by Zoe York
“Two,” Al corrected.
“That was enough. She never even looked twice at a skinny whelp like you.”
A repeat flash of red called like a beacon. The woman began to saunter in their direction. His gaze dropped to her feet. A strange surge of pride trickled through him when she didn't teeter on those toothpick heels, moving with the long-limbed grace of a natural athlete. Dark denim clung to her hips and flowed like a river over mile-long legs.
At last he caught a glimpse of her eyes as she came closer. They shone the rich, dark blue of the evening sky. She smiled at the older men, and he was stunned and pleased to note she wasn't a young girl. She was a woman—all woman—and one of an age to give a man past the skinny whelp stage a chance.
A voice in the back on his brain sneered, Get real. You think a woman like that would even look at a broken down old farmer like you?
“Afternoon,” Al murmured with a polite nod.
Her smile widened when Rufus touched the bill of his cap. She raised the cell phone gripped in her hand and waved to the old men. Her head swiveled in Bram's direction, and her step faltered for a split second.
A hot rush of masculine pride flooded his cheeks. He smoothed one hand over his stomach, sucked in his gut and made sure his flannel shirt was still tucked in. The woman ducked her head. He did too. Okay, maybe she'd look once, but not twice. She hurried down the sidewalk, but he caught the urgency of her tone.
“Would it kill you to give me a straight answer for once?” she asked the person on the other end of the line, exasperation dripping from each word. “I'm just curious, that's all. What was his name?”
Her steps slowed, and she raised her head as if scenting something on the wind. Bram turned toward her, unabashedly eavesdropping in hopes of gleaning a little more information about her without having to resort to questioning the two old goats parked in the rocking chairs.
“Abram Hatchett?”
Her voice carried on the breeze. His name tickled his ears. A shiver ran down his spine. He opened his mouth to answer her, but she picked up the pace once again, hurrying away from him.
“Hatchett?” she demanded. “As in the feed store?”
He turned back to his father with a puzzled frown. Al smiled. The chair creaked as he began to rock. “Either your reputation has preceded you, son, or Miz Prescott found out she has a live one on the line for that farm of hers.”
“Farm?”
Rufus chuckled and nudged Al with his elbow. “How quickly they forget, huh, Al?”
“Nothin' like a pretty face to addle a man's brains,” his father concurred.
Bram spun on his heel and watched the woman who owned the farm of his dreams disappear into his store. “Catch y'all later,” he mumbled and took off after her.
Lynne stormed into Hatchett's Hatchery, her mother's snooty commentary ringing in her ear. “I never could understand what she saw in him. The man obviously had no future—”
She drew to a stop, her gaze darting around the large storefront, searching for someone she'd never met. “Mother—”
“No education, no ambition, no desire to ever leave that god-forsaken little hick town,” Elizabeth Hillman said derisively.
“Maybe she didn't want to leave either. She could have, and she didn't.” A tiny woman in her seventies stepped out of the back room wearing a welcoming smile.
“I never understood that, either,” her mother muttered.
“Can I help you, honey?” the woman asked, taking her spot behind the counter.
“I need to go,” she told her mother, simultaneously shooting the woman a nervous smile and holding up one finger.
“You haven't told me if you've had any offers on the farm,” Elizabeth protested.
“Not yet. I have to go,” she said tersely. “Goodbye, Mother.”
Lynne pressed the button on her earpiece to end the call and promptly yanked it from her ear. She plastered on a smile as she tucked the phone into her purse. It began to vibrate almost immediately. She pushed it into the depths of her bag and glanced up, her sheepish smile fading altogether when she met the old woman's steady gaze.
What if Abram Hatchett is her husband? I can't just barge in here demanding to know if her husband broke Aunt Corrine's heart fifty years ago. “Uh, hi...hello,” she stammered.
“Hello.” The older woman's lips quirked with a hint of an amused smile. “You're Mrs. Prescott.”
Lynne froze, taken aback by the woman's blunt assessment. “Uh, yes. Ms. I mean, I'm not married anymore.”
Heat prickled her cheeks the moment her confession left her lips. She wasn't sure why she said it. Something about the woman's gaze made her jittery. It's like she knows me. Knows all about me. Oh God, does she know I ran away? The very thought made her knees go weak. She reached out, gripping a shelf to keep from folding like a house of cards. She straightened her spine and took a deep breath. I didn't run away.
“I'm Ada Hatchett,” the woman said, her smile growing wide and warm. “You look a bit done in. Can I get you a glass of tea?”
Certain she was gaping like a dummy, Lynne snapped her jaw shut. She shook her head, and at the very last moment remembered her manners. “Oh, no, thank you. Ma'am.”
Mrs. Hatchett's smile widened. She pulled a plastic cup from the stack on the back counter. “I keep some handy for the boys. Tossing those bags around gives a man a powerful thirst.” Lynne took a tentative step closer as Ada filled the cup with ice from an ancient refrigerator behind the counter. “We have sodas back here, too. Pretty much any kind you want. My grandson, Abe, he swills that sticky stuff all day long.” She shuddered and tipped a large pitcher of golden-brown tea in her direction. “Sure you won't join me? This is sweet enough to power you through to next Wednesday.”
The woman's gentle smile was infectious. Lynne's feet moved toward the counter before her brain registered the action. “Okay, sure. Yes. Thank you.”
Mrs. Hatchett gripped the plastic cup in her knotted fingers. A tiny chip of a diamond winked in the dusty sunlight streaming through the windows. The older woman slid the cup across the counter. “Go ahead,” Ada prompted, wiping her hands on her denim skirt. “Now, what can I do for you, honey?”
Lynne smacked her lips, blinking in astonishment at the cup, stunned to find she'd drained half already. “Holy cow, that's good.”
The old woman grinned. “Make sure you pour hot tea over the sugar to melt it. I toss a couple of lemon slices in there, but I only leave them for about fifteen minutes. Anything more is too much for my liking.” She lifted the pitcher again. “More?”
“Please.” Lynne cast a furtive glance around the shop, trying to come up with a plausible reason to be there. Something other than asking about some man someone else loved a half-century ago—something other than breaking this old woman's heart. Her gaze landed on a display of packaged seeds. “Do you have any flowers?”
“Seedlings? We do, but not yet. Still a bit early to put them out.”
“Oh. Yes. Right,” Lynne stammered. A loud grunt captured her attention. She peered into the dim, dusty back room and spotted a young man heaving a huge burlap sack onto his shoulder. Her head swiveled when she spied a glimpse of blue and green plaid flannel.
“We'll start getting some flats of pansies and other spring flowers in about two weeks.”
Lynne fought the urge to crane her neck. Awareness crept up her spine.
“You want 'em for beds?”
“Excuse me?” Jolted by the abrupt segue, she dragged her attention back to the conversation at hand.
“Were you wanting to plant flower beds or containers?”
“Oh, uh, pots. I was thinking I'd plant some flowers in pots for the front porch,” she improvised. “I've never planted a flower bed. I've always done pots.”
That was all Ernesto allowed her to touch. Just the thought of the terse gardener her ex-husband hired long ago made her scowl. Visions of pristine white border flowers danced in her head. She forced
a smile as she picked up her cup. “I like pots and pots of mixed flowers. All different colors. I have a pot problem,” she confessed in a rush.
The older woman chuckled. “My husband will tell you I have a shrub addiction. Shrubs are easy—plant them once and let them grow.”
Lynne smiled then polished off her tea. “Well, I guess I'll come back in a couple of weeks.”
“That'd be just fine.”
The rumble of masculine voices called to her from the back room. Ada cocked her head slightly but her gaze remained steady as Lynne stole a quick glance in that direction. Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted the tall man in the flannel shirt. Their gazes locked for a split second before he ducked behind a pallet of stacked two-by-fours.
“You sell lumber too?” she blurted.
This time, the older woman blinked in surprise. “Why, yes. Do you need lumber?”
As her mind whirled, Lynne chewed her bottom lip. She worried the thick leather strap of her purse, weaving it between her fingers. “There are some rotting boards on the back porch. I don't suppose you know of a handyman or someone who'd be willing to replace them for me?”
Ada smiled. “Oh, I'm sure I can rustle someone up for you.”
A relieved smile broke through her confusion. “That would be great.” She plunged a hand into her bag and rummaged for one of the dozens of pens taking up residence in the bottom. “Let me give you my number.”
The old woman chuckled. “No need.” When Lynne's startled gaze met hers, she offered a friendly smile. “It's a small town. If I think of someone, I'll send him your way.”
She shook her head, gave a rueful laugh, and backed toward the door. “That takes some getting used to.”
“I imagine so.”
“Thank you for the tea. It was wonderful.”
“You come by anytime. It's nice to visit with someone who doesn't have manure caked on her shoes.”
Lynne opened the door with considerably less force than she'd used earlier. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Hatchett.”
The old woman's pale eyes gleamed with speculation. “You too, honey.”
Chapter 4
The door closed behind Lynne Prescott, and Ada Hatchett hurried to the window, watching to be sure her visitor had moved along before bellowing, “Bram!” The man in question winced when he caught sight of his mother bustling toward the back room, her sure-footed steps giving lie to her frail appearance. “Abram Alsom Hatchett! I know you're back there.”
Abe slinked behind a towering pallet of bagged corn seed. A.J. busied himself with the chicks warming in the incubators. Ada opened her mouth to yell again, and Bram heaved a martyred sigh before heading her off at the pass. “Ma'am?” he inquired, blinking at his mother innocently as he emerged from behind the stacked lumber.
She didn't buy it. Planting her hands on her hips, she cocked her head. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Inventory.”
His mother rolled her eyes, spun on her heel, and stomped back toward the counter. As expected, he followed. “Ms. Prescott has some rotting boards on her back porch,” she said, reaching for a painted flowerpot above the register.
Bram rushed to her side, easily pulling the enameled terra cotta from the shelf. Offering her the pot, he asked, “Ma'am?” in a tone husky with wariness.
She pushed the flowerpot back into his chest. “You'll take this pot when you go by.”
“Go by?”
“Do I need to have Doc Thornton fit you for hearing aids, Abram?”
“No, ma'am,” he said gruffly. Bram cradled the pot in one arm and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Why exactly am I going by?”
Ada rolled her eyes. “You are not that dense, boy.”
“Mama—”
“She needs help. Lord knows Percy Jenkins didn't do any more than what's necessary to keep the place up over the years.”
“Mama, I can't go over there—”
“Yes, you can,” she argued.
“I wanna buy the place,” he reminded her.
“All the more reason for you to help keep it up.”
“Not when I plan on tearing it down.”
“Now, why would you tear down a perfectly good house?”
“Because I already have a house, and that house sits on over an acre of prime farmland.”
“Sweetheart, you've already got more business than you can hold in both hands.” She studied her son for a moment. “How you can still be at loose ends amazes me.”
“How you think you can still give a grown man orders amazes me.”
Giving him a not-so-gentle shove, she herded him toward the door. “You go on over there. You help that young lady fix her house up. What you end up doing with it if you buy her farm is business for another day.”
As they had for more years than she cared to count, Anna Albertson's steps slowed when she passed Hatchett's Hatchery. Only years of practice kept her from coming to a complete stop the moment she spotted Bram inside the plate-glass door. Without missing a beat, she swerved toward the door, her heart two-stepping in her chest. Despite the tingling plumping effects of her Silken Smooth Super Slick gloss, her lips thinned into a tight line.
The way Bram allowed his mama to bully him irked Anna something fierce. To her way of thinking, a grown man shouldn't kowtow to any woman, and certainly not a scrawny little bird of a woman like Miss Ada. Setting her sights on her quarry, she pushed through the door, smoothing her hand over the flounce of her floral skirt. “Bram, I was lookin' for you,” she cooed.
His mama's hand slid from his elbow as he turned. “Looking for me?”
Eyeing Miss Ada's gunmetal gray bun, Anna patted her hair into place. “I was hoping you'd be free,” she purred, her voice slow and smooth as warm honey. Ada's hand fell away, and Anna jumped at the chance to fill the void. Slipping her hand into the crook of Bram's arm, she fluttered her lashes. “I need a big, strong man.”
His mother cleared her throat. “I'm sure you do, Anna, but Bram was about to run an errand for me.”
“Oh?” Anna raised one eyebrow and gazed up at Bram, a coy smile curving her lips. “Are you sure you can't help me? I'm re-working my flower beds, and I need a muscle-man to wrestle that big, bad birdbath into place. I baked a puddin' pound cake this morning,” she murmured, giving his bicep a squeeze.
“I, uh....” He shot his mother a glance. “I promised Mama I'd take care of some stuff for her today. If you need it moved, I can ask Abe if he'll stop by on his way home.”
Anna's stomach dropped into her faux-Jimmy Choo slingbacks. “Abe?”
“His back is better than mine, anyway.” He disentangled his arm from her grip. “Abe? C'mere for a minute.”
Anna caught Ada's smug smile when her grandson appeared in the doorway.
“Son, would you mind runnin' by Miss Anna's on your way home? She has a birdbath she needs moved.”
“No problem,” Abe answered with a nod.
Bram nodded his satisfaction and inched toward the door. “I'd best be on my way.”
“I'll call you later,” Ada called after him.
Anna noticed his slight shudder when his mother fixed him with a stern stare. She noticed every little thing about Bram Hatchett. She noticed the way his shirt fit snug across his broad shoulders. The corded muscles exposed by the rolled sleeves hadn't escaped her interest either. “Okay.” He bobbed his head. “See ya, Anna.”
Anna pasted a bright smile on her face. “See you, Bram.” The bell above the door tinkled in his wake. She exhaled a gusty sigh and pressed her fingers to her throat as she watched him saunter away.
“We got another shipment of those gazing balls, if you're ready for a new one.”
The announcement startled her from her ogling. She huffed and turned to Bram's mother. Ada's coy smile would make the Mona Lisa weep with jealousy, but it made Anna as mad as a wet hen. “I don't know why I'd bother,” she snapped. “Those little hell-raisers will just smash it
again.”
“Now, now, I'm sure that was just an accident,” Ada murmured, moving toward a display of bright, mirrored garden decorations. “How about a purple one this time? I think we have one that would match that blouse you're wearing.”
Bram scowled at the flowerpot perched on the bench seat of his truck and slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel. “I'm a grown man, for Christ's sake. She cannot tell me what to do.”
Gravel spurted from his tires as he turned onto the county road leading to the old Burdock farm. He scraped a hand over his face and shook his head.
Shit. Poor Abe. He's gonna make me pay for this one. Hell, better him than me. At least he has an out. At least he gets to go home to Jennifer. His thoughts skittered as a plume of dust rose from the roadbed. He caught sight of the old farmhouse and swallowed hard, wishing he'd thought to snag a cup of his mama's tea before making his escape.
Women. They think they're so smart. They think they know everything, and I know nothing. I'm not as clueless as they think. A man would have to be a complete idiot not to see through Anna Albertson's attempts to reel him in. He was not an idiot. He was also well aware the meddling biddies in Heartsfield considered him a catch. The general consensus was he'd been widowed far too young. And he agreed—to a point.
He'd already been caught once. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't a woman in the entire county who could hold a candle to his Susan. He took particular exception to the expectation that he'd simply replace the girl who captured his heart in the third grade with a different model.
Can it really be that easy? How will I ever look at another woman and not compare her to Susie?
The fact that he went so far to try to figure their reasoning out gnawed at him. Even thinking about it seemed like a betrayal. Doing anything more than thinking about it seemed rife with impossibility.
He'd tried once. Not that any of the busybodies in town knew about it. One night almost two years after Susan died, driven by aching loneliness and clawing need, he hopped in his truck and headed for Little Rock. Three hours later, he found himself standing at a bar, clutching a bottle of beer like a
