Hometown Hope: A Small Town Romance Anthology

by Zoe York

  The scrape of utensils ceased. Abe covered his mouth with his napkin and coughed softly, and Willene's hands slid from the table into her lap. For the first time since the meal began, Al's fork came to rest on his plate.

  The sudden silence unnerved her. Lynne turned to Bram, searching his face for a clue to what she'd said wrong. Oblivious, A.J. hummed softly as he rebuilt the mashed potato dam his last forkful demolished. “Can I have more potatoes?”

  “Eat what you have,” Jennifer whispered.

  Bram covered her hand with his and turned his steady blue gaze on her. He swallowed hard then cleared his throat. “I think that's great.”

  She gave him a tremulous smile, gratified by the frank admiration in his eyes. “It's a drop in the bucket.”

  “It's something. You're doing something.”

  Making the most of the sudden silence enveloping the room, A.J. poked his head up and said, “I totally sacked Jimmy Carson in gym today.”

  A laugh whooshed from Bram as he ruffled the boy's hair. “Didn't they tell you you're not supposed to tackle in flag football?”

  A.J. shrugged and stretched for another biscuit. Jennifer gave his hand a swat and pointed to the untouched beans on his plate. Lynne ducked her head, stifling a small smile as she picked up the breast she'd chosen. Bram smiled and nodded encouragingly.

  She took a healthy bite and her eyes widened. Covering her mouth, she moaned when the savory breading melted on her tongue. She wiped her lips and turned to Ada. “I don't suppose you'd share this recipe?”

  The old woman laughed. “Sweetheart, no woman worth her salt shares her best recipe.”

  “Careful, Mama. Lynne makes a mean pot roast. You might want that one.”

  Ada's eyebrows rose. “Is that so?” She turned her attention to her plate. “Maybe we'll talk.”

  Bram tried to protest when his mother insisted the men clear the table, but she relentlessly loaded his hands with plates and herded him into the kitchen.

  “Mama—”

  “She'll be fine,” Ada murmured, prodding him along by poking him in the butt with a fork.

  He rinsed and stacked the plates in the dishwasher in record time. Abe shot him a sympathetic glance as he squeezed liquid soap into the sink, and Al gave his arm a bump when he shuffled past. A.J. made his best effort at wheedling his way out of the work, only to be shooed into the kitchen by his mother.

  Bobby eyed the cake and pie on the counter and smacked his lips. Snagging a clean towel, he stepped up to the sink. “I'll dry. It'll go faster,” he said and took a dripping bowl from Abe's hand.

  Resigned, Bram hustled into the dining room to clear the rest of the dishes. Ada led Jennifer down the hall to her sewing room, chattering on about a project she had going. He craned his neck and caught a glimpse of Lynne standing in front of the fireplace, inspecting the framed photos on the mantel. When Willene sidled up next to her, he bowed up.

  His father reappeared, peeked around the corner, and reached for the bowls Bram clutched. He jerked his head toward the living room. “Go. You'll be no damn good to us anyway.”

  He didn't bother to put up even a token resistance. “Thanks, Dad.”

  The two women stared at the framed portrait taken at his wedding. He opened his mouth to call out but stopped when Lynne spoke. “Your mother was very beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was,” Willie answered.

  “Abe looks like her.”

  The girl smirked. “Daddy always said they got one of each of them.”

  “You favor her, too. Your chin.”

  “The mouth,” Willene murmured.

  He stepped into the room, but Lynne cast a quick glance in his direction, pinning him to the spot. “You're protective of him. I don't blame you.”

  “He'd tell you he doesn't need my protection.”

  “No matter what the TV shows tell you, father doesn't always know best.”

  Willene stared hard at the framed photograph. “It seemed to happen so fast. Less than six months after we found out, she was gone.”

  Lynne hummed an acknowledgement. “I always wonder—is that better or worse? I watched Maribeth fight so hard for so long. Over two years. Right up to the end, she fought. I don't know how she did it. I'm not sure I could.”

  “When it's important, you fight.”

  “I suppose so. I've never been much of a fighter.”

  “No?”

  Lynne shrugged. “I've always done what I was supposed to do, so I guess I had no reason to fight.”

  Bram braced himself to step in when Willene turned to face Lynne head-on. “There's never been anyone else.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  Lynne turned back to the photo and gave a slight shrug. “I'm not sure how this is supposed to go either, but I can tell you it's as scary as it is amazing.” They fell silent for a moment. Lynne turned to meet his daughter's gaze. “Maybe I'm not quite what you think.”

  The tension stretched taut, humming through the room. Finally, Willene jerked her chin at the beige summer suit he wore in the wedding photograph. “Nice suit, huh? Looks like it was made out of cardboard.”

  Bram stepped forward, prepared to defend both his decisions and his fashion choices.

  Lynne snorted. “That's nothing. My ex-husband's tux was powder blue. He was a dead ringer for Tom Jones.”

  “Who's Tom Jones?”

  Swooping in, he saved her from having to explain. He pressed his hand to the small of her back and pointed to a shot of a roly-poly, naked baby. “I know someone who looked like she swallowed doughnuts whole.”

  “Daddy.”

  He dropped a kiss to Willene's cheek. “Tom Jones is the guy who sang 'What's New, Pussycat?' You'd call him totally cheesy...Pussycat.”

  Willene gasped and swatted his arm. “I thought

  you made that up.”

  He wrapped his arm around his daughter's shoulder and pulled her close, brushing a kiss to her hair. “Maybe I'm not what you think either, Sassypants. Now be polite.”

  Chapter 18

  Lynne pinched a crease in her skirt, running her thumbnail along the peak in the material. Night blanketed the freshly turned fields. Silence reigned supreme in the cab of the truck.

  The quiet soothed her ragged nerves. The tension that hummed through dinner gave way to incessant chatter and good-natured ribbing the moment dessert was presented. She'd sat back, watching and listening as she nibbled the delicious apple-walnut cake. She'd smiled when Bram managed to wolf down two slices of his mother's pie.

  If she'd had more experience with a close-knit family, she would have been prepared for the fresh barrage of questions that flew at her the moment she set her empty plate aside. Well-meaning inquiries about Justin made her heart ache. The curious probing about Chicago, her marriage, and the choices—or lack of choices—she'd made in her life left her feeling raw and exposed.

  She glanced over at Bram. He wet his lips, and her heart did that freaky fluttery thing. He turned toward her and her mouth watered. “You okay?”

  His voice was low and soft, an intimate caress that warmed her cheeks and set her nerve endings on fire. She turned, staring straight through the windshield. “I'm fine.”

  “They can be a bit much.”

  “They were fine. Lovely.”

  He slowed to a stop behind her car, killed the engine, and turned to face her. “I'm sorry about Willie.”

  “She was fine, Bram.”

  “She was rude.”

  “She feels threatened.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Threatened?” She held his gaze. His breath stirred her hair when he exhaled slowly. “Maybe she does.”

  “It's only natural.”

  He pursed those perfect lips, tempting her beyond all endurance. She kissed him softly and reached for the door handle.

  “Hang on,” he ordered, scrambling from the truck.

  She smiled when he yanked the door open, holding his hand out palm-up. Slippin
g from the cab, she fell into his waiting embrace and inhaled the fresh scent of cut wood that clung to his skin. Oh God, he smells too good. He tasted even better. Like blueberries, tangy and temptingly sweet. Lynne pressed one hand to his chest, forcing her eyes open.

  “Goodnight, Bram.”

  Confusion played across his face. Her fingers itched to trace the lines etched around his mouth. Her lips still tingled from his kiss.

  “Goodnight?” he croaked, his voice breaking the word into a question.

  “Goodnight,” she repeated.

  Her fingers trailed down his stomach, reluctant to give up the contact. She managed two steps toward the back steps before he caught her hand. “Did I do something wrong?”

  She looked up, startled. “No, not at all.”

  “Why can't I....” He ran his hand over his mouth. “You won't even let me walk you to the door?”

  Her smile blossomed. “Walk me to the door? Is that all you want to do?”

  “I just....”

  Once again, his broad palm raked down his face. Taking pity on him, she laced her fingers through his and spoke low and soft. “Neither of us got much sleep last night.” Those sculpted lips tightened, but his eyes glowed an eerie blue with moonlight and memories. “It's been kind of a long day.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “Okay.”

  The easy capitulation made her stomach drop. The ambivalence that roiled in her gut all evening flared and burned out, leaving behind a hole of gaping need. “Unless....”

  “Unless?” he prompted, taking a step closer.

  “You want to...just stay.”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yeah, just stay.”

  The corners of her lips twitched. “You might be a little too easy, Mr. Hatchett.”

  “I'm too old to mess around. I want to be with you.”

  The ticklish flutter in her chest morphed into a slow, dull throb threatening to bruise her breastbone. “Your mom thought my dad looked like Robert Redford.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not at all.”

  Bram smiled. “Too bad. You coulda been my Sundance.”

  “Huh?”

  Disengaging his fingers, he slung his arm over her shoulder and drew her close, starting for the door. “My mama thinks I look like Paul Newman.”

  “You do. You totally do.” She beamed up at him. “Can I call you Butch?”

  Bram snorted as he opened the screen door. He gave her a playful push into the mudroom. “No.”

  Grasshoppers, cut worms, earworms...Stop thinking about worms.

  Lynne sighed then snuggled her bottom against his groin. Bram tried to switch to brand names of herbicides—pre and post-emergent—but came up empty.

  Oh, how the worm turns.

  He did his level best to ignore the telltale constriction of his cotton briefs.

  Boll weevils, whiteflies, aphids, and caterpillars. No, not caterpillars....

  Not working. He tried to scoot away, but she straightened her legs. Satiny skin slid against his. Squeezing his eyes shut, he smothered a groan. Her shoulder blades cut into his chest. The smooth, firm flesh of her bottom cradled his crotch. She shifted, and his hand slipped low on her belly. The tip of his middle finger dipped into her navel and she giggled.

  “Stop,” he growled.

  “What?”

  “I'm trying to behave, and you're making it hard.” Her body shook with laughter.

  He gave in to the lure of it, relinquishing his own laugh as he rolled onto his back, tucking her safely against his side.

  She propped one arm on his chest and levered herself up. An incandescent smile lit her face. He couldn't resist stroking her soft cheek. He remembered the earring he found and suspicion rushed back. “Don't let Anna touch your face.”

  She chuckled. “Kind of hard to have a facial if you don't let someone touch your face.”

  “Lipstick and stuff. Don't let her puff anything up.”

  Her chuckle subsided into a snicker. “Puff anything up.”

  He traced the arch of her eyebrow. “I like your face.”

  She grinned and pecked a kiss to his lips. “I like your face too.”

  “Thanks.”

  His fingers feathered through her hair, winding the end of one tangled tendril around his knuckle. He peered up at her. Insecurity, dark and seething, coiled in his belly. There was so much he didn't know about her. Wetting his lips, he steeled his nerve. “So, your dad was a doctor, and you married a doctor?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Are you Doctor Freud?”

  “I'm only sayin'.”

  A rueful smile played at her lips. “My father was a doctor. I met a lot of doctors.”

  “And married one.”

  She slid her arm from his chest then rolled onto her back, leaving four full inches of space between them. He loathed every one of them almost as much as he hated the twisting, turning knot in his stomach.

  Idiot. You're an earworm, a boll weevil, a slug. “I'm sorry,” he blurted into the darkness.

  She flung one arm over her eyes. “No, it's okay. I'm just tired.”

  “Lynne—”

  “You said we'd get some sleep.”

  “I'm an idiot.”

  “Shh.”

  “I thought....” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “We talked about....”

  Her smile came slow and sad. She stared at the ceiling. “It's not the same. I made a mistake, Bram. My whole life up till now was one giant mistake.”

  He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arm around her. She resisted for a moment, and his breath tangled in his lungs. The air stilled. She relented, allowing him to pull her into the curve of his body.

  “Except for Justin,” he amended for her. Stroking her hair, he dusted her neck with soft kisses and nipped at the lacy trim on her cotton nightgown.

  “Justin is the best thing I've ever done.”

  “He didn't want to be a doctor?”

  “His form of rebellion.”

  “I've got six orders for chairs waiting,” he said in a conversational tone.

  “You're in demand.”

  Her hair tickled his nose. He smiled and waved it away. “It's the craziest thing. Some Hollywood producer guy came through with his wife scouting locations. She wanted one of the chairs outside the general store. Willie told her they were custom order.”

  “She's a smart girl.”

  “She takes after her grandfather. If he hadn't had the farm, he woulda been a horse thief. Who pays over two grand for a stupid chair?”

  She stiffened slightly. “Lots of people.”

  He raised his head, trying to peer over her shoulder in an attempt to figure out what he'd said wrong this time. That's when it hit him. Her purse cost almost that much. His head dropped back to the pillow. He pulled her closer, holding his tongue, afraid to make another run at her. Instead, he buried his nose in her hair. Her stomach rose and fell under his hand. His thumb grazed her breast. She sighed. Her lush bottom nestled into his crotch.

  Stalk borers, spider mites, beetles, and rootworms.

  Her breathing grew deep and even. Her muscles grew lax and warm and she melted into his embrace. His body stirred. Stupid worms....

  Chapter 19

  Lynne followed her nose into the kitchen. The aromatic call of fresh-brewed coffee beckoned. A paper tent propped against the chipped sugar bowl caught her eye. Bold block letters spelled her name. She opened the scrap of notepaper and smiled.

  'You're too pretty in the sunlight. Left before I was tempted to stay. I'll call later.—B'

  “You're sweet,” she whispered to its absentee author.

  She filled a mug and cradled the warm ceramic between her palms. Steam tickled her nostrils. Her mouth watered. A cautious sip proved him to be a man with hidden talents.

  Flattening the folded paper on the table, she traced the lines of his letters with her fingertip, absorbing the indentations he'd made on the page. Her cell rang, jolting her from a pleasant
daydream involving the old clawfoot tub, a soft loofah, and a hard man. She snagged her purse from the back of the chair and dove for the phone.

  Her cheeks flushed as she fumbled for the button. “Hello?” she said breathlessly.

  “Good morning, darling.”

  The butterflies in her stomach retreated into tight cocoons. She exhaled her disappointment. “Hello, Mother.”

  Elizabeth Hillman's tinkling laugh masked edges as sharp as shattered glass. “Is something wrong?”

  “What? Oh, no.” Lynne drew a steadying breath. “How are you?”

  “Apparently I'm better than you. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  Lynne stared at the steam rising from her mug, wondering how her mother always managed to hit a bulls-eye from hundreds of miles away. Do I do that to Justin? Does he dread my calls? “I'm fine,” she said at last and glanced at the clock on the stove.

  “You're up early.”

  “I had my sunrise yoga class this morning.”

  “Ahh.” She stole another sip from her mug. “That’s nice.”

  “Well?” The leading tone in her mother's voice clashed with the alarm bells ringing in her head.

  “Well what?”

  “Have you had any offers on the place?”

  “I've only been here a little over a week.”

  “No offers? Prime farmland and no offers?”

  Her mother sounded appalled, which made Lynne all the more wary. “I've only had the back porch fixed. I still need to find someone to paint the house.”

  “Paint? Why should you paint it?”

  “Curb appeal.”

  The moment the words tripped from her lips she felt foolish. The gritty cackle echoing through the phone didn't help matters any.

  “Curb appeal? Since when does Route Seven have curbs?”

  “I mean, I'm not even sure what price to list....”

  Elizabeth's sharp intake of breath marked Lynne's second mistake. Wait—third. Answering the phone was her first. The hole she was digging for herself was getting deeper with each inane excuse she made. Grasping at straws, she went on the offensive. “Why do you care, Mother?”