Hometown Hope: A Small Town Romance Anthology

by Zoe York

  Her hands curled into fists. “I never asked for anything more.” She raised her head, tipping her chin up until their gazes met and held. “But he did. He thought he was entitled to whatever he wanted. The house. The only thing I stood up to him on was the house. That was Justin's house—the place where he grew up. The place where I hid out.”

  “He wanted you to sell?”

  A wry smile twisted her lips. “He wanted me to sell once he found out I wasn't about to let him move his new wife into our house. My house,” she asserted. “He wasn't around enough to call it his.”

  “He's a horse's ass.”

  This time, her lips quirked into a genuine smile. “Among other things.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. Her toes almost grazed his dusty work boots. “And I'm a coward.”

  “I don't think you're a coward.”

  She huffed and drew her knees up. Pressing her hands to the stiff denim of her new Levi's she leveraged herself off the step and brushed the dirt from the seat of her jeans. It beat throwing herself into his arms. At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “I was, but I'm not going to be anymore,” she said softly. “You need to tell me straight out if you want the farm or me, Bram.”

  “What if I want both?”

  She shook her head. “You can't have both. I'm done with giving people everything I have. I want something for myself.” She cast one more glance over her shoulder as she reached for the door handle. “You'll think things over and let me know what you decide?”

  He stepped up, planting his boot on the bottom stair. “I don't need to think it over.”

  Her heart did that scary little flip-flop. She gave herself permission to hide out for one more night. Holding up a hand to stop him, she shook her head. “I think you should. It's been a long day, and maybe we're both a little raw. We'll talk tomorrow.”

  His lips tightened with impatience. “Fine.”

  She smiled. The thrill of victory tickled its way along her spine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Yeah, I've got one.”

  She conjured a sad smirk. “Good. God only knows where those chickens are.”

  “Stupid birds,” he muttered. Planting his hands on his hips, he scanned the darkened yard.

  She opened the door and the light spilled onto the porch, shining a path that led straight to him. Emboldened, she whirled to face him. “Bram?” she called after him.

  “Ma'am?”

  She smiled at his automatic response. “While you're thinking things over, I want you to remember something.”

  He looked back at her, raising one curious eyebrow.

  “Nothing says 'I think I might love you' quite like giving a guy a dead chicken,” she drawled, gracing him with a saucy smile before disappearing into the house.

  Chapter 25

  Bram sat slumped in his chair holding a half-finished salad bowl balanced on his fingertips.

  Willene peeked around the edge of the doorframe. “Daddy?”

  He startled then glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Hey, Sassypants.”

  She stepped into the workshop, clutching a sheet of paper to her stomach. “Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine.”

  She inched her way closer to him. “Did she...uh, is Ms. Prescott....”

  He shot her a dark glare. “She's here.”

  A relieved smile curved her lips. “Good.” He cast a wary glance in her direction and the smile melted into a frown. “That's good, isn't it?”

  “She thinks I was only seeing her to get the farm.”

  “What? How can she think that?”

  He sighed and set the bowl aside, clasping his hands between his knees and twisting his fingers into a knot. “This whole thing is out of hand. It's like my life has gone crazy, and I'm too old for crazy.”

  She chuckled and moved to stand behind his chair. “You're not old, Daddy.” She tousled his hair then kissed the top of his head. “Getting pretty gray, but not old.”

  “I feel old,” he whispered. “Too old to be playing guessing games and chasing after things I probably shouldn't want.”

  “Why shouldn't you want them?”

  He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. “You were the one who thought I was playing the fool.”

  “Yeah, well, I'm young and stupid, remember?”

  She skirted the edge of his chair and stopped in front of him. Without a word, she offered her hand, knowing he'd take it, just as he had her entire life. Bram unfolded from the chair, and with a practiced twitch of his wrist, pulled her into a hug.

  “I want you to be happy,” she whispered into the crook of his neck.

  “I want to be happy, too.”

  Willene pulled back and looked him straight in the eye. “Then do it. To hell with what anyone else says or thinks. You don't have to play guessing games. Tell her you care about her. If she doesn't want what you want....” She shrugged. “You tried. That's what you used to tell us—all anyone can do is try. Right?”

  Bram gave her hair a playful tug. “You might be young, but you're not so stupid.”

  She stepped back and the sheet of paper she held floated to the floor. “What's that?” he asked warily.

  “Another order.” She scooped the sheet from the dusty floor and beamed at him. “This one's from Palm Beach, Florida.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Add it to the pile.”

  She strolled over to the workbench and plucked the sheaf of orders from under the wrench that served as a paperweight. Stroking the untouched stack of pre-cut headrests, she shot him a worried glance. “Man, they're piling up. You'd better get to work, Mister.”

  He rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor. “I'm not feeling it.”

  Willie chuckled. “Now, don't go getting all temperamental artiste on me,” she teased.

  Bram picked up the bowl again and studied his work with a frown as she sifted through the stack of orders. Her eyebrows shot up as she pulled one from the pile. “Ms. Prescott's from Illinois, right?”

  “Huh? Yeah.” He picked at a carved petal with his thumbnail.

  She smiled and waved the sheet of paper in front of his eyes. “You need inspiration, Picasso? Here, work on your girlfriend's chair.”

  “What?”

  Willene wriggled the paper again, and he snatched it from her hand. Reading over his shoulder, she nodded her approval. “Should be an easy one—all scrollwork, no flowers.”

  Bram shoved the order back into her hand. “Cancel it.”

  “What?”

  “Cancel the order. Refund her money,” he said tersely.

  “But—”

  “Do not argue with me.”

  She reared back. “Okay.” Pressing the sheet of paper to her stomach, she glanced nervously at him. “Daddy?”

  He slumped in his chair again and squeezed his eyes shut. Clutching the salad bowl in one hand, he rubbed the deep crease between his brows with the other. “Cancel the order, Willie. Please.”

  “I will.”

  “Tonight,” he insisted, pinning her with a stern stare.

  “Tonight,” she agreed.

  He leaned forward in the chair, turning the bowl in his hand as he reached for a chisel. “Night, Baby.”

  Willie didn't bristle at his curt dismissal. Instead, she simply whispered, “Night, Daddy,” before tiptoeing to the door.

  Chapter 26

  Lynne sat at the scarred kitchen table, staring at an unopened romance novel and running her thumb over the buttons on her cell phone. Her teeth sank into her lip, and she tore her gaze from the bare-chested man on the cover. She pressed the number two, holding the key until the speed-dial kicked in.

  Her fingers curled around the phone, and she held it to her ear. She dragged in a deep breath as the line rang once then twice. She heard her mother's honey-drenched greeting and released the air trapped in her lungs. “Mother, I've met a man,” she confessed without preamble.

  After a prolonged,
painful humming silence, Elizabeth Hillman asked, “You have?”

  “Abram Hatchett.” The soft, dulcet tones of her mother's chuckle rattled her nerves. “He’s Alsom and Ada's son,” she hastened to explain.

  “I figured that much out.” Elizabeth sighed. “I assume he's handsome. Those Hatchett boys were certainly easy on the eyes.”

  “He is.”

  Elizabeth made no follow-up and Lynne began to squirm, as she always had when confronted with her mother's disapproval. “Mother, he's a good man.”

  “Are you trying to sell me or yourself?”

  “I don't know.”

  Her answer garnered another soft laugh. “You've always been so much like Corrine.”

  Lynne frowned, fanning the pages of the book with the pad of her thumb. “No wonder you don't like me very much.”

  Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath. “Is that what you think?”

  “You have to admit, we don't have very much in common, Mother.”

  “You've always been so much like her, it scared me.”

  “How could she scare you? She was a sweet woman. Kind and generous—”

  “And she just curled up when he died,” Elizabeth insisted, her voice growing strident. “She could have had so much more.”

  “She was happy where she was. You wrote her off after Grandma died.”

  “They wrote me off the minute I left home. Wrote me off, wrote me out of their will—”

  “Did you ever think maybe they were hurt that you left?”

  “There was nothing for me there. What was I supposed to do? Stay in that teeny, tiny town, marry some homegrown boy, and wither away?”

  “Would it really have been so awful?”

  “I wouldn't have had you. Did you ever think of that?”

  “But you didn't want me to have them. Oh, you came back when it was expected of you, but never more than that.”

  “Why would I want to? They didn't want me there. I didn't fit in.” She dragged in a ragged breath. “Corrine didn't want me there. Every time I stepped foot in that town, she made it perfectly clear that she belonged and I didn't.”

  “I don't believe that.”

  “Of course you don't. Everyone thinks she was some kind of saint because her man went off to war and died. Well, let me tell you, if she is a saint it's because she played the martyr to perfection.”

  “I heard the things you said to her after Grandma's funeral. Ugly, hateful things.”

  Quiet rang in her ears. She held her breath, waiting for her mother's response, anticipating a litany of excuses.

  “Everything I said was the truth,” Elizabeth said at last. “She was happy to have the farm to herself. She didn't have to share it with me. Corrine was glad Abram Hatchett was conveniently killed so she could play the grieving lover rather than having to face up to being the wife.”

  “How can you—”

  “You don't know. All you know is what she wanted everyone to see. She strung that poor boy along for years, casting him off and reeling him in whenever she needed a little attention.”

  Elizabeth's normally strident voice grew weak and strained. Lynne felt the usual twinge of guilt but clamped down on it. She opened her mouth to speak, but her mother cut her off.

  “He wanted to marry her before he left, but she wouldn't have him as he was. She wanted a bonafide hero. So Abram Hatchett went off to war, and on the night his mama found out he was killed, Corrine Burdock had sneaked out of the house and run off to a VFW dance in Russellville. She came home wearing another man's corsage.”

  Lynne gasped, pressing her trembling fingers to her mouth. “No.”

  “I'm the one who unpinned it from her dress and threw it out the window.”

  “I can't believe it.”

  “Of course you can't. No one would ever think Corrine would be so heartless. I was supposed to be the heartless one. Because I wanted a different life.”

  Tears brimmed Lynne's eyes. One slipped down her cheek, landing with a splat on the placemat in front of her.

  “Sweetheart, I know it's a romantic notion—your maiden aunt pining for her beloved, waiting to be reunited with him in the afterlife—but she chose to be alone. It suited her purposes. And look at all she missed.” Her voice gentled. “Look at all you missed, hanging around waiting for Richard to be the man he never could be. Even after he left you, you couldn't even work up the gumption to fight back.”

  “I knew he wasn't worth fighting for.”

  “I'm glad you realized he wasn't in the end. I knew he wasn't. Your father knew too. Hell, even Richard knew you wouldn't fight.”

  She gnawed her lip and shoved the paperback across the table. It toppled to the floor. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “The only thing you've ever had to do was live the life you want to lead,” her mother answered. “Haven't you learned that yet?”

  Her mother's chastising tone made her cheeks burn. She drew a deep breath. “I'm staying here.”

  “Are you, now?” The smile in her mother's voice made her eyes widen. “And Abram Hatchett? Is he going to be a part of this new life?”

  “I hope so.”

  “No, darling. If he's the one you want, you have to make it so or let him go.” She laughed softly. “Your poor father didn't stand a chance. The first time I saw him, I knew he was the man for me. I simply gave him no other option but to marry me.”

  The breath she expelled lifted her hair from her cheek. “I'm not like you.”

  “No. But you're not as much like that stubborn sister of mine as I thought. This is your chance. You're a bright, beautiful woman, Lynne. I know you never wanted to be like me, but if there's anything you should learn from your Aunt Corrine, it's to take what you want. Don't toy with life. You can't wait on the promise of forever. Forever might not happen.”

  Lynne stared at the rooster printed on the placemat in front of her. “You're wrong. I did want to be like you. I just didn't know how.”

  “Lord knows I tried to show you.”

  “You did. You did.” She traced the outline of the rooster's plumed tail with her fingernail. “Bram wants the farm.”

  Elizabeth's laugh was soft but tinged with bitterness. “I'm not surprised. The Hatchetts always seemed to have a finger in every pie.” As usual, her mother took the opportunity to bludgeon the proverbial nail with a sledgehammer. “You're not sure if he wants you, too.”

  The words tumbled from her mouth before she could give them a second thought. “He does.”

  This time, the tinkling laugh echoing through the phone rang true. “Well, then, there you go, Sweetheart. Make it a package deal.”

  “I told him he could either have me or the farm, but not both.”

  “That's my girl,” Elizabeth whispered. “Maybe you are a little more like your mama than we both thought.”

  A laugh bubbled up inside her. “You think?”

  “Make him work for it. If he's any sort of man, he will. Don't take the scraps he offers, Lynne. Make him be the man you want him to be. Make him fight for you a little.” She sighed. “Now, I'm not saying you should send him off to war, but a skirmish here and there never hurt anyone. Men like a good fight—it makes them feel like they earned something.”

  “Is that what you did with Daddy?”

  “Every damn day,” her mother asserted. “I kept him on his toes.”

  “You sure did,” she murmured. She scraped her thumbnail along the edge of the placemat. “What if I make a fool of myself again?”

  Elizabeth's melodic laugh sang across the miles. “Sugar, if that happens, you can always try Scottsdale.”

  A bark of a laugh punctuated her feelings on the matter. “We'd kill each other.”

  Elizabeth's tone softened. “Maybe so. But if that man is too stupid to see how perfect you are, then you tell your mama. I'll help you pour the sugar in his gas tank.”

  She blinked back a hot flood of tears. “Thanks, Mama.”

  “My pleasure, darl
ing. Sleep on it. Things will seem brighter in the morning.”

  Bram leaned against the dryer, his arms crossed over his dusty shirt. Heat from the metal housing seeped through the rough denim of his jeans. The buzzer screeched, and he jumped. He yanked open the door and hot, moist air tumbled out, bathing him in the scent of ‘Mountain Fresh’ dryer sheet.

  If it were really mountain fresh, it would smell like rotten leaves, burnt-out campfire, and deer musk. He snorted at his own joke and pulled a tangle of denim and cotton from the drum, piling it all on top of the machine. His fingers strayed to a white cotton shirt dotted with pink flowers. He rubbed the smooth fabric between his thumb and forefinger as if committing the weave to memory.

  Stop that. She's here. She didn't go. Not without her fancy jeans.

  A quick flick of his wrists shook the worst of the wrinkles from the shirt. He fastened the buttons then spread it over the lid of the washer, smoothing the rest of the creases with his palm. He managed a few awkward folds and set it aside. A pair of tangled designer jeans came next. A smile touched his lips when he straightened the long inseams.

  Gotta be four feet long. I should have measured. Twice. You should always measure twice.

  He closed his eyes, mentally measuring Lynne's long legs based on the way they'd wrapped around him. The jeans slipped from his hands, landing atop his dusty boots. “Crap.”

  He snatched them up, brushing the sawdust and wood shavings from the pristine denim, determined to keep his wayward mind on task until the job was complete. When he was finished, he carried the neat stack of laundry to the living room and left it piled on the couch.

  She wants them, she'll have to come and get them.

  He wandered into the kitchen, peered into his neglected refrigerator, and rejected its contents in one sweeping glance. Restless, he ran a glass of water and downed it in three long gulps. The lights in the workshop blazed, calling him back to work. He gave in to their siren song, making it halfway across the yard before a flash of headlights swept through the trees surrounding the house. He held his breath and sent up a silent prayer. It wasn't answered. Instead of Lynne's sleek SUV, a dark sedan rolled to a stop behind his truck. He scowled as Percy Jenkins unfolded his lanky frame from the driver's seat.