But who was the new owner? A Yankee.

She knew better than to be surprised. Still, she’d prayed the family farm might remain in the Southern lineage instead of falling prey to one of those money-grubbing carpetbaggers who’d descended from the North like vultures, intent on making money and taking advantage of someone else’s misfortune.

“Will this be a problem for you, Miss Darby?”

Grateful the woman couldn’t hear the tone of her thoughts, Savannah shook her head. “No, ma’am. No problem at all, Miss Hildegard. I assure you.”

The woman eyed her as though unconvinced.

Savannah began gathering the needed supplies from the shelves. “If you’ll show me which fabrics piqued Miss Sinclair’s interest, I’ll pack my satchel and be on my way.”

And she was. In ten minutes flat. She hurried back across town, dodging wagons and carriages, oblivious to the blur of faces and storefronts she passed.

A legitimate reason to be inside her family home again. A chance to search for what her father had hidden in the house before he died in the war—something she would never have known about if not for the letter she’d found a few months ago following her mother’s passing.

Yet as determined as she was to make the most of the opportunity, she had an inkling that once she stepped inside the house, her deeply rooted sense of propriety would do its best to thwart her determination. Which meant only one thing . . .

She would have to keep propriety in its place—outside on the porch.

And considering the unfortunate fact that a Yankee now owned Darby Farm only emboldened that resolve. In fact, this newly acquired truth made her intended action seem almost noble. Like just retribution! She would succeed. She had to.

Because a chance like this wouldn’t come a second time.

She hastened her stride down the familiar dirt road, consumed by one thought: she would find what her father had hidden inside that house, or she would tear it apart trying.

Everything about living at Darby Farm was exactly as Aidan Bedford imagined it would be. Or at least it had been—until four days ago.

“Do you agree with me or not, Aidan? It’s important to me that you do. Surely you know that.”

The insistence in Priscilla’s voice all but drowned out the call of the lush green meadows and hills lying just beyond the open windows of the study. The meadows and hills he’d ridden every morning since arriving here a month ago, save the last four days since she’d arrived.

“What I know, Priscilla, is that whether I agree with the changes you’d like to make to the house is ultimately of little importance to you. Of that I’m certain.” Smiling, he turned, fully expecting the arched curve of her dark eyebrow. “And while I never had a sister, nor did my late mother gain pleasure from decorating a home, I realize the activity is generally one of immense pleasure for the female gender. So . . . alter a few things to your liking. Make the house your home.”

One . . . two . . . three . . . He silently counted, waiting. And there it was.

Her lower lip pudged. “But I want you involved in the changes too, dearest. This is our home. Yours and mine. Or it soon will be. And I want it to be a reflection of our combined tastes.”

He laughed, knowing better. “If that were truly the case, then half of everything in this home would stay precisely as it is.”

Her expression went from one of gentility to that of someone smelling something putrid. “But the furnishings are all so . . . quaint. And . . . Southern.”

“I find them full of character and warmth. And they’re called antiques, Priscilla. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

She scoffed. “Antiques are works of art, Aidan. Think of timeless pieces from the Elizabethan era, or William and Mary. Or Louis the Sixteenth.” Her sigh hinted at infatuation. “Admittedly, there are a few good pieces in the house. But the rest of the furniture”—she grimaced at the massive oak desk separating them, then at the matching breakfront bookcases across the room that shouldered a small but impressive library, including the leather-bound works of Shakespeare—“I’d categorize more eighteenth-century pioneer than heirloom.”

Accustomed to the woman’s expensive taste, Aidan overlooked her pretension and impatience and reminded himself of her finer qualities. Priscilla Sinclair was cultured, intelligent, beautiful, from one of the finest families in Boston, and their pending marriage—while not one planned since infancy—had most definitely been the object of both sets of their late parents’ wishes for as long as they could remember. And with good reason. He and Priscilla were well suited to each other. The perfect Bostonian couple. Only . . .

They weren’t in Boston anymore. And things about her that had only niggled at him over the past three years now gnawed.

Likely the last fleeting thoughts of a man too long a bachelor. Or at least that’s what he hoped.

He ran a hand over the top of the desk, the object of her momentary disdain, and found the workmanship exemplary, just as he had the first time he’d stepped foot into this house. When business had brought him to Nashville a year ago, he’d seen this land, this house, and he’d known he would purchase it. Same as he’d known, somewhere deep inside, that he would live in Nashville. Someday. He simply hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

How a conversation with a complete stranger six years ago had so altered the course of his life, he couldn’t explain. A most unlikely exchange on a field in North Carolina during the lull of war. With a Johnny Reb, no less. It was a conversation—and battle—he would never forget.

He’d never told Priscilla about what happened that day. He’d never told anyone. But for sure Priscilla Sinclair, daughter to one of the finest families in Massachusetts, wouldn’t understand.

Since finally closing the door to the most prestigious law firm in Boston nearly two months ago, he’d not once looked back.

But she did.

Even now, as she studied the draperies framing the windows, the table and chair to the side, he sensed her longing for home, her thoughts undoubtedly returning to the handsome redbrick brownstone he still owned in Beacon Hill. He’d thought about selling the home in recent months but had held back, wanting to make certain he enjoyed living here as much as he thought he would.

And he did.

Darby Farm was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been searching for. The house was older, yes, but it was well built and full of character and had cost a fraction of what he would glean from selling his brownstone.

But even without the capital gained from the sale, he had the funds to get the farm up and running again. Which was a good thing, because despite his investment thus far, there was much yet to be done.

“Aidan,” Priscilla purred, moving around to his side of the desk. She pressed a hand against his suit jacket, her pale-blue eyes hinting at conspiracy and her coy smile saying she didn’t mind him knowing. “Now that I think of it, why don’t you leave the redecorating to me? It’s one of my fortes, after all. Your job is to transform this”—she hesitated, her brow quirking the way it did whenever she sought a word other than the one that described her true feelings—“humble little property into the grand estate we both know it can be.”

“ ‘Humble little property’? It’s nearly four hundred acres, Priscilla. And as I’ve told you, this will be a working farm. Not an elaborate estate. Remember that as you’re putting your touches on things.”

Her lips firmed, then just as quickly formed a smile. “It’s such a beautiful morning, Aidan. You should go for a ride.”

He eyed her, knowing something was amiss. “You began this conversation by telling me a seamstress—”

“A Miss Anderson,” she supplied.

“Miss Anderson,” he repeated, “was coming to discuss proposed changes to the house and you wanted my input. Now you want me to go riding? And this after the last four mornings you’ve said that leaving you to go riding would be considered rude since you’re only here for a matter of days.”

She met his gaze, then gave a seductive little laugh. “No wonder you’ll soon be Nashville’s leading attorney. Nothing escapes your scrutiny. Or memory.”