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

by Smartypants Romance

  “Do not tell me what to do!” The power of my lungs surprises me as I holler into the night, thankful only a moment later when I realize I’m angled at the left side of Jedd’s body, aimed at the ear he can hardly hear in. My voice cracks as the bellow echoes through the empty air. It feels good; it feels damn good to scream at the top of my lungs.

  Do not tell me what to do.

  I’m firing up to add, “Don’t tell me what I can’t do, either,” when my body is free-falling. Jedd has released me, and for less than a second, I’m weightless until I hit ice-cold water, and my body’s submerged in the frigid liquid.

  I’m too stunned to speak, and the second scream lodges in my throat. I sputter. I choke. But I do not respond to my new surroundings.

  “Mr. Flemming…” Hannah stammers, catching up to us on the side of the barn. “Momma,” she shrieks, stepping forward, taking in my new position inside a deep tub full of rainwater. Her head twists from me to Jedd and back. As she speaks to him, her eyes widen on me. She reaches for my hands. “Mr. Flemming, she didn’t mean it. She’s just hurting. She’s upset.”

  “Don’t defend her,” Jedd states, stepping between my daughter and the tub. His dark eyes laser focus on me as I shiver, clothes soaked to my skin, and the cold seeping deeper.

  What did I say?

  What have I done?

  “What your momma suggested was reprehensible, and I will not listen to anyone, momma or not, speak to her child like that, insinuating you have impure thoughts of me and suggesting I’d reciprocate such notions. I’ll ask you again, Beverly Townsen, just who do you think you are?”

  I glare up at him, my lip trembling and my body quivering. I’d laugh, but there isn’t anything funny about what he’s said. This—swimming in a tub of rain for the pure enjoyment of it—was the kind of mischief I’d get myself into when I was a teen. But now, in my condition, and with what Jedd has accused of me, after I’ve thrown accusations at both him and my daughter, this goes on the list of things I’ll be needing to ask forgiveness for.

  I don’t respond to him, but I sense my daughter fighting to get around him, his solid mass holding firm as a barrier between me and her. Jedd’s and my eyes are locked on one another, drilling holes into each other, disembodying each of us more than we are already disembodied.

  “Why would you do this?” my daughter shrieks.

  “Because she needed to cool off.” His eyes continue to glare at me, ice forming in them that rivals the temperature of the water around me.

  “I hate you, Jedd Flemming,” I yell, cupping my palm and using it to force water upward, splattering his flannel shirt. He doesn’t flinch, but Hannah shrieks a second time.

  “Yeah, well, you’re no Georgia peach, Beverly Townsen. God gave you two legs, which you still have.” He shakes his arm at me to emphasize his point. “And you’re squandering the ability you do have and draining this girl in the meantime.”

  “You have it all wrong, Mr. Flemming,” Hannah murmurs behind him, losing her fight to get around him. She looks at me, her drenched mother, sitting in a trough of water, and all I can see is pity in her eyes.

  “What am I going to do with you?” those eyes read.

  “What do you want me to do with her, Pa?” Howard whined.

  “Marry her,” Ewell demanded. A pity proposal. Howard had never loved me.

  “I don’t have it wrong,” Jedd corrects. “I see you, Bee. And that tongue of yours sure can sting. That’s one thing you’re capable of, but you’re also very capable of being more than a pesky pollinator.” I’d laugh at his alliteration if I wasn’t so angry with him, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life, maybe even angrier than the night I went after Howard.

  “You see nothing, Mr. Flemming,” I screech, pushing more water in his direction and watching him hold firm as the drops settle on his shirt. He doesn’t budge.

  “I see more than you realize, but maybe that’s it. You aren’t looking anymore, Bee, and what you need is a good, long look at yourself.”

  I slap the water around me like a petulant child, allowing the heavy droplets to jump in the air and then cascade back to the tub. My body numbs under the cold temperature, but for the first time in a long time, I feel. I feel the heat of my anger, the beat of my heart, and the rightness in his words. I do need to look at myself, but I’m afraid—afraid of what I’ll see, and even more afraid that I’m not going to like the result.

  Chapter Nine

  [Beverly]

  Jedd has his arm around Hannah’s waist, gently walking her backward toward the house. He leaves me sitting in the tub to fend for myself and makes certain Hannah doesn’t help. Or maybe he’s making sure I don’t get in my own way by enabling her to assist me.

  I grip the edges of the metal container, finding I don’t have the strength to press myself upward. Between the lacking physical ability and the cold settling into my bones, I am not going be able to lift my own body, so I sort of roll out of the tub, like a giant fish flipping over the edge, and land with a thump on the hard, dirt-packed ground. I’m wet…and dirty. All I keep thinking about is how humiliating it is going to be to crawl to the house.

  I hate Jedd Flemming.

  I hate him more than Howard, yet, at the same time, I admire him. This sick dichotomy is what keeps abused women with their abusers, but Jedd isn’t abusing me. I’m mad. Flaming mad. Ready-to-dismember-him mad. But not because he’d been exceptionally cruel by throwing me in a bin of frigid water, but because he’d been cruel enough to force me to face myself.

  I am not happy. I have not been happy for years.

  But it runs deeper than admitting my failing emotion.

  I didn’t know how to be happy.

  Would better use of my legs make me content? Would the ability to work my land bring satisfaction? Or is it something greater than just physical exhilaration? I have no idea, just as I can’t answer Jedd about my personal interests. When was the last time I’d done something for me, something I wanted to do?

  Before the accident?

  Before Howard left?

  Before I even came to this farm?

  I can’t remember.

  With shaky limbs, I press up to three—hands and one knee. My left leg stiffens, the knee refusing to bend, and like a foal learning to stand within moments of birth, I struggle forward. My left side lags.

  Left behind. Left behind. Left behind.

  Only, I don’t feel as empty as I have. I don’t feel deserted, but rather entranced. I’m crawling toward something. Toward something bigger than my legs. Bigger than me. Straight ahead is the house. My house. The place I live and own and need to take better care of.

  Straight ahead. Straight ahead. Straight ahead.

  A new motto chants through my epiphany, pulling me forward and not allowing me to look back. I’ve spent so much time and energy on the past, waiting—so much waiting—for answers. Answers that I’ll never get. Would any of them matter?

  Howard cheated on me.

  Would there be any explanation in the world that could take away the pain of discovering he broke his vows to love and honor?

  No, no there wouldn’t.

  Howard abandoned us.

  Would there be any justification for him deserting his child and dismantling our family unit?

  Nope again.

  While I want answers, what would they give me? Words. They would just be words, not redemption, or retribution, or any other -tion. Only words.

  I crawl a few more painstakingly slow paces before I sense something on my lower back. I catch my breath when I see feet at my side, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder how I missed Jedd returning to help me. Until I glance over my shoulder to find a giant of a man who is not Jedd. I twist at the waist, falling on my backside, which is already bruised from slipping out of the tub. Scrambling back on all fours, I awkwardly crab-crawl away from the beast before me who slowly shakes his head.

  No, no, no, the vigorous head motion seems to say,
and dark, dark eyes peer through bushy long hair surrounding his face with a mop of a beard hanging off his chin. He stands to his full height but holds up his hands in surrender.

  “Who are you?” I ask, but he continues to turn his head, slowing as he lowers a hesitant hand for his lips, tapping them with two fingers, either for my silence or emphasizing his.

  Hannah and I have lived on this desolate farm for a long time without a neighbor. The nearest house to be seen in the distance, the old Crawford estate, is much farther than it appears. Ewell warned us never to go there. Something about the youngest son not being right in the head. Howard obtained the place in a poker game. Men and their cards. Despite all that, I’ve never been frightened to live out here until this moment. I flip to my front and crawl as best I can, three-legged and stiff-kneed. I should scream. I should call for help, but I can’t. My throat is paralyzed as all my concentration goes to moving forward.

  Straight ahead. Straight ahead.

  An arm circles my waist, lugging me upward like I weigh nothing more than half a bale of hay. My throat remains clogged, but I attempt a scream. What comes out is a hoarse rasp weakly croaking for help. My hands fist, then pound at his thick arm, which is the size of a small tree trunk. My leg kicks, only one working as the cold has settled in the other. Eventually, my heel jerks, knocking into the heavy leather of the long coat covering his shin. My foot then connects with a thick boot, making no headway in deterring this bear-man. In an attempt to scream again, I take a deep breath, inhaling his wretched scent—ripe like a dead animal and unwashed body—and my nose wrinkles in disgust.

  “Put me down,” I crow, my voice still not strong enough to imitate my ire. Fear chokes me, but my body still reacts—punching, kicking, squirming.

  And then I’m set down on my porch steps.

  As my hands fall to the wood, catching myself before I face plant on the risers, I twist at the waist, spinning to face my…attacker. No, not my attacker, my savior…my guardian angel.

  “What do you want?” My throat is rough as if from disuse as adrenaline settles into the question. I’m shaking uncontrollably from a mixture of cold and shock. His eyes shift from side to side, darting to me without looking directly at me and then away. I inch up the back steps, one cautious movement at a time while he remains stationary a few feet from the base stair.

  “Shoo,” I hiss, but he remains still. If his mouth moved in response, I’d never see it under the thick beard. There’s no hint of a sound from him when I kick forward as if brushing him away from me.

  “Shoo,” I repeat like he’s a raccoon come for my tomato plants. I knock into a pot as I climb, keeping my eyes on him, but wave a hand forward as if I could sweep him away.

  “Get out of here,” I yell louder, exerting power I don’t feel as I threaten this stranger three times my size. He takes one step back, eyes lowered to the ground as if bowing to me. Then another. And then another, and finally, he pivots, walking down the path to the overgrown fields. There’s nowhere to hide him, if he’s hiding, and no way to determine where he came from in that direction. He’ll walk for a long while before he reaches woods if he’s a homeless man hanging among the trees.

  Should I be afraid of a homeless man in the woods so close to my home?

  I should.

  But I’m stumped by his actions, and the realization of where I sit and how I got here without harm.

  I should be afraid of him, but I’m more frightened to open the back door and face my daughter.

  Hannah sits at the kitchen table, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed from crying. Her finger draws an invisible image on the tabletop. It’s evident in the expression on her face that I’ve broken my daughter’s heart, and it’s not the first time. While she unwittingly gave up her dream of college and life thereafter, it has been my fault she fell onto the path where her life has led—nowhere but home. I’m certain her decision not to return to college or pursue a career was disheartening but perhaps not as equivalent to the level of pain I’ve caused her from my words tonight.

  And while I want to tell my child to grow a thick skin against the heartbreaks of this life, I bite my tongue instead because I don’t want to be the cause of more heartache for her.

  She glances upward as I make my way through the back door, balancing hand-over-hand on objects as my cold, underused legs tremble. She makes no attempt to stand and help me, and for the first time, I’m glad. I don’t snap at her for support, but focus on myself, watching where I place my hands to round the counter and then lunge for a chair. My clothes are no longer a waterfall of droplets but more a drip-and-drop of residual rainwater. Hannah sits up straighter in her seat as if she intends to reach out for me, and it takes all her strength to refrain from the action.

  I don’t want her help.

  When I finally sit, Hannah lowers her eyes to the table and resumes her invisible drawing. An apology from me will never be enough for what I’ve done, so I don’t say anything. Silence ticks between us.

  “Is that what you really think of me, Momma? Do you think I’m a watered-down hooker?”

  “I didn’t say that.” My voice returns to its typical edge, and I take a deep breath. “I did not say you were a woman of the night.”

  “But you think I am, don’t you, Momma? You think I’m selling my body for the pleasure of men?”

  “I think…” I take another deep inhale. “I think you’ve sold yourself short. You’re so much better than this. So much more than what you do. You’ve given up your education, put a career on hold, and stripping has turned into your life’s course when it shouldn’t have.”

  Hannah’s bright eyes widen as she stares back at me. “You needed me, Momma.”

  “I did, sunshine, but I didn’t mean to take over your life and become your responsibility.”

  “You know I don’t feel that way,” she states, but the undercurrent to her soft voice tells me my daughter has had to convince herself of such sentiment. I’m the parent. She’s the child. It was my honor and obligation to raise her, and I did it as any parent should—selflessly. But at some point, I became selfish, and I let her take the lead on duty and dedication.

  “I think you don’t know how to feel because all you’ve thought of for too long is me, and I’m in the same position. I’ve only thought of myself without regard for you. There’s guilt—layers upon layers of guilt—because I should have pushed you more. The same mother who was adamant you go off to school should have been adamant you return.”

  “It might be too late. I’m almost thirty.” Hannah sighs.

  “I’m going to hope it’s never too late, honey. For anything.” I want to believe what I say, but it’s going to be difficult. It’s going to take a new mindset. There have been so many adjustments in my life, and I don’t adjust well. “And I’m going to start by hoping I’m not too late to apologize for what I said earlier.”

  Hannah’s shoulders fall, and her gaze drifts to the kitchen sink. “Do you really think I’d sleep with Jedd? He’s like…Howard’s age.” A shiver of disgust filters through her tone, distantly calling her father by his name as though he’s an acquaintance instead of the man who produced her.

  “Some girls have daddy issues and do that kind of thing.” For a half a second, I realize I watch too much daytime television. However, I do not lust over any of the talk show drama like I worship home improvement shows. “I don’t think you’d do anything of the sort, unless you are attracted to an older man, which I’m not saying is wrong, I just…” I pause, taking in the singular wave to my daughter’s hair, the color and shine a natural blend of blond and chestnut streaks. She’s so beautiful, and men of all ages would be attracted to her. “I’m not sure I know anything about you anymore.”

  “Me either,” she mutters, staring down at her thumbnail on the table. She stops her drawing and flattens her palm.

  “I’d like to get to know you,” I say, lowering my voice.

  “I’m a stripper at the Pink Pony who a
lso works as a hostess at the Front Porch.” Her tone turns colder and sarcastic, which isn’t like my girl.

  “I mean, I want to know more about you than those two things, which don’t define who you are.”

  “You make me feel like they do.” Another brick of guilt stacks on my wall. “I take care of you, Momma. Don’t you think I’ve done a good job?” Her questioning tone is full of hesitation, frustration, and a bit of fear.

  “An excellent job,” I say. My voice falters as tears prickle my eyes because this is how my daughter sees herself—as my caregiver. “But there’s more than job titles to you.”

  I pause and lick my lips. “Speaking of jobs, I don’t have one, but I need to get one.”

  “You can’t work, Momma.” Her voice returns to her typical softness, and I hear the undercurrent clear as sunshine. She’s telling me in her tempered voice who I am, enabling me, and I have believed her because of the sweet octaves in that tone. My daughter has turned me into Pavlov’s dog a bit, salivating while she insults me in a voice meant to soothe and show she cares. She does care, but this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

  “I can work,” I state, sitting up a little straighter. For a second, a vision of Jedd filters through my head. Hannah was correct. Jedd has two arms; they just appear different from each other. “I don’t know what I’ll do, or how I’ll do it, but I’ll do something.” Now, I just need to repeat that mantra about a million more times until I believe it, but the point is to let my child know it’s time for her to loosen the reins. Time to be who she needs to be so I can discover who I am…without her.

  “Momma,” Hannah drones in disbelief, and I acknowledge that we will respectfully disagree just as we disagree about my wheelchair, my crutches, my capabilities, and her employment. “What about your hobbies?”

  “I hate tomatoes,” I admit. “And I don’t knit very well.”

  “You knit just fine, and you love your tomatoes.”

  “I don’t want to do fine,” I state, my voice rising a little in irritation. “And my interest in tomatoes has waned.” Happiness might be found in never seeing a tomato again.