Where Love Grows

“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.”

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: 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.

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Sure it’s people? Could be a mouse, you know.

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: Well, you’re comforting!

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: How come a farmer’s daughter is afraid of a little ol’ mouse?

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: If you could see the size of the cockroaches in this place, you’d be scared, too.

Rooster@yoohoomail.com: Where are you? Chernobyl?

Sunny_76@yoohoomail.com: 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.”