“Sweet car, huh, Mr. Bram?”
He whirled to find the youngest of the Johnson boys idling alongside the curb astride his father’s riding mower. He stifled a chuckle brought on by his own oblivion and shook his head. When the boy’s look of surprise registered, he switched from a shake to a nod. “Yeah, yeah. It’s a nice car, David.”
“I can’t wait to get my permit.”
The teen’s wistful sigh turned the chuckle loose. “Just a few more months, right?”
“June.”
The boy’s disgruntled grumble almost managed to distract him from the gleam of sun-sparkling chrome for a moment. “You playin’ ball this sum.”
The question drifted off on the crisp breeze when the car door opened. A tall, slender woman in a snug sweater the color of ripe peaches and curve-hugging blue jeans climbed from the car, and every thought flew from his head. Playful gusts lifted lustrous waves of silky hair, plastering strands the color of cornhusks and honey to her cheek and throat. He swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I’m playin’,” the boy said, oblivious to his distraction. “Coach says we have a good chance at making it to State playoffs this year.”
“Uh-huh.” Bram’s gaze lingered on the spiked heels peeking from the hem of her jeans before meandering its way up those mile-long legs. His own faded jeans shrank, squeezing the air from his lungs and tightening uncomfortably in the crotch. The Johnson boy rambled on, reeling off stats and naming players, but talk of baseball didn’t help. He stared at the woman, mentally willing her to turn his way, dying for a glimpse of her face.
A car alarm chirped, jolting him to his senses. David Johnson stood rooted to the spot. Bram saw the woman offer his dad and his friend nods on her way into the general store. Mumbling a lame excuse about meeting his father, Bram ditched the Johnson kid with a half-wave and, keeping his gaze locked on the marvel of German engineering, made his way down the sidewalk.
Gleaming chrome and sleek, sporty lines lured him like sparkly bait. Surrounded by dust-covered pickups, it was a vehicular peacock in a pigeon coop. The glossy finish tossed his reflection back at him when he skirted the hood. Squinting, he peered past the subtle tint on the windows for a glimpse at the car’s interior. As he suspected, the tan leather seats looked smooth as butter, and the dash had one of those fancy little TV screens they show on the commercials.
Bram snorted and rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from stroking the curve of the fender. Making his way to the rocking chairs on the sidewalk outside Walters’ Mercantile, he focused his attention on the two old men parked in the chairs and gathered his scattered wits. No sense thinking about shiny, fancy cars and the pretty women who drove them. The SUV obviously didn’t belong in a dusty, one-horse town like Heartsfield, and judging by the looks of its owner, neither did she.
****
Lynne Prescott’s fingers still ached from the death grip she’d had on the SUV’s steering wheel since she coasted out of the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Though chilly spring air nipped at her ears as she clambered out of the driver’s seat, the sun warmed her cheeks. A gust of wind fluttered the awning over the door to the old general store. The metallic clank drew her attention to a flagpole where Old Glory snapped like a firecracker in the stiff breeze. Turning in a slow circle, she stretched the knotted muscles of her neck and shoulders and surveyed the town square.
It seemed like nothing in Heartsfield, Arkansas, ever changed. The land where time stood still, she thought with a smirk. Coming full circle, she peered at the faded brick building that housed Walters’ Mercantile. The old-fashioned lettering on the window claimed it had been established in 1947. She couldn’t refute that. Walters’ Mercantile seemed ancient forty years ago—the last time she danced through the doors to blow her pocket money on a pink-handled jump rope.
Shaking off a wave of guilt-tinged nostalgia, she snatched her purse from the car and slammed the door. Her thumb pressed the key fob and the alarm chirped in her wake, drawing the interest of two old men perched on rocking chairs. She offered them a sheepish smile as she reached the door to the shop and muttered, “Force of habit.”
One of the men nodded acknowledgment and upped the force of his rocking. Obviously, the ‘You Break It, You Buy It’ sign tacked above their chairs didn’t pose much of a threat to these two. Lynne chuckled as she opened the door. “And that’s what we call small-town charm.”
The heels of her boots clacked on worn linoleum. Wincing, Lynne shifted to the balls of her feet, tiptoeing as unobtrusively as possible toward the cash register.
The young woman working the counter glanced up and nodded a greeting before returning her attention to another customer. The conversation segued to juicy, local gossip, and Lynne stifled a sigh of impatience. Hand-lettered signs marked the short aisles. She noticed the third row from the back was marked simply Notions. Unable to resist the notion of “notions,” she moved in that direction.
A smirk curved her lips as she riffled through a bin of old dress patterns. She fingered a package of doublewide bias tape, and the tiny hairs on her neck prickled. Glancing up, she caught the clerk giving her the fish-eye from behind the register. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and snorted. Yeah, sweetie, I’m about to lift this lovely Jackie-O wannabe dress pattern that was made before you were born.
A set of wooden salad bowls on the shelf above caught her eye. She picked up one of the bowls, running her fingertip over the intricate pansies carved into the wood. The bell above the door jingled, but Lynne was too absorbed in the detailed craftsmanship to notice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the young woman called.
She raised the bowl. “These are beautiful. Do you only have four?”
The girl tucked a wave of ebony hair behind her ear and stepped from behind the cash register, a bright smile lighting her ice-blue eyes. “I believe we might have some more in back. How many do you need?”
Lynne envisioned her dining table set for a dinner party. “I’d love to have service for twelve.”
“I think we only have eight, but I can probably get four more.” She reached for the remaining bowls. “I’d be happy to ship them to you.”
“That would be great.” She followed the younger woman to the counter to wait. When the clerk emerged from the back room holding four more bowls, Lynne smiled. “You take credit cards, don’t you?” she asked as she pulled her wallet from the depths of her bag.
The woman’s eyebrows rose as she put more of the South in her tone. “Yes, ma’am, we surely do.”
A grimace twisted Lynne’s lips. “Sorry. I just…I didn’t get to the bank before I…” Ran away from home. She shook her head, trying to ditch the thought.
The girl’s bright eyes sparkled. “Yes, we accept credit cards.”
I’m not running away. I simply have things to do, property to check out, decisions to make. Children run away, and I’m no child.
Lynne fidgeted with the strap of her purse while the sale was processed, concentrating on the task at hand. “Do you know where I’ll find Percival Jenkins’ office?”
“Percy?”
“Yes. The address on his letterhead said Plum Street, but I found no street signs and the GPS on my car isn’t picking them up.”
The girl gestured at the plate glass window. “The fruit streets run south of the square, the numbered streets north. Of course, it only gets up to Ninth before you end up in Eldon Watts’ cornfield. Plum is two streets south,” she said, pointing to the wall behind her. “Turn left off Main, you’ll find Percy’s office three doors down. There’s a sign.”
Grasping the brown paper bag holding her new salad bowls, Lynne backed from the counter. “Thank you.”
“Wait. I charged you for twelve bowls. I’ll need the address to ship the other four.”
Lynne paused in the doorway and cocked her head. “How long do you think it’ll take to get them?”
“I’m not sure. A couple of weeks
, at least. They’re hand-carved.”
A flash of red outside the window caught her eye. A tall, wiry man dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt circled the fender of her Porsche Cayenne. Lynne smiled. Guys were always gawking at the car. A battered baseball cap shielded his eyes, but as he turned his head to inspect her vehicle, a glimmer of a smile tilted his lips. When he greeted the old men, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t help but goggle at him. Hello, handsome farmer man.
As if sensing her stare, he glanced up. The man knocked the bill of his cap back, and their gazes locked. The Heartsfield time vacuum seemed to be working fine, because a moment stretched to an eternity before he bobbed his head in silent acknowledgment. Embarrassed to be caught ogling, Lynne quickly averted her gaze. She bit her lower lip to stave off a blush and turned back to the counter.
“I’ll probably be around for about a month or so.”
“You will?”
Lynne shrugged. “That’s why I’m meeting Mr. Jenkins. I’m Lynne Prescott. My aunt was Corrine Burdock.”
“Oh.” The girl’s eyes widened the moment she mentioned her aunt’s name. “Okay. Well, I’m Willene Hatchett. The next time you’re in town, just stop by and I should be able to let you know when the bowls’ll be ready.”
“That’s great. Thank you.” Lynne cast a quick glance at the window. A curious pang of relief and disappointment clenched her stomach when she realized the handsome man in the flannel shirt was gone. Puzzled by her intense reaction to a total stranger, she chalked it up to strange surroundings and ducked her head as she hurried to the safety of her car.
Chapter Two
The morning proved to be a total waste as far as Bram was concerned. The night before hadn’t been much better. He’d been restless, unable to light on any one project, and his wood carving tools felt clumsy in his hands. After stopping at the post office for stamps, he picked up a few pantry staples at Feltcher’s Market then headed over to the general store. He’d promised his daughter new shelving in the storeroom, and the idea of simple carpentry work appealed at the moment.
Without announcing his arrival, he ducked in the back door of the store and stood with his hands planted on his hips. Willie had worked at Walters’ Mercantile since she turned sixteen. In a few short months, she’d marry Bobby Walters, and the store would become her family business.
Bram ignored the sharp pang that tweaked his heart at the mere thought of walking her down the aisle. He wasn’t quite ready to give his baby girl to another man, but as she’d set her sights on the Walters boy long ago, Willene Hatchett was not a woman to be denied. Lord knows, her father had never had much luck in refusing her.
His gaze traveled over the cluttered shelves that lined the walls. The storeroom was half treasure trove, half time capsule. He eyed the sagging shelving unit in the corner then sized up the plywood planks he’d dropped off the night before.
He pulled a sturdy metal measuring tape from his belt as the bell above the front door signaled the arrival or departure of a customer. He stretched the tape as he bent to measure the shelves one last time.
When a woman shrieked, “Sixteen hundred dollars!” he jerked upright, clunking his head on the old, warped shelf.
“Gah!”
Rubbing his scalp, Bram shuffled a stack of boxes to peer into the storefront. Willene’s best friend, Beth Armstrong, a hunk of fudge suspended just shy of her mouth, stared at Marcie Pennington, the checker from Feltcher’s Market.
“What cost sixteen hundred dollars, and why are you panting? Did someone forget their coupons on dollar doubler day?” Beth asked.
“Her bag cost over sixteen hundred dollars,” Marcie insisted.
Willene planted her hands on her hips, her gaze bouncing from Marcie to Beth and back again. A small smile twitched her lips as she blew out an exaggerated breath. “Marcie, slow down. Whose bag? What did she buy that cost so much? I know Mr. Feltcher put rib eyes on special this week, but that takes stocking up to a whole new level.”
Assured there was no real crisis afoot, Bram drew back into the storeroom but hovered near the doorway.
“Her purse,” Marcie cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Her purse cost over sixteen hundred dollars.”
Bram grunted, and his jaw fell open, almost scraping the concrete floor. Curiosity piqued, he clamped his mouth shut and moved closer to the open door for a full view of the checkout counter. Even though he did his level best to avoid becoming grist for the rumor mill, as a native, he had a genetic predisposition to eavesdrop whenever opportunity arose. Small towns run on gossip, and he figured he’d provided enough fuel for the fire for one lifetime. To his way of thinking, the advantages of living in a community as close-knit as Heartsfield far outweighed the disadvantages, but he wasn’t naïve enough to discount the peace of mind of living fifteen miles from the town square. Distance at least provided the illusion of safety.
“Someone paid sixteen hundred dollars for a handbag?” Willene scoffed.
“Is it that Prescott woman?” Beth mumbled through stuffed cheeks.
Marcie nodded. “The lady with the fancy SUV. I spotted the little G’s on the clasp, so I looked it up on the net when I got home.”
Ah, the lady with the fancy car? Bram leaned closer and caught his daughter shaking her head. Willene added an eye-roll for good measure, and he smirked.
“You researched the woman’s purse?”
Beth forced the fudge down her throat. “I’m not surprised.”
“You’re not surprised someone would pay a gazillion dollars for a purse, or not surprised Marcie looked it up?” Willie demanded.
Bram had to stifle a snicker.
“All of the above.” Beth shrugged and went back to sorting through hunks of candy.
Marcie threw her shoulders back, jaw jutting into the air as she glared down her nose at the other two women. “Kim Kardashian has the same bag.”
“How do you know?” Beth asked.
“I saw it in a magazine,” Marcie retorted.
As Beth straightened, Bram winced at the screech of her nails scraping the counter top. “Not surprising. I mean, you said the woman strolled in here and dropped a hundred bucks on those salad bowls your daddy carves without blinkin’ an eye.”
Bram sucked in a sharp breath and gave his head a good shake. He tried to recall how many bowls Willie had snagged from his workshop, but the girls’ rapid-fire conversation made his head swim.
“She said she was plannin’ to be around for a bit,” Willene said. “Bobby’s mama said she came back in yesterday afternoon and bought some kitchen stuff, including that coffee machine that makes the lattes.”
“Damn, I was saving up for that,” Beth grumbled. “How do those rib eyes look, Marcie? Joe loves steak, but the last ones I bought were all fat.”
Marcie huffed. “They’re slabs of uncooked meat.” Groping for the door handle, she backed away. “Y’all are no fun,” she said with a pout. “I have to get back. I left Alfred stacking the pork ’n beans display.” The bell above the door jingled. “Three for two dollars, by the way.”
“Good to know. See ya, Marce,” Beth called.
Willene shot her friend a bewildered stare. “Why would anyone pay that much for a purse?”
Bram exhaled in a whoosh and poked his head out of the back room to call to her, but Beth spoke just as he opened his mouth. “For the same reason people spend two hundred on a pair of jeans.”
His mouth slammed shut as his daughter’s dropped open wide.
Willie blinked. “There are jeans that cost two hundred dollars?”
A slow smile nudged his cheekbones. That’s my girl.
Beth snorted again as she selected another piece of fudge. “Girl, you need to get out of Heartsfield.”
Bram bristled, his fingers curling tighter around the tape measure in his hand. He pried open his jaw to retort, but Willie beat him to the punch by snatching the bowl from the counter. “If you don’t stop packing away
the fudge, you won’t fit into your bridesmaid dress.”
Beth straightened, running her hand over the ample curve of her hip. “Joe bought the cow, baby. Now all we need to do is get you and Bobby hitched so we can shop for elastic-waist pants together.”
Bram rolled his eyes, but his stomach turned at the thought of his fresh and beautiful Willie turning into another frumpy small-town married lady. Willene’s easy laughter calmed his frayed nerves. “The day I start dressing like Anna Albertson is the day I run my four-wheeler into a tree.”
An appreciative chuckle rumbled up from his belly. Covering his mouth with his hand he mumbled, “Amen, Sassypants.”
Beth shuddered, her normally rosy complexion blanching as white as fresh-cut beech wood. “Pardon me while I go stick my finger down my throat.”
“You aren’t there yet. Lay off the fudge,” Willie cautioned.
“I wouldn’t mind having a pair of those jeans. I wonder if any of the stores in Little Rock carry them.”
The wistful note in Beth’s tone caught his attention. He held his breath and peered around the corner, waiting for Willene’s reaction. She simply shook her head and began to sort the stack of sales tickets next to the old-fashioned cash register.
“What’s wrong with regular old jeans?”
Air rushed from his lungs. He closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Willie didn’t have a flighty bone in her body, but still, a father worried. He drew a deep breath and let it go, reassured she was firmly rooted here in this place where she’d always be close to him.
Beth made one last grab for a piece of fudge. “They don’t work as well on a woman’s butt as they do on a man’s. I saw your daddy this morning, and the way he wears those faded, old jeans makes a girl proud to be born in the U.S.A., thankyoumisterspringsteen.”
His eyes snapped open and his jaw hit the floor again. Somehow he managed not to swallow his own tongue.
Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set Page 30