Bootscootin' Blahniks

by D. D. Scott

Roxy picked up an expensive looking leather bag and hooked its straps onto the top corner of the most unusual chair Zayne had ever seen. Something like that would have looked great in his Village flat.

  “Here would be fine for your Louis. Great bag, by the way. As for the box, just put it somewhere behind this counter,” Roxy directed. “What did you bring?”

  As Zayne wedged the box between the dogs’ pillows, Roxy met his eyes with a half-terrified look.

  “Oh. Not much at all, Dear.”

  His mom placed her hands on her hips, let out a large sigh and turned a full three hundred sixty degrees with the happiest look Zayne had seen on her in a long time.

  “Just odds n’ ends to help you do a better job at moving this inventory.”

  Roxy looked at Zayne with her hands raised, signaling him to decipher his mom’s cryptic slam.

  “This is between you two,” he said, wanting no part of where this was heading. “But you’d better approach things with a lot more tact than that, Ma McDonald.”

  After he addressed his mother that way, Roxy laughed. But his mom didn’t. Her death look told him just what she thought of his suggestion.

  Irked that his mom would stoop to such a direct remark right out of the gate, Zayne wasn’t worried about her watch-it-boy look. She didn’t need to blatantly expose Roxy’s lack of promotional skills. Not everyone had the natural advertising instincts and salesmanship he and his mom had. Roxy sure knew how to accentuate and promote her body, but marketing what she made to cover it wasn’t her strongest attribute.

  Although Zayne’s mind cautioned him to get away while he still could, he couldn’t force his eyes off her curves. Her commanding, attention-getting persona, coupled with her dare devil style made all his blood rush below his belt, leaving his brain seriously malnourished.

  Damn. He knew it was rude to stare, but that tiny pink shirt — not to mention where those sparkly things were placed — made him hotter than picking tomatoes in August. Together with the pink shiny skirt hugging her perfectly rounded hips, Zayne was seeing stars.

  But the fury suede boots hugging her legs from her knees to her toes brought him back to earth. Those were a little too out-there for his taste. But what did he know? She was the fashionista. Twenty bucks said his mom owned a pair within the week.

  Roxy flicked his Stetson with her perfect nails. “My eyes are up here, Beefsteak.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Heat found its way from Zayne’s groin to his face. “Sorry. Got hung up on the big boo…boots.”

  “Don’t you have your own heirlooms to tend to?” Roxy tapped one Eskimo boot against the hardwood floor. “Your mom and I have work to do.”

  “Yes. We do.” His mom abandoned her self-guided tour through Raeve long enough to show Zayne to the door. “I’m going to the Neon Cowboy straight from Raeve, so I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Why don’t you just take it easy when you’re done here? ’til you get used to this.” Zayne gestured to the boutique’s surroundings.

  “I’m thinking Zayne has a valid point,” Roxy butted-in.

  Now that’s a woman he could get used to, Zayne thought. One who said what she thought even when not asked. Well…when it helped his cause. But why was she rushing to his defense? Weren’t women supposed to stick up for each other in front of a man? Granted, Roxy wasn’t your normal woman. But she certainly wouldn’t take his side without a damn good reason.

  “You have a great staff at the saloon,” Roxy added.

  Continuing her push for him, stoked Zayne’s concern.

  “I’m sure they can handle things. Maybe we can grab an early dinner and go over your impressions of the boutique,” she offered.

  Zayne rubbed his temples, trying to relieve the pressure building into dizzying waves. One minute Roxy’s damn close to breaking her neck over his mom having anything to do with Raeve. Now, she’s soliciting her opinions.

  No wonder Zayne stuck to tomatoes and bootscootin’. The female hybrid confused the hell out of him.

  “Well…I’m sure the Neon Cowboy could manage without me for one night. Okay, then. Dinner it is. I know just the place,” Kat said.

  Apparently his mom was surprised too as she stuttered out an answer to Roxy’s impromptu invitation.

  “Guess you don’t need me in your way, ladies.” Zayne tipped his hat on his way out the door. “Don’t kill each other.”

  The flash firing from Roxy’s narrowing eyes put him back at ease.

  What he wouldn’t give again to be one of those damn dogs. They always got to stay around for the action.

  Chapter Ten

  Zayne scanned the benches of his dad’s greenhouse. Cell pack upon cell pack sat side-by-side, mourning their master’s death. The leggy bastards had figured out Zayne didn’t know them like his father had.

  Classified in the industry as family heirlooms, the seeds creating these tomato plants had been handed down five McDonald generations. But with Zayne’s inheritance, this could be their last dance. The plants probably feared they’d end up mystery heirloom tomatoes, unintentionally cross-pollinated because their new breeder didn’t know shit.

  Searching for the packs marked Red Rocket Brandywines, Zayne tightened his grip on his father’s note box. Making his way down and across the narrow bench rows, he reached the section reserved for the Brandywines. The mid-morning sun soaked through the glass ceiling, warming the tender plants but failing to energize Zayne for the task ahead.

  After losing his father, he’d promised himself he’d see through this year’s contest. But where was he going to get the vision and knowledge to make it happen? He’d certainly given up on finding enjoyment in the process.

  He tapped his fingers against the sides of the plastic box as if trying to wake an imaginary tomato genie. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough. ‘Course it would help if he knew where the hell to start.

  He pulled out the worn wooden stool from under his father’s workbench and placed it in front of the Brandywines, setting the card box on the stool’s chipped paint seat. Needing additional workspace, he moved several packs to an empty bench along the far wall of the greenhouse, making a mental note to return the trays to their original position before he left. If he didn’t, Cody would jump him. Not a good way to prove his devotion to the operation.

  Somehow he had to survive this crucial season. If he did and worked out the thin-skin issue — both his and the tomato’s — Zayne’s would be the fifth successful season of this particular seed. Making the McDonald Red Rocket Brandywine officially de-hybridized and welcome into the created heirloom class of tomatoes. A class full of financial possibilities.

  Based on what little he’d studied, if he wanted success, he’d have to grow the tomato true to what his dad had in mind. For the past four years, his old man had saved and replanted Brandywine seeds. If Zayne’s attempt this fifth season worked, he and his dad’s tomato would earn the right to be called an heirloom.

  By mastering his father’s hybrid cross and winning the contest, the prize contract offered by Red Gold would belong to the McDonald farm. A new commercial grade, USDA quality hybrid tomato would be ready for the market. A tomato not sacrificing flavor for the uniformity in size necessary for packing and shipping. Just like his dad had planned, toiled and sweat buckets to achieve.

  If he used his dad’s cards right, not only would Zayne be ready to mass produce these bad boy Brandywines, but the seeds alone would sell for three thousand dollars per pound. Perhaps his mom, having seen his dad’s dream realized, would then agree to sell the farm and stay in the city where she seemed happiest.

  Without success, Zayne would never get her to leave the farm. Even though she’d never told him in exact words and would never force him to participate, he knew she wanted his dad’s dreams seen through. A fitting tribute to a guy who never accepted a challenge without finishing it. A win would free them both, bringing closure to his dad’s death and a forward momentum to their lives, lives stifled like the humid spri
ng air hunkered down over their fields.

  Zayne shuffled through the card box, feeling like each card turned was a missed chance with his father. Maybe if he’d spent more time in the greenhouses with his dad instead of choreographing dance steps in the loft in the barn, the lump wedged in his throat wouldn’t be as bothersome.

  Reaching the section he needed, Zayne prayed he’d find the answers. If they weren’t in the cards, his dad’s vision was screwed. Just like his father’s plans for Zayne had gone unfulfilled ’til now.

  Beyond the disgusting job of collecting seeds, Zayne knew nothing about growing tomatoes. To ensure these critters ripened into masterpieces, Zayne needed his dad’s notes on weather, soil condition and care methods. Any tricks preserved on these cards, like chemical solutions for foliage spraying, also wouldn’t hurt.

  Some kids cleaned their rooms for allowance. Zayne had fermented tomatoes in glass jars, waiting until the seeds fell to the bottom. Then he’d sprayed off the slimy crap from his harvest and counted the suckers, before sealing the cleaned seeds in zip-locked bags and swapping them with his father for cash.

  That’s it. That’s all Zayne knew about heirloom tomato farming.

  After graduating from college thirteen years ago, he’d lived in The Village, creating media campaigns to make good on his degree, teaching bootscootin’ at The Neon Cowboy to fulfill his passion. He’d left the tomato business in his father’s rough, field-hardened hands, leaving their relationship as scattered as the seeds his father planted.

  Zayne had no choice now but to rely on Cody and what the two of them could glean from these damn cards. Once the vines were in place in the field beds, Cody could work the soil. He was a genius working the land. But only Zane’s father had prepared the plants for that point. Kent McDonald had been the genetic maestro breathing life into the dirt mounds. Cody was the field workhorse. All Zayne could do was pull his head out of his ass and pretend he knew something useful.

  Zayne picked through the divider tabs. Jesus. He couldn’t read half his dad’s scribbles. What a fucking mess!

  Reviewing the first card, he skipped the illegible sections, hoping he could deduce the missing elements once he’d read all the cards. He perused the second card before flipping to the third. A scrawl at the bottom referred him to a fourth card for a list of errors his dad had made and couldn’t afford to repeat.

  But where was the fourth card? The one behind three was numbered five and contained the foliage spray and watering schedules. Terrific, Zayne thought, slamming the box lid shut. His mom had said she’d replaced the cards in order. Not that she’d been the imbecile who dropped them. She must have misplaced the card he needed. Or perhaps it was stuck to another one in the box.

  He’d have to go through the whole damn container again, looking for one fucking card. Thank God his dad had labeled each one with the variety name and card number. All he had to do was find ‘Red Rocket Brandywine Card 4 of 5.’

  He certainly didn’t have time to repeat his father’s mistakes. He’d make enough blunders of his own to fill another box of cards.

  Zayne may be a pro at saving Red Rocket Brandywine seeds in glass jars. But getting these heirlooms vine-ripened to harvest new seeds was unproven territory. The process was ripe for major, costly errors unless Zayne found the missing card. Without the perfect specimen, winning the contest was impossible. Without knowing how to harvest the seeds, the Red Gold prize contract was worthless.

  Zayne studied the cell packs, comparing what he was seeing to what he was supposed to see according to card number one. So far so good. The transplants were mid-sized and a healthy green. But hmmm. They were a little leggier than suggested. At least he’d managed to keep them from flowering. That victory would make the root systems stronger in the fields, giving the plants more growing power.

  Getting warm from the sun and from the turmoil staring him in the face, Zayne took off his flannel work shirt, throwing it up on the bench, careful not to brush against and break the new starts in the trays.

  The greenhouse wasn’t the only environment producing too much heat and a lot of legs. Roxy had generous proportions of both. Seeing her at Raeve earlier in the day, dressed in that cotton candy-colored get up had him hotter than he should be. He’d dropped back the greenhouse thermostat to allow for the afternoon sun but he couldn’t compensate for the heat Roxy stirred inside him.

  She was the real hybrid. And no card could teach him how to nurture the volatile mix they created together. She was another transplant he didn’t have a clue how to cultivate. But not knowing what he was doing had never stopped him.

  Roxy’s flare for the avant-garde, coupled with her haughty independence had an erotic hold on him he couldn’t explain. But one he planned to explore. Oh yeah, Baby. Her barely-there designs, menacing in their bold, busty dares, made him hunger for what was tucked underneath.

  But for all Roxy’s whimsical fancies, Zayne felt a solid strength in her that would wear a lifetime.

  Forcing his mind back to the legs in his cell packs, he pulled the Brandywine growing chart out of his back pocket. Hopefully, the spreadsheets he’d created would keep the schedules straight. Taking a pen out of the antique vegetable can holder on the bench, he went through the chart. His dad kept most things in his head or in the note box, but Zayne preferred a multi-media approach. He’d been doing his homework and had the graphics to prove it.

  According to his chart, during the fifth week of growing the transplants, he was ready…let’s see…he turned to the next page…for hardening the plants for the cooler outdoor temperatures. Not exactly the same hardening Roxy gave him. But since he’d had plenty of practice cooling off from her shenanigans since she’d rear-ended his truck, the process with these plants should be easy in comparison. Something else Roxy wasn’t…easy.

  Zayne’s spreadsheet indicated he’d need to move the plants into the sunlight for a few hours each day, reducing their water supply but not letting them wilt. He remembered a shady spot behind the tractor barn. As a boy, he’d carried what seemed like thousands of cell pack trays to that area each morning for a couple of weeks in early summer. Then he’d hauled them back into the greenhouses at night. He’d have to do this for the next two weeks, returning the trays to the greenhouse each night until the shoots were hardy enough to plant outside. Some things in life you must not outgrow.

  Zayne stuffed the chart back into his pants pocket, irritated as hell he’d entered the contest with the hybrid they’d sowed more trays of than any other variety. He’d be moving trays until his body buckled from exhaustion. Although that high sowing rate would allow for more errors, he reasoned, a contingency even Martha Stewart would acknowledge was a good thing.

  He wiped runaway sweat from his brow. Damn greenhouses were always so stuffy, and he hated the pungent, acidic smell. He sucked in a breath as he surveyed the job, the chemical-saturated air burning his lungs.

  Hell. He had forty, four-by-eight foot benches with approximately sixteen trays in double rows on the top of each bench. He’d be hardening these suckers for hours.

  Hoping Cody had made it back from town, Zayne unclipped his Nextel from his belt and dialed Cody’s number. He had to start moving the trays out of the greenhouse. Since it would be another two weeks before they could plant the vines in the fields, they could mix the starter solutions later. But if they didn’t get the trays out, the straggly shoots wouldn’t need starter solution. They’d need a compost pile.

  Not getting any response from bumping Cody, Zayne grabbed as many trays as he could stack in his arms without crushing the starts and headed for the hardening area. Muscling his way to the greenhouse entrance, he heard a vehicle pull into the lot in front of the door.

  Good. Cody must be back.

  Leaving the greenhouse, the screen snapped hard against Zayne’s back, sure to leave a welt. The high noon sun beat down into his eyes, but he was unable to shield them on account of his tray-packed arms.

  His upper bo
dy strained against the weight of the trays as he squinted into the sun’s glare, trying to spot Cody’s truck. But he didn’t find Cody or his truck. He found Jack Baudlin, adding nothing but disgust to Zayne’s damn near debilitating distress.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zayne fought the blinding rays ricocheting off Jack’s white Silverado as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the greenhouse. Dust churned from the dry ground, plastering the Baudlin Brothers Tomatoes sign covering the side of the truck’s cab.

  Six feet, five inches of farm-buffed muscle stepped out of the driver’s side, activating Zayne’s defense mechanisms before his brain could argue. His shoulders squared to Jack’s solid frame, his chest inflated, pressing against the buttons of his shirt.

  As Jack’s boots hit the ground, he tipped his hat. A friendly gesture contradicting the serious furrow of his brows, Zayne thought.

  Jack’s straw-blond hair made for a sharp contrast to the man accompanying him. Santos, a good seven inches shorter than his employer, was made of the same home-grown muscle. He was the dark yang to his boss’ golden boy ying, with hair and skin the color of the earth. Whereas his eyes were light, a clear blue holding nothing but kindness, Jack’s were weary with darkness brewing.

  Zayne hadn’t seen much of Jack since high school, except for occasionally at The Neon Cowboy. Each time he’d run into him, however, Santos had been at the youngest Baudlin’s side, always with a good-natured gentleness balancing Jack’s rowdy, drunken bravado.

  Zayne, unlike Damian, though, couldn’t rationalize that the two men’s brawn, coupled with Jack’s ultra-conservative family, would allow them to be more than work partners.

  Interesting too, Zayne thought, that Harry wasn’t leading his pack this time. Two visits in two days from the Baudlin bunch. What was up with that? Nothing smelling of good will.

  Putting value in his body’s cautionary instincts, Zayne refused to relax the hard-set tension tightening his jaw.

  He believed in friendly neighbors. But this double drop-in was beyond neighborly. Baudlins weren’t known for affability. In fact, except for Jack’s tendency to smile and Santos’s polite, reserved demeanor, Baudlins were assholes, especially when it came to tomato contest time.