Honey and Smoke

by Deborah Smith

  Betty stared up at him as he continued to whisper about chewing and gouging and kicking various parts of her anatomy. There was no doubt from some of his references that he thought she was male. But no man had ever talked to her in this violent, lurid way before, and her dignity rebelled.

  “What do you think I am?” she yelled back at him. She dug the back of her head into the ground and scrubbed her cap off. “I’m a woman, you idiot! You’re mauling and cursing a woman! Is this your idea of gallantry? You trespass on my land, shoot at me, trap me in my own cave, and then yell at me? You big macho bastard!”

  He froze. Then he sat back on his heels and regarded her with a fathomless expression. His gaze moved over the bulky gray sweatshirt and denim overalls. He reached out and flicked the clasp open on one strap of the overalls’ bib, then pulled the bib aside and scrutinized her chest.

  “Oh, don’t,” she said in horror.

  He jerked his hand back. “That’s not what I meant.” He flung the bib into place and groaned in disgust. “I just wanted to make sure that you were a woman. But you’re not just a woman, you’re a stealth bomber with a bosom.”

  “Funny.”

  He reached over a second time and wiped grime from her face. “I must be getting old. Hell, yes, you’re very female.” He looked closely at her shoulder-length black hair. Then, muttering an oath of self-rebuke under his breath, he turned her onto her stomach and quickly freed her hands.

  Relief shuddered through her. She whipped around, shoved herself upright with one hand, and slapped him across the face with the other. He barely blinked. “Okay. I deserved that.”

  Betty scooted several feet away from him. “What gives you the right to manhandle someone who’s minding her own business?” she demanded raggedly.

  His eyes were light green. They never wavered from hers. “There was no reason for anyone to be in that cave. I thought you were a kid hiding drugs. Why didn’t you come out when I called you?”

  “I can’t imagine where my manners were. I always respond when I’m given orders by strange men in military gear carrying big rifles. Why did you shoot at me?”

  “I didn’t shoot at you. I was aiming at a deer.”

  “A ten-foot-tall deer.”

  “Some kind of strange bobcat ran into me, and my shot went bad. I swear. I tracked the cat here.”

  “It’s my pet!”

  He did a double take, then recovered. “Calm down. I wasn’t planning to make a rug out of it. I only wanted to get a better look at the thing.” Lifting a dirty hand, he pointed at her to emphasize his next intense words. “I would never hunt where it wasn’t safe to shoot. I thought this land was empty.”

  “It’s not empty. It’s mine. And there are no-hunting signs posted everywhere.”

  “I walked in from the south. You didn’t post them there.”

  “But … but there’s no road on that side for at least ten miles. That’s why I never thought anyone would wander over my boundaries from that direction.”

  He shrugged. The rifle rode the heavy muscles of his back. “I like to hike,” he said simply. He cleared his throat. “You can file assault charges against me. I do owe you an apology, and it’s sincere. Will you accept?”

  His honesty caught her off guard. The way his gaze kept flickering over her face and body distracted her. Betty wiped a gloved hand to her face and wondered if she looked awful. “I’m supposed to just grin and say, ‘Aw, shucks, Rambo, no harm done’?”

  “You have to admit, there were extenuating circumstances.” Admiration grew in his eyes as he studied her. “You were damned good in that cave. Resourceful.”

  Betty realized that she was adorning her cheek with bat guano. She dropped her hand into her lap. He has beautiful green eyes, she couldn’t help thinking. And his hair, now that she could finally see it, was a rich almond shade of brown. And all the camouflage in the world couldn’t disguise a finely honed masculine body in its prime.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Where do you live?” he countered.

  “Who are you?” she repeated.

  “You never accepted my apology.”

  “I don’t accept apologies from nameless strangers.”

  “Max Templeton. I’d offer to shake hands, but I doubt you’re in the mood.”

  “You’re right. Are you local?”

  “Lately, yes.”

  “Good. Then you’ll feel at home in the local jail.”

  “You’re not making this apology process easy.”

  “You trespassed on my property and assaulted me.”

  “Don’t forget a misdemeanor charge concerning the careless use of a firearm.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  “You tossed a handful of firecrackers between my legs. I’m too upset to think straight.”

  “You don’t look upset.”

  “You don’t look upset either. Let’s go have a beer and get acquainted. I’ll buy. My apology will be much more acceptable with a froth on it.”

  She slumped. A ticklish new fear sat in the bottom of her chest, the fear that something potent was brewing between the two of them. Flights of fancy and reckless behavior were a bad combination, she knew from past experience.

  “Just take another hike,” she told him. “Back where you came from. And don’t trespass on my land again.”

  “What were you doing inside that cave?”

  “Growing mushrooms.” She gave him a rebuking look. “Ordinary, edible mushrooms.”

  “You have pieces of mushroom on your sweatshirt.”

  She glanced down at her gray shirt and winced. A lot of work had been mashed. “Great.”

  “I’ll pay you for damages.”

  “Forget it. Just leave.”

  “This cave is called Quint’s Hideout. Back in the early nineteen-hundreds a local named William Quint mined gold in it. Later he made moonshine here.”

  “I know. I’m his granddaughter. I own the cave now.”

  “You mean—” he glanced toward the north. “You bought the Quint place?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There hasn’t been a Quint around here for fifty years. The house belonged to the Gibson family, the last I heard. And none of them live here anymore either.”

  “Right. It’s been vacant for a few years. I just bought the place from the Gibsons.”

  “It must be in terrible shape.”

  “No worse than my nerves at the moment.”

  “You look steady. I’m impressed. And apologetic. Really. I’ll walk you home, and you can explain why you love mushrooms so much.” He leaned toward her with disarming effect and smiled. “I live just north of town. We’re practically neighbors.”

  “I can walk myself. It’s just over the ridge. And if I ever see you on my land again, I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “Your lantern is still burning inside the cave. Wait here.” He took the gun from his back, laid it on the ground at her feet like a warrior surrendering his sword, then slid into the cave opening. “Be right back.”

  Betty numbly tugged her gloves off, then used her cap to wipe her face. So he thought she looked steady? Her hands were trembling, and inside she was nothing but a tangle of questions. Max Templeton. Max. She mouthed the name. He was local. She’d see him again. The thought gave her a trill of excitement along with dismay.

  A throaty, plaintive meow caught her attention. Betty looked toward the tall stump of a dead tree. Faux sat there, a wary expression on her face. “Come here, baby. It’s all right.” The brindle cat leapt down and trotted to her, using the stump of its hind leg almost as gracefully as a foot.

  Faux crawled into her lap and curled up, her body spilling out over Betty’s knees. Her tufted ears twitched at the sounds of Max Templeton’s return. “It’s all right, Faux,” Betty assured her, stroking her head. “I hope so, anyway.”

  Max Templeton shoved himself half out of the cave, then spotted Faux and halted, his eyes narro
wing in scrutiny. “The stealth cat,” he said gruffly. “What kind of cat is it?”

  “Half bobcat, half Manx. The product of a very strange romance.”

  Betty’s attention was riveted to him. He must be over six feet tall, almost a head taller than she. The paint had begun to streak on his face, accenting the hard thrust of his chin but also curving around the sensual lines of his mouth. His nose was straight and chiseled; his eyes were large. It was a surprisingly elegant face in contrast, to a brutally handsome body. A unique and troublesome combination.

  Betty set Faux Paw down and rose to her feet. Max Templeton stood also, and she discovered that she had been right—he was a good six inches taller than she. “Ms. Quint,” he said politely. “Your cave is secure. Your strange cat is safe. You’re not hurt. Will you accept my apology?”

  He could sound so formal. He had a very straight-backed, chin-up posture. His voice had the light drawl of a southerner who’d spent a lot of years away from home. It wasn’t as crisp as her voice, with its urban-Atlanta lilt, but it wasn’t gruff and twangy, the way the natives talked up here.

  “Please accept my apology,” he repeated, gazing at her curiously. “Are you all right?”

  Distracted, she nodded. “This was obviously just one of life’s fiascos. A quirk of coincidence and misunderstanding. I accept your apology.”

  “Does this mean that I’m allowed to learn your first name?”

  “Betty.”

  “Nice. I’ve never known a Betty before.”

  “Not one under eighty years old, at least. It’s not a fashionable name anymore.”

  “Were you named after a relative?”

  “No. My father insists that I was named after Betty Rubble, on The Flintstones.”

  “I think I’d like your father. And what’s the stealth cat’s name?”

  “Faux Paw. It’s a play on the French phrase faux pas, which means—”

  “I know.” He looked at her with mild rebuke. “Yes’m, I done learned a little French myself.”

  “Sorry. I was just—”

  “Judging a book by its camouflage.”

  She shifted awkwardly, feeling like a nervous teenager under his assertive attention. “I’m sorry. Good-bye. Meeting you was an interesting experience.”

  “I take it that now is not the time to say that you look great in dirty overalls and that you’re very pretty despite the bat poop on your face. Or that I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Bad timing. I’ll try again later.” He picked up his rifle and hitched the strap over his shoulder. “Well, it’s a long hike back to my Jeep. If you change your mind about filing charges, you can find me in Webster Springs.”

  “I accepted your apology. I don’t go back on my acceptances.” She couldn’t resist. “Do you work in town?” “At the courthouse. Part-time. Monday through Friday, nine to one.” He nodded to her graciously, but his eyes were less subtle as he scanned her one last time from head to toe. “And where can I find you?”

  “At the old Colton house. Right off the square.”

  “You bought one house in town and another outside of town?”

  “I’m turning the Colton place into a restaurant. I’m a professional caterer. I’m expanding my business.”

  “Terrific. I’ll see you again. Soon.”

  Very soon, she suspected, and her mouth went dry.

  He nodded to her. “Good-bye, Betty. Au revoir, Faux Paw.” Smiling, he started into the woods.

  “What kind of work do you do?” Betty called.

  He turned, framed by the beautiful golden poplar trees, imprinting himself on her mind forever. His smile widened, cheerful and irresistible despite his harshly painted face. “I’m the justice of the peace.”

  He pivoted and walked away whistling, while Betty stared after him in astonishment.

  Two

  “He really is the justice of the peace,” Grace Larson told her as they watched workmen fit a stainless steel smoker into a niche of the restaurant’s kitchen wall. Grace, trim and neat in designer jeans, a gold-braided belt, and a cashmere sweater, was the mayor’s wife. She was also head of the chamber of commerce and the owner of the clothing shop next door to Betty’s restaurant.

  “The state legislature changed things a few years ago,” Grace continued. “The position is really called ‘magistrate’ now, but it’s the same as justice of the peace. Max was elected last month. His father was justice of the peace in this county for more than forty years.” Grace stroked a gray curl coyly and laughed. “Bartram Templeton was a legend, let me tell you.”

  Betty, her jeans and workshirt already coated with a film of dust, frowned as she knocked more dust into the air while scrubbing a countertop. “A good legend or a bad legend?”

  “Depends on your point of view. If you were the husband of one of Bartram’s lady friends, you might say it was a bad legend.”

  Betty halted and stared at her. “Are we talking ‘town lecher’ here?”

  “No, honey, we’re talking ‘town Romeo’ here. Bartram never stole a heart that didn’t want to be stolen.”

  “He cheated on his wife, Max’s mother?”

  “Oh, no. She died when Max was a baby. Some people say she was the only woman Bartram ever loved—he didn’t get married until he was over forty, and after she died, he never married again. Didn’t stop him from having a good time, though.” Grace smiled. “Before I was married, I had a few dates with him myself. He was very hard to forget.”

  “Then why—”

  “He wasn’t the marrying kind. I was.”

  “So Max grew up here with an aging playboy for a father.”

  “Uh huh. Max cut a pretty wide path through the local girls himself, though he was no match for his daddy. After he graduated from high school, he joined the marines, and I bet we didn’t see him more than a handful of times after that. Just when he’d visit Bartram. Last winter he came back for his daddy’s funeral and then, a few months later, he came back for good.”

  Grace bent her head closer so the workmen couldn’t hear. “Bartram was over eighty years old. But he died in the saddle, if you know what I mean.”

  Betty swallowed a smile. “Any horse I’d know?”

  Grace nodded. “Connie Jean Brown.”

  “Not the grandmotherly little lady who runs the yogurt shop!”

  “The same. Thank goodness her husband didn’t get upset. I think he was sort of proud of Connie Jean for being a sexy senior citizen.”

  Betty slumped against the counter and tossed her brush down. She couldn’t help laughing. “Grace, I moved up here to get back to basics, to live in a place where most people still believe in traditional values. If Bartram Templeton’s escapades are the kinkiest gossip you’ve got, then I’m happy. That’s a great story.”

  Grace laughed too. “This’ll make it even better then. Do you know what Bartram did besides working as justice of the peace? Ever hear of the Hitching Post?”

  “Hmmm. I vaguely remember an article in one of the Atlanta magazines about a strange little business up here—”

  “That was it. Bartram ran it.” Grace grinned. “And Max just reopened it.”

  Betty crossed her arms over her chest and eyed Grace grimly. “You mean that he runs a wedding chapel? He marries people?”

  Grace hooted. “Yes, honey. You make it sound like he marries them to himself.” She raised a gray eyebrow rakishly. “We call it a wedding parlor, not a chapel. If Max Templeton is like his daddy, his weddings are like no weddings you’ve ever seen before. Do you know how people get married at that parlor?”

  Betty stared at her wide-eyed. “How?”

  “They get married in costumes. I mean, if they want to. There’s an extra fee for it. Civil War, Indian, pioneer—even got a suit of armor one of the local welders made. The groom can dress up like a knight. If Max runs the place the same as his daddy did, getting married is a big joke.”

  “
That’s awful.”

  “I sort of think so too.” Grace looked at her curiously. “But you look really upset.”

  “I think weddings should be dignified. I think marriage is too important to be treated as a joke.” Betty hesitated, then admitted softly, “I’m a recent dropout of the ‘we-don’t-need-a-formal-commitment’ school of relationships. Trust me, it’s a tough course. I believe in marriage. I think that it’s still the most loving and most dedicated way to live.”

  Grace patted her hand in consolation. “Honey, you’re gonna find yourself a good ol’ boy up here who’ll marry you in a second. You’re only thirty years old. You got a few good years left.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “Just don’t get involved with Max Templeton unless you want a good time but not much else.”

  “I’ve had that kind of good time already. It wasn’t so good.” Betty had barely finished grinding her teeth before the delivery boy arrived.

  “Present for Ms. Quint,” he announced, standing in the doorway of the restaurant’s screened veranda.

  Betty stared at the basket he carried. It was wrapped in a florist’s colorful cellophane and topped by a large red bow. It was filled with mushrooms. “Who’s this from?” she asked, although the answer loomed in her mind.

  “Here’s the card, ma’am.”

  After the boy left, she set the basket on a table and read the car’s message. Don’t keep me in the dark, the thick, bold script cajoled. I owe you a dinner. It was signed by Max, of course, and included his telephone number.

  Grace peered over her shoulder. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered in awe. “Max Templeton is after you. The legend lives on.”

  The young couple looked good dressed up as Scarlett and Rhett, Max thought. He’d given them a discount on the costume fee because they were just twenty-one, and from the looks of the boy’s ancient sports car, they didn’t have much money.

  But business was business. He didn’t want to work more than three nights a week and an occasional Saturday, so he had to keep a tight schedule. He’d just reopened the parlor two weeks ago, and he hadn’t done any advertising besides a notice in the Webster Springs paper, but word had gotten around fast.