Unforgettable Heroes II Boxed Set

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  A vision of Bram’s hands hooking the wayward wire around rusted nails the day before popped into her head. She threw her arms into the air, vanquishing the mental image and in the process terrifying a couple of chickens. “Stupid birds.”

  The other two hens were completely unfazed. She stared at them, incredulous. “Get back in there.”

  Oblivious to her distress, they continued pecking their way through her yard. She shook her head and pressed the remote to open the lift gate. “Fine.”

  A hoarse grunt tangled in her throat when she heaved the suitcase into the back of the car. The trash bag landed on the back deck with a splat. She slammed the gate closed and stomped to the driver’s door. There, she stopped to nudge one inquisitive hen from the front tire.

  “Run away for all I care,” she muttered between clenched teeth, giving the door handle a vicious yank. “The place is all yours. Make sure he pays the lease on the acreage. That should keep you girls in style.”

  She heaved herself into the seat and started the car, revving the engine as a warning to other curious chickens. Her hand closed around the gearshift and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, drawing a deep breath. “I’m not running away.”

  She opened her eyes and glanced at the rearview mirror. Wide blue eyes filled with panic and pain stared back at her. Her hand tightened on the gear- shift and her gaze fell to the dash. “I’m going back where I belong.”

  She popped the car into reverse, avoided glancing in the mirror, and ignored the rearview video displayed on the dash. She draped one arm over the passenger seat. Her nails dug into the soft leather upholstery as she craned her neck and pressed the gas.

  A sickening thump jerked her foot off the accelerator. The all-terrain tires continued to roll over a heart-wrenching bump. She banged her knee on the steering wheel and her leg tingled as she jammed on the brake, slamming the gearshift into park.

  “Goddammit!”

  Her hands gripped the top of the wheel and she crumpled, resting her forehead on her knuckles. Blood whooshed in her ears as she reached for the door handle. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat as she peered down. A motionless brown lump of feathers lay between the front and rear tires.

  “Damn, damn, damn stupid chickens.”

  She fell out of the car, reaching for her latest victim. The icy layer of stubborn resolve that coated her battered heart cracked. Tears coursed unchecked along the line of her jaw, dropping in fat, wet plops onto the dirt-crusted brown feathers in her lap.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered, brushing clumps of dried mud from the hen’s plumage.

  As if staring down from above, she watched her finger glide over the chicken’s side. One of the bird’s cohorts moved closer, but she barely noticed. All she could see were Bram’s hands—wide-palmed and rough—stroking her leg. Soothing her. Like she was trying to soothe a bird that was beyond all comfort.

  Closing her eyes, she blocked the image from her mind, but it was replaced by another. Richard reaching for her. Long, graceful surgeon’s fingers closed around hers as he stretched across her attorney’s conference table. The firm handshake marked the polite dismissal of a quarter century of her life.

  She forced her eyes open, but it was too late. The memory of another pair of hands fluttering like butterfly wings over a gently rounded belly came rushing back. So did a hot, fresh wave of humiliation.

  The same scalding blush that heated her face that day burned beneath her skin. The unmistakable roundness of a pregnancy belly encased in tight Lycra. The utter silence in the Rolling Hills Country Club locker room when she ran straight into the woman who had replaced her. An unattractive smirk twisted Cara Prescott’s plump lips, but all Lynne could do was stare at the bump.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  The younger woman smiled. “Yes. Almost five months.”

  “Does Richard know?”

  The question escaped before she could catch it. The three young women standing behind Cara tittered. Melanie, Lynne’s tennis partner, sidled up beside her. “You didn’t know they were expecting?” she asked in a low, shocked tone.

  Cara’s carefree laughter rattled Lynne’s teeth. “Of course he knows. I’d be in big trouble if he didn’t,” she said, rolling her eyes for their audience’s benefit. “You’re looking well, Lynne. It’s nice that you’re able to stay so active. I hope I look half as good when I’m your age.”

  “He had a vasectomy,” she whispered. “Richard didn’t want any more children. He had a vasectomy.”

  The younger woman dismissed her accusation with one perfectly manicured wave of her hand. “Vasectomies can be reversed these days.” She flashed a smug smile. “I believe Richard had his done about—oh—four years ago, now?”

  “Four years?”

  “Well, we had to wait for your father to retire, or drop dead. Whichever came first. Then we had to be certain of Richard’s promotion, but we knew even in your grief you’d throw a few excellent dinner parties.” She paused and cocked her head. “You’re so good with that. Maybe you should become a caterer.”

  Lynne sucked in a sharp breath as Cara crossed her arms over her chest, staring at her belligerently.

  “I was getting tired of waiting.” She ran her hand over her stomach again. “Richard wanted to give me some guarantee we’d have the life we planned together. Wasn’t that sweet? I guess things finally fell into place.”

  Lynne snarled. “You bitch!”

  Melanie took her arm in a firm grasp, pulling her from the gathering crowd. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  “Satisfaction? How else is she going to get any satisfaction married to Richard Prescott?” she shouted, wrenching her arm from her friend’s grasp. “She was probably inseminated. Lord knows she’d get more action from a turkey baster.”

  Cara smiled. “Now, Lynne, isn’t it a little late to put up a fight? Besides, at your age you need to be careful—your blood pressure.”

  “Cheating little bitch!”

  “Oh, please.” Cara waved her delicate hand. “You lost him long before I came around. I only showed him what he could have—if he had the balls to go for it.” She smirked again. “Apparently, he does.”

  Lynne took a menacing step closer to the younger woman, and Melanie grabbed her arm again. “Don’t. She’s not worth it.”

  And she wasn’t. Neither was Richard. Lynne shook her head, dislodging the memory. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. A fresh burst of remorse coursed through her as she focused on the dead chicken in her lap.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, brushing her fingers over the downy feathers.

  She rocked to her feet, cradling the chicken in her hands. Her glance swept the yard, coming to rest on the chicken coop. As quick as it flared, the regret was gone. Drawing a deep breath, she mustered up a healthy dose of resolve instead.

  She opened the back door of the car and gently placed the bird on the supple leather seat. Oblivious to the birds gathered at her feet, she started toward the dilapidated little building. When she spied the padlock, she pushed her hair from her face with the back of her hand and glanced down at the birds dogging her footsteps.

  They chirped and clucked in her wake, nagging her as she took the steps two at a time. The loose latch on the storm door fell to the porch with a thunk. Lynne scowled at the hardware then kicked it aside. Turning back to her flock she said, “I’m not running away. I’m taking care of business.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A dust storm rose in his wake. The fact that no one dared approach the crossroads when he did was a stroke of luck because he wasn’t about to slow down. The needle on the speedometer inched higher. The truck’s engine roared as he crested a hill. Bram hadn’t driven this fast in five years. He hadn’t had reason to—until Percy Jenkins called to tell him Lynne was planning to leave Heartsfield. Immediately.

  He couldn’t let this happen again. He wouldn’t let another woman walk right out of his life.
The arrogance of a youth he should have long outgrown made him believe Susan would come back to him. Muleheaded stubbornness kept him from going after her the minute he’d found her note. Wounded pride held him back as days passed into weeks then months. Only abject terror launched him into action, and by then he was too late to give her what she needed.

  He wasn’t young. The arrogance that once buoyed him had been drowned in a sea of sorrow. Stubbornness was cold company on a winter’s night, and his pride never made him smile. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He and Lynne didn’t have a family, a history, a life together. All he had was a gut feeling that he couldn’t let her go.

  Gravel spewed from his tires as he fishtailed onto the road to her house. A pack of double A batteries, a fat roll of duct tape, and a bag of heavy-duty rubber bands slid off the seat and into the no-man’s-land by the passenger door. He floored the pedal. Each rut and bump in the road jarred his joints and smacked his teeth together. He tasted blood. An aching lump rose on his tongue to match the one in his throat, but neither of them could rival the knot in his chest.

  The front porch came into view, but he didn’t let off the gas. He shot past the house then stood on his brake with both feet, skidding to a stop inches from the bumper of her SUV. A flurry of flustered birds fluttered about the yard. A throaty grunt of exertion beckoned to him from the other side of the chicken coop. He rounded the tiny shack to find Lynne bouncing up and down on the lip of a rusty shovel.

  “I killed one of your chickens,” she said without turning to look at him.

  “What’s this I hear about you leaving?”

  The packed earth gave a little and she fell back, scooping dirt from the shallow hole she’d managed to scrape. “As soon as I bury the bird.”

  She jumped up on the shovel once more but succeeded in dislodging less than a quarter inch of earth.

  He stomped over to her and grabbed the splintered wooden handle, knocking her off balance. “What the hell? Why are you doing this?”

  “Backed right over the poor thing.” She dug a sharp elbow into his ribs, prodding him out of the way. “Like I’m some kind of an avian black widow.”

  He refused to relinquish his hold on the shovel. “Why are you leaving?”

  “I need to get home,” she answered with a careless shrug. “Can’t play pioneer girl forever.”

  He jerked the shovel from her grasp. “So you were going to pack up and leave? Without saying goodbye?”

  She took a step back, crossed both arms over her chest and stared knotholes into the trunk of the old elm. “You wanna dig? Fine. Be my guest.”

  But he didn’t dig. He stared at her, trying to get a handle on whatever it was that set her off. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” she answered too quickly. Making a gimme motion with her fingers, she scowled at him. “Either dig or give me the shovel back. I want to make it as far as Branson before it gets too late.”

  “Lynne—”

  “Fine.” She made a grab for the shovel, but he yanked it out of reach. A tiny yelp squeaked from her chest as she stumbled back. Her fingers flew to her mouth and her eyes widened with pain.

  Instantly contrite, he took a step closer. “Are you okay?”

  “Splinter,” she mumbled, pulling her hand from her mouth. Squinting in the afternoon sunlight, she picked the sliver from the pad of her finger and flicked it away. “I’m fine. Give me my shovel back.”

  “No.”

  “I have a dead chicken in my backseat. Now, give it back.”

  He turned to look at her car. The engine purred, its low idle almost lost in the rush of the breeze.

  “Why is the chicken in your backseat?”

  She grabbed the shovel and stabbed it into the hole. “It’s not bad enough I ran over the poor thing? I should leave it on the ground? I’m not as coldhearted as you think.”

  Bram stepped closer. “I never thought you were coldhearted. Well, not until this morning.” He planted a foot in the hole she’d dug to prevent her from going deeper. “Leaving without saying goodbye is pretty cold.”

  Lynne reared back, gripping the shovel with both hands. “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not very good with this thing.”

  “Why are you leaving?”

  “I’ve told Percy that I’m having the place appraised, so go ahead and make your offer.”

  He stared at the woman who’d fallen asleep in his arms the night before. She seemed a stranger. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m fine. Perfect. An idiot, but other than that, perfect.”

  “What? Why are you an idiot?”

  She simply turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows in an eloquent answer he couldn’t quite grasp.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  She hopped onto the shovel, shaking her head vehemently as she wriggled the tip into the ground. “Talk to Percy. If you’re in the ballpark, the farm’s yours.”

  “I’m not talking about the damn farm!”

  “I don’t have anything else to talk to you about.” She tossed a shovelful of dirt aside. “How low do I need to go with this, anyway? I mean, the hole doesn’t really have to be six feet deep, right? It’s only a chicken.”

  He made a grab for her, the blunt tips of his fingers digging into her arms as he turned her to face him. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “I told you,” she said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I killed one of your chickens.”

  His hands tightened and he gave her a little shake. “What? This was a fling? A little country affair to go with the fresh country air? Am I some sort of joke to you? Will your country club friends get a kick out of your little adventure?”

  “I told you. Make an offer, and the farm is yours. I’ll sell at a bargain price. You earned it after all.”

  Percy’s insinuations popped into his head and everything clicked. His fists balled at his sides. He bit his tongue to keep from taking a swing at her. “You think I slept with you to get the farm?”

  She dragged in a shuddering breath and rubbed her arm. “You’re getting what you want. I hear you always do. I won’t disappoint you this late in the game. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “I don’t know how you do things up there—”

  “Pretty much the same way as down here.”

  “I doubt that. I can tell you life is a damn sight better down here.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never gone anywhere else,” she sneered.

  “I don’t have to. This is my home. This is real. This isn’t Hollywood. Around here, people don’t screw people to get a better deal,” he hissed. “People around here are real and honest and hardworking. We don’t pay two thousand dollars for a stupid rocking chair—we build the damn chairs.”

  Her chin jutted. Her mobile mouth thinned into a grim line. “Around here you take their money. Must be nice to be able to bank on all that moral superiority,” she drawled.

  Turning from him, she pressed the shovel into the hole, nudging it with the toe of her hiking boot. “Make your offer, Bram. The farm’s what you wanted all along.”

  Her voice was scarily calm. So calm he couldn’t give her anything more than the barefaced truth. “Yes, I want the farm,” he exploded. “It’s never been a secret. Everyone knows I planned to buy this land when it came up for sale.”

  “Everyone but me.”

  “I can’t believe Percy didn’t tell you the minute you stepped foot in his office.”

  She whirled on him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the minute you jammed your tongue down my throat.”

  “So, you assume I’m using you. You think I’m some jerk who seduces women to get what I want? Trust me, sugar, I’m not that slick.” The heel of his boot sank into the dirt when he turned to stomp off. “You’re right. You do need to go back to where you came from because we don’t grow ’em like that ’round here, Mizz Prescott.”

  �
�No, you grow ’em sneaky and manipulative and backstabbing.”

  Her words drew him up short. She flung the shovel into the grass. The wind whipped her hair, picking up tiny lashes of tawny waves and slashing her cheeks. Her voice broke when she rambled on.

  “You have this whole special variety of good, plain country folks who smile in your face and talk about you behind your back, but it’s okay because you always add a little ‘bless her heart’ at the end to prove you mean well,” she added in a snide tone. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t realize each time I sneeze I make the Heartsfield hotline? I think I’ve given them plenty to talk about for a while.”

  Lynne stamped over to the car and pulled the dead chicken from the backseat. She shoved the carcass at him. “Here. Bury your own damn chicken. You never should have trusted me with them in the first place. What can you expect from an uppity-Yankee-big-city girl, other than a few quick rolls in the hay?”

  Bram staggered back, his ankle twisting painfully when he put one foot in the shallow grave. He watched as she climbed into the car and slammed the door on his heart. “Lynne.”

  The ground crumbled beneath his feet when he stumbled forward. Her car lurched ahead, narrowly missing the trunk of the tree and spraying gravel in a rooster tail as she took off.

  “Oh, hell no. Not again.” He tucked the hen under his arm like a football and ran after her. “Goddammit. Lynne!”

  He saw her look up as she approached the bend in the lane. Brake lights winked then glared at him. The car jerked to a halt and her window slid down. “Are you crazy? Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?”

  Huffing and puffing, he staggered to a stop beside the car, clutching the window frame while he doubled over. He squeezed the lifeless bundle of brown feathers to his heaving chest as he tried to catch his breath. “Heart attack…okay…better than this.”

  “Bram—”

  He held up one hand to stop her. Breathless from exertion and desperation, he shook his head. “We have to talk about this.”