Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(63)

He laughed at her. “No one works harder at a vacation than you, Jilly. Up before the sun, farming all day, studying plants and gardening online all night.”

“Because it’s fun,” she said. “I guess the most rational thing would be to go back to San Jose and work at BSS. I should be so grateful I’m still welcome there.”

“You don’t sound grateful, honey.”

She turned around and faced the mirror again. “I don’t know how to explain this,” she said, tipping one foot up on its toe and peering at the reflection in the mirror. “That corporate girl in the heels?” She looked over her shoulder at him. She gave her head a little shake. “I don’t feel like her anymore.”

He tightened his arms around her waist. “Who do you feel like?” he asked softly.

“I feel like a settler, like a homesteader. I feel strangely unencumbered, like a woman who never has to set an alarm clock, like someone living off the land. Like a nature kid, but I’m not. I mean, I love organic plants because they’re a perfect challenge but I’m not one of those all-natural fanatics. I also love wearing synthetic blends, not hemp, and I’m not living off the land—I go to the grocery store. And I’m not unencumbered—I live in a huge, beautiful, restored Victorian with upkeep, with bills to pay. But I guess I can’t do this forever. I have to work.”

He laughed at her. “You work seven days a week. And maybe the reason you feel unencumbered is because you haven’t been under a lot of pressure. The plants and your staff have been cooperating. And maybe, just maybe, you could afford to do this for another year. Even if you have to find another plot of land to do it on. Jilly,” he said, squeezing her. “It’s okay to do what feels good, what feels right.”

“I have some money saved, but I’m only in my early thirties. If I don’t add income to the bottom line, I won’t have it for long.”

“Why don’t you think about it over dinner, honey? I bought us a roasted chicken fresh from the deli, some rice, and I tossed a salad—something I have to do until the salad in your garden is ready to pick.”

There was no clock in the bedroom so Jillian had no idea what time it was when she woke. It was pitch-black outside, but her eyes popped open. She slipped out of bed, found one of Colin’s T-shirts and slid it over her na**d body. She found her furry slippers and went down the stairs to her office. She clicked on the computer and saw the hour was 2:47 a.m. She logged on and started skipping around the internet.

She was only vaguely aware of the sun coming up and the faint aroma of fresh coffee. And then Colin put a cup beside her on the desk.

“So that’s where my shirt went,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

She glanced at him and saw that he wore only his jeans, zipped but not buttoned, bare chest and bare feet. God, but he was a beautiful man!

“Colin!” she said excitedly. “Do you know how many organic farms and gardens there are in California?”

“A lot, I imagine,” he said, smiling.

“And lots of commercial farms that concentrate on specific items, like organic berries for specially created jams and jellies, or rare, high-end-market fruits and vegetables that are used by five-star chefs in exclusive restaurants, like the stuff I’m trying to grow—the white asparagus, baby beets, teardrop tomatoes, that sort of thing. Then there’s the general organic market—stuff that goes to stores and delis.”

“You have a bright flush on your cheeks and your eyes are very sparkly,” he said. “How long have you been up?”

“Since just after two, I think.” She stood from her desk chair. “Colin, I think I can find a way to do this for a living. Maybe even a good living. At least good enough so I can get by without going back to the corporate world.”

“You think?” he asked.

“A lot depends on the plants—their health, strength, reliability. Customers, especially commercial customers like delis, restaurants and health food stores want to order in advance of the season, and they want some assurance that the fruits and vegetables will come in on time and in the quantities required. So—I’ll have some of those answers in the fall.” She smiled. “I bet I can do this.”

“I bet you can,” he agreed. “But then, I have trouble imagining there’s anything you can’t do, if it’s something you want to do.”

It was a little more complicated than making a phone call to Jack; he had a responsibility to the trust he managed and couldn’t just do a favor for a friend. “I have to get an appraisal,” he told Jillian, “and then list the property and review the offers. I’m sorry it’s not quicker or easier.”

“I understand,” she said. “By all means, I want you to do this the right way and at the end of the day, have no regrets. It’ll all work out as it’s supposed to.”

“And if you don’t get the property?” he asked her.

“Then I guess I’ll be talking to that Realtor of yours.”

“I am sorry, Jillian. You’re doing right by that place and I’d like to see you in it permanently.”

But Jillian didn’t see this as a discouraging bit of news. She’d never been afraid to work hard for what she wanted, and right now, that ethic was coming in handy.