A Small-Town Bride

by Hope Ramsay

  On the other hand, if Dusty McNeil planned to pay for her breakfast, maybe she ought to take him up on the offer so long as there weren’t any strings attached to that invitation. But of course there were strings, because he’d seen her naked.

  What should she do? The offer of a free meal was worth a lot. But was it worth her integrity?

  “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked.

  “I came up here to see if you’d pay me for the work I did last night. I don’t want any handouts. And I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I know I didn’t catch the snipe, but—”

  He stood up and held out his hand in the universal stop gesture. “Amy, it’s okay.” Then he pulled his wallet from one of the many pockets on his fishing pants. “I’m going to pay you off the books for the snipe hunt. And I would be obliged if you didn’t tell anyone about this. Just like I have no intention of telling anyone you’re sleeping in your car. Okay?”

  She nodded. But she wasn’t sure why he wanted to keep stuff secret.

  “You see,” he said, “if I put your time on the books, then Willow has to take out withholding and social security and a whole lot of other stuff, and by the time that happens, well, it wouldn’t be much money. So I’ll pay you time and a half for three hours’ work. That comes to about thirty-five dollars.”

  He pulled a twenty, a ten, and a five out of his wallet and handed them over.

  Thirty-five dollars wouldn’t buy all that much at the places Amy usually shopped, but for some reason, those bills in her hand meant freedom from being hungry for a few days. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he didn’t expect something from her that she didn’t want to give.

  “Thanks,” she said, and started to turn.

  “I’d still like to buy you breakfast. Call it payment for the scratches you got on your face. And I’m hungry. I’m sure you are too. Snipe hunting is pretty hard work.”

  But his tone told her that she had the freedom to walk away from him if she chose. On the other hand, the hollow places in her stomach and her wallet reminded her that she also had the freedom to accept a meal from him. In fact, given her situation, how could she refuse a free meal?

  “Okay,” she said in a tiny, strangled voice. For some odd reason, she resented the fact that her present circumstances required her to take this handout. She’d never been too proud to spend Daddy’s money, so why did it bend her out of shape to accept charity from Dusty McNeil?

  * * *

  In Dusty’s experience, poor folks were often too proud to take handouts, but rich folks regularly gathered around the public trough and called it good citizenship.

  Take Pam Lyndon as an example. That woman was hell-bent on beautifying downtown Shenandoah Falls. After an attempt to bully the building owners along Liberty Avenue into making renovations had failed, she’d gone off to Richmond and bullied the state for the money to get the job done.

  Now that Liberty Avenue had been “beautified” at the taxpayers’ expense, Pam Lyndon and her friends at the Jefferson County Historical Society had set their sights on turning Dusty’s land into a new park for the county. To Dusty, Pam’s wholesale hunt for the public money needed to force him off his land only proved that rich folks felt entitled to every handout they could finagle.

  But Amy’s hesitation to his breakfast invitation seemed different somehow. Amy had options. She didn’t have to sleep in her car or shower in the pool house. She could always haul her butt up to Charlotte’s Grove for a warm bed and a good meal. Her aunt and uncle would take her in. Amy also didn’t need a minimum-wage job. She didn’t need to buy castoffs at the Haggle Shop. She didn’t need to go snipe hunting to earn a few extra dollars. But she’d done every one of those things with a square set to her shoulders and a defiant set to her chin.

  And, of course, Dusty had sent her into a dangerous situation last night. And now that he knew she was sleeping in her car, a small part of him wanted her to make use of those other options. A woman shouldn’t be left alone to fend for herself like that. He knew how hard fending for yourself could be.

  He was worried about her, and he owed her because of his own stupidity. Buying her breakfast seemed a small enough price to pay for what he’d unknowingly put her through yesterday.

  But the instant he and Amy strolled into Gracie’s Diner, Dusty realized he’d made a terrible mistake bringing her here for breakfast. The place was busy with the usual Sunday crowd, and every single one of those customers looked up from their meals and stared at them as if he and Amy were doing the Sunday-morning walk of shame.

  Even Gracie seemed surprised as they settled in one of the window booths. She arrived bearing coffee and glanced from Dusty to Amy and back again with her eyebrow arched the way Dusty’s third-grade teacher’s used to do when she was about to kick his butt for some not-so-minor transgression.

  He needed to nip the conclusion Gracie had jumped to right in the bud. “Hey, Gracie. Amy’s a new member of my grounds crew. We’re here to discuss work.” Oh boy, that sounded stiff, rehearsed, and lame.

  Gracie turned toward Amy and gave her the patented X-ray stare. “Is that right, Amy?” The note of skepticism in her voice rang like bells on Christmas Eve.

  Amy nodded. “I heard you and Dusty talking about the event planner job yesterday at breakfast, but by the time I got up to the inn, Willow had already hired someone. So she gave me a job on Mr. McNeil’s crew.”

  “Mr. McNeil, huh?” She gave Dusty the stink eye.

  “That’s what everyone on my crew calls me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So anyway,” Amy said, clearly oblivious to the subtext of Dusty’s conversation with Gracie, “I’ll pay for yesterday’s breakfast. I’ve got a few dollars now. So if you can bring the check, that would be great.” She folded her hands on the table and dropped her gaze.

  Damn. Why did he have the sudden urge to protect Amy? He didn’t like the idea of her sleeping in her car, but he knew she wouldn’t go up to Charlotte’s Grove for help. It was up to him, but he couldn’t very well invite her to sleep on his Murphy bed, not after seeing her naked. Besides, what would folks think if she were actually sleeping at his house?

  Nope. That couldn’t happen, for both their sakes.

  “Honey, have you already been paid for your work?”

  Amy met Gracie’s probing stare. “I did a little overtime last night,” she said, and Dusty almost groaned. Why had he brought her here?

  Gracie turned and glared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment before she turned back toward Amy and spoke in a motherly tone. “Honey, it’s okay. Yesterday’s breakfast was on the house. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things your daddy won’t approve of just to get a square meal.”

  And with that Gracie turned her back on them and hurried away to attend to other customers. Amy, oblivious to the shit storm she’d just unleashed, cupped her coffee mug with both hands and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of coffee in the morning. Don’t you?” She closed her eyes and took a sip, her expression orgasmic.

  Gracie glared at him from across the room.

  “Uh, hey, open your eyes,” he said.

  She blinked them open and gave him one of her big, brown-eyed stares. Oh boy, a guy could get totally lost in those eyes. But he would resist that urge.

  “I need a favor,” he said. “After breakfast, would you mind talking to—”

  “Gregory Dustin McNeil Junior, you two-timing, low-down, rotten bastard.”

  Oh crap. Could this morning get any worse?

  Dusty turned in time to see Zoe advance across the room on a pair of black stiletto heels that displayed her long legs. Her black leather miniskirt and spandex halter hugged every curve of her body. And what a body it was. Luscious and yet athletic. Tight and yet flexible. Accommodating always.

  “Where were you last night?” she demanded

  “Uh, baby, let’s not talk about it here. Let’s—”

  “No. I’m not going to let you go ghost
on me, Dusty. You haven’t texted or e-mailed or called in two weeks. Where have you been? I expected you to come by the casino for a drink last night.”

  “Did I say I was planning to come by?”

  She growled at him, showing perfect teeth. “Baby, you always come by late on Saturday night.”

  “Doesn’t mean I come by every Saturday. I got busy talking to my attorney about my eminent domain case.”

  “Eminent domain my ass.” Her gaze bounced from Amy to Dusty and back again. “Honestly, this is what you cheat on me with?”

  “Now, sweetie, I wasn’t—”

  She raised her hand, palm outward. “Stop. I’m done with your excuses. For almost a year, I’ve been your fall-back girl, Dusty, and I’m damn tired of it. Are you ever going to get off your ass and pop the question?” Her hand went down and came to rest on her hip.

  “What question?”

  “The marriage question, Dusty. Good Lord, you work at a marriage factory. You’d think you’d be able to pull off something romantic.”

  “Uh, what? Marriage? Are you crazy? I never said—”

  “Fine. That lets me know exactly where I stand.” Zoe turned her back on him and spoke to Amy. “Honey, you take it from me. Don’t be fooled by that whole strong, silent routine of his. He may be killer in the sack, but he won’t ever commit. To anything. Not to you or to that stupid idea he has of starting a fishing resort or whatever. Do yourself a favor and walk away. Now.”

  And with that Zoe turned on her high heels and strutted from the room with that loose-hipped walk that had once made him burn. But not anymore. The high-heel strut had gotten old, and now he found himself wondering if Zoe could walk like a regular person without all that hip action.

  She’d become a royal pain the last few months.

  But as the diner’s front door closed behind her beautifully shaped ass, Dusty realized he had a major problem on his hands. Everyone in the restaurant stared at him as if he’d thrown over his steady girlfriend for a member of the Lyndon family.

  Chapter Six

  Well, that had been awkward…and surprising. How could a gorgeous woman like Zoe think Dusty would sleep with an ordinary person like her? Unfortunately, Amy knew the answer. Daddy’s money. And thinking about Daddy’s money made her second-guess herself.

  Especially when Mr. McNeil dropped her off at the Eagle Hill Manor parking lot and proceeded to drool over her Z4. He ran his hands over the beautifully painted and waxed surfaces like he might caress a woman. It almost turned her on until she remembered that every other guy she’d ever met had thirsted after that car.

  “So does she have the 2.0 liter or the 3.0 liter?” Dusty asked.

  “Um…”

  “You don’t even know, do you?”

  She shrugged. “It goes fast.”

  “Yeah, I bet it does. But I’m thinking it’s a bitch to live in.”

  The humiliation she’d been wrestling with all morning morphed into a resentment that purred along her sinews and made her hands close into fists. She raised her chin. “Don’t judge me,” she said in a voice that almost sounded kick-ass—a term she had never applied to herself. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  Dusty surprised the crap out of her by nodding his head. “Yeah, I reckon you are.”

  A little of her swagger melted away. Was he putting her down or affirming her? She wanted affirmation, especially from Mr. McNeil. Still, praise from him wouldn’t buy her a burger at McDonald’s. But doing her job to his satisfaction would.

  “You need me for anything else today?” she asked, trying to imagine him without his clothes. Unfortunately, the image of Dusty McNeil naked did nothing to cut the man down to size.

  “Nope. I’m done with you for today.” He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her and the Beemer. “But there is one thing I have to insist on. If you’re living in the car, you can’t keep it parked here overnight.”

  “Why not?”

  “For two reasons. First, the guests are likely to figure it out. And second, Willow will figure it out. And if Willow figures it out, she’ll tell David, and David will tell his momma, and then you’ll have Pam Lyndon on you worse than stink on a skunk. I figure you don’t want your aunt interfering with your life right at the moment; otherwise you’d have gone up the hill to Charlotte’s Grove a long time ago.”

  Wow. Warmth spilled through her. Dusty understood her problems better than she realized. Maybe she’d judged him, too, because of his mountain accent and his blue-collar profession. “So what do you suggest?” she asked.

  “If it were me, I’d park the car in the chapel’s parking lot. It’s down Morgan Avenue, right where—”

  “I know where it is.”

  He nodded. “You can park your car there at night. No one will notice. And if you get here before dawn, no one will notice that you’re using the showers in the pool house.”

  He moved off in the direction of the barn, stopping again when he’d gotten halfway across the parking lot to look over his shoulder. “Don’t pilfer all the towels. Use just one, and launder it yourself.”

  She nodded.

  He tilted his head and regarded her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Lock yourself in at night, you hear?”

  * * *

  Amy spent the rest of Sunday getting her life in some semblance of order. She figured she had three priorities for the thirty-five bucks she’d earned: gas for the car, clean laundry, and food.

  She spent five dollars on gas and then scoped out the Wash ’n’ Go coin laundry on South Second Street, where her small stash of cash was reduced by another four dollars and fifty cents. She needed to find dinner—cheap.

  So she drove down to the McDonald’s at the highway interchange. She had eaten there only a few times in her life and hadn’t paid too much attention to the cost of meals. But holy crap. McDonald’s rocked when it came to cheap food. Amy selected a delicious double cheeseburger and a filling side of fries from the dollar menu, and the meal literally cost only two dollars.

  She also found a discarded copy of the Sunday edition of the Winchester Daily and passed the late afternoon drinking free water and reading the paper from cover to cover. For the first time in her life, she understood why Daddy liked to read the paper every day.

  She dived into the employment classifieds first, looking for a better job. But most of the job listings, both white- and blue-collar, required special training or education or experience. The unskilled jobs were all pretty much on par with the job she already had.

  When she’d finished reading every single want ad, she turned to the front page of the paper, which featured an article written by a reporter named Sally Hawkes about the park Jefferson County wanted to build in downtown Shenandoah Falls. The plan called for tearing down the abandoned Liberty Furnace building, a redbrick monstrosity that had been empty for decades. Then the county planned to restore a historic blacksmith’s forge located directly behind the old building in order to turn it into a living history site, where wrought iron would be made once again. The rest of the land—almost forty acres, according to the article—would be turned into a river walk down by the run, with picnic tables, hiking trails that connected to the Appalachian Trail, and public fishing access.

  Amy was vaguely aware of the park plan because it was Aunt Pam’s pet project, and she knew that the owner of the property was fighting against the plan in court and had hired her cousin David to represent him—causing a huge family rift.

  But Amy was really bad about details, and she didn’t fully connect all the dots until she read the article. Dusty owned the property in dispute.

  Up until that moment, Amy had been mystified by David’s decision to fight his own mother in court, but maybe David had chosen the right side. Taking away someone’s property didn’t seem right, even to build a park. She didn’t blame Dusty for fighting the county. And it seemed to her that his decision to stand fast didn’t make him a loser the way the article suggested.


  Sally Hawkes kept talking about how Dusty’s family hadn’t done anything to develop the land since the old Liberty Furnace Company, once owned by Dusty’s ancestors, had gone out of business in 1910. The article even made a point of Dusty’s occupation, calling him a gardener, instead of his true position as the head of facilities for one of the bigger businesses in town.

  After reading the article, Amy decided two things: First, she would never let Aunt Pam or Daddy push her around again. She admired Dusty and her cousin David for standing up to them. And second, she would become the best gardener possible, because Sally Hawkes had used that word as a slur.

  Amy stayed at the McDonald’s until almost sunset, then drove the Z4 to the small gravel parking lot at the Old Laurel Chapel. Dusk had fallen, but a crescent moon already hung low in the sky and cast a silvery glow over the chapel’s stonework and the old grave markers in the cemetery.

  She’d seen plenty of horror movies that involved old graveyards at night. Last night the cemetery had scared her silly, but tonight in the moonlight, it looked almost enchanted. She wrapped herself in the big camo jacket, reclined the seat, and fell asleep stargazing through her moonroof.

  She awoke five hours later to a night without moonlight. The clock on her dashboard said 3:00 a.m., and unfortunately her bladder was making an urgent call.

  Damn.

  Sleeping in a car was so inconvenient. She grabbed the penlight she kept in the Z4’s glove box and set off down the path through the woods to the pool house. The night seemed quiet and peaceful except for the whisper of a breeze through the trees, and the woods smelled of pine needles and something darker, earthier, but still pleasant. Despite the lack of a moon, Amy felt a sense of competence as she walked down the path. She’d conquered some of her fears.

  She made it to the pool house and was returning down the path to the chapel when a slight rustling on the left side of the trail froze her midstep. She gripped her flashlight tighter as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Not again. She’d done so well in the last fifteen minutes that she’d forgotten how terrifying the sound of that animal had been last night.