Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  “She gave me a few tips.”

  Their fingers brushed when she handed him the glass. She gave herself bonus points for not jerking her hand back when a shiver of awareness shot up her spine. He didn’t fare so well. Tea sloshed onto his hand, and she looked away, giving him the opportunity to wipe the drops on his jeans.

  She poked at the cage. “Girls or boys?”

  “Girls. Hens,” he corrected. “They’ll be hens.”

  “If they’re gonna stay here with me, they’ll have to like living dangerously.”

  “I didn’t give them much of a choice.”

  She smiled at the chicks then turned up the wattage for the man beside her. “Thelma and Louise.”

  He nodded. “Just don’t let them drive.”

  “You know that movie?”

  “I have a DVD player. And a daughter.”

  “Let’s sit. I have some of Anna’s pound cake left,” she said, nodding to the lump of foil on the table. When he settled into the chair across from her, she began to peel back the wrapper. “I’m afraid I put a fairly big dent in it. It’s so good.”

  “Anna does bake a nice cake.”

  “She seems friendly,” Lynne ventured, watching him from under her lashes. His soft chuckle set her Spidey-senses tingling. Her smile turned coy. “I think it’s nice you two are so close and all.”

  A Brahma bull would envy the snort he emitted. She raised one eyebrow as the knife slid through the buttery cake. “You aren’t? Did Miss Anna tell a little old fib?”

  “Miss Anna lives in a pastel pink fantasy world.”

  She slid the slice of cake onto a paper napkin. “I had a feeling.”

  The birds’ cheeping filled the silence. Their eyes met. Held.

  After a short game of chicken, Bram shuffled his feet and lowered his gaze, staring at the slice of golden cake in front of him. “I shouldn’t have said that. Anna’s okay. She’s a little…single-minded.”

  “I see.”

  He chuckled and broke off a chunk of cake. “You have no idea. She set her sights on poor George Albertson in high school. His daddy was the head of the county farm co-op agency.”

  “Okay.”

  “They had money,” he translated. “At least, more money than most people around here.”

  “Ahh.”

  “George was a daddy six months after graduation. He didn’t know what hit him.”

  “An age-old tale.”

  “With a twist,” he mumbled, chewing slowly. “Only took old George two years of being married to Anna to figure out his mistake. He stuck around eighteen more. When Junior moved off to Tulsa, George downed a vat of whiskey and worked up the nerve to run off with a barmaid he met at a convention in Fayetteville.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the wobbly old table. “So Anna had to rework her plan.”

  “And that plan includes you?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” he said with an innocent shrug. “I never asked.”

  “Well, let’s see. You own the hatchery and a farm, right?”

  “Well, the family does.”

  “Ah, so she’d have to get past Miss Ada.”

  A wry smile tilted his lips. “Nobody gets past Miss Ada.”

  She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Hmm. Anything else to recommend you, or do you think Anna’s after the hatchery?”

  He picked up one of the wooden salad bowls stacked on the scarred, old sideboard. “I do a little woodworking.”

  She gasped. “You made those?”

  “Not the bowls themselves. I buy those, then do the carvings.”

  “Wow. That’s amazing,” she said with hushed admiration.

  He shrugged. “Just a hobby my granddad taught me.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  A pink blush tinged his cheeks. He tucked his chin to his chest and gave a modest shake of his head. “I’m not sure selling a dozen salad bowls will be enough to impress a woman like Anna.”

  It was her turn to blush. “I don’t know why I bought so many. It’s not like I throw very many dinner parties anymore.”

  “You don’t?”

  Anxious to change the subject, she flashed a playful smile. “Do you want to impress a woman like her?”

  He glanced up, meeting her gaze directly. “Not particularly.”

  “Then you’re safe.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell your mama that Anna’s bothering you,” she teased.

  He pinned her with those piercing blue eyes. “I’m a little old to hide behind my mama’s skirts.”

  Lynne trailed a fingertip through the condensation beading on her glass. “Then I guess you’ll have to brave it out.”

  He cleared his throat and reached for his glass. The ice cubes tinkled as he tipped his head back. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Her mouth went painfully dry, but she couldn’t find the stamina to raise her own glass.

  “What do you do back in Chicago?” he asked, jolting her from her minute inspection of the silver and black stubble dotting his throat.

  “Huh? Oh. I, uh, I’m a housewife. Was a housewife,” she said, lurching from her chair to retrieve the pitcher of tea.

  “Was?” His lips quirked into a smile as she refilled his glass. “Did you quit?”

  “I was fired,” she muttered, then hurried back to the counter.

  “Fired?”

  Taking a bracing breath, she plastered a smile on her face when she turned back to him. “Well, kind of. My son is grown and married. He’s an attorney out in California.” She gripped the edge of the worn Formica so hard her knuckles ached. “My husband—ex-husband—left me for his surgical assistant.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry.”

  She forced a laugh and gave her head a brisk shake. “No, it’s okay. Richard and I, well, we weren’t exactly made for each other, you know? And Cara, his new wife? She’s…just as cute as a button,” she added before she could stop herself.

  “Uh.”

  “Wow. Sounded bitter, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose you have a right—”

  “I’m not, though. Not really. I mean, how’s a woman my age supposed to compete with a twenty-two-year-old?”

  “Twenty-two?”

  “She’s twenty-four now,” she hastened to explain. “Twenty-four and pregnant.”

  His grimace was genuine. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. It has to be hard.”

  She opened her mouth to issue her standard denial, but the moment her eyes met his she snapped it shut. Her mute nod morphed into a helpless shrug. “I don’t know why I told you.”

  He tilted his head and stared up at her. “I won’t say anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I know anyone around here, and back there…Well, everyone knows.” She flashed a nervous smile. “I should let you get back to—”

  “Yeah, the porch isn’t about to fix itself.”

  The wooden legs of his chair scraped across linoleum as Bram rose from his seat. “Not that I wasn’t enjoying.” Lynne stiffened when he crossed the room in three long strides. She tipped her head back as he drew to an abrupt halt in front of her and stared down at her.

  “You’re easy to talk to,” she whispered. Her heart lodged in the hollow of her throat. Her pulse fluttered. A ghost of a smile tilted his lips. Tiny vibrations of anticipation skittered up her spine.

  “Are you free for supper?”

  “Supper?” she asked breathlessly. He nodded once in answer. “I, um.” She fumbled for the right words.

  He took a small step back, and the additional six inches of space seemed to grant her lungs permission to commence operation once again. He cleared his throat, but a deep red flush began to creep up his neck. She stared at the blooming color, mesmerized.

  “I’d like to keep talkin’ with you, but if I don’t get back out there, a job that should take one day will end up taking three.�
��

  The low, gruff growl of his voice wrapped its way around her wayward heart, tugging it back into place with a sharp jerk of reality. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. You have other things to do.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand—”

  “Oh no, I understand,” she said too quickly.

  Bram’s brow knit and he shook his head slowly. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re easy to talk to, too,” he murmured, closing the distance between them.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “I’ll pick you up at seven, if you don’t mind eating at my place.” His breath tickled her cheek. Her body swayed. “Please say yes, Miss Lynne.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded again then backed up. She gawked at the broad expanse of his shoulders as he crossed to the door. He stepped into the mudroom and hesitated, his fingers gripping the doorknob so tight his knuckles shone white.

  “Your ex-husband?” His low growl captured her full attention. “The man’s a fool,” he said quietly and pulled the door closed behind him.

  ****

  The Heartsfield hotline worked with its usual breathtaking efficiency. Bram nailed another board into place a little after four-thirty. He glanced at the stack of cut lumber awaiting his attention and chalked them up to another day. Lord knows spending another day hanging around Lynne Prescott’s porch would not be a hardship. He didn’t even bother to knock on her door to tell her he was leaving. Instead, he gathered his tools, tossed them into the bed of his truck, and beat a path toward the center of town.

  He rushed through the door of Feltcher’s Market at ten minutes to five, startling Marcie Pennington from an intense study of the latest tabloid. “Hey, Mr. Bram,” she called after him.

  “Marcie,” he grunted, making a beeline for the butcher counter.

  Before the clock struck five, Willene Hatchett hung up the phone, a troubled frown creasing her brow. By five-fifteen, Ada Hatchett slid a peach cobbler into the oven. At five-twenty, Jerry Johnson, Heartsfield’s part-time postman, had the grave misfortune to be the one to break the news to Anna Albertson.

  Long, vermillion nails tapped the mirrored gazing ball perched on a pedestal in the middle of her front lawn. She transferred the long-handled pruning shears she held from one hand to the other. A thrill of satisfaction prickled her skin when Jerry eyed the vicious looking lawn implement with trepidation. “What?”

  He licked his lips and darted a glance at the stack of undelivered mail on his seat. “Marcie said he bought two rib eyes, two bakin’ potatoes, and a cake.”

  “A cake?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “Chocolate cake? Bram doesn’t care for chocolate.”

  “Maybe Ms. Prescott does,” he said with a shrug. Anna took a step closer, her fingers curling around the open door of the mail truck. “How do you know it’s that Prescott woman?”

  “Uh, Abe might have mentioned something….”

  “Abe?”

  Instinct kicked in, and she jumped back when he eased his foot off the brake. Waving the thin stack of envelopes out the window, he glanced at the road. “I gotta go, Miss Anna. Running real late today—gotta finish my route.”

  “Runnin’ late because you’ve been runnin’ your fool mouth again, Jerry Johnson.”

  She advanced one more step, and he panicked, dropping her mail on the ground. The moment she swooped down to retrieve the envelopes he pressed the gas and zoomed down the road.

  Frustration clawed at her throat. Her arm swung, gaining momentum as she rose. The smooth wooden handle of the pruners slipped from her grasp. Her squeak of surprise morphed into a gasp of horror as the tool sliced through the air. The heavy metal shears smashed into her new gazing ball. Shards of mirrored purple glass shimmered in the waning afternoon light as they rained down on her lawn.

  ****

  Bram opened his front door and ran straight into the covered casserole dish his father held. He stumbled back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Deliverin’ dessert.” Al thrust the dish into his hands. “Your mama must love you—she broke out the peach preserves.”

  “Thanks.” He carefully extricated the pot-holder-covered handles from the older man’s grasp. He carried the still-warm dish to the kitchen counter. “I suppose everyone knows.”

  Al scratched his cheek. “I imagine they do by now.”

  He sidled past his father, shooing him from the house. “Marcie’s a piece of work.”

  “She had help. Besides, it scored you a peach cobbler. Everyone knows Feltcher’s cakes are crap.” He reached out, capturing his son’s arm in a surprisingly strong grasp. “Just so you know, you’ve made your mother very happy.”

  “Dad, it’s only dinner.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Al answered easily. “Either way, I’m fairly happy, too.”

  “It takes so little.”

  “We’re just glad you’re moving on.”

  “I’m not moving on,” he snapped.

  “Moving forward, then.” Al raised one hand in a wave. “You can’t keep making love to a memory, boy. You’ll go blind or grow hair on your palms.”

  Bram snorted and jerked open the door to his truck. “Go home, you dirty old man. Nothing cookin’ around here but steaks.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lynne stared at the scant few hangers swinging from the rod that spanned the closet. She tugged at the hem of her powder blue sweater, smoothing her damp palms over her jeans. “It’s not a date,” she whispered, casting a longing glance at the lone skirt she’d tossed into her suitcase at the last minute.

  She’d packed in a rush, tossing sweaters, jeans, and nightgowns into the suitcase without thinking. The gauzy skirt was a last-minute addition. Then again, so was her hairbrush. The entire trip to Arkansas was one big impulse.

  I’m getting good at being impulsive in my old age.

  A short bark of a laugh caught in her throat. Whirling from the closet, she rushed into the antiquated bathroom across the hall. Her hair crackled as the brush bristles slid through. She studiously ignored the stubborn silver strands streaking through the blond highlights and leaned closer to the mirror, groping for her mascara again. Lynne bobbed and weaved over the sink, trying to find the magic spot where her reflection swam into focus. She swiped another coat to her lashes and capped the tube, tossing it aside and stepping back from the sink.

  “Enough. It’s just dinner. Not a date,” she said, eyeing her reflection sternly.

  A firm knock on the front door made her jump. She pressed her palm to her hammering heart then smoothed the clinging cashmere over her stomach. She snagged her purse on the way to the door, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and breathed lightly into her palm to check her breath.

  Plastering a smile to her face, she yanked open the weather-warped door. “Hi, neighbor.”

  “Hello,” Bram answered, a startled smile twitching his lips. The smile spread, lighting his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind her. “I hope you stocked up. I’m starving. I didn’t have lunch.”

  He chuckled, pressing his broad palm to the small of her back. “Well, then, I’d best get you fed.”

  Lynne nibbled her lip, hoping to stem the flow of nonsense. He steered her around the hood of his truck. That warm hand slid from her back to her elbow. She glanced up when he helped her into the truck, and the dam broke. “You look nice.”

  He smiled again. “You look beautiful,” he answered gruffly and closed the door.

  ****

  He hadn’t lied.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop staring at her. It was rude. If his mother were nearby, she surely would have pinched a healthy chunk of flesh from his arm. Bram was glad his mother wasn’t near, because he didn’t think he could pry his gaze off Lynne Prescott with a crowbar.

  The sweater she wore was blue. Not any old blue�
��the exact blue of a bright summer sky before the sun starts to sink behind the hills. Soft. It looked so soft. Not that he dared to touch the fuzzy wool. That would have been too much.

  Besides, I’m busy boring holes into her skull like a moron. He followed her movements as she deftly sliced off the charred edge of her steak. Her fork didn’t stray to the potato split open on her plate, and he didn’t blame her. The stupid spud exposed its half-baked guts, pasty white chunks spilling from its casing.

  Kinda like you, moron. Is your mouth open? Close it before you drool all over the poor woman. Try to say something. Anything. The potato is doing a better job of this than you are.

  He winced as she deftly nudged the blackened strip of steak to the edge of her plate and cut a portion from the center. “I’m sorry. I used to be better at this,” he mumbled. She glanced up, and his wince grew into a full-on grimace. “Grilling. I used to be better with a grill. I don’t cook much since Willie moved out.”

  Her lips quirked. “Willie?”

  “My daughter, Willene.”

  “I’ve met her,” she said with a reassuring smile. “How’d that come about? Is it a family name?”

  He shrugged and began dissecting the singed remains of what had once been a nice looking rib eye. “In a way. Turns out, Susie’s daddy got his nose a bit out of joint when Abe was named after me and my dad. When we found out we were expecting again, she promised to name the baby after him.” Bram liberated what appeared to be the only edible- looking hunk of meat and heaved a heavy sigh. “She was sure it was another boy.”

  She chuckled. “His name was William?”

  “Still is. He and Arlene sold up a few years ago and moved to the Dallas area to be closer to their other daughter, Sarah.” Lynne placed her fork on the rim of her plate and reached for her glass of tea. Bram winced again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to get a bottle of wine.”

  “This is perfect,” she assured him and took a small sip of the tea. She cocked her head as she lowered the glass. “Is this county dry?”

  He nodded. “Yep—and every county around us.”

  A laugh bubbled from her lips. “That’s so weird.”

  “Weird?”

  “That there are still blue laws down here. Back home, I can stop at the grocery store on a Sunday and outfit a whole bar.”