by Wendy Vella
“Stay close to the house, Billy. I'll only be a minute showing Brad around and then we'll head home.”
“’Kay.”
Brad followed Macy inside. He walked around the kitchen, lounge, dining area. The walls were apricot, the curtains and rug blue. He saw a TV, a table and chairs. A woodstove and armchairs finished off the space. It was small, compact, and he liked it on sight. The furniture wasn't new but worn and comfortable, unlike the house he'd grown up in, and it looked like a place someone could call home if they wanted to.
“There’s coffee stuff if you like it black, and through there,” she waved at two doors, “are the bathroom and bedroom. Linen's in the cupboard.”
“Okay, and thanks. If you're still happy for me to be here, I'd like to use the cabin.”
“Of course, now you're planning to stay for a while.”
He heard the hesitation in her words.
“I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Macy, but I just want to wait and see what this business is with my father.”
She gave a jerky nod.
“I understand that, and in fact I want to be involved in finding out what is going on, too.”
“Sure, I could see that you did, and the inside knowledge on Nadine Buchanan will help us.”
“You mean that?”
He took a step closer for no other reason than he wanted to.
“Mean what?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I'll stay out of the way, but if there's protests to be done, I want in.”
“Why would you need to stay out of the way when you can help with this?”
“You need them, Jake, Annabelle, Ethan, and the others. They're smart, they'll help.”
He had no idea what the hell that meant.
“You're smart.”
Her laugh was short and harsh.
“And you gathered that in the matter of a few hours, did you?”
He could tell she doubted him, and began to understand that she also doubted herself.
“You think you’re not as smart as your friends?”
She waved her hand about again, like she had earlier, dismissing him.
“I have to go now, Brad. If you need anything, just give me a call.”
Brad left his thoughts in his head, because he didn’t need to get closer to this woman, and she certainly didn’t want that. What did it matter to him if she didn’t believe in herself? Hell, he’d been like that most of his life.
He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number she gave him in case he needed to contact her about the cabin.
“I-I have to go now.”
Brad followed her to the door and watched her round up Billy. The boy threw him a wave and then his mother bundled him in the car. She flicked her fingers at him, and was soon backing down the drive.
“And I thought I had issues,” Brad muttered, heading back inside.
Using the linen she'd pointed out, he made the bed, then made himself a coffee from the supplies in the kitchen. He liked cream, but could handle black if need be. Wandering onto the deck, he settled in one of the chairs and watched the sun leave the sky as he contemplated what he had learned today.
His brother was a respected man among his friends, which suggested he was a good man. Brad also liked the friends he'd met. None of them were aggressive or arrogant, all of which Brad’s had once been. He’d promised Annabelle he’d stay in town for a few days, so he would, and then he’d leave, and very possibly never return.
And then there was Macy.
Brad had a feeling the woman could turn him inside out if he let her. Of course he wouldn't; that wasn't on his agenda, now or ever.
Grabbing his phone because his thoughts were too disturbing, he called a business contact, and was soon lost in the conversation, pushing the disturbing Macy Reynolds from his head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brad woke hungry, and as Newman had told him that Buster's café had the best food in town, he washed, dressed, and then decided on a walk.
Cutting into a trail he found along the road, he took his time enjoying the tall Redwoods and the feeling of being alone. He could hear no cars or voices; nothing disturbed the absolute peace. The thud of his feet was his only companion, and Brad thought spending a day hiking may be a plan before he left. In fact, he would make sure to hike to this Buchanan land his father was intent on turning into a resort.
Something was off there. He didn’t believe it was a coincidence, just as he was sure Ethan didn’t. His father wanted revenge against his sons, and this, to his mind, was a way to get it. What worried Brad was that this was only the beginning.
He let his thoughts wander until he reached the end of the trail, and then walked the rest of the way into town by road. The lake shimmered, the breeze was warm on his face, and if he were the type to stop and take a breath, this would be the ideal place to do it.
He passed the old church where his brother had married, and a large piece of grass people were erecting tents on. Brad knew this was where the Night Carnival would be held, because Billy had told him about it.
The Hoot’s front window showed him it was busy, but he saw a table become free as he entered.
“So if your brother is called ‘number five’ and ‘Tex,’ what the hell do we call you?”
Buster was ambling toward him as he approached the counter, wearing a black apron which should have given him a feminine touch, but instead made him appear tougher. Brad wasn’t entirely sure why.
“Number five?”
“Ethan Gelderman number five.”
“Bet he didn't tell you that.”
“Got it out of him one night before he realized what he'd given away.”
Brad laughed.
“You could try Brad.”
“Original, but give it a moment, I'll work something out.”
“While you do, can I eat?”
“Sure, get to it.” Buster waved at the cabinets. “Unless you want to order something, then I'd have to cook it for you.”
“Don't want to put you to any trouble,” Brad drawled.
“You got a lot of your brother in you, I have to say, even if he's not your favorite person.”
Did everyone know he wasn't comfortable around his brother?
“Small town, bud, nothing gets by anyone, and news spreads faster than shit on that big old inter web. Plus, I watched you two yesterday.”
“Right,” Brad said, looking at the menu board. Maybe he’d get Buster to cook him something, just to shut him up.
“You got a middle name, Brad?”
“Jonathan,” Brad said as he moved to the cabinets. The food looked and smelled good and his stomach was telling him he needed to fill it, and soon. He saw a basket of muffins, with a sign that said, Mystery. Reading on, he saw that if he guessed the contents after eating it, he didn’t have to pay.
“Flour, buttermilk, and cinnamon?”
“BJ it is then,” Buster said ignoring him.
“And you said Brad was original.”
“What can I say, it's a gift.”
“What's a gift?”
“Me. I'm pretty much a gift, Willow says it constantly.”
Jake McBride made a snorting noise as he strolled up to the cabinets. Stepping in front of Brad, he pulled a pie out of the warmer and took a large mouthful.
“But seriously, I have a gift for nicknames, everyone says so.”
Seeing as Jake was doing it, Brad elbowed him aside and took out the same pie, and bit into the warm pastry. He made a humming sound as he tasted the filling.
“Who says so?” Jake said around another mouthful. “What nicknames have you come up with?”
“Ethan's.”
“Tex was a fairly easy choice.”
“Number five though, now that was genius.”
Brad was fairly sure he'd never had a conversation like this with anyone, but as his mouth was full, it would be rude to interrupt.
“Oh please. He's Ethan Gelde
rman number five, no thought whatsoever went into that.”
Brad was matching Jake bite for bite. The pie had a cheesy crust and was filled with chicken and vegetables, and he could honestly say he'd never eaten anything so good before.
“Whatever,” Buster said, apparently not offended that his title of nickname supremo was being challenged. “I've nicknamed Brad BJ, ’cause his middle name is Jonathan.”
Jake clutched his chest, now he'd finished his pie, and staggered backward.
“You, Buster Griffin, are a fucking genius!”
Buster preened, well more a smirk actually, but Brad guessed for him it was close.
“Although, maybe TJ would suit better?”
“I see where you're going with that, bud, and reluctant as I am to agree, I'm thinking Tex junior is a better fit. TJ it is.”
“Does that make me nickname supremo?”
Buster thought about his friend’s words while Brad shook his head at the bizarre conversation and went back to the cabinets and took out a muffin this time. He made another noise as he took a bite. It had a gooey caramel middle and dark chocolate outside.
“No, the title's mine,” Buster said, before ambling back to the kitchen and away from the coffee machine, which told Brad he wasn’t getting any.
“I need to pay you,” Brad said.
“I’ll put it in the book, and we’ll settle up before you leave.”
“Is he serious?” Brad looked at Jake.
“Deadly. We all settle up end of month. It’s how things roll in a small town, TJ. We trust each other.”
“Okay, if you say so.” This place was like something from a time warp, Brad thought.
“Got to go, TJ, work calls.”
“It's Sunday, who works on Sunday?” Brad said, following Jake back out the door.
“I'm a doctor, and much as it would work for me, I can't get these people to only fall sick Monday to Friday.”
“Any chance that nickname won't leave the Hoot?”
“Not a hope in hell, but I like the fact you didn't fight it. Things go much easier round here if you pick your battles. And while we’re talking about battles, your brother is a good man, you should talk to him.”
Jake slapped Brad on the shoulder before heading off up the street, leaving him to wonder what the hell was the deal with this place. Everyone seemed to be in each other’s business, he now had a nickname, and then there was the “settle up later,” business with Buster.
“Weird,” he muttered, heading back down the street for the general store. He needed a few things and he’d start there.
Running his eyes over the timber front of the Roar, he saw the prerequisite notice board, and through the windows, the laden shelves and things hanging from the rafters. Pushing open the door, he entered.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” Brad said to the man reading a paper behind the counter. The smell hit him first. Candles, confectionary, and herbs. Stuff was everywhere, the aromas mixing together to create a spicy scent. Ducking under some dried flowers, he walked down the aisles. By the end of the second one, he had his arms loaded with things he hadn’t known he needed.
“Morning.”
He found DJ O'Donnell seated at the rear.
“Morning.”
“Let me get you a basket for all that.”
He watched Declan retrieve a basket and then Brad lowered his purchases into it.
“Those chocolates are special, and after those, try the mint. If you want shorts, they have a few pairs. There's also a menswear a few doors up, but those are dressier.”
“Ah, sure. Do I need shorts then?” Brad looked down at his worn jeans. He wore them pretty much daily, unless he was doing business.
“The temperature's going up today, Brad. You'd be better off if you had a pair.”
“I'm used to jeans.”
“Sure, but you may want to throw yourself in the lake occasionally. Let me show you what Mac's got.”
Brad was determined to win this conversation. He liked jeans, and if he needed shorts, he'd cut up a pair of jeans to get them.
“I'll just cut the legs off these then.”
“Be a shame. Jeans that are worn in are a special thing.”
“What's the deal with you people?” Brad said as he followed DJ O'Donnell, because what the hell else was he supposed to do? He was pretty sure he wasn't dreaming, and that the famous novelist was about to fit him for a pair of shorts.
“Deal?”
“First Buster and Jake give me a nickname, and now I need shorts?”
“Buster likes nicknames, as evidenced by his friends, who all have them. What did he give you?”
Brad just looked at the Irishman.
“I'll hear within the hour anyway.”
“Is there something in the water in this town?”
Declan laughed. “It takes a while to get used to, but once you do, there's no better place.”
The man then turned and headed for a rack.
“My pick is the blue, seeing as you got those eyes.”
The Irish burr was muffled as he dived into the rack.
“Morning.”
“Newman, how you doing?”
“Good, Declan. Nice day for it. Whatever it is you're doing?”
“Looking for some shorts for Brad.”
He must have seen the bemused look on Brad's face, because he smirked.
“TJ.” The man nodded, then took a step back and sized him up.
“Newman,” Brad said, because nothing else came to mind.
“TJ.” Declan sent Brad a small smile. “Tex junior, I like it.”
“Just came from the Hoot,” Newman said.
“You put some food in the book?” Brad could talk like a local too, even if he did think they were odd.
Nodding his head sent Newman’s blond curls all over the place.
“I'm thinking blue, Declan.”
“My thoughts leaned that way, Newman.”
“With pockets, maybe, and longer, to keep the bad boy image he’s got going. Not sure as I'm comfortable seeing a man in short shorts, unless he's exercising,” Newman added.
“Also my thoughts.”
Declan emerged once more with a pair in his hands.
“These should do. You head on in there and try them on, Brad.”
“Ah—”
“Just roll with it, bud.” Newman gave him a wink.
Brad took the shorts, wondering how DJ O'Donnell had known what size he was. Slipping into the curtained room, he kicked off his sneakers and jeans then pulled on the shorts.
“How they working for you?”
“Surprisingly a perfect fit.”
“Out you come then,” Newman said, and Brad heard the humor in his voice now.
Not entirely sure they wouldn't come in if he didn't go out there, Brad opened the curtain.
“Damned near perfect,” the Irishman said. “He’s the exact same size as his brother.”
“Well now, imagine that,” Newman added.
“They got them in gray if you're inclined.”
“I don’t need two pairs, I won’t be here long enough to wear them,” Brad said, deciding enough was enough.
“He's going to keep them on, Mac!” Declan called down the shop.
“I am?”
Declan had once again disappeared into the pile of shorts, leaving Brad standing there, not entirely sure what the hell had just happened. He'd been selecting his own clothes for some time now. Further to that was the fact that Brad rarely let anyone make decisions for him or manipulate him these days.
“He's good,” Newman said, as if reading his thoughts.
“I'm not quite sure how that happened, as I've been dressing myself for years.”
“It's the way he does it. Gentle yet forceful.”
Brad nodded. “It's like being beaten with a foam roller.”
“So, you’re staying around for a bit, Brad, to see what's the deal with the Buchanan pla
ce?”
“Maybe.”
“Ethan's flying some of us in. We thought we'd see what's what and make sure nothing’s happening. We don't want these bastards getting a jump on us. So if you're around, we'd be happy for you to join us, especially now you got the shorts for it.”
“Sure, maybe.”
DJ O'Donnell was back, with the gray shorts this time.
“Mac put you on a retainer yet?”
“Working on it, Newman,” the Irishman said.
Brad found himself at the counter soon after with his purchases, which now included a pair of gray shorts.
“I'll bag those jeans for you,” the proprietor said.
“Sure, thanks.”
When he was outside on the doorstep of the general store, he looked skyward.
“What the hell just happened?”
“It's the place, man. People just kind of step into your life. You'll get used to it, and believe me when I say that it's all well-meaning.”
Newman fell in beside him as Brad started walking. He stopped outside a women's clothing store.
“Macy owns this?” Brad saw her name on the sign.
“Yup, you want to come in and help me fix up some shelves for her?”
Looking through the door, he saw Macy serving a customer. She wore her hair pulled back today, and her head was lowered as she concentrated on bagging the customer's purchase.
“I better get back.”
“To what?”
“Stuff,” Brad said, even as his feet followed Newman inside, then stood to one side until the customer had left. Looking around, he noticed the store was full of things, clothes and accessories everywhere.
“Hey, you two.”
“Macy.” Newman kissed her cheek. Brad just nodded, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his new shorts and tried not to stare. She hadn’t met his eyes yet, and he knew she was uncomfortable with him there.
“You want me to fix those shelves today for you?”
She wore a short, tight skirt in red, and another floaty blouse that sat off the shoulders exposing the soft, creamy skin of her upper chest and arms. Strappy red sandals finished the outfit, and he noted the polished red toes. Her nails were small, and he had the ridiculous urge to drop to his knees and touch them.
“I told you I was fine, Newman, so you don't need to worry.”
