by Jean Oram
“What’s the special today?” Brant asked Mrs. Fisher, ignoring Henry so he wouldn’t end up in a scuffle with the old man.
She gave him a dry look, one hand on her aproned waist. “The same it’s been for the last fifteen years.”
“What day is today?” Brant asked.
“She’s already sucked the mind out of you,” Henry grumbled bitterly.
“The honeymoon was that good?” Mrs. Fisher smirked, causing Jackie to giggle.
“Friday, right?” Brant stated. Glorious Friday. Date night and the weekend were calling him. “Give me the shepherd’s pie.”
“It’s 9:30 a.m. Thursday, and you already ordered this.” Mrs. Fisher placed a heated apple cinnamon muffin in front of him along with a pat of butter. She shook her head and exchanged another look with Jackie, adding, “The barn’s booked for the reception, by the way.”
“Already?” Brant asked.
She swatted the counter with a tea towel. “We don’t slack on things like that.”
“The last Saturday of the month,” Jackie interjected. So eight days away. “The day after Cole’s welcome back party.”
Henry shook his head, a flyaway strand of white hair near the top of his head waving. “It won’t happen.”
“What won’t?” Brant asked.
“The reception. Everyone knows you’re just doing that fake-boyfriend thing you always do to help the ladies, so you can get a little something-something on the side.”
Brant choked, and Mrs. Fisher gave a disapproving tsk.
“It’s never been like that,” Brant said darkly.
He opened his mouth to lay into his uncle, but Henry raised his voice as he said, “I ain’t getting you a gift.”
“That’s fine.” Brant stood.
“Their marriage is real,” Jackie protested. “Have you not seen the way they look at each other?”
“I can’t believe my brother raised such a group of fools,” Henry replied, leaning to the side to fish his wallet out of his pocket.
Brant sat down again, then shoved a chunk of muffin in his mouth so his uncle could safely leave without getting a tongue-lashing.
“Fiona, you and I could run up to the chapel next year,” Garfield Goodwin said, sliding onto Henry’s stool as soon as he vacated it. Henry threw up his arms, his cheeks red.
“I haven’t even paid yet and you’re stealing my seat!”
Garfield ignored him, giving Mrs. Fisher a cheeky grin.
She scowled. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m a happily married woman?”
Jackie sucked in an audible breath at her fierce tone, shooting Brant a look.
“Can I get my bill?” he asked, chugging the last of his coffee. Mrs. Fisher refilled the cup as soon as he set it down, one hand on her hip as she continued to glower at Garfield.
“Well, the ol’ memory isn’t as good as it once was,” the man drawled. “So I reckon you’re gonna have to tell me quite a few times. Until I believe it.”
Jackie leaned back behind Garfield and lowered her head. “Better pray for him, real quick,” she muttered to Brant.
Elbow on the counter, he propped his forehead on his palm. Time to duck and cover, seeing as they couldn’t safely flee.
When he finally hazarded a peek at Mrs. Fisher, she was giving Garfield a look so dark Brant feared for him. “Don’t you talk like that, Mr. Garfield Goodwin. My marriage is none of your business. William and I have a relationship you will never understand.”
As though realizing he had crossed the line, the man lifted his hands and lowered his gaze.
Mrs. Fisher laid into him, her voice loud enough for the whole diner to hear. “You should know me well enough to know that when I commit to someone, it’s for the long haul. You gave up on Sally like an ice cream cone that fell on the sidewalk on a hot summer’s day, but when I agree to for better or for worse, I’m keeping my word, even if some days it’s a melted mess.”
“I meant no harm, Fiona,” Garfield said meekly.
“No matter what!” She thumped a fist on the counter, causing the line of coffee cups to jump. “You hear?”
“What I said was offside,” Garfield mumbled.
“Completely out of line,” Henry agreed, still lingering.
Brant glanced at his uncle with a warning shake of his head. At this point it was better to remain silent.
“I apologize from the bottom of my heart, and I will strive to do better,” Garfield said humbly, then rose to his feet and left.
Mrs. Fisher gave a shaky sigh, as though brushing thoughts of the man from her mind, then began pouring coffee again, topping up everyone’s cups. “True love isn’t a whim. It’s forever.” Her mouth tightened with emotion and Brant’s admiration for the woman rose substantially.
“Marriage is nothing but a bother,” Henry retorted, sitting again.
Brant knew that was wrong. He was looking for what Mrs. Fisher had. Something more than a whim, that lasted over the long haul. For better or for worse.
Humming to himself, Brant padded down the hallway toward the master bedroom in April’s house. Kurt had fallen asleep in his own bed, midstory, and Brant was feeling optimistic about his own bedtime. He passed the bathroom and then backtracked. April was studiously staring at herself in the mirror, the kitchen scissors aimed at her bangs.
“What are you doing?” he asked, noting the drifts of brown hair surrounding her on the floor.
“Cutting my hair,” she replied, not looking his way. She was holding her mouth at a funny angle, the scissors waving unsteadily as she tried to figure out which way to move them in the mirror’s reversed image.
“Is this why your bangs are always crooked?” he asked in amusement. Was there anything this woman wasn’t willing to try? She was either the bravest or craziest person he knew.
She lowered the scissors, looking at him. “They’re not crooked.” She turned back to the mirror, fingering various strands to check the fringe above her eyebrows, then let out a huff. “Well, they aren’t bad, considering I cut them myself.” She gave her head a shake, resettling her bangs, then raised the scissors again and took a few vertical snips.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking away some bluntness.”
“You missed a chunk over here,” he said, moving behind her. She smelled wonderful, and the nearness of her body was awakening his. With a lopsided grin, he pinched the lock between his fingers.
When April took aim with her scissors, he had an image of her taking off too much, so stepped between her and the mirror. “Let me.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t relinquish the sheers. “What do you know about cutting hair?”
“That people shouldn’t cut their own.”
“Tons of people do.”
“Yeah, semibald men. They take one of those razors and give themselves a buzz cut. It’s a very attractive look for women, too,” he said dryly.
“It saves me time and money,” she protested.
“I don’t think this is somewhere in life where it’s worth saving time and money.”
“You couldn’t even tell I was cutting my own hair until you saw me in here.”
“I just thought you’d spilled some awful gossip about Emma Sue down at the Big Hair Salon behind her back, and she was avenging herself by giving you crooked bangs.”
April gave a pouty frown as though attempting to be mad. She was adorable, and Brant laughed, saying affectionately, “Come here.”
She handed him the scissors and straightened her spine, holding her head level. “Rescue me from crooked bangs, almighty man.”
“This happens to be my specialty,” Brant said calmly.
“Just remember I’m a human—your wife. Someone you want to be seen in public with, and not someone’s shaggy mutt who’s getting eye infections because their mangy mane keeps falling into their eyes.”
Brant’s right hand started to tremble, and he clutched it with his left, steadying the scissors. He performed lif
e-and-death surgeries all the time. Cutting bangs wasn’t high stakes. Although if he messed up his wife’s hair, that could put the task on a similar scale.
“Trust me?” he asked, giving her a chance to back out.
“You’re making me nervous. Just get to it.”
“Here goes nothing.” He carefully began snipping, taking off small bits at a time, trying to even the line of bangs by following her eyebrows. He studied his work. “I think your face is crooked.”
He moved in for another snip and April laughed, shifting her head.
“Hold still!”
She quieted, her expression trusting, her smile relaxed. He wanted to kiss her, then lure her to the bedroom down the hall. Instead, he focused on her hair again, working at evening out the spots she’d missed. When he felt the job was done, he stepped out of the way so she could see herself in the mirror.“How’s that?”
“Good,” she said, looking pleased. “It’s a bit blunt, though.” She went to take the scissors from him, but he pulled them out of reach.
“I’ve got this.”
He began imitating the vertical snipping motion he’d seen her do, loving how intimate this domestic moment felt. The effect was immediate, her bangs losing their sharp, straight line. It looked almost professional.
“This is much more fun than dealing with shaggy mutts, as you so eloquently put it.”
He got bolder with the scissors, traveling from one side of her face to the other. It was trickier where her bangs met the rest of her luscious locks, the hair thicker. He took a brave snip and froze.
“What did you do?” April asked doubtfully, opening her eyes.
“Nothing.”
She shoved him aside, staring at the mirror. “Seriously?” She gave him a dark, unimpressed look.
“I can fix it.” He wasn’t sure how you fixed taking out a chunk, but he was sure there was a way to cover it up until it grew out again. He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “I’ll call Daisy-Mae.”
April took his phone and slapped it down on the counter. “What makes you think she knows what to do? She isn’t even a hairdresser.”
“She won beauty pageants. I’m sure she knows everything there is to know about hair.”
April scowled at him.
“Should I call Laura? Violet? Jackie?” He was getting desperate, but adding names to the list didn’t seem to help her mood.
April wrangled the scissors from him and leaned over the sink, facing the mirror. She furiously fluffed her bangs and snipped, trying to make the missing chunk less obvious.
“Maybe you just need to wear a hat for the next few weeks,” Brant suggested. It really wasn’t that bad, now that she’d attacked the area. It was thinner than the other side, but not too noticeable.
He got another frown, but this one had a hint of amusement.
Forgiven.
His heart warmed.
“I could get you a razor,” he teased, knowing he was pushing it, but that April wouldn’t lash out. She’d turn this into a funny story, because that’s what she did. She charged into things fearlessly, and if it all exploded, she just laughed, brushed off the dirt and walked away with some witty quip that made everyone chuckle. “You know, shave it all off and start fresh.”
April let out a laugh full of incredulity. “Brant,” she protested through her giggles. “You’re awful! You did this on purpose so I’d go to a hairdresser, didn’t you?”
“I swear I didn’t!” He raised his hands as though she was going to arrest him.
“Maybe I should get even.” She held the scissors like a weapon.
“I don’t like this chunk here,” he said, tugging at a random lock near the back of his head. “It likes to stick up after I’ve been wearing a hat.”
“Perfect!” She made snipping motions with the scissors and he danced out of reach with a laugh.
Bits of hair fluttered off April from her haircut, and Brant reversed direction. Pinching the fabric of her shirt, he gave it a flick, sending more snippets flying.“This blouse has got to go. You’re going to track hair all through the house, and you know I just swept.”
“Hmm. We can’t make more work for my handsome husband.” She reached for the hem and dragged it upward. As she tugged the shirt over her head, Brant wondered why he hadn’t suggested it earlier.
9
“Brant got you this, too,” Josh, the local courier, said, handing April his handheld device for her signature. He was grinning. Probably because the number of packages Brant had ordered for her since their honeymoon was keeping him gainfully employed.
“What is it?” She read the side of the box. A new bridle for her horse, Cookies. She sighed. It was as if Brant was taking care of every little thing she’d mentioned was bugging her over the past several weeks, from her worn bridle to the broken rearview mirror in her vehicle to her bangs. The haircut hadn’t cost him anything, at least, and had turned out semi-decent despite the big chunk he’d accidentally snipped out.
She had already scrawled her signature to accept the package, but said to Josh, “I could’ve gotten one of these on my own.”
He smiled and tipped his hat. “Ma’am, I think someone’s just trying to show his affection.”
She nodded with a sigh. “I know.” And she couldn’t fault Brant for caring. He was sweet, and it was in his nature to take care of people. Especially ones he felt needed help. And there was the problem. Their marriage hadn’t evened out the balance in their relationship like she’d hoped. He was still rescuing her, but now it was from her everyday problems. If she wasn’t careful, she’d depend on him too much, like she had with Heath. And in the end, that had left her with nothing.
She needed to set some boundaries and assert herself, assure Brant she could take care of herself, but that it might take more time than he wanted it to.
She took the box and marched to the back of the clinic to find Brant. Her husband was dozing in an easy chair, his large hands supporting a sleeping kitten tucked into his flannel snap-up jacket. He’d rescued the half-drowned, half-frozen feline from the recessed area around a water well head earlier in the day. Brant had returned from the call with the gray-and-white cat snuggled in his coat and a perturbed expression on his face. He’d closed himself in his office, on the phone with the county for almost an hour after that, April hearing the odd exclamation through his door about safety and banning those recessed well pits.
He looked so peaceful in the chair, and she knew he’d had a long, busy week with little sleep. But she needed to do this now, before she talked herself out of it.
“Brant?” April demanded, the box perched on her hip.
He opened his eyes and sat up, kicking the chair’s footrest to lower it. Remembering the kitten, he curved a palm around its small body and stroked between its ears with a fingertip while easing back into a reclined position so as not to disturb it.
“What’s up?” His expression softened as he looked at her, his sleepiness reminding her of mornings. Since he’d moved in, they’d fallen into an easy routine. In the mornings he would start the coffee, then bring her a cup as she showered, leaving it on the bathroom vanity. He would start prepping breakfast, occasionally disappearing if an emergency call drew him away, taking his dog, Dodge, with him.
He had no problems starting laundry, sweeping up crumbs from under Kurt’s chair and generally being an ideal husband. He was present in ways Heath had never been. Not even when they’d first married. The stark contrast reinforced her belief that she and Heath had never been right for each other.
“Everything okay?” Brant asked, peering at the box under her arm. Her annoyance about his pampering ebbed, since she knew he meant well.
“Sorry I woke you,” she said. She tipped the box so he could read the label. “The bridle arrived. How much do I owe you for it?”
“What’s mine is yours. And thanks for waking me up or I probably wouldn’t sleep tonight.”
“That’s not a bad thing,”
she said with a wink. “It’s date night, after all.”
Last night, deep in their lovemaking, she had finally said it. Had finally told Brant she loved him. It had slipped out, and she worried it would be too easy for him to doubt her intent, to believe it had only been said in the heat of passion.
“Hey,” she said lightly. “Have I ever told you I love you?”
His eyebrows flickered upward. “Planning on dying or something, MacFarlane?”
She heaved an impatient sigh and rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Wylder? I finally work up the courage to say it and you crack a joke?”
She spun on her heel and marched to the doorway, the burn of embarrassment singeing her cheeks and making her feel like a fool. Why couldn’t she say “I love you” while looking him in the eye? Sure, she’d just told him she loved him, but it had felt like a roundabout observation rather than a proper declaration weighted with importance.
“Have I ever told you how much I love the sparkly doodads on the butt of your jeans?” he called after her, his tone teasing. “Especially when you’re stomping away?”
Her footsteps faltered and she shook her head, evoking a chuckle from deep in his chest.
She turned in the doorway. “You’re a real pain in the butt.”
“A sparkly-doodad butt?” His eyes were dancing, his grin wide.
“Don’t forget I’m off work at noon today,” she said softly. He nodded. “And you need to stop buying me everything under the sun. You’ve already won me over.”
“Have I?”
The question in his eyes at such a simple inquiry would haunt her for the rest of the day.
Brant knew he’d gone too far buying the bridle for April. He could see it in her eyes when she’d stared down at him in the chair that morning. He’d been taking care of things for her because he loved her and knew she was pinched for money. But she might start to think he didn’t believe she could take care of these things herself. Which wasn’t true. There was simply a barrier in the way. A barrier he could remove while she worked up the courage to flat-out tell him she loved him, looking him in the eye as she did so.
