Blessings of The Heart

“If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall hold me.”

—Psalm 139:9-10

S tartled, Brianne Bailey froze. Listened. Straightened. Who in the world could be making such an awful racket?

She’d been in her kitchen, peacefully raiding the refrigerator for a quick afternoon snack, when she’d heard the first whack. Before she could determine the source, repeated pounding had built to a deafening crescendo and was echoing through the enormous house. It sounded as if a herd of rampaging elephants was trampling down her substantial mahogany front door. That, or she was being accosted by a psychopathic door-to-door salesman who knew she was there alone and hoped to frighten her into buying his wares!

Both ideas were so ludicrous they made Bree chuckle as she hurried down the hall to answer the knock. “Boy, I’ve been living in a world of fiction for too long,” she muttered. “I’m beginning to think like the crazy characters in my stories.” Which wouldn’t be too bad if I were writing at the time, she added, smiling.

The hammering intensified. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Brianne shouted. “Don’t you break the stained glass in the top of that door, whoever you are. I’ll never be able to replace it.”

She grabbed the knob and jerked open the door, ready to continue scolding her would-be intruder. Instead, she took one look at the cause of the disturbance and gasped, slack-jawed.

The man standing on the porch with his fist raised to continue his assault on her helpless door was dirty, sweaty, scratched and bleeding, as if he’d just plunged through a green-briar thicket. He was also remarkably handsome in spite of his disheveled appearance. Left speechless, she wasn’t having a lot of luck sucking in enough air for adequate breathing, either.

Her visitor looked to be in his mid-thirties, with dark, wavy hair and darker eyes beneath scowling brows. Standing there, facing her, he seemed larger than life. As if the pounding hadn’t been enough, his reddened face was added proof of his anger, although what had upset him was a mystery to Bree. Far as she knew, she didn’t have an enemy in the world.

“Can I help you?” She managed to speak.

“It’s your pond,” the man said, looking directly into her wide, blue eyes and pointing with a thrust of his arm. “It’s cut off all my water!”

Brianne held up one hand in a calming gesture. “Whoa. There’s no need to get upset. I’m sure we can work things out. Just tell me exactly what water you’re talking about?”

“From the spring. Over there,” he explained. “You built your new pond between my place and the spring.”

“My pond? Oh, dear. Did I do something against the law?”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make? By the time we finally get enough rain to finish filling that enormous hole of yours and spill over into the creek bed again, I’ll be an old man.”

Oddly, his comment amused her. She smiled, smoothed the hem of her knit shirt over her shorts and said, “I imagine that will be quite a long time.”

“This isn’t funny. I need water for my cabin.”

“Which is, I take it, downhill from here?”

“Brilliant deduction.”

Certain the man wouldn’t appreciate her growing humor, Bree fought a threatened eruption of giggles. “Thanks. I’m trying.”

“Well?” he asked, scowling.

“Well, what? I had that valley explored before I made any changes in the landscaping up here. We did find one old cabin, but these hills are full of abandoned homesteads. Surely, you can’t be talking about that decrepit old place.”

“I certainly am.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Her smile turned apologetic. “You live there?”

“I do now.”

“I see. What about your well?”

“Don’t have a well. Or running water. Never have.” He held up the bucket he was carrying. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I thought I just did.”

“Not hardly,” Bree argued. “If you’d knocked on my door politely and explained your problem we could have handled this without everybody getting upset.”

“Who said I was upset?”

She arched an eyebrow as she eyed him critically. “Some things are self-explanatory, Mr….”

“Fowler. Mitch Fowler.”

“All right, Mr. Fowler. You can take all the water you need from my well. Will that satisfy you?”

“I guess that’s my only choice.” Some of the tension left him. “My Uncle Eldon and Aunt Vi used to live in the same old cabin. Maybe you knew them.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m Brianne Bailey. Bree, for short.” She politely offered to shake hands, waiting while Mitch wiped his on his jeans. “I’m not from around here. I…”

The moment Mitch’s hand touched hers she forgot whatever else she was going to say. Staring at him, she realized that he was returning her gaze with a look of equal amazement. Now that he was no longer irate, his glance seemed warmer, more appealing. It reminded her of a cup of dark, rich coffee on a cold winter’s morning.

Brianne didn’t know how long she stood there holding the stranger’s hand, because time had ceased to register. She didn’t come to her senses until she heard him clear his throat.

“I’m sorry I came on so strong just now,” Mitch said, finally letting go and stepping away. “When I discovered we had no water it threw me for a loop.”

“I’m sure it did.” Bree eyed the bucket. “Before I get back to work I suppose I should show you where to fill that.”

“That won’t be necessary. It’s too hot to come outside if you don’t need to. Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

The mention of temperature and hair together made her unconsciously lift her long, honey-blond tresses off her neck to cool her skin. Even in shorts and a sleeveless blouse she was feeling the heat, too.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You look like you had to fight your way through a pack of wildcats to get up here. The least I can do is walk you out to the hose. Besides, I was taking a break, anyway.”

“A break? Do you work at home?”

“Yes. I’m a writer.” She waited for the usual questions about her publishing history. When they didn’t come, she relaxed, smiled amiably and pointed. “This way. I need to water the new flower beds over there again, anyway. Sure wish we’d get some decent rain. It’s been awfully dry lately.”

“I know. At first I was afraid the spring had dried up.”

Mitch stepped back to give her room to pass, then walked beside her as she led the way down the stone steps and along the path that took them around the east wing of the sprawling dwelling. In the distance lay the offending pond. Closer to the house, a bright yellow hose stood out against the green of the perfectly groomed lawn.

“You have a nice place here,” Mitch said.

“Thanks. I like it.”

“I do a little building, myself.”