Mustang Summer

by Marie Johnston

  “He liked Mustangs and we’d fix them up.”

  She gave him a sidelong look that he caught out of the corner of his eye.

  Eye contact.

  This time, it wasn’t hard. Looking at Josie was another hobby he could throw himself into.

  “Why Mustangs?” she asked. “Why work on cars instead of only farming?”

  Brock didn’t have to think about any of the answers. “He called them a cross between art and automotive. Said they had the sleek lines of a lady and the power of her anger.”

  Josie laughed and he smiled.

  “The Shelby is the same year he was born, ’68, and he always talked about overhauling one. Dad farmed, he just wasn’t as into it like his brothers. He’s a mechanic now at a Ford garage and mentioned that he prefers the regular hours and not having to worry about the next hail storm ruining the crops.”

  “And you?”

  “I like farming. And I like being a mechanic. I get to do both.”

  “Bill won’t let me get close to a car anymore, even though he taught me everything he knew.”

  “Who’s Bill?”

  “My dad.”

  Odd. People would expect him to be the one to refer to his parents by their first names.

  “So,” she continued, “is this a gift for your dad then?”

  “No, it’d be mine, but he could come down and help me work on it.”

  “Doesn’t he come down otherwise? Fargo’s only an hour away from Moore.”

  Brock shrugged and stared out the window. “We don’t have much else in common.”

  “I see.”

  She turned off onto the gravel road that’d take them to Mr. Blackwell’s. Brock checked the time and they were running early.

  “But are you two close?” she asked.

  “Close enough.”

  “Is he resentful of Moore? Why doesn’t he come visit? Are he and your mom separated?”

  “No, they’re still married.”

  “Then why do you have to lure him back home?”

  He switched his focus to stare out the passenger window to the sugar beet crops that stretched to the horizon. “Moore isn’t his home anymore.”

  “But you’re his son.”

  “And he doesn’t know how to deal with me,” Brock snapped, then clamped his mouth shut.

  “I see.”

  “You keep saying that. What do you see?” His words sounded more heated than he meant them to. He hated reaching that point when he felt like he was going to explode from a foreign sensation roiling inside of him.

  They reached the same turn they’d met at the other day and she stopped the car. She turned in her seat, he could almost feel her gaze on his face.

  “Brock.” Her voice was gentle.

  Eye contact.

  God, he didn’t want to. Talking about his dad’s awkwardness around him wasn’t on his to-do list for the day.

  But his mom had worked his whole life trying to get him to blend with regular society, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore Josie now.

  He adopted the same position as her.

  “I get it,” she began, “you’re a dude and don’t like talking about feelings, but this is how we’re going to get you that car. No judgment from me, okay?”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Once he said it, the pressure inside of him eased slightly. He didn’t want this beautiful woman lying to him. Anyone lying to him upset him, but when Josie did it, he grew more frustrated than normal.

  She sighed. “I can’t blame you, can I? I haven’t exactly been the pillar of myself around you. Would it work if I swear to be truthful to you from here on?”

  He nodded his head once.

  She didn’t turn away and he glanced at the clock. Being late today was not an option.

  “We have plenty of time.” She must’ve noticed him watching the time. After a heartbeat, she said softly, “You’re not like other guys, are you?”

  His jaw clenched until the muscle popped.

  He flinched when her hand landed on his where it rested on his thigh.

  “That’s not a bad thing, Brock. I wouldn’t want to help you if you were.”

  A warm glow ignited in his chest. He wished they didn’t have anything on their agenda today so he didn’t have to share her with anyone.

  “Me being…different…hasn’t always been a good thing.” Oh, hell. Why’d he go and say that? The sense that he’d just betrayed everything his mother had worked for almost overwhelmed him.

  “Everyone has their own type of special.”

  “My mom used to say things like that.”

  “Moms have a way of knowing what to say. I won’t lie to you, and you be yourself with me. Deal?”

  He’d always been himself with her, but he agreed anyway.

  She kicked the car in gear and pushed the speed so they could arrive early instead of on time.

  Mr. Blackwell’s land stretched before them. The Shelby was still hidden from sight, as if Brock still had to complete unknown tests in order to see it.

  Josie had seen it, though.

  If she wasn’t going to lie to him, how’d she plan to get the old man to agree to selling Brock the car?

  Chapter Seven

  Mr. Blackwell squinted at both of them. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Josie steeled herself. She had told Brock she wouldn’t lie to him, but now she realized in this situation, spilling the truth to the other man was the best strategy.

  “I’m sorry. I got home and discovered that my dad made a bad financial decision and I was afraid he’d refurbish your car and sell it. And after talking with you, I just couldn’t let that happen.”

  Mr. Blackwell pointed between the two of them.

  She twined her fingers through Brock’s hand and stifled a grin at the surprise that erupted on his handsome face. “My brother has some business where Brock lives, so I got to know him there, and then we crossed paths when we were both out here the other day. I thought of him immediately.”

  Brock’s gaze was stuck on the flat barn that housed the Shelby. It’d be better if he made googly eyes at her, but she didn’t think he was a guy that did that. Ever.

  He’d admitted to being different and from the rigidity in his demeanor, it hadn’t been an easy confession. He’d seemed aloof at times, and intensely focused at others, but she chalked it up to being just another clueless dude. Still, she’d prefer aloof over a calculating liar like her ex.

  “At least you’re on time today,” Mr. Blackwell grumbled to Brock.

  Brock ducked his head. “I didn’t have to worry about getting lost today.”

  So literal. A smile danced on her lips, but she didn’t want Blackwell to think they were teasing him.

  Blackwell switched his attention to her. “How do I know he isn’t going to do the same thing?”

  “I don’t need the money.” Brock answered before she could.

  “He doesn’t, as far as I know. Did you know his dad was born the same year as the car was made?”

  “I thought you said your dad was.”

  Her breath froze. Damn, she’d lied about that and she’d have to backpedal to get out of it. Blackwell shuffled to the porch. Oh shit. Not a good sign. They were back to square one. Lemonade on the porch during interrogation.

  “I was mistaken. I thought he was, but when I recalculated, he’s actually younger.” She towed Brock behind her to the dreaded chair. “I worked on cars with Bi—my dad, but Brock and his dad are Mustang enthusiasts. How’d your dad describe them?”

  Brock let her take the chair. Gage, the arrogant prick, would’ve sat and patted his knee for her. Brock’s manners could so easily get him laid.

  They probably had. But had any woman stuck around afterward, or had they all gotten irritated at his car obsession?

  “He said it was the perfect blend of art and automotive. Sleek like a woman and as powerful as when they’re angry.”

  Blackwel
l barked out a laugh and muttered, “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “What cars have you and your dad worked on again, Brock?” He’d never told her, and it should get him talking.

  “We’ve restored a ’72 Mach 1 for one of the neighbors. That one took years because it’d been left in a pasture for twenty-five years after a crash. The ’70 Boss my dad bought at auction. He still has it, but only drives it when the weather’s nice. He’ll take it to parades and old car shows. Then we restored an ’83 convertible and ’66 Fastback and sold those because we don’t have room to keep them and work on other vehicles. Then there’s the insurance and tabs to keep paying for. It’s the work I really like. Taking a car that’s got one tire in the junkyard and working on it until you can roll it out even better than when it came off the line.”

  Her nerves were settling until the last sentence. Didn’t Brock know how Blackwell would interpret his words?

  Mr. Blackwell scratched his head. “Would you roll the Shelby out for the best price, or would you have room to keep it?”

  Brock shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought of it. I’d have my dad to help me with it, but if you don’t want me to sell it, I won’t sell it. I don’t need the money.”

  So simple. So honest. In the short time she’d known him, she knew he wouldn’t sell at Mr. Blackwell’s request. Brock could fall on hard times and that car could be his salvation and it probably wouldn’t occur to him to sell the damn thing.

  Mr. Blackwell stared at Brock as if sensing the depth of his honesty, too.

  Please trust him. She wanted it for Brock, and she wanted to have a legitimate reason to not feel guilty when her dad couldn’t make ends meet.

  Who was she kidding? She’d feel awful. But Bill borrowed a hundred thousand now. How much would he borrow next time? And what would the interest really be?

  “Want to take a peek at her?” Blackwell sounded wary, but hopeful.

  They walked down to the long barn and she stood back as Brock got the same introduction as she had. Then Blackwell stepped back to let Brock roam around and look inside and under the hood.

  “I’m still not sure about him.” The older man watched Brock with the wariness of an old farmer scrutinizing the approach of a nasty storm.

  “I don’t think he knows how to lie.”

  “Yeah, he’s a little different, but I’ve heard my share of stories trying to sell this vehicle and his is not unique.”

  He’s a little different. Bill said that about her little neighbor, too. “Then why’d you pick me?”

  “Because you listened to me.” He sighed. “I thought you really got it.”

  “I did. That’s why I couldn’t let my dad ruin another good thing.” Bill had ruined his relationship with her mom. Josie felt like he’d pushed her away and now his real pride and joy was falling into the gutter.

  Brock walked back to them. “I’ve worked on bigger projects. It won’t take much to restore. I’ll keep the same color, all the same specs. She’ll look exactly like she did fifty years ago.”

  Mr. Blackwell pulled his wallet out and his hands opened it with a slight shake. He withdrew an old photo that had faded and was crinkled around the edges.

  “Here’s the day I brought her home.”

  Brock peeked at the photo, but from the clinical way he looked at it, he was only noting details for when he worked on it.

  Josie smiled at the laughing young woman in the picture who leaned against the car. The late Mrs. Blackwell had been a beautiful lady and if she’d gone through life with as much verve as she had in the photo, Josie saw clearly why the old man was militant about the car’s next owner.

  “Thank you for showing us, Mr. Blackwell.” And she meant it. Tears burned the back of her eyes. Her mom had had a lot of love to give, and Bill had thrown it away. How would life had been if Jesse’s dad hadn’t died?

  “Let me think on it for a few days. I’ll let you two know either way.”

  They both thanked the elderly man and he waved as they drove off.

  She hit the highway and she and Brock remained quiet. For all the driving she’d done today, she wasn’t dreading the drive back to Moore. Not with her passenger. Besides, her trip back to Waite Park would be even longer and she wouldn’t get home until late. Maybe the cringe-worthy motel she’d stayed at before had an opening.

  She shuddered and Brock actually noticed, but didn’t comment.

  “I’m just wondering if the Moore-tel has an opening.” She’d packed an overnight bag just in case, but she’d forgotten her flip-flops. A necessity when showering in a stall that water fowl may—most certainly—had been cleaned in.

  “Probably, but you can stay at my place.”

  She turned her wide-eyed gaze on him. He wasn’t throwing off a suggestive vibe, he just meant she could stay with him.

  He lifted a muscled shoulder. “Saves money and my parents’ old bedroom is what I use as a guest room. They’re the only guests I ever have over.”

  He had her at “saves money.” This extra trip had trashed her savings. She’d already contracted three more design jobs, but for pennies since she was still trying to break into the market.

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

  She laughed, but didn’t miss his subtle wince. Didn’t he know she wasn’t laughing at him?

  “To you it’s obvious,” she explained, “but many people offer things just to be nice, or to suit their own purposes. I laughed because I like that you don’t do that.” He didn’t reply. “You’re not rude, either. Instead of being rude, you just wouldn’t ask, right?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s refreshing. I like it.” She more than liked it. Brock Walker was becoming more irresistible the more she was around him.

  The tension eased in his features. “I’m glad you like it.”

  They chatted on and off the rest of the trip. She’d asked what he thought should be done with the Shelby and they traded notes. From the method used to paint to how he was going to pull the engine and give it a good cleaning.

  It was fun. And even better, he talked with her the way her dad used to. Like an equal. Bill didn’t disrespect her, just constantly tried to sway her passion about cars, direct it elsewhere.

  It’s not a good living for a girl.

  The first time Bill had said that, the betrayal tasted like acid. It was their thing and he’d cut her off. She’d had to sneak into their garage at night after he’d fallen asleep on the recliner. When he was out running errands, she’d purposely stay back so she could lurk among his stock and see what they were doing. The habit had kept her current in the field of mechanics even if her skills were rusty.

  She pulled into Brock’s yard. The beautiful sunset greeted them with a panoramic of oranges and reds across the sky.

  “What year was the house built?” She asked more to distract herself from the reality that she was spending the night with a man she barely knew.

  “In the eighties. My grandparents plotted out all the areas where my dad and uncles were going to live and they all planted the shelter belts and came up with house plans. My dad moved in when he was only twenty.”

  She whistled low as she parked in front of his place. “A whole house to yourself before you can legally drink.”

  Brock nodded as he gathered his cooler. “He went off for college, but never finished. Said it was a waste of money when he knew what he was going to do for the rest of his life. My mom decided to stay and marry him.”

  “She’s from Moore?”

  “Born and raised, but never really liked it here. I think she liked all the trips to Fargo for my…”

  Josie waited for him to finish but he got out instead. She grabbed her backpack and scrambled out after him.

  He strode toward the house like it was a foregone conclusion that she’d follow. And well, he was right, but it was so…aloof.

  He stopped at the entrance and held the door for he
r. What an oddity. Manners had been instilled in him, but he could come off as rude.

  She stepped through and thanked him.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll show you the room after I drop my stuff in the kitchen.” He disappeared up the stairs of the split level and she toed off her sandals and decided not to wait for him.

  The house was cozy, its cool environment a welcome change from the muggy air outside.

  It was dim, too. The top level had an open floor plan with a sizable kitchen. Lord, her mother would’ve loved the counter space. But the blinds were drawn and when she stepped around the bannister, she saw that the living room curtains were closed as well.

  She set her backpack down. “Can I help with anything?”

  Brock scratched the back of his neck and looked around. “I was thinking about grilling some burgers. It’s too hot to use the oven.”

  “You have air conditioning, don’t you?”

  “I do, but it saves several dollars a month if I close the curtains before the sun gets strong and try not to use the oven or leave the TV on too long.”

  “The TV?” She eyed the enviable big screen anchored above the mantel.

  “Have you ever felt the heat it puts off after it’s been on a couple of hours?”

  No, she hadn’t, but he must’ve put a lot of thought into it. Like he seemed to with everything he did.

  She settled on one of the barstools that lined his island. Her stomach grumbled as he withdrew a pack of what looked like homemade patties from the freezer. “Burgers sound great. I’m starving.”

  “There’s fruit in the fridge and I can run out and pick some peas or beans after I start the grill.”

  She envied being able to have a garden. Her house had such a tiny yard and she had to grow everything in pots, which limited her options. “I’ll do it. Just point the way.”

  An empty bowl slid in front of her. “It’s right outside the sliding door.”

  He opened the door and stepped onto the patio. The wave of heat proved that his methods to keep his house cool worked.

  “Can I go barefoot?”

  Fiddling with the grill, he stopped to look at her feet. She expected a smirk, or a snide remark about how a garden was full of dirt.