1.3

Calder wisely kept his opinion to himself. “Just being protective of her family. Nothing wrong in that. Why don’t we get you over to the paramedic or the ER if you’d rather go there, and we’ll let your sister handle calling in for the tow.”

Hannah surprised him by merely nodding. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll need to call Beanie, too.”

“Who’s Beanie?” It surprised him that he actually wanted to know.

“The owner of the sign I just took out. Her husband built it and hand-painted it.” She looked over at the pile of shattered planks. “I feel awful about ruining it.”

“Sounds like the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind making another one. I’m sure it will be fine.” He motioned toward his truck. “Is there anything you need from your car?” He lifted a hand. “I’ll get it, just tell me.”

“He can’t make another one,” she said instead. “He passed away last year. That’s why I feel awful.”

Calder stopped and looked at her, and saw she was on the verge of tears. And likely not the sweet trickle of a single tear sliding down a pale cheek, either. He didn’t know her, but despite his earlier rush to judge—okay, maybe his ongoing rush to judge—something told him she wasn’t a crier. Something also told him that it probably wasn’t the sign that had her feeling suddenly undone. Maybe it was all of it, the accident, her brother getting married, and now adding to her sister’s list of worries. Maybe the sign was simply the final straw. He didn’t know. And he shouldn’t care.

“Come on,” he said, gently taking her elbow, but keeping his hand there when she would have pulled away. “We’ll get it all figured out.”

She was taller than he’d initially thought when she’d been in the car. Somewhere around five-nine, maybe five-ten. He didn’t know what kind of heels she had on, but, regardless, she wasn’t much shorter than he was, and he came in at six-one. Lithe and lean, not much in the curves department, either. That much he’d accurately ascertained from his blouse assessment earlier.

She paused as she noted the sign on the side of his truck. “Blue Harbor Farm.” She looked back at him. “I thought you said you were a contractor.”

“I am. Family business. Fourth generation.”

“And the farm?”

“First generation,” he said with a smile.

“You?”

He nodded.

“Sounds like a lot to juggle.”

“If you ask my father, it’s a waste of time and money. If you ask my brothers, a hobby that got a little out of control.”

“And if I asked you?”

He kept his smile in place, but his answer was serious and heartfelt. “The thing that kept me sane through a hellacious divorce.” His smile grew slightly. “Continues to keep me sane working with family.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “About the . . . hellacious part.” She waved a hand briefly, but said no more. She held his gaze, then looked at the sign again, more, he thought, for somewhere else to look. Other than at him. He wasn’t sure what she’d seen in his expression, but banged up or not, she seemed a pretty sharp sort. So probably . . . too much.

He saw her eyebrows lift. “Calais?” she said. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Not that far. Hour and fifteen to the company office, hour-forty-five to the farm.”

“Unique town, Calais. Sort of umbilically attached to Saint Stephen across the border in New Brunswick, right? Interesting blend of cultures.”

“Mais oui, bien sur.”

She smiled a little at that. “I guess you grew up speaking French and English, living so close.”

“It’s predominantly English on both sides of the border. I speak French because my mother is French Canadian. I grew up with both languages.” He opened the passenger door to his truck.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, as he helped her up to the passenger seat.

She levered herself into the truck with a natural, graceful ease, making him wonder if she was a dancer, or some other thing that elegant women did with elegant bodies like the one she had. She required only a little assistance from him, which was just as well, he thought. Putting his hands on any more of that elegant body wouldn’t be wise. She was the kind of distraction he never needed in general, and definitely didn’t need right now.

She pulled on her own seat belt, wincing a little as she did, then immediately leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “But I’m very grateful you did.”

“Not a problem,” he said, palming the door, intending to close it.

“Hannah,” she said, quietly now, so he knew she was in more pain than she’d been showing, making him pause. “I’m Hannah. McCrae.”

“Calder Blue,” he responded.

“Ah. Blue Harbor Farm,” she added, as if recalling the sign on his door. “Any relation to Jonah Blue?” she asked through barely moving bruised lips, eyes still closed.

“Great-nephew.”

“I thought I’d met all the Blues.”

“Different branch of the family.”

She opened her eyes then, and turned all that dark blue on him. Despite whatever pain she was in, and whatever worries she might have, her eyes were still surprisingly sharp, and quickly assessing. “You mean—as in Jedediah Blue’s branch?”

“The very same.”

“Your branches don’t talk to each other. For like . . . a hundred years.”

“A little longer, but that is true, yes.”

“How long have you been in Blueberry?”

“Just heading in, actually.”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes again, but her lips curved upward just a hair and stayed that way, even when she winced at the pain.

“Something amusing about that?”

“Not at all. It’s . . . I just realized that your bombshell is going to be a lot bigger than mine.”