’s why Hank and Henry hired me. They know my work.”
“I see.” The dog had started up a mournful howl that made conversation difficult. On second thought, maybe he should let Tobias out before he wrecked his brand-new car. “Excuse me.”
“Sure.”
Connor turned and opened the door, but before he could step out of the way, Tobias, in his usual blustering way, jumped against him, knocking him to the ground. Mud oozed through Connor’s fingers, splatted his coat and began to seep through the seat of his trousers.
The dog licked his face in apology.
“Perfect.”