by Zoe York
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 22
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. Mule-headed 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 knot holes 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 cold-hearted as you think.”
Bram stepped closer. “I never thought you were cold-hearted. 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 bare-faced 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.”
She gazed straight ahead at the narrow, rutted lane. “Let me go, Bram,” she whispered. “This was just a bump in the road.”
“Wrong. Couldn't be more wrong.”
“Am I?” Her deep blue gaze fixed on him once more.
He nodded emphatically. “Yes.”
“You don't even know me,” she said in a voice as wispy as the wind. “You don't know who I am and what I want.”
“How can I if you leave? Tell me. Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Like three dozen chickens?” A sad smile lifted one corner of her mouth. She shook her head. “You need to learn not to promise what you can't give.”
Bram sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to muffle the pounding of his heart with a handful of feathers. “Don't leave. Please. Talk to me.”
“You honestly want to know what I want?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers wound around the wheel, slender and graceful, but ringless and unpolished. “I want clean jeans and my own pillows. I want someone to want me for me and nothing more. I want a cannoli.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I have no idea what a cannoli is, but—”
“I know you don't,” she said, cutting him off again.
“Who gives a damn about the stupid cannoli? I think you owe it to me to stay and talk about this.”
She shook her head. “I owe you nothing, Bram. I have to go home and you have a chicken to bury.”
Gravel popped under the tires as the car crept forward. He had to give them one last shot.
“Lynne—”
“A cannoli is an Italian pastry. Delicious cream-filled goodness. You should try one sometime.” The window began to rise. “Goodbye, Bram. Sorry about the chicken.”
He stepped back, watching until her taillights winked from view. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter 23
As soon as the tires touched pavement, Lynne released the breath she'd been holding. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed Bram hadn't followed. He wouldn't. If he wouldn't chase his wife of more than twenty years, he sure as hell isn't going to chase me. At least, not farther than the end of the driveway.
Tension ebbed from her shoulders and neck. She took an experimental breath and felt lucky it didn't choke her. She eased her foot from the gas, letting the incline of the blacktop pull her toward the crossroad. The car jerked to a halt at the stop sign, and she glanced down at the foot pressing the brake in surprise.
“Huh. Let's hear it for reflexes.”
Her head swiveled, checking for traffic in either direction. The freshly turned earth caught her eye. She sighed.
I'm running away.
She gave her head a brisk shake and shot across the intersection. “No, I'm not,” she muttered between clenched teeth.
Speeding toward the highway, she mentally checked off each landmark. Grain elevator. Tractor supply store. House with the weird purple shutters.
At Main Street she slowed to a stop. A woman walked out of the market with two tow-headed kids hot on her heels. They followed her down the sidewalk, skipping to compensate for the woman's longer stride. When she reached the corner, she turned to the children with a smile and pulled two ice cream bars from the brown paper bag in her hand. Lynne stared, mesmerized by the expectant grins on the children's faces as their mother unwrapped the treats.
She closed her eyes. The memory of a gaggle of clucking birds chasing after a skinny girl with blonde braids and dusty sneakers rushed back. She could still recall the musty scent of the grain clutched in her grimy hand.
I'm running away.
Opening her eyes wide, she turned from the chocolate-smudged smiles, focusing on the cheerful yellow awning above the door to Walters' Mercantile. True to form, Al Hatchett and Rufus McArdle rocked lazily as they greeted passers-by. Her heart tripped a lively tarantella when her gaze came to rest on Bram's father. The old man looked up and his piercing blue gaze seemed to cut right through the windshield.
He knows I'm leaving.
Thankfully, Al's attention was diverted by his wife. Lynne took the opportunity to move her foot from the brake to the gas. She cranked the wheel and sailed past, casting a wary glance out of the corner of her eye. Miss Ada's head turned.
Oh God, don't look at me like that.
Her throat ached. Tears burned behind her eyes. Loss and disappointment sat in her stomach like a cannonball. She bashed the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “I'm not running away. I’m going back where I belong.”
One tire bumped the curb, and she jammed on the brakes. A pick-up truck's horn blared. Lynne glanced over her shoulder as the truck swerved to miss her rear bumper. She let off the brake, creeping forward until the car was out of the lane. A flash of green caught her eye. She spied Miss Ada crossing the street. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, searching for a shred of dignity to go with the last scrap of her pride as she hit the button to lower the window.
“Are you okay, honey?”
Mustering one ounce of nerve, she met the older woman's gaze. The genuine worry etched into her lined face made her crumble. “No.”
Ada placed one freckled hand on the open window, her fingers curling in the exact spot h
er son's had a short time before. “Can I help?”
“No.”
“You had a spat?” Her head jerked up and she spotted the smile curving Ada's lips. “I know my boy.”
“It wasn't a spat.”
“A misunderstanding then.”
The word wound its way into her brain, rattled around, then settled into place like a dog curling up in front of a fire. “A misunderstanding,” she repeated.
“Bram isn't real good with saying what he means.” She gave Lynne a conspiratorial wink. “He's a doer, not a talker.”
A laugh sputtered from her. She gave her head a rueful shake. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Ada leaned into the window, heedless of the traffic stirring the skirt of her spring green dress. “I'll tell you a little secret.”
“Secret?”
“You have to be direct. Beating around the bush is completely lost on Bram, and dropping hints is like speaking to him in Hindi.” With a kind smile, she stepped back from the car. “Talk straight with the boy, and you'll get this all worked out.”
“It's not so easy.”
“Sweetheart, when you get to be my age you'll realize things are as easy as you want them to be and more complicated than you ever imagined.”
Lynne laughed again. “That makes no sense.”
The old woman glanced over her shoulder and raised her hand, giving her husband a coy wave. From the look on his face, the gesture hadn't lost its impact over their fifty year marriage.
“Neither does love, honey,” she murmured, flashing a wan smile. “Love never has made a lick of sense. A damn nuisance is what it is.”
“Bram and Iwe aren'tI mean.”
“Call it whatever you want, just talk to him. You'll see—it's as easy as pie.”
With that, Ada turned smartly on one heel and crossed the street. Lynne's gaze flickered to Al. He was openly ogling his wife as she stepped up onto the curb. Ada pointed a stern finger at him as she reached for the door to the hatchery, and he smiled wide enough to garner a swish of the sassy septuagenarian's hips.
