Page 7 of Her Hidden Smile

I prayed he was right.

Chapter One

March, Jasper Creek

When did I become the Good Samaritan of Jasper Creek?

Just because I helped Bertha, Aza, and a few others on the mountain, didn’t mean I was going to help everyone. Yeah, okay, so I worked on repairing the rec center. But everyone did that. That didn’t mean that I should be the one who Irving Monroe called when he was sick and needed something to be done for some helpless woman who owned an orchard.

For that matter, why in the hell did I let Jase talk me into coming here in the first place? Oh yeah, I needed a place to lay low. A place to hide.

I sighed as I tapped the steering wheel to the beat of “Ring of Fire.” Nothing better than Johnny Cash.

I rolled down the windows of Irving’s old truck and grinned. I loved this clunker. It reminded me of working in South America. Manual transmission and no electronics. You actually had to turn the crank to roll down the window. When I did, the brisk air shot into the cab and I grinned. Okay, there was a lot to like about Tennessee.

And, on the plus side, there had been the little problem Trenda had a couple of weeks ago. That was something that got my blood pumping. Working with her man, Simon, had reminded me of my brother Jase. I guess all that SEAL training made them pretty similar.

I looked down at my phone. Two miles to go, better keep my eyes peeled. I took another deep breath of the cool, fresh air. Yeah, maybe big brother wasn’t full of shit. Sending me here to rest and recuperate might have been one of his rare strokes of genius.

There was something about the look, feel, and the people that made it really relaxing. Being a hermit on the mountain had been just the trick for the first two months. Then gradually reaching out to some of the mountain folk… well that had been a kick.

I looked down at my phone one last time. I slowed down. The Randolph farm should be coming up on my left pretty soon, and I didn’t want to miss it. I crested one more little hill and there it was. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the truck. I had never seen anything this idyllic. There was the white farmhouse, the obligatory red barn, a greenhouse, and then there was the orchard. In the distance I could see a pond. I wondered what the orchard would look like when the trees bloomed.

Irv Banks had explained to me he had been working as the orchardist for Randolph Farms back when Millie’s folks had been alive. Back then, he’d just made some suggestions about what and where to plant. Like any new parents of an orchard, the Randolphs needed a lot of help. They needed to know where and when to plant and how to irrigate. Then he taught them how to ensure the trees were pollinated by bees. Later in the season, he taught them how to spray for insects and inspect the trees for disease.

The first three years, the trees didn’t produce fruit, so the Randolphs didn’t need to harvest. It was right after the fourth year that there was the house fire that killed Howard and Felicia Randolph. Their fourteen-year-old daughter, Millie, had survived. Irv had been working the orchard on Millie’s behalf until she was nineteen and moved back to Jasper Creek. The deal was that he took all the profits from the harvests while Millie lived with her aunt and uncle. Millie had been back for the last five years, but Irv had stayed on as the orchardist. He still took the majority of the profits. He offered to pay me to go out and check on Millie and the trees, but I had refused. I figured this was the same as checking on people up on the mountain.

“Hell, I guess I am a Good Samaritan.”

I shook his head in disgust.

“Should know better than that by now.”

Irv warned me that Millie was skittish around new people, so I’d have to go in soft. That wasn’t going to be a problem. I had seven sisters, four of whom had been adopted from bad situations and I’d had to coax them into being comfortable around me.

I’ve got this.

I took one last look at the beauty, drinking it in, letting it soothe my soul, then I started up the truck and went down to the farm.

When I took the left into Randolph Farms, I meandered down a gravel drive. There was a fruit stand set up about fifty meters from the house. It had plenty of space for people to park. I imagined during apple, pear, and peach season; Ms. Randolph did a brisk business with the folks of Jasper Creek. What I didn’t understand is how she would have a fruit stand if she was averse to having people in her space; that didn’t track.

When I got close to her home, I was met with a white picket fence. It was a lot higher than normal, six feet, and it had a professionally installed electronic security gate. I wondered if it was electrified. If not, it wasn’t much of a deterrent. But maybe it was just to keep the people at the fruit stand from coming to visit.

Who knows?

When I got within ten meters of her electric gate, it began to open. I don’t know if she had a sensor set up or if she was just looking out the window, waiting for me. I parked in front of her porch. I didn’t see any vehicle, but it might be in the garage.

The front door opened and a woman walked out. She was petite. Maybe five-two. I couldn’t guess her weight. She was wrapped up in layers and covered it up with some kind of ugly shawl.

I got out of the truck and walked up the stairs. With each step I took, she took a half step backward. When I got to the top, she was back in her house, looking at me from behind the threshold of her door.

“You’re Millie, right?” I asked in the same tone I’d used with my four previously fragile adopted sisters. “My name is Renzo Drakos. Irv Monroe sent me to help you. He’s got bronchitis and the doctor and his wife are worried it might turn into pneumonia. He said you’d know that your normal workers are in Florida about now. What he didn’t have time to tell you is that he’s arranged for some horticulture students from Walters State Sevier County Center to come help with the debris left by the storm. Their professor is giving them class credit for assisting you.”

“He is?”

Her voice was no more than a whisper. I nodded.

She shook her head. “Only Irving could wrangle something like that.”