Free Feuding Hearts by Natasha Deen Page B

it—”
    “And water baths full of fruit juice—”
    “He’d heard birds did well on cranberry juice.”
    “And potatoes in my flower beds.”
    “Don’t they repel ants?” She stared at me hard, which despite her five-foot frame and my five-foot-eleven-inches height, still had the power to make me quake.
    “Why are you siding with that… Yankee scum?”
    My eyebrows went up and my heart dropped. Baxter women only resorted to the use of “Yankee” when they were seriously perturbed. Still, I tried to appeal to her softer side. “We’ve been here for three months and it’s about time you two got on.”
    “You are defending this miscreant—”
    Oh, Lord. Three-syllable insults. That meant she’d gone from perturbed to vexed.
    “—and not protecting your nana!”
    I knew what was coming: a lecture on family values, taking care of kin, and the trials of raising a grand-baby of three months of age when she was already fifty-five. “Your family,” I muttered as I took another sip of coffee.
    “Your family,” she said.
    As usual—she’d not heard a word I’d said. Your only family , I silently added. I buried my nose in the cup, and let the heady aroma of deep roasted coffee beans take me to a calm place.
    “Your only family,” she continued.
    I raised my gaze heavenward and brushed the sweaty strands of hair off my temple.
    “We Baxters are an honorable bunch—”
    Was nine o’clock in the morning too early to spike my coffee with Southern Comfort?
    “Family, that’s what matters—”
    I tuned her out—I’d been hearing this same lecture since I was in the cradle. Thirty years later, and I knew the diatribe better than she. I looked out the window, mentally compiling all the chores for the yard. If I asked nicely, would the sexy gardener show me all the ways he could turn my topsoil?
    When I heard Nana mention colic, my ears twitched. The lecture was on its closing spiel so I tuned back in.
    “You’re a lawyer,” she said, reclining in the high-backed chair. “One of the best, if the price of your education is anything to go by.”
    “Not in Florida.” I corrected her with a shake of my head. “Until the paperwork goes through and I’m licensed, I’m not allowed to practice. And I can’t go suing people willy-nilly.”
    “You could do something in civil court.” Her nostrils flared “Let’s take his house—or his yard. Maybe both.”
    She gave me a predatory smile—all teeth and no humor. Wariness crawled up my spine on insect legs. I stood, wincing as my back reminded me of the two hours spent hunched over the oven. Bowed and shuffling, I walked the cup to the sink. “We’re not taking anything from that old man—”
    “He’s not old! He’s the same age as me.”
    I set the mug into the steel basin and refrained from pointing out the obvious. She may have been an octogenarian, but she remained agile, swift. To be honest, I had no desire to find out if she could still wield a wooden spoon like a policeman’s baton. “How about if I go and talk to Mr. Garret? Maybe I can clear up the misunderstandings.”
    Before she had a chance to object, I hobbled down the hall, past the framed pictures of our life together, and dived—as much as I could with a sore back—into the bathroom. A few moments later, steam fogged the mirror and my body wash turned the room tangy with the scent of mandarins and spice. I soaped up and debated my options. When the topic was negotiating between those crazy seniors of mine, I did my best to channel the gumption of Mister Jimmy Carter—a good ol’ boy of the South, and a man who’d won a Nobel Peace Prize for his effort to bring peace to fractured nations.
    Of course, compared to what lay before me, mediating talks between Israel and Egypt seemed as easy as getting a cat to purr. I toweled off, wrapped myself in a terry robe, and headed to my room. Tossing my clothing on the lavender bedspread, I opened the closet doors and grabbed a white