A Family For The Farmer. Laurel Blount

      “Emily,” he tried again, but she cut him off firmly.

      “Don’t try to talk to me right now, Abel, please. Just don’t. I’m tired, and I’ve got a lot to think about. You and I’ve known each other for a long time, and you were always nice to me when I came out for the summers. You looked out for me, and I haven’t forgotten that. You even used to sneak around and do my chores sometimes when Grandma wasn’t looking.” A smile flickered briefly on her lips. “You’re probably the only friend I have left around here. I really—” Her voice broke again, and she coughed and restarted. “I really don’t want to say something to you right now that I’ll regret later.” Her voice sounded thick, but whether it was clogged with tears or anger, he couldn’t tell.

      He sat like a stone, listening as she went down the carpeted hallway and gathered up her twins, who protested at leaving in the middle of their cartoon. He waited until he heard the outer office door shut solidly behind her. Then he sighed and rubbed wearily at his eyes.

      He had no idea what Miss Sadie had been thinking, but surely this wasn’t what she’d been hoping for. Emily was hurt and angry, and Abel felt like he’d just murdered a puppy. And he had a hunch things were going to get a whole lot trickier before they got any better. If they ever did.

      He got to his feet, folding up his copy of the will into a square that would fit in his shirt pocket. He was anxious to escape this stuffy office and get back outside, where he could breathe. Emily wasn’t the only one who needed to think. Maybe a walk in the woods and some time in his workshop would clear his head. He’d spend some more time praying, too. He always felt closer to God out alone under the pines or with his chisel in his hand than he did indoors crowded up next to other folks. It was something he’d had a hard time explaining to the new minister when he’d pestered Abel gently about his spotty church attendance.

      Yes, he’d have another long talk with God. Maybe this time the good Lord would give him some clear instructions about how to handle all this. He sure hoped so, because Abel was going to need all the help he could get.

       Chapter Two

      Phoebe fell asleep on the ten-minute ride out to Goosefeather Farm and had to be wakened when they pulled up in front of the white farmhouse. Even Paul’s eyelids looked a bit heavy, and he leaned against the clapboards on the shady porch as Emily twisted the metal key in the ancient lock. She was a little surprised when she heard the tumblers click grudgingly back into place. Although her grandmother had given her the key several years ago, Emily had never actually used it. The truth was she’d never known this welcoming red door to be locked, and she was amazed that the key even worked.

      She gave the children a snack of apple wedges and cheese at her grandmother’s big kitchen table and then took them upstairs and settled them in the spare bedroom for a nap. It was proof of their exhaustion that they accepted this arrangement without a fuss. Phoebe flopped on top of the blue-and-yellow quilt covering the bed nearest the window, cuddled her tattered stuffed rabbit close to her, sighed once and promptly fell back asleep. Paul arranged himself more carefully in the other twin bed, tracing the pointed stars of his matching quilt with a thoughtful finger.

      “Are you going to take a nap, too, Mama?” he asked.

      She wished. “No. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

      “Oh.” He nodded sagely. “But thinking’s hard work, and you’re tired. You might better rest awhile first.” After that pronouncement he closed his eyes and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

      Emily kissed him gently, smiling at her son’s unique mixture of innocence and maturity. His preschool teachers had already labeled Paul gifted. That might explain why he often seemed so much older than his years. Emily still worried that being the son of a single mom was making her little boy grow up too fast. His manly little efforts to take care of his mother and sister made her both proud and sad.

      She left the door to the twins’ room ajar and crossed the hall to the bedroom that had been hers. Like the rest of the old-fashioned farmhouse, it hadn’t changed much in the last six years. Its generous windows faced west, and the early-afternoon sun slanted warmly across the wide oak floorboards. The violet-sprigged curtains were the ones her grandmother had let her choose from a catalogue years ago. Now they were looped back with faded lavender ribbons to show off a view of the farm’s rolling fields and trim little barns. Emily’s books were still lined up on the white shelf underneath the window, and her teacup collection was arranged along the wide windowsill. Outside this room, Emily’s life had rushed forward like a runaway train, but in here time had held its breath.

      She doubted her grandmother had left things this way because of sentimentality. Grandma had just been allergic to change, and she’d never paid much attention to the inside of the house anyway. Sadie Elliott had always preferred to be outside spoiling one of her beloved animals or puttering around in her garden. She’d never known quite what to do with her indoorsy granddaughter, but Sadie had still insisted on the annual visits, rightly guessing that Emily’s mother was far too busy chasing men to supervise her daughter during her school vacation. And while Emily had never particularly enjoyed spending her summers on the farm, she’d grown to love her outspoken grandmother fiercely.

      She could remember exactly where she’d been standing in the coffee shop when Mr. Alvarez relayed the message that her grandmother had died. Emily had dropped the metal tray she’d been sliding into the glass showcase, and muffins had rolled in every direction. Caramel pecan, the Tuesday special. When she got her next paycheck, she’d discovered that Mr. Alvarez had docked her pay to cover the cost of the dropped muffins. Compassion wasn’t her boss’s strongest trait. If she stayed on the farm for the summer, she’d almost certainly lose her job.

      If she stayed. She couldn’t believe she was even considering it. She rummaged in her purse and brought out her cell phone. Forcing herself not to think about the minutes she was squandering, she sank down on the white chenille bedspread and dialed her friend Clary Wright’s number.

      Clary answered on the first ring. “Well,” she said, “you’re using your cell phone, so I already know this is something big. Either your grandmother was secretly a millionaire and left you wads of money, or that rattletrap car of yours conked out and you need your roomie from the big city to drive to the boonies and rescue the three of you. Which is it?”

      Emily felt her lips tilting up at her friend’s familiar voice. Clary was just what she needed right now. “Neither one. Right now I really just need a listening ear.”

      “Uh-oh. You must need one pretty badly to be using those precious minutes of yours. What’s up?”

      Clary listened as Emily filled her in on the terms of the will. “Wow. So, what did the letter say?”

      “I haven’t opened it yet.” Emily glanced at the envelope lying beside her on the bedspread. “I think... I think I’d like to make up my own mind about what I want to do before I read it. That’s why I called. I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do here, Clary.”

      “Now that’s a switch.” Clary’s laugh bubbled through the phone. “You’ve never had much trouble knowing your own mind, Em. I’m always the one calling you.”

      “Well, this isn’t exactly an easy choice.” Emily glanced out the window at the tidy barnyard. “On the one hand this could make a real difference for the twins and me. Financially, I mean. There’s over a hundred acres here, not to mention the farmhouse and the barns. I have no idea how much it’d sell for, but...”

      “Whatever it is, it’s a lot more than you’ve got right now,” Clary finished for her. “You’ve been praying for the money to start up your own coffee shop, Em. Maybe this is the answer you’ve been waiting for.”

      Emily had thought of that, too. “It’s possible, I guess. But it seems like a pretty strange way for God to answer. I stink at farming.”

      “You only have to hold