The Country Girl

By Adrianne Ambers

Lavender farmer Emily Johnson has to save her farm with its stand of native forest from becoming the next prison. She doesn’t need a citified real estate broker to arrive—uninvited. Guy Davies is determined to prove himself to his father and become his own man—by buying Emily’s farm. Expecting the farmer to be a man, he is surprised to find a sexy, shotgun wielding country girl with an angry looking dog. When a raging storm traps them, and an escaped con threatens Emily, Guy discovers that the woman he loves is more important than plots of earth. His life would have no meaning without his fabulous Country Girl.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrianne Ambers
• Release date: Mar 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310969010

Adrianne Ambers

Adrianne Ambers is a country girl who longed to travel away from the Ozark hills and streams of Southern Illinois. She got her wish by marrying her Air Force guy and living in interesting places throughout the United States and Panama. Her writing is flavored with down-home charm and worldly experience. Although she now lives in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia, she has fond memories of her life on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and Southern Illinois--thus, her love for all things Southern. Readers can find her writing (ePubs) on Smashwords and Amazon. Her favorite websites are: https://www.facebook.com/AdrianneAmbers and http://www.adrianneambers.com

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The music on the radio suddenly stopped. This just in, the announcer said. All residents of Jackson County should be on the lookout for an escaped prisoner from Hollyfield Prison.

Great, Emily muttered. Her hands stilled in the sudsy dishwater, and a frisson of alarm crawled up her spine as she listened to the escaped con’s description. Hollyfield was less than six miles away as the crow flew. With four prisons within a forty-mile radius of her farm, escapes were common. The typical escapee usually headed for the interstate highway where he hitched a ride or accomplices waited to pick him up. Although Emily knew what was typical, she was always on her guard. She couldn’t afford to ignore the possibility that a con might find his way to her farm.

Music resumed on the radio, and Emily finished rinsing and drying her dishes. She had just put the last plate away when the phone rang.

She grabbed the receiver from the wall telephone.

Hello.

Emily. This is Peggy. How are you?

Emily smiled. Her neighbor, Peggy Kelley always called when a prisoner escaped.

Doing fine, Peggy. How are you and the kids?

Oh, we’re fine, Peggy assured her. Did you hear the news about a con on the loose?

Yep, Emily said. And I promise I’ll be careful and not pick up any hitchhikers.

You’re not going out today, are you? Alarm sounded in Peggy’s voice.

Well, no, I wasn’t planning on it. I just have to go to the barn and check on the animals. Make sure they have enough to eat. I’m not going to let them out in the rain.

Didn’t you listen to the six o’clock news?

No, Emily admitted. She wasn’t an early riser like Peggy. Also, she didn’t have a husband, five growing boys and an infant daughter to feed.

The National Weather Service issued an advisory for severe weather. We’re going to have thunderstorms and wind. There’s a tornado watch in effect.

Emily looked out the window over the sink. She didn’t have very many outdoor chores. Her small flock of chickens was penned up in the henhouse. She was boarding a pair of goats and their two kids for the Kelleys until they built a new fence. Billy, Nanny and offspring were shut up in the barn. With rain starting before dawn, she hadn’t seen the sense in letting any of the animals outside.

Okay. Thanks, Peggy. I’ll listen for it on the seven o’clock news.

Peggy sighed at the other end of the line. Emily, I really wish you’d get one of those alert things. I hate to think of you living out there, all alone. Anything could happen to you.

Emily leaned against the counter top and ran her hand behind her neck.

You shouldn’t worry so, she said. You take great care of me. I’ll be fine.

It was true. The Kelleys were the best neighbors in the world. Since her great-aunt passed away two years ago, they’d hovered over her like parents.

I know you will, Peggy admitted. But if things get really bad, promise you’ll call.

Emily smiled into the receiver. Of course, I will.

And promise me you’ll let us give you a birthday party next month. Two years and no parties make Emily a dull girl, you know, Peggy huffed.

Okay, Emily agreed. She’d turn twenty-seven in April. She was getting ancient. Most of her high school and college friends were married and raising babies; or they were married and divorced and raising babies. Heaven only knew which of her divorced high school beaux Peggy planned to invite. She let Peggy rattle on for a few more minutes before interrupting.

I’d better get those chores done, Peggy. I think it’s raining harder.

So it is, Peggy said. I’ll talk to you later, hon.

Peggy finally hung up, and Emily walked across the room and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. Escaped cons and severe weather weren’t all she had to worry about. She stared at the letter lying on the crocheted tablecloth. It was written on the expensive stationery of a Chicago real estate broker. In essence, it said much the same as the previous letters she had received from the same broker: the state was going to build another minimum-security prison in her area. Would she allow them to represent her if she was interested in selling her farm?

Emily’s greatest fear wasn’t from the faceless people in Chicago who wrote polite letters. Her fear was that the farm would come to the state’s attention. If they decided it was the perfect location for a new prison, she could be forced to sell under the eminent domain law—the right of a government to take private property for public use. She might not have the option of dealing with an agency. The state could force her to hand over everything she and Aunt Vi had worked for.

Emily’s gaze swung to the holstered pistol hanging on a peg beside the kitchen door. There had been a time when the weapon only served for target practice. Pinging tin cans off a stump in the woods had been recreation. But time and the addition of correctional facilities had changed all that. Now, the gun was a necessity. She never left the house without it.

Emily shuddered with a sudden chill. She wrapped her arms across her chest and rubbed her palms against the rough denim of her sleeves. She lived with fear every day. If the state had to have another prison, they could damn well build it somewhere else.

She gave the page on the table a sour look. On the surface, the offer was a straight business proposition. Nothing to get upset about, except… The brokerage of Davies and Sons didn’t know how special this place was to her. They didn’t know how she and her aunt had worked to make their lavender farm a moneymaking proposition. They didn’t know the wonderful woman who had taken her in and loved her--just as her parents would have if they hadn’t been killed in a plane crash.

Emily pushed up from the table and went to stare out the window. The rain was getting heavier. Lightning snaked through the black underbelly of low-hanging clouds, and thunder shook the walls of the sturdy old farmhouse. She turned away, her gaze returning to the table. The last paragraph of the letter was engraved on her brain: I plan to be in the area. May I have thirty minutes of your time to tell you what our company can do for you? I will call to see if this is convenient.

Emily knew exactly what she was going to do. He can call from now until Kingdom Come and it won’t make any difference. The farm is not for sale—period!

Emily smiled as she remembered the day Aunt Vi had come to fetch her after her parents had been killed. She’d been a lost eleven-year-old girl, staying at a friend’s home, when her great-aunt appeared. The older woman stood in the hallway with her wicker suitcase sitting beside her black, serviceable shoes.

At first, Emily eyed her only living relative with suspicion. Violet Marie Johnson was a country woman who had never married, never had a child; and Emily’s future was suddenly delivered into her hands.

The family had not been especially close. Emily’s father was a doctor with a demanding practice. These demands, coupled with the distance between Aunt Vi’s farm in southern Illinois and her father’s practice in Baltimore, Maryland, made frequent visits impossible. Even so, Emily’s parents had deeply respected the older woman’s independent ways. They were proud of her farming. Her lavender was sought after and used in products made by top-of-the-line cosmetics and notions manufacturers.

However, farming had little to do with her aunt’s real mission in life. The older woman had devoted herself to preserving the tract of virgin timber that grew beyond the cultivated fields. Not many people knew about this special forest, and her aunt had been selective in who saw it. Over the years, the trees had become Emily’s cause as well. Now, she was twenty-six years old and a grown woman. The role of guardian had passed to her. Lately, it seemed like a tremendous responsibility.

Thursday. This was the day he was supposed to call. Maybe he wouldn’t. Emily had answered each of the broker’s inquiries with a polite note to the effect that she had no plans to sell, thank you. She signed herself, E.M. Johnson, which was how the letters had been addressed.

Emily slung the holster over her shoulder before donning her slicker and boots. Pulling the door closed behind her, she headed for the barn. Leaning into the wind and driving rain, Emily thought of how much more comfortable her life could be away from the farm. During the planting and harvesting, the work was hard from sunrise to sunset. She often fell asleep on the sofa—always before the news came on the television. During the winter and early spring, there were still chores to do.

Emily looked behind her to see if her shaggy dog was following. He was not in sight and she surmised that he was curled up beside the woodpile on the back porch.

Smart boy, Ranger, Emily said as she opened the barn door and literally jumped through the water running down from the roof. Instinctively, her hand slid inside the slicker, her fingers curling around the familiar hardness of the pistol grip.

Her eyes swept the interior as she listened intently for a moment. A dimly lit barn was the perfect place for an escaped con to hide out. She swiftly made her rounds of the feed and watering troughs. Billy bleated a welcome from his station on the raised center pen. Then he went back to pulling mouthfuls of hay from an open bale. Nanny and the two kids were curled together in a stall, taking a nap. There was nothing to do for them except shut and bar the door for the day.

Emily braved the run-off again as she swung the big double doors closed. Working fast, she dropped the bar into place and dashed for the house. The slicker helped, but not much. The legs of her jeans were soaked by the time the back porch screen door banged shut behind her. Ranger stood and greeted her, tail wagging and eyes shining. She spared him a few moments of petting and scratching before she resumed her tasks.

It’s not a fit day for man nor beast, she told him as she opened the kitchen door and hung her slicker and the holster back on their pegs. I guess we’re going to have to put off our walk in the woods until tomorrow—if this rain ever stops. She kicked off her wet boots and gathered an armload of wood for the fireplace. The dog followed her into the kitchen.

Half expecting a call from the unwanted broker, Emily put down the firewood on the hearth and went to check the phone and answering machine. There was nothing on the readout, so she pushed the button that illuminated the readout window. Nothing. It was then that she noticed the table lamp beside the sofa was out, too.

Oh fine, she said. She knew from experience that thunderstorms did strange things to the telephone system. However, between her walk to the barn and back, the electricity had also gone off.

Well, the phone being dead was fine with her. The city slicker couldn’t call. With this downpour, it was doubtful anyone except the most foolhardy would venture out into the country. And the storm was getting worse.

When the rain started, Emily thought that spring had finally come to southern Illinois. Now, the sky was ominously dark. Thick black clouds blotted out the light and poured forth a torrent. The wind steadily increased until it now drove streams of water sluicing down the windowpanes of the old farmhouse. Thunder echoed from the bluffs of the Little Ozark Mountains surrounding the farm.

The temperatures were chilly in March. With the electricity off, the gas furnace wasn’t of much use because it operated on a thermostat. The many power failures during the winter had made the fireplace a godsend.

Emily wondered if she might be stranded for a couple of days. The heavy rain would swell the creek that crossed her road in two places. The stone bridge nearest the house would flood right away, thanks to a family of beavers that had built a dam downstream. It was doubtful she could drive out, even with her pickup truck.

Emily laid the wood in the fireplace grate and checked the damper to make sure it was open. She lit the kindling under the logs and sat back on the carpet in front of the hearth, idly rubbing Ranger’s shaggy back.

This reminds me of Aunt Vi and how much I miss her. It’s been almost two years, and I can still hear her telling me to open the damper.

When the fire was burning well and Ranger had made himself into a big, furry doggie rug in front of the hearth, Emily turned the gas furnace to the pilot light. She checked the telephone again. Still dead!

Great! No electricity and no phone.

Next, she padded into the kitchen and took the kerosene lamps down from a shelf. Aunt Vi had called this particular shelf their ‘storm shelf’ because it held their lamps, matches, batteries, a small radio and several other items. There was a flashlight, lantern, and extra wicks, as well as candles and several bottles of lamp oil.

Emily lit a lamp and set it on the kitchen table.

Golden light spilled over the hand crocheted cloth—and the letter. She should have tossed it in the trash like all the others. Why she hadn’t, she couldn’t say. She sighed. It was too late to send a reply. Thank heavens the city slicker wasn’t coming today.

CHAPTER TWO

Fe fie fo fum; look out, Farmer Johnson, here I come. Guy Davies chanted under his breath as he steered the Jeep Grand Cherokee along the road leading to the Johnson farm. Road? It looked more like a wilderness track leading to nowhere. He wondered why, in all of his twenty-eight years, he’d never paid much attention to the tales of the Hatfields and McCoys. He should have. If they still existed, they probably lived at the end of a hellish lane like this one.

Through the slanting rain, he could tell that the local fellow at the gas station had been correct in his directions: take the third turn-off to the right. The road was about a quarter of a mile long with two stone bridges, and one of them would be flooded by now.

You should be able to make it okay, he’d said. Just keep to the high side of the ruts.

High side! Guy jerked the sport utility vehicle to the right as he felt it slide in the slick mud. He gripped the steering wheel and leaned forward, doing his best to peer through the curtain of rain and the dwindling afternoon light. He was determined not to let one obstinate farmer with a muddy, rutted road do him out of the real property opportunity of the year. He could do this!

The wiper blades whacked back and forth, valiantly attempting to clear the windshield. Guy hunched over the steering wheel, straining to see what lay ahead. As the vehicle slid down the muddy slope, he could make out a sheet of water. He had reached the