Sold! In the Show Me State

by Jessie Gussman

His jaw tightened as he reached for the dry rag and gently patted his hands. “I’m not going to be party to you being stupid.”

  She blinked, not expecting what felt like an attack. “I’m not going to take orders from someone who’s supposed to be working for me. And who doesn’t have a nickel in this.”

  He turned toward her, his perfect jaw square, obvious even under the stubble that gave him a rakish, rugged look. One that she definitely felt at the bottom of her diaphragm and that caused it to quiver, which she covered with a scowl.

  His lips tilted in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess me being bigger and stronger would be an advantage in this situation. You’re not gonna do anything that’s going to endanger your burns. And I’m going to build a fence.”

  Her jaw had to be jutting out just as far as his, and yeah, she might have to crane her neck way up to look at him, but that didn’t mean she was going to take orders from someone who had no right to boss her around. “I will do whatever I darn well feel like doing, which will be what needs to be done. And you will do what I tell you to do.” Her brow lifted. It was a challenge. “Or you won’t be here.”

  He leaned closer too, bracing the hand that held the towel on the counter as his blue eyes speared into hers. “I’m pretty sure you tried to kick me off yesterday, and I’m here right now. So we’ll see who wins. But I can tell you right now it’s not going to be you.”

  “I’ll call the cops and have you arrested.”

  “Are you going to ask to borrow my phone? Since you don’t have one of your own?”

  Okay. He had a point there. She had no phone. It was something that she had on her list of things to get, but it hadn’t seemed necessary, since she never needed to call anyone. When she needed something, she just made a list and eventually made a trip into town, stopping to see the people she needed. Every once in a while, a phone would be nice when she had an order that could be phoned in. But making a trip to town had worked well for her, and she’d saved her money and not bought a phone.

  Obviously, she regretted it now.

  “I can drive into town.”

  “Everyone in town knows you bought me and that I’m supposed to be here for the next twenty-nine days.” His face was so close his breath fanned across her cheeks. “You’re not getting the police to remove me. They’re holding a paper that says I’m supposed to be here.”

  “I’ll tell them I changed my mind. That I want you gone.”

  His jaw muscles bunched in and out, and his eyes blinked, almost like he wanted to tell her something but was holding himself back.

  Finally, he pulled back just a little, not conceding ground. “Maybe I want to be here. Maybe I feel I owe you. Maybe I learned some things about myself yesterday that I didn’t like, and maybe I learned some things about you that I did.”

  If he took a squirt gun out of his back pocket and shot her in the face with it, she couldn’t have been more surprised.

  She touched her tongue to lips which were suddenly dry.

  She couldn’t even remember why she didn’t want him here to begin with. Why were they fighting about this? It was like yesterday; their argument turned into something she didn’t even understand and couldn’t remember how it had begun or what had instigated it. Funny how she never had that problem in her life before, until Chandler.

  “Your hands won’t get better if you use them again today like you did yesterday.” Her tone was softer too, although she wasn’t going to budge on this point.

  “I’m not. I’m wearing gloves. And I’m fine.”

  She’d hardly ever been around men. She’d lived with her mother and, for a while, her sister. Men had traipsed in and out the door, none staying long enough for her to read them or understand. But maybe there was some part of her, some feminine part, that recognized what seemed like a male need to prove himself. Or maybe it was just written on his face, although she didn’t read that in so many words.

  Still, she didn’t want to set the precedent where he was the one in charge.

  Even as she thought it, she wished for someone to share the burden with. It couldn’t be a stranger though or, in Chandler’s case, some man who was only here on a temporary basis.

  Not for the first time, a thread of longing went through her. She wanted a partner. A friend. A husband and all that entailed. But she’d accepted long ago that would probably never be her life. Certainly not with Chandler. She hated that he made her feel things and long for things she couldn’t have.

  Still, apparently she wasn’t strong enough to resist, because she said, “I guess you know your limits. The fence needs to be finished.”

  His head barely moved, but he nodded. She felt like they’d come to some kind of understanding, although she wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Just that she’d allowed him to win.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t bother her like she thought it would. She almost felt relief.

  Aware that they were still standing almost nose to nose, she realized he’d moved closer, and his eyes seemed to be searching hers. His breathing was just as shallow as hers, and the pulse in his neck ticked and jumped along with the sporadic beating of her own heart.

  His eyes narrowed slightly, and his hand reached up.

  She leaned forward.

  Suddenly she realized the stench that she’d been breathing was the eggs, which she’d completely forgotten about, burning. She yanked her eyes away and jerked her body toward the skillet. The burned part of her hand bumped into his fingers as they reached out—she could only assume he was reaching for her—and sent sharp pain down her arm, balling at her elbow and exploding up her arm and back.

  The big blister on the back of her hand popped from the friction, and the liquid in it seeped out, dripping off the bottom side as she grabbed the skillet and spatula and yanked it off the burner.

  “Rats.” There were other words she could say, words about the pain that was in her wrist, words she heard from the men who’d come to see her mother in the back room behind the various bars and restaurants all through her childhood, but she never said those words.

  They represented the evil from when she was little. Somehow, she’d always known that she wanted to be different, and those were words that she couldn’t say.

  They didn’t cross her lips now, but one or two of them tripped across her brain.

  The bottom of the eggs was burned black, and the skillet smoked. It was her only one. Being that it was cast iron, she didn’t want to put cold water in it, because it might crack, but she scraped the egg off, knowing it would continue to burn for a long time as the skillet would retain heat.

  Chandler snapped the stove off and grabbed something from the table. He came back to the stove and cut off a pat of butter. It hit the skillet with its own hiss of smoke.

  “That might help you.”

  “Thanks.” It did help, but there was no way she was getting the rest of the egg off until the skillet cooled down enough for her to work with it. She set it on the cutting board.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get distracted.” Her frustration with herself was clear in her voice. “I don’t have another skillet, but I can cook them in a pan.”

  “Let me see your hand.” Chandler held his hand out. Her hand still burned, but she knew it would be okay. She’d scratched a small corner off, and all the liquid had drained out, but her hand was still mostly protected by the skin of the blister.

  Still, she didn’t argue with him but held it up. He took it in his, twisting it this way and that, before nodding.

  “Now let me see yours.” She couldn’t help it. Her words came out as more of a challenge than a request. After all, she’d just trusted him to touch her hurt hand. She wanted to see if he would reciprocate.

  Or if he was going to be the boss and not defer to her at all.

  Something shifted inside of her when he held both his hands up in front of him, palms up, without hesitation.

  They looked awful. And she re
ally didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with them.

  “Does it hurt to put soap on them?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t try. It just seemed like it would.”

  “I have some iodine. It might sting the parts that have been rubbed raw, but it will keep the infection away.” She pursed her lips and tapped her toe, thinking. “I think we ought to wash them with soap and water and put iodine on them. I’ll see if I can find some kind of ointment and a bandage.”

  “I’m not wearing a bandage.” He glowered down at her.

  She met his gaze but not in a combative way. She tried to give a little, because she kind of understood and knew where he was coming from or at least why. “I think you should. Your gloves will cover it.”

  They stared at each other; she felt swept away again in those same emotions, that compelling current, that she’d been in when the eggs had been burning. It was new, and a little scary, but she had to admit it was exciting too. She had a feeling, although she couldn’t prove it, that she wouldn’t feel this way with anyone but Chandler.

  “You have stuff to make a bandage?”

  “Yes. Just something to keep the ointment from rubbing off in your gloves. Then I think, but I’m not entirely sure, that you probably want to leave them open to the air tonight after you shower and are done working. It might help harden it.”

  He nodded.

  It seemed like a good compromise to her. He would work on the fence, but he would wear a bandage like she’d asked.

  He seemed satisfied with it too.

  She took his hands and guided them to the sink, but she didn’t put them under the water until she’d tested it so that it was still room temperature and not coming out too fast.

  “You don’t need to be all he-man on me. If this is too cold or too much water at once, just say so. I’ve never seen blisters this bad. I know they have to hurt.”

  “They do. But I’ve kinda gotten used to it.”

  “I don’t think I believe that. There are painkillers in the bathroom medicine cabinet. They might help you get through the day too, if you insist on building the fence.”

  “I might take some when no one is watching.”

  Her eyes shifted to his. He looked at her with a little grin hovering around his mouth. She wasn’t sure if he was thinking it, but she was definitely going back to yesterday when she was going to put her pants on but not while he was watching.

  “It’s a little different,” she said.

  “Not much.” His lips parted even more, and his teeth poked out.

  His smile grew hers. She shook her head and looked back at their hands. Her stomach had funny little flutters in it, and she had the oddest desire to stroke his hands instead of washing them.

  “Okay. I think we’ve run water on them long enough. I’m going to put a little bit of soap on them. Just a little, and you can tell me if that burns.”

  “Okay.”

  She ran her fingers back and forth over the bar soap, lathering them up, before she took them and ran them carefully over his palm, just touching the edge of his blisters, careful to just do a little at a time, waiting to hear him tell her to stop.

  His breath hitched, and her eyes flew to him. “Hurt?”

  He shook his head.

  She searched his face for just a moment before she went back. She had to believe him. But she didn’t know what the caught breath meant.

  Her heart thumped in her ears, and her fingers trembled as she rubbed more soap across his blisters, lightly and carefully.

  Maybe it was his hand that trembled. Possibly from pain. His breathing changed, more harsh, and she was afraid she was hurting him.

  Her hands stilled, and she turned her face, looking at his clenched jaw and his hooded eyes.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No.” But his tone belied his words, sounding reedy and forced.

  She turned back to his hand but didn’t resume with the soap, unsure.

  He pulled his hand away. “You’re being too gentle,” he said in that same tone that didn’t fit with the words he spoke.

  Confused, she looked at him, although she moved back and allowed him to have the sink to himself. “I’ll go look for the ointment and the bandages. I believe they’re in the bathroom.”

  He jerked his head but didn’t say anything. She turned around and walked away.

  Chapter 10

  Chandler stood at the sink, carefully scrubbing his hands. They did burn. That was true. But that wasn’t the problem. Not in the slightest.

  He hadn’t expected to like Ivory. But he did. He hadn’t expected to respect Ivory. But he did.

  And he definitely hadn’t been expecting to be attracted to Ivory.

  But he was.

  Never in his life had he thought that having a woman wash his hands could steal his breath, scramble his chest, and make him tremble.

  Maybe he was just as disconcerted about that as he was about the woman who’d caused it.

  He couldn’t, wouldn’t, be attracted to Ivory.

  He could admire her, and he did. This was completely different.

  He shut the water off and dried his hands, determined that this was not going to be a road that he traveled. He’d let her fix his hands, because he couldn’t do it himself, and she was right about the ointment and the bandages and having them in the gloves. He needed them to heal and heal correctly.

  That was all she was going to do, and whatever odd reaction he just had was not going to happen again.

  He hung the towel up and sat down at the table as she brought things out of the bathroom.

  Maybe she’d given herself the same pep talk, although nothing she’d done had indicated to him that she felt any attraction. She was too focused on her farm and working and being successful at whatever it was she was trying to be successful at here.

  She obviously didn’t have room in her life for a relationship or a man, and he wasn’t interested.

  They were a great pair. They had the same goals.

  Her movements were brisk, and she had his hands covered in soothing ointment, bandaged, and finished in a short amount of time.

  “You stay there; it won’t take me long to finish breakfast. Just give me a few minutes to scrub the skillet. It should be cool enough to handle now.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he would scrub the skillet and she could cook the eggs. But he could hardly scrub with his hands the way they were.

  Unless...

  “Do you have rubber gloves?”

  “I think there’s a pair under the sink. Why?”

  He stood. “If they’ll fit me, I’ll scrub the skillet. You can cook breakfast.”

  Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t say anything. Walking to the sink, she bent over, reaching in and pulling out the gloves.

  “They were big for me, which is why I never use them. I bet they’ll fit you perfectly. Even with the bandages.”

  She was right; they did. And he took them. But he wasn’t careful enough, and his fingers brushed hers.

  Dumb. Because this time, he could feel the heat. It definitely wasn’t something that either of them wanted.

  She didn’t see his other hand clench as he took the gloves and moved away from her, putting them on. He’d get through the next twenty-nine days, and so would she. But he wasn’t going to touch her again.

  IVORY WALKED UP THE hill to where Chandler was pounding the fence post. He’d taken the past week off from the heavy labor, helping her with the bee equipment and doing some light mechanical and other repair work.

  They’d settled into a routine and rubbed along fairly well.

  But this morning, he’d announced he was going to resume building the fence. She’d pressed her lips together, because while his hands had been looking better, they weren’t ready for an entire day of abuse.

  He’d been pounding all morning. Working steady, and as far as she could see, he hadn’t taken a break.

&nbs
p; She was a little early for lunch, but she figured his hands had to be in pretty bad shape. And if he’d taken any painkillers this morning, they’d surely worn off. Her burns were much better, but last week, she’d definitely needed a second dose of medicine at lunchtime.

  She’d been able to do some things around the house, tending to her garden, cleaning some of the bee equipment and fixing what she’d brought down, as well as taking the clothes to the creek and washing them.

  She always tried to wash her clothes pretty often, so she didn’t have a big bunch to do all at one time. Eventually she was going to buy a washer at least, but she hadn’t wanted to spend the money. There were too many other things she needed.

  She knew she was kind of violating the unspoken agreement that she and Chandler had entered into. The one where he worked, wearing the gloves, and she left him alone, allowing him to do as much as he thought he was capable of.

  If his hands were as bad as she suspected, she was angling to get him to take the afternoon off.

  She carried their lunch in a bag, and she had a gallon jug of water from the spring and two cups in the other hand.

  As always, her eyes wanted to linger on his shoulders and back. And as always, she was irritated at herself for being like the rest of the women in America. She kinda thought she was different, and it was discouraging to know that she wasn’t.

  Chandler glanced up as she came around his side, stopping a good five feet away. He jerked his head before he looked back and continued to pound the hole he was working on. His muscles strained against his T-shirt, and she found that fascinating.

  Finally he slammed the digger into the ground and stopped, straightening, lifting his hat, and running the back of his gloved hand over his forehead before settling his hat back down.

  The day felt pleasantly warm to her, but obviously with the labor that he was doing, he was hot.

  She’d managed to have her wits about her enough to have a cup of water ready when he stopped. She held it out.

  He winced as he pulled off a glove with his teeth. He only wore a small bandage. It was ragged, and she thought she saw bloodstains on it, but he kept his hand turned away, and she couldn’t be sure.