Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

Melanie sighed then chuckled. “Nah, we’re okay. Everything is running smoothly—better than expected. I only wanted to give you a healthy dose of guilt for running out on us.”

  Her laugh came surprisingly easy. “It worked.”

  “When you took off like that, we were worried.”

  Lynne beat back a wave of remorse. “I…I had to take care of this.” She picked up the index card with Anna Albertson’s pound cake recipe and scowled. “Um, I may have a buyer.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yeah, so I had to come down here.”

  “I was worried it had something to do with that little snot Dickie married.”

  The relief in Melanie’s tone was palpable. Guilt wrapped its bony hands around Lynne’s heart and squeezed. Hard. “That didn’t help,” Lynne admitted at last.

  “I know.”

  Sympathy and understanding rang true and honest in her friend’s words, cutting through the distance she tried so hard to maintain. “Years,” she whispered. “I knew what he was for years, but that doesn’t make reality any easier.”

  “He’s an ass.” Melanie paused for a beat then added, “A dick—in every sense of the word.”

  The constricting ache in her chest eased and she laughed. “Yes, he is.”

  “And that little bitch, practically waving it in your face.” She hesitated for a long moment, but in her typical blunt fashion, plunged ahead. “That’s what I needed to tell you. Doctor Dickie’s wife wants to buy an entire table for the benefit,” she said in a low voice. “Do you want me to tell her no?”

  Her head jerked up. She peered into the waning light, watching as two dark blobs bobbed their way toward the chicken coop. “No.”

  “Is that a ‘Don’t tell her’ no, or a ‘The bitch can’t buy a table’ no?”

  Lynne wet her lips then stared at the index card in her hand. Giving into the impulse, she tore the card in two and dropped the pieces onto the counter. “Take her money,” she answered, giving her reflection in the window a brisk nod.

  “Done. Can I charge her double?”

  “Go ahead.” A short, bitter laugh died on her lips when she caught sight of the canister of chicken feed on her kitchen counter. “I might not be back to see you pick her pocket.”

  “What do you mean? You can’t come back for the benefit? But Lynne, you worked so hard on this. It’s your fault I can’t complain.”

  “We all worked hard.”

  “But this is your baby. You started this. It’s our biggest year yet. Sarah says we’ve already raised more than last year, and that’s not even including the proceeds from the auction. You’re going to miss it all to sell some farm?”

  The bewilderment in Melanie’s tone only served to underscore the certainty blooming in her chest.

  “It’s not because of the farm.”

  “Then what?”

  She met her own gaze in the window. A secret smile played at her lips. “A man.”

  “A man? What man? Richard? You’re not coming back because of Richard?”

  “No. Not Richard. I met a man.” A blush rose hot in her cheeks, prickling her skin and setting her nerve endings on fire.

  “You met a man in Arkansas?”

  “Yes, and before you ask, he wears shoes and has all his teeth.”

  Melanie laughed. “You forget my family’s from Mississippi. Therefore, I know it’s a valid question.”

  A high-pitched, girlish giggle burst from her. She clamped her mouth shut, hoping she didn’t sound nearly as hysterical to her friend’s ears as she did to her own.

  “You met a man?” Melanie asked in a leading tone.

  “And he’s…he makes me feel….”

  Her gaze roamed the ceiling as if the right words would be scrawled across the yellowed paint. She ducked her head and inspected the pink-polished tips of her toes. The giggle threatened to surface again. The sound of gravel crunching beneath rubber wafted through the open window. Her heart stuttered. Her mind raced.

  “He makes you feel sexy?” Melanie prodded. “Young? Horny? Happy?”

  Headlights swept the yard. The chickens scattered, ruffling their feathers and squawking their displeasure. The engine cut out. The hinges on the driver’s door shrieked. Bram unfolded from the seat and straightened, rolling his shoulders back as he lifted his head and met her gaze through the thin pane of glass.

  “All of the above,” Lynne whispered on a sigh. “I have to go. He’s here.”

  Before Melanie could protest, she ended the call, rushed through the mudroom and hit the broken storm door with the palms of her hands. Bram pulled a large metal cage from the bed of his truck. Her eyebrows shot for her hairline. “Stealing my chickens?”

  “Mizz Prescott, you are a peril to poultry,” he drawled, turning to face her.

  She cocked her head. “You don’t think I’m magic?”

  “If things keep going the way they have been around here, folks are gonna start thinking you practice black magic.”

  She smiled and took a step forward, wrapping her arms around a post and chipping at the peeling paint with her thumbnail. “I told you I’d call.”

  He stared up at her, squinting through the dusky darkness to meet her gaze. “I wanted to be sure you were still here. I didn’t want to give you too much of a head start if you decided to run away after all.”

  The implication should have stung more, but all she latched onto was the meaning behind his words. “Head start? Were you going to chase after me?”

  “Would you want me to?”

  Lynne unwound her arms and started down the porch steps. “I realized something today,” she said softly. Drawing to a halt on the bottom step, she lifted her chin and gulped a deep breath. “I’ve been running away my whole life.”

  He set the cage on the ground and moved toward her. “How do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t wait to go off to college. I needed to get out from under my mother’s thumb. I married Richard because that was the next step after college.” She sank down onto the porch step with a sigh. “I ran away from my husband’s, uh, infidelity by focusing everything I had on my son. He was my world.”

  “You never wanted more children?”

  “After Justin was born, Richard said he didn’t want any more, and I just…said okay.”

  He drew closer, peering down at her as the gloaming closed in around them. “But you wanted more.”

  “He had a vasectomy.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “He…I thought you said she’s pregnant.”

  “He had it reversed. Long before our divorce was final.”

  He staggered back a step, and Lynne stared at the print his boot made in the soft earth. She wanted many things from him, but sympathy wasn’t one of them. Rubbing her palms together, she worked up the nerve to tell him the rest.

  “Justin grew up, was accepted to Stanford, and then he was gone. Did I take a good, hard look at what my life would be like without him in it? No. I ran away from the loneliness by throwing myself into charity work and committees and tennis matches, waiting for him to come home,” she said, bitterness lacing her voice.

  “And he didn’t,” he concluded. After a beat, he shrugged. “There are worse ways to spend your time.”

  “There was nothing else for me to do. He was grown and happy, and I was happy for him—really, I was.” She took a shaky breath. “I was happy for him. I didn’t know how to be happy for myself.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line, the anger she’d held back for too long rising to a boil inside of her. “My husband, the man I’d been married to for half my life, told me he wanted a divorce so he could marry his little girlfriend, and I rolled over and agreed to almost everything he wanted rather than facing what should have been the fight of my life. I gave him everything. Twenty-five years of stupid dinner parties and mind-numbing hospital fundraisers. Toadying to the board so he could take my father’s place.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “I never asked for any
thing more.” She raised her head, tipping her chin up until their gazes met and held. “But he did. He thought he was entitled to whatever he wanted. The house. The only thing I stood up to him on was the house. That was Justin’s house—the place where he grew up. The place where I hid out.”

  “He wanted you to sell?”

  A wry smile twisted her lips. “He wanted me to sell once he found out I wasn’t about to let him move his new wife into our house. My house,” she asserted. “He wasn’t around enough to call it his.”

  “He’s a horse’s ass.”

  This time, her lips quirked into a genuine smile. “Among other things.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. Her toes almost grazed his dusty work boots. “And I’m a coward.”

  “I don’t think you’re a coward.”

  She huffed and drew her knees up. Pressing her hands to the stiff denim of her new Levi’s she leveraged herself off the step and brushed the dirt from the seat of her jeans. It beat throwing herself into his arms. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “I was, but I’m not going to be anymore,” she said softly. “You need to tell me straight out if you want the farm or me, Bram.”

  “What if I want both?”

  She shook her head. “You can’t have both. I’m done with giving people everything I have. I want something for myself.” She cast one more glance over her shoulder as she reached for the door handle. “You’ll think things over and let me know what you decide?”

  He stepped up, planting his boot on the bottom stair. “I don’t need to think it over.”

  Her heart did that scary little flip-flop. She gave herself permission to hide out for one more night. Holding up a hand to stop him, she shook her head. “I think you should. It’s been a long day, and maybe we’re both a little raw. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  His lips tightened with impatience. “Fine.”

  She smiled. The thrill of victory tickled its way along her spine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got one.”

  She conjured a sad smirk. “Good. God only knows where those chickens are.”

  “Stupid birds,” he muttered. Planting his hands on his hips, he scanned the darkened yard.

  She opened the door and the light spilled onto the porch, shining a path that led straight to him. Emboldened, she whirled to face him. “Bram?” she called after him.

  “Ma’am?”

  She smiled at his automatic response. “While you’re thinking things over, I want you to remember something.”

  He looked back at her, raising one curious eyebrow.

  “Nothing says ‘I think I might love you’ quite like giving a guy a dead chicken,” she drawled, gracing him with a saucy smile before disappearing into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bram sat slumped in his chair holding a half-finished salad bowl balanced on his fingertips.

  Willene peeked around the edge of the doorframe. “Daddy?”

  He startled then glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Hey, Sassypants.”

  She stepped into the workshop, clutching a sheet of paper to her stomach. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She inched her way closer to him. “Did she…uh, is Ms. Prescott….”

  He shot her a dark glare. “She’s here.”

  A relieved smile curved her lips. “Good.” He cast a wary glance in her direction and the smile melted into a frown. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “She thinks I was only seeing her to get the farm.”

  “What? How can she think that?”

  He sighed and set the bowl aside, clasping his hands between his knees and twisting his fingers into a knot. “This whole thing is out of hand. It’s like my life has gone crazy, and I’m too old for crazy.”

  She chuckled and moved to stand behind his chair. “You’re not old, Daddy.” She tousled his hair then kissed the top of his head. “Getting pretty gray, but not old.”

  “I feel old,” he whispered. “Too old to be playing guessing games and chasing after things I probably shouldn’t want.”

  “Why shouldn’t you want them?”

  He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. “You were the one who thought I was playing the fool.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m young and stupid, remember?”

  She skirted the edge of his chair and stopped in front of him. Without a word, she offered her hand, knowing he’d take it, just as he had her entire life. Bram unfolded from the chair, and with a practiced twitch of his wrist, pulled her into a hug.

  “I want you to be happy,” she whispered into the crook of his neck.

  “I want to be happy, too.”

  Willene pulled back and looked him straight in the eye. “Then do it. To hell with what anyone else says or thinks. You don’t have to play guessing games. Tell her you care about her. If she doesn’t want what you want…” She shrugged. “You tried. That’s what you used to tell us—all anyone can do is try. Right?”

  Bram gave her hair a playful tug. “You might be young, but you’re not so stupid.”

  She stepped back and the sheet of paper she held floated to the floor. “What’s that?” he asked warily.

  “Another order.” She scooped the sheet from the dusty floor and beamed at him. “This one’s from Palm Beach, Florida.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Add it to the pile.”

  She strolled over to the workbench and plucked the sheaf of orders from under the wrench that served as a paperweight. Stroking the untouched stack of pre-cut headrests, she shot him a worried glance. “Man, they’re piling up. You’d better get to work, Mister.”

  He rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor. “I’m not feeling it.”

  Willie chuckled. “Now, don’t go getting all temperamental artiste on me,” she teased.

  Bram picked up the bowl again and studied his work with a frown as she sifted through the stack of orders. Her eyebrows shot up as she pulled one from the pile. “Ms. Prescott’s from Illinois, right?”

  “Huh? Yeah.” He picked at a carved petal with his thumbnail.

  She smiled and waved the sheet of paper in front of his eyes. “You need inspiration, Picasso? Here, work on your girlfriend’s chair.”

  “What?”

  Willene wriggled the paper again, and he snatched it from her hand. Reading over his shoulder, she nodded her approval. “Should be an easy one—all scrollwork, no flowers.”

  Bram shoved the order back into her hand. “Cancel it.”

  “What?”

  “Cancel the order. Refund her money,” he said tersely.

  “But—”

  “Do not argue with me.”

  She reared back. “Okay.” Pressing the sheet of paper to her stomach, she glanced nervously at him. “Daddy?”

  He slumped in his chair again and squeezed his eyes shut. Clutching the salad bowl in one hand, he rubbed the deep crease between his brows with the other. “Cancel the order, Willie. Please.”

  “I will.”

  “Tonight,” he insisted, pinning her with a stern stare.

  “Tonight,” she agreed.

  He leaned forward in the chair, turning the bowl in his hand as he reached for a chisel. “Night, Baby.”

  Willie didn’t bristle at his curt dismissal. Instead, she simply whispered, “Night, Daddy,” before tiptoeing to the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lynne sat at the scarred kitchen table, staring at an unopened romance novel and running her thumb over the buttons on her cell phone. Her teeth sank into her lip, and she tore her gaze from the bare-chested man on the cover. She pressed the number two, holding the key until the speed-dial kicked in.

  Her fingers curled around the phone, and she held it to her ear. She dragged in a deep breath as the line rang once then twice. She heard her mother’s honey-drenched greeting and released the air trapped in her lungs. “Mother, I’ve met a man,” she confessed without preamble.


  After a prolonged, painful humming silence, Elizabeth Hillman asked, “You have?”

  “Abram Hatchett.” The soft, dulcet tones of her mother’s chuckle rattled her nerves. “He’s Alsom and Ada’s son,” she hastened to explain.

  “I figured that much out.” Elizabeth sighed. “I assume he’s handsome. Those Hatchett boys were certainly easy on the eyes.”

  “He is.”

  Elizabeth made no follow-up and Lynne began to squirm, as she always had when confronted with her mother’s disapproval. “Mother, he’s a good man.”

  “Are you trying to sell me or yourself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her answer garnered another soft laugh. “You’ve always been so much like Corrine.”

  Lynne frowned, fanning the pages of the book with the pad of her thumb. “No wonder you don’t like me very much.”

  Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath. “Is that what you think?”

  “You have to admit, we don’t have very much in common, Mother.”

  “You’ve always been so much like her, it scared me.”

  “How could she scare you? She was a sweet woman. Kind and generous—”

  “And she just curled up when he died,” Elizabeth insisted, her voice growing strident. “She could have had so much more.”

  “She was happy where she was. You wrote her off after Grandma died.”

  “They wrote me off the minute I left home. Wrote me off, wrote me out of their will—”

  “Did you ever think maybe they were hurt that you left?”

  “There was nothing for me there. What was I supposed to do? Stay in that teeny, tiny town, marry some homegrown boy, and wither away?”

  “Would it really have been so awful?”

  “I wouldn’t have had you. Did you ever think of that?”

  “But you didn’t want me to have them. Oh, you came back when it was expected of you, but never more than that.”

  “Why would I want to? They didn’t want me there. I didn’t fit in.” She dragged in a ragged breath. “Corrine didn’t want me there. Every time I stepped foot in that town, she made it perfectly clear that she belonged and I didn’t.”