Molly's Garden

“They did. Although it sticks in Kevin’s craw that you gave me the company.” Dave tore a loose piece of label from the bottle and wadded it into a tiny ball he dropped in the ashtray. “Business has been slow. Then two months ago I got a call from a guy we did a job for in Kuwait. He’s a new partner in Branchville Oil, based out of Corpus. It seems the government is offering big-buck contracts to anyone who can open up rich new in-ground veins. If you’ve watched any global news lately, you know the foreign oil markets are stagnant. Domestic is the way to make a killing.”

“I don’t watch much news.” Adam stepped away to get refills for the two at the end of the bar. “How does any of that affect me?” he asked on his return.

“Branchville had a chemist do soil studies for them last year. He thinks there could be a major field below a ranch not far from here.”

“So?” Adam leaned back against the bar sink and crossed his arms.

“Ranch owner refused to sell the mineral rights or to allow testing. He died and left the property to an equally stubborn woman. I talked to her yesterday. She’s as anti-oil as the old man was.”

“Tough for you. Sounds like you’ve hit a brick wall, Dave.”

“That’s why I thought of you. This could mean millions, and you have a sixth sense when it comes to making sure there’s oil and talking people out of it.”

“Money doesn’t mean squat to me now. I made more than I’ll ever need and I was wrong to let it dictate my life.”

“Well, even if you’re not interested in personal profit, think of doing it for your country. Help wean the good old US of A off foreign oil.”

Adam considered Dave’s words. Perhaps thirty months was too long to wallow in self-pity. Oil definitely used to spark an adrenaline rush for him. “This isn’t the most stimulating job. But if the landowner won’t allow testing, that’s pretty final.”

Dave pulled a folded piece of newspaper out of his pocket. “Maybe there’s another way. This morning the big boss at Branchville gave me this ad. The woman in question first ran it a week ago. Apparently the job hasn’t been filled.”

Taking the paper, Adam read the ad. “You could do this. Why don’t you apply?”

“I spoke with her, so she knows me. She’s not stupid, just stubborn. We hear she’s not well liked in the area. Not by some townsfolk at least. Word is she makes life easy for border crossers. Authorities haven’t caught her hiring or hiding illegals, but she’s a sympathizer. At the local café I found out she supplies crossers with food and water.”

“Why get in the middle of a hostile negotiation, Dave?”

“For a spanking-new oil supply.”

Adam pursed his lips and read the ad again. “Maybe I don’t qualify. Anyway, if she’s a hard-nose like you suggest, if she caught me testing her dirt she’d probably fire me on the spot or toss my body in the Rio Grande.”

Dave took another swig from the bottle. “You’re complaining to a guy who’s seen you charm your way out of many a hot spot, friend. I can tell you’re interested. Of course, I trust you have a barber.”

“Hmm. How would you figure to play this? I’ve no desire to work for Branchville or to renew my ties to Hollister-Benson Wildcatters. If I’m hired by the woman I’d want to remain unencumbered. Say I take a gander? It’s gotta be at my pace and aboveboard. No pressure from you or your people. If she refuses to deal, I walk away regardless.”

Dave circled his sweating beer bottle around and around in circles of condensation, frowning all the while.

“What’s the matter? That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“It’s just that the government offer runs out the first of July. That’s what—six weeks? Not a lot of time. It also occurs to me Branchville might be uneasy if you don’t have any skin in the game. I mean, your name is synonymous with the best wildcatter in the world. My bosses will want assurances you won’t undercut them and blow in a well on your own.”

Picking up the rag he’d used earlier to polish the bar, Adam wiped up the rings under Dave’s bottle and shoved the empty into the return crate. “I’m not signing any contract except for a W-4 tax form if the farm owner hires me. It’s your call.”

His one-time partner stared at Adam for what seemed like a long time. Finally he muttered, “Give me a napkin. I’ll draw a map to McNair Gardens. That’s what she calls it. Used to be McNair Cattle Ranch.”

“I’ll find it. And write down a phone number where I can get in touch with you if I decide it’s worth drilling there. Your people have nothing but the word of a chemist. They’re known to be wrong. Or maybe you’ve forgotten the sheikh who bet a fortune on such a report and we drilled what turned out to be a duster.”

“I remember you tried to tell him and he wouldn’t listen. There are a number of people at Branchville who think the chemist is right.” Dave scribbled a phone number on a clean bar napkin and slid it across to Adam. “Do you have to give notice here? I’d hate for someone to beat you to that truck-driving job.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll mosey on over there tomorrow and decide if I want to quit here.”

As if he knew he’d pressed hard enough, Dave slid off the stool and hitched up his pants. “By the way, I don’t recommend snooping around much in advance. The woman owns a killer dog. The Doberman didn’t bite me, but only because she held him in check. Good luck, buddy. I’ll touch base later.”

Adam let Dave go without further response. He stared at the raggedly torn-out ad and the scribbled phone number on the napkin. His drive to become a multimillionaire had lost him Jenny and Lindy, the two most precious things in his life. He’d let chasing after big bucks mean more than his family. The money still sat untapped—where it could stay.

Dave might be betting on the wrong man, though, Adam thought. He’d been out of the oil business for more than two years. Admittedly it had once been his life. Work he’d chosen at seventeen. Next week he’d turn forty-one.

But he couldn’t resist the lure of the hunt. For old times’ sake he’d have a look-see at McNair Gardens.

Looking around the bar, he knew he owed Frank a lot for this job. Frank had seen Adam’s reckless attitude toward life. Good friend that he was, Adam knew Frank would understand his desire to help out a former partner.

After seeing to the old-timers’ refills, he picked up the phone.

“I figured this day would come,” Frank Tully said. “I’m grateful you stuck around and helped out for as long as you did while I renovated the house. Diane said it’s time I get behind the bar, anyway. But, listen, if you go over there and don’t want to get involved, there’s still a job here for you. We’ll work something out. I told you my dad used to bring in live music on weekends. I’d like to do that again. It’s bound to draw crowds, so I’ll need help with control if nothing else.”

“I appreciate your friendship. I’ll take a run over there tomorrow. If the woman hires me, I’ll still need to rent your travel trailer, if I may.”

“Sure. She’d be stupid to not hire you. On the other hand, bud, you may want to lose the scruff.”

“I’ll shave and maybe get my hair trimmed. But why get gussied up?” Adam laughed. “Oh, one other favor. Will you provide a reference? Just don’t mention my past work.”

Adam finished out the night at the bar, all the while his mind straying ahead to hunting for oil again.

* * *

THE FULL-THROATED growl of a motorcycle roaring down her laneway jarred Molly from her task at hand. She stood from where she’d been kneeling among two dozen or so third-graders.

“That’s a cool Harley,” one big-eyed boy said. “My uncle had one, but it got stoled,” he added when Molly took her eyes off the biker to glance down at him.

She signaled one of her teacher helpers. “Callie, would you help them finish this row of carrots? If I’m not back by the time you finish, start on those flats of sugar peas. There’s enough for two long rows.”

“He looks yummy from a distance,” Grace, a teacher, added with a grin.

“Hmm,” was Molly’s response.

Removing her gloves, she tucked them under a sisal belt that held up her ragged jeans.

She stepped out of the raised bed and collected Nitro who’d been dozing in the shade afforded by one of several pecan trees that had been on the property since Molly had played here as a child.

The Doberman seemed to like the kids.

Adults were a different matter.

“Hello?” Molly called out to the stranger, who’d gone into the barn but then come out and gotten on his bike.

* * *

HEARING A SHOUT, Adam paused. He noticed a woman standing at the edge of a newly plowed field. She was a distance away, which gave him time to assess her and the monster dog Dave had mentioned, which hugged her side as she approached.

If she was the current property owner, she was younger than Adam had expected. Slender and willowy, she had a fresh-scrubbed face capped by curly hair, black as a moonless night sky. As shiny and black as her dog’s coat. And her gardens were more extensive than he’d pictured.

What gave him the biggest start was seeing she had young children working in raised dirt beds. Did she employ child labor?

The sound of laughing youngsters hit him like a punch to his gut. The kids looked to be about the age his daughter Lindy would be.

Last month she would have turned seven.

* * *

MOLLY STOPPED WELL short of the man seated astride his motorcycle like a cowboy sat his horse. Up close he looked big and brash in his threadbare jeans and motorcycle boots.

Edging nearer, she saw her own hesitant self in mirrored sunglasses he had yet to remove and she shivered. He held a helmet, wearing a narrow red, white and blue headband that held back taffy-blond hair curling around his ears and collar. He reminded her of a young Brett Michaels, and that wasn’t a bad image.

“I’m Molly McNair. May I help you?” She watched him unsnap a pearl button on the breast pocket of a blue Western-style shirt. She blinked as he extended a piece of paper.

The action was enough to make Nitro do something he’d never done before. He jerked his leash right out of Molly’s grasp and bounded up to the Harley.

She made a grab for him and missed. The next thing that happened was more shocking.

The man, who had yet to identify himself, stripped off his sunglasses with one hand and reached down with the other, murmuring soothingly until the dog dropped to the ground. Nitro rolled onto his back and wriggled in the dirt as the man laughed and scratched his exposed belly.

Molly’s jaw dropped. Impressed but wary, she crossed to the biker and took back her traitorous pet’s leash. It was then she saw the paper that had fluttered from the man’s hand. Her ad, torn from the newspaper. Bending, she picked it up.

“I came about the driver’s position.” The biker twirled his sunglasses by one arm. “Has the job been filled?”

Molly’s cell phone rang and she answered it before replying. It was Henry. He’d seen the man ride down the lane. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m two minutes away.”

“I’m fine. He’s an applicant for the job. Yes, I see you at the barn now. Good. I need to get back to the students. I’ll leave you to give him an application.”

“Okay.” Henry disconnected.

“My manager, Henry Garcia, has applications in the barn office.” She gestured toward the children in the field. “My class awaits.”

“By the way, I’m Adam Hollister,” the man said. He bent and gave Nitro a last few head rubs before climbing off the bike and striding toward where Henry waited.

Molly silently watched him leave. He certainly looked as if he could stand up for himself.

For the farm.

Still, she wondered about the newcomer. Adam Hollister. His eyes, more gray than blue, had roamed over her with disturbing ease. Unless that was her imagination...

Certainly the way he’d made friends with Nitro left her feeling jittery.

She wasn’t one to be smitten by the way a man looked. She’d grown up around good-looking cowboys. And she’d worked with a wide range of men in the Peace Corps.

Nothing had quite piqued her curiosity or affected her equilibrium as quickly as this brief encounter with Adam Hollister.

CHAPTER TWO

MOLLY WAVED GOODBYE to the children and teachers who’d loaded onto the school bus. For their first day at the farm they’d accomplished an amazing amount of work.

When she had first approached two elementary schools with her idea, she hadn’t expected immediate support. In her nine years with the Peace Corps she’d come to accept that every request got bogged down in tedious bureaucracy. So she’d gone to the initial school meeting armed with proof that programs of the type she proposed were successful in other areas, including in urban settings where kids grew flowerpot gardens.

Surprisingly she had found a dedicated staff already deeply worried about an excess of poverty-stricken families. She’d only had to mention that kids loved to eat what they grew and the principals and their staff were all in. In addition to arranging to transport third-graders out to her farm once a week, teachers at all grade levels asked if she might provide fresh vegetables for their Backpack Fridays, where they sent every child home with a backpack filled with foodstuffs. For some it was all they’d have to eat over the weekend.

Of course she’d agreed. But the meeting had opened her eyes to how many families in her area were in need. She hadn’t expected to hear that US families ever went without food. In truth, she’d like to give away everything she raised, but that wasn’t possible. She needed to sell enough to make ends meet and to pay her workers. She was still dipping into her savings and her dad’s insurance.

The bus stopped at the end of the lane, waiting for the automatic gate to open. After it drove out Molly watched the gate close again. She stood there thinking back to the other day when the man from some oil company had parked on the main road and hiked onto her land.

A closed gate couldn’t keep somebody out if they really wanted to get in.

She shivered.

Henry was probably right in saying the whole perimeter should be fenced. But fencing was costly. And what about the land sloping to the river? She irrigated from there. Yes she had seen people cross the river who shouldn’t. Her dad’s philosophy and that of her grandfather’s had been to live and let live. She did the same.

Now that the children were gone, she unhooked Nitro’s leash. He never roamed far from her side, but he liked being free to sniff out a rabbit or two.

“Come on, boy. I need to go to the barn to look at the latest application.” The man who’d ridden in on the motorcycle.

As she made her way to the office Molly wasn’t sure she should hire Adam Hollister, even if he ticked all the boxes. Something about him had thrown her off balance. It went beyond how easily he’d won over her dog—her supposed guard dog.

Revisiting the impression the man had left brought him squarely back into focus.

At thirty-two she could count on one hand the men who’d stirred her. A fellow Ag student in college. He’d changed his major to computers, eloped with his high school sweetheart and gone on to make his mark at IBM.

The other had been a doctor volunteering in Kenya while he did advanced studies on jungle fevers. She’d thought they’d had a future until a female physician had showed up to work as part of Molly’s extended team. Mark Lane, MD, had broken her heart when he and Penelope Volker, having snagged twin fellowships at Johns Hopkins, had left without even a backward glance.

Worse, the couple’s dual departure had left only a nurse and a nurse practitioner to care for the desperately ill who showed up at their village Peace Corps compound.

Shaking off the memory, she entered the barn and strained to see in the dim light. Nitro loped over to drink water from a big bowl they kept filled for him.

Henry stepped out from the office. “Molly, I think we’ve found you a truck driver. I checked his references and the folks he listed all said you’d be lucky to get him.”

“Really?”

He handed her the double-sided application she’d put together after placing the ad.

“Where has he worked before? Why isn’t he working there now? Or, if he is, why is he looking to change jobs?”

“He’s currently working at a bar near Catarina. For a friend. The guy said Hollister has done everything from ordering to serving to cleaning up to being his bouncer in just short of two years. He pretty much ran the place, because the owner was renovating a house. Oh, and he also said when the bar was closed Hollister picked up housing materials and helped with construction.”

“Hmm.” Molly glanced over the form. On the line about education he’d written “some college.”

“His second reference, Kevin Cole, has a Dallas address and phone number. Did Hollister work in Dallas?”

“That’s Cole’s private cell number. He said Hollister handled a lot of different projects. I asked if he could drive a diesel truck. Cole laughed and said Hollister never met a job he couldn’t handle. I gathered he lived in Dallas but worked in different places—even doing contract jobs overseas. Cole was vague. I figured it must’ve been for the government. Government guys are hard to pin down.”

Molly chewed on that. Even working in remote Africa she’d met some black ops guys. Tough men. Shadowy figures. From her brief assessment of Adam Hollister, he fit the image.

Did she want someone like him on her payroll? Perhaps she should do more of a background check.

On the other hand, she needed someone now. It was worth giving him a trial, she supposed.

“You can always fire him if he doesn’t work out,” Henry said, making Molly wonder if her thoughts were that transparent.

“I can, but you know I’m better at hiring than firing.”

Her cell phone rang, cutting off Henry’s remark. Dragging it out of her pocket, Molly saw the call was from Tess Warner, an artisan bread maker she’d met at a farmers’ market near Cotulla.

“Hey,” Molly said as she answered, gesturing to Henry that the call was going to take a while. “I haven’t seen you out and about at any markets for a while. Is everything okay?”

“Great!” Tess replied. “Has it really been that long?”

“A few weeks at least. Where’ve you been?”

“Corpus, if that counts as going anywhere.” She laughed. “I guess we haven’t seen each other since I tracked down an old friend of my grandmother’s. The woman still lives in Sicily.

“Gabriella sent me a bunch of recipes in Italian. I needed my mom and my aunts to translate them, so I’ve been in Corpus trying out the recipes and transcribing them into English.”

“I miss you! I toasted my last slice of your cranberry-pecan bread this morning for breakfast.”

“Funny, I have loaves waiting to bake. I called to invite you over and to ask if you could bring some fresh dill. I’m home and baking up a storm. If you come over, we’ll have warm bread slathered with butter and some wine my mother made.”

“How can I refuse an offer like that? I have a lot to tell you, too, Tess. My truck driver got beaten up. He’s the second one—the other guy quit on me.”

“That’s horrible. I hope you’re okay.”

“I’ve been hauling loads to markets all week in my SUV and nobody seems to bother me.”

“Just the thought is bad enough. Hey, bring Nitro. Coco misses him.”

“Wait until you hear how my big scary dog totally caved over a guy I may hire as my next driver.”

“A new man? Wonderful, I can’t wait to hear.”

Molly said goodbye and turned to leave the barn.

Henry called out, “Tomorrow we’ll have a large load. A lot of buyers stock up midweek. Do you want me to call Hollister to see if he can be here and ready to hit the road by seven?”

Frowning, Molly again scanned the application she forgot she still held.

“Do you have time to run a check at the DMV on his license?”

“Sure. You’re doing too much on your own. If we hire Hollister, it’ll free you up to do what you like best—dig in the dirt.”

“You know me too well. Okay, if his license is current, offer him the job. Did you talk to him about salary?”

Henry plucked at his lower lip. “I don’t recall him asking about money. Not usual. But he didn’t strike me as a man with champagne tastes. Know what I mean?”

“Okay. Suggest the same rate I paid Ramon. If he wants more, go up fifty dollars a week. But that’s tops. If he’s good with that and can work tomorrow, no need to let me know. If he backs out and I have to juggle my workload again, put a note on my kitchen door. I don’t know how late I’ll be at Tess’s. She’s offering bread and wine.”

“Your papa would like seeing you get out with friends your age. But he would’ve liked it better if you were going out with a young man.”

Snorting, Molly handed back Adam Hollister’s application. “Don’t you be stepping into Dad’s shoes and giving me a hard time. Maybe I’ll choose to remain single.”

The old man, who’d been like a grandfather to Molly, raised an eyebrow but ducked back into the office without saying another word.

Molly went to the house with Nitro, stopping to cut and bag stalks of dill from the herbs lining her front porch. She added rosemary and thyme to the burlap bag. That barely left time for a speedy shower.

After dressing, she worked equally fast and tossed together ingredients for a summer salad. Placing the bowl on ice in a small cooler, she pocketed dog treats and left the house with twelve minutes to reach Tess’s.

The freeway made the drive easy. Still, she was a tad late. Because her windows were rolled down, she smelled the fresh bread when she turned onto her friend’s street. There weren’t a lot of homes nearby, but the people living closest must drool a lot, she thought. Few things set a person’s taste buds tingling as did warm, fresh bread.

She parked behind Tess’s car, collected everything and clipped a leash on Nitro.

Tess had already thrown open her front door, greeting Molly with a hug as she crested the top step. Her friend’s chubby three-year-old beagle barked and dashed out to rub noses with the much taller Doberman, who acted silly again, the way he had with Adam Hollister. The big dog scooched toward Coco on his belly, uttering what could only be described as crooning. “You ham,” she accused him as she and Tess laughed.

“I thought my last batch of bread would be out of the kiln out back before you got here,” Tess said. “I’ll pour us each a glass of Mom’s sangria and we can let the dogs run in the backyard while we wait. It feels like ages since we even talked.”

“It all sounds heavenly. I’ve scarcely sat down all day.” Molly handed Tess the burlap bag of herbs and followed her through the dimly lit living room into the bright, cheery kitchen. Molly had only been here once before.

Now, as Tess poured wine, Molly opened her cooler and stored the salad in the fridge. Then she unhooked Nitro’s leash. It took about ten seconds for the dogs to dash out through the doggie door, and for Molly to wind his leash through the handles of the cooler. Straightening, she noticed the wall of floor-to-ceiling metal racks filled with cooling loaves of bread.

“You’ve been baking up a storm.” She accepted the glass of chilled sangria from the woman who was four years her junior, six inches shorter but much curvier. “Cheers,” Molly said, touching the rim of the stemware to Tess’s glass.

“I’m making up for lost time. When I visited my family as long as I did, I put a dent in my bank account. Let’s go outside.”

Tess elbowed open the back door and the smell of baking bread wafted in on the evening breeze. A red glow flickering in the domed wood-fired oven emitted enough light to make the porch feel cozy.

Molly sat on the bench that flanked a rustic table. “How do you know the right amount of wood to make bread bake at the temperature you need?”