Virtual Tour - At Fairfield Orchard ByEmma Cane
The first in Emma Cane’s sparkling new series,
set in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains.
AT FAIRFIELD ORCHARD
Fairfield Orchard #1
Emma Cane
Releasing Aug 30th, 2016
Avon Books
Emma Cane welcomes you to Fairfield
Orchard, where new love blooms and romance is always in season.
For Amy Fairfield, the family
orchard is more than a business. With its blossom-scented air and rows of trees
framed by the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains, it’s her heritage and her future.
But right now, it’s also a headache. Putting a painful breakup behind her, Amy
has come home to help revitalize Fairfield Orchard. She doesn’t have time for
the handsome-distracting-professor who wants to dig into her family’s history
for his research.
Jonathan Gebhart knows he needs the
Fairfields’ cooperation to make his new book a success. As for Amy-nothing in
his years of academia could have prepared him for their sudden and intense
attraction. He doesn’t want to complicate her life further, especially since
she seems uneasy about him poking around in the past and he knows he’s not the
sort of man built for forever. But some sparks can’t help but grow, and
Jonathan and Amy may just learn that unexpected love can be the sweetest of
all.
Excerpt
Jonathan Gebhart got
out of his car and breathed in the crisp air of Fairfield Orchard, ripe with
the sweet scent of apple blossoms. In the distance, the Blue Ridge Mountains
undulated into the disappearing mists of midmorning, their haze the mysterious
blue they were named for. But everywhere else he looked, surrounding this oasis
of buildings and a barn, the foothills were covered in the pink and white of
blossoming trees, following long lines like the teeth on a comb. Had Thomas
Jefferson known what would become of the land when he’d sold it almost two
hundred years ago? Jonathan intended to prove it wasn’t what other historians
said it was.
He’d driven the half
hour west from Charlottesville, Virginia, to Fairfield Orchard, rehearsing his
most persuasive speech over and over. He wasn’t known as the most outgoing of
guys, but he was passionate about history and hoped that would be enough. But
strangely, he didn’t see a soul. A huge old barn that looked well over a
hundred years old stood open and deserted. It had a lower level made of stone
with its own entrance in the back, and the soaring upper level framed in
weathered gray boards was stacked with crates and bins for the autumn harvest.
A food shack and small store were obviously closed. There were picnic tables
and benches, all positioned to take in the beautiful view of central Virginia
during the harvest season. But in the spring, the public grounds were deserted.
Past a copse of
towering oak and hickory trees was a dirt lane, which he followed around a
curve until he saw a big house with white siding, blue shutters, and a
wraparound porch around the original building. A two-story addition had been
added to the right side. A battered blue pickup truck was parked nearby. He
climbed the front steps, but no one answered the door. Jonathan hadn’t called
in advance, assuming that a request like his was better handled in person, but
that had obviously been a mistake. There must be a business office or warehouse
somewhere else on the grounds.
And then in the first
row of apple trees next to the house, he saw a ladder disappearing up inside,
and a pair of work boots perched on a rung, their owner partially hidden by
branches and blossoms and bright green leaves. He’d done his research, knew that
the owner was Bruce Fairfield, a Vietnam vet in his sixties.
“Mr. Fairfield?” Jonathan called as he
approached the tree. “Bruce Fairfield?”
Sudden barking
startled him, and a dog came up out of the straggly grass growing through a
dark loam of what looked like fertilizer around the base of the tree. The
medium-sized dog resembled a cross between a German shepherd and a coyote, its
pointy ears alert.
“What’s up, Uma?”
The voice from within
the tree was far more feminine than “Bruce” should have. The dog sat down and
regarded Jonathan, her spotted tongue visible as she panted, her head cocked to
the side.
A woman pushed aside a
branch and peered down, wreathed in pink and white blossoms, her sandy brown
hair pulled into a ponytail beneath a ragged ball cap with the Virginia
Cavaliers logo. She had a delicate face with a pointed chin, and a nose
splattered with freckles. She was already tan from working outdoors, with eyes
clear and deep blue and narrowed with curiosity. She wore a battered winter vest
over a plaid shirt with a t-shirt beneath, and a faded pair of jeans with a
tear at the knee. She held clippers in one hand.
“What can I do for
you?” she asked, then added apologetically, “We’re still closed for the
off-season.”
“I know. I’ve come
from Charlottesville to speak with the owner.”
Brightly, she said,
“I’m one of them.”
That rearranged his
conclusion that she was just an employee.
“Hope you don’t mind
if I keep working while we talk,” she added.
He blinked as her face
disappeared behind the branch she released. Soon, he could hear occasional
snipping, and saw a branch drop to the ground. She seemed like she was
examining, more than pruning. He was used to talking to students who tried to
hide their texting during a lecture, but he couldn’t force this woman to pay
attention to him. At least the dog watched him with expectation.
“My name is Dr.
Jonathan Gebhart, and I’m an associate professor of history at the University
of Virginia, with a specialty in colonial history, particularly Thomas
Jefferson.”
She gave a snort of
laughter. “Of course.”
He stiffened. “Of
course?”
“Thomas Jefferson
founded the university, right?”
Did anyone from the
area not know that?
“I hear he might as
well still be alive,” she continued, “the way some people refer to him. I guess
you’re one of the worshippers.”
“If you consider
historians worshippers,” he said dryly.
She peeked out from
behind a branch and gave him an amused smile. “I didn’t mean to offend, but you
caught me on a bad day. I’m trying to remember my pruning skills. It’s been a
while, and it’s not exactly the season for it.”
“May I ask to whom I’m
speaking?”
Her smile widened.
“My, don’t you have a pretty way of talking. I’m Amy Fairfield.”
“Daughter of the
owner?”
“Technically one of
the new owners, remember?”
She disappeared behind
a branch again and continued pruning. Bees buzzed about her, alighting
delicately on blossoms, but she ignored them.
“It’s all a mess right
now, of course,” she continued. “My parents have just retired and left to have
the time of their lives in the RV they always dreamed of.” She peeked at him
again. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them, but they caught the whole
family off guard, and now everyone has to decide who’s coming back when, taking
leaves of absence or quitting their jobs altogether, so we can keep the orchard
going. And though I always worked weekends in the fall, it’s been a long time
since I was involved in the spring.” She wrinkled her nose. “Way more than you
wanted to hear, sorry.”
And then she became
silent as she examined her work critically. Her family problems were none of
his business, though his curiosity began to formulate questions that he tamped
back down.
“I’m here to ask a
favor of you.” He paused, but she didn’t reappear. Taking a deep breath, he
said, “I’m writing a book on the land Thomas Jefferson owned, and how selling
it changed the course of Albemarle County and Virginia itself. As you know,
your ancestors purchased this land from him.”
“I know.”
“You have an
incredible inheritance here. One of our founding fathers walked this very
land.”
“I know that, too. But
he walked a lot of land around here. I spent the last thirteen years in
Charlottesville, sometimes running campus trails. I’m sure I walked lots of
places TJ walked.”
TJ? Though he corrected his
students when they were so disrespectful, he found himself amused by Amy’s
irreverence. He well knew that Jefferson wasn’t a saint, simply a flawed,
though brilliant man.
But there were more
important things on the line, like the book he needed to finish for his tenure
portfolio. Without tenure, he could lose the career he’d worked so hard for, be
let go from UVA. But even more important was his big hypothesis, the one that
could turn his book into a bestseller and give him the prestigious career he’d
always dreamed of.
“So what do I have to
do with TJ?” Amy asked.
“I’d like your
family’s permission to interview them and look through the historical records
you’ve kept through the years.”
“Historical records?”
she echoed. “Don’t you find that stuff at courthouses or online?”
“You cannot find
family Bibles or original land deeds so easily, not to mention family stories
passed down through generations.” He glanced at the house again, knowing it was
far too recently built, and hoping Google hadn’t misled him. “I believe there’s
an older house than this?”
“Yep, but we’ve closed
it up to keep people from getting hurt.”
A headache started to
form. “Is it in disrepair?” He hoped Amy Fairfield and her family appreciated
their own history.
“Not really, but no
one is living there now, and we don’t want vandals disturbing it.”
The pressure between
his eyes eased. “You get many vandals out here?”
“I didn’t think so,
but I’m not the one who made the decision. My father was. And then he left,
leaving it to my siblings and me to continue family tradition—whether some of
us wanted to or not,” she added dryly.
He wasn’t sure where
she fit in on that spectrum, but it wasn’t his concern. “Can I reach your
father by phone or email?”
“Sure, but maybe you’d
rather talk to my grandfather.”
He smiled with relief.
The elderly had a better grasp of the importance of the past. “Do you think
he’d speak with me?”
Amy spread the
branches and gave him a long look from head to toe. He felt an odd connection,
her gaze almost a physical touch. He was baffled to experience an awareness of
her as a woman, when he could barely tell she was one beneath her farmer’s garb. Those vivid blue eyes
studied him as if judging him. He’d been judged and found wanting before, and
he wouldn’t go through that again.
“I can’t speak for
Grandpa, Jon, but—”
“Jonathan.” He
withheld a grimace, knowing that he shouldn’t be correcting her when he needed
her help.
“Sorry. I don’t know
if now’s the best time to be stirring things up. The orchard … well, we have a
lot of work to do this summer, and it’ll be time for the harvest before you
know it. I just started working here again a couple days ago. How about next
winter?”
“I can’t wait until
next winter,” he said patiently. “This is the last section of the book, and I
have to submit it by this fall to even have it ready in time for my tenure
review next year. You do know what tenure is.”
Those dark blue eyes narrowed, and she cocked
her head. “Gee, maybe you better spell the word for me.”
He briefly closed his
eyes, knowing he was making things worse. “Forgive me.”
He took a step toward her, trying to find the
right words. He startled the dog, who jumped up and hit the ladder, which began
to fall sideways. Amy let out a yelp and grabbed a branch even as the ladder
crashed through several branches and hit the ground. Her feet struggled to find
a thick enough branch to support her, and Jonathan reached for her. She was
still too high to grab around the waist, but when he ducked under a thin branch
and stepped beneath her, her toes brushed his shoulders.
“Step right on me,” he urged.
For a moment, he thought she would refuse, but
at last she let herself drop a bit, and her big muddy work boots settled on his
shoulders. She wasn’t even that heavy, and he realized she was probably smaller
than he’d imagined, being half-hidden by the tree and wearing layers of warm
clothing.
“If I was still a cheerleader,” she said, “I’d
have a spotter to help me jump.”
At least she didn’t sound upset with him. He
needed her goodwill. “I’ll squat, and you should be able to jump easily.”
“You forget, I’m still in between all these
branches.”
“I’ll go straight down, and you be careful.”
He sank slowly onto his haunches.
Using the tree for balance,
she swung away from him and landed lightly on the ground. Still bent over, he
came out from beneath the tree and practically ran right into her.
Straightening, he stared down at her and she stared up, not six inches away
from each other.
“You’re taller than I thought,” she said.
“And you’re shorter.”
“I am,” she said ruefully.
Though smiling, she backed away as if he was
contagious. To his surprise, he regretted that.
“I made a mess of your jacket,” she pointed
out.
He looked down at his shoulders. “It’s just
dirt. It’ll come clean.”
She flashed that teasing smile again, and he
realized she might be flirting with him. The thought was surprising, a little
disorienting.
“You’d say anything to get my cooperation,”
she said.
He looked into those intelligent blue eyes,
and imagined many a man would. He would, too—for his research. Right now, it
had to come before anything else. “Your cooperation is crucial. I have a theory
that Jefferson might have escaped to here during the American Revolution,
instead of to his land to the south.”
She tilted her head. “But he didn’t have a
house here.”
He widened his eyes in surprise. “No, he
didn’t. You know more about TJ
than you let on.”
He’d thought to put her at ease with a
lighthearted tone, but those intriguing eyes suddenly seemed to shutter. He
decided right then that going into detail about his research might put her off.
“No, I don’t know all that much,” she said,
looking away.
“I’ll be conducting research at the library at
Monticello, and also here, if you’ll permit it. I need to find proof that I’m
right. Can I count on your cooperation?”
“I’ll think about it.”
She was already retrieving the clippers and
righting the ladder. He tried to help, but she gave him a distracted smile.
“I can do it. This is my job now, you know.”
“What did you do before?”
“Real estate.”
He could see her as a friendly, outgoing
saleswoman. “Did you always mean to come back to the orchard?” he asked,
curious.
“Interesting question. I don’t really know. As
for your request, why don’t you come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you my
answer.”
And she maneuvered the ladder back into the
tree and climbed up, disappearing within the spring blossoms until he could
only see those muddy boots. He turned and strode back to his car.
BUY NOW
Now that
her three children are grown, Emma loves spending time crocheting and singing
(although not necessarily at the same time), and hiking and snowshoeing
alongside her husband Jim and their rambunctious dog Uma.
Emma also
writes USA Today bestselling historical romances under the
name Gayle Callen.
Thank you for hosting AT FAIRFIELD ORCHARD today!
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