The Beekeeper's Daughter (Harlequin Super Romance) (8 page)

The sun hovered above the foothills to the west when he finally came to a clearing, or what seemed to be overgrown pasture. The remnants of an old barbed wire fence at the far end of the acreage suggested he was on private property. He hadn’t seen any farms in the area
except for the abandoned place a mile or two down the road, so Will assumed this land was part of that spread. Curious, he walked across the pasture and carefully ducked under the barbed wire. Now that he was closer, he could see the back of the house and the barn with its sagging roof. He paused, wondering if he ought to be trespassing, but decided abandoned places were fair game.

The yard behind the barn was littered with empty and rusting metal objects—cans, buckets, farm implements. Part of an old harvester or combine was almost hidden by tall weeds. As Will bypassed the barn, he was struck by the earthy odor of moldering hay and paused to peer in one of the broken windows. It was dark and shadowy inside. Something fluttered from a rafter and he jumped back. Then he laughed at himself. Probably a bat or bird of some kind.

He kept on walking and, rounding the corner of the barn, stopped suddenly. There were two large chicken-wire coops filled with pigeons. Pigeons of every kind, totally unlike the ubiquitous gray ones in his Newark neighborhood. They were perched on the roofs of bird houses inside the coops and also on an arrangement of various lengths of wooden poles, nailed crudely together to form a kind of avian climbing equipment. There must be at least fifty birds in there, he was thinking, and then realized that the place was obviously not deserted.

That realization came a tad late. A gravelly, aggressive voice bellowed behind him. “Stick up yer goddamn hands.”

W
ILL DIDN’T ARGUE
.
He raised his hands, feeling more than a little foolish, and slowly turned around.

The man at the other end of the shotgun was in his midseventies. His face was grizzled from weather and age. Long, wispy gray tendrils of hair dangled at various angles from his small head, as if he’d been abruptly wakened. He was so scrawny that Will wondered how he managed to keep the shotgun level. Sort of, Will amended, noticing now that the barrel wavered frighteningly from left to right.

“This here’s private property, buddy. Whadda ya think yer doin’?”

“Can I put my hands down?” Will asked.

“Go ahead, but I’m keepin’ this gun aimed right at you.”

“I’m staying at the campground. Thought I’d have a look around, that’s all. The place looks abandoned from the road.”

“Well it ain’t abandoned, as you can damn well see. So just hightail it back to Rest Haven.”

“Sure. Maybe you could put that shotgun down, then?”

The man glared at him, but slowly lowered the gun.

“Mind if I go back the way I came,” Will asked, “or would you prefer me to take the road?”

“Whatever you want. I’ll be watching either way.”

In case I run off with a pigeon or two? “Then I’ll go back by the stream.”

Something flickered in the man’s eyes. “You a fisherman?”

“Not really, but the owner of the campground—”

“Waters,” the man snarled.

Will paused. “Yeah. He said trout fishing season’s not open yet, but there were other fish.”

“There are. Some nice sunfish and catfish, too. Small, but you can get a meal from a few of them.”

Will bet the guy was speaking from experience. Still, in spite of the rundown appearance of the property and the house, the pigeon coop was in tiptop condition. “Nice pigeons,” he said. “Do you race them?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Used to, don’t anymore. Too damn difficult carting them around the countryside for the events. You know anything about racing pigeons?”

“I read a book about them when I was a kid. How long have you been keeping them?”

“About thirty years.” He paused a moment, adding, “Got a buddy over t’other side of Essex who has pigeons. We send messages back and forth and sometimes trade birds, keep the breeding stock good.”

Will stared at the coop. “Built that yourself, I suppose. It looks pretty sturdy.”

“Darn better’n a lot of ready-made things.”

Will had run out of things to say. “Okay, well I’ll be off. Nice to meet you. I’ll be staying at the campground for a week or so, if you need any help with anything here.” He cocked his head toward the pigeon coop. “I’m helping out at Ambrosia Apiaries for a bit,” he added.

That got the man’s interest. “Oh yeah?” He frowned. “Guess Jack’s gone off to Charlotte for his operation.” A short pause, then, “He’s a good man, Jack Collins.”

Even the local eccentric has access to the grapevine.

The man suddenly shifted the shotgun to his left hand while extending his right one. “The name’s Henry Krause.”

Will shook his hand. “Will Jennings.”

Krause nodded, staring frankly at Will’s face. “Get that injury in some kinda accident?”

“Yep.” Will held the man’s gaze a moment longer before saying, “I’ll be off then.” He started in the direction he’d come but was halted a few yards on.

“Anytime you want to come see the pigeons, just give a loud knock on the side door there.”

Will smiled, half turned around and said, “So long as you keep your shotgun inside.”

That raised a sheepish grin. He turned his back on Krause and continued on his way, not daring to relax until he was back at the campsite. There’d been a
numbing moment when he’d been certain the old geezer’s bony finger was going to pull on the shotgun bolt—accidentally or otherwise.

While his steak was sizzling on the portable barbecue, Will perched on the edge of the picnic table, his thoughts wandering back to Annie and her apparent ambivalence about the trip to Charlotte. At least, he assumed that had been the cause of her ill humor that morning while she was showing him how to run the honey extractor.

At one point he’d finally asked, “Are you sure you’re okay with me handling this? Should I try to get Danny McLean or his father to come around after all?”

It was the first time she actually looked him in the eye. After a slight hesitation, she’d said, “I trust you.”

Those three words were surprisingly elevating, until Will saw her expression—kind of a “so don’t let me down” look. But he was okay with that. She ought to be cautious, considering she’d known him less than forty-eight hours.

Will sniffed the air, noticing belatedly that his steak was flaming. He jumped from the picnic table and quickly turned off the barbecue. After forking the now well-done strip loin onto a plate, he rummaged in his tiny fridge for the premade salad he’d purchased. In spite of the imperfections of the meal, he enjoyed every bite. Food always tasted better outdoors. He cleaned up, made sure the propane barbecue was shut off and got into the van.

As he approached Henry Krause’s place, Will slowed down. Nightfall was just an inch of scarlet horizon away, dark enough for regular people to turn on lights. But no illumination filtered through the shutters on the Krause farmhouse. Either Henry was already asleep—a good possibility—or was conserving energy.

Eccentric personalities were everywhere and Will had met many in his thirty-two years, though none holding a shotgun on him. He wasn’t certain if he wanted to chance another visit. What if Henry didn’t remember inviting him?

The Ambrosia Apiaries sign was a shadowy outline by the time Will reached the driveway. He hadn’t passed another vehicle all the way from Rest Haven. Except for a few farmhouse lights twinkling here and there like fireflies against the inky backdrop of sky, the valley was dark and quiet. Rural life.
Early to bed, early to rise.

He drove the van into the yard alongside the house and extinguished the headlights. Darkness fell like a blackout curtain. For a few disconcerting seconds, Will couldn’t even see his hands still resting on the steering wheel. As his eyes adjusted, the house took shape on his left and the barn straight ahead. Everything seemed normal but he’d get the flashlight and have a walk around before settling in for the night.

Garden Valley might look like paradise, but with an arsonist on the loose and a recluse toting a loaded shotgun, appearances were definitely deceiving.

By the time he’d made his rounds and read another chapter in his book about the Civil War, Will was ready for an early night. The last image he had before dropping off to sleep was Annie’s pinched face as she waved goodbye that morning. Nothing ambiguous about the misery in her large eyes.

A
NNIE MIGHT HAVE FELT
some guilt as she crossed the hospital parking lot a mere hour after she’d first pulled in if her father hadn’t nodded off to sleep. Shirley had pointed to the door and whispered, “Go. I’ll call you if anything new develops.” Knowing there was little more for her to do anyway, Annie had gratefully taken her cue.

She’d arrived at the hospital in time for the consultation with the cardiologist who had assessed the various tests Jack had undergone the previous afternoon. Nothing to worry about, he’d assured them. He arranged a follow-up appointment just before Jack was to return home and advised maintaining proper diet and appropriate exercise. When he’d suggested that Jack might want to ease up on the heavier tasks involved in beekeeping, Annie had given a skeptical sniff.
Right.

Her father had made a last attempt at skipping the rehab program and the planned holiday but an unexpectedly stern look from Shirley had stopped him in his tracks. Sensing that she now held the balance of power, Shirley was no doubt making up for previous lost opportunities.

Annie sat behind the wheel of her car for a few moments, putting off her next move a bit longer. The plan she and Auntie Isobel had come up with during their late-night talk was that Annie would see her father before going to the adoption agency. That way, whatever the emotional fallout from the agency visit, Jack would be unaware of it. It wasn’t fair to burden her father with her problems until he was home and able to give her the support he would want to give.

And now, thought Annie, clutching the steering wheel, the time was here. No more postponements. She started up the car and proceeded out of the lot, following the directions Sister Beatty had given her. As she turned off the expressway to the quiet, residential area where the agency was tucked discreetly into a strip plaza, a surge of familiarity rose up from memories held at bay for thirteen years.

She remembered driving into the small parking lot, Aunt Isobel perched birdlike behind the wheel of her Lincoln Continental. Annie had wedged herself into the corner of the passenger seat as if the last thing in the world she intended to do was get out of that car. But she had. And now, taking a deep breath, she grabbed the handle and opened the car door again.

It all came back as soon as Annie walked into the air-conditioned office. The walls were a different color, but the basic layout was the same. A young woman sat staring at the computer on the desk.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh, I have an appointment with Sister Beatty. Annie Collins.”

The young woman’s fingers played over the keyboard. She read something from the monitor and raised her head back to Annie. “Oh yes. Please have a seat, Ms. Collins. I’ll let Sister know you’re here.”

Your last chance, Annie. Get up and leave quickly before it’s too late.
But though the spirit was willing, her mind refused to pass the order along to her legs. She clasped and unclasped her damp, cold hands on her lap. The main door suddenly opened and closed behind a couple who stood hesitantly, staring first at the empty receptionist desk and then at Annie. The woman murmured something to her partner and, after waiting a few seconds, they sat in two chairs at right angles to Annie’s.

They appeared to be in their mid-to late-thirties and, as they whispered to one another, occasionally glanced toward her. Annie felt her face warm up. She had a flashback to thirteen years ago, when she’d first stepped into this office.

Heads abruptly raised, eyes aimed at her face and then—or so it had seemed to Annie—at the slight swelling of her waist.

She laced her fingers together and squeezed hard.
Get a grip, girl. They’re not thinking about you.
She stared at the floor, straining to hear the sound of footsteps. Which she heard, mercifully, seconds later.

Right on the heels of the receptionist was a petite,
brown-haired woman whose smile dispelled all the irrational thoughts from Annie’s mind. It was the same nun who’d been so kind to her.

“Miss Collins? So wonderful to see you again.” She reached for Annie’s cold hand and held it in hers.

Everything was going to be just fine, Annie thought, as warmth flooded through her.

“Come in,” Sister Beatty said and led Annie along a short hallway into an office at the end. She gestured to a chair across from a desk and, rather than sit at the desk herself, pulled up another chair directly in front of Annie. She wore a plain but crisp pale-blue cotton dress with a delicate silver cross pinned to its collar and simple black pumps. She could’ve been any suburban matron at a casual social event.

“I’ve thought about you from time to time,” Sister Beatty began. “Tell me a bit about how things are going.”

Annie felt herself begin to unwind, as if she were meeting with a long-lost friend. “Where do I begin?” she asked, her voice unfamiliar, soft.

“Wherever you like, Miss Collins.”

“Please, call me Annie. It’s not as though we’re strangers.”

The other woman smiled, tilting her head slightly, and waited.

“I, uh, went on to get my degree at the University of North Carolina.”

The sister’s smile broadened.

“Then I worked in Central America for a few years, volunteering.”

“Wonderful.”

“Teachers’ college after that and teaching high school in Queens, New York, for about five years.”

“I imagine you’re a great teacher.”

Annie blushed. “My aunt forwarded your letter to me.”

Sister Beatty’s smile faltered. They had come to the purpose of Annie’s visit. “Thank you for responding so promptly. I suspect the letter evoked the gamut of emotions.”

Nicely put, Annie thought, but said nothing.

Sister Beatty moved to her desk and picked up a file folder. “I received the request approximately three weeks ago. We were in the middle of some small renovations here—painting and such—so I didn’t get the letter out to you for ten days or so. If you’re interested in making contact, I can give you some information about your daughter. Otherwise, I must respect the confidentiality agreed upon when we signed the contract with her adoptive parents.”

Annie nodded. Auntie Isobel had reminded her of the details of the agreement last night.
As if she’d forgotten.
“She can contact me if she still wants to,” she said.

“I see that you’re prepared for her to change her mind and of course, she might well do that.” Sister Beatty returned to the chair opposite Annie, the file folder
in her hand. She opened it and withdrew a five-by-seven inch photograph. “She sent this with her letter,” she said, passing it to Annie.

Annie hesitated a nanosecond before taking the photograph. She blinked several times before she realized Sister Beatty was handing her a tissue.

“It was taken just this past Christmas,” the nun was saying while Annie stared down at the adolescent girl standing in front of a Christmas tree. She was wearing black slacks and a periwinkle-blue sweater that was a perfect foil for her flaming red hair. Although there was no frame of reference, Annie guessed she was tall. Certainly slim, with budding breasts evident beneath the sweater. Her smile was slightly lopsided, as if she’d been about to change her expression just as the picture was taken.

The trembling in Annie’s hand eased as she continued to stare long and hard at her daughter.
Her daughter!
The smile, in spite of its crookedness, was her own smile. The hair she recalled instantly. His. Adam’s. She squinted, noticing the freckles to match it.