It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch #2)(74)
Kristen Daniels stood at the mouth of a red dirt road. The long path in front of her sloped eastward, weaving its way through sprawling fields to meet dark, lowlying clouds on the horizon. Warm late-afternoon sunshine peeked between the gathering masses and dappled the flat landscape. The spring breeze, a gentle whisper for the past hour, intensified. It kicked up a cloud of dust that drifted across the road, sparkling briefly in the sunlight, before a massive cloud rolled in and covered the sun completely.
Stomach dipping, Kristen glanced over her shoulder at the isolated stretch of Georgia highway she’d been traveling for hours. The paved road was unlined, the white and yellow markings having faded long ago, and the worn edges were either buried beneath weedy overgrowth or cracked beyond repair. With no cell service, landmarks, or street signs, it was impossible to tell if she’d made it to the right place—if there even was such a thing.
At this point, one road would serve just as well as the other. So long as she kept moving in the opposite direction from the life she’d had three years ago when she was twenty-six and optimistic. When she’d been sure, without a modicum of doubt, that life had more to offer if she just believed and prayed and hoped. Even when the devastating truth had literally stared her in the face.
All the way up until the day she’d had to bury her five-year-old daughter.
The straight line of ragged pavement warped into the distance, making the earth feel as though it tilted beneath her feet. Her stance faltered, and she strained to hold on to the empty numbness she’d clung to for more miles than she’d ever be able to count.
“You break down?”
Kristen started, the shout and slow crunch of gravel beneath tires jerking her to alertness. A rusty truck idled nearby, the male driver leaning out the window, studying her.
The wind blew harder. It swirled her long hair around her neck and spit grit in her face, stinging her eyes.
“No.” Teeth clenching, she blinked hard and dragged her forearm over her dry cheeks. “Just trying to figure out where I am is all.” She gestured toward her beat-up Toyota parked at the edge of the dirt road. “Do you know the name of this road?”
The older man laughed and scrubbed the heel of his hand over his stubble-lined jaw. “It ain’t got a name. It’s just one long driveway.”
“To where?”
“Hart’s Hollow.” He shook his head, his salt-and-pepper hair falling over his creased brow. “Doubt that’s the direction you wanna go. There’s nothing out there.”
Kristen fumbled in her jeans pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. She pressed it flat against her thigh, then smoothed the edges that flapped in the wind.
Wanted: Jane-of-all-trades. Hard work. Decent pay and board. Hart’s Hollow Farm. 762 Hart Rd. Stellaville, Georgia. See Emmy Hart, owner.
“Hart’s Hollow Farm?” she asked. “Could you please tell me if I can find Emmy Hart there?”
“Yep, that’s the place.” He cocked his head to the side, a slow grin appearing. “And Emmy’s there all right.”
Kristen nodded, stuffed the paper back in her pocket, then headed toward her car. “Thank you.”
“Might want to make it a quick visit.” Squeaky gears shifted, then the truck rolled forward as the man tipped his chin toward the overcast sky. “If those clouds open up, that clay’s gonna turn to sludge and that low car of yours won’t make it out. You don’t want to be stuck in a storm with Emmy Hart.”
Her steps slowed. “Why?”
“She’s ornery enough to make a saint cuss. My own mama—good Christian woman—says she’s the damn devil.” He laughed again and revved the engine. “Good luck to you.”
The big truck moved swiftly down the center of the worn highway.
Kristen returned to her car and, after staring at the red path through the dusty windshield for a few minutes, decided a lot of nothing—even if it was owned and run by an ornery devil—was preferable to sleeping in the backseat and going hungry for the second day in a row. She didn’t do charity and needed a job. The last farm where she’d worked for a year had gone belly-up due to drought and financial woes, and this position was the only promising one she’d come across that offered the silent, wide-open space she’d grown to crave.
It was, at the very least, worth checking out. Especially since she’d spent the last of her emergency stash on a full tank of gas to make the drive.
She cranked the engine and drove slowly down the driveway. The deep ruts in the dirt rattled the bottled water in the cup holder and bounced her around in the driver’s seat. The bottom of the car thumped over a pothole, metal scraping the firm ground.
Wincing, she slowed the car even more and continued to creep along. A tall pole stood near a bend in the road. She leaned closer to the window, squinting up at the makeshift birdhouse. Several battered gourds hung from the top rack, but one dangled loosely at half-mast and the thick shell clanked against the pole with each gust of wind. There were no purple martins perched on the rack, just two buzzards circling high above the stripped fields, swooping low in tandem with the air current.
Reaching the final leg of the circular driveway, she eased around a sharp curve, then stopped the car abruptly at the edge of lush grass. Large oaks towered toward the stormy sky, framing an aging two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch and large windows. Tall, red chimneys were aligned on each side of the white structure and Gothic trim along the porch roof added an elegant air.