by Linda Joyce
She turned the key in the lock. The small door opened. She bent to peer inside, only a flyer for pool products and a gun catalog. A quick stab of sadness shot to her chest. Happiness had taken a holiday and forgotten to write. If she wanted snail mail, she’d have to send it to herself. Gee, what fun that would be…and oh, so pathetic.
At the door, she waved good-bye to Zoë and hoped her smile appeared convincing.
Driving at the exact speed limit along tree-lined Main Street guaranteed a green light when she reached Fifth Avenue, the only intersection in town with a stoplight. The sheriff and his deputy staked it out on weekends, especially in the fall, to catch speeders or red-light runners—usually tourists headed for the only antique and what-not store for miles. They made exceptions for bus drivers delivering potential customers on their trips from Kansas City to Denver.
Lia rolled through a green light, passed the other streets, and turned left on Tenth.
“Townspeople have all day to shop,” she muttered when cars filled all the parking spaces in front of the store. Today was the final day of the fall bulb sale. Garden club matrons wanted the best show of spring color around public spaces, which made the annual flower sale a big hit. Every year they planted existing gardens with more bulbs, replacing the ones squirrels and rabbits had munched on over the winter.
Lia raked her fingers through her shoulder length auburn hair, then fluffed her loose curls, the result of struggling with a curling iron. Steering the truck to the rear parking lot, she spied a too-familiar, battered blue pickup. Dread dropped free-fall into her stomach. She had no parachute to cushion the landing.
The last person she wanted to see was Lucas Dwyer.
****
Nothing but the arrival of his younger sister or madness would make Lucas brave Mr. Turner’s farm store on Friday afternoon during the last day of the annual bulb sale.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Lucas bumped his way through the long line that began at the cash register and snaked around bins filled with toy tractors, rolled fleece blankets, and assorted tools. At six feet, he stood at least a head taller than the horde of women, mostly blue hairs, all chirping at once like parakeets in a cage. It reminded him of one of the few vacations his family took when he was a kid—he’d been lost at Bird World. He shuddered at the memory.
Near the back of the store, the manager worked at the key-making machine.
“Hey, Karl,” Lucas shouted over the roar of the grinding wheel. “Did you have time to fill my order?”
Karl looked up and nodded before bending again to focus on the key.
Lucas checked his watch. He had time to kill before Craig arrived from St. Louis. Time to finish errands and grab a shower. Later, they’d visit Rockets, eat some barbecue, and hoist a few brews. But Craig would want a full report about Amelia. Lucas’s gut tightened, twisting like someone wringing an old-fashioned mop. He’d never kept information from Craig before.
Glancing at the crowd, he spotted the corporate farm manager chatting up the very elderly Mrs. Watts. He wanted to hate the man for managing what should’ve been his farm, but in the end, the man had no fault. That man hadn’t left his family and joined the Air Force after college. Guilt stabbed Lucas, a knife to his heart. He turned his attention to the array of plumbing supplies, but the pain of losing the farm rubbed like salt in a fresh wound. While he’d been away on active duty, his dad made some bad decisions, which over time cost them their farmstead. Their thousand acres, minus ten, now belonged to a corporation. At least they still held the title to their family home and the plot of land—free and clear. He had to remember that.
Karl shut off the grinder. “I’ve got that bag of stuff in the breakroom in the back.” Karl grinned and looked him over, old black work boots, faded jeans, and chambray shirt torn at the elbow. “I never took you for that type of gardener, Combine.”
Lucas rolled his eyes and followed Karl. Lucas didn’t care for the nickname the guy had pinned on him. He’d started a combining company to harvest commercially when he left the Air Force, but there was more to him than farming. However, it seemed as though giving people silly nicknames was the only way Karl could remember who was who in Harvest. It wasn’t that Karl wasn’t a good guy. He just tried too hard to be country. After a month, he still oozed with city slickness. Plus, he mistakenly assumed all his neighbors were hicks—never been anywhere, never seen anything. Karl liked to jaw about his travels. Lucas had seen lots during college and nearly thirteen years of military service. He had nothing to prove. Karl seemed smart enough. He’d figure out who was who and what was what…or he’d leave, like Mr. Turner’s other nephew who’d tried to run the farm store and failed to ever fit in.
In the back storeroom, away from the chaos of little old ladies and their chirping noises, Lucas paused as Karl plopped a big burlap bag onto an old wooden table and pointed.
“Crocuses and daffodils. I threw in some hostas, too. My thank-you to you for sort of teaching me the ropes about Harvest.”
“They’re for my sister,” Lucas said, wondering where the urge to explain his purchase came from.
“Sister?”
He’d promised himself to maintain the homestead like his folks had before they moved to a retirement community in Arizona. He wanted his younger sister to have all the comforts of home when she visited from college, including flowerbeds filled with blooms in spring. To accomplish that required some replenishing each fall.
“Her name is Megan.”
“Oh, sure,” Karl replied. His smirk suggested he didn’t believe a word of it. “I haven’t seen her around.”
“Well, you wouldn’t. This isn’t Manhattan, Kansas, or K-State. She’s a student there. Only comes home once in a while.” He wasn’t about to explain the reason for her weekend homecoming—but come Sunday, the bulbs would work as a distraction. A time when they could plant side-by-side and talk about stuff. That worked best for them. They weren’t ones to bare their souls to anyone, much less each other, but talking while working gave them a way to connect. And his way of keeping up with her without prying much.
Karl shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked down.
“What?” Lucas asked.
“Dude, is there more to do around here than Rockets on the weekend?”
“Sure, but most of it looks like farm work. Come to think of it, feels like farm work, too.”
He hated being referred to as Dude. That offended him more than Combine.
“So what about…” Karl looked down again.
Lucas waited. If Karl had something more on his mind, he needed to spit it out. Guessing games were a waste of time, and he didn’t have Helen Carter’s mind-reading abilities.
Karl leaned in close. “What about the ladies?”
Lucas’s brow wrinkled. “What about them?”
“Like, how do I get one? Seems there’s all kinds of unwritten rules around here. Things you can say and do with one person that you can’t say and do with another.”
“Where’d you say you’d moved from?” Lucas asked.
“Chicago.”
“Well, I don’t know how things go in Chicago, but around here, you need to treat a female like a lady or you could have the whole town against you.”
“But what about that Britton one? She’s not really from around here, is she? Isn’t she from Kansas City? Am I gonna step on anyone’s toes if I ask her for a date?”
The punch to the gut surprised Lucas. His body stiffened. No had ever referred to Amelia as that Britton one before. No, the man could not have a date with Amelia, but Karl wasn’t exactly asking permission. Should he clue in the hardware store manager or let him discover the situation for himself? After all, Craig would arrive in a few hours. Amelia’s brother would have plenty to say, in no uncertain terms, about why Karl, or any man from Harvest, shouldn’t date his sister.
Before Lucas could answer, click-clack of boot heels against the tired linoleum echoed down the dimly lit hall.
“Karl?”
“Yah? In here.”
Lucas groaned inwardly as Amelia stood framed in the doorway. He gritted his teeth but couldn’t stop from staring. She’d lost her farm-work clothes—baggy overalls and grungy t-shirt—replaced them with a curve-hugging denim skirt, a sexy top, and she glowed like her face was lit by a spotlight. Her hair hung in loose waves around her face. She had haunted his dreams, and now she haunted his personal space.
“Speak of the devil,” Karl murmured and bumped his elbow against Lucas’s side. Lucas grunted.
“Hey! How are you? What can I help you with?” Karl asked taking a step forward.
Lucas caught Amelia’s frown, which she quickly lifted into a wide smile, aiming it at Karl. “I can come back another time. I didn’t know you were busy. Mr. Turner said I would find you back here, but again, I didn’t know you were with a customer.”
“Amelia.” Lucas nodded to her. He wouldn’t allow her to ignore him, and if he hadn’t been watching for it, her return nod could’ve been missed.
“Amelia? I thought your name was Lia Britton.” Karl’s expression turned puzzled as he looked at Lucas, then to Lia, and back to Lucas again.
She smiled sweetly. “My given name is Amelia, but no one calls me that anymore.”
“Only family,” Lucas bit out more harshly than intended.
“Huh?” Karl asked. “You two related?”
“No!” Lia snapped as if poked with a cattle prod. Her brown eyes glowered as though she wanted to stab him with one.
“Craig will be here by dinner.” Lucas kept his voice low and even.
“Your boyfriend?” Karl asked, looking worried.
“Brother,” Lucas said at the same time as Lia.
“Oh.” Karl relaxed, flexing his shoulders. “In that case, I was wondering if you’d like to go out tomorrow night.”
“No,” Lucas said.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Karl snapped.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s got plans tomorrow.”
Lia scowled so hard that if she’d had special, super-hero powers Lucas was certain his eyebrows and lashes would be singed, probably burned off his face.
“Karl, I’m sorry, but I do have a longstanding engagement for tomorrow. However,” she brightened, “I came to ask you if you would like to go out next Saturday night? There’s a bistro on the river in Atchison. I thought we might go there.”
“Yeah. I’d like that.” Karl perked up like a strutting rooster in a yard full of hens. “What time shall I pick you up?”
Lucas frowned. “Amelia, Craig’s not going to like this.”
Chapter 2
Outside the farm store, Lia stomped her way to the truck, fuming and wishing she could snort fire. Squeezing her fist tightly, the keys in her hand bit into her skin, pinching the flesh of her palm. She punched the air before loosening her death grip. The intense pain subsided to a dull throb. “The nerve of that man!”
He had no right to look so good. Tall, lean, muscular and tan—her knees practically buckled. Her heart bounced as though it rode on the back of a bucking bull. But who was he to tell her anything? And better yet, who was he to discourage Karl from asking her out? Just because Lucas and her brother had been best friends since forever, he had no right butting in. None. And, he dared to invoke a threat using her big brother’s name? As if Craig would want her to live like a maiden hermit all her life. He wanted what was best for her, though they couldn’t agree on what that was. Thank goodness, Karl had a mind of his own and ignored Lucas, which earned him major points. The highlight of the day: Karl had asked her out first.
How about them apples, Lucas Dwyer?
Once inside the truck, Lia slammed the door. Lucas had broken her heart years ago. The pain of his rejection after she gathered her courage and thrown herself at him, back during her college days, still stung. Since then, he’d maintained an arm’s length distance, except for the heart-stealing kiss after her parents’ funeral. Somehow over the last year, he’d taken on the role of big brother while her older brother tried to force himself into the role of parent.
At least Karl was interested in spending time with her. That assuaged her pride and boosted her waning confidence a degree or two. The upside to the ridiculous scene—she’d go home and put the adrenalized anger to good use by painting, by slashing color on a canvas, darks fading into lights with textures of smooth and rough. When she finished emoting, maybe the painting would strike a chord with someone’s imagination, or better yet, touch their heart. She didn’t paint only to sell. She painted because it kept her grounded. Some people needed to listen to music or drink or some activity to help them block out the world. She, however, channeled her emotions into art.
Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel as though playing piano keys, she wrestled with anxiety while putting the truck in gear. Emotional overload. That could be why she’d been so darn prolific and produced some of her best work since grief had flooded her world, rising up the same way floodwaters covered fields and created murky spots with depths unknown. There were moments over the last year when she feared she might drown. She teetered between the joy of being back on the farm and the utter anguish of missing her parents. Either way, emotions pushed her to paint.
Funny how she hadn’t recognized that fact before. Tomorrow was the one-year anniversary of her parents’ funeral. For weeks, she’d tried to keep her thoughts from drifting there, but like a broken farmhouse shutter banging in a storm, they refused to be silent, some days banging so hard they gave her a migraine. But here and now is what she had, along with a date with Karl. Balancing on the pinpoint of happiness, she had to share the news with someone else, otherwise, it would never feel real.
She pulled into the same parking spot in front of the post office she’d vacated an hour before. Squaring her shoulders, she took a breath before entering. The only person she trusted to keep her total confidence was Zoë.
Lia shoved open the outer door to the post office. The inside doors mechanically whooshed open. A line of customers waited.
“Hey! Lia. How’s it going?” Butch called out. He was third in a line of six waiting for service. “Bring the truck over to the shop first thing Monday. I’ve got the new tailgate in. Will get it fixed for you then.”
Lia smiled, nodded, and headed for the front of the line. On the way, she heard the farmer behind Butch say, “What happened to the tailgate?”
“She tried to unhook a trailer.”
“Oh. Women farmers.”
Lia locked her jaw and narrowed her eyes and continued to the counter. She was determined to remain silent and not launch into a word battle with the old-timer. Why men still contended a woman alone couldn’t make a go of farming pushed her frustration button as quick as Lucas Dwyer had about going on a date with Karl. Leaning across the counter, she motioned to Zoë for paper and pen since she didn’t trust herself to speak without shouting out in anger. Lia scribbled a note asking her to meet at Rockets the moment she got off work.
“Sure thing,” Zoë said, motioning to the next person in line.
Lia scowled at the farmer as she passed him. Oblivious, the man continued to lament about the faults of women to Butch, who shot her an apologetic smile. Outside, Lia paused and took deep long breaths. Once. Twice. Three times. But it didn’t quell her anger. Maybe sharing good news over food and a drink before heading home would balance out her mood. The unrestrained urge to paint was already there. She just needed to channel it in the right direction…although the last angry black and red painting she’d sold brought in a thousand dollars.
Scanning the skyline for Rockets, she spotted the rooftop ornament of the bar. Sighting the landmark filled her with a shot of comfort and steadied her nerves a bit. Much in her life had changed during the year since her parents had passed, but not so with the skyline of the town.
Rockets was an institution. The bar got its name from the first owner back in the 50s who had a replica V-2 American rock
et mounted on the roof like a church steeple. The town welcomed the first bar within the city limits with a gusto that matched a bull rider’s successful nine-second ride for big prize money. However, the owner fought city council for approval of the building’s iconic rooftop decoration. The council balked with the determination of a mule refusing to plow, unwilling to issue a final permit as long as the signature icon stood higher than any church’s steeple. Somehow, Rockets won.
Her only problem now? Walk or drive. Driving was five minutes, walking took ten, and Zoë had another half-hour of work. She’d never waited inside a bar alone. The Britton family reputation prohibited it, not that Rockets was a bad place, just not a kid-family-friendly kind of establishment.
Trepidation fluttered in Lia’s chest as she reached the bar. Scanning either side of the street, she was alone, no one approaching on the sidewalk. She pulled hard on the heavy door. A year of grieving would end tomorrow. A turning point. If she truly wanted to prove her independence and make Craig take notice of how capable she’d grown—on the farm and handling her own life—then she could start by sitting alone at the bar while waiting for a friend. After all, on the rare occasion a fight broke out at Rockets, it usually happened after midnight. While the September sun had lowered in the sky, plenty of daylight still remained. Darkness was hours away.
“Lia?” The bartender approached.
“Hello. Um…lemonade please?” Lia asked, trying to sound cultured and offhanded. Bethany, the bartender and her high-school classmate voted Freshman Beauty, and by senior year, nominated for Most Likely to Succeed, had married the current owner of the bar.
“You want a lemonade? This isn’t the Sunflower Café.”
Lia shifted slightly and rested her hand on the bar top. “Beer.”
“Which one?” Bethany played Vanna White and pointed toward the beer pulls, and then with a flourish, showed off the collection of bottled beers arranged on the bottom glass shelf with the liquor displayed on the shelves above. “Draft or bottle?”