by Zoe York
Bram grabbed the cage from the bed of the truck and skirted his way around the far corner of the coop in hopes of returning it to its spot without detection. He didn't even make it as far as the door.
“Your mother thinks there may be a fox about,” Al announced, stepping out of the doorway. His father's gaze strayed to the empty cage and Bram had to clench his fist to keep from smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt and pants. “Looks like she was right.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I'll replace her chickens.”
“Most fellas take flowers or candy when they go a-courtin'.”
“I'm not most fellas.”
He stacked the cage in the corner and busied himself with gathering what he needed to attend to the task at hand, hoping his father would keep the sermon short.
“I already took care of them,” Al said, trailing behind him.
His head jerked up. “You did?”
Tucking his hands into his pockets, the man rocked back on his heels. “Wasn't sure if you'd be up.”
“I've never—”
“Now, don't get your britches in a twist. You can handle the horses.” Holding up one hand, he cut off Bram's protest. “I know you always take care of business. I'm just saying I wouldn't have blamed you if you wanted to sleep in today. Looks like you didn't sleep much last night.” His smile widened. “Good for you.”
He dragged one hand through his rumpled hair. “Geez, Dad.”
“I'm also supposed to tell you that your mama will be expectin' you both for supper tonight.” Al ambled out into the yard, calling back over one shoulder, “I think we're having fried chicken.”
Bram finished spreading fresh straw for his father's horses then carefully hung the pitchfork on the thick rusted nail that had served its purpose for over a half-century. He stomped from the barn, wrenched open the door to his pick-up, and twisted the key he'd left in the ignition.
He rolled the window down, hoping the brisk morning air would wake him up a little. Closing his eyes, he tried to pretend he didn't catch the appraising glance Donnie Wilson shot him when he strolled into the shed that housed their equipment. Bram opened his eyes again. He wasn't imagining the smirk that twitched the other man's lips.
Dirt and gravel sprayed from his tires as he tore down the rutted lane, half-hoping one of the sharp jolts would jar him back to reality. He reached the fork in the road, and his left hand began to turn the wheel, steering for the rough path his truck had carved over years of cutting the corner.
What difference does it make? You were busted. Busted by your seventy-eight-year-old father and the milkman. The whole town knows. He stomped on the brake. The back of his head hit the headrest. His gaze cut from the lane that led to his house to the road that led back to Lynne's. He ground his teeth, the muscle in his jaw ticking off the seconds as the internal debate raged.
Who cares if they know, though they'll make it their business. Tongues will wag. They'll stare and talk and say God-knows-what. They'll say old Bram's gettin' a little from the fancy divorcee down the road.
His fingers tightened on the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles poke white against the skin.
* * *
Poor Bram. That's what they'll say when she's gone.
Poor Bram just wasn't enough to keep her here.
A truck rumbled past on the county road. The tractor sputtered and rumbled to life in the field behind the barn. He stared down at the wrinkled pants and shirt he'd ironed the night before, hoping to impress her. He wrapped his arms around the wheel and rested his cheek against them. Staring at the packed gravel lane that led home, he licked his lips and tasted the lingering essence of her.
Crap.
Decision made, he cranked the wheel to the right and punched the gas. When he crunched to a stop at the county road, he glanced in each direction before peeling out. Poor Bram has got it bad.
Lynne rolled over and blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the sheers. She tumbled to the edge of the bed and sat up. The wrung-out cotton sheet fell to her waist. She glanced down then cautiously tipped her head back until she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Her legs trembled as she rose, letting the sheet tumble to the floor. She stared into the mirror. Her fingertips grazed kiss-swollen lips. Her cheeks and chin glowed pink where his beard abraded her tender skin. She pressed one hand to her hip, massaging the aching joint as she stepped closer to the dresser.
She didn't pay the rough red patches where his stubble had scraped her neck, shoulder, and chest any mind. The stretch marks lining her rounded belly seemed to disappear. She pushed her hands into her tousled hair. Her breasts rose high. The memory of the gentle rasp of his scarred and gouged fingers made her pulse quicken. Firm, taut skin stretched beneath her arms and she smiled, glad she'd continued to drag herself to her twice-weekly tennis matches.
She opened the dresser drawer and hummed softly as she extracted the nightgown she hadn't bothered to put on the night before. The thin cotton tickled her quivering thighs when she padded toward the kitchen. A cool breeze wafted through the window they'd failed to close. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She ran the water in the sink, filling the carafe to the top. The growl of a motor crept past the house, and her head jerked up.
Lynne peeked out the window in time to spy the tailgate of Bram's truck as it disappeared behind the house. She smoothed her hands over her hair when the door slammed. She jerked open the kitchen door, and he appeared in her mudroom wearing the same clothes that littered her floor hours earlier.
“You came back,” she said breathlessly.
His face was taut. Deep grooves bracketed the grim line of his mouth. “Spend the day with me. I want some time alone with you.”
A flirty smile twitched her lips. “Weren't we alone last night?”
“Yeah, but we can't be tonight.”
“Oh?”
“My parents want you to come for supper.”
“Oh.”
He gave her a terse nod. “You don't have to. I mean, it's your choice.”
She cocked her head, studying the tense set of his broad shoulders. Reaching for his hand, she drew him into the house. “What are we having, and what can I bring?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. A pleased gleam lit his bright blue eyes. “Fried chicken, and I’d recommend a suit of armor.”
Abe wrapped the gleaming sapphire gazing ball in craft paper and gently slid the bundle into a sack. “There you go, Ms. Albertson.”
“Thank you, Abe.” She drummed her nails on the counter but made no move to reach for the bag.
* * *
Instead, she peered about the deserted store. “Is your grandma ailing?”
“No, ma'am. She's fine.”
She forced a friendly smile. “I haven't seen you manning the counter since your mama ran the store.”
He withdrew his hand, letting the bag's handles droop. “I still handle things once in a while.”
“I guess I just catch your grandma whenever I come in.” Craning her neck, she peered at the back room. “Your daddy isn't around much anymore.”
“No, ma'am.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter behind him, a stance that reminded her so much of Bram she pressed her hand to her chest to still the flutter of her heart. “And from what I hear, business is good.”
“He's keepin' busy.”
“I read something in one of those magazines. Some Hollywood starlet bought one of Bram's chairs. She was holdin' her little baby—named the poor thing Puce or somethin'. I couldn't believe it.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Who names a baby Puce?”
“Hollywood people, I guess.”
“Willie mentioned something about that.”
“Well, I was as proud as a peacock about Bram's chair, though.”
The boy proved to be too much like his daddy. Instead of warming to her friendly conversation, Abe clammed up, pushing away from the counter with h
is hips and straightening to his full height. “Did you need anything else, Ms. Albertson? I've got a load I need to get to.”
She pasted her faltering smile back on her face and snagged the handles of the bag with two fingers. “Of course you do,” she purred. “I need to get on with my rounds. Time to make the world a more beautiful place.”
“Have a nice day.”
“I will, sweetheart,” she chirped, her heels clip-clopping on the plank flooring. “Tell your grandma I hope she feels better soon.”
The bell chimed merrily as she breezed out the door, but behind her sunny smile Anna seethed. Something was going on, and if the scuttlebutt she picked up at the market was true, that something was dinner.
She'd already made a pass through the general store, but Willie and her busybody friend clammed up the moment she walked in. If a woman wanted, she could assume that Abe's silence spoke volumes, but Bram's boy was annoyingly closed-mouthed, even about the most mundane things. Still, the grapevine said there was a dinner on at the Hatchett's that night.
A fried chicken dinner, no less. Everyone knew Miss Ada only trotted out her famous fried chicken for county fairs and special occasions. Grinding her teeth, Anna made a beeline for her car. She needed to fall back.
She needed a green tea and olive oil moisturizing masque, a giant glass of chardonnay, and a plan. A plan that didn't include stealing Percy Jenkins' key ring, kidnapping a couple of chirping chickens, or the destruction of any more footwear. A woman has to draw the line somewhere.
Chapter 16
Lynne adjusted the back of the rickety folding chaise and sneaked another peek over the top of her book. Bram balanced a bowl on his fingertips and held it up to the light before he blew the dust from the tiny flower he'd carved into the wood.
She lowered the book to her lap. “You really don't need to work on those now. I'm not in any hurry.”
He caught his lip between his teeth and bent over the bowl, tapping a stray splinter from the wood with a tiny chisel. “I feel like working on these.”
She smiled. “Temperamental artist type, huh?”
“Not in the mood to carve some stranger's initials into a hunk of wood.”
“Feeling flowery?”
He shot her a glare then turned his attention back to the bowl. “Good book?”
She glanced at the bare-chested hero on the cover and smirked. “It's trashy, but I like it.”
“Kinda like me.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the chair. “You're not trashy.”
“Does that mean you don't like me?”
“Are you worried about that? After last night?”
“I was a little worried this morning,” he admitted gruffly.
The scrape of metal shaving wood scratched the silence hovering in the air. She cocked her head, studying his profile. He lasted exactly thirty seconds before daring a glance in her direction.
“Because we talked about Susan?” she ventured.
“Not many women would appreciate a man talking about another woman when they're, uh....”
“Naked?”
“Involved,” he concluded.
“Should I ignore her? Pretend I'm the first woman you've ever been with?”
“You aren't far from it,” he muttered.
She dropped the book onto the chaise as she rose. His shoulders tensed when she stepped closer. She ran her hands over the taut muscle, pressing her thumbs into the knot at the base of his neck. He groaned, his hands falling to his lap in surrender.
She began to knead, leaning into him and using her weight as leverage. “You didn't seem worried when you crawled into the tub with me this morning.”
“You looked like a mermaid.”
She brushed a kiss to his exposed nape then smiled, gratified by the shiver vibrating beneath her hands. “But you're worried now.”
“I just.... It wasn't the smartest thing a guy could do.”
Pressing her thumbs to the top of his spine, she let her fingers slide into his hair. “She helped make you who you are.”
He reached up, covering her hand with his and giving it a tight squeeze. “You're too good to be true.”
“I might like you.” She bent to kiss his neck again. “An awful lot.”
Bram chuckled. “That's my line.”
“It worked.”
“If you don't sit down I'll never finish this bowl.”
She circled the chair and slid into his lap, straddling his thighs. The bowl and chisel clattered to the floor. “I told you, I'm not in a hurry.”
Her lips covered his. His hands closed on her hips. Chaste, playful pecks quickly melted into slow, sensuous explorations. Lynne clutched his hair with her hands, tipping his head back and demanding more.
He groaned and cupped her bottom in his palms, humming his approval when she kissed her way along his jaw. She teased the pulse in his throat with the tip of her tongue. “I'm never gonna get these damn bowls done.”
“You worry too much about getting things done.” Her teeth sank into his earlobe, and he lunged, pressing her down on the burgeoning bulge in his jeans. “There's only one thing you need to worry about doing.”
She was rewarded with a deep chuckle. “We're in my shop. Anyone could walk in. Dad...Willene....”
“Shh.” Her fingernails rasped the threadbare t-shirt he wore. “Stop worrying.”
“Stop trying to turn me into a horny teenager.”
“Is it working?”
He slipped his hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “What do you think?”
She grinned and pulled back. “Good.” Her smile only widened when she slithered from his lap. He gaped at her and she pressed a pert kiss to the tip of his nose. “Get back to work. I'm still three bowls short.”
“Tease.”
“Preview.” The metal legs of the chaise scraped the concrete floor as she dropped onto the chair. She brushed her hair back from her face and fanned herself with the romance novel. “I needed a shot of courage.”
“Courage?”
“I'll be up for inspection tonight, remember?”
“It's not an inspection,” he grumbled, bending to gather the bowl and chisel from the floor.
“It is.” She ruffled the pages of the book with her thumb. “Any tips?”
“Don't try to eat fried chicken with a knife and fork,” he said without missing a beat.
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks. I never would have figured that out on my own.”
He shrugged. “Mama likes to feed people. Dad will like you because you're a flirt. Abe's easy, but you have to make the effort to get him to talk as he's a bit shy. His wife Jenny's as sweet as can be, and smart as a whip. Their boy A.J. will chatter your head off.”
Her smiled faltered. “And Willie?”
Bram blew out a tired breath and met her gaze. “Don't worry about Willie.”
“My, that didn't sound ominous.”
Gripping the bowl, he traced one of the pansies with the edge of his chisel. “Bob will probably be there. He's a level-headed boy. He'll keep her in check.”
“Bram....”
“She'll be fine. It takes her a while to process things. She'll be fine,” he repeated.
“I can't wait,” she mumbled, fanning the paperback's pages.
He reached out and ran his fingers lightly over her hair. Nodding to the book, he returned his attention to the bowl in his hand. “Read the naughty parts to me. I might need a little courage myself.”
Anna scowled at the peeling paint on the old Burdock house as she bailed from the driver's seat, tugging a large black case behind her. It banged against her thigh as she clattered up the warped porch steps. She replaced the frown with a sunny smile and rapped on the door.
“Yoo-hoo! Ms. Prescott?”
Craning her neck, she sneaked a peek around the sheer curtain covering the glass. The interior of the house was dim and still. She placed the case on a decrepit wicker chair and tiptoed t
o the window.
“I have some fabulous new eye cream,” she called. “Works wonders—reduces puffiness and smoothes those pesky wrinkles.”
She stared through the glass into the living room, wrinkling her nose at the musty-looking sofa. Tugging at the seams of her skirt as she straightened, she spared a quick glance over her shoulder and hustled down the steps.
“Ms. Prescott?” She picked her way through the weed-riddled grass along the side of the house. “I have a new line of lipsticks that are gar-un-teed to plump and fill those fine lines.”
Her heels sank into the soft earth, and her eyes narrowed when she spotted the SUV parked beneath the tree. She glared at the pale wood planks attached to the weathered porch. The sun glinted off a shiny new nail. Her nostrils flared. She pursed her lips then forced the muscles to relax, unwilling to etch the brackets around her mouth any deeper. No man was worth that.
She spun on the kitten heel of her gold pumps, digging a divot in the damp soil. Clods of dirt flew when she started to stomp toward the front of the house, but she drew up short. Her chin lifted. Soft clucks tickled her ears. Her nose wrinkled and she swiveled to glare at the chicken coop. She squinted at the brown-feathered birds pecking at the bare dirt. A smile twitched her lips when she spotted the rusted, sagging wire enclosing them.
She leaned against the fencing, nudging it with her knee. When the first nail popped free from the splintered wooden post, she smiled. The wire sprung from the second nail, and a laugh bubbled up from her chest.
“Aw, poor chickies, trapped in a cage,” she cooed to the milling birds. “You wanna run free? You wanna be free-range chickens?”
A swift kick loosened the fencing from its rusted moorings. The chickens clucked and squawked as she rushed into the enclosure. Her crimson-tipped nails flashed in the afternoon sunlight. She waved her arms wildly, nudging a bird with the side of her shoe. One of its bird-brained cohorts dared to peck at her foot, and Anna muttered a curse when she booted it from the pen.
