Bluegrass Hero

A tiny curl of enjoyment let loose in Emily’s stomach. She’d never tried to explain the power of scent before—at least not to someone as resistant as Gil Sorrent.

“You’re not gonna put anything on me, are you?” He gave her a look as if to suggest that contact with hand cream might melt the skin off his bones.

“If you close your eyes, you’ll find it easier to concentrate on your sense of smell.”

He stared at her, then closed his eyes, only to pop them open a second later.

“Keep those shut.” Emily put her hand on his shoulder and the contact did something to her she wasn’t ready to admit. “Smell this.”

He took a moment, searching for the scent. “Um…nuts?”

Emily smiled. “Almonds. See? You’re good at this.”

“Don’t let that get out,” he said, opening his eyes. She suddenly realized they were way too close for comfort. He did, too—she could tell by the way he shot up off the stool. “I’m pretty much a no-frills kind of guy, Emily, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and nonreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fund-raising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

—Galatians 5:22–23

To Savannah, because she loves horses

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Middleburg gets ALL of its charm—and NONE of its faults—from a lovely little Kentucky town called Midway that immediately captured my heart. Kathy Werking at Soapwerks in Midway was a willing and creative soap resource for me, and Ginny Smith, Connie Camden, the Quirk Café, the Flag Fork Herb Farm and many others showcased the region’s warm hospitality. Normandy Farm gave me the inspiration (including the china cats) for Gil’s Homestretch Farm, and many of the Homestretch concepts come from a similar program at Kentucky Horse Park.

Thanks—as always—to friends, family, Spencerhill Associates and Steeple Hill Books for walking through this challenging process beside me. Some books come to life easily. Others…well, that’s what friends and colleagues are for, aren’t they? And God? Well, He’s always got the higher plan in mind—count on it.

“How do you reckon anybody breathes in here?”

The drawling baritone from the front door of Emily Montague’s bath shop surprised her. She drew in a breath—a very pleasured, scent-filled breath, thank you very much—and looked up at the two men. Outside of Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day, men rarely ventured into West of Paris with all its feminine décor and lavishly scented soaps. Certainly not at the end of January.

Certainly not Gil Sorrent.

Sorrent’s companion nudged him as they shook the sleet off their jackets. The wet snow barely missed the oiled silk tablecloth on the table near the door. Emily had locked horns with Gil Sorrent enough times to be astounded that he’d even set foot in her shop. He was a big man with big ideas she didn’t always like.

Putting on her “customer voice”—the soft, smooth, How may I help you? voice—Emily approached the pair. They looked embarrassed even to be in the shop. The shorter one must be new-girlfriend gift shopping. Time to guide this man to a wise purchase, Emily thought to herself. With a little cooperation, she could make sure whoever the girl was didn’t end up with a horseman’s sorry idea of a feminine gift.

That was part of her role in life. Just last weekend at the Bluegrass Craft Expo, she had directed some misguided teenager away from purple turtle guest soaps for his grandmother and steered him toward a lovely sachet for her bureau drawer. Honestly. Purple turtle soaps for your grandmother. How did men come to such insane conclusions about the women they professed to love?

She smiled at the man. “Can I help you find something?”

Remarkably, it was Sorrent who replied. “I need a birthday present for my niece, and I ain’t got time to drive into Lexington.” His eyes scanned the room, and he tried to hide his wince. “She said ‘no gift cards,’ but I’m thinking that might just be the way to go.”

“Yeah, picking a gift in here ain’t gonna be easy for you, Gil. It’s not like you spend a whole lotta time with the concept of soap.” The wiry man flashed a goofy grin and elbowed him. Right into the stack of soap dishes. Two of which clattered to the floor and shattered.