The Husband Quest

by Lori Handeland

  “Um…” Jilly considered. “German. Yes.”

  “We don’t hold with that here.”

  “Germany?”

  “Foreign cars.” He pointed at the selection of automobiles parked in front of the buildings they passed on their way out of town. Now that he mentioned it, she saw that every one was American-made.

  “This isn’t mine,” Jilly said. “I rented it.”

  “And I bet they were glad to see it go.”

  Actually, she’d nearly had to arm wrestle another customer for possession of the last Beetle on the lot. The dome-shaped Volkswagens were in high demand.

  Jilly glanced at Barry, who was still frowning at the dashboard, and decided to keep that information to herself. He wouldn’t believe her, anyway.

  “How much farther is it?” She noted the fading sunlight.

  “A mile or two.”

  Good. She’d be able to take a quick look around and be halfway back to Little Rock before dark.

  They passed several houses. Coming into South Fork, Jilly had glimpsed a few mailboxes, but the residences had been too far back from the road to see. On this side of town, the homes were set on cleared land. The better to show off their horses, it seemed.

  “Is there a reason people keep their horses in the front yard?” she asked.

  Barry blinked, then frowned. “Where else would they keep ’em?”

  “The barn?”

  “Why would you have a barn at your house?”

  Why would you have a horse at your house? she thought, but kept the comment to herself.

  “Turn here!”

  The shout came from right behind her, and Jilly jumped so high she nearly banged her head on the ceiling. A quick glance in the mirror revealed Jerry pointing at an overgrown dirt trail.

  “Almost missed it,” Barry said. “That’s the one.”

  Jilly spun the Volkswagen onto the side road. Dust flew up and coated the hood of the car. Dense foliage slapped against the doors and windows. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and cool, gray shadows settled over the forest.

  “You’re sure this is the way to the inn?” she asked.

  “Think so.”

  Jilly tensed. What if they didn’t know? What if she went off a cliff? What if they were mad killers bent on taking everything she owned, then dumping her body in the backwoods?

  The Deliverance banjos began to play again in her head.

  Suddenly the trees parted, and her Volkswagen shot into a clearing. She almost ran over the horse.

  “Watch out for Lightning!” Barry shouted.

  Jilly hit the brakes and glanced, flinching, toward the sky. The sun was out once more, not a cloud to be seen.

  “What lightning?”

  “Lightning.” Barry pointed at the ancient horse placidly cropping grass next to her right bumper. The animal hadn’t even glanced up when she skidded to a stop near his nose.

  “Did he used to be fast?” she asked.

  “No.” Barry got out of the car, pulling the seat forward so his brothers could follow. “He used to get hit by lightning a lot.”

  “He weren’t exactly the smartest animal.” Larry tapped his head. “Stood under the trees. Never did learn.”

  He slammed the door. Jilly contemplated the chestnut horse still grazing in front of her car. His back was swayed, his mane was going gray and he had streaks of white hair, almost like scars, in three separate places on his rump.

  “They oughtta call him Lucky,” she murmured.

  Since the horse didn’t appear to be moving anytime soon, Jilly turned off the car and got out. She took her first look at all she had left.

  She was in big trouble.

  The Inn at South Fork had seen better days—probably in 1865. The three-story structure was composed of peeling, yellowed paint and weathered wood. The porch steps had several holes, as did the windows. She didn’t even want to consider what the inside was like.

  Jilly turned to speak to the brothers, but the clearing was empty—except for her and the horse.

  “Guys?” she called.

  The only answer was the whisper of the wind through the trees.

  “Fine.” Jilly started for the inn. “I can do this myself.”

  The grass tickled her ankles. Wildflowers snagged her panty hose at the knees. Before she’d taken five steps, her heels had picked up enough mud to make walking difficult, and her jacket was smothering her.

  She paused several yards from the inn and yanked off the coat and the shoes. She considered losing the panty hose, too, but when she glanced up, a shadow flitted behind the one unbroken pane of glass on the third floor. A sudden shiver raced down her spine.

  A ghost? Or something worse?

  “Ridiculous.” Tossing her shoes and jacket onto the porch, she left her panty hose right where they were. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  The chill had been nothing more than a cool breeze across her bare shoulders, the shadow merely the sunlight flickering against the windowpanes. She hadn’t seen anything, because there was nothing to see.

  Jilly marched up the steps and into the house. Planning to take a quick tour and get out, she stopped dead just inside the door.

  The place was much worse than she’d thought. Dust, broken boards, broken glass—was something living in the corner?

  Standing in the center of what had once been a lovely foyer, Jilly fought the urge to cry. What was she going to do? The inn was all she had, and it was crap.

  A shuffle overhead had the hair on the back of her neck tingling. Something was up there. Or maybe someone?

  She glanced into the yard, hoping the brothers had come back—though what those three could do, she wasn’t sure. Lightning stood at the bottom of the porch steps, staring at her.

  “I don’t suppose you want to go upstairs and check it out?” she asked.

  His answer was a snort of air through his nose, which sounded suspiciously like equine sarcasm.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Jilly pulled her cell phone from her purse. She wouldn’t be able to afford it much longer, but for the next two weeks her bill was paid. She peered at the display.

  “‘Searching for service,’” she read. “The story of my life.”

  Picking up a good-size stick, Jilly headed upstairs.

  The second floor consisted of bedrooms—a lot of them. She’d just decided she had no choice but to search each and every one, when a thump sounded above.

  “Third floor,” she whispered, thinking of the shadow she’d observed from outside.

  Standing in the hallway, Jilly considered her actions. What was she thinking, coming up here with a stick in her hand? She should go downstairs, get into her car, drive to South Fork and send the police.

  She’d taken one step toward the stairs when a man’s voice began to belt out a rousing rendition of “Under the Sea.” What kind of thief or murderer sang selections from the soundtrack of The Little Mermaid?

  Even though she’d deemed her stick worthless, Jilly took a firmer grip on the end and climbed the second flight of stairs.

  By the time she reached the third-floor landing, the singing had stopped. Had she really heard it at all? The brothers had insisted the place was haunted. However, she doubted a ghost would know a Disney ditty any better than a criminal.

  Gauging the direction of the room where she’d seen the shadow, Jilly tiptoed to the door and burst through.

  “Aha!” she shouted, lifting the stick high over her head.

  The place was empty.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  Jilly spun around. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes seemed to bug out. All she could think was, Oh, yeah!

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SETTING SUN shone through the shattered windowpane behind him, creating a halo around his head. Jilly couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. The rest of him was quite spectacular.

  Long legs encased in scruffy, faded jeans… His work boot
s were equally worn and dirty. Drywall dust stuck to his bare chest.

  Jilly had never seen a more spectacular specimen. Of course, she’d never had the opportunity to view, in the flesh, a male body under the age of sixty.

  “Ma’am? Are you going to hit me with that stick or just think about it?”

  He spoke with a flat Midwestern accent, obviously as out of place in this Southern town as she was.

  Jilly blinked. “I, uh, who are you?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Jillian Hart. Duvier,” she added.

  She always forgot that last part. It was much easier to go by her maiden name when she’d had so many others.

  “Duvier?” He cocked his head, and his face came into the light.

  His eyes shone like blue neon against the sun-bronzed shade of his skin. His hair, which she’d thought short, was merely gathered into a ponytail at his nape. The elements had burned auburn highlights into the dark brown strands. She had a sudden and inexplicable urge to run her fingers through the locks and loosen the rubber band.

  He was speaking to her. Jilly shook her head and the strange urges receded, though they didn’t completely go away.

  “Checking up on me?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your…” he stared at her a minute “…grampa? He hired me to fix this place up.”

  “Henry?” The man nodded. “That’s my husband.”

  His eyes widened, showing off incredibly long, dark, thick lashes. They belonged on a girl. Didn’t that just figure?

  “Husband? Huh.” He shrugged and her gaze was pulled back to his chest. What would it look like with water running over the ripples and dips, soap washing away all the sweat and dust?

  “Is he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Henry.”

  Jilly forced her eyes from the man’s stomach to his face. He wasn’t exactly handsome. The angles and planes didn’t add up to a movie star, but there was something about him that made her both hot and cold all over. Probably too much smooth skin and sweaty muscles for her deprived brain to handle.

  What on earth had gotten into her? She was not the kind of woman who swooned over a well-made man. She couldn’t afford to. Besides, she believed in lust even less than she believed in love. Out-of-control need for sex? Ha. Never heard of it.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  He reached for a powder-blue T-shirt that hung on a nearby ladder, then pulled it over his head. Jilly treated herself to a last ogle of his six-pack abs.

  When the cotton covered him from neck to waist, he was still impressive. The tight material seemed to accentuate the firm, strong lines of his body—he must stand at least six-four without his boots. And the color made his eyes deepen to the shade of the Pacific at dusk. For an instant she missed the ocean very badly.

  He held out a hand. “Evan Luchetti.”

  Jilly placed her palm in his. Another shudder went through her, but this time it was caused not by a chill wind but by his calluses flicking against her life line.

  When he released her hand she stared at it, then folded her fingers inward in an attempt to keep the tingling sensation alive.

  “Uh, sorry.” Evan offered her a rag. “I’ve been working all day.”

  She took the cloth with the hand he hadn’t touched, leaving the sweat and dust right where it was.

  “When did Henry hire you?” she asked.

  “Last month. Sent me a list of what he wanted done, and an advance. Though I’ve used most of that money for supplies. I don’t suppose he sent a check with you.”

  “Um…” She wasn’t sure how to say what he obviously didn’t know. “Henry died last week,” she blurted. “Heart attack.”

  Evan opened his mouth, then shut it again. Scrubbed a hand over his hair, leaving a streak of dust behind. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Then why…”

  “Did he hire me?” Evan shrugged. “Said I was recommended by a friend.”

  “You’re from California?”

  He didn’t seem the type. All the handymen there resembled actors or models—probably because most of them were.

  “Illinois.”

  Which made no sense at all. She doubted Henry had ever heard of Illinois. In his world, the place didn’t exist if it wasn’t near New York or L.A. Of course, Henry had managed to buy an inn in Arkansas.

  “I’m confused,” Jilly admitted. “How did Henry hear about you in California? Are you some kind of handyman savant?”

  He laughed. “You might say that. Word gets around. Henry talked to someone, who knew someone, who knew me. With enough time, I can fix damn near anything.”

  Jilly wondered if he could fix her.

  SHE WAS STARING at his hands again. Evan wasn’t sure what to make of her.

  Not that he wasn’t used to women staring. But they usually stared at his body, his hair, his eyes. She’d done that, too. However, she seemed to have a thing for his hands.

  He glanced down, spread his fingers wide. They were just hands. More beat up than most; probably stronger, too. Scarred, hardened, chapped. A working man’s hands in a lazy man’s world, which only proved he didn’t fit in anywhere. Never had and doubted he ever would.

  “I don’t suppose you have a check?” he repeated.

  “I’ve got plenty of checks. Just no money to cover them.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Me, too.”

  The urge to touch her arose at the sadness of her sigh. As if that were anything new. He’d made an art out of comforting lonely, sad women. Next to fixing things, it was his one true talent.

  Back in his hometown of Gainsville, Illinois, Evan was the closest thing to a ladies’ man they had. Even his brothers called him a gigolo.

  They thought the term was a compliment. He’d never had the heart to tell them it made him feel dirtier than a pig in a shit puddle and not half as happy.

  He liked women—all kinds. Their skin was soft, their hair smelled sweet and the sex…When Evan was having sex, he could almost convince himself someone loved him.

  Which was what had gotten him here in the first place. Before he’d come to South Fork, he’d actually asked the woman he’d been seeing for months to marry him. Ashley had laughed in his face.

  “As if I’d marry a man who’s slept with three quarters of my friends. I have to live in this town, Evan.”

  Mortifying as her words had been, Ashley was right. So when Henry called the very next day, Evan had decided to change his life.

  In Arkansas.

  He shook off the self-pity. Most guys would kill to be him. Women throwing themselves at his feet, begging for a one-night stand, and all he could think about was a wife, five kids and a place to call his own.

  “What do you mean there’s no money?” he asked.

  “Funny, that’s just what I said.” The woman took a deep breath. “According to Henry’s lawyer, the only thing left is this place.” She glanced around the room. “I know I’m excited.”

  Having been raised with a mother and a sister who excelled in sarcasm, Evan couldn’t help but smile. Until he remembered that Henry owed him money, and Henry was dead.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, why are you here?”

  “I want to sell the inn.”

  “So did Henry.”

  Her cool green eyes swept over him, her gaze flickering like a feather across his face, his neck, his chest and, again, his hands.

  She was a very beautiful woman. Average height, curvy in all the right places—she probably thought she was fat. Her hair was a rich, dark red. Most likely long and wavy, right now it was coiled into a fancy knot at the back of her head. She had freckles on her nose. Evan found himself wondering if she had freckles anywhere else.

  “He did?” she asked.

  He ya
nked his mind and his eyes from her chest. “What?”

  She lifted a brow. She’d no doubt been stared at a thousand times before, but still Evan was embarrassed. The woman had lost her husband a week ago, and here he was thinking about the peaches-and-cream shade of her skin and the scent of jasmine that surrounded her.

  He ran a hand over his face. Was it hot in here? She appeared cool and serene. He was sweaty, needy, exhausted. The usual.

  “Henry planned to sell the inn?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. I guess it was supposed to be used for a movie.”

  “Do you know why it wasn’t?”

  “The ghosts.”

  “Come now, Mr. Luchetti, you don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I didn’t say I did. But the crew that was sent to check the place out had some odd experiences. Hear tell they didn’t last one night.”

  “And you? Have you seen anything odd?”

  “No rattling chains, no moaning at midnight—” He broke off. That had sounded a bit suggestive. He glanced at Mrs. Duvier. Her cheeks had turned pink.

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Why did Henry think anyone would buy this…uh, lovely establishment?”

  “It will be lovely when I’m done with it.” Evan frowned. “Or it would have been. Henry wanted me to restore the inn to its glory days.”

  “Which were?”

  “Mid-nineteenth century. Before the Civil War, this was a high-class stage stop.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the stage no longer comes through here.”

  “The new highway will.”

  Her head cocked. “What new highway?”

  “The one Henry planned to cash in on with a restored nineteenth-century bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Henry always was a clever man.”

  “Too bad it won’t happen now.”

  “Too bad,” she murmured, but he could tell she was thinking of something else.

  She moved to the window, stared out at the setting sun. “What’s with the horse?”

  “He comes with the house.”

  “Is that an Arkansas tradition?”

  “Looks like.”

  “You take care of him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who did it before you came?”

  “The Seitz brothers.”

  “See, hear and speak no evil?”