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

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

by Smartypants Romance


  “Look, I’m working on something on the old Townsen homestead and—”

  “You know you need to stay away from there,” Janice hisses, interrupting me as she sits forward in her seat.

  “Why? Howard’s long gone.” My eyes narrow at my sister.

  “Jedd,” she warns. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I’m not being stupid.” Famous last words before I act foolish. “She needs me.”

  “Who?” Janice’s brows crease.

  “Beverly.” I mumble her name under my breath.

  “What did you do?” Janice hisses, familiar with Beverly’s name.

  “Nothing. I worked out a deal, like I said.”

  “Jedd,” she warns again, but I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. Her eyes catch on the metal attachment. “How are you?” she adds as an afterthought.

  “You know me. Fall down seven times. Get up eight.” Janice stares at me as if she isn’t familiar with the Japanese proverb.

  “You need to stay away from that farm,” she commands, the threat lacking.

  “I have it under control. I’m more worried about Boone. Do you suspect foul play?” Lord knows he owes many players. The wrong hand. Slip of a card. People took advantage of him without his father as protector. I don’t know that Boone had much left to lose, other than his life.

  “I’m not sure. I suppose anyone associated with him might have considered no one would miss him if he was taken out, but there are plenty of people keeping up with Boone’s whereabouts.” Vernon Grady was one of them until Boone somehow gave him the slip. Boone’s ridiculously large size couldn’t be missed, and his presence was also well-known at a few haunts like the Pink Pony. So while anyone looking for him might have noticed his schedule, Boone no longer following the pattern would have been noticed by the places he frequented. Daisy’s Nut House. The Pink Pony. The Watershed.

  I’d already interviewed the waitress at Daisy’s, and I’d spoken with Hank. I also interviewed the newest bartender at my current haunt, but he’d only started working this fall, so he wasn’t familiar with my brother.

  “And you contacted the sheriff?” I’d been to the sheriff’s office when I first arrived in town, but that Jackson James character took small-time county protection to a new level of assholery. Maybe Janice would have better luck as an attorney dealing with local law enforcement.

  “I have. He promised to look into it again, but the place is rundown, so it’s hard to say if there was a struggle or not.”

  Taking out my brother would have caused a scuffle as he is rather big. Solid and broad like his father, he was already as large as I was when he was fifteen and I was twenty. I imagine he still had height to grow and weight to gain, given he was only an adolescent when I’d left.

  “What did he find?” I ask Janice, who looks back at me, puzzled by the question. “What did the sheriff find when he looked at the house?”

  “I don’t understand. I just told you, it was a mess.”

  That’s not what I’m asking and decide I need to do my own investigation. It’s time to steel myself to the memories and return to the old farmhouse.

  Chapter Six

  [Beverly]

  “Hannah,” I bellow as I watch a silver pickup truck pull up the gravel drive and park next to the barn. My eyes don’t leave the large vehicle as the owner slides out the driver’s side. I recognize his build before he even turns for the house. Broad back. Thick thighs. Nice butt. How do men get backsides like that? Two well-formed globes of perfection.

  I’m seated in my room, rocking in my chair, hopefully hidden by the sheers hanging over the three windows facing the dilapidated building. The bed of his truck holds a pile of two-by-fours. My blood sort of white-water rapids through me, and a cold shiver ripples up my spine. My breathing hastens.

  He’s here. He’s really here.

  “Hannah,” I call out again, watching as Jedd Flemming enters our barn, seeming to make himself at home.

  My eyes briefly flick to Tripper Hanes on my television set, watching him hammer studs as he frames a new wall during a renovation project. There’s just something about a construction project…

  My eyes travel back to the live man lugging a few boards at a time over his right shoulder and bracing the stack with the attachment on his left. That ass. Two moons draw my attention to the tight khaki-colored work pants. The muscles of his back expand with the effort of balancing the studs on his shoulder, and his gray tee tightens. He adjusts the weight, and something in me pulses to life.

  “What, Momma?” Hannah says from behind me, scaring the bejesus out of me. My hand clutches at my throat.

  “Sweet butter on biscuits,” I hiss, startled. Taking a deep breath, I search for the reason I called her name as I watch Jedd walk toward the barn. Has anyone ever made the motion that incredibly irresistible to observe? The power in those thighs. The tightening of his backside. The pinch to his spine.

  “Momma?” Hannah questions, and I clear my throat.

  “That man is not pitching his tent in our barn,” I stammer, unable to draw my eyes from the structure where he’s disappeared.

  Where’d he go? my heart whispers, although I know the answer. I’m acting a fool over him, but my breath hitches in relief when he reappears to collect more wood from his truck. He disappears again, and I can’t remove my eyes from the open door. My breathing is doing this teasing tango where it holds when Jedd slips into the hollow of the wooden structure and then catches once he reappears in the brightness of the fall day.

  “It’s fifteen percent,” Hannah states.

  No, he’s one hundred and ten percent, I think. Then I realize what she means.

  “What did you do?” I turn to her, eyes widened in surprise. The sheepish look on her face is one I haven’t seen since she was ten and wore my high heels to play dress-up. She stumbled, and the heel broke off a pair of shoes I hadn’t worn in years.

  “He’s going to rent the space for fifteen percent of his profits once he’s up and breeding horses.”

  Aghast, I stare at her. What is she saying? I heard the words, but I can’t believe my ears.

  “He can’t live here,” I bellow.

  “He isn’t,” she clarifies. “He’s living in the barn.”

  My eyes remain wide, unable to blink. “Why would you do this?”

  For a moment, I can’t read the expression on my daughter’s face, and then she steels her emotions. “Because we could use the money.”

  My mouth falls open. Then shuts. Opens again. Snaps closed. Money has been a constant struggle for us. We’ve gone with less. We’ve scrimped. We haven’t saved, and it’s an argument I don’t wish to have with my daughter as I haven’t been a contributor to our finances. I’ve grown a few tomatoes for the local farmers’ market, but it hardly pays for a week’s worth of groceries.

  “We agreed we wouldn’t take handouts.” Whether we actually made a verbal agreement or not, pride on both our sides has kept us from asking for any means of support over the years.

  “It’s not a handout. He’s using our land, and he’s going to pay for it.”

  “With money we won’t see until he begins breeding or whatever scam he plans to participate in. Gambling implies just that—a gamble. Fifteen percent means nothing to me.” I pause, taking a deep breath before I whine. “I don’t trust him. We don’t need anyone else out here. We’re doing well enough, right?”

  “We’re perfect, Momma, just as we’ve always been, but this might be good for us.” She tries to assure me, but a trace of concern scribbles over her expression.

  “Hannah, you can never count on a man’s word. Trust me on that.”

  She shakes her head in response. “I need to get to work.”

  I snort. “Try to keep your clothes on.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s the very opposite of what she does.

  “If he makes the money I believe he can, then I could possibly quit the Pink Pony.” Well played. This argument should solidify
the decision. Wanting her away from that place has been a goal since the moment she took the job. What if some old man waltzes in and steals her heart like her father did to some young, unsuspecting thing? Is that Jedd’s intention? I try to vigorously erase the thought.

  Still, a stranger living in our barn—a strange man, for that matter—with my young daughter in the house doesn’t seem right. It just doesn’t seem appropriate.

  My eyes draw back to his movements—unloading wood from his truck. A peek in my peripheral shows Tripper Hanes doing nearly the same action.

  What kind of surreal, alternate universe am I living in?

  “He’s promising us, Momma.”

  “Men make promises all the time, sunshine. It’s in their nature, just as it’s in their nature to break them.” It’s a cruel lesson in male psychology, and one my girl has learned through her father’s disappearance and her lack of relationships in the past decade.

  Hannah looks out the window and sighs, then lowers her voice. “It’s fifteen percent.”

  I don’t know the first thing about return on investment or percentages on net worth. I just know we won’t see the money. Howard wasn’t only a cheater, he was also a liar and a weasel, especially when it came to finances.

  “Money makes men rich in foolishness,” my mother used to say in her judgmental tone.

  “He plans to raise horses and work the land to turn a profit. That’s an honest day’s labor right there.”

  “How?” I bite. “The man only has one arm.” I shouldn’t be judging. Lord knows, I’m in no position to.

  “Don’t be cruel, Momma. He has two, only one’s different from the other, and he seems more than capable to me.”

  So capable. Jedd Flemming is a rugged man, as witnessed from the tight tee and fitted pants he wears. Did I notice his behind while watching him through the window during that first meeting? I don’t think I paid his backside any mind, but I should have given it more inspection. A backside that fine is just asking for trouble, as is this man by moving into my barn.

  Jedd stops his steps, exiting the structure. His gaze falls to the house, and I sit up straighter. My heart races, and my fingers tighten on my throat.

  Can he see us watching him? Does he notice me? Do I look as decrepit as that old barn he’s entering?

  The thought forces me back into my rocker. I don’t want him noticing me. I don’t want him anything-ing me.

  When I glance at the television and see Tripper and his wife laughing at something, my heart pinches.

  I turn back to Jedd, his face still pointed in the direction of the house. His head tilts, his face questioning, as if he’s trying to peer through the sheer curtains but can’t quite make out our figures.

  “Step back, Hannah,” I demand. “He’ll know we’re watching him.”

  Hannah shakes her head like she’s ridding her mind of a thought. “I’m not watching him, Momma.” She turns her gaze to me, and the weight presses on the side of my face, but I can’t draw my vision from Jedd.

  “Momma,” she whispers, and I turn at the soft question in her voice. Her eyes scan my face. Does she fear she’ll look like me one day? Those bright eyes will dim, and lines will form in the corners. Will they be rivers formed from tears, or will she eventually find laughter? Does she wonder if her lips will match mine, permanently curled downward? Can my girl still smile? Will her hair go gray too young as mine did? Will the stress of her life turn her into someone lonely and lost?

  I blink back the tears fighting for release. I won’t cry. Nothing left to cry over. It’s all gone.

  “Do you fancy him?” my daughter asks, and I choke on the question.

  “What…? I…of course not. Don’t be silly. I’m sure he’d be more interested in the likes of you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Hannah asks, brows rising in surprise.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to explain the birds and the bees to you. Men like him only want young things and only want one thing from those young things. I don’t think he should stay here,” I sneer, recognizing the pulse at my neck and the thump of my heart. My daughter is a pretty girl, and this older man could be attracted to her for all the wrong reasons. Young girls go for older men to solve their daddy issues.

  “He’s sleeping in the barn,” Hannah counters, her voice deepening in displeasure. Ticking off points on her fingers, she continues, “We don’t need to feed him. He’ll rebuild at his expense or hire what he can’t do himself. The back field will be plowed and prepped for spring planting.”

  I snort in response, but my eyes return to Jedd’s movement. Into the barn. Out in the yard. My observation traces down his perspiring spine to the waist of his pants where his shirt has untucked. My fingers curl on the armrest of the rocker as my eyes outline the fine globes accentuated by those smooth pants. My mouth goes dry.

  What is it about this man? Why am I suddenly lusting after him?

  I can’t. That’s the bottom line. I can’t anything him. Under fifteen percent and tight pants and a perfect backside is still a man with empty words.

  My eyes fall blindly on the reality television program. The only man a girl can count on is the fictional kind. I force my attention away from the barn, but my eyes seem to have a will of their own.

  “We can’t have a stranger living in our barn,” I huff. Jedd stops, turning in his tracks with a pile of lumber on his shoulder as if he heard me, which is impossible on two counts: the panes of glass and his lack of hearing. Still, he stills, and his eyes narrow on the house as if he knows I’m watching him, I’m talking about him, and I don’t agree with this arrangement.

  “Too late. He’s moving in.” Hannah definitively nods, dismissing my opinion as Jedd swings back around. She leans down to kiss my cheek and then exits my room, but I remain transfixed.

  Suddenly, reality is more fascinating than television.

  My eyes continue the cat and mouse game of watching Jedd disappear and then reappear. I don’t know how much time transpires, but eventually, the bed of his truck is empty. Still, I hold my breath as if the barn is a giant octopus, swallowing him whole. I fear he might disappear forever like Howard did, which is the silliest thought I’ve had in a decade. I don’t need Jedd. We don’t need Jedd. There will be no attachment to him.

  But then, Jedd appears at the open barn door and gives a single wave toward the house, and I smile in spite of myself.

  After a week of waking to the sound of hammering and the tension of growing curiosity, I decide to see for myself what’s happening in my barn. Jedd has spent his nights in the dark space, or at least I think he has since his truck doesn’t leave in the evenings. However, he disappears for a portion of every morning, and it’s the perfect time to investigate as Hannah is still sleeping from her late-night shift.

  My decision to cross the drive involves a choice. Either I struggle to wheel myself over the rough terrain or I use the forearm crutches to tread carefully across the uneven surface.

  Hannah believes the wheelchair is more stable for my unstable condition, but today, I’m feeling rebellious like the mischievous person I once was. I opt for the arm supports although my legs quake from disuse. Determination rattles me, but like a foal learning to stand, I decide I will make it across the drive and back before Jedd returns from his mystery morning machinations.

  It’s slow going as my left leg lags behind my dominant right. Like a three-legged creature, I develop a strange rhythm with each step and drag movement.

  Left behind. Left behind. Left behind.

  It’s my greatest fear and my current reality.

  By the time I’ve made it to the barn, sweat trickles down my back and my hair is plastered to my forehead. I can’t brush it back without leaning against something to support my strained body, so the locks cling to the edge of my face. I consider I’ve made a terrible mistake when I reach the barn door and realize I’ll need to grapple with the heaviness of the wood on a rusty track. Placing both hands on
the edge of the thick barrier, I force it to the side with renewed energy and almost face-plant when the door easily glides open.

  Did Jedd oil this old thing?

  I’ve faithfully listened to Jedd work for days, not being able to witness the progress hidden within the barn. Although I still get my daily dose of Nailed and Rehab Dad, watching him is better than any reality television. My attention has rarely waned from this project, which I’ve privately dubbed The Jedd Juncture. I no longer sit in the front room, gazing at the television. Rather, I find myself in the brighter light of my bedroom, glancing up at every opportunity from my favorite programs. I don’t know how I missed him fixing this vital mechanism or how he did it.

  When I ponder Jedd—his arm and his ability—I’m astonished at all it appears he can do. The hammering is constant. He’s building something out here. Construction. Progress. And I’m so curious. I’ve convinced myself that I’d walk in on a hodge-podge of misangled two-by-fours and crookedly hung plywood, but instead, I find a symmetrical structure in place. Working my way to the corner Jedd has sanctioned off, I peer inside where he’s missing a door. A camp cot with a sleeping bag over it and a single pillow rest against one wall with a crate as a makeshift nightstand beside it. A camping lantern sits on the crate along with two books. There’s some sort of bag under the cot of military grade material in dark, sand-colored canvas. A trunk rests at the end of the bed. Though it’s clean and comfortable looking, it doesn’t appear very homey.

  I realize as I scan the room that there is no electricity or heat. The nights are dropping in temperature. How does he stay warm out here? My eyes catch on another crate with canned goods and a few dry food packages. A case of water sits next to it. Mice would have a field day with the easy-to-chew food boxes, and I wonder for the first time in a week what Jedd’s been doing for meals.

 

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