Once Upon a Valentine

by Stephanie Bond

  He had nice hands—big and strong-looking, but well-groomed. She knew from Barber that Andrew wasn’t married, but seeing up close that his ring finger was empty did something to her stomach. As she worked to free her hair from the stem of his watch, she realized it was probably a very pricey piece. She prayed she didn’t damage it in the process. Just as she was getting ready to suggest the dreaded “cut it out” solution, the last of the strands came free.

  “Sorry about that.” She wound her hair into a rope and held it down. “It was such a nice day, I was drying my hair in the sun.”

  “No problem,” he said, but he stepped back, as if he were afraid he might be entangled again.

  Which irritated her because his protruding watch was at least half to blame. The air between them held the tingly remnants of their forced intimacy.

  Behind them, the gray horse brayed to remind them he was supposed to be the center of attention.

  “Hush, Max,” Summer called.

  Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “Is that your horse?”

  “No…that’s Max. He belongs to your father.” Then she caught herself. “He…belonged to your father. I’m sorry for your loss, Andrew.”

  He nodded, his face somber. “Thank you. And thank you for writing the obituary. Mr. Hadley gave me a copy.”

  “It’s the least I could do. Barber meant so much to so many people around here.”

  He averted his gaze, but not before she saw pain and confusion there. She hadn’t meant to imply Barber MacMillan had meant more to the town than to his own offspring. She’d gathered from Barber’s remarks and Andrew’s infrequent visits that father and son hadn’t been close. Still, being orphaned…well, she knew a thing or two about that. She’d lost both of her parents in the past five years. On each occasion, Andrew had sent flowers, a thoughtful formality, she knew. But he couldn’t have known how much his gesture had meant to her, how many times she’d written the thank-you cards to get the phrasing just right, just like the sentiment she’d written on the Valentine’s Day card she’d given him when she was twelve. She was annoyed with herself that she’d cared so much what he thought.

  She gestured to the lopsided vehicle. “I can call Red to bring the tractor down and pull you out.”

  He worked his mouth back and forth. “No need to bother Red. I think I remember how to fire it up.” He nodded toward the braying horse. “But him, I might need a hand with.”

  “I’ll walk with you and put Max back in the stable,” she said, then looked down at her toenails which were painted a vivid blue. “Uh…let me get my boots.” She hurried back toward the steps leading to the balcony, feeling like a rube. She was relatively sure that women in New York City did not scamper around barefoot. As she climbed the steps, she felt Andrew’s gaze on her. He was probably marveling over the fact that she was still there. In fact, the farthest she’d moved geographically was from her childhood bedroom down the hall to the master bedroom in the home she’d grown up in.

  But she didn’t care, she thought, tossing her head as she walked across the timeworn wooden planks of the balcony to the French doors that opened to her bedroom. She’d had her chances to live elsewhere. She’d gotten a marketing degree from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, but had passed up job offers there to work at the Tiny Caves State Park just a few miles down the road. And she’d never regretted her decision—working at the Park and helping Barber in her spare time kept her busy and fulfilled. She preferred this place, where rush hour was Sunday morning before church and the closest thing to police sirens was the call of screech owls.

  Summer entered her bedroom, wondering how much of a miracle she could perform on her hair in sixty seconds. She stopped at her dressing table and surveyed the tangled mess with a sigh. Some days the long locks were more trouble than they were worth, but lopping them off seemed even more daunting.

  She ran a wide-tooth comb through her hair quickly, tackling the worst of the knots. Then she clasped it into a low ponytail, gave the length a twist into a loose, fat braid and secured it again at the bottom. From the closet she pulled her worn brown-leather boots and stepped into them, hooking her fingers through the pull tabs for a yank. A soft swish against her leg caused her to smile. Gabby, her butterscotch-colored Persian cat, sniffed her, sneezed then began to complain loudly.

  “Yes, Gabby,” Summer soothed, “Truman is a smelly beast, but he’s all alone, so you might have to get used to having him around—or at least the smell of him.” She gave her beloved pet a tickle under the chin, then turned to the mirror and lamented her casual dress, limp and almost threadbare from countless washings. But she wasn’t going to take the time to change now and make Andrew MacMillan think she cared.

  As she secured the French doors from the inside, she glanced down and took him in against the landscape.

  For a man who’d grown up here, he couldn’t look more out of place. And it was more than his polished clothing and sporty car. It was the way he held his big body rigid and apart from everything else…as if he had no intention of being pulled back into a small-town lifestyle. His stance worried her because it didn’t bode well for the future of the Mane Squeeze Ranch and stables.

  She bit her lip. It also threatened to spoil her own personal fairy tale that Andrew MacMillan would return to Tiny and sweep her off her bare feet. To be sure, just looking at the man made her realize how quickly her teenage crush could balloon into full-fledged infatuation.

  No, it was clear that Andrew MacMillan had outgrown Tiny…but maybe he would be in town long enough to satisfy her burning curiosity about what it would be like to spend one night under that big, strapping body of his.

  He turned his head and glanced up to the balcony and she stepped back, lest he think she was watching him.

  She jogged downstairs and headed toward the front door. Gabby sat at the top of the stairs, loudly venting last-minute complaints that made Summer smile. On the way out, she grabbed a soft cotton lead line from an assortment of tack hanging on a coatrack. As she strode across the front yard, she noticed man and horse were facing off, neither one of them moving. Truman sat, still planted, but whining to be released from obedience.

  She approached Max with soothing noises. “Are you missing Barber?” she asked the aged horse. “Did you decide to look for him?” He whinnied softly as she slipped the lead rope over his thick neck. “C’mon, old man, let’s go home.”

  She tugged him in the direction of the Mane Squeeze and he grudgingly turned and plodded after her. Andrew whistled for Truman, then retrieved something from the car and caught up to her with long strides. Under his arm, he carried a metal urn.

  “I assume those are your father’s ashes?” she said.

  He nodded, his expression wry. “He wanted them spread over the farm.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. He loved it so.”

  Andrew didn’t comment, just fell into step next to her. His shiny black dress shoes were in stark contrast to her scuffed brown boots. She was aware of every inch of him moving beside her, especially after they’d already had an up-close moment. Her heart rate accelerated, and her breathing felt constricted. Her mind raced for something to say, but she was also sensitive to the fact that, in light of his recent loss, he might prefer silence. The horse trudged behind them at a snail’s pace.

  “Do you live out here alone?” he asked, glancing around.

  She shrugged. “I’m alone in the house, but the animals keep me company. Your father kept an eye on me after my parents passed.”

  “He spoke of you often. He appreciated your help in the stables.”

  “I helped Barber when I could. I work at the State Park five days a week,” she offered, in case he thought she’d been mooching off his father.

  “What do you do there?”

  “My title is Community Relations Coordinator, but I basically do whatever the general manager needs for me to do. Your father told me you work in advertising?”

  “That’s right.
”

  He didn’t seem to want to elaborate, which made her feel as if he thought she wouldn’t understand his job. Whatever.

  Truman bounded ahead, then back, presenting Andrew with a found stick.

  “Fetch is his favorite game,” she offered.

  He obligingly took the stick that dripped with drool and gave it a toss, then withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hand. A white business card whipped out and fell to the ground. Summer recognized it instantly as Tessa Hadley’s agent card.

  He bent to retrieve the card and slipped it back in his pocket.

  “So you’re going to sell the Mane Squeeze?” she asked, unable to keep the censure out of her voice.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “But what about the horses?” she blurted.

  His mouth tightened. “How many horses are in the stables now?”

  “Nine.”

  His eyes widened. “Nine? There were only two the last time I was here.”

  “Things have been tight around Tiny. Barber adopted horses people couldn’t take care of anymore.”

  Andrew lifted his hands, obviously at a loss. “Maybe the new owner will want them.” But he picked up his pace, as if he was in a hurry to get to his father’s place. Summer clucked to Max so they could keep up with him.

  They rounded the corner, and the entrance gate to the MacMillan farm came into view. Summer saw it through Andrew’s eyes—wild and overgrown, the fence sagging, the mailbox rusted. In the distance, the stables looked dilapidated, the roof choked with tangles of woody grapevines. The building where Barber had once maintained his veterinary office was almost completely obscured by bushes. And the house itself was rundown, badly in need of a paint job, flanked by clutter and sitting in an unkempt yard that was more weeds than grass.

  Andrew stopped and she saw his grip tighten on the urn. Emotions rolled off him. Sadness? Frustration?

  “I had no idea things had gotten this bad,” he murmured. “He didn’t tell me and I…”

  Didn’t ask. The unspoken words hung in the air.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card, juggling the urn while he pulled out a cell phone.

  Panic sparked in Summer’s stomach. “Andrew, everything looks ugly this time of the year. Please, don’t put the farm on the market until you’ve at least seen the horses.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t change my mind,” he said, punching in a number from the card. “Hello, Tessa? Andrew MacMillan.…Yes, thank you.…Yes, he was a good man.…I was wondering if you had time to stop by my dad’s place—”

  Summer plucked the phone from his hand, then disconnected the call.

  “What are you doing?” he snapped.

  She held his phone out of reach. “Your father dreamed of turning the Mane Squeeze into a horse-rescue center. Don’t you owe it to him to at least give it a shot?”

  Andrew shook his head, clearly perturbed. “I’m sorry, Summer. It’s a noble cause, but it would take a tremendous investment to turn this place into a rescue center. And all of my resources are invested in Manhattan.”

  The hard edge in his tone left no doubt he intended to sell the land to the highest bidder and hightail it back to New York. The horses would be left out in the cold…or worse.

  She angled her head. “What if I told you your father and I had a plan?”

  He frowned. “What kind of plan?”

  “A plan to make enough money to fund a horse-rescue center.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Another one of my father’s harebrained ideas, no doubt.”

  She pulled her long braid over one shoulder and held it up. “Not hare…hair.”

  3

  ANDREW STARED AT SUMMER. The woman had already knocked him for a loop with her golden good looks and lithe body. Now she was telling him she and his father had been scheming to turn the Mane Squeeze into a horse-rescue center…and it had something to do with her magnificent mane of hair?

  “I’m not following,” he said.

  She held up the end of her thick braid. “Your father invented a hair formula we were going to market.”

  He squinted. “Come again?”

  “He originally developed it for the horses’ manes and tails, but years ago I noticed how long and silky they were and I started using it myself. When I told my friends about it, they all started using it, too. Barber couldn’t make it fast enough. We were going to market it and use the money to fund the rescue center.”

  Andrew blinked. He vaguely remembered a generic spray bottle of some concoction his father always used to groom the horses, hanging on a hook in the stable. “A homegrown hair-growth formula?”

  “More like a conditioner. In my case, it makes my hair stronger and it grows longer.”

  He couldn’t deny she had gorgeous hair, but still.... “My father never mentioned anything about this to me.”

  “I know,” she said, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “He didn’t want to take advantage of your position.”

  Andrew frowned. “You mean he didn’t want to ask for my help.”

  She sighed. “He was proud, and he was afraid you would laugh at him.”

  His chest tightened. “I wouldn’t have laughed, but I would’ve explained how difficult it is to bring a hair product to the market.”

  “But that’s your business,” she said. “You know all the shortcuts.”

  He shook his head. “I’m in advertising, not marketing. By the time I get a product, it’s ready to be sold.”

  “I have a degree in marketing,” she said. “Together, we could—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “I don’t have the time to devote to this. I have to get back to New York.”

  “But surely you’ll be here for a few days,” she argued.

  “I have a couple of weeks of vacation I could take,” he admitted, then gestured toward the sagging farm. “But it looks as if I’ll need it all to try to clean up this place.”

  “I’ll help,” she offered. “You can leave the horses to me. In return, will you at least agree to take a look at what your father and I were working on?”

  While the idea of spending more time with Summer Tomlinson was intriguing, Andrew wasn’t interested in wasting time analyzing a homemade beauty concoction of his father’s for its marketability. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but somehow the word “Okay” came out instead. And before he could correct himself, her face lit up like the sun.

  “Great! I have everything at my house. Come over for dinner tonight around seven.” She tugged Max toward the stables. “C’mon, boy.”

  Max complained, but followed obediently. Andrew frowned, knowing how the horse felt. He’d been home for ten minutes and Summer Tomlinson was leading him around as if he had a bit in his mouth.

  Truman looked after her and whined, then looked up to Andrew.

  “Go if you want,” he encouraged, but the dog reluctantly stayed.

  Andrew watched the sway of Summer’s retreating backside and fought the same urge to follow her, turning his attention back to the matter at hand—retrieving his car from the ditch. But first things first, he thought, glancing down at the urn he held. He needed to find a place to store his father’s ashes. He strode across the scraggly lawn toward the white clapboard house where he’d grown up, fighting the sadness that pulled at him at its state of disrepair.

  The limestone walkway, once bright and studded with bouquets of mint, was now dull and choked with weeds. The porch that had been wide and inviting with white furniture and bright pillows was now cluttered with stacked furniture, rusting washtubs and miscellaneous tools.

  The house itself looked tired and droopy, with peeling paint and falling gutters. He walked up onto the porch and made his way to the front door, fumbling for his key before realizing the door probably wasn’t even locked. Sure enough, when he turned the knob, the door swung open. Truman rushed inside ahead of him, barking happily, calling out f
or his misplaced master.

  Andrew walked inside and another wave of sadness swept over him. His father’s life, interrupted—an overstuffed recliner, a newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle, a bowl of chocolate-covered peanuts on the table next to the TV remote control. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him and he realized with a start that if he substituted the plaid recliner with black leather, the Tiny Gazette with the New York Times and the old boxy television with a sleek flat-screen, he could be looking at his own living room. Pushing aside the disturbing revelation, he set the urn on the fireplace mantel.

  Something on his wrist caught his eye. Wrapped around the stem of the gold watch his boss had awarded him for landing a particularly lucrative account was a strand of blond hair. He found the end of the hair and tried to pull it free, but it was as thick as fishing line. Afraid he would damage the stem, he opted to wait for a pair of scissors. But the sight of it reminded him of being wedged up close to Summer Tomlinson—close enough to kiss that bee-stung mouth. Beautiful women were common in New York, but he couldn’t recall the last time one of them had scrambled his senses to the point that he was undressing her in his mind…wondering what it would feel like to lose himself in her body—

  A noise sounded from the kitchen, cutting into his inappropriate musings about Summer Tomlinson. Andrew went to investigate and found Red Tucker bent over, peering into the refrigerator. His father’s friend looked up and smiled wide. “Andrew! Hello!”

  Andrew smiled and shook the older man’s hand. “Hello, Red.”

  Red gestured to the back door. “I knocked, but no one answered.”

  “I just got here, myself. But you know you’re always welcome.”

  “Didn’t see your car in the driveway out back.”

  “I put it in a ditch in front of the Tomlinson house trying to dodge a fugitive horse.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just irritated.”

  Red laughed. “I’ll fetch the tractor and give you a tow directly.” Then he nodded to a covered dish sitting on the butcher-block table. “Debbie sent you a chicken casserole—I was trying to find a place to put it, but it looks like the church brigade has already been by.”