Lucky in Love

by Brockmeyer, Kristen

  "Oh," I bit out. "So you just assumed I'd tie you down and you wanted to get on with your big, fun adventure of life."

  "Would you have wanted to wait around for me?"

  "You idiot," I said, slamming my fist into his stomach in an awkward punch. To my horror, tears lurked in my voice and I swallowed them back. "Of course I would have waited for you. I loved you." Crap, I had not meant for that to slip out.

  He sat up, rubbing his stomach.

  "Okay, that was high school love, which never lasts. Don't try to guilt me into believing you've been waiting around all this time for me. Every time I talked to Jack, he couldn't wait to update me on all the guys you'd been seeing. You didn't even wait a month after I was gone. I mean, come on. Kenny Switzer?"

  That startled a laugh out of me. "Oh, you should have known right then he was lying. Kenny Switzer was dating Addy. Jack couldn't stand Kenny Switzer. And neither could I, for that matter. All he ever talked about were soybeans. Remember, he was FFA and his plans after high school were to move to Nebraska and farm? And, not that I'm anti-ginger or anything, but his head looked like a house on fire."

  Now Chance was starting to look pissed and I felt a little better. For sure, my brother had a lot to answer for. And he would pay. Oh, how he would pay.

  "Matter of fact," I added. "Kenny married Kelly Harrison—remember her? They did move to Nebraska, and I saw on Facebook that they have four adorable kids with hair just like his."

  "Well at least someone's happy," Chance snarled.

  Ironically, my mood brightened as his turned foul. Sure, my brother had probably screwed us both out of a possible happily-ever-after, but it wasn't me. All these years, I'd figured I had some deep fatal flaw that I couldn't recognize in myself, when I really just had a sociopath for a sibling.

  "That's all I needed to know," I said, lying back down and scooting deeper within my blankets. Chance didn't move and I could make out the dim white outline of his t-shirt. "It's not like I never moved on or anything—I've had plenty of relationships," I felt compelled to add. "I just always wondered."

  Chance turned so quickly, I squeaked.

  His came down over me, his arms bracketing my head, and his face was so close to mine, I could smell the mint of a stolen Altoid on his breath and catch a faint glint from his eyes in the gloom.

  "You really never got the letter?" he demanded in a low, urgent voice.

  "No," I whispered, half wondering if I'd already passed out from sleep deprivation and this was all an awesome dream.

  His mouth crushed down on mine. Automatically, my hands struggled free from where they were tangled in blankets and trapped between our bodies, and I did what I'd been wanting to do since I first saw him again in the church parking lot. I slipped them underneath his t-shirt, sliding them over his hot, taut belly and up his chest.

  For Pete's sake, the man was built. If this was a dream, I wanted to relish every second of it.

  Chance must have thought the same thing because even as he caught my lower lip between his teeth—I couldn't believe he remembered how much I loved that—he groaned and tangled his fingers in my hair, holding my head still while he ravaged my mouth.

  My hips shifted, rubbing against him in blatant invitation, straining toward him. Even through a layer of wool and two of denim, I could feel the heat and hardness of him and it made me dizzy.

  Then, incredibly, I had to turn my head away. It was too much, too fast, like running headlong up Mount Everest. I was overwhelmed.

  "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, burying his face in the side of my neck, fighting for control. I was so sensitized that I swear I could feel each hair on my neck tingle as his breath touched it.

  "It's just that, all these years, I thought—"

  "It doesn't matter," I interrupted softly. "You were right. We were just kids. It probably wouldn't have worked out anyway."

  He kissed me on the forehead, and I was glad it was too dark for him to see the stricken look on my face. He rolled away, while I struggled with what felt like the goodbye kiss I never got the first time around.

  "Probably a bad time to rehash the past anyway. We've got other things to think of." His voice was controlled again, like the past three almost-orgasmic minutes had never happened.

  I shifted to my side, my back to Chance, and pressed my face into the cardigan I'd wadded up for a pillow. Tried to focus on the fact that the tip of my nose felt frozen. Tried not to feel like my heart had been broken all over again.

  Chapter 15

  I woke abruptly, sun streaming in through the tiny, cheerful owls flecking the curtain in front of me. The trailer rocked heavily as Chance jumped to his feet, and there was a rumbling, squeaking, rolling roar sounding deafeningly outside. We were under attack.

  I fought to free myself from the blankets as the roar subsided to a deep, grumbling whine that seemed to shake the ground under us. Chance slipped the gun from its holster, and flung open the door to the trailer, keeping his hand with the gun out of sight of whoever was out there.

  "Howdy," came a yell over the din. "You know this ain't no campground, right?"

  Pulling back the curtains, I peeped through to see a wizened old man in Carhart coveralls spit off of his perch on an ancient Farmall. The keeper of the creepy cornfield, I assumed. He turned off the engine of the tractor, and it subsided with a wheeze and a grunt.

  "Sorry about that," Chance apologized, lying the gun down on the countertop unseen before stepping out in his bare feet. "I'm afraid we got a little turned around on the road last night and this looked like as good a place as any to stop." That wasn't all that got turned around, I suddenly remembered with perfect clarity and a pang of remorse for spilling my guts the night before.

  The farmer studied Chance with inquisitive black eyes that reminded me of a robin and then turned his attention to the Roadmaster. "Aaah," he sighed enviously. "That's one prime piece of car you've got there."

  I quickly stuffed my feet in my sneakers and shoved my arms into my sweater sleeves.

  "It's mine!" I clarified quickly, jumping down from behind Chance. I had no idea that my hair was spiraling out every whichway in wiry reddish sprigs and I still had some post-wedding mascara smudged under my eyes.

  He raised his eyebrows. "Well, now, where'd a little lady like you pick up a car like this?"

  I grinned, unoffended. "My great-uncle Charlie left it to me in his will when I was sixteen."

  "And did it look like this then?"

  "No, sir, it didn't. I've been working on it ever since." I couldn't help the pride in my voice, and warmed to one of my favorite subjects. "And speaking of beautiful machinery, I love your tractor." Tractors weren't my area of expertise, but vintage was vintage, and it was obvious the man had painstakingly kept that Farmall in tip-top shape. The red paint job was deep and glossy, the big back tires had full tread and all four red rims were gleaming. Even the parts I could see of the engine were glowing with good care.

  "A 1942 Model H?" I guessed.

  The man clambered down from his tractor with a speed I wouldn't have pegged him for and sauntered over to where I stood.

  "R. J. Canturbury. And no, ma'am, this is a Farmall A. But you got the 1942 right."

  "Right! The front wheels were closer together on the H. My name's Lucky MacFarlane." I returned his strong handshake. "R.J., do you know why they painted the John Deere tractors green?"

  "Why's that?" R. J. was obviously amused by me. His sharp black eyes sparkled, though his craggy face remained sober.

  "So they could hide better in the fields when a Farmall went by."

  R.J. let out a booming laugh, slapping one hand on his thigh and the other over his mouth to keep his falsies from flying out. Chance shook his head and stepped back into the Boles Aero to get his boots and coat while R.J. and I got down to the business of discussing antique mechanics. From the inside of the trailer, I heard the faint chords of Sweet Home Alabama.

  When Chance came out a few moments
later, his face was grim.

  "Lucky," he said. I stopped in mid-sentence, straightening up and banging my head on the underside of the Buick's hood. "It's almost 7:00 AM. We've got to get moving. Long day of driving ahead of us."

  Rubbing my head, I looked at him over the hood. "Dominick," he whispered urgently while the old man was still engrossed in the engine. "We have to go now."

  "Sure would like it if you folks joined me for breakfast or a cup of coffee before you head out," R.J. said, looking up. Obviously, he was a little lonesome and wanting some more conversation.

  I was genuinely regretful. I liked him and I was also longing for a bathroom.

  "I'm sorry, but we really need to get going. Thank you for the use of your dirt road, though," Chance replied briskly, headed for the driver's side. Fine with me, since I had no clue where we were going, but he could have been a little nicer to R.J., I thought.

  As we dropped the hood, I gave R.J. a rueful grin and half shrug.

  "Your man's in a real hurry," he said.

  My man, I thought wistfully. I wish. "Road trip to Vegas," I said. "It's kind of a rush thing."

  "Lucky him," R. J. said, dropping one eyelid in a wink with a roguish grin.

  "Oh," I said, startled. He thought Chance and I were getting married. "That's not—"

  Chance laid on the horn, drowning out the rest of my automatic protest.

  "Better get on, then. Offer for coffee's open if you all pass by on your way back through. Big white house farmhouse on the corner of 8th Street and 33rd."

  I laughed kind of sadly, thinking that he'd be surprised when I stopped back by with Julian instead of Chance. "Sure," was all I said. "Keep that coffeepot warm, and we'll see you in a few days."

  He nodded and tipped his Farley Feed Store hat my way and headed back to his tractor. I turned to get in to the Buick when three things happened almost simultaneously.

  I opened the car door.

  Sweet Home Alabama sang out from inside.

  I heard a faint pop.

  Chance was looking past me at the old farmer when his eyes widened. I swung around in time to see R.J. go tumbling like a ragdoll from where he'd been climbing on to his tractor. Chance was grabbing for his phone when I started running back to where R.J. lay in the dusty road.

  Chapter 16

  "Lucky, wait!" Chance roared from in the car.

  His tone more than his words stopped me in my tracks, halfway to where R.J. lay unmoving. His cap had fallen off, revealing a vulnerable looking, nearly bald scalp. Strands of white hair fluttered in the light spring breeze, and beneath the side of his head facing me was a small but spreading pool of blood. His eyes were closed and his face whitewashed under his weathered tan.

  Horror and nausea welled up in my gut and threatened to spill out in a hysterical scream. Instead, I stayed frozen, looking toward Chance. He'd gotten out of the car and had the phone to his ear, listening. His eyes held mine, the green of them laser bright, his face chiseled stone.

  From where his hand rested on the car, I saw him slowly raise his index finger slightly.

  Wait. He was telling me to wait.

  I did, holding his gaze. I didn't recognize this Chance at all. He was harsh and cold and focused and right now, it was comforting as hell. Endless seconds passed.

  "Got it," Chance said into the phone in a soft but deadly voice, breaking eye contact with me, his eyes flicking around and then zeroing in on a spot over my left shoulder. "You've proven your point. You're in charge, Dominick." He pressed disconnect on his phone and started talking fast.

  "I'm coming around the front of the car and I'm going to give you cover while you drag R.J. to the Buick. Go now."

  I had time to suck in a single deep breath and then we were moving. I darted the remaining ten feet to where R.J. lay, doing my damndest to ignore the blood that had stained the dirt burgundy. At the same time, Chance was a blur of motion as he flew around the front of the car, drew his gun, and started firing. I hooked my hands under the straps of R.J.'s coveralls, bracing myself, and then my breath choked on a small sob at how easy it was to drag him. He was so light, and his head lolled to the side as I scuttled backward. I heard a guttural cry from somewhere behind me.

  I couldn't risk looking, though. Gunfire had been returned and I saw gravel spit about 15 feet to our left. My back slammed into a heavy object and I almost cried in relief. The Buick. As carefully as I could, I quickly set R.J. down and wrenched the back door open. Crap, how to get him in?

  I slid a quick look up and saw Chance slamming another magazine into his gun, heading at a dead run for a small rise I hadn't noticed until now. No help from that department—he had his hands full. Pulling and shoving R.J. into position, I climbed in myself and then hauled up on his overall straps. He wasn't heavy, but it was an awkward angle. Crying in sheer fear and frustration, I heaved again, and this time, managed to half lift, half drag R.J. into the car.

  Thank God for huge backseats—there was enough room for me to stretch him out and wedge myself beside him, behind the drivers' seat. The gunfire had stopped, but the bullets could start again any second, and in my mind, my beloved Buick would protect us. I awkwardly scrambled around R.J., trying not to jostle his prone body, and slammed the door shut. Through the window, I couldn't see Chance anywhere.

  "Please let Chance be okay," I whispered heavenward before turning back to R.J.

  I lay my hand on his chest and nearly burst into tears when I felt the slight, rapid rise and fall of it. Wriggling out of my cardigan, I used one sleeve to wipe gingerly at the side of his head. Blood immediately welled again from a three-inch gash. It was still smeared and hard to see, but from my many experiences with injuries over the years, I was fairly certain this one was a minor graze. Scalp wounds bled like the dickens, though, and whenever I cut myself, I had the advantage of not being in my eighties.

  I glanced out of the side window again, but didn't see Chance. I swallowed back more panic, and, still holding my makeshift bandage to his head, I slapped R.J.'s grey-stubbled cheek very lightly.

  "R.J.," I commanded firmly. "Come on, wake up."

  His eyes shot open so quickly I bolted backward, banging my head on the window.

  He lifted his hand to his head with a wince. "I feel like I just got clobbered with a Louisville Slugger."

  "Oh, R.J., I'm so sorry," I put a restraining hand on his chest when he tried to sit up. "Please, just stay still. You got shot and fell off your tractor."

  "That explains why my ass end feels like it's been kicked by a mule." His shaggy brows drew together suspiciously. "Doesn't explain why I was shot."

  The front door of the car flew open and I jumped.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Oh my God, Chance, I thought you were dead!"

  I leaned over the seat and grabbed him around the neck. He smelled like sweat and testosterone. He smelled like a Marine.

  "I'm fine, but we have to move." Gently, but firmly, he untangled my arms and reached forward to start the car.

  Behind me, R.J. struggled to a sitting position. "Damned shame to bleed on this upholstery."

  Chance shot a surprised look into the back seat.

  "You okay back there, R.J.?"

  "Except for being confused as hell, yeah."

  "Wait just a minute," I said. "What happened out there?"

  "Crewcut will no longer be tailing us," he said simply.

  "You… you killed him?"

  "Lucky, I didn't go out there to invite him to breakfast."

  His announced the death of another human being in such cold and emotionless terms, like it was just a daily event for him. Hell, I didn't know where he'd been the last decade. Maybe it was a daily thing for Chance. Not for me, though.

  I opened the door of the Buick. Chance was saying something to me, telling me to get back in the car, maybe, but I tuned him out. I looked around at the cornfield. I didn't think I'd ever be scared of one again. There were a lot of things in the world that
were so much scarier.

  I walked past R.J's tractor, about twenty feet into the corn, feeling strangely detached. Even the little black corn spiders that scattered around my feet didn't have the power to wig me out anymore. Somewhere to my left, there was a dead guy in a police officer's uniform. He'd cold-bloodedly shot a defenseless old man, just so his boss could prove some kind of point in a power struggle pissing match.

  Reality came rushing back in a flood, leaving me nauseous and shaky. I could have died. RJ could have died. For Pete's sake, he might still if the shock of being shot gave him a damned heart attack. Dominick was toying around with us for some reason, and something told me he wouldn't really have cared too much if his hired guy had accidentally filled Chance full of bullet holes just now. And this was the man that we were going to have to bargain with to get Julian back. Another innocent in his twisted little game. And it was all real.

  I couldn't take it.

  My nausea evaporated and I went ballistic. I kicked viciously at the stumps of corn. It wasn't satisfying enough to see them go flying out of the rich, black dirt, scraggly root balls and all, so I let out a furious scream and pounded my fists on my thighs.

  I wanted to go home.

  I wanted this all never to have happened.

  Behind me a door closed and footsteps crunched in the gravel.

  "Damn you, why did you bring this here?" I whirled around and confronted Chance. "Everything was fine before you came back. Great, actually!"

  "Lucky," Chance said softly. His eyes had lost their cold, flat look, and the green was so deep and so achingly familiar. He approached me slowly, hands outstretched. "Come here."

  "No!" I shouted hoarsely, my throat aching from my outburst. "I'm not going anywhere with you. Everybody says I'm bad luck, but it's you!"

  He stopped a few feet away, regret and resignation on his face. "You're right," he said. "It is me."

  I could see that I hurt him and I immediately felt like crap. "I'm sorry, I'm just— Just please, before we go any further, I need some kind of an explanation."