“Were the bookshelves Isaac’s idea?”
Jacob shifted his feet a little. “No, those were mine.”
“A house like this ought to have a library.”
“Yeah, but I like my books close at hand.”
Actually, the room felt like a library with its shelves and green lamps and its leather couches and chairs. And then she was surprised again, because next to the chair that faced the fireplace and sat under a brass floor lamp, the chair that was obviously Jacob’s favorite sat…
“You play guitar?” She sat down to admire the satiny wood of the well-worn and perfectly cared for acoustic.
He looked suddenly trapped. “Yeah, some.”
“How long have you played?”
“Oh, I don’t know, since I was about eleven, I think.”
She looked at him in amusement. “A little, he says? Twenty-five years? What do you play?”
“Oh, different stuff,” he said, drifting toward the door. “Old Creedence, roots music, some classical, some blues.”
He was uncomfortable, she realized. Solid, certain Jacob Trask was embarrassed. There was something about it that tugged at her heart. “Well, don’t walk away, play something for me.”
He stopped and stared at her. “I don’t play for people.”
“You must have played for your family, at least.”
He shifted uneasily. “It’s mostly just for me.”
“So Murph’s the only one who’s gotten a concert?”
Hearing his name, Murphy raised his head and rose from his cushion in the corner.
Jacob played with the dog’s ears absently. “Playing for other people turns it into something else. It’s not about impressing people for me. It’s just something I like to do.”
“How about if I promise not to be impressed?” Celie offered.
That had him fighting a smile. “Later,” he said, walking to the door.
“Is there going to be a later?”
His glance brought warmth to her cheeks. “We’ll see.”
The light was fading to dusk. The living room was empty but for Jacob and Murphy. The soft and somehow plaintive strains of an Appalachian finger-picking piece he’d found sounded through the room. He stopped and frowned. Play for me, she’d said. It was absurd for him to feel bashful at the idea. He’d probably sounded more than a little eccentric when he’d told her he hadn’t even played for his family. Not that he should care what Celie Favreau thought of him.
But he was lying to himself if he tried to pretend he didn’t.
Only two days had passed since he’d found her crouched at the base of one of his maples. Only two days that she’d been lurking in his mind, dancing through his thoughts. Somehow it felt as though it had been much longer. It wasn’t as though he’d never been with a woman. He knew what it was to want, he knew what it was to bury himself in the warmth and softness of a woman he cared about.
And he knew what it was to watch them leave. There was little to keep a woman in Eastmont. Most of them wanted more, most of them wanted more of him than he was willing to give. Somehow, he was never ready, perhaps because he always saw them walking away, just as Sarah Jane had walked away from Isaac.
Idly, he began playing a slow blues riff.
It was the tag end of January and the pace of his life was beginning to pick up. Winter might be the dormant season for most, but for a sugar-maker, it was when things got exciting. Suddenly, there was more work to be done than hours to do it. He didn’t have time for a bright-eyed woman with a disconcerting tendency to get him talking. So what if she made him laugh? So what if she crept into his dreams?
He knew how it went, get involved, see a woman a few times and suddenly there were obligations. Suddenly he’d find himself defending the way he lived, defending who he was. Living with Murph, he didn’t have that problem. Alone was the way he was comfortable. Alone was the way he wanted to be.
Especially this year, of all years, when it felt as if everything was piled high on his shoulders. He’d always figured he was strong enough to take on anything that came along, but he was beginning to wonder. There was so much at stake, so much to lose if he screwed up. And now with this maple borer thing, who knew what the future might look like?
Without realizing it, he slipped into a slow, mournful gospel song. When the phone rang, he let it. The answering machine clicked and he heard himself. “It’s me. Leave a message.”
“It’s Gabe. Pick up the phone.” He heard his youngest brother’s voice. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re there. Hey Murph, you there?” Murphy gave a low whine. “Pick up the phone, will ya?”
Murphy barked and with a grin, Jacob reached out for the receiver. “What do you want?”
“I knew you were there.”
“So why are you bugging me?”
“I didn’t have anything better to do.”
“You get in a fight with Hadley?”
“Naw, she adores me. Can’t stop hanging all over me an—ow,” he complained to someone in the background. “That hurt.”
“Sounds like some pretty energetic hanging,” Jacob observed.
“Don’t let it fool you, she’s crazy about me,” Gabe confided. “So what’s going on out there? You left a message?”
Jacob’s grin faded. “Some things you ought to know about. We might have trouble.”
“Trouble how?” Gabe asked sharply.
“Some USDA plant health people are poking around looking for a bug that targets maple trees.”
“Targets as in kills them?”
“Yep. Hides in the bark, girdles them and transmits a fungus so that if the chewing doesn’t kill them, the fungus will. Reproduces quickly.”
“Sounds like a nasty customer.”
Jacob reached for his coffee. “It is.”
“Has it got any of ours?”
“They don’t know. They’ll be looking.” And Celie popped immediately to mind. He frowned. “If they find it, they could wind up taking down a lot of trees.”
“How many, a lot?”
“Like acres.”
Gabe digested this for a moment. “That would suck. What would that do to your income?”
“Do the math. We’ve got a hundred acres right now, forty-five-hundred-some-odd taps. Knock that down by ten percent, it’s going to hurt.”
“Will you and Ma still be okay?”
“I assume so.” Though the uncertainty had been a constant, nagging worry ever since the maple borer situation had turned serious. “It’ll cut the shares for you and Nick, though.”
Gabe snorted. “Like we care. I’ve got a job, Jacob, and so does Nick. You’re the one working your ass off on the farm. You’re the one who should get any money, you and Ma.”
“But it’s your