Count On Me: Baytown Boys

by Maryann Jordan

  Touched by her invitation and the understanding that she would have never walked into a meeting of strangers by herself, she simply nodded, not knowing what else to say. “Carrie Beaumont also asked me to come.”

  Belle added, “I know right now all you feel is pain. My grandmother raised me, and when I lost her, I felt like I had lost the biggest part of me.”

  Swallowing deeply, Lizzie breathed through her nose in an effort to still the tears that once again threatened to fall.

  “Think about joining us, and I’ll check with you before the next meeting,” Belle said.

  She had to admit that she was curious as she listened to the conversation about the American Legion and the Auxiliary, especially when they talked about the activities they participated in. It seemed the fundraising race that Scott was organizing was first and foremost on everyone’s mind.

  “The race will be coming right past your farm,” Jillian said. “It starts and ends at the North Heron Fairgrounds.”

  “The auxiliary is going to be selling baked goods and other things at the end of the race,” Tori said, looking over at Lizzie. “You should bring some of your goat milk products to sell.”

  Before she had a chance to reply, the others joined in with their encouragement as well. “Think of it this way,” Belle said. “There will be a lot more people at the park than ever come to the farmers’ market.”

  As the idea took hold, she smiled, saying, “Looks like I need to get busy making some more before next weekend.”

  With a sincere thanks for their visit, she walked them outside and watched as they climbed into their car.

  Just before closing her door, Jillian turned and said, “If I were you, I’d talk to Scott Redding. He’s a wonderful accountant and is also great with financial planning. He would have some wonderful marketing ideas for your products.”

  Lifting her hand in a slight wave, she watched as they drove out of her driveway and down the road. Thinking over Jillian’s advice, she snorted. I wasn’t very appreciative of him. I don’t know if he’d be willing to help me with anything.

  She needed to clean the kitchen from the lotion-making mess, but the goats were bleating, and the alpacas were no longer wandering around their pasture but were standing at the fence staring at her. Sighing heavily, she thought, There’s no rest for the weary.

  9

  “Shit!”

  It was earlier than Lizzie normally started her chores, but, not sleeping well since her grandfather had died, she climbed from bed as the predawn sky was just beginning to lighten. Dressed and fixing a cup of coffee, she had glanced out the window and spied some of her goats wandering in the yard.

  Shoving her feet into her work boots as she ran outside, she observed the barn door open. Cursing her stupidity for not checking the door the night before, she prayed none of her goats had left the yard and gotten into the road.

  Trying to calm her panic, she rushed around, pulling some of them away from her grandmother’s shrubs and cursed as she noted that several were stomping through the small flower bed.

  “Get out of there!” she grumbled, clapping her hands and attempting to herd them back toward the barn. Belatedly, she realized they would come for food. Jogging toward the barn, she looked over her shoulder and saw most of them following her.

  Once in the barn, she quickly ascertained that the baby goats were still in their pen. The adult goats were following her, and she moved them into their pasture, filling their feed dishes. With a quick count, she heaved a great sigh of relief at having all of her goats.

  She flipped an empty bucket over and plopped down unceremoniously on her makeshift seat, resting her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. The sun was just beginning to paint the sky pale blue, rose, and peach, but she did not see any of the beauty.

  Giving in to the emotions churning through her, she felt tears running down her cheeks and swiped angrily at them. Standing quickly, she snatched the bucket from the ground and stomped back to the barn, cursing her stupidity for not securing the animals the previous evening.

  Standing in the barn, she looked around at the securely-pinned goat kids and the alpacas. Casting her mind back to the night before, she could have sworn that she locked their pen as usual. It was her practice to always give the stable gate a hard jiggle to make sure it could not be pushed open.

  Could someone else have done this? Looking around, she saw no signs that anyone had been in the barn and knew she was simply looking for an excuse for her own shortcomings. Dropping her chin to her chest, she stared at her worn, dusty boots and remembered Papa Beau’s words. “Don’t beat yourself up for a mistake. Just learn from it and move forward.” Swallowing deeply, she lifted a hand and pressed it against her heart, willing the ache to lessen.

  The goat kids began to bleat louder, and once more a sigh left her chest. Picking up another bucket, she pushed all thoughts to the side as she began her chores.

  The early morning was not humid, for which Scott was grateful. He ran along the path that he had charted for the fundraising runs. Starting at the Fairgrounds, he planned a 5K along this stretch of road, and a separate 10K race would start in the same place but would meander along several other country roads. The fun run for the kids would be held in the Fairgrounds so that it would be easier for adults to make sure the children stayed safe.

  He had decided on this path after he had visited Beau, realizing the beautiful lane with farmland on either side would make the perfect backdrop for the runners. Now, he wondered if Lizzie would be outside working, possibly catching a glimpse of him.

  Self-doubt crept along his spine as he thought of what her opinion of him would be if she saw him running in his blade. Aiden had not been far from wrong when he jokingly called him the bionic man. The first time he had ever seen someone running with a blade had been when he was in rehab after his amputation. At that time, he was not sure he would ever walk again, much less run. Watching the man practicing in his blade, Scott had been first appalled at the balance necessary and then intrigued with the idea of success.

  Dogged determination kicked in, and he anxiously awaited the first time he was fitted with a blade and tried it out.

  As he continued to run down the road, he passed the Weston Farm but did not see Lizzie in the yard or near the fence. A strange mixture of disappointment and relief moved through him. He would have loved to have seen her again, and yet, hated to see the look on her face when she realized he was an amputee. Lifting a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he continued down the road until the farm was out of sight.

  Lizzie finished her morning chores with the goats and now stood in the pasture with the alpacas. Finally, calmer from the early morning goat escape, she leaned against the fence and breathed the fresh air deeply into her lungs. The humming sound they made filled her with joy, and she laughed at their antics. Making sure they had feed, she lazily ran her fingers over their fleece. Her mind began to wander, and as so often recently, it wandered to Scott. She could not figure out why he continued to invade her thoughts.

  He was certainly handsome, and he had always been exceedingly kind to her. Sighing, she realized that thoughts of him were pointless. He had offered to help, and she’d shoved him away.

  The alpacas crowded around her, each trying to see if she had more treats for them. Suddenly, all three twisted their long necks, swinging their heads to the side. She turned to see what had captured their attention. In the distance, she could see a lone man running, his lower left leg replaced by a blade prosthetic. He was not close to her, but even at her distance she could see that his body was muscular. With a ball cap covering his head, the brim creating a shadow over his face, she had no idea who he was and had not seen him running along the lane before. Not wanting to be caught gawking, she turned and moved with the alpacas back to the barn.

  “I’m not going to feed you now,” she insisted as she began mucking out their stalls. A few minutes later, she peeked out of the barn and
could see that the man had passed her farm, continuing to run down the road. His T-shirt was wet with sweat and clinging to the muscles in his back and upper arms. His running shorts were molded to his taut ass and thick thighs.

  His gait was steady, and her gaze dropped to his legs. It was fascinating to watch him run on the prosthetic blade. She had certainly seen runners with a blade on television but never in real life. There was a strange, other-worldly appearance to the appendage, and she wondered how difficult it would be to get used to it. She continued to stare, thoughts of the man running through her mind.

  I wonder when he lost his leg. Her grandfather had talked about a farming accident with a young man a few years back, and as she searched her memory banks, she remembered that the accident happened with his arm. There are a lot of veterans in the area. When coming home from an American Legion meeting, Papa Beau would mention the young men coming back from their service or moving to the Baytown area.

  I wonder if he was a runner before. If he was a veteran, she felt sure that running has been part of his life. It must have been agonizing to learn how to walk again, much less run. She thought of the news reports that would show the physical therapy and training required just to learn to stand, balance, and walk with the prosthetic leg.

  As he disappeared into the distance, she turned, leaning heavily against the barn door, the air in her lungs leaving her body in a rush. She closed her eyes tightly, the image of the man still burning inside. What fortitude he has to come back from a devastating injury to not only live but take life at a run. Embarrassment slid through her as she thought about the self-pity she had felt since Papa Beau died.

  Certainly, she grieved and knew that was normal and healthy. But to wallow in self-pity… Papa Beau would never have wanted that.

  Opening her eyes, she looked around the barn, mentally categorizing what needed to be done on a daily basis as well as the general upkeep of jobs that would need to be completed. She walked back outside and turned slowly in a circle. Working long hours, she was able to continue all of her tasks on the farm plus some of what her grandfather used to do.

  She dropped her chin to her chest as the reality sunk in. A weight pressed on her chest again as she accepted that she was going to need help, especially if she was going to be increasing her sales for the goat milk products that she so wanted to do. And then there was the shearing of the alpacas.

  But where do I come up with the money to pay someone to help? An image of Scott landed right in the middle of her thoughts. With hands on her hips, she continued to stare at her old, scuffed boots. She had been so angry to find out that her grandfather specifically wanted Scott to help her figure out the finances for the farm. But the reality was she needed him. Wincing, she thought of how she had not been very welcoming or accommodating. Pinching the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb, she squeezed her eyes even tighter before sucking in a deep breath and lifting her head.

  Squaring her shoulders, she knew what she needed to do. She was Beau Weston’s granddaughter and would not allow Weston Farms to go under.

  Before she had a chance to reconsider, she finished her morning chores. Once complete, she double-checked to make sure the animals were secure in their pastures and hurried into the house to shower. Taking care to dry her hair smooth, she braided it so that it hung down her back, out of her way. Looking into her closet, she had few clothes that might be deemed appropriate for visiting someone in their office other than what she wore to the lawyer’s the other day. Deciding it did not matter, she pulled on a pair of clean jeans, a simple, unadorned T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers that had seen better days but had not become dirty with farm work. Grabbing her purse, she headed to the truck.

  Within fifteen minutes, she was driving down Main Street of Baytown, passing Jillian’s Coffee House and Galleria. The dark green awning over the few tables that sat on the sidewalk looked inviting, and she wondered if her goat milk products would really sell there. Turning onto a side street, she was able to find parking near McFarlane–Redding Accounting.

  Walking with a purposeful stride, she pulled open the front door and stepped inside, her gaze landing on a perfectly-coiffed older woman sitting behind a wooden desk. The woman looked up, smiled pleasantly, and asked, “May I help you?”

  Uncertainty filled her and her stomach knotted. She clutched the strap of her purse tightly, and blurted, “Uh… I was going to see… but I don’t have an appointment. Uh… I’ll just…”

  “You’re Elizabeth Weston, aren’t you?”

  Jerking her head up and down in reply, she said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman stood and extended her hand. “I’m Mrs. Markham. I knew your grandparents from years back. I’m very sorry for your loss, my dear.”

  Expecting the usual sting of tears that tended to hit when anyone referred to her grandparents, she found Mrs. Markham’s warm tone and sincere expression to soothe over her. Letting out a breath she did not know she was holding, she smiled slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “I assume you’re here to speak to Mr. Redding?”

  “Yes ma’am, I was. But it can wait. I came on impulse and didn’t even consider that I needed an appointment.” She looked down at the neat desk and wondered how to go about making an appointment. “He can call me, or I can just do it now, or—”

  “Actually, he doesn’t have any appointments this morning, so this is wonderful timing. Give me just a moment, and I’ll announce you.”

  Her mouth formed an ‘O,’ but no words came out as Mrs. Markham disappeared down the hall before Lizzie could change her mind. She looked around the elegant reception room, several comfortable leather chairs arranged in one corner with large potted plants decorating the space. The walls were adorned with paintings of seascapes in heavy wooden frames. As though drawn to the image of the shore, she moved closer to the wall, studying the exquisite painting of sand dunes, tufts of seagrass, gentle waves rolling in, and gulls flying overhead.

  A longing deep inside squeezed around her heart. She had been born and raised a few miles from the Chesapeake Bay but had rarely visited the shore in recent years. She lifted her hand, fingers extended toward the painting, but stopped before they touched the canvas, curling inward as she placed her hand over her chest.

  “Lizzie?”

  Jumping, she whirled around and saw Scott standing with Mrs. Markham. Her gaze made an immediate assessment, something she seemed to always do when in his presence. And, as usual, he did not disappoint. His tall, muscular frame was covered in a tailored light-blue shirt, rose-colored tie, and dark slacks. His blue eyes held hers and she swallowed, uncertain why her mouth was suddenly dry.

  An embarrassed blush flooded her face, and she babbled, “I was just admiring the painting. It’s… uh… quite lovely.” Relieved when they merely smiled, she continued, “I apologize for just dropping in. I can make an appointment—”

  “Not at all.” Scott’s smile was wide. “I’m glad to see you. Please, let’s go to my office.”

  With a small nod directed toward Mrs. Markham, she followed as Scott led them down the short hall. Her gaze dropped to his ass and she wondered what was wrong with her. When he reached his office, he turned and waved his hand to usher her in ahead of him. As she slid by him, she looked up, realizing this was the closest she had ever been to him. He was tall, easily a head taller than her. His jaw was square and firm, his eyes clear and warm as they held her gaze. His shoulders and chest were broad, something she was now noticing with intimate detail.

  He was handsome, no doubt about it, and yet, that thought only served to make her more self-conscious. Taking a seat, she clutched her purse in her lap, glad to have something to do with her hands.

  She was surprised when he did not walk around and sit behind his desk but instead settled into the chair that was angled toward her. If he did this to put her more at ease, he failed miserably. She almost snorted aloud at the thought that his close proximity seemed to be
muddling her brain once again.

  “Are you okay? Is everything okay with the farm?” he said, leaning forward slightly, his gaze intense.

  His words moved slowly through her, the tension that had coiled inside loosening. Hurrying to assure, she said, “Yes, I’m fine. The farm is fine. Well, at least I want it to be fine. That’s why I’m here, so it can be fine.” Realizing she was babbling again, she smiled nervously. “I guess I should stop using the word fine, shouldn’t I?”

  He chuckled, and it struck her that it served to ratchet up his handsomeness level. Forcing her thoughts back to why she came, she said, “I realize that I haven’t been very nice to you. I want to apologize for that.” She watched as he lifted his hand to wave away her concerns, but she rushed, “No, please, I need to say this.”

  He nodded his acquiescence and leaned back in his chair, never losing hold of her gaze, giving his full attention to her.

  “I… uh… I… oh, my goodness, I’m not sure what on earth I’m trying to say.”

  He reached out and touched her arm gently. “Just start talking, Lizzie. Say whatever’s on your mind.”

  With that encouragement, she began again. “For a while now, it was just my grandfather and me. The farm changed over the years as it was harder to get anyone who wanted to work on a farm full-time. Papa Beau turned to migrant workers, but they were not always able to be here when we needed them. I don’t blame him for selling off some of the land, especially when it became obvious that our small farm could not compete with the larger farms in raising crops.”