by Fiona Lowe
“Would that be iced water from the filter or bottled water?” Her voice was pure, excessively polite waitress but she hadn’t quite managed to school her face into a bland, non-judgmental expression.
“Filtered.”
The clink of the ice dispensing from the door of the fridge filled the room along with his deliberately loud chewing.
“Here you are.” Her voice was as cool as the ice in the glass she put down in front of him. “Anything else I can get you?”
“A beer and more of those potatoes.”
“Right away.” She turned and he thought he heard her mumble, “I hope you choke on them.”
He grinned. The meat was sublimely tender and melted in his mouth. The potatoes were crunchy on the outside and oh so creamy on the inside, and the beans—cooked to perfection—snapped in his mouth. Apart from the times Wade invited him over to the B and B, he hadn’t eaten this well or had this much entertainment in a very long time.
Erin wanted more than anything to shove a roast potato up Luke Anderson’s left nostril, but she doubted that would help her cause. The idea of cooking him a meal had come to her like manna from heaven when she’d been standing in the Whitetail Market and the gregarious owner, John Ackerman, had proudly told her about his locally supplied organic meat and fruit and vegetables. She’d always thought there was a kernel of truth in the old saying of “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” and although there was no way she wanted Luke’s heart, she did want his sunflower field. No, she needed his sunflower field—her future was predicated on it.
Prior to her brilliant idea, she’d been racking her brains about the best way to approach the topic, given she’d caused so much chaos on arrival and Luke was so grouchy. She’d been absolutely certain that if she’d floated her request at any time between knocking him into the mud and him towing her car, it would have resulted in an instant “no” and she planned to do everything possible to avoid that answer. After her shower, she’d done a quick explore of the bathroom vanity and had been pleased to find an absence of scented soaps, boxes of tampons and women’s moisturizing razors. That, combined with the house being empty of people, made her conclude that Luke lived alone. Sure, it was brash coming back and using his kitchen uninvited, but farmers did a lot of physical work, right, so she’d been confident that once hungry Luke tasted her food, he’d forgive her that one teeny-tiny indiscretion.
She’d expected him to be his usual grumpy self when he returned from the dairy, but she’d pictured herself apologizing and him accepting it before they sat down together to enjoy the meal with a glass of Wisconsin Domaine du Sac which was a perfect match for the meat. The food and wine would mellow him and take the edge off his irritable demeanor, and only then, after he was filled to the brim with two servings of her cherry pie, would she serve coffee and introduce the subject of the sunflower field.
That had been the plan.
The plan hadn’t even got to first base before it imploded. The reality was that, despite Luke Anderson’s gorgeous work-toned and tanned body, golden stubble and sky-blue eyes that would make a Hollywood talent scout take a second look, he was not only farmer-grumpy, he was also Neanderthal Man and a misogynist rolled into one. No wonder he’d hardly given Connie the time of day. She tried not to shudder as she recalled the half-masticated meat she’d glimpsed when he spoke to her with his mouth full. As for his “women belong in the kitchen” thing, she wanted to take off her shoes and hurl them at his sun-bleached head.
“Seeing you’ve been slow coming over with those extra potatoes, you can add some more meat too.”
She turned to see him holding out his plate toward her while he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt.
Every part of her wanted to scream in horror.
Chill. Remember the reason you’re here.
She served the extra meat and potatoes and then ate her meal at the counter, trying to work out her next move. Her gaze roved over the kitchen. The wallpaper was slightly faded but it was still a warm and cozy room—the heart of a home—and it was well stocked with cooking equipment and very clean. It didn’t match up with the man in front of her who was inhaling her carefully prepared meal as if it was merely fuel, and not to be savored for flavor or enjoyment. Perhaps he paid someone to come in and clean? She recalled he’d thought she was a cleaner when she first arrived.
She heard the scrape of his chair and looked up to see him walking toward the door carrying his plate.
Panic made her blurt out, “Where are you going?”
“Mac can finish this up.”
“You’re giving your dog USADA prime rib?” She couldn’t stop the rising inflection in her voice.
He shrugged. “Real dogs eat real meat, but then you wouldn’t know about that.”
Yet another crack at her dog had her best intentions fraying fast. “I suppose he’ll lick the plate clean and save you washing it?”
The corner of Luke’s mouth twitched. “Oh, I don’t wash up, Erin. That’s women’s work, but if you want Mac’s help, I’m sure he’ll oblige.”
She knew he was serious about the washing up but she wasn’t certain if he was yanking her chain about the dog licking the plate or not. After he’d gone through the door she peeked out the window onto the porch and saw him rub the dog’s black-and-white ears. She thought farm dogs were always chained up because they were working dogs but this one wasn’t leashed and he seemed to have a comfy bed in a sheltered position. Although she could see Luke’s mouth moving, she couldn’t hear what he was saying to the dog. With a final pat on the head, he set the good china plate in front of Mac, totally bypassing scraping the meat into the blue dog bowl.
Holy crap. She really was dealing with the most uncouth guy she’d ever met. How was she going to explain the aesthetic value of art and photography to someone like that and have a hope in hell he’d understand?
The screen door slammed and she jumped back guiltily from the window as he returned to the kitchen. His questioning eyes flickered over her face and she felt her cheeks flame at being caught. Then to her horror, a tingle of attraction shimmered deep down inside her. No! No way. Not now I’ve seen him eat. God, she really was completely losing it. Sure, in the past, she’d had a bit of a thing for guys a bit rough around the edges but she’d grown out of it because none of those guys would fit into the new world she was creating for herself. Besides, Farmer Anderson wasn’t a bit rough, he was positively unhewn.
Angry with herself and her reaction, she stomped to the freezer and hauled out the very expensive tub of decadently creamy Vermont vanilla ice cream she’d bought and then she pulled her steaming pie out of the oven. Dumping both in the center of the table with a spoon, she said, “Shall I just call the dog in to eat with you?”
“Sure, but set a place first because he prefers his own bowl.”
The mildly spoken words held a trace of something new but was it laughter or affection for the dog? She had no clue. All she knew was that her meal hadn’t primed him for her request in any shape or form and she’d run out of time. She had to ask him straight out and she had to do it now. Shoving the spoon into the ice cream for fortification, she dug out a scoop and popped it in her mouth.
“Hey! That’s my ice cream.”
So the farmer liked ice cream. Good. Taking her time, she licked the cold sweetness off the spoon and then held it out to him. “Help yourself.”
The spoon hovered between them but although he seemed to be staring straight at it, he didn’t move to take it from her. “Suit yourself.” She put it down next to the cardboard tub and sucked in a deep breath. “I’m a photographer.”
He snapped out of whatever momentary daze he’d been in, wiped the spoon on his shirt and plunged it into the ice cream. “And you’re telling me this why?”
There was no point avoiding the reply.
“Because I’m a wedding photographer and I’m here today representing my client. When she gets married, your sunflower field will be in full bloom and I wish to shoot some of her wedding photos there.”
The ice-cream-filled spoon stalled at the peak of his full lips. “No.”
She couldn’t say she was shocked at his reply but she was pissed at the fact he hadn’t even taken a minute or even a second to consider it. “Just like that?”
He put the spoon in his mouth and closed his lips firmly around it before pulling it out clean. “Just like that.”
For an insane nanosecond she wondered what it would be like to have those lips closing around her mouth and then her common sense screeched ewwwww. Given his lack of table manners who knew what went into his mouth or when he’d last cleaned his teeth.
He didn’t have bad breath when you were lying on top of him earlier.
Shutting out the off-topic nonsense, she said, “Believe me, the photos will be stunning. The golden light of early evening will blaze against the vibrant heads of the flowers.”
“Yeah?” He scratched his head.
“Yes.” A ray of optimism had her leaning forward. “The photos will not only capture the magic of the moment but they’d be enduring art passed from generation to generation.”
“I don’t think so.”
The man was a philistine. “Granted, you may not be able to picture or appreciate how artistic and stunning these photos will be, but I can assure you that you’ll be well compensated for the use of your field.”
“I will.”
For a moment she wasn’t sure if he’d asked a question or if he’d made a statement. She decided to plow on rather than let herself panic that he was about to name a dollar amount beyond the exorbitant fee Connie had approved for the field. “You most certainly will.”
His eyes flashed a thousand shades of blue. “I’m glad you agree that my crop of high-energy sunflowers will increase my cows’ milk production and as a result, earn me more money.”
For the first time since he’d sat down at the table, a keen intelligence shone through. Along with his words, it completely disarmed her. “Um, that’s great for you and the cows I guess, certainly, but why not maximize the field’s full potential by letting my client and me pay for two hours of its time? I’d shoot at the covered bridge first and then come to your field.”
“I don’t need the aggravation of a wedding party tramping through my pasture and—” he raised a brow, “—squealing when cow dung stains their shoes.”
It was a direct shot at her reaction to the loss of her suede sandals earlier in the day and her chin shot up defensively. “Now that I know about the conditions, the wedding party will be well-prepared with appropriate footwear.”
He snorted. “I’ll bet my last dollar your bride has never stepped out of the concrete-and-glass jungle she lives in or worn rubber boots.”
Bingo. So he did know about Connie, which meant he must have listened to all her messages on his phone. Irritation at his snap judgment about people who lived in the city spilled over. “Is that why you won’t take her calls? Because she lives in a city? How very rural of you.”
He leaned forward, the golden stubble on his face glinting in the rays of the setting sun that streamed through the window. “No.” He spoke softly, his breath fanning her face.
Her focused mind started to fog around the edges.
He leaned back. “I didn’t return her calls because she’s batshit crazy.”
She shook her head quickly, knowing exactly how to play this. “No, she isn’t. She’s just a bride who wants the best. I’ve worked with a lot of brides and sure, they can get a bit jittery a few weeks before the wedding, but that’s expected. When Connie didn’t receive a return call from you, that may have contributed to her becoming a little angsty.”
He looked at her with razor-sharp astuteness. “A little angsty? Is that what you’re calling the hysterical rants she left on my phone?”
Hysterical seemed overly dramatic even for a pragmatic farmer. She knew Connie could be demanding but she wasn’t hysterical. “Which is why I’m here as a voice of reason and to appeal to your sense of...um...” What? She searched her brain wildly, looking for the right thing to say. Appeal to good breeding? Nah, that wasn’t going to work.
As she stuttered and struggled, he watched her and this time he raised both brows. Again his eyes gleamed with an intelligence she might have underestimated.
He pulled your car out of the mud. “...sense of community,” she finished triumphantly.
He slowly tilted back in his chair and the front legs left the floor. “Only Miz—” he elongated the title, “—Littlejohn isn’t part of my community and to be honest, she’s the sort of nightmare I can live without.”
The field was slipping out of her reach and along with it her shot at the Memmy and a secure future to banish her worst fears. “Would it help if I promised you categorically that we wouldn’t cause a fuss or get in the way or—”
“Just like you didn’t get in the way this afternoon?” The front legs of his chair hit the floor as his rumbling-bass laughter filled the room. “Oh, yeah, I can see that working here...or not!” He stood up as if the conversation was finished.
Desperate, she shot to her feet. “Two thousand dollars will go a long way toward something on the farm.”
He stiffened. “Money isn’t going to make this fall your way, Erin Davis. A sunflower field is food for my stock and covered bridges are for preventing the formation of black ice. It’s that simple.”
Utter frustration wrapped around disappointment and she slapped her hands against her hips. “And silly me. Here I was thinking Whitetail was all about weddings and giving the bride what she wanted.”
“It is, but that’s the town and this is my farm.”
So much for a sense of community. She threw down her last card—the one she hated playing because no one ever cared about other people’s dreams except the person involved, but desperate times meant desperate measures. Pressing her hands together in supplication, she said, “Haven’t you ever wanted something so much it ached inside you? For me, this is exactly like that.”
For a moment he gave her such a long look she got the oddest feeling he wasn’t actually seeing her at all but gazing right through her and glimpsing something else entirely. It took all of her self-control not to look over her shoulder to see what he was staring at.
A new tension ringed him and his mouth firmed into a straight line. “Wash up before you leave.”
Despair curdled her stomach. “Is there anything I can say or do that will change your mind?”
“No.” He grabbed his hat and walked out into the night.
The slamming of the door behind him rammed home how badly she’d failed. She’d let down Connie and herself, and their brilliant idea had taken a mortal blow. It wasn’t just a sunflower field and a picture of a bride; it was her insurance policy for the future. She sank into the chair and let her head fall onto the table, trying very hard not to cry.
Memories assailed her of the time she was fifteen and her world had been turned upside down by her father. Back then, in the space of a few hours, she’d lost everything she’d known to be her life. The horror and dread that it could happen all over again clawed at her, pulling her back to a dark place she’d vowed long ago she’d never visit again. Tonight, she barely had the energy to resist and when her phone played the bridal march she did the unthinkable and let it go through to voice mail. She hated how one man could stand between her and her dream. One very ill-bred, uncivilized, close-minded, country hick!
So much for country hospitality and friendliness—obviously that was just a rumor propagated by the tourism board. She stood up feeling raw and vulnerable, needing a cuddle from her precious dog which would make things slightly less dismal,
but when her fingers closed around the door handle, she stopped and turned slowly around.
A large, greasy roasting pan along with an array of other cookware sat waiting to be cleaned. Every part of her wanted to turn her back on the mess that represented her current problems, but that would be exactly what Luke Anderson would expect of someone from the city. No, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction and besides, burning bridges had never been her style. The only thing of any use that her father had taught her was that you never know what’s around the corner and yesterday’s enemy may well be tomorrow’s friend. Although not in a million years could she ever picture Luke Anderson being a friend.
The low moos of the cows in the barn drifted in through the open window and she remembered the pretty view she’d photographed and all the farms dotted over the countryside that she’d driven past today. That’s it! The idea slammed into her, buying her hope.
Luke Anderson might have just said no, but she was in rural Wisconsin and his wasn’t the only farm in the district. She smiled at the thought.
Chapter Three
The following morning the sun was shining, buoying Erin’s spirits. The clerk at the motel on the edge of town hadn’t been able to answer her questions but he’d suggested she go to the Whitetail Market and Video early because the townsfolk started their day by stopping there to buy coffee, doughnuts and the paper, and to generally chew the fat. “It’s the unofficial version of the town meeting,” he said. “If someone doesn’t know the answer, they’ll know someone who does.”
The moment she crossed the threshold of the shop, John Ackerman boomed, “You’re back! And how did that meat roast up for you?”