CHAPTER 3
Molly expected a different kind of Jeep. Instead of a CJ or YJ boxy four-by-four, it was one of those old Jeep Wagoneers. White and clean, it looked like it was from the seventies.
The door shut with a heavy, iron clank.
Blake got in and looked at her with that odd mixture of curiosity and suspicion. At least, that's what it looked like to her.
He said, "Are you all right?" He turned over the engine and put the Jeep into gear. "Trent didn't say much except that we had a deal on the truck. But he didn't say anything about what you thought?"
She shrugged helplessly. "I don't think we had very many options."
"I don't expect you to be my slave or something. Just be your normal housewife self while you're here."
"And make sure the place is clean."
He shifted his shoulders as if in discomfort. "I'm not going to hold a whip over you. But he did take my hunting truck."
She picked at her fingernails. No whip? Well, thank God for small comforts.
He drove under the speed limit, in no hurry at all.
She furtively glanced at him, then away. "What do you do, anyway? For a living? All Trent said was that you hunted."
He thumbed over his shoulder. "All those peach trees around my place? Gives me a comfortable income sometimes. I supplement it with hunting and gun guides I sell."
"You're an author?"
"I pretend to be. It's not as glamorous as it sounds. But I get by well enough if my harvests come up short."
"So you grow peaches?"
He gave a short, upward nod. "Used to have hundreds of acres in the family. Sold most of it for all that housing development. Shame, too. The family used to be wealthy. Now it's just me holding the reins and getting just enough to stay afloat. Usually."
"Usually?"
"Some years are better than others. But my book sales help out."
"And you hunt." She looked at him furtively again. What kind of man kills animals?
He nodded resolutely. "Puts meat in the freezer."
"You eat them?" She was horrified.
He looked at her as if she had said something odd. "Well, yeah, that's why I hunt."
"I don't know how you can do that."
He frowned. "Are you vegan?"
"Me? No."
He gave her a raised eyebrow. "So you've eaten beef."
"Of course."
"Ever seen the inside of a slaughterhouse?"
Molly shifted on the bench seat. "No."
"It isn't pretty. I make a clean kill, dress the carcass right there. The meat is better than what you can get in the grocery store, unless you buy buffalo."
"They sell buffalo meat?"
He grunted. "Yeah, a little too expensive for my blood. But I have a good stock of meat as it is. Don't need to buy it."
"So why is it better?"
"More nutritious. Deer and elk eat sprigs from trees. They munch on natural things. They aren't penned up in mud and fed genetically modified crap that has almost no nutritional value except to fatten them up."
She pushed herself back on the seat, facing forward. Huh, never thought about that.
She saw him looking at her.
Twisting her mouth, she said, "What?"
"Tell you what. We'll buy a single pack of ground beef. We'll open it up and let you smell it compared to my ground venison."
"How would I know what I'm smelling?"
His smile was that all-knowing smile and it made her feel stupid. He said, "You'll see."
~ ~ ~
Blake waved his hand over the packaged meats. "Go ahead; pick the best-looking one."
She felt like a street-person. Bent over the meats dressed as she was, she was sure the manager would come along any moment to tell her she shouldn't be in the store. Even though she and her husband had come here often enough, she felt as if everyone would know she had no money and no business being in there. She snatched a package that looked vibrant and fresh. She thrust it at him as if it wasn't something she should be holding.
Blake gave her a strange look and gently took the meat. He put it in the cart and moved along. "Do you have any special spice requirements?"
How would I know what he likes? "I don't know what you like to eat—"
"I mean as a cook. Little secrets?"
"Salt."
He nodded. "I have sea salt at home."
Molly shrugged. "As long as it's salt."
He grabbed several different things and she watched closely. He said, "I like meatloaf, red potatoes, eggs, all kinds of fruits and vegetables."
She pegged him as a health-eater. "Fresh garlic?"
For the first time, she saw him smile. It crinkled up his eyes slightly as if hesitant to be truly loose and free. His flash of white teeth were even and clean. "Yes, I love garlic."
"Just at dinner?"
"Actually in my omelets, too."
She gave a short nod. Some people liked garlic with breakfast. As a cook, you never questioned – you just made the food the way they ordered. "Do you like your potatoes mashed?"
"Only if you leave the skins on, but I prefer them fried. Retains more nutrients that way."
Fried potatoes were easy and she liked to fry them in butter for a rich crisp outer and creamy interior. She said nothing, though. Cooks cooked – they rarely dealt with the customer unless there was a complaint.
He said, "Can you make your own mayonnaise?"
"What? Make it? Why when you can buy a gallon for pennies?" It wasn't that cheap, but cheap enough.
"The mayo sold in the stores is all soy. Causes inflammation and inflammation is the bedrock of all kinds of really bad things. Diabetes—"
"What? Mayonnaise?"
"No, the soy. They use soy oil now to make mayonnaise."
"Soy causes inflammation?"
Blake grinned. "Indeed. The only edible soy is fermented. The fermentation converts the toxins so that it's edible."
Huh? "I don't know how to make mayonnaise."
"Don't worry, I'll show you. Very easy."
Molly shrugged. Whatever. She watched him finish loading the cart without much more input. Yep, health-eater. Her stomach growled ferociously and her eyes went wide.
He looked at her with a scowl.
Sorry.
He said, "Hungry?"
Ack, he did hear it and knows it was me. "I, uh, was too rushed to eat this morning."
His scowl deepened.
What? I can't help it. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
A wave of dizziness passed over her. Thankfully, they were at the register. She watched him unload onto the conveyor while she stood gripping the cart handle.
The checker was Pam, an older, pleasant woman she and her husband knew from previous visits. Pam looked at Blake with familiarity, then saw Molly. Her smile turned to a frown. She looked at Blake, then Molly again, then dropped her gaze down to Molly's wedding ring. The frown deepened and she pursed her lips. She went about scanning the food items with a snap of disapproval.
Molly flushed red with embarrassment. It's just temporary. My husband traded me for a truck; I'm still married to him. This isn't what you think! She moved so that Blake was between her and Pam's accusing eyes.
That didn't last long as Blake finished and moved through, pulling the cart with him.
Pam's eyes flicked to Molly every couple of scans. Flicked to her face and ring.
She felt the flush of blush rushing up her face from her neck with all the heat of shame. Her hands trembled and she clutched them together to quell the visible shaking of her fingers.
Blake looked to her as if to make sure she was there. He did a double-take and frowned.
Why is everyone looking at me? Her eyes watered and threatened wet-works if she didn't do something. Hurry up, let's go. The water welled. She wiped at her eyes with a savage sweep of shaking fingers.
Blake was paying, but looking at her.
She moved past
him and grabbed the handle of the cart as if to strangle it. Feeling as if she were trailing heat from her blush in a visible cloud of steam, she shoved the cart away from Pam and towards the door.
He caught up to her just outside. "Are you all right, Molly?"
She couldn't hold back any longer and burst out in a strangled sob laced with loneliness and loss.
CHAPTER 4
Molly flipped the ham slices in the pan. "I'm really sorry."
Blake was sitting at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other – sitting with an ease that calmed her, but also with a tension that hinted at action. "No, I should be the one apologizing. I didn't think going to the grocery store would be so traumatic—"
"It was embarrassing. Her looks." There was some heat in her next words. "I'm not some weak woman—"
"No, I meant I didn't think about what others might think. I'm sorry I put you in that situation. I didn't mean you were weak."
She slathered his homemade mayonnaise from a glass jar onto his strange-brand bread. She placed the spoon in the sink and then saw his look of disapproval. "What?"
"I use the dishwasher." His dry tone was exploding with expectation.
The idea caused a disconnect in her brain. She shook her head. "Oh, uh…sorry. I'm used to being a cook." She cut the tomato and placed a slice on each of their breads. "Priority was getting the food prepared as fast as possible, not cleaning utensils. That came between orders. But I'll try to adjust."
He shrugged and sighed. "All right. I just hate dirty stuff in the sink. If it gets taken care of, then good."
"I will, I promise." She placed the cheese she had sliced over the ham and covered the pan. Then she arranged spinach on each of the other slices of bread.
"You're fast." He almost sounded impressed.
Molly smiled quickly. "Habit, I guess." Now that she was done with the preparations and the cheese was melting, she began putting things away.
He watched her with a careful scrutiny that made her feel uncomfortable.
She sighed. "What?"
He shook his head as if shaken from daydreaming. "What?"
"Am I putting things away wrong or something?"
He pulled his head back in confusion. "No…"
What's wrong with you, then? Am I weird-looking?
He drew down his eyebrows. "You're very efficient."
Is that good? Do you actually like something about me? "Oh? A few years of being a cook, I guess."
He nodded, the expression on his face changing to something more neutral.
She next handled the utensil in the sink. She dropped it into the dishwasher basket and in the same move, leaned up and flicked on the sink lever. Grabbing the hose, she gave a quick squirt to where the spoon had rested. Off went the water and she checked the cheese. It was ready. She deftly scooped with the spatula and set the ham and cheese on the tomato slices. She turned off the burner and covered the pan. Spatula went into the sink. She gently flipped the two halves of each sandwich together and picked up both plates.
He had a small grin on his face.
"What?"
"You're fast."
"And out of work."
His grin vanished. "You couldn't find another cooking—"
She set the plates down. "I looked…and looked and looked." She dropped down into her seat with a sigh. The smell of the food made her stomach growl again. Her eyes widened at the sight of her sandwich before her. How long has it been since I had a decent meal?
She started to reach.
He said, "Do you say grace?"
"Grace?" Oh, a meal prayer. "Oh, I used to when I was a kid. With the family."
His look was still neutral. "I do here. I'll say it."
Her stomach growled in anger. I hope you aren't a windbag.
He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you Almighty God for this food, and may You bless us with health."
Molly waited for more. What? That's all? She glanced up at him: he was reaching for his sandwich. Wow, that was simple.
He took a bite and chewed three times. He stopped and looked at her.
She squinted at him No way is that a bad sandwich. Don't even think of criticizing—
"This is excellent." He said it while trying to keep the bite in his mouth hidden. He went back to chewing.
She wasn't concerned with accepting the compliment. She bit into the first real meal in weeks. Sure beats a couple crackers or a can of beans.
~ ~ ~
His kitchen was small and old. The sink was the big open ranch house type sink that went out of fashion sometime early last century. The countertops were new, but the cabinets were original and refinished. The mixture of well-kept old and new created an eclectic sense of rightness in transition. Molly grasped the concept right away. If it worked, why replace it? The refrigerator was a big curved white thing with a chrome handle. It reminded her of a big curved car from the forties.
But in the adjacent mud room to the back door, there was a newer freezer where he stored all his hunting meat.
Blake put the opened package of store-bought beef on the counter. A few feet away, he put some of his homemade ground meat. "All right, come over here."
She approached slowly, horrified that his homemade ground meat might be moving or bleeding.
He waved. "Smell the beef first. Get down to it and take a deep whiff."
That was easy; she had smelled beef millions of times in many different varieties of preparation and cut. She leaned down easily and inhaled deeply. Smells like beef. She straightened and looked at him.
He wore a small smile that said he knew what she was thinking. "Now this here."
She tentatively bent over and prepared herself for something horrifying. Instead, she was stumped by the unusual smell; it reminded her of grass, trees, and juicy steaks. Her eyebrows danced on their own. She took another whiff.
He touched her arm. "Now smell the store beef again."
With a curiosity that compelled her, she moved back to the ground beef. She inhaled and suddenly pulled back sharply. "Oh, wow. What is that?"
"What do you smell?"
"Ugh, like bleach and poop, or something. That's gross." Molly looked at the beef with disgust. "All beef is like this?"
"No, not grass-fed beef. But I rarely buy any. Have enough meat of my own here." He pulled out a plastic bag. "If you won't be offended, I'm just going to throw this away."
"Offended? Why?"
He was looking at her with a troubled look that she couldn't decipher.
She searched his face. "What?"
He frowned. "I didn't know if you might think it was a horrible waste…" His voice trailed off.
What are you going on about? She shook her head. You're a strange one, Blake Parker.
CHAPTER 5
Molly sat on the bed, feeling full and fearful. Is Trent okay? Has he made it there, yet? Seven hour drive, yes, he should be there by now. Is he eating? She felt guilty for having the sandwich. She yearned to talk to him, to hear his voice and his words that he was okay. That everything was going to be okay.
Blake leaned into the door. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. His look was directed to the dresser where she had put her worn ragdoll.
Her mood fell from fearful to frightened. He doesn't like my Annie-doll.
He turned his eyes to her - that frown back on his face. There was a curious look to his eyes that seemed foreign there. "I'll show you which meats to use." He jerked his head for her to follow.
She got up as he moved out of the doorway. She grabbed Annie and stuffed her quickly in the drawer.
In the mudroom, he had the freezer propped open and he was pointing out meats. "I rotate them just like a store does. Steaks here and ground meat here. Just two sections, so pull from the front of each."
Molly nodded. "Okay."
He cocked his head to the side. "In fact, don't bother arranging the freezer; I'll do it."
Don't trust me to do it right?
&
nbsp; He looked at her silent face. "I do it anyway. Let me handle the freezer. Just take from the front." His lips quirked into a small smile that seemed warm and sincere.
She shrugged. "Okay."
That curious look returned to his eyes. "I was thinking a big meatloaf tonight and some fried potatoes."
"Right now?" It was four.
He gave a short nod. "I usually eat around now."
She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, well, I better get cooking."
He shut the freezer.
She opened the heavy refrigerator door and pulled the package of ground meat. His refrigerator stock was all health food – organic stuff. Even organic ketchup! Nutty.
He watched her preparing.
She moved quickly, turning on the oven and putting things where they needed to be.
"Very fast," he said. There was admiration in his voice.
Her mind registered his compliment, but her concentration moved with her hands, moving on to the next task in preparation. She turned and placed a hand on her hip. "Let's talk about how you like your meatloaf."
His smile crept over his face and crinkled his eyes.
~ ~ ~
Molly was shaking her head. "No, really."
"You made plenty; have some more."
She felt the pain of food in her stomach that had long since grown accustomed to containing less.
"More potatoes." He was lifting the plate and beginning to fork some onto her dish.
"No." A little bit of force in her voice where she hadn't intended made him frown. Why does he keep frowning at me?
Gone was the smile – replaced by the look of disgust.
Frustrated with everything, she tossed up her hands. The heat was gone from her voice, replaced by a quaver. "Why do you look at me like I'm disgusting?"
He blinked several times in confusion. He slowly put the plate back down. "Disgusting?"
"Ever since you saw me at the apartment this morning, you keep looking at me like I smell or something. I shower every day."
He shook his head, his eyebrows drawing down. "No, you're not disgusting—"
My Husband Traded Me Page 2