the ferry it had been shipped on. Apparently everyone knew to call Emma the instant a Harley came to town. She’d tracked him down at the firehouse and they’d gabbed for hours about their bikes. He respected the hell out of her, and felt sorry for her that her granddaughter was such a shark.
My grandmother has nothing to do with this. She signed the house over to me in exchange for taking care of her chickens when she dies, the lawyer had written.
He’d laughed out loud at that—typical Emma. One time, Emma had stopped by the firehouse and asked him how much money he would want to dig her a grave on her property.
“That’s not happening, Emma,” he’d told her. “Is it even legal?”
She’d gone on a long rant about lawyers at that point.
Amen to that. None of his experiences with lawyers had been good. Divorce, liability, fire department lawyers—he’d rather forget all of them. One nice thing about Lost Harbor was that there were only three lawyers in town, and one of them was on the verge of retirement.
He looked at the subject line of her latest email and burst out laughing.
Subject: Your refusal to be reasonable.
Excellent. He was getting under her skin. Maybe she’d give up trying to evict him. His stubborn streak had been activated and he truly believed that he was in the right here. Emma had never told him that she didn’t actually own the property. He only had three months left on the lease, anyway. Why couldn’t Ms. Attorney-at-Law leave him in peace until then?
He scanned her email and composed his own subject line.
Subject: Chickens
If you can prove that you know the names and varieties of Emma’s chickens, I’ll consider your suggestion that I move out.
P.s. She has thirty-two chickens, at last count.
P.s.2 They all have names.
P.s.3 You’re lucky I’m not asking what their favorite treats are.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the porcupine Kate had warned about. Its quills were settling back into place.
Okay, enough fun tweaking the attorney at law. He had to zip home to his house—while it was still his—grab his bass and find something else to wear tonight.
Chapter Three
Back at Petal to the Metal Peony Farm, Kate changed into her mud boots and unloaded the bags of fertilizer into a wheelbarrow. She trundled them down the path past the Duchesse de Nemours plot, where the creamy crown-shaped beauties were cultivated. Right now, all the peonies looked more or less like spears rising from long Typar-covered beds, but soon they’d be leafing out into a glorious symphony of white, deep rose, coral, and blush-pink blooms.
The farm consisted of an enchanting spread of grassy slopes punctuated by outbuildings, peony fields, and plastic-covered greenhouses known as “high tunnels,” where Emma grew vegetables and a few other flowers. Perched on a ridge above the town of Lost Harbor, overlooking Misty Bay and the stunning peaks of Lost Souls Wilderness, its thousand-foot elevation and southern exposure were perfect for growing peonies.
Right now, at eight in the evening in mid-April, the fluffy clouds drifting past the bluff held a hint of apricot from the oncoming sunset. The view was enough to make this property spectacular, and when you added in the beauty of the peonies in summer bloom, it could have come straight from a fairy tale.
And then there was Emma Gordon, Kate’s mother’s mother and the most ornery being on the planet. At eighty-two, she still worked her ass off on the farm, in mud boots and track suit, with a bomber jacket for warmth.
“Did you make that steer manure yourself?” Emma grumbled as Kate brought the wheelbarrow to a halt next to her in the high tunnel. The moist air inside smelled of rich soil and fresh growth.
“I ran into some trouble.”
Kate didn’t feel like admitting she got stuck in the mud. Alaska had a way of humbling a person, and she’d already been humbled enough by recent events.
“Trouble, trouble. Always in trouble. Reminds me of your teenage years.”
Kate took one end of a bag of fertilizer, Emma picked up the other, and together they unloaded it onto the ground.
“With a granny like you, what else would you expect?” Kate gave her a sunny smile. She and Emma had always enjoyed a kind of affectionate bickering relationship.
“I sure wouldn’t expect a lawyer. I blame your father for that.”
Kate let that jab pass, because it had a big foundation of truth. Her father bore the blame for a lot of things.