Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  He shrugged into the fleece jacket he’d snagged on his way out the door then retrieved the thermal cup that held the remains of his morning coffee. Without missing a step, he snatched his tool belt from the bed of the truck and carried it to the porch.

  Ten minutes later, he’d tested each rotting board again, marked more than a dozen for replacement, and pried his tape measure from the belt he’d dropped on the ground. He noted a few measurements on a battered bank envelope he’d prized from the seat of his truck then pulled the tape taut across the width of the bottom stair. When a sharp cry split the morning quiet, his head jerked up.

  Straightening to his full height, he eyed the back door. A string of muffled curses faded into a keening moan. Bram sprang into action. Heart in his throat, he wrenched open the storm door and crossed the mudroom in three strides.

  “Ms. Prescott.” Peeling paint fluttered to the floor when he hammered the door with the side of his fist. “Ms. Prescott? Are you okay?” he bellowed.

  His question was answered by the slow snick of the deadbolt being withdrawn. Another click and the knob he clenched in his hand turned. The kitchen door swung wide, and she stared up at him in shock.

  Her hair was a tangled mess of sleep-tousled knots, her cheeks damp and splotchy, and her lips cracked and dry but for the tears that seeped into the corners of her mouth.

  “I killed her,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  Her gazed dropped, and his followed. He spotted the tiny yellow bird cradled in her outstretched palm. The desolation so clearly written on her face clued him in, and he barely managed to rein in a nervous laugh of relief. “Aw, now, Ms. Prescott.”

  “I don’t know what I did wrong,” she cried. “I did what the man told me to do. Poor Rosemary.” She stroked the little bird’s fluffy feathers with the pad of one finger. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  His hands coiled into fists. His every instinct screamed for him to comfort her. “Ms. Prescott. These birds…a lot of them don’t make it,” he began haltingly. How the hell do you comfort a woman you can’t even call by her given name? When she looked up with a puzzled frown, he took a deep breath. “They’re bred to be producing chickens. A good number of these chicks aren’t as strong as some of the others.”

  She stared up at him with tear-drenched eyes, and he swallowed the lump rising in his throat. Her vulnerability ate at him. For God’s sake, it’s just a stupid chicken. He bit his tongue and drew a steadying breath through his nose. “It wasn’t anything you did. Trust me. I own a hatchery. I should know, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Tell you what. Give, uh, Rosemary to me,” he said, offering his hand palm-up. She placed the puff of fluff in his hand. “Do you have a shoebox?”

  “Shoebox?”

  “Something to put her in?”

  “Oh. Yes. I have something.” With a brisk nod, she turned on her heel and hurried for the living room.

  The rustle of plastic bags drew his attention from the hapless little bird. Bram craned his neck to check on her. He sucked in a sharp breath. She bent over the bags piled on a ratty old recliner and pulled a box free from the tangle. The thin cotton nightgown she wore rose over the backs of long, muscular thighs.

  He clenched his jaw and wrenched his gaze from her, focusing instead on the foil-wrapped lump on the kitchen table. Somehow the new view didn’t help to keep his heart from jittering like a jackhammer in his chest.

  Lynne padded back into the room, carefully rearranging the single scrap of tissue paper that lined the box. “It’s probably too big.” She set the box on the table, but when he stepped toward it, she placed one hand on his arm to stop him. He froze, standing still as a statue. “Let me get some paper towels,” she said quietly.

  He watched as she unfurled a dozen sheets of towels and folded them into a plush bed. Bram called on super-human strength he didn’t know he possessed to keep his gaze resolutely north of her legs while she lined the box. He was starting to feel pretty proud of himself when she turned and gave him a solemn nod.

  The dead chicken in his hand was forgotten. His thoughts were light-years from the rotten boards he was supposed to be replacing on her porch, and they couldn’t be farther from the call he meant to make to Percy Jenkins that afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the window, silhouetting her slim figure and turning her hair into a halo of burnished gold. His fingers closed convulsively around the baby bird. Lynne gave a little yelp of distress and snapped him back to his senses.

  “Oh, geez,” he grunted. Reaching past her, he carefully slipped Rosemary into her cardboard coffin. “I’ll just…I’ll bury her.”

  “Thank you.”

  He placed the lid on the box and clutched it to his chest like a shield. Taking a hasty step back, he kept his gaze averted. “Do you have a spade?”

  “A spade?”

  “A shovel,” he clarified.

  “Oh. No. I mean, I might, but if I do it’s probably in the back of that chicken house.”

  Her voice caught on the word chicken, and suddenly he had to beat down the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms. Instead, he hugged the shoebox. “I’ve got one at home. I’ll bury her there.”

  “Do you live nearby? I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

  “My farm’s on the other side of the pond.”

  “Oh. So, we’re neighbors?”

  He clamped down on the inside of his cheek, trying to block out every unneighborly thought. “Yes, neighbors.”

  Lynne finally met his gaze, but her blue eyes were dull and calm. “Thank you.”

  Something about the way she said those two simple words lanced his heart. The pain was paralyzing. He stared back at her, unable to make his feet move despite the fact his instincts were screaming for him to flee.

  “I need to run into town to order the lumber. It’ll take a day or two to get the boards and get ’em cut. In the meantime, watch out for the boards I marked on the porch. They’re weak.”

  She drew herself up, nodding slowly. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll take care of, uh, Rosemary,” he said, wincing at his rough-as-gravel voice.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “I appreciate that.”

  The heartfelt gratitude that laced the words gave him all the strength he needed. “No need for thanks.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “That’s what neighbors do.”

  ****

  That’s what neighbors do?

  Bram scooped another shovelful of dirt from the rapidly expanding hole beneath the red maple in his backyard. “Burying a stupid bird,” he muttered, glaring at the shoebox nestled against the trunk of the tree.

  He plunged the spade into the dirt once more, working the blade deeper with the heel of his boot. His gaze drifted to a small stepping stone two feet away. The red heart painted on the smooth surface had long-since faded to pink, just as the devotion Willene once proclaimed for her pet hamster washed into a fond memory.

  The shovel sank into the earth and his knees nearly gave out. He dropped onto his butt, the worn handle of the shovel bouncing off his shoulder as he landed with a jolt. His fingers fisted in tender spring grass. He blew out a breath, his gaze locked on the makeshift headstone.

  “What am I doing?” The words drifted on the breeze. Loose soil slid from the shovel, trickling its way back into the hole. Bending at the waist, he scraped up a handful of rich, dark soil and closed it in his fist. He tipped his head back and whispered to the heavens.

  “What the hell am I doing?”

  A bird trilled from a branch above his head. Bram shot the winged creature a scornful glance. “No one asked you.”

  Unfurling his fingers, he whipped the compressed clod of dirt into the grave and lunged for the box containing Lynne Prescott’s dead chick. “Got room in here for you, too,” he growled at the bird above. The branch barely wavered when his audience chose flight.

  “That’s right. Leave the crazy man alone.
”

  He lowered the makeshift coffin into the ground and lurched for the mound of dirt piled beside the hole. Bram scooped the cool earth into his cupped palms. The soil sifted through his fingers, drumming the top of the cardboard box. “Rest in peace, Rosemary. Dust to dust and all that crap.”

  Bram used both hands to rake the remainder of the dirt and grass into the hole. He tamped the grave with his fists, brushed the dirt from his palms, and fell back on the grass, staring at the sky through the tangle of budding branches.

  “I’m a fool,” he whispered. “No fool like an old fool. Right, Suse?” He closed his eyes, clasping his hands across his stomach. The musky scent of turned earth tickled his nostrils. He breathed deep, seeking solace in the familiar.

  He’d lived his whole life on this land. His house stood on acreage carved from his parents’ pasture. He moved his own family from his childhood bedroom to their new home when Abe was only weeks old. He’d never wanted to be anywhere else.

  Unlike some people. He braced against the inevitable stab of pain. It came as expected, but this time the bitterness didn’t bite as deep. He sat up and blinked to chase off the spots clouding his vision.

  A blister throbbed at the base of his thumb. He prodded the taut skin with a fingernail, testing his tolerance. His smile tasted grim. The certainty that he could withstand anything life threw at him was cold comfort. He glanced at the elaborate tiered deck spanning the back of his house, but all he saw were pale, raw planks of unfinished wood nailed into a sagging porch. A tired laugh rumbled in his chest.

  He shook his head at his own folly.

  Building a porch so I can tear it down. Making goo-goo eyes at a fancy, Yankee divorcee like a lovesick puppy. Thinking things I’ve got no business thinking.

  Bram pushed to his feet, snatching the handle of the shovel as he straightened. The metal blade cut divots into the ground. The brisk March wind ruffled his hair. He leaned heavily on the handle as he made his way toward the empty house.

  He left the spade propped against the deck rail and shuffled into the kitchen. The foil-covered pie plate called to him. Eschewing any pretense of common sense or the maturity he liked to claim, he plucked a fork from the drawer, peeled back the foil, and speared a chunk of cinnamon-laced apple.

  A veil of afternoon sunlight streamed through the kitchen window. The shadow cast by the branches of the red maple danced over his face, and the shadowy outline of Lynne Prescott’s legs tickled his memory, teased his body, and for the first time in years, something stirred in his soul.

  He stared at the decimated pie in front of him. “Don’t go there,” he whispered, stabbing at the flaky lattice crust. “Don’t be a fool.”

  Chapter Eight

  Perched on the edge of her bed, Lynne alternated between feigning interest in her aunt’s paperback collection and peeping through the lacy curtains each time Bram passed by the window. More than a little embarrassed about the way she wigged out the morning Rosemary died, she used the pretense of sorting through the boxes she’d hauled in from the chicken coop to avoid facing him.

  A grown woman should not fall to pieces at the sight of a dead bird. She knew, theoretically at least, life and death were a big part of living in the country. Then again, a woman shouldn’t hide in her house because her visceral reaction to her handsome neighbor turned her into a babbling idiot.

  Her cheeks burned with mortification each time she thought about Bram Hatchett’s gentle response to his new neighbor’s obvious neuroses.

  The man had gone past being neighborly, considering he’d witnessed her complete mental breakdown over a baby bird. A part of her wanted to face him like the mature woman she was supposed to be—calm, cool, and collected—and apologize for her unseemly display. Sadly, at the moment, that part of her was being held down and throttled by an overwhelming urge for a fast trip down a rabbit hole.

  The Mad Hatter would come off as sane by comparison. She shook her head and picked up another book, fanning the pages in search of more treasure. Nothing. Placing the book on the teetering stack beside her, she reached for the next victim.

  Apparently, the impoverished Duke on the cover was unable to afford buttons for his billowing shirt. His woman proved to be a true heroine by draping herself across his exposed chest in a valiant attempt to preserve the nobleman’s dignity. Lynne snorted when she scanned the title. The Queen of the Earl’s Heart looked like it was a steamy read—in nineteen-seventy-six.

  “Off with her head,” she whispered, giving the cover a cursory glance. A giggle tickled her throat. She swallowed hard, transforming the giddy laugh into a low chuckle. Her thumb skimmed over the pages. A weak rush of air fanned her hair when another tiny black and white photograph fell to her lap. “Ohhh.”

  She sighed the minute she spotted the young couple sharing a frothy cone of cotton candy. Corrine and Abram smiled directly into the camera’s lens, beaming their happiness to the world. She pushed her readers a little higher on her nose, holding the snapshot up for closer inspection. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Look at you.”

  Impulse had her scrambling from the bed. Books tumbled in her wake, their spines smacking the hardwood floor as she shook the wrinkles from the legs of her jeans. She stumbled through the kitchen and into the mudroom, drawing up short when the man from the photograph sprang to life before her eyes.

  She stared at him, lips parted. The noonday sun rode high in the sky, and the breeze blew warm and damp, carrying a hint of sultry summer days yet to come. A ball cap shielded his eyes. She wanted to rip the hat from his head to be sure. Her palms grew damp. Resisting the urge to dry them on her back pockets, she inched closer to the door.

  Bram straightened, pulled the hat from his head, and swiped his forearm across his brow. A low, primal moan seeped from her lips. She almost closed her eyes, convinced if she locked the image in her mind, she could keep the picture for future reference. She was glad she didn’t.

  Oblivious to her ogling, he dropped the hat onto the stairs, grabbed a handful of shirt, and yanked it from the waistband of his jeans. When he used the tail to wipe his forehead and cheeks, a glimpse of lean, sculpted torso dusted with dark hair caught her attention.

  “Oh, God. Look at you,” she breathed. She wet her lips, allowing her gaze to wander along the happy trail of downy hair that disappeared under the button of his faded jeans.

  At that moment, he lowered his shirt, pressing the damp cotton to his mouth and chin. The shirt fell, cutting off her view. Her head jerked back, and her gaze met his through the dirt-clouded storm door.

  Caught.

  Lynne swallowed the last vestiges of her pride and fumbled with the latch on the door. “Sorry,” she said by way of greeting.

  A small, smug smile played at the corners of his mouth. “For what?”

  The photograph served as an easy out. She laughed and shook her head. “I found something I wanted to show you.” She offered it to him with a sheepish smile.

  Bram took the snapshot, shooting her a wary glance before lowering his eyes. The glimmer of a smile twitched his lips then blossomed. “This is them,” he said in a soft, reverent tone.

  “I know. Look at how happy they were.” He squinted and stretched his arm, leaning back until he could focus. She grinned. “Wanna borrow my glasses?” she asked, waving the drugstore readers in his direction. His glare might have leveled a lesser woman, but she figured she’d already shown him her worst. “Need longer arms? Want me to hold it over here?”

  He snatched the glasses from her hand and slipped them onto the end of his nose. “Hell to get old,” he grumbled, moving the photo closer until he found the right spot.

  She fidgeted with the hem of her T-shirt as she leaned against the doorframe. “Tell me about it.”

  Bram whipped the glasses from his face and handed them back to her with the photograph. “I usually don’t need them. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Chirping keep you awake?”

  H
e chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t keep my chickens in the kitchen.”

  “Smart man.”

  Bram smiled. “I brought you something,” he said, tossing the hammer to the grass at his feet.

  Before she could speak, he turned and strode to the pick-up parked in the shade of an old elm. Lynne glanced up at the cloudless sky. Sunshine warmed the skin of her arms, making the tiny hairs stand on end. “Sure warmed up out here,” she commented, hoping to cover the blatant ogling she indulged in as he leaned into the cab of the truck.

  “Yep. Days are gettin’ warmer.” He extracted a small wire cage holding two tweeting balls of yellow fluff. She sucked in a breath when he turned back to her with a nervous smile.

  “Let’s try this again,” he said, crossing the lawn.

  “You brought me chicks? After what I did to poor Rosemary?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Rosemary’s in a better place. She could have been sold to a poultry farm.”

  “Bite your tongue.”

  A devilish smile tipped his lips and lit his eyes. He climbed the steps, extending the cage toward her. Bright white teeth sank into the pink tip of his tongue even as he smiled.

  She laughed and backed into the mudroom. “Come in. I’ll pour you some tea.” Lynne caught his appraising glance as he followed her into the kitchen and shook her head. “I’m sorry about the other morning. I’m not usually high-strung.”

  He set the cage on the counter. “You’d had a shock.”

  “I had a meltdown,” she said, filling two glasses to the brim with cubes of ice. “I swear, I’m usually a little more in control.”

  “I believe you.”

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she poured the tea. “I hope this turned out okay,” she said over the crackle of ice. “I made it the way your mother told me.”

  “Mama told you how to make sweet tea?”