by Carter Ashby
Clara might have intervened in an attempt at making peace, but she was too busy watching facial expressions and trying to determine if the rumor was true…and if so, which one of her boys was the guilty party. Jake and Cody both frowned at their father. Boone smirked. Dallas laughed. “I wish I was screwing around with Ivy,” Dallas said. “That girl has the best ass in town.”
“Great rack, too,” Boone said.
Cody cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s right, talking about her like this. She’s always been a real upstanding woman, and now there’s some rumors and we’re all treating her like she’s some whore. It ain’t right.”
“Ha,” Dallas said. “That proves it. You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”
“Language,” Jake muttered involuntarily. Being the oldest, he’d early on learned to parrot his mother’s rebukes. Clara wasn’t sure he even knew he’d said it. He was busy frowning down at his plate.
“Jake, honey?” she asked. “What do you think?”
He looked up at her. “‘Bout Ivy? I guess I think none of us would be stupid enough to mess around with her so I don’t really know why we’re having this conversation. Some old gossips in town probably saw when me and her had that business breakfast a week back…which you told me to go to, Pop, if you’ll recall.” He looked to Gideon who nodded grudgingly. “I reckon that’s likely where all this is coming from.”
“But the rumors aren’t about you and Ivy,” Gideon said. “They’re about Ivy and ‘one of my sons.’ If folks thought it was you, why wouldn’t they just say so?”
Jake shrugged.
Gideon sighed. “All right, just each of you boys look me in the eye and tell me you ain’t with her and I’ll leave it be. But don’t lie to me. Ain’t never had a problem with my sons lying to me.”
He looked first at Boone, whose expression had sobered. “I swear, Pop. I ain’t been with Ivy.”
Dallas said, “I ain’t been with Ivy.”
Cody said, “I swear. I never been with Ivy.”
Jake said, “I’ve never been with Ivy.”
Gideon gave them each a once-over. And then he nodded and went back to finishing his dinner. Clara relaxed. Her boys wouldn’t lie. So the rumors must be just that.
The Turner’s ranch hands ate their dinner in the bunk house. The Turner dinner table was family only. It was rectangular, but small. Ivy’s father, Jared, sat at the head of the table, closest to the wall. Her mother had always sat at the opposite end, closest to the kitchen. And Ivy had sat on the side. She couldn’t identify at what point she’d assumed her mother’s spot at the table, but she noticed it that evening.
“When did I move to Mom’s chair?” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Jared asked over a mouthful of steamed broccoli.
“Nothing. Do you like the chicken?”
“Kind of bland.”
“That’s what your heart wants, Daddy. Bland food. Don’t insult the cook.”
Jared smiled as he took another bite. “Myra Tidwell paid me a visit this morning.”
“For God’s sake, does she never stop?”
“How are you holding up?”
Ivy didn’t want to talk about it. She had an MBA and single-handedly ran the business side of the ranch, a job that had formerly belonged to her mother. And since taking over the work, Ivy had managed to grow their business in terms of productivity and profitability. She’d proven herself adept at increasing efficiency as well as sales and marketing. Until yesterday, she walked with her head held high. “I’m rather pissed, if you must know.”
Jared chuckled. “Well, you ought to conduct your affairs with more discretion.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but thankfully she remembered that her father didn’t know—couldn’t have known—of her little folly. He was only teasing her, of course. She forced a laugh and said, “I was overcome with desire.”
Jared shook his head. “The idea of my girl going after a cowboy…everyone in this town knows you don’t swing that way. Why would they lend credence to this stuff?”
“People love juicy gossip, that’s all. It’ll pass.”
“I just hate to see your name dragged through the mud. I know how much your reputation means to you.”
Ivy shrugged. “It’ll pass.” There really wasn’t any more to say on the subject.
But then Jared looked up, making eye contact for the first time since they’d sat down. “I want you to know, if it turned out you did like one of those boys—”
“Dad, please. Come on. I’ve got a city-girl soul. I’m not interested in cowboys, you just said so yourself.”
“Now we both know that’s bullshit. You want to have a city-girl soul, but you’re a hundred percent country stock, through and through.”
Am not, am not, am not. Ivy worked up her coldest glare.
Jared sighed. “I know you say you don’t want a cowboy, I just want you to know…it wouldn’t bother me. Your mother and I were both so proud of the woman you’ve become. We were at ease. I trust you to make your own decisions.”
Ivy clenched her teeth against the brief pang of sadness in her throat before nodding. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He smiled and went back to eating. Ivy exhaled slowly, relaxing now that the conversation had passed. Open-minded or not, Ivy hoped her father never found out what she’d done, and with whom she’d done it.
Boone
Genetics had obviously been good to the Deathridge boys. So much so that three of them took it for granted. Jake barely glanced up when women made passes at him. Cody had a collection of polite rejection lines he cycled through. Dallas didn’t go out unless he wanted to get laid, at which point he went to a bar, picked out a woman like a puppy in a pet shop, and took her home.
Boone didn’t understand any of them. Maybe it was because he was the youngest. He’d watched the others go before him and wanted what they’d had. And maybe it was because he was the only late bloomer among them. Sixteen came, then seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Yes, he, Boone Deathridge, brother to Dallas Deathridge of the infamous School Nurse Affair scandal, didn’t lose his virginity until he was twenty.
It hadn’t been for lack of trying. He’d mimicked every one of his brothers’ moves in his attempt to score. At the age of twenty, quite by accident, he finally learned that valuable life lesson that everyone must realize in order to reach self-actualization: be yourself.
At a loud, smoke-filled party, Boone had looked around the room at the women he usually made passes at, the kinds of women his brothers went for, the kinds of women who rejected Boone roundly and regularly; something inside of him had despaired. A voice had said to him, “You’ll never have that.” He’d given up.
He’d been about to leave when he noticed a young girl, likely fresh out of high school, hovering in the corner, smiling at her friend, but glancing around shyly. The girl looked sweet and innocent. Normally Boone’s eyes would have passed right over her, but in that moment, he’d paused to look a little closer. Nothing wrong with the girl. Underneath her demure sundress and cardigan, she had a pretty nice body. A spark ignited inside of Boone, something he would later come to recognize as the spark of inspiration. Likely Michaelangelo had felt it when he’d first picked up a paint brush, or Beethoven when he’d first touched a piano. Boone saw this girl and realized he’d been going after the wrong prey. He’d been using the wrong tools. Sure, Jake and Cody could act like they didn’t care and have women falling at their feet; and Dallas could act like he was doing a girl a favor talking to her; but Boone didn’t have that kind of prowess. He had a sweet face and a non-threatening air about him. That night, instead of seeing those attributes as weakness, he’d chosen to turn them to his advantage.
He’d approached the nice looking girl and struck up friendly conversation. He hadn’t leered, but instead had bashfully offered her compliments, giving a little something, and then pulling back so as not to come off predatory or desperate. He
’d dropped little bread crumbs of seduction, just hints at a time, camouflaged under a veneer of mostly fake innocence, until the girl had followed him out the door and into the back of his car.
Now, five years later, Boone still remembered that night as the best of his life. The most amazing thing about the whole situation had been that the girl had moved away a week later, making it easy for him to shake her off. Other women over the years had proved more challenging, and his one regret, now that he looked back on it, was that he hadn’t planned better for how to get his conquests to move on. The trouble with preying on nice girls was that they were all very commitment-oriented, and nowadays, Boone had a rather bad reputation as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Which was probably why so many people thought he’d been sleeping with Ivy. He had a meeting with Ivy that night, only an hour after the dinner where he and his brothers had solemnly sworn that they were up to no bad. Boone reflected on those promises. Jake and Cody would be telling the truth. If they swore they weren’t fucking Ivy, then that was that. But Dallas was lying. Maybe not about Ivy, but he was lying about something. Just like Boone was.
He drove down the highway that sprawled between Deathridge and Turner property, reflecting on the fact that an informal poll on the Fair Grove Times Facebook page (run by Myra Tidwell) had Dallas beating out Boone as the suspected lover by about twenty votes. It was an insult. Ivy was not the kind of ass that Boone couldn’t get. He could easily have her if he wanted her. She just happened to be the one woman, besides his dear mother, whom he respected.
He made a left down a dirt road—barely a road—that led down the fence line between the two properties. He drove past fields on either side and down to the tree line where he put the truck in park and waited. A minute later, he heard the distant buzz of an ATV engine. A moment later, Ivy topped the ridge, coming into view with her long, blond hair flying out behind her, and dark sunglasses on despite the dimming of the evening light.
Boone got out of the truck, leaned against it, and waited until she parked and turned off the motor. She swung her leg over and approached, hand-extended.
Boone was used to her formal behavior. She’d always had the manners of a southern gentleman.
“Boone,” she said by way of greeting, and offering him a firm handshake over the fence rail.
“Ivy. Thanks for coming.”
“Sure.”
He looked her up and down. Jeans and a t-shirt for a change, but still nothing that would excite his fancy. Maybe if she dressed like a country girl once in a while he might have put some truth to those rumors. But then again, no. Even as pleased with himself as he was, Boone still knew that Ivy deserved better than him. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
She hooked her thumbs in her jeans and glanced out at the sun. “That why you called? See how I’m holding up?”
“I do kind of feel like this is my fault.”
She cocked her head. He couldn’t see her eyes through the glasses. “How do you figure?”
He shrugged. “Molly did use your truck to meet me at the hotel last night. I mean, maybe that’s where this rumor is coming from.”
Her lips pressed together. “You’re a pig.”
“Hey, she’s a big girl.”
Ivy shook her head and looked away. “I don’t know. If that’s where the rumor is coming from, then I’m screwed. I can’t rat her out.”
“I just want you to know I’m real sorry, and to thank you for, you know, keeping me and Molly’s secret.”
She turned her face back to him. He assumed she was looking at him, but again, it was hard to tell. “Just do me a favor and if people ask you if you’re fucking me, be honest and tell them no. No more joking around.”
“Sure. Of course, Ivy. And maybe I can make a statement on Myra’s Facebook page or something.”
Ivy waved her hand. “Just…answer ‘no’ if anyone asks. Otherwise, leave it alone. Maybe it’ll blow over, soon, and people will quit treating me like the whore of Babylon.”
Boone hated to hear this. She’d never done anything to deserve that sort of disrespect. Even if she had slept with one of his brothers, she didn’t deserve this. He frowned, this new thought occurring to him.
Had she?
He hadn’t even entertained the idea since this was Ivy Turner, professional to a T. Suddenly, he couldn’t help cracking a grin. “You know, I assumed this was on me and Molly, but…have you? Did you?”
Ivy’s cheeks turned red and she lifted her chin. “Have I, did I, what, Boone?”
“You know what.”
“I can’t believe you have the nerve to stand there and ask me if I’ve slept with one of your brothers. You’ve known me all your life, and you ask me something like this? Have you no respect?”
The wicked notion died like a frostbit flower, and Boone lowered his head. “Aw, Ivy, I was just teasing. Don’t take offense, okay?”
She eased back, her shoulders relaxing. “Sure. I’m just sick of the insult, you know? I had a boyfriend for over two years and no one treated me like a slut for sleeping with him.”
“Maybe everyone assumed you’d be waiting for marriage.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Do you think? Do you think that’s what people assume about me?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I figure. Because you’re so upstanding, you know.”
“So if an upstanding woman has a one-night-stand, she’s automatically a whore?”
He laughed and looked away. “Ain’t my rules, Ivy. Blame society.”
She grumbled something and turned back to her bike. “Are we done here?” she asked.
“Yeah, except…”
She climbed astride the ATV. “Except what?”
“Except…tomorrow night. Molly wants to meet again, and—”
“And can she use my truck?” Ivy laughed. “Can I cover for her again? You seriously came here for that, even after you just said that you thought this might be responsible for the rumors ruining my reputation.”
“I think I’m in love,” he lied.
She snorted. “You’re so full of shit.” She started up the bike.
“Ivy? Will you cover for us?”
She pulled the sunglasses up to the top of her head and hit him with her beautiful, blue eyes. “She’s my best friend.”
Unfortunately, that was all the answer he would get. Ivy backed her bike up and drove away. He watched after her, hoping she would come through for him. With any luck, this affair could last quite a while. He didn’t think he would tire of Molly very soon.
Pastor Allen had originally been a missionary. He was in Papua New Guinea for a while, and then Tanzania. Twice a year, a bus arrived full of American college students from Christian universities that helped sponsor his mission work. Two years ago, a beautiful young woman with honey-colored hair and sweet, wide eyes had stepped off the bus and stolen his heart. They’d married immediately and when her classmates returned home, she’d stayed with him.
He’d been foolish. The girl was young and her passion for missions untested, so that after a year, when her passion died like a malnourished sprout, she began complaining. Pastor Allen loved his wife, though, and would therefore withhold nothing from her. As much as he wanted to spread the word of God to those who had little or no access to it on their own, the Bible had strong words about how a husband was to treat a wife.
Fortunately, the pastor at the community church in his wife’s hometown of Fair Grove was retiring, leaving an opening. Richard Allen had sent his audition video as well as a letter from his wife. He’d received an invitation to try out, two weeks later. Two weeks after that, he had a job.
They’d been in Fair Grove for three months, now. At first, his beautiful young bride had barely seemed to improve. Nothing he did made her happy. But she’d taken a turn, recently, for the better. Now he sat in his study, listening to her bustle about the house, humming and singing to herself. He smiled and counted himself a lucky man.
His wife po
pped her head in the door of his study and greeted him with a bright, dimply smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to spend the evening with Ivy, after dinner. She’s having a really hard time.”
“Of course, Molly. You’re a good friend. Tell her if she needs anyone to talk to, I’ll be happy to listen and offer counsel.”
She bobbed her head and went back to her housework.
“Don’t do this,” Ivy implored. She sat on the edge of her four-poster bed that she’d meticulously made up that morning, same as every morning of her life, minus the few years she’d spent living in college dorms. Even then, she’d always been a tidy person.
Molly was letting down her hair and fixing her makeup in front of the vanity mirror over Ivy’s cherrywood dresser. She’d come over a little before sundown. “It’s Boone Deathridge. For four, miserable high school years he didn’t even know I existed. I have to do this.”
She’d already done it, was the thing. Molly had had her night with Boone, and Ivy, as much as she hated the whole situation, had been willing to cover for her friend that once. It hadn’t occurred to her that the affair would continue.
Ivy smoothed the soft, worn comforter beneath her hands, more to comfort herself than to straighten any wrinkles. The pink, floral pattern had faded long ago, now a shabby image of its former self, almost sepia. But Ivy wouldn’t replace it. She had fond memories of decorating this room with her mother. From the eyelet lace window dressings that were once pure white, to the floral wallpaper that they’d fought over—at the age of twelve, Ivy had thought it Victorian and classic while her mother found it stuffy and old-fashioned—her mother’s memory infused the room.
Molly’s thick, soft-brown hair fell into a natural wave. If Ivy were a vain woman, she’d have been jealous. Molly was tall with a figure that could only be described as dignified. She seriously looked like the cover model for a 1950’s copy of Good Housekeeping.
There had to be something she could say to convince Molly not to cheat on her husband again. She was Molly’s best friend by default, the other friends driven off by Molly’s selfish, narcissistic behaviors. And frankly, as secure as Ivy was as a daughter, a business manager, and a citizen, she did feel a little weak in the friendship department, and Molly’s attention made her feel good.
