After several years of steady growth, he’d predicted this season would be tougher. The plant closing had many neighbors hurting for those paychecks. So he’d been prepared to tighten his belt and do what was needed to keep his people working steadily.
However, he hadn’t predicted a call about the Old Campbell Place.
Born and raised in Kinship, Silas was as familiar with the house on the bluff as the cold cuts cooler at Garnet Grocery and every kayak-swamping submerged rock on the five miles of Payette River he considered to be his.
Judging from the call, the estate’s new owner was looking to do more than Band-Aid the grand dame of a house. And Silas was going to dazzle the hell out of that someone into letting him get his hands on those grounds.
The dog let out a sigh.
As long as a certain someone kept his breakfast down.
The road got skinnier and steeper as his truck climbed. He’d laughed when the client—Dean Jensen with those California vowels—had asked if he needed directions to the project. Everyone knew where the Old Campbell Place was.
He slowed and signaled for the turn onto the lane. Not even the camouflage of wild Rocky Mountain maple and chokecherry could hide the way.
Bumping along, he noted the fresh ruts in the mud. He wasn’t the first trade on-site. A good sign that the owner was excited to get started. He could get behind excited, he decided as the quaking aspens that seemed intent on devouring the drive thinned and the house came into view.
He let out a low whistle that had Kevin perking up.
She’d been a grand beauty in her day. Now, crumbling and sagging. But beyond the peeling paint and broken windows was the kind of charm that never faded. The grounds—he’d had a look at the site map to refresh his memory—were five acres of hilltop roll. House, garage, barn, remains of a greenhouse. Mother Nature had been busy here in the years the property stood vacant. Trees and shrubs, weeds and thistles.
She needed love. A lot of it. But the potential was there. She could rise again, given the right care…and a sizable budget. And he wanted his hands on it. Not just for the job security and that influx of cash to his bottom line. No. He liked the idea of adding his mark to this piece of local history.
Kevin let out a bacon-scented burp that pulled Silas from his romantic reverie.
“Gross, man.”
He spotted a Hines Contracting van out front and swung in next to a pickup the same make, model, and blue as his own.
“Stay put and, if you gotta puke, puke out the window,” he told his dog.
The screen door on the front banged open and then shut, and he spotted his old Little League coach exiting.
“How’s it going, Jim?” Silas called, getting out.
“Some place, Sy,” Jim told him with a grin usually reserved for over-the-fence homers.
“Sure is. I’m hoping the pockets are deep.”
“Deep and smart. Big job,” he said cheerfully. “But the owner’s got brains and vision. And best as I can tell, a decent budget, too.”
Music to the ears of the Kinship small businesses, Silas thought.
The screen door creaked open and banged shut again, and he felt his world tilt a few degrees.
The work boots were scarred and not for fashion. Long legs seemed to go on forever under a pair of battered utility pants. Curves, subtle ones, revealed themselves through a dirt-streaked tank top. Hands in pink-trimmed work gloves tossed a long-sleeve flannel over the porch railing.
Silas was already in lust before he got to her face.
Categorizing as fast as he could, he took in the sight. Sun-kissed skin, leanly muscled arms, strong shoulders. There was a softness in the heart-shaped face beneath a fringe of bangs. Loose strands in the same chestnut copper shade had escaped a short ponytail at the back of her long, slim neck and framed sharp cheekbones and a straight nose. Her lips weren’t painted, but they were lifted in the kind of smile that hinted at secrets.
“Wow,” he said.
“You okay there, kid?” Jim asked.
Silas, like the rest of Kinship’s athletic population, had been “kid” to the man since he was seven years old. “Okay doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he admitted.
Jim rolled his eyes and then turned back to the goddess on the porch. “Real nice meeting you, Ms. Nichols,” he said.
“Maggie,” the goddess corrected. She had one of those throaty voices, just a little rough around the edges. Like the rasp that came from shooting whiskey too fast. “I’m looking forward to your estimate.”
“Have it to you Monday,” he promised. Jim paused to eyeball Silas like he’d just shown up on a job site in a prom dress.