When Love Came to Town

Deciding things were well under control here, Mick headed around the front of the huge house. He wanted to see what needed to be done with the few broken limbs along the great alley of oaks that lined the driveway up to the house from the Old River Road that followed the Mississippi River.

In the back gardens, people were buzzing around here and there. Utility workers, concerned tourists and employees of the popular bed-and-breakfast—all hurried and hustled, some of them underfoot, some of them offering to help out where they could.

But now, as Mick came around the corner and into the long, wide front yard, he looked up to see one lone figure standing a few feet away, underneath the canopy of the double row of towering oaks.

Right underneath a broken limb that was hanging by mere splinters from a massive tree.

Mick squinted, then waved a hand as he ran toward the person—who looked like a teenager, decked out in jeans and a big T-shirt, an oversized baseball cap covering his head. That cap wouldn’t help if the limb fell on him.

Which is why Mick waved and shouted. “Hey, little fellow, be careful out there. Watch for those limbs—”

The wind picked up. The hanging limb moved precariously, then with a shudder began to let go of the branch to which it had clung.

Mick didn’t even think. He just dived for the tiny figure in front of him, knocking the boy and himself to the wet ground as the limb crashed to the very spot where the teenager had been standing.

Winded and angry, Mick turned from the still-shaking leafy limb, tickling and teasing just inches from his feet, to the body crushed underneath his, fully prepared to tell this interloper to save himself and everyone else some grief by getting out of the way.

And looked down to find another surprise.

This was no boy. No teenager, either. The cap had fallen off in the scuffle, only to reveal layers of long, thick red-blond hair. And incredible eyes.

Green. A pure and clean green like freshly mowed grass—and they looked every bit as angry as Mick felt. Maybe even more angry.

“I’m not a ‘little fellow,”’ she said in a voice that moved between southern sultry and cultured classy. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d get off me. Now.”

Mick rolled away as if he’d been burned by a dancing electrical wire. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, his Mississippi drawl making the words sound too slow to his own ears.

Then he glanced over at her, watching as she sat up and lifted that veil of hair off her shoulders. It rippled and fell in soft strawberry blond-colored waves and curls down her back.

Regaining some of his anger, he said, “Well, you should have enough sense not to stand underneath a broken limb like that, little fellow or not.”

Blowing red-gold bangs out of her mad green eyes, the woman got up and brushed off her bottom, then grabbed her bright purple-and-yellow LSU baseball cap, her eyes flashing like a lightning bolt. With a long sigh, she tried with little success to pull all that hair up into a haphazard ball so she could put her hat back on. Finally giving up, she let her hair drop back down her back, then plopped the hat against her leg in frustration. “I was surveying my property. And just who are you, anyway?”

Her property. Mick gave her the once-over again, then grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re Aunt Hilda? Hilda Dorsette?”

“Hardly,” she replied in a haughty tone, still flapping her hat against her damp jeans. An expression bordering on arrogant moved across her delicately freckled face. “I’m Lorna Dorsette, her niece. And I believe I asked you first.”

“So you did,” he said, still grinning, his heart still beating hard after that near collision with the limb. Or maybe because of the beautiful, petite woman standing in front of him. Extending his muddy hand, he said, “Mick Love.”

She ignored his hand, then glanced at his hard hat, which had landed on the ground a few feet away, her neck craned as she read the bold black lettering stamped across the front. “Love’s Tree Service?”

“That’s me. Claude Juneau called us yesterday. Said you had some major tree problems out here.”

She relaxed a bit, then nodded. “Claude and his crew took care of the worst of the power lines, so we do have electricity now, at least. But they had too much to handle to bother with the tree limbs. He said he’d have to call in reinforcements from Mississippi.”

“That’d be me,” Mick said, extending his hand again in what he hoped would be forgiveness. “I’m sorry I knocked you down, Miz Dorsette.”

“It’s Lorna,” she said, returning his handshake with a firm, no-nonsense grip. “And I appreciate your concern.” Glancing over at the jumbled mass of branches and leaves behind him, she added, “I didn’t realize the limb was so badly broken.”

“Could have been worse,” Mick replied, as they turned to head back toward the mansion. “The backyard sure is bad off. It’s gonna take us a few days to get it cleared up.”

Lorna nodded again. “When I heard your trucks pulling up, I threw on some clothes and came out to supervise.” She stopped walking, then looked up at the house. “But the sight just made me so sick to my stomach. I had to find a quiet spot.”

To compose herself, Mick reasoned. Lorna Dorsette didn’t strike him as the type to burst into tears, but he reckoned from the flash of anger he’d seen in her eyes earlier, she’d gladly throw a fit or two. Yeah, she’d probably just grit her teeth and keep on going, telling everyone exactly what she thought. Even through a disaster such as this. What, besides being a glorious redhead, had made her so strong-minded? he wondered.

“I understand,” he said. “These spring storms can really do some damage, and this one was a doozy. It’s hard to look at, when it’s your own place.”

She turned back to him then, her face composed and calm, shimmering from the building early morning humidity. “Yes, but we’re blessed that no one got hurt or killed—some did in other parts of the state. We’ve mostly got property damage. That, at least, can be repaired.”

Mick didn’t miss the darkness in her eyes. Or the way she’d almost whispered that last statement. Curious, and against his better judgment, he asked, “What exactly were you doing out there underneath those big old trees?”

Lorna put both hands on her hips, then gave him a direct look. “Praying, Mr. Love. Just praying.”

That floored him. The intense honesty in her eyes left no room for doubt. And made Mick feel foolish. Most of the women he knew rarely prayed. This woman was as serious as the big trees shading them from the sun. And apparently, just as rooted. A provincial country girl. Quaint and pretty. And toting religion. Double trouble.

Which only made Mick, the wanderer, the unsettled bachelor, doubly intrigued.

When he didn’t speak, she lifted her head a notch. “Do you pray, Mr. Love?”

“Call me Mick,” he said, all of a sudden too hot and uncomfortable to be reasonable. “Does it matter if I do or don’t? I’ll still get the job done.”

Her smile made him edgy and immediately put him on alert. “Yes, it matters. Aunt Hilda will have you out in the garden in a heartbeat, reciting the ‘Lord’s Prayer’ if she finds out you don’t pray.”

“Oh, I see.” He laughed, relieved to see that she had a sense of humor right along with her sense of piety. “So you pray to impress your aunt?”

“No, I pray to remain close to God,” Lorna explained, slowly and in that voice that poured like soft rain over Mick’s nerve endings. “We have a tradition here at Bayou le Jardin. We take our troubles to the garden. And there we walk and talk with God. It’s based on my aunt’s favorite hymn.”

Okay, so he’d just stumbled on a praying, hymn-singing, petite redhead with eyes that looked like green pastures. But Mick couldn’t help being cynical. “Well, that’s nice, but what did God tell you to do about these broken limbs and destroyed property?”

She smiled at him then, and brought his heart hammering to his feet. “He told me He’d send you.”

Floored, dazed, winded, Mick couldn’t think of a snappy reply. Until he remembered he’d saved her butt from that limb. That gave him some much-needed confidence.

Glancing up at the gaping open space where the limb had once hung, he said, “And just in the nick of time, I do believe.”

Lorna only smiled and stared. “That remains to be seen, but yes, I guess you did come to my rescue back there.”

“And don’t you forget it,” he retorted, glad to be back on a human level of understanding. All this business about walking and talking with God made him jumpy.

“Oh, I won’t.” She marched ahead of him around the corner, her faded navy tennis shoes and frayed jeans making a nice melody of sounds as she walked.

The nice melody ended on the next beat, however, when she groaned and whirled to glare up at Mick. “Just what in blazes are your men doing to my beautiful gardens, Mr. Love?”

“Lorna’s out there pitching a fit,” her older sister Lacey said as she watched from the open dining room doors. “Think I should go play referee?”

Hilda Dorsette reached for her silver-etched walking cane, then slowly made her way to the French doors leading out onto the flat stone gallery. Without a word, she watched as her great-niece went nose to nose with the handsome man named Mick Love. Then she chuckled. “Good thing he’s wearing that hard hat. He’ll need protection from Lorna. She sets such high store in those live oaks.”

Lacey shrugged, her floral sundress rippling as she moved away from the window. “He’ll need more than a hard hat if he damages those gardens. I’ll be right there with Lorna, fighting him.”