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“I should come out there, bring Ebersole and maybe Wainwright,” Pete Sutherland said. “They’ve both played the course at St. Andrew’s, you know. Eight-hundred acres is not something you want to negotiate on your own, Max. No offense, but we’ve been at this game a lot longer than you have.”

Max was offended. Lately he was offended every time he talked with Sutherland or one of his investment buddies, who thought a grasp of civil engineering and complicated budgets resulted from walking manicured golf courses.

Sutherland and his usual gang of idiots were the primary reason Violet Hughes had been able to torpedo the Poplar Cove development three years ago. Sutherland had taken over the microphone at a public hearing, and good-old-boy condescended to a woman who’d rained down facts and figures like a Maryland thunderstorm.

The zoning board had listened, the locals had smirked all the way to the feed store, and Max had kept Sutherland at arms’ length from any transaction of significance since.

“It’s a simple deal,” Max said, switching the phone to his other ear so he could use his mouse. “We’re buying the land, straight up. The preliminary appraisals are done, the deed is clean, the only dickering to do is over the price. If you bring half your posse, you’ll spook this guy.”

A few hours of high-dollar cyber-research confirmed that Elias Brodie was what Max aspired to be—an international businessman. His origins might be Scottish, but his home turf was any conference table where assets and revenue were under discussion. Brodie had turned around more than a few not-for-profits, and his own resources included an earldom, an honest-to-God castle, some sort of baronial lodge, significant land, and an amazingly diverse and green portfolio.

“You sure we can’t talk him into a contingency?” Sutherland asked. “A ninety-day exclusive? We’re prepared to be generous with regard to earnest money.”

A deluge of emails had assured Max just how generous, but Brodie wasn’t a fool. Earnest money was spare change compared to the sale price. Max scrolled through a search of images from Aberdeenshire, Scotland, the terrain bearing a close resemblance to western Maryland.

Pretty, in other words. Low mountains, rolling fields, plenty of surface water, beautiful vistas. Some of the best salmon-fishing streams in the world flowed through Aberdeen. Too bad nobody had thought to develop that land.

“Max, are you listening to me? If you can’t close this deal on Tuesday, the guys and I will have to look for another project elsewhere.”

“Just printing out the last of the preliminary appraisals,” Max said. “They all came in within a five percent range, which makes the pricing simple.”

“You’re offering too much,” Sutherland said. “I’m telling you, Max, start out low. First rule of business. Start out low. Costs you nothing, earns you respect from your opponent. What time is this meeting?”

The meeting was tomorrow morning, which meant Max would endure at least three more calls from Sutherland, possibly some from his co-investors, none of whom knew how to use a nail gun, much less how to develop a piece of land without getting sued.

And Pete’s threat—close tomorrow or the investors would walk—was anything but casual.

Down the hall, Bonnie and Derek were having their first argument of the week, and abruptly, Max had had enough. Enough micro-management from the privileged buffoons pulling his strings, enough putting up with bickering co-workers, enough balancing everybody’s ego but his own.

Time for a little walk-away posturing. “I’ve been thinking, Pete.”

“What have I told you about thinking?”

“Do we really want to get involved up to the neck with yet another residential development?”

A pause ensued, while Pete probably closed the game of solitaire he’d been losing. “What are you saying, Max?”

Get off my back. “We’ve done housing developments, nice ones, but this is the same old, same old. You wanted a project that would boot you into the big leagues. Is this it? Sediment and erosion control, curb and gutter, metes and bounds. It’s the same drill, only larger, and we have no guarantee that the zoning board will play nice-nice come public meeting time. Maybe we should keep looking.”

“I don’t have time to keep looking,” Sutherland retorted with gratifying alacrity. “The tax man cometh, Max, and that means the revenue has to be invested. Eight hundred acres is not the same drill. Nobody else has built anything that size that far out from D.C. and Baltimore, and I thought you said a strip mall was a possibility?”

“Be a lot of off-site road improvement,” Max said, though every development of any size required modifying the highways and intersections in the immediate area.

“Like that has ever stopped us? You don’t understand money, Max. You have to spend money to make money, and this deal has money written all over it.”

“I always make you a healthy profit,” Max replied, while the argument down the hallway escalated. “I’ll make you a healthy profit on this project too, but next time around, let’s think outside the box, Pete.”

“As long as you bring in the money, you can think in a geosynchronous orbit over Disneyworld. Let me know how the meeting goes.”

He hung up, and Max placed the receiver back on its cradle. The projects Max managed for Sutherland had been very profitable, because Max did not believe in building junk. Shoddy work cost a lot more to replace—or to litigate—than it did to get right the first time. His subcontractors either played by that rule or worked for somebody else, and the eventual buyers were willing to pay for value.

And yet, the notion of turning eight-hundred acres of farmland into yet another well laid out, pretty, inviting, instant neighborhood should have pleased Max more than it did—a lot more. Violet Hughes would dig in her heels as only Violet Hughes could, and she’d dog the construction phase like a bad rash. Telephoto lenses came to mind, and injunctions, and stop work orders.

“For God’s sake, Derek it isn’t your coffee maker. What part of asking permission don’t you understand?”

Bonnie wasn’t merely irritated. She was furious. Max shoved away from his desk and headed for the kitchen.

“What is wrong with you, Bonbon?” Derek held a cup of coffee in one hand, the scent suggesting he’d helped himself to the good stuff. “It’s Monday. Mon-Day. A little joe to start the day is the American way, and the purpose of a coffee maker is to make coffee. I thought you wanted me to keep a fresh pot going for you?”

He imbued the last suggestion with lascivious intent, which was as disgusting as it was pathetic. Max got out his phone, and swiped it into video recording mode.

“This coffee maker was sitting underneath my desk,” Bonnie spat. “The coffee was in my shoulder bag, and that means, you got into my personal space, and my personal effects to help yourself without permission. That’s stealing, Derek.”

Derek apparently hadn’t sensed Max lurking behind him in the doorway, or Derek was stupid enough not to care that he had an audience.

“You are the most uptight, controlling bitch,” Derek retorted. “So I helped myself to your damned coffee without asking? Why don’t you get laid and chill out? If you’re that hard up, we can leave the lights out and I’ll make an exception to my no pity-fucking rule. Either that, or find another job, Bonbon. I don’t need your PMS on top of everything else I have going on.”

He patted Bonnie’s breast and took a sip of his coffee. Patted her breast.

The guy had a death wish. Max couldn’t see Derek’s expression, but he could see Bonnie’s. He slipped his phone in his pocket, took three steps forward, and positioned himself between Derek and Bonnie.

“I’d set the coffee down,” Max said. “You don’t want to be holding anything hot when Bonnie slaps the shit out of you.”

“She knows better than to assault a lawyer,” Derek retorted.

Bonnie moved to stand by the door. If looks could kill, Derek would have been a scorched circle on the floor tiles.

“Bonnie,” Max said, “may I see you in my office?”

“Sure, Max.”

She left without a backward glance. Derek watched her go, his gaze fixed on her backside.

“Pack your desk,” Max said. “Don’t finish the coffee you stole, don’t bother putting on your wounded-bro act, don’t so much as sneer, or I will re-arrange your face and swear on a stack of Bibles you fell against the door. Bonnie will swear on a bigger stack of Bibles that I’m telling the truth too.”

Derek took a slow sip of his contraband brew. “Max, the white hat just doesn’t suit you, buddy. Wrong fashion accessory. If you want to suck up to a woman who thinks she runs a law office because she can type half-decently, that’s your little-dick problem. What I’m going to need you to do, though, is explain to Bonnie that—”

Max took the coffee from him, held it long enough that even Derek understood he was at risk for a scalding, then dumped it in the sink.

“Pack. Your. Desk. Leave your keys in the mail tray. Your lease agreement provides that you can be evicted for moral turpitude at the sole discretion of the lessor, who would be me. Go, and go quietly, or you’ll wish you had.”

Derek leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, the soul of nonchalance. “Are you threatening me, Max? Over a cup of coffee?”

A phrase Max’s mother had used came to mind: He ’s dead and he won’t lie down. “I’m evicting you, and if need be, I’ll start the legal proceedings, and have the sheriff’s deputies here putting your worldly goods in the street. Bonnie is taking the rest of the day off, recovering from a migraine. You are finding a new address.”

Max left Derek slouched against the kitchen counter, trying to look sophisticated and amused, and failing.

“You OK?” Max asked, when he’d closed the door to his office. Bonnie sat at the table by the window, dry-eyed and composed, when she ought to be ranting and throwing things.

“I can’t work here anymore,” she said. “I’m sorry, Max, and I might need some unemployment and a reference, but you saw… I can’t believe he did that. I can’t—”

Her chin quivered, and Max wanted to throw something fragile. He got out his cell phone, and queued up the video.

“You are filing a sexual harassment claim, and you will sue for damages, Bonnie. I can’t represent you because I’m a witness, should Hendershot be stupid enough not to settle. His father will likely pay any amount you name, but it won’t be enough to save Derek’s license to practice law.”

Bonnie watched the vignette, her expression clearing. “Did I ever tell you that you are my favorite rat bastard lawyer in the world, Max Maitland?”

“Rat bastard lawyer is an oxymoron to some people. I’ll file a complaint with the bar association, and by this time next month, Derek Hendershot will be in very, very hot water.”

Bonnie reached for a tissue and replayed the video. “He really is awful. You’re going after his license to practice law?”

Max watched the images of Derek petting Bonnie’s breast. To create a stink like this in a rural jurisdiction now, when a major project was about to come to life, was bad timing. Max couldn’t get the hell out of Dodge when he’d need to work closely with the zoning board and find office space here for his engineers and accountants.

“I won’t have to go after his license to practice law. Bar counsel will investigate, interview us both, watch this video, and probably give Derek the option of surrendering his license voluntarily. I’m doing the citizens of Damson Valley a favor.”

Which would earn him not one iota of support for his project.

Bonnie passed him back his phone. “Max, are you OK?”

Well, no, he wasn’t. He was in the unenviable position of seeing his wishes fulfilled, and being less than impressed with the view. Damson Valley was crying out for development—beyond doubt—and the Hedstrom property was a terrific place to start the process, despite Violet Hughes’s perch across the road.

But the project would take years to see through, the job would be uphill every inch of the way, and most of the money would go to a bunch of smug, lazy bastards whose idea of work was carving the Christmas roast. Max would get a good salary out of it, and another paragraph on his resume, and that would be…

Max emailed the video to himself and to Bonnie. “You ever get bored being a legal admin, Bonnie?”

“I’ve been bored for about twenty years, give or take, but I’ve also been able to pay my bills. That was the front door slamming.”

“Derek has been evicted,” Max said. “A moral turpitude clause comes in handy, even if it’s largely unenforceable.”

Bonnie’s smile was downright diabolical. “You know what the best part is?”

The best part would be… Max wasn’t sure what the best part would be. Hundreds of families would have beautiful homes in a beautiful setting, the local economy would grow significantly, job security would improve for the service sector, and tax revenues would give the local government options it couldn’t dream of now.

And not one person would thank Max Maitland for making it happen, though like Bonnie, his bills would be paid, and that mattered a very, very great deal.

“The best part is my bills will be paid, too, Bonnie.”

“Nope,” Bonnie said, getting to her feet. “The best part is, if Derek wants to contest my complaint, or appeal the ethics findings, not a single attorney in this town will represent him.”

“You’re right,” Max said. “That is a cheering thought. Can you call a locksmith or shall I?”

“I’ll be happy to,” Bonnie said. “As it happens, I know a guy with a lock and key service. He’s kinda cute too, and a first rate dancer.”

Bonnie sashayed out, ready to boot scoot new locks onto the premises, while Max surveyed his office. The flowers were all but shot, only the last blossom on each stem retaining its appearance. Tomorrow’s meeting with Brodie called for fresh flowers but the farmers market wasn’t open on Mondays.

“To hell with it,” Max muttered, tossing the flowers into the trash. “Brodie will sell, for the next five years I’ll work my ass off making Sutherland another few million, and Violet Hughes will hate me worse than ever. What’s not to like?”

Monday arrived, and as the day wore on, Violet realized Elias would not be making an excuse to stop by. Over the weekend, Elias and various Knightley brothers had tended to all the repairs and maintenance that basic ability, power tools, and hard work could see to. Niels Haddonfield would get after the barn foundation over the next week.

Where Violet was supposed to get the money to replace windows she did not know, but that was the sole item remaining on the insurance company’s list.

The little blue hybrid tooled around the bend, and Violet’s heart leapt. What did it say about her, that she wanted to see Elias one more time, even if he sold his farm to Max Maitland, headed off to Scotland, and never set foot in Maryland again?

Which was exactly what he ought to do, from his perspective.

The compact turned up Violet’s drive, bringing the dogs to attention. Both Sarge and Murphy had started the day with a romp in the creek, and were consigned to the front porch until they dried.

Violet had joined them in their exile, to stare at the empty property across the road and wait for the phone to ring.

Jane de Luca got out of the car, looking professional and tidy in a forest green ensemble of slacks and a blazer. People who worked in offices dressed differently on weekdays. Farmers dressed for work every day.

“Good morning,” Jane said, coming up the steps. “Do they bite?”

“They’re wet,” Violet replied. “They either shake all over your clean clothes, or stink you into submission. Sarge, Murphy, stay.”

“I like dogs,” Jane said. “I like cats too. That guy could be Wallace’s brother.”

Bruno sat on the porch railing, looking pleased with himself, as usual.

“He’s an orphan from Elias’s farm, abandoned by the caretaker. Is everything all right?” Jane was a lovely person, and family to Elias, but she was also a lawyer and making a house call in her lawyer finery.

“I wanted to ask you the same thing,” Jane said. “Elias and Dunstan are supposed to meet with Maitland tomorrow. That has to be just about killing you.”

“Have a seat,” Violet said, because the thought of that meeting was killing her—forget just about—and Jane wasn’t here in a lawyering capacity. “Can I get you some iced tea or lemonade?”

“How about half and half?”

“With or without ice?” Elias drank his cold beverages without ice, for no reason Violet could discern.

“Without,” Jane said. “This valley is truly beautiful.”

“Odd, how we notice what we care about only when it’s slipping from our grasp.” Violet went to the kitchen to pour the drinks, also to triple check her phone for missed calls. Jane was on the glide-a-rocker when Violet returned to the porch, Bruno sitting beside her.

“Thanks,” Jane said. “So, you’re OK with Elias selling his property to Max Maitland?”

What must it be like for Elias, to be bunking in with a pair of lawyers who were also family?

“I am not OK with it,” Violet began, pacing the length of the porch. She’d repainted the porch herself two summers ago, a big, dirty job that had nonetheless improved the appearance of the house significantly.

“I’m here to buy eggs, by the way,” Jane said. “Dunstan nearly decided to come along, but Elias is closeted with him this afternoon going over figures and contract language.”

“Maitland sent a draft contract?” That would be like him, prepared down to the last detail. In anybody else, Violet might have admired such thoroughness.

“Violet, sit. Your wandering around is making me queasy, and you don’t want to know what comes after queasy these days.”

Violet sat, so Bruno was curled between her and Jane.

“Maitland did not send a draft contract,” Jane said, holding the sweating glass against her cheek. “Elias has a zillion tradesmen swarming his castle, and some of them were already under contract to Zebedee. Dunstan has the contract law gene, so he’s reviewing the documents with Elias, pointing out trouble spots and oversights. In at least two cases, Zebedee signed the tradesman’s version of the contract with no modifications, and that’s not good.”

“When my dad died, we had the same sort of mess. What was the estate bound by, what was dischargeable due his having passed away? It was awful.” And then the life insurance company had played games that only James Knightley at his most ruthless had been able to foil.

Now here was Elias, having to wade through a similar mess.

“Did Elias tell you about the roof over the long hall?” Jane asked.

“No, but I’m guessing it’s not good news.”

Bruno hopped down, sniffed each dog’s nose, and then leapt from the porch to the grass. The day was slipping away, and still, Violet’s phone hadn’t rung.

“If I were a mouse,” Jane said, “I’d hide but good. Dunstan claims if you have a cat preying on the mice, you’re less likely to be troubled by snakes looking for the same—”

Now, when Jane de Luca sat two feet away, Violet’s phone rang. She’d switched the ringtone to The Farmer in the Dell, after yesterday’s discussion with Christina. 

“Answer it,” Jane said. “I’ll just enjoy my drink and the lovely view.”

Violet swiped into the call, cursing the timing. “Max, thanks for returning my call.” She didn’t bother sounding cordial. This was business, something at which Max Maitland excelled.

“Violet.”

Good, nobody intended to indulge in farcical small talk. “You’re meeting with Elias Brodie tomorrow regarding the sale of his property. I have a proposal for you.”

Jane shot her a look worthy of Bruno when the dogs tried to steal his food dish. What the hell?

“I’m listening, Violet.”

“You want to develop the Hedstrom property, and I hate the very idea. That farm is the largest agricultural parcel in the valley, with first rate soils, excellent topography, a clean environmental bill of health, and good surface water.”

“All of which makes it well suited to development,” Max countered. “People have to live somewhere, Violet. Why should your cows be the only ones to enjoy that view?”

Max’s question was probably his idea of rational debate. It only sounded like baiting.

“I don’t have cows. If you’d paid attention on your little fire-setting sortie, you’d know that.”

“What fire-setting sortie?”

If he’d sounded indignant, Violet might have dismissed his query. He sounded cold—very, extremely, menacingly cold.

“This winter, somebody set my woodpile on fire, which could have easily sent my barn up in flames, and possibly spread from there. I happened to be home, and have frost free spigots in the barn yard. I was able to put out the fire. I know what you’re capable of, hence my proposal.”

“Somebody set a fire on your property? You’re accusing me of arson?”

“I did not accuse you of arson because I didn’t see the fire set,” and Violet did not want to discuss past vandalism, no matter how vicious or dangerous. “You play dirty, I know that. You also build half-decent projects.”

Jane rose and perched on the porch railing, as if she’d put distance between herself and the conversation. Would that Violet could do likewise.

“I build excellent projects, and I do not play dirty. If you called simply to antagonize me, then we’re done talking, lady.”

They weren’t talking, they were negotiating. “So you didn’t set the insurance dogs on me, demanding that I bankrupt myself doing five years of maintenance in sixty days—half that maintenance cosmetic rather than structural?”

The silence on the other end of the line was interesting. “Your policy is with Brethren?”

Why had she hoped Maitland had nothing to do with her problems? “Yes, unless they dump me for failure to turn this place into a family farm postcard. If I lose insurance coverage, I will be non-compliant with the terms of my mortgage. The bank will accelerate the loan, and I’ll be out one farm. If that’s not playing dirty, Max, I don’t know what is.”

Murphy rose and sniffed at Jane, who petted his mostly dry head gingerly. Because Murphy was a dog without shame, this encouraged him to wag his tail, and bump his nose against Jane’s hand.

Antifreeze tasted good to dogs, though it also killed them. Anybody who’d set a fire, and see a mortgage unfairly accelerated would leave a dish of antifreeze out in a discreet location frequented only by farm dogs.

Violet could not best such an enemy.

“I play hardball,” Max said. “I do not play dirty, and neither do you. Brethren, however, is apparently positioning itself to be bought, so they’re harassing their policy holders into minimizing the risk of claims. If they jerk your policy, the mortgagor will put you into a forced coverage pool, which will probably result in reduced premiums.”

“And?”Violet had forgotten that Maitland was a lawyer by training, but he wore the role well.

“And the forced coverage insurance will pay off your mortgage in the event of a catastrophe, but it won’t do anything to help you rebuild. The mortgage companies have learned that too much foreclosure isn’t a good thing, and the insurance companies feel the same way about making too many payouts. You won’t lose your farm over Brethren’s wish list.”

Violet would ask James to verify that conclusion, though James would probably charge her for doing the research.

“Why would I believe you, when accelerating my mortgage would be a perfect way for you to add my farm to the Hedstrom development?”

“So don’t believe me, but my grasp of Maryland property law is probably the best you’ll find. Moreover, I don’t want your farm, not right now.”

Relief, cautious and pathetic, coursed through her. “What’s wrong with my farm?”

“You are ornery,” Maitland said. “I mean that as a compliment, though I don’t expect you to believe a word out of my mouth. I don’t want your farm, because buying eight hundred acres on spec is a big enough risk without adding your property to the pile. Every acre I buy is another acre that might have once been a dump, a colonial grave yard, a pit for tossing out old paint cans and weed killer. I also want to be able to sell these lots as having scenic views, and with you as a neighbor, I can be certain at least the eastern boundary of the property will never be developed. I do not want your farm, Violet.”

“Good, because I’m not selling it to you.” And according to Max, the bank wasn’t foreclosing either.

“You won’t sell to anybody else, which suits me fine. What’s your proposal?”

“I hate that you’re developing arable land, but that’s what you people do.”

“I hate that you people can’t compromise, can’t be reasonable. An awful lot of land is arable, given enough time and attention. The desert can bloom, Violet, and all it takes is some creativity and determination.”

And money. Lots and lots of money.

“I can make your project wither,” Violet said. “I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. I can muster the thousands of people who read my blog to join me. You’ve seen me motivated, Max. You haven’t seen me dig in my heels, and put everything I have into wrecking your party.”

“You’re welcome to try. I’m making an offer on the Hedstrom property, Violet. I don’t scare easily, and this is exactly the kind of project my investors are looking for.”

Was it the kind of project Max Maitland was looking for? Violet hadn’t the luxury of asking him.

Jane shifted again, this time perching at the top of the steps. Joan, the big alpha ewe, had gotten out somehow and was feasting on Violet’s lawn. In about ten minutes, Joan would make her way to the garden.

“Sarge,” Violet said, putting a hand over the phone’s mike. “Take Joan home.”

“I beg your pardon?” Maitland said.

“One of my sheep is loose, so I’ll make this quick. You offer Elias Brodie top dollar for his property, and I will not oppose your development, absent environmental dirty tricks on your end.”

“I do not play—” Another interesting pause. “Say that again.”

“Offer Elias Brodie top dollar for his property, and I won’t oppose your development, absent—”

“I got that part, and I’m the last guy to do anything shady, Violet. Shady only results in trouble, and my investors would be very certain I was the one doing the time, while they profited from the crime. What do you consider top dollar?”

Now they were truly negotiating, and Violet sensed victory within her grasp, which meant defeat was at hand too.

“I’ve got good friends in the agricultural preservation office, Max. They didn’t violate any confidences, but they spent the morning sending me a lot of information about appraisals recently done on comparable properties. I know what the Hedstrom property is worth per acre to a developer, and you will pay that amount, and no less.”

Jane was moving again—the woman could not keep still—down the steps, following Sarge in the direction of the fugitive ewe.

“I can offer a good price,” Max said, “but why do you want Brodie to sell to me?”

“Oh, I don’t. I want him to stay here and become a farmer, to attach himself to the land as firmly as I have, to keep you and all your kind out of my valley.”

“And I want you to go back to Scotland with him, leaving me to bring civilization to the wilds of Maryland, free of your backward, obstructionist, manure-scented…. You were saying?”

“To a farmer, manure smells like prosperity. I hope my new neighbors get that. In any case, I want you to buy the property from Elias Brodie because you are the devil I know. Your developments win awards, the buyers aren’t flipping their homes within two years of moving in because the roof leaks, the basement floods, and the appliances don’t work.”

“What is the rest of the reason? Why should I trust you to keep your word, Violet? Why not hold me up for every dime I can scrape together, then fight me every step of the way?”

Valid question. “Because I need Elias Brodie to go home to Scotland with enough money in his pocket to save at least one of our castles.”

Violet should have conducted this negotiation face to face, because Max Maitland was given to silences. If he laughed at her, she’d at least be able to hate him in good conscience for the rest of her life, and she’d make good on her threats. To the best of her ability, she’d fight his project.

“Violet, if Brodie has in any way threatened or—”

Of all the men to turn up with a chivalrous streak. “I ’m threatening, Max. You either pay Elias Brodie what his farm is worth, or I’ll wrap your project in so many hearings, injunctions, lawsuits, and investigations, it will be the last project you’re hired to develop. I will delight in ruining your career.”

Sarge was having a discussion with Joan, about moseying back toward the other sheep, who’d congregated along the fence. The dog put himself directly in front of Joan, sank his front half close to the grass, and yipped at the ewe.

She stomped a front hoof, and snatched another mouthful of grass, then retreated a few feet. Jane watched all this from a few yards off, as did Murphy, who’d bestirred himself to get off the porch.

“I will delight in opening Damson Valley to development,” Max said. “If it’s any comfort to you, the size of the project I have in mind should saturate demand in the area for at least the next ten years.”

Violet rose, because the ewe would not hop back into the pen the way she’d got out. She was a sheep, and sheep logic required that somebody hold the gate for her.

“You don’t get it, Max. I’m not in this fight for ten years, or twenty, or thirty. I’m in it for seven generations and beyond, and every one of those generations has to eat. Make Elias a decent, good faith offer, and I’ll fight my battles elsewhere, while you destroy the garden in our mutual back yard.”

Jane got the gate, Sarge escorted Joan back to the herd, and thus an ovine jail break ended.

“I will offer Brodie fair market value for his land, as is, where is. No contingencies other than a guarantee of clear title and an absence of toxic waste on the site. Certified funds payable upon signature.”

That was more than Violet could have hoped for—no escrow, no waiting period, no inspections. Elias would have the money he needed virtually in hand when he got off the plane in Scotland.

“Then we have a deal.”

Violet ended the call, then took a picture of Elias’s property. The property was beautiful, and wanted only some love and attention to make it shine. Flowers on the porch, some yard work, a cat…

Jane approached, her expression severe. “Lucy, you got some splainin’ to do. I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you intend to interfere with Elias’s sale, then you will have two lawyers, one of them Scottish, the other Italian, making your life difficult. I don’t think you want that.”

Jane was so fierce, so loyal. Violet had been loyal too—to Elias.

“Will you attend the meeting with him?” Violet asked.

“Dunstan is going.”

“Then let me explain what Dunstan should expect, and I want your promise that if Maitland gets at all weasely, Dunstan will grab Elias by the elbow and walk out of the meeting.”

Sarge and Murphy trotted back to the shade of the porch. They were dry now, but they still stank like happy farm dogs.

“If anybody should be grabbing Elias Brodie by the elbow,” Jane said, “it’s you. Tell me what you’ve done, and don’t bother prettying it up. You’re a woman in love. That means you don’t apologize to anybody for the choices you make. I’m a woman in love and expecting a baby. I don’t make apologies either. I don’t suppose you have any brownies?”