by Abby Knox
Chet’s ears and neck were beet red now and his cheeks were flushed. “You better shut your mouth hole, you smelly old goat-fucker.” His teeth were gritted.
“Well, it’s a good thing daddy had that big hog factory to hand over to you, young man. Good for you! It’d be a real hassle having to get a job and move to the city, what with having to tell all your neighbors that you’re a sex offender. See that? I know quite a lot for being a newbie around here.”
Chet’s eyes bulged and his hand flew.
Jack was fast, and he caught the drunken fist in mid-air and countered with a jab right to the face. Chet cried out and stumbled backward, knocking over the young woman’s beer.
“You broke my doze!” He dabbed at his face with the sleeve of his pristine denim jacket.
“Probably,” Jack said to Chet. Then, turning to the young lady, he nodded and offered his hand to help her slide out of the booth. “Ma’am?”
She stood and he helped her wipe down her sweatpants with some napkins. “Awfully sorry about your beer.”
“Not a problem. These are just the only clothes I have besides my waitress uniform. I’d better get home and wash up.”
Chet had stumbled out the door. Jack turned and grabbed his hat, left a very large tip and covered his bill and the young lady’s. As he laid out a stack of bills on the bar, he could still feel the heat from the young lady’s hand in his from when he’d helped her slide out of the booth. Carrie still had that same wry smirk, and he now understood why.
He turned and offered his arm to the woman and insisted she let him walk her to her car. He felt every pair of eyes in the place on his back as he walked her out. Well, at least he would give the bored college students something to talk about for the rest of the night. And the old farmers would have something to gossip about over breakfast at the Gas & Sip tomorrow. Out in the parking lot, she turned to him, “I’m Maggie, by the way.”
Maggie.
He played the sound of her name in his head. He liked it.
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Maggie. I’m Jackson Clay, your bodyguard for the evening.” He winked. “Which one is your car?”
He liked the sound of her name in his mouth. He’d like to do more things with his mouth that involved Maggie. Tonight and every night. Get control of yourself, man. She’s probably 20 years younger than you.
“I don’t actually have a car. I walked here from home.”
“And now I will be your chauffeur. Where is home?”
She protested, “Oh no, I’ve caused you enough trouble…”
“Ma’am, you’re not going to let an old man get in a fight for you and then completely drop the ball and let you walk home alone in the dark, are you?”
In the lamplight, her pinks cheeks grew pinker. “I guess not.” She smiled shyly. If he didn’t know any better, he would detect she had a flirtatious look in her eye.
“Where can I take you? Where is home?”
“Morning Glory Farm? Do you know the place?”
Yeah, he knew it all right. That was his place. Or at least, that was the name of his place right before he’d bought the farm from Jane Blaise and changed it to Clay Enterprises, LLC.
Jack stood speechless for the first time tonight. He stared down at this small, intensely beautiful woman with the ice-cream voice and a body… Well, he was a 100 percent straight man and let’s face it…a body he could toss into the back of his truck and ravish ten different ways until they made that pristine truck bed liner exceptionally messy.
He swallowed. He considered whether to have the conversation now or just let it play out.
“Yeah. I know the place. Hop in.”
Chapter 3
Maggie
He was hiding something. And yet, Maggie felt no impulse to distrust Jackson Clay. On the contrary, she felt right at home in his monster of a pickup truck.
Jack poked his head through the driver side window before he hopped in. “Hang on a sec, we have a ride-along.”
What the hell was he talking about? She craned her neck around and saw what he meant. She was simultaneously horrified and impressed. Jack was helping the bloody Chet Easley, drunk and slumped at the foot of a lamp post. He hoisted that good-for-nothing into the bed of his pickup like he was nothing more than a rotted tree limb. And drunk farmer weight isn’t nothing.
Moments later, they delivered Chet to the emergency room. Maggie waited in the truck in front of the entrance to the Middleburg Hospital’s ER, as Jack helped Chet’s drunk ass out of the truck and in through the sliding doors.
Jack was actually taking the time to check him in and everything. What would he do, wait with him until he could be seen? That could take all night!
A few minutes passed and Jack came back out and drove them away, silent. She studied his profile in the dark cab as he drove, the occasional set of headlights illuminating that inscrutable face.
“How is he?” she said.
“Drunk. Probably broken nose. Still an asshole. But he’ll be all right and back to his old tricks in a few days, I’m sure.”
“That was incredibly kind of you to drive him to the hospital.”
“Probably too nice. I should have left him alone, passed out in the parking lot, and let the turkey vultures have a go at him.”
“Lord knows he’d deserve that. You’re a good person, Jackson Clay.”
“Nah, I’m just a person.”
“Don’t be so humble!”
“It’s fine to fantasize about your enemies getting what they deserve, but we’re all just a bunch of fuck-ups in one way or another.”
“Chet’s fuck-uppery is just a little hard to stomach for me. Statutory rape… Damn. I don’t know that I would have made sure he was OK.”
“We all make mistakes in life.”
“You are far too nice about it. Is it a man code kind of thing?”
“Hell no. Some dudes just don’t think past the tip of their dicks when they’re making decisions. Sorry for the image.”
“No apology necessary. It’s just a sensitive subject for me, and I’ll leave it at that. I’m still going to maintain that you’re a good guy. You should have a white hat, not a gray one.”
They had talked all the way back to the farm, and continued talking as Jack parked the truck under the oak tree at the front of the house, still talking. Maggie checked her flip phone that Lily had purchased for her. It was after 11. Had they really talked that long?
There was a sudden lull in the conversation, and it felt as if they were ending a date. A very weird blind date that she didn’t want to end. She liked being next to him. Or rather, next to his hat that lay on the console between them because it could not fit on his head while driving due to his height. She liked the smell of the outdoors he emanated. He was the real deal. She looked at him in the moonlight. He was quite a bit older than she was. Maybe she should be careful.
It was probably her “daddy issues” catching up with her. Or lack of a daddy. Wasn’t this how she’d screwed everything up? Having no father figure in her life, she’d latched on to the first guy who was nice to her. And now she was back to square one, developing a little crush on an older man who’d simply been doing the community a favor by punching Chet Easley’s lights out. It was probably no more than that. Don’t get a crush. Crushes lead to attachments, and attachments to anyone but yourself and to family will just lead to trouble.
“Well, here we are…” She smiled. “Thanks for taking me home. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me tonight.”
Why wasn’t he saying anything? He was so mysterious.
Jack made eye contact with her there in the dark and held it for several beats. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Could he possibly be thinking of kissing her? No. That’s crazy. She was definitely losing her mind.
He turned away and opened his door, jogged around to the passenger side of the truck, and opened her door for her.
“Thank you,” she said. Could she even r
emember the last time someone held the door for her? She could not. Who was this guy? She remembered Iowa men being basically polite, but they were quiet, unassuming, reticent people. They held doors for other people out of necessity. This guy had manners from another time and place altogether.
Jack walked her up to the front porch and opened the door for her, which she’d left unlocked. In all her time here, she never even had seen a house key, let alone used one. That was the way of things in Middleburg.
She shot him a questioning look. “Thanks again, have a good night.”
But instead of replying in kind, he just sort of stood there, staring at her awkwardly.
“Look, Jack, I’m not going to invite you in. I just don’t think that’s a good thing for me right now. I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea.”
He looked down at her, still propping the door open and smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Well you see, that’s just it. This is my home.”
“Excuse me?” Weak. She knew right away he was not messing with her.
He gestured around the room. “This house. That sofa. Those barns out there. Mine. I bought it. Well, the bank did, but my name is on the deed.”
She was beginning to understand, but then a million more questions popped into her head. “Mama said she’d hired a manager, is that you?”
“In a manner of speaking. She didn’t tell you she sold the farm?”
“Sold the farm?! No! Why would she invite me to stay here if the farm didn’t belong to her anymore?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“You’re a big girl, you’ll figure it out.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean ‘big,’ you’re not big. You’re perfect. Maybe too thin, if I’m being honest.”
“Accusing me of being skinny is not any better than pointing out a woman being so-called ‘big.’” She glared.
“I meant…old. Not old. Old enough.”
“You said you were 42, you literally could be my father, so what the hell are you saying to me?”
“I mean…you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. That’s all.”
He blushed deeply and was talking so fast she realized she had really thrown him. She laughed, and he looked so relieved. He was too easy to fuck with.
“How about I make some coffee and we have a chat about Mrs. Blaise.”
His title for Mama Jane made her smile. Nobody but bankers and preachers ever called her that.
Over the late-night coffee session, Maggie studied Jack, who warmed his hands around the mug. It was a big, no-nonsense ceramic mug that had no place in Mama Jane’s bright yellow kitchen. Mama Jane’s mugs were all teal, purple and orange. And where had all the mismatched striped and polka-dotted window curtains disappeared to?
This was a strange set of circumstances, and she was not happy.
Not that she was unhappy to look at Jack’s unbelievably handsome face. But until a few minutes ago, Maggie had thought she was coming home to spend some time to decompress and eventually spend time with her mama on the farm before she retired. Once Jane returned from Greece, Maggie had visualized them together, baking in the kitchen, laughing at the chickens, petting the wether goats, shopping for fine antiques in town, now that Mama didn’t have any rowdy kids around to break everything in sight.
“Let me get this straight. My mom tells me I can come home and stay while she’s on vacation, and then she’s going to retire when she returns. Meanwhile, there’s a live-in manager on the premises. But she fails to tell me she is already retired and has sold the farm to you?”
“What were her exact words?”
Maggie looked up, trying to jog her memory. “She said, ‘Honey, I told the new guy you were coming for a visit and he agreed it will be OK with him. It’s all in our agreement until I have my retirement party. I wanted an open-door policy for all my kids until then.”
“Well,” Jack said, rubbing his chin as if he was trying to hide a smile. “It sounds like she intentionally left parts out but didn’t exactly lie.”
“But I don’t understand. What did she tell you?”
“She told me she had a renter coming to town to get away from the city and work on the farm for a few weeks. She said she’d forgotten it was an Airbnb rental she had already committed to before we closed on the property, and asked me if I would honor that. I told her that was pretty unusual, but it is a big house and that it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Maggie was utterly gobsmacked. “Well, all of that is actually not true. Why would she tell you that?”
Jack’s face darkened, as if he’d just thought of something. He looked deadly serious. “Maggie, when was the last time you spoke with your mom? I mean, before you asked her if you could come and stay?”
Maggie shored herself up for this odd question. That was rather personal. But she did appreciate him referring to Jane as her mom. Not everybody did. “I don’t know. Why?”
He cleared his throat and seemed hesitant. Then he drew a breath and looked deep into her eyes. They sat across the Formica kitchen table from each other, but he may as well be melting her and absorbing her right into his soul. “I hate to even suggest this, Maggie. But is it possible Mrs. Blaise might be suffering from some kind of dementia?”
The nerve! “I would know if my own mother was sick!”
“That’s why I asked when it was you last spoke with her. Maybe if you spoke to her more often, you might have noticed a pattern of forgetfulness. I’ve seen this before.”
“My mama does not have dementia. But thanks for the input.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry. I’m just grasping at straws, trying to solve this mystery, same as you.”
“Fair enough. Well, I guess if you want to give me a ride into town, I’ll get a room at the Sunset Motel and figure out what to do next. I don’t want to be in your way.”
“Sweetie, the Sunset closed down about two years ago. Prostitution raid. Wow, it really has been a while since you’ve been home.”
Coming out of anybody else’s mouth, those words would have come off as a dig at her. But Jack’s face, and his expression as he gazed at her, made her feel anything but judged. Still. He presumed a lot. He presumed correctly, but none of this was his business.
“Maybe I could stay with Carrie, then. She already offered me a bartending job. Maybe she could use a nanny as well…”
Now Maggie was the one grasping at straws.
Jack reached across the table and patted her on the hand. “Listen. It’s late. You’ll stay here tonight and then in the morning, we’ll figure everything out. OK?”
“I don’t like any of this.”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Blaise didn’t paint the correct picture for either of us. But I for one feel like this happened for a reason, and maybe we both need to sleep on it.”
Sleep on it. Yes. Her back was aching and she sorely needed sleep. That was for the best. In the morning she would figure out what to do next.
Chapter 4
Maggie
When Maggie woke up the next morning, her back seemed magically healed. A year of sleeping on a mattress on a floor had done things to her back that she had never even realized until she spent a night in a real bed.
A familiar aroma reminded her of her diner job, and it startled her for a moment: Bacon. Coffee. Also something fruity and warm she couldn’t identify but smelled fresh and full of carbohydrates. Shuffling into the kitchen and finding a plate of warm blueberry pancakes and real maple syrup was even better than room service at a five-star hotel. And to her shock, folded on the kitchen chair was her waitress uniform and the Hawkeye gear she had dumped on the floor the night before when she’d crawled into bed in nothing but a skimpy T-shirt and underpants. The kitchen was freezing, so she pulled on her waffle-knit Hawkeye shirt and sweatpants. Jack had washed, dried and folded it all.
The idea of the handsome stranger Jacks
on Clay entering her room and picking up her clothes while she slept made her both giddy and uncomfortable. A little bit intrusive, but he probably meant to be hospitable.
She scarfed down the pancakes in minutes with no regrets, except perhaps that she had no one to talk to. Where was that man, anyway?
Recalling farm life from her childhood, it was likely that Jack had finished his morning chores and was headed to town to run errands. Now was a good time to take a long, hot shower and figure out her next move.
The discovery of a new rainfall shower head in the upstairs hall bathroom delighted Maggie to no end. Once the hot water drenched her red locks—this always took a while—Maggie finally woke up enough to notice a few other things. This was not the same 1970s-era, institutional green tub she’d grown up with. This was a custom claw-foot right out of a high-end retro housewares catalog. And this glass subway tile on the walls and the floor, the new commode, the fancy pedestal sink—this no longer felt like her childhood bathroom. This really was not Mama’s house anymore.
Who was this guy? A gorgeous, sexy man who could run a farm, throw a punch, cook, do laundry AND renovate? He was too perfect.
But perfection was exactly the thought she’d had when she first met Alex at the University of Iowa, and look where that road led. To nothing but trouble. Alex couldn’t cook, but he did know how to DJ, dance, mix sound and carry on all-night conversations about the minutiae of 1980s music.
Maggie Jensen, you think too much.
That was a line straight outta Mama Jane’s mouth.
What would Mama Jane think of her with Jack? She’d probably tell her he’s too old and she was confusing a need for a father figure with romantic love. And that she should instead focus on her career and getting her life back together. But at least Mama Jane would never act scandalized. The woman had seen it all, and there had never been anything any of her foster kids could say to her—either about their past or present circumstances—that ever shocked her or made her poker face crack.