“He’s moving the truck,” Lacey whispered. “Lorna, do you see?”
“I have eyes,” Lorna stated, her hands on her hips, her brow lifted. Her heart picking up its tempo.
She looked from the groaning, grinding truck to Mick Love’s gentle, gracious eyes. And felt as if the storm was still raging around her.
She had eyes, all right. But she could see right through Mick Love’s kind gesture. Kindness always came with a price, didn’t it?
And Lorna had to wonder just what Mick Love expected in return for this kindness.
Chapter Two
He had expected the strong coffee. Louisiana was famous for that. And he had expected the house to be big, cool and gracious. It had once been a plantation house and now served as an historical bed-and-breakfast vacation spot. But what Mick hadn’t expected was the fierce intelligence and remarkable strength of the three women sitting out on the gallery having breakfast with him.
Nor had he expected to be extremely smitten by the very one who’d chewed him out in two different languages not an hour ago.
But then, Mick was beginning to expect the unexpected at Bayou le Jardin.
“Have your men had enough to eat, Mr. Love?”
He glanced over at Hilda Dorsette. The breakfast of French toast, biscuits, ham, grits and eggs, and fresh fruit had been more than enough. “Yes, ma’am, I think they’ve eaten their fill. And we sure appreciate your giving us breakfast. We cranked up in the middle of the night to get here by daylight.”
“Well, we appreciate your willingness to help out,” the older woman replied as she watched several of the workers going about their jobs.
Mick gave a slight nod while keeping a watchful eye on the bucket trucks. As he watched the rookie named David spike a tree so he could climb it, he added, “Claude Juneau and I go way back. I didn’t mind helping him out one bit. Just sorry for the noise and clutter.”
“What noise? What clutter?” The teasing light in her eyes made Mick relax, even as another chain saw cranked up and went to work on cutting up a big limb.
Mick figured the noisy wenches, stomp cutters and wood chippers would frazzle anybody’s nerves. But Hilda Dorsette sat sipping her coffee as if she had heavy equipment in her fragile garden every day of the week.
Mick liked Aunt Hilda. She was plumb, petite and no-nonsense. And she was the mayor of the nearby town of Jardin—another unexpected revelation. Dressed in a bright salmon-colored casual top and a sturdy khaki flared skirt, she looked ready to take on the day. With her coiffured silver-gray hair and bright blue eyes, she was a charmer. And shrewd, too.
“I’m glad you took the time to explain the work you’re doing,” she told him. “I’ve heard of tree services and tree surgeons, of course. We’ve had a local tree expert watching over our great oaks for years now. But I never knew utility companies rely on companies such as yours to help them out of tight spots.”
With that statement, she finished the last of her coffee, then set the delicate china cup down on its matching saucer. “Since we seem to be in your capable hands, I’m going to leave the girls in charge while I let Tobbie drive me into the village to see what else needs to be done there. I’m sure the Mayor’s Office will be hopping with activity again this morning, and my assistant Kathryn is already there waiting on me. We have to coordinate the Red Cross efforts and make sure everyone is fed and sheltered. So many people lost everything.” She shook her head, then rose from the white wrought-iron chair. “I am so very thankful that Bayou le Jardin only lost trees and some of the storage buildings. It could have been much, much worse.”
Mick got up as she did, helping her with her chair. “I understand, Miz Dorsette. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“And so do you, son.” She glanced at Lorna when she said this, then turned to give Mick a knowing look.
He didn’t miss the implications. Hilda Dorsette figured he’d get the job done, if he could just convince her niece to stay out of the way.
He sat back down, hoping to do just that. Glancing from Lacey to Lorna, he said, “So, do you two ladies have any more questions or concerns?”
Lacey smiled over at him. “I don’t. I’m sure you know what you’re doing. I think the best thing we can do is leave you to your work.”
She got up, too, and again Mick did the gentlemanly thing by helping her with her chair. Lacey seemed a tad more centered and serene than her younger sister. Her smile was politeness itself.
“I have to walk down to the shop and make sure what little damage we received falls under the insurance policy.”
“What kind of shop do you run?” Mick asked, once again amazed at the Dorsette women. Except for Lorna. He wasn’t sure what she did around here, except pray and tell people off in French.
“Antiques,” Lacey explained. “The Antique Garden, to be exact. You passed it when you came in through the gate. It used to be the overseer’s cottage. We get a lot of business during the tourist season.”
“I don’t know a thing about antiques,” Mick said. “I move around way too much to set up housekeeping.”
He didn’t miss the way Lorna’s eyebrows lifted, or the little smirk of disdain on her pert face. He guessed someone as countrified and dour as Miss Lorna Dorsette didn’t cotton to a traveling man too much.
“That’s a shame,” Lacey replied, her skirts swishing as she went about cleaning the table. “I love old things. They keep me rooted and remind me of where I came from.”
Mick didn’t need anything around to remind him of where he’d come from. That’s why he kept on moving. But these lovely ladies didn’t need to hear that particular revelation. He sat silent, well aware that he should just get back to work and forget about trying to impress the Dorsette sisters.
Lacey bid them good morning, and that left…Lorna.
He didn’t have to look at her to know she was impatiently tapping a foot underneath the round wrought-iron table. Too much caffeine, he reasoned. And he couldn’t resist the grin or the sideways look. “Uh…and what do you do? How do you stay occupied?”
Lorna tossed her long flaming hair over her shoulder, still staring daggers after her ethereal sister. “Oh, not much,” she stated as she waved a hand in the air. “I guess you could say I’m the chief cook and bottle washer.”
Another surprise. “But I thought Rosie Lee was the cook. And a mighty fine one, at that.”
Mick had first met the robust Cajun woman when the trucks had rolled up over two hours ago. Apparently, she and her equally robust husband, Tobbie, helped out around the place. While Rosie Lee had introduced Mick to Emily, their teenage daughter and Tobias, or Little Tobbie, the youngest of the six Babineaux children, Big Tobbie immediately began assisting Mick’s crew in setting up. Then Rosie Lee and Emily had given everyone coffee to get them started, while Little Tobbie had badgered Mick with questions about all the big equipment.
“What’s that do?” the black-haired eight-year-old had asked, pointing with a jelly-covered finger to one of the bucket trucks.
“That, my friend, lifts my men up high, so they can get to the trees,” Mick had explained.
“Can I have a ride?”
“Hush up,” Rosie Lee had told her youngest son. “That little imp will drive you crazy, Mr. Love.”
Rosie Lee had jet-black hair which she wore in a long braid down her back, and a jolly personality, which caused her to chuckle over her words. At least