by Alicia Scott
"Regents."
"Regents out back. Have you seen them? I'll show you after dinner if you'd like. They're named Mary and Libby and they already come when they're called. They have papers they're so fancy—I don't even come with papers. And Mom's gonna train them and they'll be worth a fortune. My mom is the best trainer in Beaverville. There's no one like her." He whipped around to Victoria and beamed so big she felt twenty feet tall. The thing that never failed to amaze her about her son was that in his eyes, all her dreams had come true. She was a hero.
"I'll work them with you," he said in a rush. "Every day. It'll be great. Before or after baseball, though, of course, right? I can't miss practice."
"We'll work them in the morning, then."
"I'm going to get a computer and play games!" Randy chortled. "It'll improve my hand-eye coordination so some day I can be a jet fighter." He cocked his fingers, lined up his sights and took out the mashed potatoes with a hail of imaginary bullets. "I'm gonna be the best jet fighter pilot in the world!"
"That will be great," Brandon said seriously.
"The computer isn't for games," Victoria intoned.
"I'm gonna be a jet fighter!" Randy roared again.
"Fine, fine, Ace. Now eat your peas!"
After dinner, she served apple pie and black coffee. Brandon insisted on doing the dishes, so she sat at the table and watched. Not a bad deal. Eventually, Randy dragged out his homework and piled it on the table. He was learning to multiply mixed numerals, and both of them were having a hell of a time with it. Victoria had passed grade school, but these days, she had no idea how. Surely the most convincing argument against having sex was that someday you would have to help your children with their homework.
She labored through the first problem set with half her attention on her son's efforts and half her attention on Brandon Ferringer's body. When she and Randy got the first four equations wrong, she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised.
"You don't have to find a common denominator," Brandon said abruptly from the sink.
"What?"
"For multiplication of fractions, you multiply the numerator and denominator straight across. Finding a common denominator is for addition."
"But don't you have to invert the second fraction?"
"That's division."
"Oh," she said.
Randy looked like he was ready to drop out of school. Frankly, she didn't blame him.
"I could help you, if you like," Brandon said.
Randy perked up. Brandon set the last battered plate in the drying rack, wiped his hands on an old olive-green towel and came on over. He flipped the chair backward, then straddled it so he could stick his legs out and rub his sore quads.
"May I?" he asked, and took the textbook from Randy who was only too happy to relinquish it. "Math is rather my thing. Wall Street investments these days are all about exotic derivatives and exponential equations."
"I don't even understand what you just said," Victoria said honestly.
He flashed her a slow smile. "Most people don't."
"Just a teeniest bit arrogant, hmm?"
"That's a kinder word than most people use."
He picked up Randy's yellow, number 2 pencil, and scrawled numbers across the lined paper as fast as any computer, then just as abruptly slapped the pencil back down.
"Keeewl," Randy breathed.
"All right. Let me walk you through it."
He did, and by the end of the lesson, even Victoria was qualified for grade school once more.
"I used to help my half-siblings a lot," Brandon said by way of explanation, finally climbing out of his chair. The hour had grown late. Both Victoria and Randy should be in bed by now. Instead, Randy was looking at Brandon with the largest case of hero worship Victoria had ever seen and she was wondering at just what point the evening had run away from her.
"I … uh … thank you," she said at last.
"No problem."
"Will you help me again tomorrow night?" Randy wanted to know.
"I don't know." Brandon Ferringer looked bewildered, as if he hadn't bothered to think that far ahead. The look restored Victoria's bearings. That's right, she knew this man and this situation after all. She spent too much time with strong, virile men who only traveled with one duffel bag.
She rose up, ruffling her son's hair. "Come on, Randy, time for bed. Mr. Ferringer has to get ready for hotshot training so we can't take up too much of his time."
Her son looked on the verge of protest. He scoped her out, searching for signs of weakness, but when she merely thinned her lips, he relented with one of his "Aw, Mom," shrugs.
"Brush your teeth. I'll be in in a minute."
Randy nodded, made it half out of the room, then surprised them all by returning to give Brandon a quick, furtive hug. Now red all the way up to the tips of his ears, he bolted.
Brandon appeared stunned.
"He's at that age," Victoria said at last. "You'll probably want to set some limits with him or you'll end up with a second shadow."
"That age?"
"He's eight years old, realizing that all the other kids are bringing fathers to the ball games and not just uncles. He's getting into sports and wanting to know what M-E-N are all about. It's hard for him. I give him all I can, you know, but frankly, I don't understand the Y chromosome that well myself. Why do men slap each other's butts after a touchdown? It's a mystery to me."
She smiled ruefully. Brandon, however, God bless him, wasn't fooled.
"It must be difficult," Ferringer said gently, "but if a layman's opinion means anything to you, it seems to me that you're doing great."
"Thank you, I try."
He smiled, she found herself smiling back. Their gazes locked, held. Victoria couldn't even tell what was between them anymore. Sparks, emotion, chemistry, friendship. It beat the hell out of her. She just knew her stomach was plummeting and her pulse accelerating and for a crazy instant, she was angling back her head, the way a woman did when she was hoping a man would kiss her.
And Brandon took half a step forward. His eyes narrowed. His lips parted. He leaned down just a fraction, and they hovered somewhere in between.
Abruptly, they both drew back.
"I should be going to bed," Brandon said briskly.
"Me too. My bed, I mean. The one down the hall. That bed, of course. Yes." She shut up.
Brandon was nodding sagely, as if she'd actually said something intelligent. "And me, to the cabin. I have to get up bright and early, start training. Six months as a hotshot."
"Six months," she repeated emphatically.
"Six months," he agreed.
And between them both, that said it all. He made it to the door. In another awkward moment, he stuck out his hand.
"Thank you for dinner, Victoria," he said formally.
"Oh, any time."
She shook his hand soberly. They both nodded as well-meaning adults. He walked away to his cabin and she remained standing in her house, her hand fisted at her side so she wouldn't do anything stupid such as call him back.
"He's just passing through, Vic. He's just passing through."
* * *
Victoria and Randy rose at the crack of dawn, downing a quick breakfast of hot instant cereal and orange juice. Generally Randy tended the chickens and horses on weekend mornings, but he'd been invited on a nature hike with Arnie, so he and Victoria had swapped shifts. She packed his lunch while he filled his water bottles, then he was off like a shot, leaving Victoria alone in a house that was suddenly much too quiet.
She checked the bucket of corn next to the back door. Corn was running low. The horses needed more oats. She'd have to make a trip to the feed store. She grimaced. The one thing about animals—they just kept eating and eating and Victoria's bills just kept climbing and climbing. Sometimes, she felt that as hard as she worked, she was on a giant treadmill, sweating bullets and never getting ahead.
She looped her fine blond hair back int
o a ponytail, scrubbed her face, and grabbed the bucket to feed the hens. The coop had been moved last week, a traumatic event for chickens, and they'd just started laying eggs again yesterday. Today, she found three more eggs, not bad. She figured it would take another week for everyone's nerves to settle down. In the meantime, she had enough eggs to make French toast tomorrow for her and Randy's traditional Sunday brunch. Afterwards, they'd head to church, and then to her parents' house for a table-groaning feast.
She headed for the stables. The sun was just beginning to come up now, the pastures washed with dew and the clean, crisp air reddening her cheeks. It was quiet out, peaceful and sparkling. In the distance, she heard birds chattering. The wind carried the fragrance of old pine and new grass.
Mornings were her favorite time. Everything was fresh, everything was new, and she was absolutely content with her life. She had a great family and a wonderful son. She owned a ranch and trained horses. She lived in Beaverville, Oregon, where the sky was a vast blue landscape interrupted only by soaring pine trees and verdant mountains. It was quiet, it was small, and it was the most beautiful place on earth.
She sauntered into the stables with a smile on her face and a whistle on her lips, and got her hours' worth of chores done in forty minutes. With her bonus twenty minutes, she might as well go into town and blow her feed bill once and for all. She wouldn't be a rancher if she didn't have debt.
Walking back to the house, however, her eyes strayed to Brandon's cabin. No signs of life emerged. It was only 7:00 a.m. She didn't think city people moved much before nine on Saturdays.
She was lingering. She didn't want to linger. Of course, she didn't want to dream about Brandon Ferringer either, and that hadn't stopped a torrent of erotic images from swamping her sleep last night. She sighed, chewed on her bottom lip, and in the quiet of the morning, wondered what to do with herself.
She was attracted to the man. Then again, she hadn't had sex in so long she'd probably lost all circulation in vital parts of her anatomy. Beaverville wasn't exactly crawling with virile young men, either. Frankly, Brandon Ferringer was handsome, intelligent, had buns of steel and was sleeping fifty feet from her bedroom window.
All right, the man had sex appeal. What did it change? She wasn't some footloose, fancy-free young girl. She was a responsible, hard-working single mother looking for a bit more than a midlife crisis.
Sometimes she did still fantasize about falling in love, getting married and being part of a whole family once more.
She went into the house, grabbed her field coat and headed for the truck. As Victoria's mom liked to say, stop mooning and get to work.
She spotted Ferringer, however, just as she drove to the top of her driveway's incline. He was at the bottom of the drive, running uphill at a fast clip that had his breath billowing. He'd dressed for the brisk weather—a pair of thick navy blue runner's pants, a navy blue turtleneck, and a red, fleece vest to maintain core body temperature. Now, however, the vest was completely unzipped, his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows and his chest sported a dark stain of sweat.
He showed no signs of slowing, his long, limber legs sprinting up the bumpy path like an antelope. Some people ran for pleasure. Some people ran for fitness. Judging by the look on Brandon's face, he ran for pain. His jaw was tight, his lips thinned. It was obvious he wouldn't stop until he'd proven whatever it was he had to prove this early on a Saturday morning.
Victoria slowed the truck and unrolled the window. In tight clothing, Brandon's lean, rangy build provided an eyeful, long, limber muscles wrapping his limbs like thick sailor's rope. He was going to make one hell of a hotshot.
He finally crested the hill and slowed to a stop beside her idling truck, his breath coming out in gasps.
"Morning," she said brightly.
He leaned over, pressed his elbows into his thighs and gulped air. "Morning," he gasped.
"That's quite a pace."
"Need to do … six minute … mile. For hotshots."
"I see," she said with the right level of seriousness—Charlie had informed her that everything about the hotshots was serious. "And what are you at now?"
"Can run … the mile and a half … in nine. Requirement is … eleven."
"Then you're all set."
He grimaced. "Want to run it in eight." He dragged another deep breath and finally straightened. Thin lines of sweat streaked his craggy face and spiked his hair around his eyes. His face was flushed from the exertion. He looked good.
"I'm the old guy," he said bluntly, finally catching his wind. "And the outsider. The requirement may be to run a mile and half in eleven minutes, but if you're anything above nine, your team laughs at you. I'll need to be even faster than that. I have more to prove."
Victoria nodded. She didn't doubt that he was absolutely right.
"Where are you off to?" he asked at last.
"Going into town. Time to buy some feed. Yourself?"
"No plans. Where's Randy?"
"Off on a nature hike." She paused. "If you need anything in town, you're welcome to join me."
"Oh I don't want to slow you up," he said immediately.
"All right, have it your way." She put her truck in gear, and immediately he changed his tune. For some reason, she thought he might.
"Actually," he was saying now, "I would like to get to know the town."
"I'll give you the full nickel tour."
"I need to shower first…"
"It's no bother," she assured him. Of course it was a bother. Waiting for a man was always a bother. Sitting in the front seat of her tiny truck with Brandon would be a definite bother. And yet she was smiling and he was smiling, and most likely they were both idiots.
"Just give me ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes it is."
"Victoria … thank you." He sprinted off to his cabin, his long legs effortlessly finding the rhythm.
She stared at his butt. He had a tight, firm, nicely shaped butt. Oh for God's sake. She slapped her hand against the steering wheel and sank low on the bench seat. It didn't help. She still saw him in her mind's eye, and she knew the minute he climbed into her pickup truck, she would flush.
And maybe, if she were lucky, he would, too.
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Victoria drove like a madwoman. She barreled her truck down the bumpy dirt driveway with no regards to its ancient age or groaning protests. While Brandon clutched the dusty dashboard for dear life, she casually swung them on the main highway and thrust forward at near light speed. She seemed to be enjoying the experience very much, her bare lips curved, her freshly scrubbed face untroubled.
"The seat belt does work," she mentioned casually.
"Too late," he murmured, and sought it out with trembling hands. She was grinning openly. At least he was amusing her.
This morning she wore what appeared to be yesterday's jeans with a fresh flannel shirt in shades of brown. Over the top, she'd thrown an old white wool sweater with thick worsted braiding and a hole in the left shoulder. Her face wasn't marred by an ounce of makeup. Her fine, silky hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, illuminating her light gray-blue eyes. He'd seen women in silk and he'd seen women in cashmere, but he'd never seen a woman as down-to-earth, bone-deep beautiful as Victoria Meese.
He'd returned to his cabin last night with the best of intentions. He was here in Beaverville because of his father and needed to get cracking. He'd pulled out the Tillamook yearbook and stared at the pictures of Bud Irving and Al Simmons as if he could sear them into his brain. He needed to find Bud Irving. He needed to solve the riddle of Maximillian the Chameleon.
He'd thought of Victoria and the way she smiled at her son. He'd pictured the way her hips swayed slightly as she swiftly covered ground with her dirt-eating stride. He'd replayed the way her brow crinkled as she tried to work out mixed numerals with Randy.
He'd lain on his bed, feeling wired and disoriented and anxious. He'd tried to rein in h
is thoughts, but they came back to Victoria again and again, and each time, his nerve endings trilled and his head got light and he wanted to see her again.
He hadn't felt like this since the day in the coffee shop when he'd met Julia. That night he'd returned from work equally frazzled. He'd paced his apartment, entertained wild plans and tossed them out one by one as he sought the perfect way to approach this delightful woman. Finally, he'd buried her in flowers, launching a six-month whirlwind courtship of roses, dinners and jewelry. He'd had money and he'd poured it on her lavishly.
Poor Julia, who'd loved cheap perfume and tacky trinkets.
But it had worked, and she'd married him with a laugh and a smile, and he'd felt like the luckiest man on earth.
And now he remembered the years after. The night he'd come home at two in the morning after a crazy month of working unbelievable hours on a bond-financing project. Julia had been waiting up for him, listening to the radio in the dark. The song "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" had played, and she'd started to cry.
He'd brought her two dozen roses the next day. He'd tried to come home earlier, say 10:00 p.m. instead of 2:00 a.m. And he'd watched his marriage begin to fall apart, though he could honestly say he had never loved his wife more.
He wasn't any good at relationships. He was lousy at love. He was better off climbing mountains and fighting fires.
"Here we are," Victoria sang out cheerily. "Downtown Beaverville. Don't blink or you'll miss it."
She slowed the truck to a light sprint, and Brandon yanked his mind to the bright spring morning and the row of beat-up trucks pulled up to wooden sidewalks like modern-day horses. Beaverville bustled first thing on a Saturday morning. Big, tough men lumbered down the streets, hitching up old jeans and feeling their back pockets for cans of chew. Even Whiskey Jack's had people passing through its doors. Brandon hoped it meant the bar served breakfast, but judging by one man's swagger, he couldn't be sure.
