Love in Deed: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 6)

by Smartypants Romance

  Focus.

  “I’m not looking to buy. As I said, I want to rent.”

  Beverly sighs. She’s holding the lip of the door like a life preserver. Her arm trembles as if it takes all her strength to grip the barrier. Or maybe she’s just holding back from punching me.

  Wonder what her knuckles would feel like…dragging down my chest?

  I shake away the thought.

  “You okay, honey?” I saw her approach the door and then lower behind it. I should ask her about it, but I don’t.

  Her brows raise, and then her eyes narrow. “Don’t you ‘honey’ me. Just spit out what you want so I can tell you to get lost. Tripper’s waiting on me.”

  Tripper? Has she moved on since Howard left? Does she have a second husband? Vernon didn’t mention anything.

  Her sharp speech surprises me. With her hair pulled back into a tight knot near the nape of her neck, her face looks severe, stern even, and too serious for someone still relatively young. She’s angles and edges from what I can see of her body as the sweatshirt she wears slips from her shoulder. The devious spark in those eyes doesn’t match the rest of her.

  “I’m looking for an exchange—”

  “Exchange?” She bristles at the word, attempting to stand taller, but her elbow collapses, and she sags forward. She’s tall, if I remember correctly, but she’s slumping to one side so it’s hard to gauge her height. “I’m not selling my body like Hank’s girls.”

  Whoa, filly, settle down. I freeze. Funny she should mention Hank—Hank Weller—as he’s next on my list of people to visit, but I forget him for a second. My eyes are the only part of me moving as I scan the parts of her body I can see. The slope of her neck. The edge of her collarbone. The tip of her shoulder. She’s slight in build, but it’s hard to tell what kind of rack she has from her oversized shirt. I’d bet her tits are smallish because she’s so thin, but none of that matters since I’m not here for her body like she suggests.

  You sure about that, cowboy?

  I’m adamant. I need the land, not the lady.

  “Hank doesn’t sell women,” I defend, supporting his efforts as a strip club owner instead of arguing my case.

  “His women sell their bodies for show,” she retorts.

  “They aren’t prostitutes,” I huff, not interested in defending the merits of Hank’s business. “They strip.”

  “People see their nakedness,” she admonishes.

  And that’s a bad thing? Is she one of those religious types, prejudiced against everyone?

  Focus, Flemming.

  “Look, I’m not here to argue the machinations of the stripping industry. I’d like to discuss an exchange. I work this land, raise horses, and you allow me a place to live.” This woman’s property is my aim. Pissing her off isn’t about to win me any favors and I need a favor from her, but her head snaps back like one of those bobblehead toys.

  “This isn’t a hotel.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “And there’s nothing in that list for me.” Her head twists like a curious owl as if it took a second to calculate what I said, and now that she’s processed it, she’s hooting her opinion. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tripper is—”

  “I’d like to make myself a room in the barn,” I interject, not caring to hear about her Tripper. Is he her roommate? Her lover? Do they live together? I’ve placed my hooked hand on the upper half of the door before she slams it in my face, and she startles at the movement, staring at my claw. I ignore the expression on her face. With my arm reaching into the house and her body leaning against the lower half of the door, we stand in close proximity. Her face is near my own, eyes searching eyes as her chest depresses with her exhale. The air brushes my lips. My hand reaches out for a wayward hair of hers, and I brush it back, not thinking before I act.

  “What that…?” Her hand slaps at the back of mine, and I freeze, a statue positioned to touch something I’ll never touch.

  “You can’t just…” She swats again, like a mosquito annoys her, pushing at my wrist which begins to retract.

  What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have touched her like that, but now that I have, I can’t erase the sensation. My arm tingles—both of them—which is just…strange.

  “This is the hashtag-me-too era, buddy.” She smacks the back of my hand as it lowers for the door between us as if she’s killing a pesky bug. “You can’t just reach out and touch someone.”

  I stare at her moving mouth, but I’m not making out all the words. I want to trace those lips despite the rejection spewing out of them.

  “I wasn’t suggesting we rip off our clothes,” I retort. I just wanted to know if her skin is as soft as it looks up close.

  “You need permission first.” Did she mean touching her or ripping off her clothes?

  I clear my throat, remembering the directive at hand.

  “I apologize. That was…I don’t know where that came from. I just want the use of the land. I can offer to fix up whatever you need around here, free of charge. It won’t cost you a thing to have me living here.”

  “Except my barn and the fields.” Her voice cracks as though she’s admonishing me, both of us still struck that I touched her. She narrows those flaming steel eyes. “And how will you work with that thing?” She nods at my arm. My, she’s unpleasant and fiery. I pause, taking a deep breath to remind myself some people are just ignorant. Others are plain mean. Beverly again falls in between. She’s guarded, very guarded, and I don’t really fault her. I usually get a quick read on people, but I’m struggling with Beverly.

  “It will work just like any other arm. It holds. It grabs. It squeezes.” My eyes drop to those breasts I can’t discern but imagine exist under the oversized material. Her body quivers a second under my gaze, and my eyes pop up to meet hers.

  Maybe I shouldn’t want this woman’s property.

  Maybe there is somewhere else.

  I shake my head. No, this is the land. It has to be here.

  My sight drifts in the direction of the listing barn. “I’d be getting the short end of the stick if I stay. I’ll need to rebuild that thing before it collapses,” I assess. “Looks like an old hen house behind it. Then there’s the land. I’ll need a practice ring, and those back fields could be used for grazing. So don’t you worry about ‘my thing.’ I’ll have you know I’m plenty strong in all the places I need to be.”

  She waves her giant needle at me, and thankfully, I’ve stepped out of her reach. “Your stick will need to be stronger than mine.” Her eyes spark again, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was teasing me.

  I have a stick for you, honey. The sarcasm whispers through my mind, but a false smile remains plastered on my lips.

  “Where’s Howard?” I ask instead, driving the proverbial knife a little deeper. I’ve already been informed Howard disappeared years ago. Good thing to know or else he’d be the first person I sought. Running away doesn’t surprise me about him. He was a coward at his core. I’ll add it to the long list of infractions I already hold against him. Beverly bristles at his name, and her knuckles turn white on the door’s edge.

  Interesting.

  She’s definitely holding herself back from punching me in the kisser.

  Wonder what would happen if I leaned forward and kissed her?

  She’d slap me for certain this time, but my goodness, am I distracted by her.

  It’s been too long since you’ve been laid, old man.

  “Howard isn’t here,” she hisses. “I am.” I recognize the fight in Beverly. The push and pull of holding her own yet needing to be held, and by the way she’s gripping that door, I want to relieve her fingers, clasp them with my own, and tell her I’m here for her.

  See? The kind of woman you change your plans for.

  Goddammit, focus.

  “Maybe I should speak with your Tripper? Or your daughter?” Vernon mentioned one. I remember the toddler holding Beverly’s hand. />
  “Speak with me about what?” I turn to find the spitting image of Beverly from twenty-something years ago looking up at me from the yard. I didn’t hear her come up the gravel drive—hazard of being hard of hearing and apparently my attention on her mother.

  “You stay away from my daughter,” Beverly growls, mama bear claws at the ready as she points her wooden knitting utensil at me as though she’s about to knit me into something.

  “Momma,” the girl warns, and I can’t take my eyes off the younger version of Beverly, complete with light brown, almost blond hair, and eyes the same shape as her mother’s. She’s stunning in a young and beautiful way, but I’m not into women twenty years my junior. No, daddy-issue role-playing here, thank you.

  “Hi, I’m Jedd. Jedd Flemming,” I offer. Holding out my hand, I realize I never officially introduced myself to Beverly. Then again, I worried she’d know the name, and I wouldn’t have been able to share half my sentences with her.

  She’d throw you off the porch if she knew your real intentions.

  Beverly’s daughter steps up the risers and shakes my hand while her eyes drift to my left arm. I’ve grown accustomed to the swift drive-by of stares. The ones where people glance, look away, then drift back. Eventually, they fight to keep their eyes focused anywhere but on me.

  “I’m Hannah.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I turn back to Beverly, watching her face morph into shuttered eyes and steaming cheeks as I hold her daughter’s hand. The lines near her eyes etch deeper. Her lips flatten, and her face turns bright pink.

  “Jedd Flemming, our barn isn’t open for your stick, and neither is my daughter,” Beverly snaps, teeth gnashing like a rabid animal.

  “Momma!” the girl shrieks.

  “Now, get off my porch before I skewer your ass with this thing.” She releases the partition, waving the knitting needle in my direction like she intends to spear me… and then, she disappears.

  “Momma!” Hannah screeches, racing around me and attempting to open the barrier that her mother has disappeared behind. With her mother wedged behind the door, Hannah struggles. “Momma, scoot back a bit. Reach for your crutches.”

  I peer over Hannah’s hunched back to see a set of arm-cuff crutches sprawled beyond Beverly’s reach.

  “What the…?” Was this what she meant when she called herself lame? What happened to her? Did Howard do this? My insides rumble.

  I’ll kill him.

  Then, all questions are shaken from my thoughts as a stone of sympathy sinks in my stomach. “Let me help.” I step forward, ready to move Hannah out of my way when Beverly shouts from behind the door.

  “We don’t need your kind of help. Go away.”

  My kind of help? I can’t see her, but the edge in her tone brooks no argument.

  “Please,” her daughter drones, turning cloudy eyes to me. Embarrassed by her mother’s sharp words, she’s begging me to walk away.

  I’m not the gambler Beverly accused me of, but I’d bet on a horse race she’s mortified by her collapse. I remember the struggle and know the feeling all too well.

  Meeting Hannah’s worrisome eyes, I hold up both hands in surrender. Taking a step back, I feel helpless and hopeless, but also a strange kinship with Beverly Townsen. She’s hurting, and it’s more than physical.

  Fall seven times. Get up eight. It’s an old Japanese proverb, and one I accepted early on.

  How many times has Beverly fallen?

  “Okay,” I acquiesce, accepting their desire for privacy. “You think about my offer, Bee,” I holler over Hannah, not caring if my voice is too loud. I want her to hear me. “Sleep on my proposal. Knit a blanket for that sleep and maybe one for me as I’ll need it when I put my stick in your barn.”

  With that, I nod at Hannah and hop off their porch.

  Beverly will change her mind. She has to. This land needs me.

  And so might she.

  Chapter Three

  [Beverly]

  “Good Lord, Momma, what was that all about?” Hannah’s face remains flushed as the man—Jedd Flemming—excuses himself.

  “He interrupted Tripper and Virginia,” I say by way of an explanation.

  “That’s one big truck,” Hannah mumbles, ignoring me as the roar of an engine alerts us of his exit. She turns her attention back to me.

  “As long as his stick doesn’t match,” I mutter. That man had me all kinds of flustered. He touched me, but then I noticed the look in his eyes when he saw my daughter. Instantly, I thought he wants her, and my mama bear claws sprang. Emotion took over, my body gave out, and I collapsed to the floor like a cripple.

  “Crippled is a crippling word, Beverly,” my younger sister Naomi would admonish in her somber, sweet tone, trying to flip the coin to good. Life dealt her a toilet-flush hand of cards as well, so I don’t know how she can be chipper most days, but she’s a tree hugger and I write her attitude off to that.

  Hannah has maneuvered herself around the front door as I’ve scooted back a few feet. Although I reach for each of the arm braces, I don’t have the strength to pull myself upward, and Hannah assists me.

  “Momma, you know you shouldn’t be moving about the house without me,” she scolds. “And you shouldn’t open the door for a stranger. Who knows what could have happened?” Her voice fades as she easily lifts me under my arms. Her reprimanding tone rivals a displeased parent. When did she become an authority? It’s a rhetorical question I don’t need to answer.

  Since the accident, Hannah and I have practically traded places. Previously, I was the single head of household, and now she’s the sole provider. At first, I needed her to assist me with everything, and it’s a humbling and humiliating position to be in as a still-young woman when your barely adult child has to care for you in all manners. Somehow, the power shift remained. I’m the constantly-errant toddler doing what I shouldn’t and getting caught.

  Like the time I took Hannah’s old Cadillac and collided with a car owned by one of those Winston boys in the church parking lot.

  Or the time I drove to the Piggly Wiggly for chunky chocolate ice cream, and Sara Stokes had to drive me home.

  I wasn’t allowed to drive after the accident. I’d lost my license, and with my condition—lacking controlled use of my legs—I really am a hazard on the road.

  Not as bad as I was the night of the accident, though. Never that bad again.

  Still, sometimes a woman needs to get to church for a little prayer or the grocer for some sinful ice cream.

  Each time I escape, Hannah finds a new hiding place for her car keys.

  “We hope you live a happy, healthy life in your new home. Until next time on Nailed.” My eyes glance at the television set and the fading credits of my program. Oh, Tripper.

  “Where’s the chair?” Hannah asks, searching the living room after settling me in my rocker, but she doesn’t mean this chair. She means my wheelchair. That chair and I are old friends, and Hannah prefers I use it. It makes it easier for her. However, not one to do as I’m told, I use the braces to get around the house instead.

  My forehead bears a sheen of sweat from the energy exerted to hold myself upright and spar with Jedd Flemming. He hadn’t introduced himself to me, I recall, but something about the name rings familiar.

  “What were you doing standing without your crutches?” Hannah asks, disapproval still evident in her tone as she looks down at me. With her hands on her hip, she almost looks like my mother.

  It isn’t that I can’t stand. It just takes considerable effort to get upright, and then once I’m in the position, I need support. Movement takes determination, and no matter what I do, the limp persists.

  “You need exercise and practice,” the physical therapist had said.

  “She needs me,” Hannah had rebuked. Somewhere along the way, it became the truth. Our family stratosphere shifted. She was no longer the quiet, shy child who hid behind me, but a force of patience and resilience. She’s the one constant in my univer
se. My sunshine, despite her employment decisions.

  “Are you just getting in from work?” It’s midmorning, and the word tastes bitter on my tongue. I’m caught on a double-edged sword between hating what my daughter does and needing the money she makes doing it.

  “Momma,” she states, ignoring my admonishing question and waiting on an answer to hers. I can’t say I understand why I tried to stand up to Jedd, literally facing off with him at the door, but the moment he saw Hannah, my energy gave out. Something snapped in me, and it was more than the protective nature as her mother. My chest swelled. My belly dropped. And down I went with emotions I don’t wish to admit.

  Jealousy. And fear.

  “Who was that might be a better question…” Hannah asks, peering up at the window and our vacant drive. The position allows me to observe my daughter. Such a beautiful woman. I love her for her patient grace while her pretty features frighten me.

  A man could fall in love with her. She’ll leave me.

  My quiet, shy girl sang in the choir when she was younger. Her beautiful melodic voice was heaven, and she’d behaved as she should’ve because she’s a good girl at heart. Then she became someone else, showing off her body, and it’s my fault. As Howard said, always my fault.

  It’s your fault I seek pleasure with others, his voice whispers in my head.

  “Has he seen you naked?” I blurt, more irritated than I should be. Lots of men have seen her practically naked. My daughter is a stripper, and I hate her job at the Pink Pony. Is it that she removes her clothes for desperate men? Not really. I’ll never admit I’m a little envious. Men want her. But the deep-seated issue is she removes her clothes because she thinks it’s the only means to provide for us and take care of me. Typically, I banish thoughts of my daughter’s chosen employment. Since my absentee husband met some floozy there and ran off with her, denial sleeps with acceptance. But I’m focused on Jedd. He’s probably seen handfuls of naked women, and my daughter being at the top of that list sets my blood boiling.