The Biological Bond. Jamie Denton
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with a big lazy bloodhound snoozing in the shade.
The dusty driveway she’d pictured was in reality a smooth concrete drive bordered by majestic evergreens. Replacing the little red barn of her imagination stood a monstrosity of red, neatly trimmed in white, along with three other long, low, rounded buildings of equal size. There were other outbuildings, as well, each painted white with a red W above the doors. She counted close to two dozen huge, galvanized-steel cylinders along a treeline and varying types of heavy machinery she couldn’t begin to name.
Sam drove past the barn and outbuildings and waved to a group of at least a dozen men resting on benches beneath the shade of a large maple tree. But the sight that stole her breath was the farmhouse itself, the house she would share with Sam and Melanie for the next four weeks.
She’d prepared herself for the worst, imagining a clapboard shack with peeling paint, a sagging roof and dusty windows. The structure that loomed in front of her could only be referred to as stately. The home was subdued elegance and country comfort, a combination she never would have been able to imagine. A covered porch swept across the front, complete with an old-fashioned wooden railing that made her think of warm summer evenings and sunsets. A bed of spring flowers strained toward the warmth of the sun, creating a picture-postcard effect she found too enchanting for words.
A tall, reed-thin man sauntered from around the side of the house, a cowboy hat shielding his eyes from the sun. His weathered face broke into a grin as he approached them. “Boy am I glad you’re here. We’ve got a small problem, Sam.”
Sam slipped a blue ball cap onto his head and slid from the truck. “What’s up, Jake?”
“It’s that old combine again,” he said. “R.D.’s won’t have the parts in until next week, and I can’t spare a man to run into the city right now.”
“Damn.” Sam braced his hands on his denim-clad hips. “That wheat’s ready to come down. We need every piece of equipment in those fields.”
Jake tilted his hat back, exposing thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I did another grain test this morning, boss. I’ve started the boys out there today in the far northern square.”
“Have you called around to see if anyone can get the parts to us?”
Jake nodded. “Farm Supply in the city, but they can’t deliver until Friday. I’d head off but we’ve already got four truckloads of grain ready to take to the elevator and we’re short a driver.”
Carefully Rebecca opened the door to the cab and stepped onto the driveway. Sam and his foreman could have been speaking a foreign language. She didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but she could tell from the dark expression on Sam’s face he wasn’t too happy.
She closed the door, and both men turned to look in her direction.
Jake touched the brim of his cowboy hat. “Ma’am.”
“Rebecca Martinson, this is Jake Henshaw. He’s my foreman.”
She walked around the front of the pickup and extended her hand to Jake. “A pleasure, Mr. Henshaw.”
Jake chuckled and shook her hand. “Just Jake, ma’am. You a friend of Sam’s?”
“We’re old friends from college.” The lie easily slid from her lips, from where, she couldn’t be sure. She supposed it was the safest and most logical explanation for her presence at Winslow Farms.
She caught Sam’s dark gaze, but his eyes revealed nothing.
“I’ve got to head back into the city,” Sam told her. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” She’d been worried about what they would find to talk about. His abrupt departure would at least give her a chance to find her bearings. “I’ll just get settled, if you’ll show me where I’ll be staying.”
Sam said a few more words to Jake and sent the older man to call in the order so it would be ready when he arrived.
“This way.” He inclined his head toward the side of the house and pulled her overnight bag from the bed of the truck.
Rebecca followed him up a short set of steps into a utility room the size of a small office. An antique bench butted against the wall next to a rack filled with boots and shoes. Inside of an open closet space, coats and sweaters hung neatly on a bar below a shelf with a variety of hats, gloves and scarves.
When she stepped into the kitchen, she stared in amazement. Most people thought of the kitchen as the heart of a home. To her, it had always been the room where she kept the cereal and microwave dinners. Just about every appliance, small and large, most of which she couldn’t begin to name, adorned the spacious, cream ceramic-tiled counters. A large oval oak table held center stage atop an authentic brick floor. Rich oak cabinets with matching ceramic handles or knobs, along with braided oval rugs, cream lace curtains and baskets filled with dried or silk flowers added a comfortable down-home feel to an otherwise technologically sterile environment.
“Mel’s idea,” he said, nodding to the feminine touches.
He dropped her bag on a thick-legged chair near the table. “Make yourself at home,” he said, removing his cap and running his fingers through his hair. “I had your bags brought upstairs yesterday. Your room is the third door on the left. You’ll find leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry.” He glanced at his watch then slapped his cap back on his head. “I should be back in time for supper.”
Back in time for supper? Oh, sweet heaven. He didn’t expect her to cook, did he? Because she had serious doubts that her one speciality, Rebecca raman, would be well received in the land of meat and potatoes. Before she could ask Sam, he spun on his heel and disappeared through the utility room.
Sam drove away before she pulled out a chair and sat. Now what? She was miles from home, exhausted, and didn’t have the first clue what to do with herself. Resting her elbow on the heavy table, she plopped her chin in her hand.
What was she doing here?
Maybe she should leave. Victor had been right, she had no business coming to North Dakota. She should ask Sam’s foreman to take her back to the airport and she could jump on the first plane back to California. Open adoptions were becoming more and more common, but she always advised her adoption clients not to maintain contact with the birth mother because ultimately, the child suffered. She knew the arguments by rote, but her heart cried out for this one chance to get to know the daughter she’d lost. The choice of keeping her child had been taken away from her when she’d been a mere child herself. How could she turn away from the opportunity she now held in her hands?
No. She couldn’t think about what might go wrong. Melanie was not going to find out who she really was, and after her month was up, she’d leave.
And do what? she asked herself.
Learn to live her life without her child—all over again.
THREE HOURS LATER Sam still hadn’t returned. Rebecca had showered, changed and explored the large and elegant farmhouse and was bored stiff. Needing something to occupy her time, she found her way to the kitchen. Sam said he’d be home for supper. What time was supper in North Dakota? She’d seen for herself that the sun didn’t set until after nearly eleven o’clock each night. And she’d already learned that lunch was called dinner, which she didn’t think she’d ever get used to hearing. Things were certainly different in the Midwest.
Well, maybe she wasn’t much of a cook, but she did have quite a knack for microwave dinners. Sam said there were leftovers. Maybe she could warm some of those and they’d eat supper together.
With some effort she located the makings of what she deemed a decent meal. Now all she had to do was figure out how to operate the electric stove, since Sam didn’t have a microwave, which she thought odd considering the multitude of gadgets in his kitchen.
Geeze, what did Melanie do for popcorn? she wondered.
Twenty minutes later,