Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(18)

First of all, she not only had a shape, it was an awesome shape. Oh man, that was a nice chest—not too big, not too small. She was kind of tall for a girl, but would still be small up against his six-three frame. Her chestnut hair fell to her shoulders in a smooth, silky curtain that called out for big, male hands. Narrow waist, firm butt, trim thighs. Her pink lips were heart-shaped and that smile cut right through him. Her smile almost brought him to his knees. She had a clean and classy girl-next-door look about her; not his usual type but he felt the kind of physical response that suggested he might like to make her his type.

She jumped up on the stool beside Colin. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she said and nodded hello to Dan.

“Whew,” he said. “You clean up good. You don’t look like the same girl.”

She frowned right before she laughed. “Do women usually thank you for saying things like that?”

Jack was instantly in front of her, slapping down a napkin. “How’s it going, Jillian?” he asked.

“Great, Jack. What can you give me in a nice, woody Chardonnay?”

“Screw top or cork?”

“Oh, let’s go crazy and go with the cork.” He reached in his cooler and pulled out an opened bottle of Mondavi, showing it to her. “Perfect,” she said.

“You two already know each other?” Jack asked as he poured.

“I caught him painting out on the property, back behind that stand of trees.”

“Meet Dan Brady,” Jack said. “Dan, Jillian Matlock rents Hope’s old house. You did some work on that house, didn’t you?”

Dan gave her a nod. “I never painted so much in my life. How many people live with you out there?” he asked.

“Just me,” she said, taking a sip of her wine.

Dan leaned an elbow on the bar. “What in the world are you doing out there?”

“She’s gardening and thinking,” Colin answered for her.

“Gardening?” Dan asked. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Because I can. I learned as a little girl. I’m very good at it. We have some farmer’s chromosome in the family, I think.”

“What are you growing?” Dan asked.

“Salad,” she said with smile. “I got the root vegetable seeds in first, then the lettuce—three kinds. Swiss chard. Scallions, leeks, cucumbers, beans. Next I’ll sow the squashes, but I’m nursing along some tomato starters up on the porch. My great-grandmother started everything from seed, but she’d always start certain ones like tomatoes in little trays on the back porch until they were strong before they went in the ground.”

“Sounds nice,” Dan said. “And what are you thinking about that brings you out our way?”

“Well, I’m taking a leave from a corporate PR job and I intended to think about what I’d like to do next, where I’d like to work next, but all I can think about is gardening.” She got a wistful look on her face. “I’m growing the standard stuff, but you can’t imagine the stuff my nana grew! White asparagus, cherry peppers, red brussels sprouts, tomatillo, red romaine… Oh, there was Purple Cape and baby eggplant. She grew a tomato called Russian Rose that was so delicious we ate them like apples—they could get up to two pounds. The ones we didn’t eat she stewed and canned. She was French and Russian but could make the most amazing Italian sauce—the neighbors bought it from her sometimes.”

Colin made a face and shivered. “The only thing worse than green brussels sprouts would have to be red ones….”

“What the hell is Purple Cape?” Dan asked.

“Purple cauliflower.”

“My mother gardened like mad, made all of us weed, but as far as I know no one got the bug,” Colin said. “I’ve never even seen the stuff you mentioned.”

She shook her head. “You don’t see it every day, that’s for sure. You’d see some of that stuff in five-star restaurants. They garnish their meals with them. They’re grown in small, special, commercial gardens and come at a high price. They’re always organic like my great-grandmother’s garden was and dining patrons know that if the chef is using them he or she has knowledge, skill, creativity and style. I’d give anything to grow some of that stuff.”

“Why don’t you?” Dan asked.

She laughed at him. “They don’t have seeds for that stuff at the Eureka garden shop. They’re pretty much limited to the stuff you see every day. My nana brought her first seeds from her own garden in France and reproduced them from her fruit and vegetables every year.”

“You just haven’t looked far enough,” Dan informed her. “Do you use a computer?”

“Use one?” she asked with a laugh. “The job I just left was as a corporate officer for a software manufacturer!”

“Research those seeds,” he said. “Trust me, someone has them. And if they can grow pot year-round up here, they can find a way to grow special tomatoes. A sheriff’s deputy once told me that if the same energy was put into hybrid vegetables as was put into pot, we’d have fifty-pound watermelons.”

“Pot?” she asked. “They grow pot year-round up here?”

“Sheltered,” Dan said with a nod. “Irrigated, grow lights run on generator, fertilized with chicken shit.” He grinned. “Organic!”