Warm Front Page 18

  A rush of something went through Quince. Not anger. But he couldn’t pin it down more than that.

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said to Everett’s back as the man maneuvered to exit the car. The first time Everett had ridden with him, Quince had tried to help him out of the car. Not a mistake he’d repeat. “I meant it. And there’s really not anyth—”

  “Don’t get in a lather. I wasn’t roughing you up for lying to me.” Everett looked over his shoulder at him. “You were lying to yourself.”

  *

  Zeke seemed distracted when Quince arrived at their house, not even trying to talk about his latest idea. Once he accepted that Quince and Darcie truly were going to talk about farming, he wandered off, apparently to the solace of his computer.

  Darcie wasted no time. “What do you want to know?” She raised one eyebrow and added, “That you’re afraid to ask Anne or Everett.”

  “It’s not so much afraid as wanting to know what land mines I’m facing. So feel free to tell Jennifer she was right.”

  “Jennifer?” she repeated with unconvincing innocence. She quickly added, “First question?”

  “What’s no-till?”

  “Ah, caught in the Anne-Everett crossfire, huh?”

  “A few bullets whizzed past.”

  “Conventional farming is — as you might have guessed — how it’s been done for centuries, by plowing up the soil. No-till doesn’t. That’s it in its simplest form. Proponents of no-till have studies showing that over the long term no-till is better for the soil and will produce a better yield. Conventional proponents dispute that and say no-till is a gamble.”

  “Everett wants conventional, Anne follows no-till?”

  “Not that clear-cut. Everett’s not totally conservative and Anne’s more cautions. On the other hand, Chris was all for no-till. I mean all for it. Dove in completely. Not just no-till, either. He had all sorts of things he wanted to change and tried to do it all at once. Nothing gradual or measured. You’ve got to be an optimist to farm, but you’ve got to be realistic, too. Realistic and frugal and keep a good reserve on hand and keep your credit in good repair.”

  Not that different from how Vanessa made sure Zeke-Tech operated, with backups and cushions and contingency funds to weather tough times.

  “How much of a mess did he leave Anne?” he asked.

  “A major mess. On top of everything else, the spring before he died, it was wet. He tilled to try to dry the soil, get seeds planted. Short-term solution that undid whatever he’d accomplished over the previous years.”

  That explained what Ned had told him at the auction.

  “Has Anne made it work since he died?”

  “Better, but hanging on by the skin of her teeth. And that was before this past harvest.”

  “Okay, I know they were harvesting in November. That’s late, right? Were they the only ones?”

  “November is late, especially the end of the month, and most farmers around here were in the same boat. But it hit Hooper Farm harder.” She held up a hand. “I’ll come back to that. Harvest was late because the whole year was a mess. Not the sort you’d hear about on national news — not a dust bowl or major floods — just the kind that can drive a farmer out of business. A wet spring — always raining at the wrong time — seed couldn’t get in the ground until late. The summer was cool. A few hot spells, but not what we normally get, so everything grew slow. With me?”

  He nodded. “Late planting, short growing season.”

  “And then a double whammy. Wet fall and a really early freeze.” She nodded, answering the question he hadn’t asked. “Hit Hooper Farm hard. Killed half their beans — soybeans — because they weren’t mature. The good thing is they plant more corn than beans.”

  “I hear a but in there.”

  “We’ll get to that. The fields not hit by frost were just coming ready for harvest. Soybeans stay pretty well if they don’t have to stand in the fields too long. Everybody went hot and heavy, because more rain was coming. The Hoopers’ old equipment broke down. Anne tried fixing it, then improvised with even older equipment, but… Eventually a couple folks finished their fields and headed over to help. Just as the rain came. Hard.”

  “No harvesting in rain?”

  “Not soybeans. They take the whole plant, and when beans get wet, the stems get ropey and tough. Like a wet mop in the combine. Can’t get through them. Plus, there was flooding.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Why didn’t I know this? All that should have made an impression on me. I was here. I was right here in Drago and I don’t remember people talking about what was happening.”

  “You weren’t here the whole time.” She shrugged. “But would you have cared? Sorry, Quince. I don’t mean to be harsh, but are you sure people weren’t talking about it? Or was it a matter of it not registering? Isn’t that the way it is with most things? I mean, people in Drago focus on farming because it’s all around us, but would we care if the price of, uh, microchips went up? At least before Zeke-Tech mattered here. Can’t be aware of everything. There’s just too much.”

  He knew she was right. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling he’d failed somehow by not being aware?

  Hell. Not just failed for not being aware, but for not being out there hand-picking soybeans in the rain … as if he knew the first thing about soybeans.

  “Okay. Let’s leave that. What’s the rest of the bad news?”

  She sighed. “The corn crop. You can harvest—”

  “Hey,” Zeke said from the doorway. “Aren’t we going to eat?”

  “In a bit. I’ll finish telling Quince about corn harvesting and then we’ll eat.”

  Zeke turned away, then back. “Oh, yeah, I came down to tell you because I could smell it in my office, something’s burning.”

  “Burning?” Darcie jolted up and ran.

  “It’s smelled that way for a while,” Zeke called after her. To Quince he said, “We need to talk about construction. And Vanessa’s after me to get after you about the next five-year plan. So, no talking about corn harvesting at dinner.”

  *

  Zeke stuck to his edict.

  There was conversation beyond construction and the next five-year plan, but none on farming.

  With dinner — only slightly charred — and cleanup over, Quince said he needed to get back to Hooper Farm.

  He was partly thinking of the early risers there, but he’d also picked up undercurrents that Darcie and Zeke favored an early-to-bed night … though sleep did not seem high on their agenda.

  At the door, Darcie said, “You need to talk to Jennifer for the rest of the story.”

  “I could come back tomorrow and—”

  “On duty,” she said. “Suck it up and admit you were wrong and she was right. She won’t make you grovel nearly as much as I would.”

  *

  “Do you have time to talk?” Quince asked from Jennifer’s office doorway.

  She gestured him to a chair. “Some. Though Anne will be here soon.”

  “Why would you assume…?” He let it die at the light in her eyes. He shook the snow off his coat, dropped it onto one chair, and sat in the one closer to her desk. “Josh, Zeke, or Darcie?”

  “All of them. Mostly Darcie. She mentioned groveling.”

  He grinned. “Consider me prostrated at your feet. You were right. I have stumbled and bumbled and screwed up.”

  “My, you don’t hold back on the groveling, do you?”

  “Not when it’s well earned.”

  She generously let him off the hook. “Darcie said you were asking about the harvest.”

  “Corn, in particular. Darcie told me about the soybeans and was starting on corn when dinner intervened.”

  “You can harvest corn in wetter field conditions than soybeans, because you don’t take the whole plant. The issue is the position of the ear. An ear of corn starts upright. As it matures, it drops — droops actually, and the shucks shed rainwater
, protecting the ear. If the ear doesn’t drop, rain runs in, and the ear rots. Or they can drop off the stalk prematurely in some weather.”

  “Good God, how does anyone stay in business?”

  “Pure cussedness. Though sometimes that’s not enough. Last fall, the problems weren’t over even when they’d finally harvested. If the crops had gone directly into the silo they’d have rotted — with double, nearly triple what the moisture content should be.”

  “There has to be a way—”

  “There is. Grain dryers at the elevators. Soybeans it’s not too bad — they blow air through them with no extra heat. But corn… Fuel’s needed for heat, so it’s not cheap. The corn was so wet it cut drying efficiency by eighty percent. With demand way up and efficiency way down, the elevators had to prioritize. They waited to charge their best customers until after they sold their corn, but since the elevators heard Chitmell wouldn’t give Anne credit…”

  “So the Hoopers came in with a much reduced crop, late in the season, with limited funds to pay for drying and — what else?”

  “Transport. Maybe they could have caught up if they’d had an eighteen-wheeler to haul crops. As it was, Anne must have made a thousand trips with everything she could get in that truck. Well into December.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “The perfect storm. Doing its best to drown the Hoopers.”

  “But there’s also how the county is changing with Zeke-Tech’s arrival and—” She broke off, said under her breath, “She’s here.” Then louder, “Anne, come in.”

  Anne came through the door, already turning a glare toward him.

  Jennifer stood. “Excuse me for a moment, you two. I have to check in with Jorge in the shop about parts.” She was gone in a flash.

  Anne went around the desk and took Jennifer’s chair.

  “What are you doing here, Quince?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. Why might I come to Stenner Autos?”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders lost their tension. “You’re getting a car to replace the most impractical vehicle in the county?”

  “Actually, I’m considering a truck.”

  “A truck? You?”

  “Why not me?”

  “I don’t see you in a truck.”

  “You have seen me in a truck. One you were driving. Though I can’t say I’d be sold on the same model.”

  She snorted. “I bet not. You’d probably go for leather seats and all the latest tech do-dads available in a pickup.”

  He rose and put his coat over his arm. “I would insist on all the latest tech do-dads and leather could be practical for wiping off the dirt. But I was not thinking of a pickup.”

  “You said a truck, so—”

  At the door, he turned his head to look at her. “I’m considering an eighteen-wheeler. To haul crops.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  He was gone and Jennifer was back before Anne had recovered.

  “Oh, darn. Quince left. I was hoping— Anne? What’s the matter?”

  “That man is crazy. Do you know what he said?”

  When she finished repeating the exchange, Jennifer was silent a beat, then started laughing. Laughing hard.

  To her surprise, Anne joined in.

  It felt good, even though she had the uneasy feeling she didn’t know exactly what she was laughing at.

  *

  Quince rolled to a stop in front of the bank.

  Widely separated snowflakes drifted languidly onto the windshield.

  Had it been Anne’s antipathy toward Chitmell that had given him such an aversion to the man? Bob’s own unappealing ways? Or something else?

  Instinct honed from business dealings for Zeke-Tech, maybe?

  And what about that thought he’d had connecting Chitmell and his father?

  What was that instinct telling him about the man?

  Out for himself.

  Working an angle.

  Trying to put one over.

  Possibly a side issue, but worth a check. Now, who—

  A soft beep came from behind him. Not a full-throated hostile blare like he’d get in most cities, but a gentle, questioning, Are you aware you’ve been sitting there awhile?

  He waved apologetically at the driver behind him — Mrs. Mudge, the woman who babysat for Josh Kincannon’s kids — and drove into the next block, where an angled parking space gave him a safe place to scroll through his contacts list.

  There it was, one of his many former assistants.

  But he didn’t make the call.

  He’d been trying so damned hard to look for ways to give the Hoopers what they wanted that he’d stopped operating as a problem-solving COO who dug for facts, faced them, and moved on from there.

  Strip the wishful thinking away, and he could already see the outlines of reality. A reality that wasn’t going to conform to their wishes no matter what he did.

  The best he could hope for was that it would give them what they needed.

  He hesitated, then hit a familiar number. “Brenda? I need help.”

  “I’m busy,” Zeke’s assistant said, predictably, “and you have a perfectly adequate assistant of your own, who—”

  “I know. This isn’t for Zeke-Tech.”

  Silence.

  He dared to go on. “I need to have conversations with top farm consultants — crop farms, specifically. Preferably ones who know the area around Drago. Also real estate experts and an accountant or two. And I need them all fast.”

  “This isn’t for Zeke-Tech?”

  He knew what she was doing. And he’d pay the toll. “It’s not. It’s personal. I’m asking you for a personal favor.”

  After that call ended, he made the one to his former assistant.

  *

  “Snow’s coming down hard now. Roads are bad,” Everett said when Anne answered her phone. “I’m staying here in town. At Peggy’s.”

  Anne could swear she heard a giggle in the background.

  Yesterday’s haphazard snow had organized into growing accumulation.

  But the roads weren’t that bad. Quince had made it home — to the farm — in his little car.

  “Okay,” she said. Because what else could she say?

  “Don’t want to ask anyone to go out in this,” Everett added, as if he knew she wasn’t really buying it. In fairness, that made sense. Anyone who brought him out to Hooper Farm would then have to drive back to town.

  “I’ll call you if I’m not going to make it back in the morning.”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  She stood with the phone in her hand. If she didn’t tell Quince, he might not realize…

  She needed to get a grip on herself.

  She should have laughed at Peter Quincy III when he’d made that outrageous claim of looking to buy an eighteen-wheeler.

  She should not have let her heart thud so hard when she’d recognized him in Jennifer’s office.

  She should treat him easy and breezy.

  Or…

  Maybe she should tell him the truth.

  “Problem?”

  She jumped, spinning around at Quince’s voice behind her.

  “Whoa. Didn’t mean to scare you. Wondered if the call was Everett, if he’s having trouble with the weather?”

  “No — I mean, yes, it was him, but no trouble. He’s staying with Mrs. Richards because of the roads.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah, uh, listen, dinner’s going to be real simple. Soup and toasted cheese sandwiches. I’m, uh, I’m going to go up and take a shower first. Been out in the barn and, uh…”

  “Okay.”

  “Won’t take me long.”

  “Okay.”

  *

  She came out of the bathroom in her zipped-up mid-calf robe, pulling the scrunchy out of her hair.

  And stopped.

  Quince was at the other end of the hall, just outside the door to his room, holding a folder.

  Just standing and looking at her.<
br />
  She burned.

  Right there. Right then. Whoosh. Full cinder mode.

  Her lungs pumped, her heart hammered, her legs shook as if she’d been running for miles.

  If she turned and went into her room, that would be it. She knew that. He wouldn’t follow.

  Her hair had drifted down to her shoulders, but her hand was still raised.

  She dropped the scrunchy, then slowly, deliberately lowered her hand to the robe’s zipper.

  She unzipped it to her waist.

  The material didn’t separate much, but she felt the cooler air seep in, tightening her nipples.

  Then Quince was striding to her. The folder spun off toward the hall table, missing, and spilling on the floor.

  He was to her, his hands sliding in the opening, around her, bringing her up against his hard body, his lips on her forehead, her chin — ah, her mouth. Their mouths open, seeking and meeting.

  Then he pulled back.

  “Anne—?”

  “Don’t ask. Don’t let me be a chicken. Not now.”

  He chuckled a little, low and hot. Then he pushed back one side of her robe, bent and took her nipple in his mouth.

  “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  “Just for a minute,” he promised.

  Oh, he was carrying her. Into the bedroom. Door slammed shut behind them with one foot. The bed rising up as he lowered her down, coming with her.

  She pulled at his clothes, his shirt, his belt, his zipper — hers had been so easy, why was his so hard.

  Ahh, so hard. Him. All him.

  And then hers wasn’t easy anymore.

  It didn’t zip down all the way, it was one of those you stepped in to. Or out of. How was he going to…?

  He pulled. Something ripped a little. Fine.

  As long as he came back and… But he wasn’t back. What was he doing? Oh.

  “You’re kidding? You had a condom in your pocket?”

  “Condoms. Plural.”

  “That sure of yourself?”

  “No.” He was over her now, kissing her. “That determined not to be an idiot for your sake.”

  “I suppose I should say—Oh— Thank you.”

  “I think you just did.”

  He held his upper body up with his arms, bending to once again kiss her nipples.

  “You’re…” She swallowed. “You’re inside me.”