by Zoe York
He clamped down on the inside of his cheek, trying to block out every un-neighborly 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 8
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 above and beyond, particularly when she considered he'd met this neighbor less than twenty-four hours before her complete mental breakdown. 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?”
He 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?”
“She gave me a few tips.”
Their fingers brushed when she handed him the glass. She gave herself bonus points for not jerking her hand back when a shiver of awareness shot up her spine. He didn't fare so well. Tea sloshed onto his hand, and she looked away, giving him the opportunity to wipe the drops on his jeans.
She poked at the cage. “Girls or boys?”
“Girls. Hens,” he corrected. “They'll be hens.”
“If they're gonna stay here with me, they'll have to like living dangerously.”
“I didn't give them much of a choice.”
She smiled at the chicks then turned up the wattage for the man beside her. “Thelma and Louise.”
He nodded. “Just don’t let them drive.”
“You know that movie?”
“I have a DVD player. And a daughter.”
“Let's sit. I have some of Anna's pound cake left,” she said, nodding to the lump of foil on the table. When he settled into the chair across from her, she began to peel back the wrapper. “I'm afraid I put a fairly big dent in it. It's so good.”
“Anna does bake a nice cake.”
“She seems friendly,” Lynne ventured, watching him from under her lashes. His soft chuckle set her Spidey-senses tingling. Her smile turned coy. “I think it's nice you two are so close and all.”
A Brahma bull would envy the snort he emitted. She raised one eyebrow as the knife slid through the buttery cake. “You aren't? Did Miss Anna tell a little old fib?”
“Miss Anna lives in a pastel pink fantasy world.”
She slid the slice of cake onto a paper napkin. “I had a feeling.”
The birds' cheeping filled the silence. Their eyes met. Held.
After a short game of chicken, Bram shuffled his feet and lowered his gaze, staring at the slice of golden cake in front of him. “I shouldn't have said that. Anna's okay. She's a little...single-minded.”
“I see.”
He chuckled and broke off a chunk of cake. “You have no idea. She set her sights on poor George Albertson in high school. His daddy was the head of the county farm co-op agency.”
“Okay.”
“They had money,” he translated. “At least, more money than most people around here.”
“Ahh.”
“George was a daddy six months after graduation. He didn't know what hit him.”
“An age-old tale.”
“With a twist,” he mumbled, chewing slowly. “Only took old George two years of being married to Anna to figure out his mistake. He stuck around eighteen more. When Junior moved off to Tulsa, George downed a vat of whiskey and worked up the nerve to run off with a barmaid he met at a convention in Fayetteville.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the wobbly old table. “So Anna had to rework her plan.”
“And that plan includes you?”
“I haven't the foggiest,” he said with an innocent shrug. “I never asked.”
“Well, let's see. You own the hatchery and a farm, right?”
“Well, the family does.”
“Ah, so she'd have to get past Miss Ada.”
A wry smile tilted his lips. “Nobody gets past Miss Ada.”
She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Hmm. Anything else to recommend you, or do you think Anna's after the hatchery?”
He picked up one of the wooden salad bowls stacked on the scarred, old sideboard. “I do a little woodworking.”
She gasped. “You made those?”
“Not th
e bowls themselves. I buy those, then do the carvings.”
“Wow. That's amazing,” she said with hushed admiration.
He shrugged. “Just a hobby my granddad taught me.”
“They're beautiful.”
A pink blush tinged his cheeks. He tucked his chin to his chest and gave a modest shake of his head. “I'm not sure selling a dozen salad bowls will be enough to impress a woman like Anna.”
It was her turn to blush. “I don't know why I bought so many. It's not like I throw very many dinner parties anymore.”
“You don't?”
Anxious to change the subject, she flashed a playful smile. “Do you want to impress a woman like her?”
He glanced up, meeting her gaze directly. “Not particularly.”
“Then you're safe.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell your mama that Anna's bothering you,” she teased.
He pinned her with those piercing blue eyes. “I'm a little old to hide behind my mama's skirts.”
Lynne trailed a fingertip through the condensation beading on her glass. “Then I guess you'll have to brave it out.”
He cleared his throat and reached for his glass. The ice cubes tinkled as he tipped his head back. His Adam's apple bobbed. Her mouth went painfully dry, but she couldn't find the stamina to raise her own glass.
“What do you do back in Chicago?” he asked, jolting her from her minute inspection of the silver and black stubble dotting his throat.
“Huh? Oh. I, uh, I'm a housewife. Was a housewife,” she said, lurching from her chair to retrieve the pitcher of tea.
“Was?” His lips quirked into a smile as she refilled his glass. “Did you quit?”
“I was fired,” she muttered, then hurried back to the counter.
“Fired?”
Taking a bracing breath, she plastered a smile on her face when she turned back to him. “Well, kind of. My son is grown and married. He's an attorney out in California.” She gripped the edge of the worn Formica so hard her knuckles ached. “My husband—ex-husband—left me for his surgical assistant.”
He winced. “I'm sorry.”
