Where Love Grows

Give her tai chi any day; it was more her style. No scoreboard to let her know how far along the game was. From the looks of the tall redheaded coach—Ryan MacIntosh, she knew from one of the parents—it had lasted too long already.

Still, MacIntosh seemed to remember why they were here. A few minutes after one girl scored on her own net, he stopped to give high fives for effort when his team managed to recover a turnover.

He looked even better in real life than he had in the few photos she’d dug up on the Internet. He didn’t look like the brain trust of a complicated farm scam.

At that thought, her father’s words when she’d said as much came back to her:

“Becca, remember, he’s a crook. A scammer. You’re just buying into the stereotype that crooks look like crooks.”

MacIntosh had that going for him. With his red-blond hair and his muscled legs that showed off a tan darker than usual for guys his coloring, he certainly didn’t fall into the Wanted-poster category. He was good with the kids, patient. She’d seen him break up a fight earlier. He’d handled that well. Odd for a guy who didn’t have kids of his own.

Becca had made it her business to find out all she could about Ryan MacIntosh before she’d arrived. Thirty-two. Never been married. No scrapes with the law. He’d graduated with an associate’s from Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College and a bachelor’s and a master’s from University of Georgia. Then he’d taken a sales position with an agriculture chemical company. Moved to middle Georgia to run his grandfather’s farm after his grandfather’s death the year before.

The farm had been in his family for five generations. On it, Ryan MacIntosh had grown soybeans, corn and cotton. Lately, though, it seemed that MacIntosh’s chief crop was desperation.

Right now, the farm was the smallest in acreage owned by any full-time farmer in the county—and in the past it had been in tax trouble. She’d turned up a few closed-out liens, as well.

Yup. Ryan MacIntosh was a desperate man.

And, according to her dad, probably a crook, even if he did give peewee-soccer players high fives.

The game played on with Ryan’s Bulldogs taking a beating at the hands of the Blue Devils. Had he chosen that team moniker out of loyalty for his alma mater? What did a person do with a degree in agronomy, anyway?

“Hey, shove that Thermos over and have a seat. This thing could take awhile.”

Becca glanced over at the dark-haired guy with the cast. “Really? I figured it was just about over.”

“Nah. We got started late—the referee stood us up. I’m Jack MacIntosh.”

She moved the Thermos and reached over to shake his hand. “Becca Reynolds. Any relation to Ryan?”

“Sure, first cousins, but we’re more like brothers. Ryan hadn’t mentioned meeting any ladies.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she thought how Ryan was not going to like meeting her in the slightest. “We haven’t actually met.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh. One of those online deals?”

His words made her feel a little guilty as she thought about her own Rooster—whom she owed an e-mail and hadn’t had a chance to pay that debt since she’d been researching MacIntosh and the other players in this scheme.

“No. This is business.” Becca fished out a card and handed it to him.

“Reynolds Agricultural Investigations.” Jack looked up from the card, a chill in his eyes. “You’re what? A hired gun for a crop-insurance firm?”

Becca had seen that chill before. Farmer types didn’t much care for her or her dad.

At least he didn’t make a cutesy remark about me investigating how many peppers Peter Piper picked. “I’m a private investigator. I work as a consultant for the insurance company that covers several of the farmers in this area, yes. I wouldn’t say a hired gun—”

“I know about people like you. I own an insurance agency.”

Her alarm bells started jangling. “Crop insurance?”

He laughed, a derisive snort. “You kidding? You can’t make any money selling crop insurance in south Georgia. No, strictly homeowners and auto, as well as life and a few health-insurance policies.”

Becca nodded, staying quiet to see what else Ryan MacIntosh’s cousin would volunteer. She didn’t have to wait long.

“So why are you investigating Ryan?”

“Who says I’m investigating your cousin?”

A shadow fell across her, and Becca looked up to see the man in question standing over her.

“Hand me that stack of cups, if you don’t mind.”

Ryan’s voice was clipped. She picked up the requested cups and extended them his way.

He knelt down beside her to get a refill. The hair on his muscled forearms glinted golden in the late-afternoon sun, and his T-shirt clung damply to a well-sculpted set of pecs that indicated he lifted something besides bales of hay.

He downed the sports drink and crumpled the cup in his hand. Rising to his feet on those marvelous legs of his, he stuck out a hand.

“I gather you’re looking for me. I’m Ryan MacIntosh.”

His clear blue gaze unsettled her. She felt heat rising in her face, struggled to remind herself that he was the one who should be on the defensive, not her.

“Becca Reynolds.” She started to reach for another card, but Jack reached up and handed Ryan the one she’d just given to him.

It was telling that Ryan didn’t even look at it. He never took his eyes off hers. Funny. She’d have sworn that a man with his coloring would have had green eyes.

“Richard Murphy told me somebody would be sniffing around. You already inspected his farm?”

“No. I thought I’d start with yours. I called ahead, and a lady gave me directions here, said I’d find you at the rec department.”

“That’d be Mee-Maw.” A small trace of pain flickered over his features. “She’s my grandmother—our grandmother. She’s nearly eighty-five.”

“Really?” Becca chose to ignore his veiled hint to back off in deference to his grandmother. “On the phone, she sounded younger than that.”

“Longevity runs in our family. Right, Jack?” But again, Ryan never took his eyes off Becca’s.

“Yup. Gramps worked that farm till the day he died—and he was eighty-six when he passed on.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” Becca said.

Again pain crossed Ryan’s features. Truth be told, Becca did feel a stirring of remorse. She hated the way the firm’s investigations caused so much collateral damage.

But as her dad so frequently reminded her, they simply exposed the ugly truth people tried to hide. They weren’t the ones who’d created it. No, that lay at the feet of scammers.

Like this guy?

But he looks…honest. Direct. Straight.

“You want to see the farm now?”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Get it over and done with,” Ryan agreed. “I hope you like chicken-fried steak. That’s what Mee-Maw is cooking for supper.”

Panic bubbled through Becca. Getting up close and personal with the family of her target wasn’t in her plans. It was better to avoid all the messy touchy-feely stuff that could cloud an investigation. That was her father’s mantra.

The beauty of analyzing satellite images was they couldn’t charm the pants off you.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

But Becca’s attempt to politely decline Ryan’s invitation was met with a decisive shake of his head. “Mee-Maw would count it a personal insult if you came at suppertime and didn’t stay to eat. Besides, if you’re gunning for me, you’d best get a little nourishment before you get started, because it’s going to be a long and thankless job.”

[e-mail]: No four-star lodging for me. The mattress is like concrete and the walls are so thin that I can hear people scurrying around in the next room.

[e-mail]: Sure it’s people? Could be a mouse, you know.

[e-mail]: Well, you’re comforting!

[e-mail]: How come a farmer’s daughter is afraid of a little ol’ mouse?

[e-mail]: If you could see the size of the cockroaches in this place, you’d be scared, too.

[e-mail]: Where are you? Chernobyl?

[e-mail]: Waaay in the backwoods, not a Starbucks in sight.

CHAPTER THREE

BECCA TRIED TO TAMP DOWN the adrenaline buzzing through her as she sat on the rough wooden bench. The second half of the soccer match was coming to a close now. She could tell by the way the parents were folding up their chairs and gathering up drink bottles.

If Ryan MacIntosh shared any of her nervous anticipation, he didn’t let on. Instead, he kept his attention on his soccer team and didn’t spare her a glance.

She discounted the flutter shimmering through her. Nerves. Way too much was riding on the outcome of this investigation.

My sweaty palms have nothing to do with that hunk on the field. He’s a target, remember? At best, he’s a material witness. At worst…

She’d know more once she had a look at his farm. Confident, wasn’t he, to invite her out for a drop-in visit? But then, he had mentioned Murphy.

Richard Murphy had made a killing off of the weather the past few years. If he didn’t suffer through a drought, then it was spring rains. If it wasn’t the weather, then it was a bad lot of seed. Murphy was an inveterate frequent flyer of the crop-insurance programs. She knew that from the dossier the insurance fraud guys had put together for her dad.

Any friend of Murphy’s should be suspect in Becca’s book.

Beside her, Jack lumbered to a standing position, balancing on his crutches. When she would have helped, he forestalled her with one derisive look.

Right. She was the bad guy.

A blond-haired little girl dashed up. “Daddy! Daddy! Did you see the goal I made? I did it!”

Ryan came up behind the girl, ruffling her hair. “Next Mia Hamm, yes, sir. Jack, you and Marla may have that retirement problem solved after all.”

“I won’t stop the IRA contributions just yet,” he told Ryan. A quick telltale glance toward Becca, and Jack added, “Uh, call me, okay? Let me know how things go.”

Ryan didn’t bother with circumspection. He eyed Becca openly. “How it’s gonna go is she’ll get the nickel tour, Mee-Maw’s chicken-fried steak and then adios, amiga. Because there’s nothing going on for her to find. Is there, Jack?”

Jack shifted. Becca couldn’t decide whether the shift was to accommodate his leg or a sign of his discomfiture. “Right,” was all he said.

Ryan grabbed the five-gallon beverage cooler. “Ready? Or do you know the way?”

“I have a map, but I’ll follow you. Need a hand?” Becca reached for the cups.

One of his big hands scooped them up before she could retrieve them. “Not from you, I don’t.”

He marched off toward the gate. Becca looked over at Jack. “Is it just me or is he always like this?”

Jack shrugged. “The ladies around here tend to think he’s hot stuff. So I’d figure…it was you.”

She followed Ryan to the grass parking lot. He was busy loading the cooler and a couple of soccer balls into their mesh bag on the back of a dented pickup. The truck in all its rusty glory held her attention.

Becca had expected a big, shiny extended-cab model, fresh off the showroom floor. What she saw was a truck at least fifteen years old that bore the scars of work.

It didn’t jibe with the typical scammer’s profile.

Ryan shot her a smile that was short on any real welcome. “I’m about ready. Do you need a lift to your car?”

“It’s right here. The red Mini Cooper.”

He looked past her, toward the only Mini Cooper in the lot. Now his lips twisted a little. “That thing run on golf-cart batteries?”

She was accustomed to people teasing her about her car; Becca didn’t care. Buying that car was one of the truly profligate things she’d ever done—but her aunt would be smiling down on her for it.

Becca swallowed hard, wishing for just an instant that her aunt Mala were with her. Her father’s younger sister had adored Mini Coopers when the imports had become popular, and she’d worn red until the day she’d died of breast cancer. She’d encouraged Becca early on to be a tad whimsical. Despite her father’s pragmatic bent, Becca had to admit to succumbing to Aunt Mala’s teachings with the car.

Besides, it reminded Becca of a time not so long ago when her own business was going great guns, she’d bought her own house and the future looked bright. The car was the one thing she’d kept from her old life.

Now Becca returned to the present. “Betcha my Mini would beat your old truck.”

Ryan slid a hand over the dings and scratches. “This isn’t any old truck. This belonged to Gramps. What’s good enough for him is good enough for me. I wouldn’t bet the farm on your little Matchbox toy, not until you’ve looked under the hood of my truck.”

Maybe it was the way he’d touched the truck with such reverence. Maybe it was because he, too, let his choice of transportation be a way to connect with someone he’d loved. Whatever it was, Becca felt an immediate kinship spring up between them. For the first time, she allowed herself to hope that maybe things weren’t as they seemed.

BECCA KEPT the Mini Cooper well back from the billows of dust Ryan’s truck churned up on the dirt road. She couldn’t decide whether it would be wiser to go slow over the washboard surface and save the car’s alignment, or go fast—thereby missing most of the bumps and saving all the jostles to her neck and shoulders. They were stiff from the three-hour ride from Atlanta.

She’d stopped just long enough to get a room at the local motel, with its 1960s decor and its view of the pitted parking lot. Becca could have gotten a room at any of the el-cheapo but known motels in Dublin, but her dad had always advised to get a room close to the investigation. You picked up things that way, and you didn’t waste time in transit.

Up ahead, she saw Ryan’s brake lights pop on and the truck pull off on a narrow drive. It wound through two big pastures dotted with cows that seemed undisturbed by the truck.

Now she saw the tin roof of the farmhouse glinting in the setting sun. When she pulled to a stop, she gave the single-story house with its steeply pitched roof an appraising look.

The house was white-framed, with a deep wraparound porch graced by restrained gingerbread trim, a swing and some rockers. The biggest chinaberry tree Becca had ever seen shaded the porch. A cracked and uneven walk curved between two beds full of red and yellow and orange roses.

This could be Nana and Papa’s.

The homeplace wasn’t just like Becca’s grandparents’, of course, but the simple, unfussy style of the house was akin to many of the farmhouses in the south. Becca closed her eyes, sniffing in the late-evening air.

Yep. There it was. The redolent scent of honeysuckle.

“You gonna stand out here all night, or are you coming in?”

“Uh, sure.” Becca was embarrassed that Ryan had caught her reminiscing. She closed the gap between them. “I was just admiring the house. It’s beautiful.”

“Tara, it’s not, but I like it. Gramps built it himself, just after he came home from the Pacific theater. He was in World War II.”

“He seems to have been quite a guy.”

“He was.”

Again she heard that prickle in Ryan’s voice, that note of defensiveness. But before she could address it, the front door swung open.

“Ryan, that you? What you doing coming in the front door? Oh! You got company!”

The words, strong and vibrant and with a country twang, held a note of pleasure and came from the tall woman at the screen door. Her hair was thick and white and scooped up in a bun. Her tanned face seemed curiously smooth, except for a few deep crevices.

“Mee-Maw, this is Becca Reynolds. She’s a crop-insurance investigator.”

Amusement rippled over the old woman’s features at the sour warning in Ryan’s voice. “Well, Ryan, I guess everybody’s gotta do something to keep body and soul together. Child, come on in. My grandson did invite you to supper, didn’t he? Or did he completely forget his raisings? I sure hope you like chicken-fried steak.”

“I do appreciate the offer, but I can get something in—”

“Hush, child. You won’t get anything at all like my chicken-fried steak in town, so you might as well come on in and wash up. I was just getting ready to put it on the table, so you can get the ice in the glasses, how ’bout that?”

Ryan grinned at Becca. “Told you. When Mee-Maw gets her mind set on anything, you might as well just go along with it.”

A hint of the supper wafted out, and suddenly Becca did want to sample Mee-Maw’s cooking.

Or maybe you just miss your grandparents. Don’t get too close, Becca.

Aunt Mala’s whimsical nature—and the promise of a good homecooked meal—got the best of her. “Sure,” she said, deliberately not looking at Ryan. “That sounds great. Just point me in the direction of the glasses and the ice.”

“C’MON, CHILD, you know you can eat more—one little piece of steak is all you’ve eaten. There’s plenty more.”

Becca shook her head. The “little” piece of steak that she’d eaten was twice what she’d needed. To go with it, she’d tucked away a mountain of mashed potatoes floating with gravy, butter beans and thick slices of tomatoes.

“No, ma’am. I couldn’t hold another bite. Besides, it’s getting late, and I’d like to take a look around before dark.”

“Pshaw, honey. It won’t get dark until nearly nine. But you two young folks go ahead. I’ll get the dishes.”

That led to a tussle between Ryan and Becca to see who would take the kitchen cleanup task away from Mee-Maw. It at once felt odd and right to Becca to think of her target’s grandmother as Mee-Maw, but that was the name the woman had insisted she use.

“It’s what everybody calls me,” Mee-Maw had said. “The only Mrs. MacIntosh I ever knew was my mother-in-law—God rest her soul, ’cause I don’t want that old battle-ax comin’ back from the grave!”

Ryan ungraciously conceded that Becca could at least assist him with the dishes. They worked in silence. His familiarity around the kitchen told her that he’d done this before.

Maybe Dad was wrong. Maybe Ryan’s not involved. I’m wasting my time here. It’s Murphy I should be going after.

According to Ag-Sure’s people, the insurance company was betting that the dodder vine had been planted intentionally. Since Ryan and Murphy had been the first in the area to submit a claim, Ag-Sure had tagged them as the most likely suspects.

Now Becca wasn’t so sure. Maybe it wasn’t a scam.

The last pot dried and put away, Ryan picked up a platter of table scraps. “Let me just feed Wilbur and I’ll show you whatever you need to see.”

“Wilbur?”

“That ol’ dog!” Mee-Maw shook her head. “He’s an old sooner that came wanderin’up last winter, nothin’ but skin and bones. Ryan found him slippin’ round the hog pen, survivin’ off what food he could steal from my sows. I named the old mutt Wilbur after that pig in Charlotte’s Web.”

“So you have hogs and cows?” Becca’s research hadn’t turned up this.

Ryan shook his head. “After Gramps passed away, the guy who helped us took off. Guess he didn’t think I could make a go of the farm. Anyway, it was too much work for one person, taking care of hogs, so we sold them. But we kept Wilbur. The name suits him—he sure thought he was a pig.”

Hmm…a disappearing hired hand. That’s a bit convenient. I wonder if this hand knew about the scam and was persuaded to get himself lost. She filed away the thought and commented, “I thought dogs weren’t supposed to get table scraps.”

Ryan chuckled. “Tell that to Wilbur—or whoever fed him scraps to begin with.”

Becca followed Ryan out the kitchen door. A big brown dog loped up the back steps. He sat down on his haunches, pawed the rough floorboards of the porch and whined.

“Here you go, boy.” Ryan dumped the scraps into a stainless steel bowl. Wilbur thumped his thick tail hopefully. “Okay, eat.”

“Wow. You’ve got him trained. My old dog would be all over me.”

“What sort of dog?”

“A collie. We lost her to cancer last year.”

“We? You’re married?”

Was that disappointment she detected in Ryan’s tone? Becca shook her head. “No. I live with my dad. Kind of weird, I know. But it’s just been me and him forever—my mom died when I was young. It’s his firm that I work for—so we just, um, decided it was simpler to live together. Makes it simpler.”

Becca hoped she hid her shame at having returned home.

“Hey, you’re talking to a grown man who still lives with his grandmother.” Ryan shrugged. “I did the single-bachelor deal and the roommate deal and the live-in deal…and, you know, Mee-Maw beats ’em all when it comes to cooking and sharing a roof. Besides, this way, I get to keep an eye on her. It’s been hard on her since she lost Gramps.”

Again that feeling of kinship sprang up. They had so many things in common that, in other circumstances, they might well have hit it off from the start.

Becca covered her conflicted emotions by scratching Wilbur behind the ear. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ryan look away from her face to do a discreet check of the rest of her. Her mouth went dry as he surveyed her with unabashed interest.

“Ahem, well. Where’s that nickel tour you promised?”

“Right. Let me put this up.”

She stayed outside while he washed the final dish. Back outside, he rubbed his hands together—working man’s hands, she noted, but with nails neatly trimmed and clean.

“So…where to?”

“Let me see this vine everybody’s complaining about.”

“Sure. But can we take a detour so I can feed the fish in the pond?”

“No problem. As long as I can get out of here by dark.”

She fell in step beside him, crossing the backyard to the pond that lay in a pool of golden sunset. “Oh, my. This is gorgeous.”

“Yeah. It is. The rest of the world can keep its beachfront condos—this is my favorite place on earth. Me, my hammock and Wilbur at my feet.”

Becca thought about Rooster and his hammock and his similar sentiments. Must be a man thing.

But the peaceful stillness of the pond stirred some understanding in even her restless soul. She finally got what Rooster had meant by needing a little solitude—and sitting still while you had it instead of racing down a highway.

“I don’t see any hammock.”

“It’s over there. Underneath the willow tree near the dock. See the willow that’s arched over? My cousins and I—”

Becca’s breath caught. She didn’t hear the rest of what he said. She couldn’t, not over the thump of her heart. She stood stock-still and saw afresh the pond. The house. The dog who scarfed up table scraps.

She looked at Ryan, who stared back at her with a worried expression on his face. Ryan. The target of her investigation.

No.

Rooster.

CHAPTER FOUR

“ARE YOU—DO YOU NEED to sit down? You look like you’re going to pass out. You’re not a diabetic, are you?”

Ryan’s words, as well as his hand on her shoulder, yanked her out of the swirling maelstrom of her thoughts.

Tell him. Tell him you know him.

No, you could be wrong. You’d sound like a nut, or a loser—a loser who has to go online to find someone to talk to and then doesn’t even know his name. Wait. Be sure.

But Becca was sure, to-her-bones sure. She smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “Uh, headache. I guess…the sunset?”

“Migraine?” Ryan made sympathetic noises that triggered a flood of guilt within Becca.

“My camera…I forgot it. I’ll just…walk back and get it, okay? It’s in my car.”

He would have followed her, but she waved him off. “You feed the fish. I’ll get my camera…and some medicine.”

As if to make her words true, a headache blistered forth like a blacksmith’s red-hot poker. Whether it was stress or punishment for the lie, Becca couldn’t say, but she was grateful for the time alone.