She extended her hand and a smile. "I'm Stella Rothchild, Ms. Harper's manager. "
" 'Meetcha. I'm Sam, this here is Dick. "
The little guy had the fresh, freckled face of a twelve-year-old, with a scraggly goatee that looked as if it might have grown there by mistake. "Heard about you. " He sent an eyebrow-wiggling grin toward her coworker.
"Really?" She kept her tone friendly, though her teeth came together tight in the smile. "I thought it would be helpful if I dropped by a couple of the jobs, looked at the work. " She scanned the yard again, deliberately keeping her gaze below Logan's perch in the tree. "You've certainly got yours cut out for you with this. "
"Got a mess of clearing to do," Sam agreed. Covered with work gloves, his enormous hands settled on his hips. "Seen worse, though. "
"Is there a projection on man-hours?"
"Projection. " Dick sniggered and elbowed Sam.
From his great height, Sam sent down a pitying look.
"You want to know about the plans and, uh, projections," he said, "you need to talk to the boss. He's got all that worked up. "
"All right, then. Thanks. I'll let you get back to work. "
Walking away, Stella took the little camera out of her bag and began to take what she thought of as "before" pictures.
* * *
He knew she was there. Standing down there all pressed and tidy with her wild hair pulled back and shaded glasses hiding her big blue eyes.
He'd wondered when she would come nag him on a job, as it appeared to him she was a woman born to nag. At least she had the sense not to interrupt.
Then again, she seemed to be nothing but sense.
Maybe she'd surprise him. He liked surprises, and he'd gotten one when he met her kids. He'd expected to see a couple of polite little robots. The sort that looked to their domineering mother before saying a word. Instead he'd found them normal, interesting, funny kids. Surely it took some imagination to manage two active boys.
Maybe she was only a pain in the ass when it came to work.
Well, he grinned a little as he cut through a branch. So was he.
He let her wait while he finished. It took him another thirty minutes, during which he largely ignored her. Though he did see her take a camera - Jesus - then a notebook out of her purse.
He also noticed she'd gone over to speak to his men and that Dick sent occasional glances in Stella's direction.
Dick was a social moron, Logan thought, particularly when it came to women. But he was a tireless worker, and he would take on the filthiest job with a blissful and idiotic grin. Sam, who had more common sense in his big toe than Dick had in his entire skinny body, was, thank God, a tolerant and patient man.
They went back to high school, and that was the sort of thing that set well with Logan. The continuity of it, and the fact that because they'd known each other around twenty years, they didn't have to gab all the damn time to make themselves understood.
Explaining things half a dozen times just tried his patience. Which he had no problem admitting he had in short supply to begin with.
Between the three of them, they did good work, often exceptional work. And with Sam's brawn and Dick's energy, he rarely had to take on any more laborers.
Which suited him. He preferred small crews to large. It was more personal that way, at least from his point of view. And in Logan's point of view, every job he took was personal.
It was his vision, his sweat, his blood that went into the land. And his name that stood for what he created with it.
The Yankee could harp about forms and systemic bullshit all she wanted. The land didn't give a rat's ass about that. And neither did he.
He called out a warning to his men, then topped the old, dead oak. When he shimmied down, he unhooked his harness and grabbed a bottle of water. He drank half of it down without taking a breath.
"Mr. . . . " No, friendly, Stella remembered. She boosted up her smile, and started over. "Nice job. I didn't realize you did the tree work yourself. "
"Depends. Nothing tricky to this one. Out for a drive?"