by Zoe York
lifeline.
He’d forced himself to make the effort, tension rippling through him while he talked to an attractive brunette named Julie, who thankfully had the guts to approach him. What followed was undoubtedly one of the most awkward experiences of his entire life. When it was over, he ran for his truck rather than accepting her offer of her spare pillow, and sped through the dark of night.
“At least I got it up.”
Bram gripped the wheel as he pulled to a stop at the Burdock's front porch. He unlatched his seat belt, grabbed the flowerpot, and lurched from the cab of the truck.
“Hello?” he called out as he skirted the corner of the porch and tromped toward the back of the house.
His knuckles dug into his hip as he surveyed the empty drive and the drooping back porch. He turned in a slow circle, checking to be certain the fancy SUV wasn't parked somewhere in the yard. Part of him wanted to leave the pot as proof he'd tried and run for the hills, but the chipped, peeling paint of the porch chastised him.
With a heavy sigh, he set the flowerpot on the porch rail. He tested each tread, placing his heavy work boot in the center of each board and shifting his weight. Damn. One...Crap. Two...His mother's voice rang in his head. She needs help, Abram. He took another step and the board splintered and creaked. Shit, shit, shit—three....
He made his way carefully up the steps and across the narrow porch, counting boards to be replaced and grumbling under his breath.
Chapter 5
The chicken was an impulse buy.
Unable to stomach the thought of going to Fletcher's Market for another round of “loveyourbag—thankyou—loveyourshoes—thank you—loveyourjeans—thankyou” with the gum-smacking girl at the cash register, Lynne programmed the GPS for the nearest shopping mall, then took off.
Thirty-five miles later, she discovered the Springhill Shopping Centre boasted a farm/discount store, an accounting office, and a sub-sandwich place. She sorted through the farm store's stacks of cardboard jeans until she found two pairs in her size. A handful of tops found their way into her cart before she wandered toward the shoe department. A pair of not-too-awful hiking boots and a set of truly hideous garden clogs later, she'd compromised her fashion ethics as far as possible without going completely off the reservation.
Promising herself a trip to Little Rock, Springfield, or even Branson—soon, very soon—she wound a cart through the grocery aisles. Since she was there, Lynne picked up a few staples then added quite a few non-necessities—if double-stuffed cookies counted as a non-necessity. Lately, they'd moved up in the ranks for her.
She didn't hear the plaintive chirps coming from the cage at the front of the store until she was loading her purchases onto the conveyor belt. One glance at the tiny puffs of yellow, and she was a goner. The next thing she knew, she was the owner of a baby chicken.
Lynne sighed and sneaked a peek at her peeping co-pilot. She turned onto the lane leading to the weathered farmhouse, her lips curving into a smile as a fleeting memory wafted through her mind.
Come on, Sugarplum, you can help Gramma feed the chickens.
A thin veil of tears blurred her vision. She swallowed the lump in her throat and let up on the gas as she shoved the memory into the back corner of her mind. Something large and black loomed in her drive. Someone was here. She blinked once, then twice, and stomped on the brake. The car jerked to a halt mere inches from the rear bumper of a dusty pick-up truck. “Who the hell....”
Pushing the door open with her foot, she bailed from the car. “Hello?” No one responded except a chirping cricket. The cool March wind stirred. Then, the huddled form of a man unfolded from the decrepit wicker chair on her front porch. She took a hasty step back. The side mirror caught her square in the back, and she yelped.
He rose to his feet. “Didn't mean to scare you.”
She swallowed the fear gorging her throat. He had to be well over six feet tall with wide shoulders and narrow hips. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled back to expose muscular forearms sprinkled with dark hair. His blue and green plaid flannel shirt. Recognition clicked in her brain, and a frisson of awareness trickled down her spine, pooling low and insistent in her gut. “It's you.”
The man tipped the bill of his ball cap back and rubbed his forehead. He must have remembered his manners, because in one jerky move he removed the hat entirely. “Pardon?”
Lynne snapped her mouth shut, afraid she might drown in drool rather than his fathomless blue eyes. With his silver-shot dark hair and a thick fringe of sooty lashes outlining those incredible eyes, the stranger standing on her porch was the spitting image of the man in the photograph with Aunt Corrine.
“Hello,” she managed at last.
He started down the front steps. “I'm Abram Hatchett. My mother said—”
Her brain whirred and stutter-stepped. Thoughts stumbled all over each other as he moved closer with lithe, loose-limbed grace. Her knees wobbled, making her feel anything but graceful. Her heart beat a pitter-pat that would have had a cardiologist lunging for a crash cart. She nearly swooned when her brain finally processed his slow, deep drawl.
Abrum Hatchit, mah muthuh....
That soft slurring of syllables made her insides turn to goo. Heat coursed through her veins. Her pulse slowed to an ambling mosey. Lynne jerked as her brain slipped back into gear and the import of his words sank in. “Abram Hatchett?” she blurted.
The man stopped on the bottom step. “Yes, ma'am.”
He can't be the Abram Hatchett. This must be his son. This man's father must have jilted poor Aunt Corrine for the woman in the shop. Her brow beetled. She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes as she studied him dispassionately. “Your mother sent you?”
“Yes. Miss Ada.”
Oh no. Unwilling to relinquish her last thread of hope, she asked, “Are there more Abram Hatchetts around here?”
Those smooth, chiseled lips parted just enough to blind her with a flash of even white teeth. “Tons.”
“Your father? Is he an Abram too?”
He shook his head. “No. My father is Alsom. My uncle was Abram. I was named for him. My son and grandson are Abrams, though. I figure if I had to deal with it, they should too. My friends call me Bram. My boy is Abe, and my grandson, A.J.” He stopped, snapping his mouth shut like a clam.
A rush of happiness burbled through her veins. “Your uncle was Abram?”
“Yes'm.” His boots kicked up a puff of dust when he stepped off the stair. “Mind if I ask why you want to know?”
“It's just...I, uh.” She glanced at the hood of her car as if the ticking engine would give her a good answer. Fixing a bright smile on her face, she thrust her hand into the open space between them. “I'm Lynne Prescott.”
He crossed the strip of yard separating them and took her proffered hand. A zing of electricity shot up to her elbow when his callused fingers closed around hers. “Miz Prescott.”
His voice was deep and gruff, a gravel-edged baritone. She stared into his eyes, picking out the flecks of violet in the blue. Her gaze traced the web of fine white lines fanning from the corners of those incredible eyes.
“A pleasure to meet you.” Her breathless whisper made her wince, but Lynne stood firm.
“Why were you askin' about my uncle?”
A hot blush set her cheeks aflame. “I found something interesting,” she said softly. His eyebrows rose, and she gave him a shaky smile. “Would you like to come in?”
She couldn't believe she'd issued the invitation. Mortification seeped into her pores. She would have winced if his gaze hadn't held hers. Hell, she might have squirmed if his fingers weren't warm and snug around hers. Heaven knows, she certainly would have died if he hadn't given her a slow nod. He met her smile with a sheepish grin of his own before releasing her hand. “I, uh, I'll get my things,” she stammered. “In the, uh, car.”
The side mirror dug into her shoulder blade when she backed into the car, but she hardly noticed. A n
ervous laugh bubbled from her lips when he reached past her to open the back door. “I'll get them for you.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “Oh. I, uh, thank you.”
She stepped back, her gaze dropping as he bent to retrieve a handful of plastic grocery sacks. Lynne licked her lips, eyeing the tiny red tab sewn into the back pocket of his faded jeans with unabashed envy.
A fresh round of insistent chirps greeted the invasion, and he stiffened. He backed out of the car, two bags dangling from his fingers as he shot her a puzzled look. “Who's your friend?”
“Oh!” She laughed as she trotted to the passenger door. She lifted the cardboard box from the seat, her smile melting into a grin when the fuzzy little chick stared up at her. “This is, um...I don't know. I haven't named him yet.”
His eyebrows did an eloquent arching thing that revealed so much more than mere words. He snagged the rest of the bags and bumped the door shut with his hip. They met at the hood of the car, and she couldn't rein in her stare when he shifted the shopping bags to one hand.
He reached into the box, gripping the tiny bird firmly but gently, ignoring its cheeps of protest when he turned the chick upside-down. His chuckle rumbled low and soft. “He's a she.”
“A girl?”
“A hen,” he corrected.
“Ahh. Then I suppose she won't answer to George Clooney.”
He deposited her new roommate back in the box. “Probably not.”
The dry humor in his tone made her smile. “I guess she'll be Rosemary Clooney, then.”
“That should work.”
Their eyes met and held. Her lungs expanded. They threatened to explode all over the beautiful man standing in front of her if she didn't get her autonomic system back on track. She forced air out through her parted lips and dragged more in through her nose. The scent of wood chips, milled grain, and fresh earth mingled with some kind of musky after-shave and tickled her nostrils.
“My aunt was in love with your uncle,” she blurted.
A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “So I've heard.”
“You knew?”
His smile bloomed. “Miss Corrine was sweet on me.” She gasped and took a stumbling step back, her eyes widening. The sweet smile melted into a forbidding scowl. “Not like that,” he snapped. His lip curled into a snarl. “Good God, where the hell are you from?”
“Chicago.”
He turned on his heel and stomped to the porch. “Must be some awful sick people up there.”
Lynne hurried after him. “I'm sorry. It sounded—”
He turned and glared at her. “There was nothing wrong with Miss Corrine. She was a good woman, a sweet woman with a truly Christian heart, which is more than I can say for most people.”
“I know. I know she was.” She straightened her shoulders and met his forbidding stare. “I had it stuck in my head she'd been heartbroken or something equally horrible had happened.”
He set the bags on the porch next to her front door. “She was, and something did,” he growled. Once again, he pinned her to the spot with that penetrating glare. “He died. My uncle went off to Korea, thinking he'd come home a hero and give her the life she deserved.”
“Oh.”
He shook his head. “He barely lasted two months over there before they shipped him home in a coffin.”
“I'm sorry.”
Bram shrugged. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he fixed his gaze somewhere over her shoulder. “I didn't know him. This all happened long before I was born.”
“I was thinking. My imagination ran away with me.”
“To a bad place.” He sighed then gave her a small, sad smile. “It's okay. I guess everyone around here was a little protective of Miss Corrine. My Grandmama got the flag they draped over the coffin, but according to my mama, all poor Corrine had left was a dime-store ring he promised to replace one day.”
That's why she was so surprised that I asked why she wasn't married. No one asked. Everyone knew. They all knew her heart was broken. She shifted the box to one hip. Her fingers fluttered to her lips in a desperate attempt to hold off the tears gathering behind her eyes. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered, uncertain if the apology was for him or her long-departed aunt.
The crunch of gravel crackled through the still air. Bram cleared his throat and took a step back, craning his neck to squint at the road. “Aw, holy hell.”
“What? Who is it?”
“Anna Albertson.”
The chrome on the gleaming pink car glistened in the sun when it crunched to a stop behind her SUV. “The local make-up consultant?”
“Among other things,” he said, a grim smile pulling his lips into a thin line.
“O-kay,” she whispered, turning a cautious smile on the purple-clad bleached-blonde clambering from the car.
“Hello,” Anna called gaily. She focused on Bram with laser precision, and Lynne felt the man beside her stiffen.
“Well, Bram, I had no idea your mama was sendin' you on an errand for Ms. Prescott. Why, I coulda sent this here puddin' pound cake along with you,” she said in a saccharine-sweet tone.
Lynne glanced at Bram, curious to know if he'd caught the obvious lie shimmying in the woman's cool tone. She smiled when his blank expression somehow managed to speak volumes. The desire to flee shone bright in those vibrant eyes. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Hatchett,” she said pointedly, offering him her hand.
His head swiveled. He cast a wary glance out of the corner of his eye at the bottle blonde weaving her way through the grass on sky-high heels then at her outstretched hand. “Uh, yeah. I'll be by in the morning to take some measurements for the porch.”
Anna's heels clicked on the worn wooden steps. “The porch?” Lynne asked.
His gaze locked on hers as his fingers gripped hers tightly. “I'll need to measure those boards to be replaced.”
She latched onto his drift and let it carry her along. “Oh. Yes, I appreciate your help.”
He released his hold on her hand, tugged the bill of his cap down a little lower, and gave the other woman a nod as he neatly side-stepped her. “Evenin', Miss Anna.”
Anna giggled like a schoolgirl, but he didn't hesitate. Bram made a beeline for his truck, threw himself onto the bench seat, and cranked the engine in one fluid movement. “Oh, that man,” Anna cooed. “Always so polite. So formal.” She turned and watched as the truck wheeled through the front yard. He gunned the engine the moment he reached the lane. “We've known each other all our lives. Of course, we've become so much closer since poor Susan passed,” she said, heaving a dramatic sigh.
“Susan?”
“Bram's late wife. She was a doll. Everybody loved her. We were very close,” she confided. “And since my split with George, it's only natural Bram and I....”
The woman thrust a foil-wrapped loaf at her, a smug smile curving her painted lips. “I'm sorry, I can't stay longer. I need to get home. Someone promised to stop by this evening,” she trilled, clomping across the porch.
“Oh, well, thank you.”
“Now, that's my famous puddin' pound cake,” Anna called over her shoulder. “I wrote the recipe out on the index card taped to the top. My little welcome to Heartsfield.”
“You're very kind,” Lynne murmured, afraid a trace of sarcasm might seep into her voice if she spoke any louder.
Anna wrenched open the car door and waved like a pageant contestant. Lynne took an involuntary step back. Danger lurked beneath those kinds of waves. “We'll get together real soon. I just know we're gonna be great friends.”
The slam of the car door made her jump. The tiny chick in the box chirped an eager farewell. She patted her pockets, looking for her keys, and sighed when she realized they still dangled in the SUV's ignition.
Placing the box on the wicker chair, she stared down at her new roommate. The baby bird chirped. “I'm not so sure about that Anna chick, but as far as other chicks go, Rosemary, we're gonna get along fine
.”
Chapter 6
Bram didn't bother with the ancient boom box. The radio stood atop the workbench cloaked in a layer of dust, holding hostage a Black Oak Arkansas CD Willene made for him. He had no patience for Jim Dandy. Only the songs the crickets sang soothed his restless soul these days. The chirping of insects broke the silence, but, unlike people, didn't require him to make conversation. That made them ideal companions as far as he was concerned.
The workshop was neatly kept, the ever-present layer of dust a cost of doing business. He spun an unfinished walnut bowl with deft fingers, setting a tiny chisel to the spot where he'd form the center of the next pansy.
The men in town liked to give him a hard time about the flowers, saying they kept him in touch with his soft, feminine side. Usually, Bram simply smiled, picked up whatever was handy, and carved one of his signature blooms to prove he could create a perfect rendering in less than five minutes. Admiration for his craftsmanship tempered the ribbing every time.
Humming under his breath, he worked steadily on the four bowls. The fact that these were already bought and paid for made ignoring the raw materials stacked three feet from his chair easier. The smooth pre-cut planks of golden oak waited to be carved into rocking chair headrests.
He didn't want to think about the chairs right now. He didn't want to think about hiring on extra help because he didn't want anyone in his space. At least not in that way.
Never in a million years would he admit to his mother that her thinly-veiled gambit might have paid off. She was well aware he didn't like being pushed. The problem was, his mama also knew that sometimes he needed a shove in the right direction. He would never admit he enjoyed his brief encounter with Ms. Prescott, even if it ended up in a bit of a power struggle. He didn't know why he bothered resisting. Of course, his mama always won.
My aunt was in love with your uncle.
The simplicity of the statement packed a punch, each word peppering the protective shell around his heart like a hail of buckshot. Eight words was all it took for a complete stranger from an even stranger land to establish a foothold in his world. He'd not thought it possible. Then again, he'd never stared into those earnest forget-me-not eyes before.