would just have to excuse his daughter’s attire, as well as his lateness. And the heat.
Lifting his hat, he mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The first day of July had dawned hot and clear. He hoped that Ms. Farnsworth, being from Boston, was prepared for what she would find here in Kansas.
Lily Farnsworth was the last of six new business owners to arrive, each selected by the Save Our Streets Committee, dubbed the SOS, of the town of Bygones. As a member of the committee, Tate had been asked to meet her at the airport in Kansas City, transport her to Bygones and act as her official host and contact. With the Grand Opening just a week away, most of the shop owners had been at work preparing their stores for some time already, but Ms. Farnsworth had delayed until after her sister’s wedding, assuring the committee that a florist’s shop required less preparation than some retail businesses. Tate hoped she was right.
He still wasn’t convinced that this scheme, financed by a mysterious, anonymous donor, would work. But if something didn’t revive the financial fortunes of Bygones—and soon—their small town would become just another ghost town on the north central plains. Tate thought of the school where he had met his late wife and of the cemetery where he had buried her nearly eight years ago, and he ached to think of those places abandoned and forgotten, so he would do what he could to revive the community.
Isabella stopped before the automatic doors and waited for him to catch up. He did so quickly, and they entered the cool building together. A pair of gleaming luggage carousels occupied the open space, both vacant. A few people milled about. Some wore uniforms of one sort or another; most just seemed to be waiting. One, a tall, slender, pretty woman with long blond hair and round tortoiseshell glasses, perched atop a veritable mountain of luggage. She wore black ballet slippers and white knit leggings beneath a gossamery blue dress with fluttery sleeves and hems. Her very long hair parted in the middle and waved about her face and shoulders. As he watched, she gathered that pale gold hair in slim-fingered hands with tiny knuckles, twisted it into a long rope and pulled it over one shoulder. Her gaze touched his then skittered away. He felt the insane urge to look closer, behind the lenses of those glasses that gave her a calm, intelligent air, but of course, he would not.
For one thing, Tate Bronson did not interest himself in attractive women. For another, that could not be Lily Farnsworth. Lily Farnsworth was a florist from Boston, not a blonde—he glanced back at the woman seated on the baggage—with the air of a ballet dancer and librarian combined. He turned away, the better to resist the urge to stare, and scanned the building for anyone who might be his florist. Maybe he should have made a sign; but then, he wasn’t a limo driver. He was a rancher and farmer trying to help keep his town from dying a slow, certain death. He’d have felt like an idiot standing there with a hand-lettered sign.
One by one the possibilities faded away, greeted by others or disappearing on their own. Finally Isabella gave him that look that said Dad, you’re being a goof again. She slipped her little hand into his, and he sighed inwardly. Of course the pretty blonde was not a ballet dancer or librarian at all. And she’d packed up half of Boston to bring with her. Even with the long-bed pickup truck out there in the parking lot, a good number of those suitcases and boxes would have to go into the backseat with Isabella. So, an idiot with or without the sign. Great. Turning, he walked the few yards to the luggage mountain and swept off his straw cowboy hat.
“Are you Lily Farnsworth by any chance?”
A slender forefinger with a blunt tip and a knuckle so delicate it seemed made of paste came up to push those round glasses more firmly onto a nose as straight and fine as a blade. She nodded just once and rose, brushing at her filmy skirt, a clear blue like the darkly fringed eyes behind the lenses of her glasses. Her ivory-pink skin, completely devoid of cosmetics, showed a sprinkling of freckles across cheeks that bunched into pale apples when she smiled—and what a smile it was. She had perfect lips, wide and mobile, not too thin and not too thick, a luscious natural dusty pink against blindingly white, even teeth. A square-tipped chin on an oval face completed the picture.
“I’m Lily,” she said in a voice as gossamery as her skirts. “You must be Tate Bronson. What a pleasure it is to meet you. I was expecting a grizzled old rancher, not a handsome, young...well...”
She bowed her head, her blond hair flowing forward to hide her reddening face. Tate frowned, not at all liking the way his heart sped up. Yep, no sign needed. He was perfectly capable of behaving like an idiot without any props.
* * *
Looking down at her comfortable flat slippers, Lily willed away the color swamping her face. Honestly, she’d gotten over this awkwardness long ago. Hadn’t she? If only she hadn’t been staring at him all this time, she’d have had more control of her tongue. That and fatigue had gotten the better of her. To get the best price, she’d flown from Boston to Atlanta to Kansas City, which had made for a long day. Suddenly she wished she’d taken more pains with her appearance, but why bother when she was so tall and thin and wore glasses? Men generally failed to notice her at all, and when they did, they treated her like their sisters or their maiden aunts. This one would barely even look at her. No doubt his wife was the next thing to a fashion model. A man as attractive as him would naturally marry a woman like that.
Tall and muscular, with thick, dark brown hair worn so short that the circular cowlicks at his crown and the center of his forehead were clearly visible, he had smooth features and warm brown eyes in a squarish face marked by dimples even when he wasn’t smiling. Given the thickness of his hair, his brows seemed surprisingly slender, and if he had a fault then it was the thinness of his lips. Or was that simply his frown? The little redheaded imp with him seemed undeterred by his scowl. She skipped forward and put out a chubby hand.
“Hi! I’m Isabella. I’m seven, almost eight. How old are you?”
“Isabella,” Tate Bronson scolded. “You don’t ask a lady her age.”
“Why not? I’m a lady, and I told her mine.”
“I’m sorry,” Bronson apologized, his frown softening. He really was quite attractive, especially when he wasn’t frowning. “My daughter is looking forward to her birthday later this month, but that’s no excuse for her being rude.”
“That’s all right,” Lily said with a smile. Switching her gaze to the girl, Lily bent forward. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabella.” Dropping her voice to a stage whisper, she confessed, “I turned twenty-seven on May Day.”
Isabella cut her blue-eyed glance up at her father, drawling, “Twenty-seven’s good. Daddy’s twenty-seven. His birthday’s in September. Then he’ll be twenty-eight.”
Lily felt a jolt of surprise. Twenty-eight with an eight-year-old. That made him a very young father.
Tate made an impatient sound and said, “Can we get going, please? We have a long drive ahead of us.”
“Oh, of course,” Lily said apologetically, gathering her voluminous handbag and backpack. She slung one over each shoulder, stacked two of the smaller boxes atop one of the larger wheeled bags and prepared to haul out the lot.
“Wait,” Tate said. “Let’s do this with some organization.”
Feeling chastised, Lily ducked her head, her long hair sliding forward. “Okay. Uh, what would you suggest?”
He pulled up the handle on one of the smaller wheeled bags and handed it to Isabella, then tossed a box onto his shoulder and snagged the handle of the larger bag from Lily, saying, “Wait here with the rest. We’ll take out these and be back.”
Lily bit back a protest. Those were vases and other glass items balanced on his shoulder, going-away gifts from her friends in Boston, things to help her get started in Bygones. Her former employer and coworkers knew how carefully she had budgeted to make this plan feasible, even selling her beloved car to raise the necessary funds to match the grant and choosing a shop with living quarters above it to cut expenses. She had packed those particular items carefully for shipping and sent them ahead of her to be collected when she arrived at the airport; she supposed they would survive Tate Bronson, so she bit