Heartwood (A Kissing Tree Novella)

By Nicole Deese

Abby Brookshire's world is turned upside down when the historic tree she's strived to preserve as the head groundskeeper at the Kissing Tree Inn is put in danger of removal. Making matters worse, the only way she can ensure its protection is to partner with the man who broke her heart years ago. Will she have the courage to move on from the past and start a new beginning?

Heartwood is a sweeping novella from contemporary romance author, Nicole Deese.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781493424993

Nicole Deese

Nicole Deese is a full-time lover of humorous, heartfelt, and hope-filled fiction. She is the author of the Love in Lenox novels, A Cliché Christmas and A Season to Love, as well as the Letting Go series and The Promise of Rayne. When she’s not writing sweet romances, she can usually be found reading near a window while sipping a LaCroix. She lives in small-town Idaho with her handsome hubby and two sons.

Book preview

Books by Nicole Deese

Before I Called You Mine

All That Really Matters

NOVELLAS

Heartwood from The Kissing Tree: Four Novellas Rooted in Timeless Love

© 2020 by Nicole Deese

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4934-2499-3

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Jennifer Parker

Author represented by Kirkland Media Management

To all those who have lost someone precious and are brave enough to love again.

This story is for you.

Contents

Cover

Books by Nicole Deese

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Sneak Peek of All That Really Matters

About the Author

Back Ad

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;

he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.

Psalm 34:18

one

A tittering laugh sailed under the arch of the rose trellis and ribboned through twenty rows of alpine-white wedding chairs to where Abby Brookshire crouched in the west garden, tidying up from her meticulous pruning before guests arrived. With her hands full of trimmings, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see today’s groom sweep his blushing bride into his arms and plant a flirtatious kiss on her mouth. It was a display she’d seen countless times over the years, and yet it never failed to press against an emotional bruise that refused to heal, no matter how much time had passed.

As the photographer rotated around the blissful couple like paparazzi, capturing every angle of their magazine-­worthy poses, Abby focused once again on the azaleas she’d been tending to. She had no doubt that all the pictures taken today at the Kissing Tree Inn would be stunning. After all, she’d been told most of her life that this particular wedding destination had once been voted eighth on the coveted Top Ten Most Romantic Venues in Texas.

But Abby knew a secret even the most intuitive bridal magazine editor did not. The magic found in Oak Springs had less to do with a romantic inn and everything to do with the nature surrounding it.

She brushed the dirt off her knees and stretched the stiffness from her back. Having been raised on the inn’s twenty-­six acres, her familiarity with each patch of grass and flowering plant was equal to that of the cozy two-­bedroom groundskeeper’s cottage she’d grown up in with her father. Even now, as she gazed over the expanse of manicured lawns and groomed walking paths, her recollection of the hide-­and-­seek games played in the bushes after school, and creek frogs captured on scorching summer days with the Malone boys, and applesauce jars stuffed with seedlings and planting soil were as vivid as they were visceral. And it was those memories, those past heartbeats of happiness and stability, that would keep her here forever. No matter how tempting the offer. Or how tempting the man who had dared to make such an offer.

Gingerly, she bent to pluck a twig from between a row of yellow tulips and tossed it into her wheelbarrow. She traipsed along the stepping-­stones her father had laid nearly two decades prior, her trusty rubber half boots leading the way. Unlike most females in their midtwenties, Abby’s shoe selection wouldn’t fit the majority of social occasions attended by her peers. No, her fashion choices followed one simple motto: If she couldn’t wear it in a garden, it didn’t belong in her closet.

Mindful of the pre-­ceremony photography session taking place on the south side of the property, she worked her way east, past the river rock water feature, a row of juniper trees, and the flowering golden dewdrops dotting the path to the creek—­all locations that ticked like clockwork in Abby’s mind: eight, nine, and ten. Her father had trained her to visualize the land like the numbers of an incongruent clock face: "If you follow the sequence of the clock, no flower, bush, or plant will ever be neglected."

As she rounded the greenhouse and approached twelve o’clock on the property, her grip on the wheelbarrow handles tightened, as if by that action alone, she might prevent the one memory she wished she could forget more than all. But the ruggedly handsome face who appeared in her mind each and every time she reached the massive live oak near the front of the inn would be as impossible to erase as this century-­old landmark would be to uproot.

The instant she stepped beneath the oak’s sprawling branches, she jerked the wheelbarrow to a stop, her eyes straining to make sense of the scene before her. Neon yellow caution tape wrapped the circumference of the oak’s thick trunk. A swaying branch overhead caused her attention to shift to the shadowy figure climbing high into the tree’s crown.

What in the world? Abandoning the wheelbarrow, Abby jogged toward the man standing on the opposite side of the oak, the one dressed in a sleek business suit and taking pictures of the area with his fancy new iPhone. Bradley, the eldest son of the Malone family line—­and the inn’s newest owner—­had become a daily test of patience for Abby.

Bradley, what’s going on? She didn’t bother with the formality he preferred while in earshot of their guests. He may be her direct boss now, but their childhood history made that easy to forget, especially when said history included him stranding her in this very tree without a ladder during the summer of her sixth-­grade year. If not for Bradley’s slightly older, slightly more attractive cousin tackling him to the ground until he apologized and retrieved the ladder, she might never have found the boldness to stand up to him. But Griffin had always been the Malone to push her to be more. Because Griffin had always believed she could be more. What’s with all this caution tape? And who’s that up in our tree?

He released a weighty sigh, as if the very thought of having to interact with his head groundskeeper exhausted him. As I’ve already told Annette, incident reports are time-­sensitive. Insurance adjusters don’t wait on wedding ceremonies.

Ah, Annette. So that’s why his mouth looked as if he’d been sucking on a sour candy for hours. Not only was Annette the best wedding coordinator in their town, she was also Bradley’s ex-­wife, an unfortunate combination for everybody employed at the Kissing Tree Inn.

Wait, does that incident report have anything to do with the teen who fell and broke his arm last weekend? Because that was clearly his fault; he was the one who ignored the No Climbing sign and—

Doesn’t matter, Bradley said, as if he were chiseling the words out of granite. The inn is still liable for his fall. At least, that’s what the stack of medical bills on my desk tells me. With a frustration that seemed ever present these days, he glanced up at the climber, who was tying off on a higher branch.

Abby breathed through her nose and tried to tap into the diplomatic tone her father had mastered in tension-­filled moments. Okay, well, while I can understand your frustration over the unexpected medical bills, you still have a responsibility to follow protocol. A conversation she’d had with him multiple times regarding the oak. The county’s Live Oak Protection Act is very particular about requesting proper clearance for climbers, and it’s even more particular about hiring certified arborists only.

I’m aware of the protocol, Abby, he said dryly.

So then you’re also aware that the fines for noncompliance can be upwards of ten thousand dollars?

Since Bradley’s parents had retired from the inn last year, there had been plenty of tighten-­the-­purse-­straps budget meetings, especially when it came to anything he considered expendable or extraneous. Often, her groundskeeping budget fell into this category. She’d already had to switch to a lesser fertilizer, and her small staff had been reduced, not to mention her ignored requests for new gardening tools. So if he was upset about the costs of a broken arm, then a fine from the state wouldn’t bode well for any of them.

I won’t get fined.

The arrogance in his voice heated her blood. Being a Malone won’t keep you from a citation. The rules are in place for a reason—­to protect one of our town’s most precious historical landmarks. The Malone family might be one of the most reputable families in Oak Springs, but not even they could outpower a more than one-­hundred-­fifty-­year-­old oak tree.

He’s certified, he continued.

What?

My climber. Bradley flicked his hand north.

She squinted through the setting sun’s glare. She didn’t recognize the man’s gear or his profile. What company is he with? Because I’ve never seen that logo before. And Abby was fairly certain she knew every certified arborist within a ninety-­mile radius of Oak Springs. Not to mention the one arborist who moved far outside that ninety-­mile radius two years ago. But most importantly, Winston Hawks, the older gentleman who had serviced their tree since she was a young girl, was still back east, visiting his ailing mother. And what exactly is this guy supposed to be doing up there, anyway? Our next pruning isn’t scheduled until June.

Bradley closed his eyes and massaged his right temple. And something about that gesture reminded her of when they were kids, back before braces had fixed the gap between his two front teeth and before LASIK had fixed his nearsightedness. Do you realize what could have happened if that kid’s parents had decided to sue us?

Yes, but even if they’d tried, there were too many witnesses to—

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. And do you have any idea how much the average pruning invoice runs us on the oak these days? Or any of the extra costs associated with the specialty irrigation plans and climbing equipment for its unusual height and width?

As he spoke, a branch snapped from somewhere near the top of the crown and pinballed its way to the ground, shattering upon impact.

Well, no, but I—

We can’t afford it. Not ten years ago, and certainly not now. His pause caused her to hold her breath. The very preservation act you seem so fond of places one hundred percent of the financial burden on the property owner. And yet I have next to zero rights when it comes to making decisions about the property I own surrounding this tree, or regarding the tree itself. Not without facing a severe penalty.

Cold dread crept up her spine. So what are you saying?

I’m petitioning the council for a removal.

"You’re what? Her voice was little more than a squeak, as if with that one pronouncement, he’d yanked all the fight right out of her. A removal? But you can’t . . . you can’t do that. She wracked her brain for an argument, anything that might appeal to a stuffy businessman like Bradley Malone. The inn is called the Kissing Tree Inn. It’s integral to every part of your branding and one of the key reasons we’re booked to capacity every wedding season. Every bride wants