by Zoe York
Using the skinny beam of light as a guide, she prowled the kitchen in search of what was rightfully hers. She spotted it propped against a chipped enamel sugar canister on the shelf above the stove.
She'd been so good. It was supposed to be a matter of time. Bram had to snap out of his funk eventually. She'd be damned before she let some designer diva, hoochie mama slip in the back door and swipe what should be rightfully hers.
“Mine,” she hissed, snatching the recipe card from its perch. Her lips compressed into a thin line. She cast a scornful glance at the old-fashioned kitchen accessories lining the countertop.
“She needs to go back where she belongs. There must be thousands of men up there. Hell, there are only two single men over forty and under seventy in this whole damn town, and I'm not settling for Percy Jenkins and his starched shorts. I need a man. A real man—like Bram Hatchett.”
A series of piercing peeps jolted her from her thoughts, scaring the bejesus out of her. She jumped back, crumpling the card against her heaving bosom, and swung the narrow strip of light in a wild arc across the counter. A glint of yellow caught her eye. The spotlight zoomed in on a cage holding a pair of fuzzy yellow chicks, and she released a gusty breath of air.
“Oh, for the love of sweet Jesus.” She huffed. “What kind of a woman keeps livestock in her kitchen? It's unsanitary.” Anna pulled another recipe card from the pocket of her slicker. “And poultry, no less,” she muttered, propping the new card against the canister.
A nice bout of salmonella would serve the man right. What's he thinking, fooling with a woman like that? The chirps grew more strident, pecking at her ears. “Oh, hush up.”
She pocketed her pound cake recipe and took a step back to survey her work. Satisfied, she lowered the flashlight. The blue-white beam lit the toes of her new patent-leather ballet flats, highlighting the gouge where the rough lumber had peeled the finish from the leather.
“Agggh!” Her cry of dismay stirred a fresh round of cheeping. Anna whirled and advanced on the cage, her hand trembling with rage. “These were brand new.” she screeched at the beady-eyed birds. “She's gonna pay for these.”
The chicks' tiny beaks gaped as they fluttered around the cage. Anna's eyes narrowed to slits. She glared at the sunny little puffs of fuzz. One pecked at the shallow food bowl, and she exhaled slowly, her eyes widening with practiced innocence.
“Aw, are you hungry, little babies?” she cooed.
“Did your mama leave you here all alone?”
She spotted a canister of feed on the counter next to the cage, the familiar yellow Hatchett's price tag stuck to the label. Anna swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.
“Yes, that's too bad,” she murmured as she unlatched the cage. Vermillion claws closed around the nearest one sending up a cry of alarm. To quiet that one, she stuffed the ball of yellow fluff into the pocket of her slicker while the second one chirped loudly, obviously hopping mad at the intrusion. “You come with me,” Anna hissed through gritted teeth.
“We're going for a little ride.”
Minutes later, the empty cage stood open. Anna Albertson locked the deadbolt behind her and smuggled her hostages into the damp, foggy night.
Chapter 10
Though she didn't consider herself a particularly vain woman, Lynne had to chuckle at herself. Staring into her closet, she ignored the stiff new jeans folded over a wire hanger. It didn't take a fashion consultant to know the cut of the designer denim was infinitely more flattering to her figure than the clothes she picked up at the farm store. She'd caught a certain farmer-proprietor-wood-working artist eyeing them with breathtaking intensity.
She dragged the brush through her hair then bundled it into a messy knot, telling herself it wasn't the call of the hammer making her forgo her morning stumble for the coffee pot, but resilience. After all, it took strength to master a decades-long caffeine habit.
In deference to her delusions, she chose one of the plain cotton blouses she’d picked out in an effort to blend in with the women Heartsfield. It was easy to ignore the chafe of the rough seams when she caught sight of her flushed cheeks in the speckled mirror above the dresser. She grinned at her reflection. He's right outside, and you're not fooling anyone.
She padded into the kitchen and flipped the switch on the coffee maker. Lynne hummed softly as she unlocked the kitchen door, stepped into the mudroom, and lifted the lid on the washing machine. Her heart beat in time with the hammer, reverberating down to her toes. She forced herself to carefully remove the eyelet shams and dust ruffle she'd bleached and washed the night before.
The night before...She smirked at the bottle of liquid bleach on the shelf and stole a peek at the dirt clouded storm door. Even if I wanted to, no amount of liquid chlorination could bleach that scorching kiss from my brain. Good thing I don't want to.
She loaded the bedding into the dryer, reliving each one of Bram's smiles and replaying the rolling rumble of his laughter. They sat across from each other, talking about anything and everything, mining the tiny details of each other's lives. Spoons in hand, they ate sweet peach cobbler straight from the dish like naughty kids.
Her heart fluttered like a teenager's when his strong hand engulfed hers, anchoring it to the bench seat between them while he drove her home. A giddy laugh escaped her lips when she leaned against the front door, stroking her lips and tasting the remnants of his tender, lingering goodnight kiss. He'd been the perfect gentleman for the rest of the night.
Damn him.
She sauntered back into the kitchen and pulled two mugs from the shelf. Coffee hissed on the burner as she yanked the carafe from its resting place. Be strong. Coffee first, gorgeous man second. Or maybe a combo—gorgeous man and coffee. She hummed “Here Comes the Sun” as she strolled to the back door, freezing in her tracks when she spotted him through the hazy storm door.
“And that's more than all right,” she whispered, tipping her head for a better view.
A faded thermal shirt stretched taut across broad shoulders. Hard ridges of muscle molded the fabric to his back. The lucky little red tab winked at her from his back pocket when he bent to retrieve another plank. She released the breath she'd been holding and watched him swing it into place. She fumbled for the latch, scowling as the usually stiff metal gave way too easily. Her frown melted the second his head jerked up.
“Good morning,” she said, lounging against the doorframe. She raised the pot. “Coffee?”
Bram scraped his palms against his jeans. His eyes locked on hers. “Are you an angel?”
Her smile widened. “Maybe.” She gave the storm door a nudge with her foot. “Come on in.”
She didn't peek to see if he followed. The heavy footfalls of his boots gave him away. She added a smidgen of sway to her hips, and a blush heated her cheeks when she heard him pick up the pace. The pot and mugs barely landed on the table before she turned and ran into a solid wall of man.
“Good morning,” he whispered and brushed his lips over hers.
“Mmm.”
She blinked drowsily. Her hands slid to his shoulders. Muscle bunched beneath her fingers. Heat that came from more than early morning sunshine seeped into her fingertips. He pulled her closer, every inch of his long, lean body pressing flush against hers.
“I thought about doing that all night,” he murmured, stealing another soft peck.
Her fingers tangled in the short curls at the nape of his neck. “Hmm. Thought about doing what all night?”
A breathy chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Aw, now, no angel would say a thing like that to a guy.”
She laughed, and he swooped in, swallowing her gasp of surprise. He cradled the back of her head in the palm of his hand. His fingers sank into her hair, loosening the clip.
Oh, cheater.
Sugar and cream sweetened his tongue. He’d had coffee. So not fair. She lapped him up, knocking his ragged ball cap to the floor. The coffee mugs clanked when she stumbled into the table. He braced her back, his fin
gers splayed wide and sliding temptingly lower. She flailed, attempting to plant her hand on the tabletop to gain leverage. Instead, her knuckles grazed the steaming glass coffee pot.
“Aghhh,” she yelped.
“What? Did I hurt you?” he panted.
Lifting her hand to her mouth she shook her head as she sucked on her knuckle. “No. I'm okay.” He tried to pull back, but she reached for him again. “Coffee. Hot. Bad coffee.”
She laced her fingers at the base of his skull, sliding her hips along the edge of the table and pulling him along with her. “You had coffee. Gimme more of yours,” she whispered and yanked his head down again.
He chuckled against her mouth, his lips molding to hers—tasting, testing, tempting. “Like that?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No. Yes. More.”
He stroked the skin of her throat, his breath stirring her hair. “Awfully bossy in the mornin', Miz Prescott.”
“Haven't had enough coffee. I'm not awake.”
“Oh. Well, then, maybe I can help.”
He kissed her thoroughly, sharing the dregs of his morning elixir. Her fingers clenched, pulling him closer by fistfuls of woven cotton. His hand slipped under the hem of her shirt. Warm fingers grazed the small of her back. Lynne moaned and pulled harder, leaning back on the table.
The mugs skittered across the table. Hot coffee sloshed from the pot, splattering the hand he used to brace his weight. She arched against him, catching his groan and rewarding him with a triumphant laugh when they broke for air.
His lips brushed her cheek. He drew the tender flesh below her ear into his mouth, his warm tongue laving her skin. This time she moaned, and he answered with a chuckle. He ducked his head and nuzzled her neck.
“I am never gonna get the damn porch done,” he said in a husky whisper.
“I'll get someone else.”
He reared back, his dark eyebrows shooting for his hairline. “The hell you will.”
“The porch. I'll hire someone else to finish it.”
His chest expanded as he dragged in a deep breath. He exhaled slowly through his nose, brushing her hair from her face with the backs of his fingers. His gaze was steady and solemn. “I have to finish the porch for you.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her capitulation almost made him fold like a house of cards. He wanted her breathless. He needed her warm and pliant in his arms. A desire he once thought was best forgotten made him weak. “Maybe you can owe me dinner?”
“Okay.”
“I have a yen for pot roast. Can you make pot roast?”
She snickered. “Yeah, I can make a pot roast. I'll even throw in dessert.”
His lips twitched into a smirk. “You're a heck of a girl.”
“Tonight?”
Bram pulled her hands from his neck, gently disentangling himself but brushing the promise of soft kisses across her knuckles. He cradled her hands between his. His voice came in a husky rumble. “I hafta run into town for a bit.”
“Me too. Need to buy a roast. Someone's got a yen,” she drawled.
He caught her chuckle with a kiss then turned to leave. “I'm glad you think I'm so funny. I don't say anything about the way you....” He spotted the empty cage on the counter. “Aw, crap.”
“The way I what?” She trailed off, her gaze following his. “Oh no. Thelma! Louise!”
He crossed the room in two strides and slammed the gate shut. “The cage was open.”
She rushed to his side. “No, it wasn't.”
“They've gotta be around here somewhere,” he muttered, pushing the bird food canister and the toaster aside.
“How did they get out?”
“It was open.” Bram yanked the coffee maker from the counter.
“It wasn't open. I'd never leave it open.”
“Well, I doubt they pecked their way out,” he grumbled, working his way along the countertop. “Are you sure you latched the gate when you fed them this morning?”
She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. He shot her a look. “It wasn't?”
“I forgot to feed them this morning,” she whispered.
He scowled. “Last night, then.”
She shook her head. “I didn't even come in here last night.” She glared at him. “This is all your fault.”
His hand slapped against his chest. Indignation burned in his cheeks. “My fault?”
“Well, yeah. You distracted me with the kissing and the hammering and the second-hand coffee.”
He scowled his confusion. “Second-hand coffee?”
She turned in a slow circle. “I don't suppose they got down.”
A smirk twitched his lips. “Not without some ropes and a safety harness.”
“This isn't funny. I'm a horrible mother.”
Tears filled her eyes, and he kicked into full-blown panic mode. “Oh no. No. Don't do that. You are not a horrible mother. You're not their mother.” He crossed the room and folded her into his arms. “They’re chickens, Lynne. Not babies.”
“I raised a human being. Why can't I keep a damn chicken?” She snuffled and buried her face in his shirt.
“I'll get you chickens. I'll give you a dozen chickens, okay? Just don't.... Aw, geez, don't do that.”
Her sniffle turned into a snort. She raised her head and shot him a tear-soaked glare. “Men are such babies.”
“I'm not the one crying over two stupid chicks who decided to drive over a cliff.”
Snuggling into his shoulder, she spotted the window she'd left cracked and gasped. “Do you think a cat got them?”
“A cat? What cat?” She pointed to the open window and he frowned. “A cat would have to be a contortionist to get through a crack that small.”
“A snake?”
He stared down at her then sighed and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “Sugar, I don't know where those two crazy birds got off to.”
She swallowed hard and then nodded. Swiping at her eyes, she took a step back and sniffled, her spine stiffening with resolve. “You'd better get back to the porch. I have to get ready to go to town.”
He swooped in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, brushing away the last of her tears with the pad of his thumb. “Two dozen birds,” he promised. In one smooth circle, he slammed the cage door shut, swung it from the counter, and started for the door.
“Better get a couple of boys this time...for protection,” she called after him.
The metal cage jangled against the doorframe. Bram didn't break stride. He snorted and muttered under his breath, “There's only gonna be one rooster around here.”
A little over an hour later, she was far more composed as she hiked her handbag onto her shoulder. Bram was storing a few tools in the mudroom. “Do you want to take my car?” she called to him.
He stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. His tongue nearly slid down his throat when the light spring breeze wafting through the open window teased his nostrils with the fresh scent of soap mixed with perfume and other girly-scented lotions.
“Huh?” He cringed the moment the grunt left his mouth. Good God, you are a silver-tongued devil, aren't you, Hatchett?
“We can take my car, if you want.” She jingled her keys. “You won't need to unload your tools and stuff.”
He thought about the broken-down sawhorses he'd tossed into the bed of the truck. “You're worried someone's going to steal something?”
She rolled her eyes and dropped into the kitchen chair, hiked the leg of her jeans up and picked up her boot. His mouth watered as she smoothed the leather over her calf. His gaze followed the line of plastic teeth when she zipped the boot again. He clicked his own teeth together and tried not to think about sinking them into that smooth flesh.
Lynne tugged the hem of her jeans over the supple leather and cast a speculative glance at him. “I'd let you drive, if that's what you're worried about.”
His automatic denial died on his lips. In its s
tead he offered her a self-deprecating smile and a hand to pull her to her feet. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut, lifting his nose in the air.
“Do you smell something burning?”
She waved her reddened knuckles in front of his face. “Other than skin?”
He caught her hand, kissed the tender skin then took another sniff. “Rubber,” he muttered.
“What?”
Bram stalked to the mudroom and yanked open the dryer door. “I think you've got a bad belt.”
“Oh.” She peered into the dryer with him. “Is that bad?”
“Well, it isn't good.” He stuck his hand into the drum and sighed. “It's not heating up either.”
“Well, crap,” she muttered, her shoulders slumping. “I don't suppose there's a Laundromat in town?”
He shook his head and reached for a small basket tucked on the shelf. “No, but you've got a clothesline out back.”
“Clothesline?”
He laughed and gathered an armload of damp bedding. “Come on, fancy girl. I'll show you how it's done 'round here, then I'll carry you into town.”
“Carry me?”
Shaking his head, Bram handed her the basket of clothespins. “Drive you into town,” he explained patiently. “I understand the culture shock thing, but I'm afraid we might have a bit of a language barrier too, Mizz Prescott.”
Chapter 11
“Catch.”
Bright sunlight glinted off the keys as they arced through the air. Bram snagged the ring before it hit the ground then tucked them into his pocket. “You're really gonna let me drive your fancy car?”
She cast a sidelong glance in his direction. “You did help me with my fancy clothesline. It's the least I can do.”
He reached for her hand as she sauntered down the porch steps. “You look pretty. I did tell you that, didn't I?”
“Thank you.” The heels of her leather boots sank into the muddy ground. She scowled at her feet. “Probably wouldn't be pretty if I wore my garden clogs to town, huh?”
