The Hero I Need: A Small Town Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  We’re not quite halfway through my seven minutes of heaven. This is when it takes a detour through hell.

  Because a second later, the toe of my shoe catches on Grandpa Faulkner’s unseen pile of boots by the door. For another second, there’s just panic, a faint hope I might get lucky and avoid making a total fool of myself.

  Nope.

  Not today.

  The jarring sensation of my body spinning and hitting the floor proves one thing.

  I just ruined any hope the hottest boy in town ever had of eating this delicious pie by planting myself in it face-first.

  At least it isn’t so piping hot it hurts. Not physically.

  Emotionally? I’m dead.

  I think the only reason I’m not bawling when his strong arms lift me up is because I’m too freaking sticky, plastered in peach filling.

  “Tory, holy shit. Take my hand,” he growls, slipping his big fingers through mine. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  For the next minute, I’m just silent as a grave, counting how many times I must’ve dreamed of this moment, holding Quinn Faulkner’s hand.

  And not one of those dreams ever included being a hot mess of sticky hair, fruit filling, crust, and skin so red with shame I wonder if it’ll stain me crimson for life.

  Somehow, he’s still laughing, even as he brings me upstairs to the bathroom and fetches a washcloth from nowhere, wiping at my face.

  But it’s not a cruel, arrogant, look-at-what-a-klutz-you-are laugh.

  He’s too good for that.

  It’s kind, as if to say, no big deal. Peach-flavored shit happens.

  I’m a little less sticky when I grab the washcloth out of his hand and use it to blot at my face, trying to hide the tears, and failing.

  “I...I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I tried to do one nice thing for you and—”

  “And?” he echoes, snatching the damp cloth from my trembling hand and gently blotting peach goo off my cheek. “Last I checked, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “But you saw how clumsy I am!” I whine, tipping my face up to the ceiling.

  “I saw you practicing one hell of a talent act,” he whips back.

  For a second, I look down and glare at him, biting my lip. But the gentle, joking shine in his bright-green eyes is there to soothe me. Not taunt.

  He’s always been the older boy, but he’s also mature beyond his years.

  “Is this what you do when you go home to your fancy-schmancy dance routines?” he asks, that Oklahoma twang in his voice turning me to butter.

  “You think I planned this?” Shaking my head, I smile anyway at how absurd it is. “You think I wanted to look like a total ass in front of you and your grandpa?”

  “I mean...it’s a step up from the bees,” he says with a wink, referring back to the infamous time we met several summers ago. “And Gramps ain’t here. He’s in town today picking up jars for his honey.”

  “Okay, but all that effort...I made it for you guys and I ruined it. You never even got a chance to taste—”

  I flinch as he runs his finger over my cheek, wiping a small dab of peach off my skin. Then I watch in disbelief as he plucks it into his mouth, taking his sweet time licking his finger.

  Oh my God.

  I pull my messy hair over my face like a shield.

  Bad idea, probably, when blushing this hard could set my face on fire.

  “Tastes like summer to me. Sugary, sweet, just a little tangy, and...oh, wait a minute.”

  I freeze in terror as he frowns, deep in thought.

  “Yeah, I think it tastes just a little bit like an overachieving whiner who thinks I’m gonna send pictures of her peach-splattered face to her family, her friends, her teachers, all her future bosses, and every dude who wants to date her.” His eyes practically fuse with mine as he smiles.

  “Idiot!” I snap, punching him in the arm. “Be serious. I’m trying to apologize.”

  “And I’m telling you, there’s no need. Shit happens. You’ll bring over a new pie when you feel like it and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  Right.

  Like it’s just that easy.

  But the twinkle in his eyes insists it is.

  “You’re the worst,” I say, grabbing the washcloth again so I can scrub away the smile I’m fighting. “I’ll never live it down. And what kind of man wants a girl who makes a mess like this? He’d probably be scared I’ll hit him in the face with a pie, sooner or later.”

  “Plenty of guys, Peach. I promise you. You’re gonna make some dude ecstatic.”

  My eyes dart up, fully expecting to see another playful and annoyingly gorgeous smirk etched on Quinn’s face.

  Only, there’s not a shred of fun in those emerald fire eyes.

  None of the usual clown sarcasm.

  He’s stone-cold serious.

  And I try to blame every last bit of the searing hot blood rushing to my face on the pie mishap as my seven minutes and twenty seconds to heaven expires.

  That’s how long it takes for him to save me for the second of many times in my life.

  It’s also how long it takes me to fall from schoolgirl infatuation to head over heels in love with Quinn Faulkner.

  * * *

  Nine Years Later

  Life is a whole series of firsts.

  The rush of a first kiss with an impossible boy on a sticky summer day.

  The first disappointment of that damning B on a Euro history test your overachieving butt busted itself over.

  The first time your adult self steps into a small town that still feels magical, even though you’re far too old for that kinda thinking anymore.

  And then there’s your first time with goats.

  “Come on, guy, why are you looking at me like that? It’s not like I planned on winding up a goat wrangler in Dallas, North Dakota,” I tell Owl, the huge black hill of a dog sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He’s looking at me now, turning away from staring out the truck’s windshield like my copilot.

  Honestly, he is my copilot on this journey. The only one I can depend on when the time comes to turn loose a dozen bleating, horned eating machines on a couple overgrown acres.

  “You know, I could be dancing on Broadway right now,” I whisper to the Tibetan Mastiff. “If it wasn’t for this bum knee...”

  I glance at the dog. His big almond-shaped brown eyes settle on me, and he blinks lazily. Just once before turning his square block of a head back to gazing at the hills rolling by.

  He’s not impressed.

  Fair enough.

  I’m not either.

  Deep down, I think I always knew I’d fall short. A Spidey-sense warning me my dancing career wouldn’t last forever.

  Heck, how many dancers are still tearing up the spotlight in their forties?

  Trouble is, I’m not even thirty years old yet. I still had over a decade to go, and if I’d just gotten to Broadway...you’d better believe I’d have slayed.

  “Wanna know a secret, Owl? It wasn’t my fault,” I tell him, mainly because this shaggy beast is the closest thing I have to a true confidant now. “It wasn’t even an accident. The bitch tripped me—on purpose.”

  I get another dull look from him.

  “I’m serious. Swear to God. Madeline Shafer. She’d make you lick salt in Death Valley if she thought she could get away with it. Fake blonde hair, long legs, and no tits.” I glance down at my own rather flat chest with a sigh. “I mean, meh boobs kinda come with the territory. I’ve done enough cardio for ten lifetimes.” I huff out a breath. “The fact that I’m almost up to a B-cup might be the only good thing about sitting on my ass for months.”

  Owl’s big brown doggie eyes land on my hair. Probably because sitting on the seat the way he is makes him taller than me.

  I feel like he should be wearing the seat belt, but I couldn’t figure out how that would do anything except get him tangled up and annoyed. He’s still
staring at my hair with his meaty pink tongue flopped out as I touch my ponytail, making sure it’s intact.

  “I thought dogs couldn’t appreciate bright colors? I’ll have you know I kept these pink highlights from my last big show. Jean-Paul swore I’d be center stage, but I guess Madeline talked him into other plans. I still can’t help but wonder if they schemed it together.”

  My teeth grit together. A wave of ice-cold sadness strikes as I glance in the rearview mirror at the stock trailer I’m pulling.

  The one full of goats.

  Forget Broadway, prestigious dance halls, two-timing competitors, and cheating exes. This is my life now in Dallas. Hauling around Rent-A-Goats for my lazy slug of an uncle, bless his heart.

  “Never mind,” I tell the dog, swallowing my frustration. “But having pink highlights in brown hair is no easy task. They had to strip all the color out of those sections, so for a week I was walking around with white stripes, looking like some kind of overgrown skunk. Then Cheryl, she’s my—was my—hairdresser, put in the pink. Bright neon pink. You should’ve seen it, Owl. I basically glowed in the dark. This is after two months, so it’s pretty faded now.” I release a heavy sigh. “Good things don’t last forever. I’m not going through the process of having my hair stripped again.”

  He leans forward then, laying his big scrunched muzzle on the dashboard with a hint of drool.

  “Jeez, sorry to bore you!”

  He lets out a long grumble-sigh, no doubt counting down the seconds until he’s free to flop down on Uncle Dean’s porch again without a care in the world.

  Who can blame him?

  My personal tragedy only makes sense to yours truly. To anyone else, it’s one more dream that fell short.

  But I’m so bright, they tell me. Good education, good looks, and oh-so-pleasant. Hey, my parents are even rich.

  I can reinvent myself and do practically anything.

  I’m young. I’m smart. I’ll figure it out.

  And sometimes I take a second to count my blessings and realize they’re almost right. Almost.

  But if I had my druthers? I’d still be in Chicago, dancing my heart out, working toward the day when people would spend exorbitant sums on tickets to see the fantabulous Tory Redson-Riddle-Coffey.

  Yeah, I’m certain the Queen Bitch tripped me intentionally, right in the middle of a double cabriole.

  Madeline was in line behind me. There was no reason whatsoever for her to have gotten close enough to bump into me.

  Her little oopsie sent me crashing down face-first, narrowly avoiding a broken nose. The way my knee hyperextended meant nasty surgery to repair the torn ligaments and a ruptured tendon.

  I still have over three more months of real healing before I can even consider slow dancing again. Light exercise and a few other physical therapy exercises are all I’m allowed to do right now.

  Good thing the goats and Owl do ninety-nine percent of the work on this gig, or so I’ve been told.

  The dog sits up and lets out a low woof a split second before my phone’s navigation tells me I’ll need to turn in a quarter mile.

  “How’d you know?” I ask him.

  He barks again, but because I don’t speak canine, I have no idea what he’s saying.

  “Good dog.” I flip on the blinker.

  He is a good dog from what I’ve seen. This will be our first time truly working together, besides loading the goats into the stock trailer back at Uncle Dean’s place.

  Owl pretty much did that part all by himself.

  I swear, if he had hands instead of paws, he wouldn’t have even needed me to pull down the ramp or open the trailer doors.

  “Ever met this guy before?” I ask, turning down the long dirt road leading up to the grand country estate on a hill. “Our client today is no less than Ridge Barnet, the famous actor.”

  I grin. I haven’t ever met him since I came back here, but he’s still the talk of the town.

  I’ve heard the same story over a dozen times from so many people, how the billionaire actor moved here over a year ago and got himself in a mighty big pickle with a girl being chased by some bad guys her dad owed money to.

  It had a happy ending, of course.

  All the best stories do.

  A sham engagement, a whirlwind romance, a gaggle of villains brought to justice.

  Dallasfolk seem just as grateful to Ridge for giving them something to boast about as they are for the times when he let half the town put their drinks on his tab.

  I’m still thinking it over when Owl barks, just as my phone navigation speaks. Our destination is a mile ahead, on the right, underscoring just how big the Barnet ranch is.

  We drive past a small herd of cattle grazing on a hill. They’re the start of big plans for this ranch from what I’ve heard, though last fall they had plenty of business in the run up to Halloween.

  “Uncle Dean says the Barnets want this land cleared for more pumpkins,” I tell the dog, shaking my head at the thought of a rich and famous badass movie star growing freaking pumpkins. “Can you believe it?”

  It seems so odd, but maybe it’s his wife’s pet project or something. Almost as odd as the fact that I’m talking to a dog and half expecting him to answer.

  “Funny, I can’t remember who owned this property years ago when I spent summers here with Granny, but I know it’s next to Reed land. You know, North Earhart Oil fame, where half the town works. Old man Reed’s granddaughter liked to come here and spend summers with him. We used to play together as kids. Bella was a cool lady.”

  Owl barks as soon as I say her name.

  “You know her? Oh, wait,” I say, snorting before he can bark another answer. “Don’t tell me. Is that horse still alive? Edison? He must be a dinosaur by now. Like, two hundred in horse years. People always swore he was half dog, so I guess you’d get along. Maybe because dogs are supposed to be smarter than people.”

  Owl lets out an agreeable woof twice in quick succession.

  I laugh. “I’m glad you’re so opinionated. This job would get lonely if you were the strong, silent type.”

  His brown doggie eyes land on me again.

  “Hey. Don’t get me wrong, you’re plenty strong, my dude. What do you weigh, anyway? Probably more than me.”

  He barks again, tossing his head.

  I can’t help but lose it again.

  Look, if I’m slowly going crazy, I’ll do it laughing.

  The synthetic voice on my phone says our destination is on the right. We’ve arrived.

  Finally.

  I stop the truck and look out the window. Sure enough, there’s a big patch of overgrown brush in the center of the field, along with two big trees. I recognize it from the photos.

  Uncle Dean said Ridge and his family fenced this area off last year when they ran the pumpkin patch, so all I have to do is deliver the goats, let them roam free, and their endless appetite will do the rest.

  I thought it was a joke at first when my uncle swore a few goats could clear a whole patch of land in hours, eating up almost anything that grows. But I’ve done my due diligence online and seen the living, bleating proof.

  Now, I’m actually a little excited to see it in person.

  There’s a metal gate connected to the barbed wire fence that runs the length of the property, both running parallel to a good-sized trench.

  I can see how this area was recently fenced off from the rest of the field, but there isn’t a driveway or gravel approach for me to back the trailer over the ditch and into the field. Hmmm.

  “Well, Owl, looks like you’re going to have to lead our little friends through the ditch and up into the field. Are you up for that?”

  He plants his massive paws on the center console and stands up like a furry soldier. With his black bushy tail curled up over his back, brushing the headliner of the truck, he barks again.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I shut off the engine and open my door. “Hold on, I’ll get your door.”
/>
  He lets out a whimper and wags his tail harder. I wonder if he’s just excited to get to work or away from my loud mouth, permanently set to TMI.

  Owl doesn’t wait for me to come to his side. I slide out of my seat, step outside, and barely scramble out of the way before he flies across the driver’s seat and lands on the ground beside me with a whomp!

  “So nimble!” I tell him proudly, scratching his huge head. “Just try not to knock me over next time, okay?”

  He really is quite the dog, looking like he was just flown in from the Himalayas. Owl could probably give old Edison a run for his money in the IQ department.

  Maybe that’s his goal in life, who knows?

  We all have big dreams.

  And when some dreams go sour, we either conjure up new ones or go insane.

  Today, my new dream is in sight, making a successful venture out of my uncle’s latest harebrained scheme. Pretty much what Uncle Dean does best.

  He’d started up the Rent-A-Goat business earlier this spring, billing it as a fast, all-organic solution to the many properties here in rural North Dakota that need weeds and brush cleared. He promised every farmer in earshot that his crew can chew through anything, leaving no chemicals and no mess.

  Easy-peasy.

  Except Uncle Dean threw his back out the week after he landed his first three clients.

  So he claims.

  Ironically, that happened right after I got here.

  Surprise, surprise.

  I’m the one who’s supposed to be recovering from surgery, and he bribed me into doing his work for him. Still, I’d rather deal with Dallas family drama any time than what’s waiting for me at home.

  True recovery wasn’t happening in Chicago with all the stress there, so Granny said I should pay her a visit, or she’d pay me one anyway and drag me home with her.

  My parents—especially my father, who was born and raised in Granny’s little house—fought it tooth and nail. That alone said it was the right move.

  I think I’m the only one living outside North Dakota who still appreciates this place.

  Dad hightailed it out of the sticks as soon as he turned eighteen, and the few times he’d returned were to drop me off with Gran or pick me up again.