Take Me Home

by Inez Kelley

  There were some. The sun on their cheeks on a summer day, the smell of the garden in the spring, the strawberries that grew wild in the east field. But that final year, that endless stretch of misery, was nothing but a gaping hole in their conversations.

  Maybe she didn’t remember how awful those years were. She was younger, had been only ten when they carried everything the truck could hold out under the eyes of sheriff deputies. Maybe she didn’t remember how hard the ground was when they slept in the National Forest, dodging the game wardens by moving every night for nearly a month. How humiliating it was to listen to your friends talk about new cars while you were looking for a pair of sneakers at the Goodwill.

  Outside his office, phones rang. The copier whirred and the secretaries laughed. A radio was playing, some soft rock station. The panic-sweat dried along his forehead, and his heart slowed to a normal rhythm. He’d lived the humiliation once, he wouldn’t do it again. He’d have to toughen up and do the fucking job he was paid for.

  The folder smacked the desktop as he flipped it open for her number. His hand was steady as he dialed.

  “Mountain Specialty Spices.”

  “Kayla, Matt Shaw with Hawkins Hardwood.”

  “Like I could forget.” A soft laugh crawled through the phone and slid across his ear. She sounded bright and cheerful. A curl lifted the corner of his lip as the tightness eased in his neck. “Is this business or pleasure?”

  Regret settled. “Business.” He scanned the revised copy, the reason for his needed personal attention. “I have the finalized paperwork and was wondering if we could meet to go over it?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. But we can meet for dinner.”

  Matt scratched above his eyebrow, unsure how to respond. He was tempted, no doubt. Had he met her any other place, he would be jumping at the chance to go out with her. He hadn’t been interested in any woman in months and it’d been over a year since he’d had any sex other than solo. His libido was in hyper-drive and Kayla was beautiful, intelligent and resourceful. She looked at him as if he were worth something. He’d damn-near broken his back to escape the poverty of his childhood and was far more comfortable than his family had ever been, but still couldn’t shake the feeling it could be taken away in a heartbeat. The fact that Kayla’d bought his old place was a cruel quirk of fate, nothing more, but his gut was still watery. She was tied to a place he’d been cut from.

  His silence stretched too long.

  “I thought...you were as attracted as I am.” Uncertainty stuttered her voice. “Matt?”

  From deep in his bones, some masculine protective instinct flared. He wanted to erase that tremor and bring the sunshine back into her voice. The liquid in his belly firmed. Screw it. Technically, he was a glorified messenger boy. He had no influence over any business decisions at this point. It was dinner at a neutral location, not a marriage proposal. What was the harm in having a meal with her? It wasn’t like he planned to ever ask her out. He couldn’t do that. But a business dinner? That he could do.

  “Okay, dinner...about seven? The Riverview Inn?”

  Her chirping laugh was his reward. “It’s a date, lumberjack.”

  After he hung up, Matt slumped in his chair and hung his head back. He couldn’t say why he’d named the Riverview Inn. Normally, he preferred the Cottage, a smaller place that had fantastic steaks and a relaxed informal atmosphere. The Riverview was the most expensive and most formal in the area. A headache erupted as he realized he was trying to prove something, something Kayla had no idea about.

  Jenny Thompson had been his girlfriend for two years in high school. They’d been each other’s first loves and first lovers. The bank took the land and Jenny broke his heart. She said she loved him but didn’t want him to worry about spending money on her. She didn’t want him to take time away from his schoolwork while he worked a part-time job to help put food on the table. She said yes when Ben Timbrook asked her to the prom.

  Biting back remembered humiliation, Matt grabbed his hard hat and thrust from his chair. His family might have lost everything, and Kayla might own most of it now, but he was financially comfortable. He had a mortgage-free house, built with his own hands and paid for out of his own pocket. He owed very few people and wasn’t under anyone’s thumb. Long years of living far below his means had padded his bank account but couldn’t erase the hurt from the past.

  Never again would he stand for seeing pity in a woman’s eyes when she looked at him.

  * * *

  Ernest “Squeak” Iverson dusted his palms then pushed his rickety frame upright, gas lantern clutched in his age-spotted hand. Kayla slid her phone back into her pocket and held her breath. The man was older than dirt but his name cropped up on nearly everyone’s tongue when she asked about syrup makers. The old man was something of a legend. He’d agreed to come check out the sugarhouse and give her an estimate on how much it would take to get it back in business. Strange phrases like polyethylene tubing, reverse osmosis machines, and sand niters jumbled in her mind. She’d scribbled notes, frantically taking every drop of expertise he was willing to give.

  “Got yourself a right fine setup here, missy.” He spit tobacco juice into the glass bottle he carried. “Someone had a good little moneymaker going. ‘’’Course it’s got a bit of age on it and you’re missing a few things. Right off, ya need a new bilge pump. Still, with a little hard work, a few years’d see this become a real honey of a hole.”

  “Bilge pump?”

  Squeak looked at her as if she was slow but he answered, “Pumps the sap from the holding tank into the house.”

  “What am I looking at for start-up costs?”

  Squeak scratched his bristly chin. “Well, depends how hard you want to work it the first year. Iffin’ it were me, I’d go with the least amount of start-up cost and spend a year or two busting my keister then let the sugar pay me. You got most of the basics here to start fresh doing it the old-fashioned way. How many trees you got to tap?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m meeting with a guy from Hawkins Hardwoods tonight. I can get a maple count from their timber offer.”

  The old man spit into his bottle and nodded. “Good bunch, them. Knew old Deke Hawkins back in the day. His boy runs the company now.” Squeak motioned toward the stacked buckets. “Judging by what equipment was left, I’d say you got a fair amount of raw sap just waiting in the woods. More than one body can handle.”

  Squeak grinned, his bristly cheeks rounding out his haggard face. “Get you a couple men to do your hauling. It takes near fifty gallons of raw sap to make one gallon of finished syrup. On a good day, you can get sap flowing like water, so iffin’ you don’t get the bucket off the tree quick enough, you lose it. You lose money.”

  Kayla’s pen scratched furiously, filling the twentieth page of notes.

  Tobacco spit shot into the glass once more. “I’m right near eighty-five and I reckon my memory’s like a pup chasing its tail, some days I can catch it, other days not. Seems to me the feller that used to own this place never made a buck outta this operation but it wasn’t fer not trying. The weather was flat-out shitty, pardon my language, for a good number of years. Lots of tappers lost everything.”

  Her pen halted mid-word. “What if the weather is shitty this year?”

  “Well, then you pray a lot and tighten your belt and hope for next year. Ain’t no one can control the weather but the sweet Lord, and he don’t rightly care what’s happening to the tappers. You might wanna ask Snyder how his sap’s been running the past couple years.”

  “Snyder?”

  Squeak squinted, which added a thousand new wrinkles to his face, and narrowed his eyes to tiny slashes. “You been here a year and ain’t met Snyder yet? His property borders yours.”

  “Oh, no, I haven’t had time to meet man
y people.” A self-conscious shrug worked her shoulders. “You know, building the new house, getting the greenhouses and gardens set up.”

  “He runs a small sugarhouse, nothing like this but enough for family. That tank out yonder is shot but it held close to five thousand gallons. It’ll probably empty and fill two, maybe three, times a season.”

  Math equations zipped through her brain. If the tank only filled twice, that was ten thousand gallons of raw sap, which meant two hundred gallons of refined syrup. At sixty dollars a gallon, she was potentially looking at twelve thousand dollars the first year, for just a few weeks’ work. Granted it would be backbreaking work but that she could handle. If the tank filled three times, her profit margin soared.

  Squeak squatted down with a crackle of arthritic bones to inspect the brick and cast-iron firepit. Kayla bit her lip to stop from singing. Winter was Mountain Specialty Spices’ slow time. It was perfect. It had to be perfect. Start-up had taken more money than she anticipated and her savings were pretty depleted. M.S.S. was growing, growing quickly, but not quickly enough. She needed a cushion. As it was, it was taking everything she had to make ends meet. When winter hit and her sales slowed, she was going to be hurting.

  The first two years were critical in any business. She’d made it through last winter by living on the last of the insurance money left to her by her parents. That was all but gone. The maple syrup could be the difference between keeping the property or not.

  Scanning the horizon, Kayla drew a deep lungful of mountain air. Fall was coming fast, marked with random brilliant colors appearing on the mountainside and nighttime temperatures dipping low. The wind stirred a few loose leaves into a tight spin. The trees helped. Cash from the timber sale would be reinvested in her business. She’d have to lay out cash for a generator, a hot water tank and a few other things the FDA required to call her goods organic, but the sugarhouse had the potential to triple the investment in one year.

  A successful business, a new product line and a lumberjack sexier than sin-dipped chocolate were all within her reach. She just had to grab hold of them.

  * * *

  Riverview Inn offered a creative twist on local favorites as well as standard dinner fare. Seated outside on the deck, Kayla had a palate of colors for visual feasting. The river wasn’t that large, more of a wide stream, but the mountain vista was gorgeous. She had no complaints about the food or the view, but the restaurant was a bit snooty for her tastes.

  She was early but she wasn’t idle. Sipping a glass of local apple-honey wine, she powered up her tablet and answered inquiries that had come in through her website contact page. Carefully answering each one, she directed curious consumers to appropriate products. She opened a side window to check her non-genetically modified wheat and corn inventory. Satisfied, she starting designing a new clickable coupon.

  She felt his stare before she lifted her head. Something in the air grew thicker, sweeter. She looked over the top of her reading glasses.

  Matt stood with his lower back propped on the deck railing, ankles and arms crossed, simply watching her. She wondered how long he’d been there, just looking, as she’d been caught up in work. Damn, he looked good tonight. Early evening sun gave his skin a golden glow, and the slight wind played with his hair. His dark blue shirt stretched across his shoulders, and his corded forearms made her mouth water.

  Her eyes snagged his and attraction sparked, an invisible arc that stood the tiny hairs along her nape. A breath. Another. For a total of five, neither blinked.

  “Am I late?” A lazy curl lifted his lip. His rich timbre carried just enough arrogance to speed her pulse.

  “Right on time.” Kayla motioned to the empty chair across from her. He kicked away from the railing, his thighs flexing against his khaki pants. Utterly comfortable in his skin, he reminded her of a majestic stag strutting through a forest glen, unaware of the immense grace and beauty in his movements. She was captivated.

  The heavy wooden chair scraped against the deck as he lowered into the seat. He angled closer, glancing at her screen. “What are you doing?”

  “Just coding. Running queries against the database to set up the backend to allow the newest coupons. I just finished running an analysis to figure out my best revenue-generating sales push. I also need to redesign the click-through flow for the purchasing experience.”

  “I’m impressed. I can barely program my phone.”

  “Well, you know how to get better at computers, right?”

  “How?”

  “Sleep with an engineer.” She gave him an impish grin as she swiped the tablet clear and powered down.

  The gold in his hazel eyes glistened with interest. “You offering?”

  Casually, she sipped her wine, and his gaze lowered to her mouth. Her tongue slicked a drop from her lip and his fast inhale was audible. Her cheeks warmed. “Possibly. What would you have to offer me?”

  “Hypothetically, I’ve got a lot of hardwood...and a contract.” He laid the legal papers between them.

  A quick wrist flipped opened the document. The legalese was clear enough and Hawkins had been agreeable to her counter-offer, so she signed the marked spots. She refolded the pages and scooted it toward him. “Business complete?”

  “Business complete,” he confirmed. He separated the pages, handing her back a copy, then tucked the contract under his phone on the far edge of the linen tablecloth.

  “Good. Now let’s concentrate on pleasure, shall we?”

  The waitress appeared with fresh water glasses and a wicker basket of steaming hot rolls in several varieties. She spouted the daily specials, took their drink orders and left them menus. Matt opened his but didn’t bother reading. Instead, he studied her over the top.

  “Do you eat normal people food or are you sticking to diabetic rabbit chow with lemon juice?”

  She let her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, you’re not going to order, like...a dead animal, are you?”

  Matt froze. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re not going to eat meat, right? Or anything with eggs? Or dairy, you’re not going to order dairy, are you? That’s like taking the food out of a baby cow’s mouth.”

  “Uh...” Matt’s eyes scoured the menu and his throat worked with a swallow.

  “Gotcha,” Kayla laughed. “You should see your face.”

  His shoulders slumped with his snort. “Brat.”

  In the end, they agreed to split a huge appetizer. Matt chose a spicy sausage and shrimp meal while Kayla caved to the lure of blue crab risotto. He declined to share her wine, ordering a draft beer served in a handled mason jar.

  She slid her small dark-framed glasses off her face and tucked them in her handbag.

  “I like you in glasses. It’s a good look, sort of sexy-librarian-slash-Earth-Mother deal.”

  “Thank you. Does that mean I can call you a hot lumberjack slash enlightened forester?”

  “Lumberjacks are a bygone nomenclature. They were rough and gruff men who wore flannel and conquered the woods with little more than an axe, a crosscut saw and the drive to succeed.”

  The image of him swinging an axe, his skin damp with sweat, muscles flexing and bunching, had her reaching for her wineglass.

  “Today we call them loggers or axe-men, even though it’s more chainsaws and machinery.” He hid a smile behind his beer mug. “I do still wear flannel occasionally when the weather turns, though.”

  “Be still, my heart.” She let her eyes linger on the curve of his biceps straining at his sleeve. “So what’s the difference between a logger and a forester?”

  “Honestly? Not much. A degree in either forestry, silviculture or wood science, usually.”

  They both reached for the breadbasket at the same time and their fingers brushed. Neither moved. Like seconds before a storm, her skin tingled with el
ectricity as his calloused touch stroked her knuckle. Sexual tension muted the outside world.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad we’re done with business.” She walked her fingers up his hand, using her nails to tap a little dance along his wrist.

  They formed a steeple, each finger touching the tips of the other’s. Then Matt slid his fingers between hers and squeezed. Just like that, they were holding hands long before the first course was served.

  They talked, sharing more about themselves. He seemed in awe of her travels. Although he’d served briefly, he’d never been out of the country for anything other than duty. His tales of his young nephew enchanted her. A sense of longing seeped into her bones as he spoke of his family, his love of the land and his job, the ties so strong in his baritone voice. That was what she wanted, a sense of belonging and a partner to share it with.

  “You actually produce enough food stuff to run a business?”

  “Yep. I have two different greenhouses, composite/companion planting boxes, and use gray water and clay pot irrigation.”

  He chuckled. “You’re talking a whole different language. I don’t understand a word of that.”

  “It’s just fancy words for organic farming on a reduced scale. I grow or make about eighty-five percent of my stock. For the other fifteen percent I have purchase agreements with other wholesale organic farmers.”

  “You call yourself a farmer?”

  A shrug lifted one shoulder. “Sometimes. I don’t ride a tractor or milk cows but I do grow produce.”

  “I amend my earlier statement then.” His eyes twinkled. “You’re sexy librarian slash farm girl.”

  The small dark hairs on his wrist were soft, and she dragged her fingertips across them. “Do you like farm girls?”

  The diners next to them left, walking between the tables. Matt shifted his chair to open more room, sliding closer to Kayla. He leaned in, letting his chin brush along her jaw as he whispered against her ear. “There’s a reason for all those farmer’s daughter stories in men’s magazines.”