by Reid, Penny
“If he wants to get back at you?”
She nodded, glancing up at the ceiling. “Am I being a wackadoodle? Trying to make this all about me?”
“No,” I responded immediately. “You’re right when you lay it all out like that. He—or someone in his employment—allegedly killed forty chickens and hen-napped twenty-one others. They burned Blount’s bee boxes but left the rest of his farm untouched. You bought only honey from him?”
“Yes. Just the honey, nothing else.”
A picture began to form. “And the state fair primary entries are due this week?”
She gasped, rearing back. “That’s right!”
“And you can’t make your famous banana cake if you don’t have your ingredients.”
“The timing, it’s got to mean something. Right?”
“It’s too much of a coincidence to think otherwise. Roger Gangersworth, a baking competitor, buying the Badcock eggs. Posey Lamont, another competitor, the source for spreading it around town that your momma was bamboozled into buying bourgeoisie bovines.”
The more I said, the more certain she looked. “Yes. Exactly. Even though I don’t think Roger killed those chickens, I feel he is involved somehow.”
“Who else is on your list? Other than Badcock, Miller, and Blount.”
“Uh, well, we have the preserves and berries from the Hills.”
“Really? The Hills?” The timer on the oven went off. I crossed to turn it and the heating element off, opening the door to the oven and peering inside. Yep, it was done.
Jenn handed me a pair of oven mitts. “Yes, the Hills. They have the best berries up in that state park land.”
“I did not know that. How did I not know that?” I set the divine tray of Emergency Lasagna on the stovetop, enjoying the smell of heat and tomato sauce and basil.
“You don’t know everything, Cletus.”
My gaze cut sharply to hers. I would never say, How dare you! to Jenn.
So instead, I said, “Pardon me?”
“Just most things.” Her smile widened. Stepping forward, she gave me a kiss through her laughter and cupped my cheek.
Thus, she was forgiven.
Leaning back but keeping her fingers on my face to thread through my beard, she added, “The Hills’ berries are shade-grown, and I know some people don’t agree with me about berries that are shade-grown. But I find they’re smaller and sweeter.”
“I didn’t even know they sold berries.” I tried, and failed, to hide the pensiveness this caused me.
I loved two things in this world to distraction: Jennifer Sylvester and blueberries. Now to discover that the Hills sold berries—small, sweet, shade-grown berries—and I’d had no idea. Likewise, I’d been engaged to Jennifer for weeks and we’d not been together, in the biblical sense, since the end of November.
Perhaps the time had come to reevaluate my life choices.
“They don’t sell their berries, typically. Not to most folks. I had to sweet talk Millie Hill into it. In fact, I think I might be the only person they sell their berries to. I doubt anyone else but me—and now my momma—knows where I get my berries.” Regrettably, Jenn dropped her hand from my face.
“That’s good news for the Hills. If someone is sabotaging your suppliers, they might not know about the berries. But you wouldn’t be buying berries now. They’re not in season.”
“No, I buy them now. I buy their jams and preserves, but also their berries. They flash freeze them right away in the spring and summer, they have them all year long. They have all those freezers up there.”
What she didn’t need to add was why the Hills had all those freezers. The Hills were a particular kind of folk and lived on deeded lands that would—upon the last of their kin—revert to the government. They also lived off the grid, mostly, with a few notable exceptions.
“You might want to think about buying them out of their berries, just in case Roger Gangersworth figures out where you get them and decides to drive up there to undercut you, like he did with Badcock.”
“I doubt they’d sell to Roger. Plus, my car isn’t especially conducive to carting around coolers for frozen bulk foods.” Jenn stepped out of my arms and opened a drawer near the sink, pulling out a spatula.
“I’ll fill the Bronco with coolers and transport as many as you might need for the next several months.”
“Speaking of which, where’d you get that Bronco? Have you always owned it?” Picking up the plate on her way, she cut into the lasagna and placed a piping hot square in the center of the dish.
“I bought it after it became clear I can’t keep borrowing Billy’s truck all the time.”
“When was that?”
“Friday night.” Seeing her confusion, I added, “I’ve had my eye on it for a while. The previous owner dropped it off at the shop Saturday morning.”
“You had somebody just sitting around, waiting to sell you a vintage Bronco?” Jenn used the side of the lasagna dish to scrape the remains of cheese and sauce from the flat end of the spatula.
“Yes. I have many folks sitting around waiting to sell me lots of cars and do me lots of favors. Who else besides the Hills is on the list?”
“Um, I get my flour from a distributor out of Knoxville, straight from Europe.”
“You use European flour?”
“I know it might seem excessive, but I just think, you know we use so many insecticides on our wheat here in the States, and the actual plant was genetically modified back in the 1970s to be bigger and produce more gluten, which is why I think most cakes made with US flour taste like bread and lack all subtlety of flavor.” She wouldn’t look at me, and her tone had grown defensive. “And I think it’s nicer to have my food not changed by anything but nature.” All these admissions seemed to make her anxious, like she thought I might be judging her for her opinions about wheat flour.
I was not, and would not judge her. If anything, this new detail made me love her even more because it spoke to my soul.
My peculiarities ranged from bizarre to obsessive, and I loved that hers did too. She wished to use untampered flour for her confections? She held exacting standards for her ingredients and refused to settle or conform under pressure?
Halt! Electrical activity spreading through the walls of my atria, forcing the blood through my ventricles. That is, be still my beating heart.
Jenn cleared her throat, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink beneath my continued perusal. “You think I’m strange.”
“I know you’re strange.” My voice lowered an octave all on its own, without consulting me. Alas, she was entirely too sexy. I would never be in complete control of my faculties around Jennifer Sylvester.
“You make it sound like being strange is a good thing.”
“It’s my second favorite thing about you.”
She fought a smile and peeked at me. “What’s your favorite thing?”
How your body feels when—
Just like that, something shifted within me, a flip switched, or a switch flipped, or whatever gentlemanly part of me that had been holding down the manners fort abruptly absconded with my good intentions and self-control.
I wanted her, badly. We’d had no time. I missed her, the feel of her, being inside her, making her bliss out with my mouth and fingers, and watching her come alive and come apart. My lungs ached, abdomen tensed, the base of my spine tight, greedy with want, with need.
If her mother hadn’t been recovering from a murder attempt down the hall, I likely would’ve taken her, in the Donner kitchen, the smell of savory lasagna in the air. Honest to goodness, the murder attempt was the only thing stopping me. Had it been less serious of a maiming—
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jenn dropped the spatula handle and huffed, her cheeks burning hotter.
“Like what?”
“Like you . . .” She licked her lips, her breath coming faster. “Like you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m—” Teari
ng my eyes from hers, I speared my hair with frustrated fingers. “I should leave.” And take a snow shower.
“What? Why? Don’t leave.”
“I’ll—uh—be back in the morning with breakfast.” My lungs on fire, I gave her a wide berth as I left the kitchen, deciding it would be best not to administer a parting kiss. Instead of guiding her down the Yuchi stream path earlier in the day, I should’ve had my way with her in the Bronco when the opportunity presented itself.
Seize the day.
Lessoned learned.
Now I knew.
With quick steps and long strides, I was at the front door, opening it, and sucking in a welcome breath of the icy winter. That my body reacted this way around her, with no warning, was not her fault. It was my fault. Consequently, it was beholden on me to leave.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Her voice was close behind as I descended the porch steps. She trailed me.
“I’m starving,” I muttered, my limbs rigid as my boots crunched on snow.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Opening the door to my Bronco, I slid inside. I made to reach for the handle to shut myself inside but found I could not. Jenn had inserted herself between me and the door. I set my hands on the steering wheel, stared forward, and held tight.
“Cletus,” she said to my profile, like my name was an accusation. “What is going on? Why are you in such a rush to leave? You said you weren’t angry.”
“I’m not angry with you, not at all.” I formed the words carefully and gave my windshield a tight smile while turning the engine of the Bronco.
I needed a distraction. I’d make a list! All the tasks necessary in order to pick up Miller cows within the week. First, I’d need to locate a barn with enough and large enough stalls for the milking equipment. Dairy cows had to be milked at least once a day, every day, otherwise they were likely to get udder infections and cease producing. Utterly.
“Then why are you going?”
“It’s late.”
“It’s eight.”
“I have tasks.” Why wouldn’t she just let me close the door?
“Like what?”
“Securing a barn for twenty dairy cows.”
She paused, and I still felt her eyes on my profile, considering. “You’re planning to find a barn tonight?”
“Yes.” In fact, I was looking forward to it. I would stay up all night if I had to. The good Lord knew I wasn’t doing anything else.
Jenn leaned closer, and I tightened my grip on the wheel.
“Couldn’t you . . . couldn’t you do that from here? Make calls and such?” The hint of unsteadiness in her voice had me looking at her again, and I found her forehead wrinkled with worry, her eyes wide and unhappy.
My hands grew lax, her unhappiness a damp, hairy blanket to my frustrated flare of concupiscence. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just, I hate this house. Did you know that? I know I must have some good memories from my childhood, but I can’t remember any. Every time I come back here, I feel so suffocated by horrible memories and that last time my father screamed at me in the kitchen, saying those nasty things. And someone tried to murder my mother today. And I know it’s small bananas compared to attempted murder, but you show me that ring and take it away and—”
Her chin wobbled, and my heart hurt, and her next words were definitely unsteady. “And I had thought you were staying tonight, at the very least, in case, and I know this sounds silly, just in case that someone comes back and—”
I turned off the engine and exited the Bronco, wrapping her in my arms, and feeling every appalling inch of the ass I was. “Of course I’ll stay. I’m sorry. I’ll stay. I’ll keep you safe.”
I would stay.
Of course I would stay, what was wrong with me? She was right. Her mother had been seriously hurt, on purpose. What had I been thinking? I could—would—control myself. I’d just . . . make lists from here, find a suitable barn, and not look at Jenn too long or too often. She needed me. I would stay.
“Thank you.” She snuggled deeper in my embrace, sighing like she was relieved, and pressing her body more fully to mine.
Words were a labor when she was so close, and so soft, and so warm, and felt so good, and smelled like heaven, and I couldn’t touch her like I wanted. My skin felt too tight and my jaw hurt.
Nevertheless, I survived a gruff, “Anything you need.”
Jenn placed a kiss on my chest over my heart and proceeded to melt it by whispering softly, “Just you, Cletus. You make everything better.”
I swallowed around what felt like rocks—composed of lingering lust and shame—because I was officially the worst.
But I would be better.
For Jenn.
Chapter Thirteen
“Someday you will find out that there is far more happiness in another's happiness than in your own.”
― Honoré de Balzac, Père Goriot
*Cletus*
I did not sleep, but I did stay.
Staying within the confines of the living room, I worked through the night to locate appropriate accommodation for Ms. Donner’s designer dairy cows. I also woke Jenn’s momma at intervals, as per the doctor’s instructions, as I wanted Jenn to get a full night’s rest.
My eldest brother, Jethro, returned my call in the middle of the night from some fancy resort in the Maldives. He and his wife were on vacation because that’s what pregnant movie stars and their new hillbilly husbands did, apparently.
Jethro knew of a barn for sale built in 1873, and as such, the barn could be moved as one piece. Early American barn construction—meaning prior to 1900—used beams hewn from single virgin-growth trees, making for sturdier barns with fewer parts, or so Jethro seemed enthusiastic to inform me.
“I’ve had my eye on it for years. It’s a superior type of construction.” His tone held a wistful note, like how the twins sounded when they spoke about American cars built prior to 1972. “You’ll be able to move it all in one piece if you use a wide load flatbed, and as long as there are no power lines in the way. Where will you put it?”
“Ideally, the Donner Lodge.”
“Oh, that’ll be a problem. There are power lines through downtown. You could take it up the Parkway, but then you’d have to double back down the north mountain road, and I don’t think the truck could make it to the lodge that way, the switchbacks are for bikes, not semitrucks. Why not just leave the barn at her house?”
“Here? At Diane Donner’s house?”
“Sure.”
I rubbed my tired eyes and fought a yawn. “There’s no site fit for it, no stretch of land flat enough that isn’t covered in trees. Plus, they have staff at the lodge who can see to the cows. Can you imagine Ms. Donner tending to twenty—er, nineteen heifers?”
“You have a point there.” His voice held laughter, like he was imagining it.
Gauging his mood, I tried, “What about the homestead?”
“What? Our house?”
“There’s plenty of flat land. And it would be just until we can figure out how to get the barn to the lodge, or they build their own. Likely, that’s what would happen.”
“I don’t know . . .” Ocean waves crashed in the background and I did my utmost not to succumb to envy. Duane was off in Italy or wherever with Jess. Jethro was in fancy Maldives with Sienna. Beau wanted time off to be with Shelly even though they spent every night together.
And where was I? Arranging the care, feeding, and milking of heifers while my oft unavailable fiancée slept down the hall in the same house. I was almost as ridiculous as Billy and all his infernal pining.
“You think Ms. Donner will build her own barn? At the lodge?” Jet asked, and I knew I had him.
“Yes, I do.”
“Who would take care of the cows until they’re moved?”
Obviously, he liked that barn. “I reckon you’ll get a free barn out of the deal. Sienna could use it as a yoga studio, wouldn’t that be nice? Or you could get
a pony for your progeny.”
“I’m not getting our baby a pony.”
“Why not? Your infant will have a private jet, but a pony is a bridge too far?”
“Cletus.”
“Jethro.”
“Stop trying to distract me. Who will take care of the cows?”
Jet’s intimate knowledge of my distraction techniques was irritating. “I will take care of running the dairy operation until Donner Lodge gets their own barn.”
“By yourself?”
“I’ll have help.”
“Who?”
I ignored that question since I didn’t yet know whose favor I’d be calling in. “And it’ll be good for Roscoe. Him being in vet school, it’ll give him something to do on the weekends other than laze around, check his reflection in the mirror, and eat your food.”
“You have a point there.”
It didn’t take much more convincing after that. I hung up just as soon as he said yes, not because I thought he might change his mind, but rather because I didn’t want to deal with any stipulations he might make on the placement of the barn or how long the cows could stay. What did he care? He was in paradise with his beautiful wife until March. After that, they’d take her private plane home for the duration of the pregnancy.
Hopefully, all the cows but one would be long gone by then.
That settled, I checked on Ms. Donner again, waking her up just enough to ensure she could recite her name, the year, and that her eyes could focus. I filled the time until 5:30 AM by composing several additional lists: a true bullet point delineation of tasks necessary to secure the cows, the best locales to attempt another engagement ring focus group (of one person), and a record of all the state fair baking contestants who’d lost to Jenn in the finals, ordered from saltiest to sweetest—the people, not their baking entries. Obviously, Roger Gangersworth and Posey Lamont claimed the two briniest spots.
Unfortunately, the records from Jenn’s first year winning weren’t online. I made a note to stop by the library and pay a visit to our head librarian, Julianne McIntyre, who maintained excellent records of local and state events.
