A Man Of Influence

“Nice?” Leona drew back as if she’d smelled the Poop Monster. “Two presidential candidates have slept in this room.” Said with pride and a bit of prickle, as in, “And you, young man, are no presidential candidate.”

As hotel proprietors went, Leona was among the most unwelcome. But that didn’t mean the experience of staying here wouldn’t be first-rate. There was that decadent hotel in Cancun run by a guy who didn’t like anyone. And that luxury hotel in the Rockies. The manager there had carried a shotgun everywhere, safety off. A little bristle in hotel staff added character. Maybe Harmony Valley was worth the trip after all.

“Do I need a password for the internet?” Assuming there was internet.

“The entire town has the interweb. No password required.” Leona may have been shorter than he was, but she still managed to look down her nose at him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to post something on the Facebook.”

Her comment explained why there was no website for the bed & breakfast. Chad kept his expression carefully neutral. “I suppose.”

“Breakfast is between eight and eight-thirty.” Leona walked toward the door, her steps as crisp and sharp as her words. “Eight and eight-thirty only.”

So rigid. He’d rather eat breakfast at Martin’s Bakery. “I’ll need a key.”

“To your room?” She paused in the open doorway, not even bothering to turn around.

“Yes. And the front door.”

“No.” She closed him in. Her heels echoed in the hallway.

“Not to either?” he called after her, receiving no answer. That’s when he noticed there wasn’t a lock on his door handle.

Chad smiled, got out his tablet and began making notes.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_cfafc941-dfa2-51c0-880e-ad6d4175f0ca)

“WHAT ARE YOU doing here, Sunshine?” Standing in the barn doorway, Tracy’s dad tugged off his work gloves.

“I need to paint.” Every nerve ending in Tracy’s body crackled with tension. Above her, farm tools hung—shovels, hoes, scythes, pitchforks. She indulged a quick fantasy where she chased handsome, villainous Chad out of town with a pitchfork. But fantasies couldn’t calm the need to do something, to change something, to make her mark.

She dug through some cans from the stack that was butted up against the wood wall, trying to decide what colors to use. Since the accident, Tracy painted when she was frustrated. She’d painted the small bedroom she’d grown up in—black walls and ceiling were a backdrop to a colorful, fanciful garden. She’d painted the outside walls of the barn—tomato red with rows of crops along the bottom. Who knew what she’d paint today. Or where.

“Everything okay?” As he came closer, the worry in her father’s voice was palpable. It echoed in the large wooden barn and plucked the guilt chord inside Tracy.

She hated that she made him worry. “I need to paint.” She faced her father, holding her hand out in the same way Leona had to her earlier. Her frustrations rattled unspoken words in her head—helpless, powerless, weak. But she didn’t try to give them voice, because to try to get the words out would just make her feel more incompetent.

If only she could conquer her speech challenges, everything would be all right. The town council wouldn’t dismiss her attempt at saving them. People like Chad wouldn’t ask what was wrong with her. She’d have employers knocking down her door.

“What’s the matter?” Ben Jackson stood as sturdy as ever in a brown corduroy jacket, dirty blue jeans and mud-caked work boots. His blond hair was thinning and faded with gray. Hurt filled his blue eyes. “Do you want to call Will or Emma?”

She shook her head. Her brother, Will, had married her best friend, Emma, last weekend. They were on a three-week honeymoon in Europe. “I. Need. To. Paint.” Oh, the pain of sounding like a slow, broken record. The leaves blowing across the driveway outside moved faster than her sentences.

“Didn’t that last speech therapist say you needed to use your words, not hold them in by painting?” Her father disregarded Tracy’s attempt at boundary setting and drew her into his arms. He smelled of corn husks and dirt. The comforting smells of her childhood.

Tracy squeezed her eyes shut and clung to him, fighting the frustration of Leona’s rejection and the nebulous threat that was Chad. She wanted to be the town motormouth. She wanted to shout streams of words with barely a breath in between.

Dad patted her back. “Let it out, Sunshine.”

In her father’s arms, she was safe. He was her magical rabbit’s foot. The words spilled forth easier than if she stood alone. “I want to be able to argue again.”

“With Will?”

“No.” She rested her cheek on Dad’s shoulder and stared at her great-grandfather’s tractor. Life would be so much easier if she didn’t want anything, if she didn’t long for more. “I want to argue with everyone.”

Her father chuckled. “So like your mother.” He kissed the top of her head. “Impatient. Railing at the world.”

She admired so many things about her dad—his work ethic, his ability to keep Mom relevant, his refusal to hold Tracy during a phone interview she’d had last month. She’d wanted his arms around her so she could talk smoothly. He’d argued, “They have to want you for who you are, warts and all.”

Tracy sighed. “I’d love to rail at the mayor and the town council and Leona and Chad.” Why couldn’t she say a sentence like that when she stood alone?

“Chad who? I don’t know any Chad.” Oh, how overly protective Dad got when it came to Tracy and men.

“A travel writer who came to the bakery today.” She batted his shoulder playfully, willing herself to lighten up, too. “He makes fun of people for a living. No one would listen when I tried to warn them.”

“A bully.” Dad’s tone mellowed. “You never had much patience for bullies. And if people don’t listen, it’s their fault.” He put his hands on her shoulders and set her away from him. “You weren’t meant to be a coffee barista, Tracy. You weren’t meant to hold on to your dad to be able to get words out. You need to knuckle down and figure this thing out.”

“Dad.” Were all parents the voice of one’s conscience? Tracy knew he was right. She needed to take charge of her life, but she was tired of failing, tired of the grand series of experiments to help her regain verbal normalcy. So she said sullenly, “The doctor recommended I slow down.” Like it was the doctor’s orders that she return to Harmony Valley and keep her mouth shut? She did a mental eye roll. It wasn’t as if she’d pulled a muscle and it needed rest.

“The last doctor you saw told you to slow down and find a job you love. That was months ago.” Dad checked his watch and glanced outside. The days were getting shorter and he always had a lot to do around the farm. “Don’t use me as a crutch. Use that fancy phone of yours to find work that’ll make you happy.”

She’d be happy to land a job that didn’t require a verbal interview. Was that too much to ask?

* * *

THERE WERE NO other guests at the B&B. No cars in the driveway or out back. The big house was silent. No murmur of voices. No scuffle of feet.

If Chad had been a nervous man—the kind that watched too many horror films—he’d have been...well...nervous. Nice quiet town. Welcoming residents. Prickly bed & breakfast owner. No lock on the door. It was a perfect setup for a clichéd slasher film, right down to the pretty girl leaving him at the front door.

But Chad wasn’t nervous. He was driven to overcome the humiliation and betrayal of his father and the Lampoon’s board.

In order to launch his travel review site successfully, he needed interesting places and interesting characters. And he needed them the day after the Harvest Festival, when the advertisers he’d lined up expected his website to go live. So far, Harmony Valley had interesting characters in spades. Inspired, he went in search of his hostess, poking his head in every sterile room downstairs until he found her in the vegetable garden tucked into a corner of the back yard.

Leona wore a broad-rimmed straw hat and had changed from her dress into shapeless blue jeans and a long-sleeve blue chambray shirt. She looked healthy. She hadn’t lost any of her mobility, or—it seemed—her intellect. His mother had been like this when he was in college—stubborn, independent, set in her routine.

Chad hated routine.

“You’ve got quite the green thumb.” Chad sat on a wood bench in the shade of a towering pine tree near the back fence. The wind rustled through the needles above him. He snapped a picture of the house with his phone.

Leona didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. Hale and hearty, she dug her trowel in the rich brown soil and popped out a weed, root and all. Her garden was ripe for the harvest—red tomatoes, green bell peppers, green onions and several white gourds.

He decided to test how long and sharp her thorns were. “I hope tomorrow’s breakfast includes a vegetable omelet.”

“You’ll get a meal between eight and eight-thirty, Mr. Healy.” She was as brambly as the blackberry vine in the corner. She continued weeding.

Chad tried again. “There’s no television in my room.”

She dug at a clump of crab grass. “There’s no television in the house.”

Leona was a gift from heaven. His readers were going to love her. Already, Chad could see guys booking the Lambridge B&B months in advance. They’d line up to spar with Leona.