Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  “Watch it,” Willie growled.

  Bram glanced down at his threadbare jeans.

  “Oh, I did watch—and enjoyed every minute of it,” Beth drawled.

  His head jerked up in horror. A hot flush crawled up his neck as her meaning registered.

  Willie gasped. “Would you stop ogling my father?”

  “Please stop,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  “But ogling your daddy is what we do for fun around here. Lord knows there isn’t much else to occupy us.”

  The flush set his face aflame. Bram stumbled back from the doorway and almost toppled over a carton of paint roller covers. The metal belt clip on the tape measure bit into his palm as he caught his balance.

  “You’re a married woman.”

  “And if he wasn’t my best friend’s daddy, I woulda used the same tricks on him as I used to snag Joe Farnsworth. A true testament to our friendship,” Beth answered with a sniff.

  A tidal wave of shame and embarrassment washed over him as he righted the carton. Unwarranted guilt tightened his belly when his daughter snapped, “Stay away from my daddy.”

  As if he’d ever think of a girl his daughter’s age… As if he’d ever thought of any woman but Susan….

  Liar.

  He screwed his eyes shut tighter, but the image of honey-colored hair and wide-searching eyes floated through his mind. Grasping the doorframe, he leaned against the wall, trying to banish all thoughts of the woman who’d stared at him through the window as if she could see into his soul. The spark of recognition that flared in his gut when their eyes met had given him a jolt. That brief almost-interaction had left him shaken for the rest of the day and long into the night.

  Bram forced his eyes open and peered cautiously around the corner. The sly smile that played on Beth’s lips as she fiddled with the display of guardian angel necklaces made him feel…filthy. “Don’t fret. Joe keeps me busy enough,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “Thank God,” Willie muttered.

  He echoed her relief under his breath and spun on his heel to make his getaway.

  “Maybe Mizzzz Prescott will manage to turn old Bram’s head,” Beth mused.

  He froze midstride.

  “My daddy isn’t goin’ to have anything to do with any woman who pays thousands of dollars for a handbag.”

  “She’s a very attractive woman,” Beth murmured. “Well preserved, I think is the term. I’d love to have my hair streaked like that.”

  “Well preserved.” His daughter’s snort was a faint echo of her mother’s. A spear of pain lanced his heart. He raised his hand to his chest to rub it away as Willie muttered, “You make her sound like a pickle.”

  Beth laughed. “Mister Al said she was sweet.”

  The battered and bruised organ called his heart almost stopped beating entirely. He held his breath, waiting to hear what other comments his dear, old dad may have shared with the general populace.

  “Grandpa said that?”

  “Said she stopped and talked with him and Rufus yesterday,” Beth reported. “She’s Miss Corrine’s niece, you know.”

  Bram’s eyes widened as he whirled toward the doorway again. A wave of dizziness swamped him. He grabbed a nearby shelf to steady himself.

  “Yeah, she said she was,” Willene murmured.

  “She’s back to sell the farm. Percy says Miss Corrine and Miss Elizabeth Burdock never did make up from their feudin’. Miss Corrine left the house and all the land to Miss Elizabeth’s daughter.”

  “Feud? What did Miss Corrine and her sister feud about?”

  Beth shrugged. “I dunno. Percy said something about old Mrs. Burdock’s will. It coulda been about that, but I can’t imagine why a fancy big-city lady like Miss Elizabeth woulda been fightin’ with her only sister for a rickety old house and a cornfield.” Beth swiped another chunk of chocolate and popped it into her mouth. “Anyway, your granddad says the lady’s real sweet.”

  Bram surrendered to the lure of gravity, landing atop a bulging carton filled with packages of quilt batting.

  “Grandpa thinks everyone is sweet,” Willie said dismissively.

  “He does have a sunny disposition,” Beth agreed. “Anyway, Percy is all het up about gettin’ to sell the Burdock place at last. He can’t wait for her to set a price so he can call your daddy.”

  “Yeah, well, Daddy’s been leasing the land for years.” His heart sank when he heard the note of uncertainty in Willene’s defense. “Speaking of Percyshouldn’t you be getting to work?”

  “Maybe Ms. Prescott can turn your daddy’s head,” Beth teased. “She’s certainly flashy enough. Or, he can turn hers. Heaven knows the man is pretty enough.”

  “Stop!” Willie barked.

  The bell over the door tinkled, but it couldn’t drown out the glee in Beth’s voice. “How far will Bram Hatchett go to get a fair price? This could be better than a soap opera.”

  Bram let his head fall into his hands. He had no idea how long he sat there. Minutes might have ticked by, but it seemed like hours. When he raised his head, his skull felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton wool.

  Gritting his teeth, Bram pushed to his feet and stumbled toward the back door. The knob loomed out of his reach. His hip caught the corner of a box and tipped it over. A gross of cardboard and plastic encased toothbrushes clattered to the floor. He stared at the rainbow of colors showering the toes of his boots.

  “Hello?” Willie called out.

  Blood rushed in his ears. The blush that scorched his cheeks made beads of sweat pop out on his forehead. He dragged his sleeve across the flaming skin and forced his knees to bend.

  The clip-clop of Willene’s shoes drew closer. “If that’s you again, Tommy Wilkinson, I want you to know I called your mama about that candy bar you—Daddy?”

  He straightened. “Hey, baby girl.”

  She stared at the mess at his feet then gave her head a quick shake. “You’re here to put my shelves up?”

  He cleared the frog from his throat and nodded. “I am. I justI need to go get my tape measure out of my truck,” he said, gesturing to the door.

  One dark eyebrow rose. “You mean the tape measure in your hand?”

  Bram glanced down at the shiny steel casing clutched in his palm. “Oh.”

  “You’re getting scatterbrained in your old age, Mr. Hatchett.”

  Thinking quick, he mumbled, “I meant my drill. It’s in the truck.”

  A smirk teased her lips. “Uh-huh. Your drill.”

  Something about that knowing look rubbed him raw. His cheeks blazed. He closed his eyes and whirled for the door, scattering toothbrushes across the floor. “Be right back.”

  “Okay. I’ll clean up your mess,” she said as the heavy door swung open.

  “I figure you owe me a few messes, little girl,” he shot back.

  Willene giggled as she squatted to gather a handful of packages. “Well, you’ll owe me soon,” she called after him. “I got you an order for four more of those salad bowls. Some rich lady who’s gonna be in town for a bit.”

  “Great,” he croaked and let the steel door swing shut. After clipping the tape measure to his belt, he shoved both hands into the pockets of his pants and gulped in cool draughts of fresh air. “That’s just fan-damn-tastic.”

  ****

  Lynne smiled with satisfaction as amber liquid flowed from the cut-glass pitcher she’d unearthed from a cabinet. Cubes of ice crackled with anticipation when warm tea sluiced over them. Her taste buds stood at attention. Certain this time she had it right, she took a tentative sip. Her lips curved into a smile the moment the cool liquid touched her tongue. “Ha! Much better.” She took a bigger swig of her first successful attempt at making sweet tea. Proud of her accomplishment, she carried the glass with her as she sashayed to the door leading to the mudroom.

  The tiny addition housed the washer and dryer, but sadly, even though it was fifty years newer, it hadn’t held up as well as the original
structure. Hastily tacked screens covered the windows but exposed the room to the elements year round. The paint, worn and cracked with age, was chipped along the sills.

  A flash of memory ignited a picture in Lynne’s mind of her grandmother opening the door from the kitchen with a proud smile. Back then the mudroom was painted a sunny yellow. The matching washer and dryer gleamed a snowy white. The indoor/outdoor carpeting had yet to accumulate a half-century of dirt ground into its fibers. Unimpressed with the addition, her mother uttered a few platitudes that seemed to make her grandmother happy, but Lynne thought it was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. Back then, bright summer sunlight bathed the walls, intensifying the glow of the egg-yolk paint. One corner of the room held a woven wicker basket brimming with new toys and dolls.

  “Go ahead, honey, make yourself at home,” her grandmother had said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  She had. Even now, after decades of living hundreds of miles away, Lynne felt warm and settled the moment she opened the front door. The worn linoleum of the kitchen welcomed her. The air still seemed scented with the hint of lemon extract Gramma used in her cakes as well as the cherry-laced tang of her grandfather’s pipe tobacco. The cloying sweetness of perfumed dusting powder lingered in the bedroom.

  Her fingers tightened around the glass. A full cup of sugar was no match for the bitterness she recalled that occurred during her last visit to this house. She gave her head a brisk shake and started for the back door, intent on sorting through the belongings her family left behind.

  Over the past two days, a cursory inspection of the house yielded two conclusions: First, she needed to check into having the rotting back porch replaced. Second, she wanted to find out what happened to the belongings her grandparents and aunt left behind.

  Lynne toyed with the idea of calling her mother in Scottsdale, but she chose to reserve the option as a last resort. Any conversation with Elizabeth Burdock Hillman was torture. Speaking to her mother about this particular aspect of the life she left behind decades ago would be the emotional equivalent of bamboo shoots under fingernails.

  Staring through the window over the sink while she washed her breakfast dishes, the dilapidated chicken house in the backyard called her name. The ring of keys Percy Jenkins had given her jangled as she pulled them from her pocket. She sorted the keys until she found one that looked like it would fit the padlock on the door to the coop, pulled the dishtowel from her shoulder, and headed for the door.

  The lock sprang open with a brisk click. She grinned and curled the hand holding the glass of iced tea to her chest, sighing as cool condensation prickled her skin.

  As the door swung wide, she gaped at the wall of neatly stacked cardboard boxes. “Jackpot.”

  Lynne placed the glass on the ground and prodded one of the boxes experimentally. The two nearest the coop’s low ceiling didn’t seem heavy, so she wrestled one from the stack, stumbling back to land on her bottom when the box slid free. The bulky box chucked her chin, and her foot jerked, knocking over the glass.

  The precious tea soaked the muddy shoots of grass. She only took a moment to recover. “Very graceful.”

  Scrambling to her knees, she tried to pry open the strips of packing tape securing the box. One fingernail bit the dust before she relented and staggered to her feet. Sucking on the afflicted nail, she stumbled to the house to fetch a knife.

  Five minutes later, she sliced into a second box containing a dust ruffle, pillow shams, and slightly yellowed curtains that matched the flouncy eyelet comforter she’d found in the first container. A lump of long-restrained emotion rose in her throat. She ran her hand over the aged cotton and closed her eyes. Once upon a time, she’d perched on the edge of a low double bed, fingering the eyelet fringe of a similar bedspread as her Aunt Corrine rolled her flyaway blond hair onto bristly rollers, securing each curl with a pink plastic pin.

  “Do you have a beau?” her aunt asked with all the solemnity a ten-year-old could hope to deserve.

  “A beau?” Lynne stared in confusion.

  “A boyfriend.”

  “Oh. No.” She tried to shake her head, but her aunt held fast to the section of hair to be curled. “Mother says there will be plenty of time for boys later.”

  Corrine’s lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “You are a mite young still.”

  She stared up at her aunt. “Do you have abeau?” As the new word rolled off her tongue, she savored its exotic flavor.

  Corrine shook her head and jabbed the pin into place. “There. All done.” She pulled a chiffon scarf from the tiny drawer in the center of an old walnut dresser and used the sheer fabric to cover the curlers. “You sleep on those tonight, and tomorrow you’ll wake up a whole new woman.”

  Blinking at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser, Lynne frowned. “Why do I want to be a new woman?”

  Her aunt smiled and patted her cheek. “It’s just a sayin’, darlin’.”

  Lynne returned the smile. “I like the way you talk.”

  “I like the way you talk too, sugar,” she replied with a wink.

  “How come you’re not married?”

  The older woman seemed taken aback by the question. Her hand fluttered to her chest, and she blinked rapidly. Lynne slid from the bed, impulsively wrapping her skinny arms around her aunt. “I’m sorry. Mother says it’s rude to ask people about their personal affairs.”

  A startled laugh sprung from the older woman’s lips. She hugged her hard. “Oh, sugar, I do love the way you talk.” Her arms tightened around her bony shoulders. “I never fell in love again, that’s all.”

  Again. She said again. Lynne gave her head a hard shake to dislodge the memory. She tried to recall the letters and cards she started to exchange with her aunt the year she moved off to college. At first, Corrine’s replies to her notes were polite and careful. No one could blame her for that. The ugliness between her mother and her aunt following the reading of her grandmother’s will would have been enough to make anyone wary. Still, the relationship Lynne forged with her aunt bloomed and flourished in the years since she managed to slip out from beneath her mother’s thumb. At least, it flourished on paper.

  Lynne stared at the boxes stacked at the entrance to the chicken house. She pulled them out with a grunt. The knife sliced the tape, and she tugged on the flap labeled “C. Burdock.” A quick glance at the boxes remaining in the coop showed them labeled simply “Burdock.” She frowned as she pulled back the other flaps to reveal a treasure trove of half-clothed cover models.

  “Romance novels?” she whispered, pulling one of what had to be fifty books from the box. She fanned the pages and a black and white photograph flitted to the ground. “Oh.” The tiny grunt of amazement slipped from her throat while she gazed at the smiling faces captured on film. She retrieved the photograph, the pad of her finger stroking the scalloped edge of the glossy paper.

  Her aunt beamed at the camera, but her attention was clearly diverted by the tall dark- haired man with his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Hello, handsome. Who are you?”

  Lynne squinted at the snapshot and then held it at arm’s length, wishing she’d thought to dig her reading glasses from her purse. She chuckled when she noticed the man her aunt stared at in rapt adoration bore a striking resemblance to a very young Paul Newman. “Well, who could blame a girl for—”

  Her heart stumbled when she realized she didn’t need any magnification to spot the joy shining from her aunt’s smile. “Oh, Aunt Corrine.”

  Pressing her lips together, she fought back a hot rush of tears. What happened? Did he marry someone else? Did he break her heart? Lynne narrowed her eyes at the smiling man. How could you? Look at her. She was in love with you. How could you do this to her? How could you?

  Thirty years of marriage, a painful divorce, and a hasty flight to the foothills of the Ozarks failed to break her spirit. But one tiny photograph brought Lynne Prescott to her knees. She knelt in the tea-soaked grass and
sobbed over a broken heart. It didn’t really matter that it wasn’t her own.

  Chapter Three

  After two days of hiding out in his workshop, Bram was forced to head to town to resupply. The sole of his dusty work boot barely touched pavement in front of Walters’ Mercantile when Willene called, “Daddy!”

  He smiled as she trotted from the store to intercept him. “Hey, sugar.” He greeted her with a one-armed hug and an absent brush of lips against her dark curls. “What’s up?”

  “Two more orders,” she crowed, waving sheets of printer paper in his face.

  Gut coiling, he staggered back a step, “Two? I already have six in the works.”

  “I know.” She grinned smugly. “You have a waiting list.” His daughter bounced on the balls of her feet. “I told them there was a six-month lead time.”

  “Six months?” Bram raked his hand over his face. “I don’t know….”

  “You can do it.” She folded the sheets of paper and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “How are the salad bowls coming?”

  He stared at her, incredulous. “You only told me about them yesterday.”

  “Hey, they’re paid for.” His baby girl waggled a finger at him and backed up a step. “Gotta get back inside. Let me know when the bowls are done,” she called over her shoulder as she walked back into the store.

  The need to get one last shot in was overwhelming. “I don’t work for you.”

  Willene shot him a saucy smile so like her mother’s it pierced like an arrow to his heart. “You look skinny. Are you eating enough?”

  “I eat fine.”

  “I have stew in the slow cooker. I’ll bring some by tonight,” she said and disappeared into the general store.

  The two old men in rocking chairs chuckled at the verbal by-play. “Just like her mama,” one commented.

  “Ol’ Bobby Walters is gonna have his hands full,” the other agreed.

  “Well, considering they’re already shacked up, I’d say he already has,” the first drawled.

  “Dad,” Bram snapped.