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

by Smartypants Romance

  “Grizzly,” she chokes, but it comes out a crackle of surprise as she tugs the top of her robe together with one hand and then swipes at the towel on her head. “I... it’s been... ohmygod.” She turns for the hall, and the stampede of feet rushing up the staircase to the second floor echoes back to us.

  “Well, uhm...” A flustered Grizzly brushes his fingers through his mop of hair and turns toward us. “Jedd, bandages?”

  “Right,” he says, and he removes his hand from mine. When did he grab my hand, and why do I miss the warmth? He steps back, and I point at a drawer near the sink.

  “There might be some in the junk drawer.”

  When Jedd steps toward the drawer, making himself at home in my kitchen, he looks like he might belong here. He pulls out a box of adhesives and then a pad of paper. Rustling through the pens, rubber bands, and metal clips, he finds a pencil and scribbles something on the pad. He sets the pencil back in the drawer, picks up the box of bandages, and crosses the kitchen. I remain where I’ve been the entire time, near the stove, but focus on the paper on the counter until Jedd gets to the back door. He pauses and turns back to me.

  “For all the broken pieces, Bee. Call me when you’re ready.” He gives me a long stare before tugging the door closed behind him, and I’m left with another whispered warning that he means something other than cookies.

  Chapter Fourteen

  [Jedd]

  Beverly finally calls me, and I cross the yard for a gallon of cider, a mismatched collection of mugs, and some sloppily iced cookies shaped like a pine tree, a squash, and a capital H.

  “It’s a pumpkin,” she corrects. “I’m out of practice,” she clarifies on the frosting job, but my mouth waters all the same. I can’t remember the last time I had homemade cookies. Hell, I can’t remember the last time someone did anything so sweet for me, and whether she admits it or not, she did this as a peace offering to me and the guys.

  “They look delicious, Bee. The boys will love them.” I pause, glancing at the serving tray. “Where are the broken ones?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think you were serious. I didn’t frost them. They’re in that container.” A circular, plastic butter tub holds the broken cookies separate from the rest.

  “I told you I want all the pieces,” I remind her, and she shyly grins. I’ll take every scrap of her she’s willing to give, and something tells me Beverly is willing or at least wanting. Wanting more than what she has, more than who she is, and maybe even wanting me.

  “Come outside with me so the boys can thank you properly and you can see our progress.”

  She doesn’t argue but reaches for her arm crutches and stands from her seat at the table. She is getting better at maneuvering with them. She only needed more practice. She watches me as my claw hooks the tray, and my other hand grabs the opposite edge. The wheels spin, questioning my ability, and I’m ready to remind her I’m building a barn, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just follows me.

  My fingers twitch as I carry the tray, the desire to touch her greater than the force of a magnet. I want to draw her close again, run my fingers through her hair, and inhale her scent. Vanilla and heat is her fragrance today. Her skin is addicting. She’s a smooth plank compared to my sandpaper touch, but she still has rough edges and potential splinters that need sanding.

  “How are you paying these men for their time? You have endless funds or something?” Or something, I think as she interrupts my thoughts of caressing her neck. I decide to tell her the partial truth.

  “I’m paying them with a couple of cases of beer and some pizzas.” I chuckle, but Beverly stumbles. “You okay?” I’ll be ditching this tray if I think she’ll fall over. She’s shaky at best as she walks, robotic and stiff. Just out of practice, I remind myself, but she’s improving.

  “Yeah, I just...I don’t drink, so that’s a surprising payment.” Her face lowers toward the dirt at our feet.

  “You don’t drink? Like ever?” She doesn’t go out, but I assumed she drank an occasional glass of wine at home, but then I realize that’s insensitive. Maybe she’s on medication that shouldn’t mix with alcohol, or maybe she isn’t much of a drinker.

  “The accident,” she starts and abruptly stops. Was she hit by a drunk driver? Goddamn asshole, does he or she know what they did to her?

  “I was drunk, and I drove. I could have killed a man or myself. I vowed never to drink again.”

  I stop walking, stunned. What caused her to drink and drive? It’s a question I don’t ask. In fact, I take too long to respond as we’ve reached the edge of the construction. Kodiak sees me first, dropping his hammer to come assist me.

  “Cookies.” He grins like an eager child instead of a twenty-something adult. He pops a cookie into his mouth before he takes the tray from me and groans in pleasure. Beverly chuckles, and the sound surprises me. Rich. Deep. Heat rushes her cheeks despite the cool November air. Her grin is lopsided but genuine, and I want to frame this image of her in my memory. Actually, I want to kiss her, and the thought stumps me again.

  I’ve gone from wanting this land to wanting this woman.

  “What do you say?” I nod at Kodiak, dismissing my eager lips and ogling Beverly to remind him of his manners.

  “’Ank ’ew,” Kodiak mutters around a mouthful of cookie like a kid instead of a grown-up. He nods as he spins away, and I turn to Beverly. A strange desire to hold her envelops me. I want to pull her close and tell her it’s okay. We all make mistakes in life. We all bleed, and then we heal.

  Instead, I swallow a lump in my throat and dismiss what she told me. “I think it’s about to get as ugly as starved cannibals finding prey,” I tease.

  “It isn’t much.” A piece of hair blows across her face. The wayward tendril softens the sternness of her face, and not for the first time do I think Beverly could do with a little disheveling. She was wound too tight when her hair was bound, and her clothing wasn’t quite right for her shape. Her new haircut and color are surprisingly attractive. The white is so bright but fresh. Today, she wears new jeans and a thick sweater, and there’s a spark to her eyes as she stands in the sunshine and looks out over the land. The peaceful look reminds me of when she told me about her flowers.

  “Come up with any interests yet?”

  “Excuse me?” She rouses from her thoughts.

  “Interests. Think of something?”

  “Oh, not yet.” She squints as she looks off into the distance, and I follow her line of sight. Down this path, the trail narrows but leads to another house, another farmstead, one that no longer exists. It’s been swallowed into the Townsen property.

  “Whatcha thinking about then?”

  Beverly shakes her head and turns to me. “I was just recalling how when I first moved here, I thought it was a dream come true. All this land, this space, freedom to roam, but then it became a prison. I slaved on this property for Ewell and Howard. Then Ewell died, and Howard left. After the accident, it felt like solitary confinement, and I forgot how much I enjoyed the openness.” It’s the most honest thing Beverly’s said to me minus the drunk driving admission, and I’m taken aback. All the pieces, I decide. Eventually, we’ll have a complete cookie, one whole and crisp with smooth, decorative frosting, but for now, I’ll take the crumbs she gives me.

  Continuing with the surprises, Beverly also made up a pot of chili, which the boys devoured. We’d finished all the foundation work, and Beverly chuckled when she noted the stable building would take more than a day with six ornery men taking breaks to eat her treats.

  By nightfall, I’m exhausted from a day’s labor but rejuvenated with hope for the future. The prospect for Quarter Horses is coming along, and I have the go-ahead from my partner to purchase. The reality of my dream is taking shape even if I don’t own this land.

  Hasting, I curse. What a fucking idiot. How do you lose your family’s land? Then again, Hasting had issues, gambling being one of them, and then he used his son who didn’t understand the repercu
ssions of a big man’s game—poker. Boone liked card games, and Hasting used fifty-two pick up to teach Boone all kinds of stuff, but mainly how to cheat at high stakes. After decades of owning his family’s land, he squandered it on five cards, and I vow again that one day, I’ll reclaim what should have been mine, despite not being blood.

  I’m thinking these thoughts as I work the makeshift shower I designed in the barn. Running a hose to another corner of the large open space, I linked the rubber tube over a metal rod and hooked it in place with an S-hook. A showerhead on a pull string does the trick. An old wood pallet works as a base and keeps my feet from the dirt ground. It’s rustic and cold as ice cream on the tongue, but I’m clean. I’m tired of hiking over to Grady’s office for a wash, and while I don’t love a cool shower, it works on a night full of memories like this one.

  Boone. My kid brother was never a worker but a slacker, or so I thought until I realized he wasn’t quite like the rest of us. Boone could weasel his way out of hard labor like a mouse slipping through a hole the size of a pencil. He was equally as squeaky, going on and on if he was told to participate and stalling long enough for the day to end without much production from him. Mother babied him, and she was never as soft on Janice or me. I didn’t hate Boone. I understood he needed special treatment.

  No son of mine isn’t right in the head, Hasting would say. He’ll grow to be a man and own this land. I didn’t stick around to watch it not happen as Hasting had predicted.

  As I stand under a cold spray, hosing myself off, I’m reminded of being in the military and looking for any escape from things lost in this godforsaken Valley, which I loved in my heart but felt cheated from because of blood. The cool water pelts at my skin, and I absorb the shock of it. I circle it over my hair, allowing the shampoo to slither down my skin. I’ve removed my arm, so suds glide down my body as my hand holds the string to release the water from the hose. Liquid combined with soap splatters on my makeshift flooring when I hear a gasp.

  A camp light rests on a nail jutting out of an old barn beam, illuminating me. Releasing the pull, I scrub at my face to clear my vision and see Beverly outlined just inside the barn.

  “Bee.” My voice chokes as my hand lowers down my chest and cups myself, covering what I can. I twist at the waist, giving her my backside instead, while fighting the smile crossing my lips. She’s getting an eyeful either way. “Bee, honey, whatcha doing?”

  “I…” Her voice quickly falters, and incoherent stuttering follows. I crane my neck, looking over my shoulder as best I can.

  “Want to join me?” I tease, finding I can’t seem to help myself when she’s around. Flirting with her comes naturally. I like how she reacts—flustered and shocked—but also not mistaking my meaning and fighting a knowing grin when the innuendo clicks.

  “I…” I can’t hear her at this angle, so I spin to give her my better ear, noticing she’s closer than I expected, or I wouldn’t have heard her initial gasp. Risky little bee, buzzing closer, she eventually comes within the edge of the dim light of my lamp.

  “I can’t hear you, honey.” I release myself to point at my ear and chuckle when she turns her head away a little too late. I’m certain she’s seen the full package.

  “I thought you might be cold this evening. The weather is shifting, so I brought you a blanket.” I can’t reach for the threadbare towel I use to dry myself without releasing the goods once again. Her head remains to the side as if the most fascinating object is parallel my position.

  I want to be the most fascinating being in her view.

  “Beverly,” I snap, and her head twists in my direction. Her eyes meet mine and hold, but there’s only so long the staring game works before someone grows uncomfortable. I won’t break, but she does. Her eyes roam down my sternum, across hairs I can’t contain to the hand fighting off a growing erection. With the way she’s looking at me, my body can’t help but react, and I want to react in so many ways. I want to step off this plank and cross to her, cup her face and take her mouth. I want her to drop to her knees and use that mouth on me.

  It’s been a long time, man.

  I grew tired of the one-night stands. Chicks getting their rocks off with an injured soldier. Buckle bunnies hoping to find their own bucking bronco from the rodeo circuit.

  Beverly stares back at me, holding the blanket wrapped over a forearm as she balances on one brace.

  “It’s the blanket you told me to knit for you.”

  Without thinking, I step off the wet platform and into the dirt. The grit sticks to the pads of my feet and squishes through my toes, but my focus is on her.

  “It must be Christmas.” My voice lowers. “You’ve given me so many gifts today.”

  “I’m not very good at knitting.” Her eyes drop to my feet, and I wiggle my toes. A grin struggles on her lips, and once again, I want to take her mouth with mine. She’s a ripe peach ready to be devoured.

  “Another non-interest interest?” I tease.

  She shrugs. This woman needs more than a hobby. She needs a passion project, a labor of love. Hell, she needs love period, passion without question, and I want to give it to her. I want her to know what it’s like to be desired. My hand involuntarily reaches forward, eager for her skin, but she sets the blanket over it to prevent me from touching her. She shifts her eyes upward for the roofline. I’m naked as the day before this woman, and she’s refusing to look at me.

  “What would interest you, Bee?” My voice rumbles in my throat, struggling to keep from barking an order. Look at me!

  “Soap,” she blurts.

  “Soap?” I chuckle.

  “Yes.”

  “Soap?” I repeat.

  “Yes, I believe soap would interest me.”

  “Soap,” I tease, wondering if the interest comes from watching it caress my body.

  “Soapmaking,” she suggests.

  Soapmaking, echoes in my head, parroting her, only I’m no longer questioning the suggestion. Soapmaking is a science, like baking and cooking, growing flowers and testing soil. Is Beverly a scientist? “Bee, do you like to make things?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her tomatoes come to mind. “Do you like to grow things from scratch? Create something with your hands?” Don’t think of her hands, I warn. Especially with how close I stand to her, holding only a folded blanket before my naked body. I shiver with the thought of her hands on my skin, warming up the coolness rippling down my spine and the heat lingering lower.

  “I guess so.”

  “Bee, be confident. Yes or no.”

  “Yes.” She sighs, her voice still hesitant. “Yes, okay?” Better but still not a firm answer.

  “Soapmaking,” I repeat again, and an idea brews. “Beverly?” The sound of her name draws her attention back to me. Her eyes release from the nothingness above us and land on mine. I flip the blanket over my damp shoulder, knowing it covers my front but only barely, and then I cup her neck, pulling her toward me to kiss her cheek. “Thank you for the blanket.”

  She pulls back abruptly, her mouth gaping, but no words assault me. I’m making progress.

  I can’t wait to nestle into the thick knit knowing she made it for me, and I’m hopeful her scent lingers on it. My dick leaps behind the covering. Having Bee’s blanket over me might not be a good idea after all because I’m only going to envision her over me and me slipping into her.

  She nods, still not speaking, and hobbles away from me.

  “Hey, Bee, what happened to my cookie crumbs?”

  She pauses and turns back to me, her body in shadow in the dark. “I left the container on the back steps. I thought you took it.”

  I shake my head. “I never saw it.” Why didn’t she bring them to me like she brought me the blanket?

  “Good night, Jedd.” Her voice drifts to me through the darkness.

  “Night, Bee,” I whisper, still naked but warmed all over as I press her blanket to my chest and inhale. Sunshine and honey. It’s going t
o be a long night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  [Beverly]

  I hadn’t seen Jedd all the next day, which was a good thing as I was still working through my embarrassment at catching him in his makeshift shower. His physique is unparalleled to any living, breathing male I’ve ever seen. Despite the missing limb, Jedd is solid muscle. His chest. His thighs. His… Heat covers my cheeks when I consider what I saw. Even when I told myself not to look, it was the first thing I did. I couldn’t help myself. I’m drawn to him on a level I don’t understand.

  I purposely avoid sitting in my bedroom, fighting the temptation to peer out the window at the barn building progress or any other thing that might involve Jedd working as hard as he does. I feel guilty about the missing cookie pieces, and think I should have made him more treats. I didn’t find the container on the back steps this morning, but two sunflowers sit in its place. Jedd told me he hadn’t taken the butter tub. He also admitted he hadn’t left the flower the other day, so I can’t ignore the suspicion I suddenly have as to who the cookie-thief-slash-flower-giver is.

  I scan the yard through the front window, but I don’t have any hints as to where my secret admirer could be or where he came from; all I know is he’s out there. Feeling generous and a little tickled by the flower offerings, I’d left a sealed container with an extra helping of dinner on the steps after Hannah went to work. A Post-it note on the returned container held a single initial: B. It’s funny how I’ve always been Beverly. I’ve never been a fan of nicknames. Thought the reduction in a given name seemed like an insult. But being called Bee by Jedd, and now the singular letter B by this stranger, doesn’t feel so much like diminishing me, but more like a forbidden secret. Something private between me and the name giver. Jedd sees me as sharp and stinging but persistent, like the pollinator. The hidden homeless man sees me as something singular and unique. All the same, the new names suggest a new me.