PART 2 — THE UNANNOUNCED GUEST

The next afternoon, I was repairing the latch on the south gate when I heard an engine coming up the driveway.

I looked up.

That same black SUV rolled onto my property.

Victoria stepped out, and before she even closed the door, I noticed something different.

She looked down carefully before putting one expensive boot onto the dirt.

I leaned against the gate.

“Lost again?”

“No.”

“Stuck?”

“No.”

I studied the SUV.

“Vehicle suffering emotional instability?”

She shut the door and stared at me.

“Do you interrogate every visitor before saying hello?”

“Hello. Are you stuck?”

Victoria shook her head, but I caught the beginning of a smile.

Then she opened the rear hatch and pulled out two grocery bags.

I frowned.

“What are those?”

“Dinner.”

I looked at the bags, then at her.

“For whom?”

“You.”

That stopped me.

We had known each other for approximately eight minutes.

“Twelve,” she corrected. “If towing is included.”

“Towing is business.”

“You charged nothing.”

“That is why I am a poor businessman.”

She walked toward my porch as if she owned the place.

I followed.

“I thanked you yesterday,” she said. “It didn’t feel sufficient.”

“You could have mailed a card.”

“I didn’t have your address.”

I pointed toward the driveway.

“You found the farm.”

A tiny smile appeared.

“I remembered the mailbox and the red tractor beside the bend.”

“That tractor is not old.”

“It has weeds growing through one tire.”

I straightened.

“It is retired with dignity.”

Victoria laughed and carried the groceries toward my house.

“I am making dinner.”

I almost stopped her.

Not because I didn’t want her inside.

That was exactly the problem.

I wanted her inside my house more than felt sensible.

My home wasn’t impressive. Two bedrooms. Old wooden floors. A kitchen table with knife marks made before I was born.

A man can be proud of honest work and still know when his life looks small beside a woman who drives a luxury SUV and wears a watch that probably has its own insurance policy.

“You cook?” I asked.

She hesitated.

That hesitation told me everything.

“I can cook.”

“That pause didn’t inspire confidence.”

“I am capable of following instructions.”

“Recipes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sometimes just reading beside heat.”

She pointed a finger at me.

“You are very comfortable insulting a woman holding your dinner.”

“I am cautious around strangers with grocery bags.”

“I am not a stranger. You pulled me out of a ditch.”

“That is not a background check.”

She looked directly into my eyes.

“Let me make dinner, Caleb. Finish your work. I’ll be inside.”

I should have said no.

Instead, I heard myself say:

“Kitchen is through the back door. Don’t burn down the house. I only own one.”

She looked offended.

“I am not burning anything.”

“Extinguisher is beneath the sink.”

“Noted.”

I went back to repairing the gate.

Or at least I pretended to.

My hands worked, but my mind was inside the house.

A few minutes later, the back door opened.

“Caleb?”

I looked over.

“Where do you keep the pans?”

“Cabinet beside the stove.”

“There are six cabinets beside the stove.”

I sighed.

“Then you have a journey ahead of you.”

She disappeared inside, muttering something about unhelpful men.

I finished the gate much more slowly than necessary.

When I finally walked inside, the smell stopped me in the doorway.

It smelled incredible.

Victoria stood beside the counter with her sleeves pushed up, looking proud—and just slightly nervous.

On the table was roasted chicken, vegetables, bread, and a pasta dish complicated enough to have opinions.

She looked at me.

“Well?”

I glanced around the kitchen.

“That is your first compliment.”

“I am building suspense.”

She snapped a towel toward me.

“Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We ate while another storm gathered outside.

But what surprised me wasn’t the food.

It was Victoria.

She asked about the farm.

And she actually listened.

“You run all of this alone?”

“Mostly.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Some days.”

“Why don’t you hire more help?”

“Money generally raises its hand during that discussion.”

She nodded.

No pity.

No uncomfortable look.

I appreciated that.

Then she asked me something I wasn’t expecting.

“Do you like it?”

“The farm?”

“Yes.”

I thought about it.

“I respect it. Liking it depends on the day.”

“What was today?”

I looked at her.

Then at my plate.

“Better than average.”

She tried not to smile.

She failed.

Eventually, Victoria told me about her work in St. Louis.

“Corporate strategy, acquisitions, and operations.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“That is several words for office.”

“It is a very large office.”

“How large?”

She hesitated.

Then she said:

“My family owns Hartwell Group.”

I stopped eating.

I knew that name.

Almost everyone did.

Hartwell Group owned logistics companies, commercial properties, manufacturing facilities, and investment firms.

I looked across the table at the woman who had gotten stuck in a ditch yesterday.

“You’re a Hartwell?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do there?”

Victoria looked directly at me.

“I am the chief executive officer.”

I laughed.

Because the answer sounded completely ridiculous sitting in my little kitchen.

But she didn’t laugh.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

I looked down at the food.

“That explains the SUV.”

Her expression immediately changed.

She became guarded.

“Does it change dinner?”

I looked at her.

“It changes how nervous I am about criticizing the pasta.”

She laughed.

And just like that, the tension disappeared.

But there was one question I still needed answered.

I leaned forward.

“Why were you on a dirt road in the middle of a storm, Victoria?”

Her posture changed.

For just a second, the executive returned.

“We’re acquiring several agricultural equipment dealerships across east-central Missouri.”

“And the shortcut?”

“I wanted quiet.”

She looked toward the window.

“I took a secondary route, lost cellular service, and trusted GPS software written by people who have never seen mud.”

“That checks out.”

She smiled.

Then she looked back at me.

“Now your turn. What happened to the rest of the people in this house?”

My smile disappeared.

“Divorce. Four years ago.”

She softened.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We wanted different lives.”

“What did she want?”

I looked around my small kitchen.

“More.”

“And you?”

I looked at the old table.

“This.”

Then I added:

“Though with fewer bank notices.”

Victoria didn’t give me some cheap speech about everything being okay.

She simply nodded.

“I understand wanting something stable even when it’s hard.”

And somehow, those few words meant more to me than sympathy ever could.

After dinner, she stood near the sink.

For a moment, she didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company.

She looked like the woman from the muddy road.

The woman who had hugged me without thinking.

Then she checked her watch.

“I should go. I have an eight o’clock meeting in St. Louis tomorrow.”

“Take Highway 50.”

She smiled.

“Avoid the dirt cutoffs?”

“Exactly.”

She stepped onto the porch.

Then stopped.

She turned around.

“Would it be unacceptable if I returned?”

I stared at her.

“Without getting stuck first?” she added.

I knew what I should have done.

I should have thought about the difference between us.

Her world.

My world.

Her money.

My debts.

Her company.

My farm.

Instead, I looked at her standing beneath my porch light and answered before my caution could stop me.

“The gate is unlocked.”