Wild Man Creek. Робин Карр

stay around the trees. They’re so cautious when they come out.”

      “Show me your garden,” he said.

      “It isn’t easy,” she said. “You might want to go down that road and around to 36 and come up the front way.”

      “If you can do it, I can do it,” he said. “So? Let’s do it.”

      She sighed, shrugged and turned to walk back into the trees. With the rag wrapped around her hand she carefully parted the growth. It wasn’t exactly a narrow copse, and there was no path, and because she was not totally familiar with the property she wasn’t entirely sure of the most direct route back to the house. She hadn’t been in the house long and the only part of the property she knew was what surrounded the house.

      Finally they came through and arrived at the garden area. A large, rectangle portion of it was tilled, turned and planted. The place was huge. There were stakes along some rows, marking the plants. Then there was the house. Astonishing.

      Colin took off his straw cowboy hat and rubbed a hand over his head. “Whoa,” he said. “Look at that house! You rent that?”

      “Mainly for the kitchen window, back porch and yard. That part of the house reminds me of where I grew up.”

      He took in the garden. “That’s quite a farm you got there. You been at this a long time?”

      “Like I said, I was trying to catch up …”

      He looked down at her. He lifted the brim of her ball cap. “How long?”

      She shrugged. “Maybe ten days. Maybe a little less. A week?”

      “Did you start from scratch?”

      “Oh, no. I think that garden has been there for fifty years or so, but I can’t tell how much of it was used by the woman who used to live here. If she was an experienced organic gardener, she probably planted stuff in alternating sections just to regenerate the soil. I could see the established rows. I weeded, tilled, started planting seeds. I’ve planted less than a quarter, but I’m ready to plant more.”

      He whistled. “No wonder you’re covered in dirt.”

      She laughed at him. “There’s a tiller in the shed, but I like the hoe and shovel and trowel and cultivator. I like to get close to the garden. My nana used to say the secret to excellent gardening was to be close to the dirt and the plants. Besides, dirt washes off.”

      “You’ve been doing this for a week?” he asked. “Jesus, girl, got a little OCD going on there?”

      “Maybe a little,” she said with a grin. “When I get into something, I just really get into it. I bet it’s that way with your painting.”

      Colin shook his head. “It’s not like that. I’m not obsessed.”

      “Well, I’m not obsessed,” she returned, insulted. “It’s just when I take on a job, I like to do a good job!”

      “Yeah,” he said absently, moving closer to the garden—the long, perfect rows, the stakes, the starter plants here and there. “Mostly seeds?”

      “And some seedlings,” she said. “Some bulbs around the ends—she had some in her shed. I have no idea what they are, but we’ll find out. I suspect tulips, irises, daffodils and lilies. I put some along the front of the house, too. I have some new starters up on the porch, so I’m getting the bed ready. And I have some baskets to hang around the porch—it’s a new thing, cherry tomatoes that grow out of the bottom of the hanging basket.” She grinned at him. “Very handy for dinner—go pluck your tomatoes on the porch. I wanted to try it. And all the bushes surrounding the side of the house back to these trees? Rhododendron and hydrangea. And lots of lilacs. I love lilacs.”

      He took in the house—enormous, wide porch, three stories. He nodded toward it. “That’s a lot of house. You live there alone?”

      She leaned on one leg, hand on her hip and threw him a look. “Where I come from, gentlemen don’t ask questions like that. I have protection and very large locks.”

      He grinned at her. “I’m rarely accused of being a gentleman, but I’m not dangerous. Besides, I didn’t ask because I intend to break in and steal your gardening tools, I asked because it’s a very big house. Where do you come from?”

      “San Jose.”

      “Then what are you doing up here, in this big house?”

      She showed him her palms, one wrapped in a rag. “Taxidermy,” she said.

      He chuckled at her. Smart-ass kid, he thought. “I can see that. Before gardening, how did you pass the time?”

      “I was a corporate person. Software industry. It was too stressful, so I’m taking some time off. I … ah … oh never mind …”

      “What?” he asked.

      “I haven’t had a proper vacation in a long time so I’m relaxing and thinking about what I want to do next. I think while I garden.”

      “A multitasker,” he said with grin. “What do you do when it rains?”

      “Same thing, only a lot wetter,” she said.

      “Well, if you see someone prowling around out here at dawn on a clear day, don’t get scared. And no horn, okay? If there are deer, I’d like to get some shots.”

      “Pictures?” she asked.

      “Exactly.”

      “Why?” she wanted to know.

      He turned and started to walk away from her. “Because animals won’t pose for me. Later, Jillian.”

      She watched as he disappeared into the thick copse of trees behind her garden. And while he’d seemed a nuisance at best, she was suddenly sorry to see him go.

      Jillian went inside, cleaned up her cut hand, bandaged it and covered it with a latex glove. She went back to her garden and worked through the afternoon, but it wasn’t quite the same. The painter showing up—it was like a little tease and she realized how much better it felt to have a little break in the day and some conversation. Then she remembered she had heard that Hope McCrea had gone to Jack’s every day for that end-of-day whiskey. Jillian didn’t crave a whiskey, but it might be nice to have a glass of wine and some dinner. And some company.

      Risking the garden to the wildlife at dusk, she went inside to shower. Clean, hair dripping, dressed in her robe, she padded up to the third floor and looked out one of the bedroom windows. She could barely see over the trees, but she was able to make out Colin just now packing up the back of his Jeep. The sun was beginning to lower; his painting light was obviously dwindling.

      She blew her hair dry, put on some of her nicer slacks, gave her short nails a whisk of clear polish and left the house.

      Colin was sitting at the bar passing the time with a draft and a new acquaintance, Dan Brady. Colin learned that Brady worked construction for Paul Haggerty and could be found at Jack’s once or twice a week for a beer. As for Colin, this was exactly the third beer he’d indulged in since getting out of treatment. In fact, while he wasn’t particularly tempted to overindulge in beer, he never kept any at his cabin. He was on a completely different path these days.

      He was just giving himself a silent pat on the back for how well he was keeping his messed-up life together when she walked in. Dan Brady was still talking but Colin didn’t hear a word he said. He didn’t even recognize her at first; he just glanced at her and thought she was one fine-looking woman when he realized it was Jillian, the gardener. She smiled right at him. In fact, she smiled like she was happy to see him. He almost glanced over his shoulder to be sure she was smiling at him. Except for the pink nose and cheeks and smattering of freckles, she looked almost entirely different.

      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