Shepherds & Lambs

3.

Grace had traveled on a chartered private jet before. It was her preferred method of travel, but a professor's salary made it cost-prohibitive to fly luxuriously. Although Agent Wolff offered to handle travel arrangements to the Glen, Grace had eagerly accepted Web's offer to send the Glen's private jet. The jet would give her the privacy, comfort, and speed that a commercial airliner—with layovers to reduce expenses—wouldn't come close to providing. Two pilots greeted them at the hanging steps of the small door. Wolff extended his hand for her to enter. His hand rested on her elbow, but she longed to feel it at the small of her back...her bare skin.

She settled on the right side of the plane, setting her things down on the chair. Wolff entered and sat beside her. She took a long, lingering look at the interior. It was cozy, seating eight in two columns. It was an upgrade from Collin's other plane—the one that had dropped her off in Maine, never to return for her. The old plane's interior had been dark and antiquated, but the new jet was bright with glossy, reddish wood trim. Grace slid a finger over the trim, feeling the smoothness of the varnish. Soft leather seats enveloped her body. Her eyes gleamed with the opulence. Collin Shepherd had spared no expense on the new aircraft.

It wasn't his doing; she was sure of it.

Collin had lived richly, but he was also conscientious. It was something he'd taught her: Live within your means, and don't rely on other people's money—it comes at a price. Even as a child, they'd lived in the cottage rather than the main house. And the main house had all the servants and staff, waiting to serve them—waiting to serve him. But it was Collin who'd often tended to her, even with Vickie—Grace seemed to forget her last name—as her full-time nanny. Collin's fiscal influence had been responsible for Grace working toward owning and tending the microfarm. It would take her another twenty-seven years to pay off the mortgage, but along with her reasonable teaching salary and meager textbook sales, her lavender and honey harvest and goat's milk sales were projected to pay off the principle sooner than expected. Every cent mattered. Most importantly, she was doing it by herself.

Money. She smelled money in the sumptuousness of the leather seats. Money was under her fingertips as she lifted the shade from the window and looked out at the other private planes stationed at the private hangar in Portland.

She'd never planned to use any part of her trust or inheritance for her homestead. Besides, she figured her estrangement from Collin had eliminated any future money from him. To know he'd left her the Glen, a twelve-hundred-acre estate in Sonoma County, was beyond her wildest dreams. It was more of a nightmare, maintaining eight acres west of Portland was hard enough, much less over a thousand acres in one of the richest counties in North America. Not to mention, the vast dealings on the property itself: the farming, animal husbandry, the real estate property, and the staff. Worst, the taxes. Anxiety bubbled in her belly at the responsibility.

And the members of the Glen. She didn't dare consider the intent and purpose of the Glen itself. That was another hellish consideration. One she'd have to confront once they landed in exactly five hours.

Before buckling her seat belt, she unfastened and removed her copper-colored blazer that matched her trousers. The suit felt restrictive despite the professional tailoring to her exact measurements. An overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia shimmered through her body. She unbuttoned the top two buttons of her sheer blouse, rubbing her hand over her chest. From the periphery, she saw Agent Wolff look at her, but she didn't acknowledge him.

Agent Wolff hadn't contained his wide-eyed surprise when he'd seen her wearing business attire. It was a far departure from the coveralls and apron she'd had on the day before. However, Grace wore suits or dresses to lectures, office hours and meetings—and travel was no exception. Wearing navy pumps may have appeared to be a deviation from the rubber boots used to muck stalls and the sneakers for her morning runs, but her vast collection of designer footwear would rival any boutique on Rodeo Drive. After each morning working the farm, the only makeup she'd wear was a bit of gloss and mascara. However, whenever off the farm, her hair and makeup emulated models in print magazines. Grace's feminine rituals gave her a sense of balance. There was a time to get down and dirty in the soil, and a time to polish and shine after the work was done.