A Taste of Sugar

by Marina Adair

  “A dress. Normal attire for a date.”

  “You wearing that”—Jace waved a hand at the flower—“to the range?”

  “I am taking a salsa class, not that it’s any of your business.” She handed Jace an envelope. “Here.”

  He took out the paper and unfolded what looked like a billing statement. For a thousand bucks. “What’s this?”

  “Rent,” she explained. “Due by the fifteenth. Because I am so generous, I prorated it.”

  “But you were letting me borrow the bay. A bay you weren’t using,” he reminded her.

  “Brett hasn’t done any kind of advanced thinking past changing diapers and hitting golf balls, but he’s still paying on his student loans.” Spencer smiled then punched him in the arm. “If you aren’t cleared out by midmonth, it doubles. Thank you for coming,” she said dryly as she walked away. “Have a nice day.”

  * * *

  Charlotte slid into a vacant spot behind the finish line just as the last of the sheep were put in the starting cages. She was supposed to be working the Grow Clinic booth over by the classic car display, handing out pens and bumper stickers, but she wanted Woolamena to be able to see her when the mayor fired the start gun and the gates opened. Woolamena was counting on her and she didn’t want to let her down.

  Plus focusing on someone else’s issues made it more difficult to dwell on her own. Like today was Sunday, their three weeks were almost up, and Jace could be leaving any day.

  “Isn’t it exciting, dear?” Dottie Ryan, owner of Sugar Savings and Loan said from beside her. The woman was tall, bony, and had a pair of binoculars pressed to her face. “I bet all my tickets on Wooly Bully. I’ll be taking home a jar of this year’s Great Sugar Jam-Off winner.”

  “I thought they threw out all the jams because people were concerned that they weren’t safe for consumption,” Charlotte said.

  “They did, so they’re handing out jars of Skeeter’s peach bombs instead. Every person who picks the winner gets two jars.”

  Peach bombs were sliced peaches marinated in bathtub moonshine. A Skeeter specialty, because he stored them in quart-size Kerr jars that pop when they’re sealed. With hundred-proof moonshine and slices of kumquats, no wonder so many people had turned out.

  “Well, it’s a bad bet,” Charlotte said. “Woolamena is going to take it.”

  “Woolamena’s the long shot.” Dottie looked around, and when she was sure no one was listening, she leaned in, “I heard she’s been having man troubles. Something about a stud who moved on to a younger prize. Drowned her woes in calories and people are claiming she’s too plump to win.”

  Charlotte leaned in close, too, and whispered, “Real women have curves, Ms. Ryan. So do winners. It gives them padding for when they bust through the competition. So when that gate opens, I’d take a step back, because Woolamena is going to destroy the competition, and she might even take out that fence right there.”

  With horrified eyes, Dottie took a big step back.

  Charlotte grinned and watched as the mayor approached the podium. He looked out at the crowd that had gathered, and he smiled. The parking lot, which had been completely shut down for the fair, and the back field were packed with families. Because of the addition of the classic cars, there were more tourists than usual. It was as if most of Sugar and the surrounding towns had turned out for the Founder’s Day Fair, and not one of them was about to miss the Sheep Scurry and Trials.

  No longer were people milling about, sipping sweet tea and ogling the concept car. They were all gathered around the racetrack, waiting with their team’s button pinned to their chest, all hoping they’d picked the winner.

  Hoping that they made the right bet.

  With a deep breath, Charlotte ran a finger over her button, Woolamena the Warrior, then searched for the white speck in the distance with a pink dot on her back. She was standing at the front of her cage, her little black face pressed against the metal fence, hooves grinding the dirt.

  “You got this, girl,” Charlotte whispered.

  And she did. Woolamena was almost there, almost ready to move on, and Charlotte knew that this race was a test. One she was determined to help her friend pass. Because next came acceptance and healing, and they were both more than ready for that.

  Charlotte didn’t hear Jace approach, but suddenly she felt him. Bigger than life and standing right behind her. “Is she ready?”

  “I think so,” she said, looking over her shoulder, her mouth going dry.

  Jace was dressed in his usual jeans and boots, but today he’d swapped out the standard black tee for a button-down. Light blue, to match his new car, and undone at the cuffs and collar. And his ball cap for mirrored aviator glasses, taking that dark guardian thing he had going on to a whole new level.

  “I brought this.” He held out an ice-cream bar from the hospital vending machine. “For inspiration.”

  “Thank you.” She unwrapped the bar and took a bite. “Mmmmm. That is so good.”

  “Ah, I actually brought it for Woolanema,” he said, and Charlotte froze, tongue midlick.

  “Oh.” Resisting the urge to lick the melting drop on the stick, she pulled the wrapper back up.

  “I figured if she panicked, knowing an ice-cream reward would be waiting at the end might motivate her to finish. But you have a little on you. Right”—he leaned in as though he was going to lick it right off, then hesitated and pointed to his own lower lip—“there.”

  It had been like this all day. Jace had been supportive and encouraging, and completely remote. Always around, but floating in the background. He hadn’t touched her once, not even a hug when she first saw him at the parade lineup. She knew that it was her fault. That he was keeping his distance because there were people everywhere and one touch would get people speculating, but suddenly she didn’t care. Because no matter how perfect the day got, and it had gone pretty dang perfect so far, if she did say so herself, it felt hollow.

  As if reading her mind, he leaned in and said, “The spooks from Mercy Alliance are a few feet to your left with Reginald, who has had his eye on us since the moment I walked over.” Then handed her a napkin from his shirt pocket.

  She wiped her mouth and looked to her left and had to laugh. Jace was right, Mr. Neil and his starched entourage looked like a bunch of CIA agents in the middle of a hoedown. And Reginald Holden the Third, he didn’t stand out per se but he also didn’t seem to belong. He held himself as though he wasn’t a part of the community, but the overseer. A position that, although self-appointed, must be lonely, she thought, then wondered what he’d do if she went over and hugged him.

  In front of everyone.

  She snorted. Even though a hug was exactly what he needed, her dad wouldn’t know what to do with such a public outpouring of affection. So she smiled and wiggled her fingers his way.

  He gave a nod, not necessarily a friendly nod but better than nothing. Then he went back to watching the sheep.

  “I just wanted to say good luck,” Jace said.

  Charlotte turned around to say that they didn’t need luck, that she and Woolamena were going to be just fine regardless of the outcome, but Jace was gone.

  “He promised the cheer team he would be the O in their victory line during the race, if they gave up the quest to be car babes,” Glory said with a smile. “I’m told there will be pom-poms involved. Don’t worry, Cal is on hand with a camera.”

  Charlotte tried to smile, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “You haven’t asked him to stay, have you,” Glory said.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want these few weeks to be about him leaving, put expectations on him that were unfair. They don’t just offer garages like this to anyone. It’s a huge deal and something he should be proud of.”

  From what Charlotte had gathered from Harvey and Drew, Jace was beyond talented in his field. One of the best. He’d busted his hump to get to this point, and, just like her, he was one step from re
alizing his goal. “And I would never ask him to sacrifice that. I just keep telling myself that we can make this work, that Atlanta is just a few hours away. Right?”

  “Right,” Glory said, but her voice held the same concern Charlotte felt deep down.

  “Has he said anything to Cal? About his plans?”

  “Just that he’s figuring things out.”

  A small bead of hope flared. Jace was a master problem solver, able to take a bunch of stray parts and make them purr. That, combined with her planning skills, made them unbeatable, or so she kept telling herself.

  “But he still wants to go? To Atlanta?” Because that was the only reason she’d held off on asking him to stay. She knew if she did he would. And then one day he might regret his decision—and leave.

  “He hasn’t said anything about changing plans,” Glory said gently. “To be honest, I don’t think he knows what he wants.” At Charlotte’s defeated sigh, Glory bumped her with her hip. “I do know that he loves you, though, that much is obvious.”

  Charlotte took comfort in that, and hoped that this time love would be enough.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor’s voice boomed through the hospital’s intercom and into the crowd. “Welcome to the one hundred and sixty-ninth annual Sugar County Sheep Scurry and Trials.”

  Charlotte’s gaze traveled the length of the track to find Woolamena, who was, oh God no, staring out the side of her pen—at a big black silhouette in the far pasture.

  Charlotte grabbed the binoculars from Dottie. It wasn’t Diablo but a tractor. The way the sun hit it from behind, highlighting the deer antler emblem attached to the hood, it could be construed as a bull.

  The mayor lifted his gun high above his head. “Let the scurry begin.”

  Everyone pressed forward as the shot exploded through the air. The gates swung open and the floor vibrated beneath the crowd’s feet as forty-four hooves pounded the ground at once—forty-four, not forty-eight, since Woolamena was still staring longingly out at the field.

  “Plumpies never win,” Dottie said.

  “Want to bet?” Charlotte ripped the wrapper off the ice-cream bar and pushed her way to the fence. Waving it high above her head she yelled, “Show them your roar, Woolamena!”

  Woolamena’s head turned toward Charlotte, who was waving that white bar for all she was worth. She looked back at the tractor, then back to Charlotte, and she knew the second Woolamena found her voice.

  A loud baa-ah echoed over the roar of the crowd and Woolamena dropped low to the ground, so low that when she took off she appeared to be flying. Eyes locked on the prize, she shot past sheep after sheep, all male, all twice her size and twice as strong. Jockey Jane was strapped to her back, pressed against her rump from the velocity, her glittery pink shoes slapping Woolamena’s flank.

  It took less than a minute to catch the leader, Wooly Bully, who pressed himself aggressively against the side of the track, trying to intimidate and block Woolamena.

  “Go for the goods,” June screamed from the sidelines. She was wearing a BOYS INTIMIDATE AND WOMEN CASTRATE T-shirt.

  Woolamena got even lower, pressing herself under Bully’s big legs and taking him out at the knees. He stumbled and she charged forward, pushing right past the competition, the finish line, and the podium, not stopping until she was at the fence.

  Dottie screamed and jumped back, but Charlotte dropped to her knees and shoved the bar through the boards.

  “Lord almighty, the sheep understood you, didn’t she?” Dottie asked from a careful distance, gazing at the animal as though she was now divine.

  “No, I think ice cream is a pretty powerful motivator,” she said, petting Woolamena as, sides heaving, she gobbled down that bar. Muzzle white from the treat, the sheep lifted her head and then butted the fence.

  Dottie leaped back, hand on her chest as though staring down the Reaper himself. Charlotte reached in and gave Woolamena a scratch behind the ear, taking the movement for what it was. A wooly high five.

  With one last butt to the palm, Woolamena strutted her rump right past the podium and Bully, who was watching.

  “That was more fun than the Kentucky Derby,” Mr. Neil said, and the rest of the board members laughed. “I only wish I’d bet on the winning sheep.”

  Charlotte stood, her cheeks hurting from the strain of smiling so hard. “Woolamena might be the smallest of the entries, but she’s scrappy.”

  “I always say bet on the incumbent. Winning is in their blood,” Reginald said, and Charlotte wanted to gag. A wink to the board would have been more subtle.

  “I think even if this had been Woolamena’s first race she would have taken it,” Charlotte said.

  “Why is that?” Mr. Neil asked.

  Charlotte looked at Woolamena, strutting up and down the track like a queen, and she felt her eyes water. “She was the smallest and youngest one out there, and she had to prove to herself that she deserved a win. That’s a pretty compelling motivation, one that’s hard to beat.”

  Even more compelling than ice cream.

  “I agree,” Mr. Neil said with a smile. “Kind of like this town. The support Sugar Medical has instilled among the residents is almost as compelling as the way you approach medicine. And you, Dr. Holden, are a breath of fresh air.” It took Charlotte a long moment to realize that he was addressing her and not her father.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I love what I do and I love this town. It’s home to me.”

  “A compelling motivation as well,” he said. “Which is why I am pleased to tell you that, while the board needs to finalize the details, it is safe to say that as soon as the Grow Clinic is open and running, the funds will be wired. In five years’ time we will reassess the endowment.”

  “You’re going to fund us for five years?” Charlotte asked, her heart in her throat, because she’d expected to have to reapply every year until they had a proven track record.

  “We want the staff practicing medicine, not researching grants and funding. Plus, I believe strongly that this clinic shows great promise, a promise we’d like to invest in for the long term.” Mr. Neil took Charlotte’s hand, but she went in for a hug. It wasn’t professional, and she was certain her father was shooting her disapproving glances even as she did it, but this wasn’t a business deal to her. This was a partnership, one that started from a shared interest and solidified when Sugar showed them their heart.

  “We won’t let you down, Mr. Neil.”

  Chapter 20

  Jace watched with satisfaction as Charlotte ended the hug and took the suit’s hand, pumping it excitedly. She was trying to play it professional, but he knew she was a mess of emotions inside. She had done it. He could tell by the body language that she’d gotten her money. And he couldn’t be more proud.

  “Next time could you give us a little kick, maybe spirit fingers?” Spencer said, ruffling Jace’s pom-poms. Okay, they were Payton’s, but he promised he’d hold on to them.

  “Here’s the money.” He handed her a thick envelope. He was standing behind the concept car display, making sure people abided by the NO TOUCHING sign. “Thanks for letting me borrow the bay.”

  Spencer ignored his sarcasm and took the envelope. She paused at its weight then opened it. “What, is it all in ones?”

  “A thousand of ’em,” he said. “Just like you requested.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re even a dollar off I will find you.”

  Jace looked down at the woman, who came to his chest, and laughed. “I have a good foot and a hundred pounds on you.”

  “I have a gun and I know how to use it.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Plus, I’d be scared if you didn’t have that dopey-as-shit look on your face,” Spencer said slowly, enunciating every word as though Jace was talking to someone with the emotional control of a hormonal teenage girl.

  “This is a smile, you should try it sometime.” And to demonstrate what a real smile consisted of, he flashed his whites her way. “This is
because Charlotte landed the endowment.”

  “No shit,” Spencer said, giving him an insincere smile as though they were twelve and in middle school. “Good for her. So then why are you over here and she is over there and you have both been pretending all day that you have no idea what the other one’s O face looks like?”

  Jesus. “Who told you?”

  “You just did. I kind of assumed after yesterday with that heartwarming moment in the garage, but there was a little doubt. You and the doctor?” She paused on that for a moment, then shrugged. “Who would have guessed?” Spencer’s face went slack at something over Jace’s shoulder. She ducked down, using him as a shield. “No way. This is not happening. Hide me.”

  Jace looked over his shoulder to see Ben in a pair of Dockers and a freaking tie walking toward him. Jace looked at Spencer and laughed. “Seriously? You went dancing with Dr. Perfect?”

  “What?” Her brows drew together, then she peeked through the gap between his arm and side. “No, the other one.”

  A quick glance told him that his friend was avoiding Sheriff Jackson Duncan. “You hooked up with the sheriff?”

  “No!”

  “Liar.” He raised his hand and waved. “Hey, JD.”

  Spencer yanked it down. “Okay, we didn’t hook up. I went to the salsa class and my date was a no-show, but lo and behold, guess who likes to tango three nights a week?”

  “JD?” Jackson Duncan was a brawler with a permit to carry. He liked to hunt and box and, before he earned a badge, the occasional bar fight.

  “Yup. And he saw me there, sitting all pathetic with a freaking flower in my hair. And.” She shivered. “He asked me to dance. Talk about a dick move.”

  “Total dick move,” Jace deadpanned, giving her a WTF look. “Well, time to pull out your dance card, he’s headed over.”

  With a squeak she dove behind the display holding the car’s specs. “Don’t stare at me, that’s as bad as me screaming polo.”

  “You owe me, Spencer,” Jace said, then turned around. “Hey, JD. Ben.”

  Jackson gave Jace a side bro hug. Ben and Jace exchanged cordial glances.