Love in Deed
Green Valley Library Book #6
L.B. Dunbar
www.smartypantsromance.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Love in a Pickle by L.B. Dunbar Coming in 2021
Sneak Peek: Been There Done That by Hope Ellis, Book #1 in the Leffersbee Series
Also By L.B. Dunbar
Also by Smartypants Romance
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2020 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
eBook Edition
Dedication
For John and Pam,
my second parents as a child,
and my only horse barn experience.
Disclaimer of sorts
If you’ve ever been in a verbally abusive relationship, you’re familiar with the old adage: sticks and stones can break my bones, but names will never hurt me. However, you also might know the saying is hard to live by when you’re pushed so far down that your feet are higher than your head. Breaking free of such a relationship can leave deep emotional scars which are so much harder to see than the ones people wear on their bodies. Coping comes in many forms, with addictions being a primary source, but support is out there. Therapy, counseling, groups, friends, family. You are not alone, and you should not bear your burden alone either.
This isn’t a story of how a man saves a woman but a tale of how love reawakens our spirit, opens our soul, and reminds us of our worthiness.
Beverly’s story is about the aftereffects of a verbally abusive relationship, and the years it takes her to release what she experienced. Let it go is easier said than done for some. Beverly falls into such a category, but bitterness takes energy. Lots of energy. And it’s draining. So, pass the bitter cookie over and nibble on whatever brings you hope instead. I promise, bit by bit, you’ll be restored…or maybe you’ll just grow older like me and realize life is too short to waste on those who don’t matter—like Beverly learned and accepted.
Find yourself. Let love in. Just be…
Prologue
Spring 2009
[Beverly]
“Hello. My name is Beverly, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Beverly.” The chorus of various voices respond to my introduction, and I stare out at the circle of strangers in all sizes and colors looking back at me. I’ve never had so much attention on me, and I fidget with the skirt covering my weak legs. I sit in a wheelchair today, grateful for the life I could have lost because of a stupid decision.
Are you stupid? Howard would have asked. I’d been stupid over him.
After rubbing my palms down the material of my skirt, sweat remains despite my attempts to dry them.
“Beverly, why don’t you tell us what brought you here today?” encourages the sweet, melodic tone of the facilitator. I don’t suppose I can give the snarky response that first comes to my tongue.
The probation officer is making me attend.
“I’m here to learn about myself and seek forgiveness for what I’ve done.”
The repentant child—one offering confession and seeking redemption—is something I’ve mastered. As a mischievous youngster, I’d do all sorts of things requiring an apology to my parents, who practiced their own sense of religion. I didn’t follow rules very well. As an adult, some rules were unavoidable.
Nameless faces in the circle nod their agreement with my statement of contrition. I’m told they will understand what I’ve done, how I felt, and who I have become. If that’s true, I’d like someone in the crowd to tell me who I am because somewhere along the path of my life, I’ve lost myself.
“Want to tell us a little bit about what happened, Beverly?”
I don’t, actually, but I know I have to. It’s a requirement of my probation—mandatory participation in regularly scheduled Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings, which I am to attend in their entirety, so no sneaking out early.
“I was in an accident.”
I wish that was the extent of my answer, and the short, simple statement would absolve me of my sin. But the hesitant pause and the encouraging brow lift of the chairperson hints that she knows there is more to my story.
“My husband left me.” I chew at my dry lips as I leave out how it was years ago. “I’m a single mother.” A slight smile curls my lips as the truth of the matter is, I love my child, who has grown into a good-hearted, generous college co-ed. More than anything, she’s a ray of sunshine in my life.
I should have been better for her.
I should have done better.
Instead…
“He abandoned us when my daughter was young. It’d been ten years since he left, and I thought I knew where he was. I decided to investigate, but I needed liquid courage before I went after him.” A few people chuckle as they understand the reference. I thought an alcoholic drink or two would ease the tension, relieve the heartache, and settle the anger, but it did none of those things. Instead, it fueled something inside me I didn’t want to acknowledge. Bitterness rooted so deep I physically shook. Betrayal carved so savagely my blood boiled. Determination so willful it became an entity of its own. And I made a decision I would forever regret.
“He’d left me for another woman. One of many he’d been with over the course of our marriage, and rumor had it they were back in the area. A Pink Pony reunion.” Can you believe they have stripper reunions? It’s actually a thing. When you bare that much of your skin with others, you form an unprecedented bond, I guess. The removal of some woman’s clothing and the hands of my husband on her were a vision I didn’t want to revisit because that was a thing as well. A common occurrence. One I’d ignored, or enabled, or hadn’t believed could happen to me. He’d always came back to me with promises that he’d do better, be better. I’d held onto those words of affection and pleas for forgiveness.
> Howard had loved me.
But had he?
I wouldn’t do something well enough, and the condemning words would spew. He’d step out again, citing it as my fault.
A man to my left shifts in his seat, and his movement hints at his recognition of the name of the local strip bar as well as his familiarity with the reunion, but he says nothing. He isn’t allowed to speak. This is my meeting. An introduction of sorts.
“Anyway, I drank…and then drove.” The silence that follows my admission fills the room like helium trapped in a balloon. The severity of what I’d done is not lost on this group. Drinking and driving is not only illegal, but it can also be deadly. Fortunately, I did not kill the victim.
“I ran a red light and clipped the back wheel of a motorcycle. He survived.” As if the listeners had held their breath, a collective sigh of relief empties into the space, swirling around us like a sympathetic hug.
He’d lived. Huzzah.
I am relieved. I did not know him even though I’m told he was a member of a local biker club outside our small community of Green Valley. I’m waiting for the day they want retribution against me for harming one of their own.
It was an accident.
The truth rumbles through me like the tires treading down the mountainous switchbacks near my home. Although I’d driven that stretch of road a hundred times, the red light had snuck up on me. In my quest for Howard, my vision blurred on my surroundings. Then again, the alcohol had impaired my sight…and slowed my reflexes.
“Sending my vehicle into a tailspin, I crashed into a tree.” My hand clenches the loose material over my mangled left leg. The one crumbled and crushed. From toes to upper thigh, a cast covers my damaged limb. Rehabilitation. Limited ambulation.
You could walk again.
I didn’t deserve to walk. I had nowhere to go. Howard was gone. I was alone. And lonely.
“I damaged the left half of my body. Dislocated shoulder. Broken leg. Broken hip.” Another round of gasps, more sporadic, while others wince. I agree with the sounds. Recovering is slow and painful, but the greater struggle is the will to recover. Hannah is my sunshine.
I’m here for you, Momma. Just don’t leave me.
Her plea was the small sliver of motivation dragging me off the hospital bed to attempt therapy.
“I’m told I’ll regain mobility but never be one hundred percent. I’ll…” I can’t say the words I should admit.
You’ll always have a limp.
I didn’t want a limp. I didn’t want to be deemed incapable. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Internally, I chuckle bitterly with the thought that no one saw me anyway.
I’ve tried to live my life believing it could always be worse. Someone else always has it sadder. Someone else has it rougher. But over time, I could only take so many layers of sorrow and struggle before the rungs on the ladder of bad circumstances snapped, and I’d tumbled to the ground.
Forced marriage. Miscarriage.
I’d thought that was bad.
Philandering husband. Verbally abusive.
Still could be worse.
Abandonment.
The solitude had seemed like a welcome reprieve, only with it came confusion and bitterness and poor decisions.
One drink. Then two a night. A few during the day. Suddenly, I’d lost count, and the only way I could function was with support. Jack Daniel’s was my best friend. What can I say? I live in Tennessee.
I’m lost in my thoughts until the chairperson clears her throat, and I look up. She has soft eyes and an encouraging half-smile. Her skin is clear, and her hair is a beautiful blond-brown combination. She looks like my Hannah; probably similar in age to her, too. My girl took a leave from college to watch me. Her fear of losing me turned into her remaining home because she worries about me. Apparently, I can’t be trusted to my own devices.
“My daughter has come home to stay with me. We own a farm.” Which I can no longer tend. I’ll never work those fields again.
We recommend the use of a walker, then graduating to arm crutches and possibly a cane.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be in the wheelchair.” Tears blur my vision of the yellow daisy print skirt over my cast. It’s my favorite skirt, and I pair it with my white blouse that has a Peter Pan collar. I used to think it made me look pretty, but I no longer think such a thing. I feel conspicuous and naked before these strangers, these fellow alcoholics.
“My daughter’s come home to assist me,” I repeat, running out of things to tell the group. I have no idea how long she’ll stay—if she’ll stay—or if one day, she’ll abandon me like Howard.
Chapter One
Ten years later: Fall 2019
[Beverly]
At my age, I no longer believe in love at first sight.
The breathtaking, thigh-clenching, blood-rushing sensation of seeing a person for the first time and sharing a moment.
But I am in lurve with Tripper Hanes, construction project manager of Nailed, a home improvement television show where he and his wife fix up old houses. He’s married to the beautifully exotic Virginia Hanes, who masterminds the decorative ensemble of a newly restored house like none other. I should know, as I spend a great deal of my time watching daytime television and do-it-yourself programs.
And I’m currently being interrupted from my favorite show by a sharp rapping on my front door.
“What the…?” I whisper as Tripper makes his introductory announcement: “Let’s nail this one, baby. See what I did there. Nail. Nailed.” Tripper Hanes is the full package: humor, handy, and handsome.
My thoughts wander back to love at first sight. I’d believed in the lie once—such a damn fool—and chased Howard to the very porch where someone now stands. Back then, I was young—just seventeen—and pregnant with Hannah. I’d grown up fast on this farm as a wife and a mother.
“It’s demo day,” Tripper announces from the flat screen, thankfully breaking up my recollections of Howard, and I smile despite myself. I love the antics of this ginger-bearded man as he tears down walls and builds up homes.
Only, the front door thunderously rumbles in the jamb once again.
“Nobody’s home,” I mutter as I stare at the television, listening to Tripper call out to his wife a parting, “Love you, GinGin.” He has a nickname for her, and it’s sickeningly sweet. I’d gag a bit except I like them as a couple. Their relationship is something I’ve never had.
My comfort-cozy rocking chair angles toward the front window, directing my gaze—should I wish to gaze—at the least-traveled road in Green Valley edging my property. The television set sits off in the corner. Hours of my day are spent in this chair because moving about my house is difficult at best.
You could walk again, doctors said.
I can walk; I’m just choosing not to, just as I’m not answering the rambling front door.
“Go away,” I mumble as my eyes remain on the television screen. Tripper rushes at a brick wall, hoping he’s loosened the concrete cutout enough so the section will fall from the impact, but the barrier doesn’t budge and he bounces back with enough force to knock his hard hat off his head. I wince as if I can feel the thud of his body, both against the solid structure and then collapsing on the wooden floor.
My door rumbles once more.
“What in tarnation?” Slapping my hand on the armrest, I feel my irritation growing. Patience is a virtue, my mother used to tell me, so I figure I can outlast the rabble-rousing of an intruder on my porch. Since my wayward husband’s disappearance and the unfortunate accident, I’ve spent most of my days sitting here. Waiting.
Waiting on a man who isn’t going to return.
Waiting on a miracle for the homestead he left behind.
Waiting on my daughter to be the next to exit.
Eventually, the porch intruder will get the hint.
“Tripper, honey, can you move that wall over there and this doorframe here?” The sweet Southern drawl of Virginia Hanes dra
ws me back to the television set briefly before another powerful knock on the upper portion of the Dutch door interrupts my viewing once again. My eyes drift to the door panel where a large mass with broad shoulders is outlined behind the etched glass. Judging from the stature, I’m surmising whoever’s knocking on my door is a stout man.
Maybe he’s a bill collector. The thought makes me plant my feet on the floor, stilling my chair and attempting to scoot it backward a few inches (which would be nearly impossible for me to do).
Lord knows, we owe on this property.
With my disability and Hannah working two jobs to provide the essentials for us, it’s been ten years of debt. My beautiful girl grew up too fast, just like me. Thankfully, it wasn’t exactly like me. At least she wasn’t pregnant by a worthless man.
We all become victims of our circumstances at some point.
As firm knuckles tap the glass panel one more time, my attention snaps back to the gentleman outside. Is he a gentleman? His head lowers as he pauses from the incessant knocking. One hand lands on his hip, and I hold my breath as if the sound of exhaling could expose my position and redouble his efforts.
Love in Deed: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 6) Page 1