Unexpected Hero (Buttermilk Valley Book 1)

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  Gunnar guessed it was selfish of him to expect a man like the Pastor, who ran a church, had a wife and kid, to stay in touch with a soldier in Iraq. Gunnar had also blamed himself for not responding enough, only sending out a few letters of his own. Hell, that was a lot for a man who liked silence more than words. He’d gotten to know the Pastor pretty well. Many times he’d written that he was letting down the people he cared for, those who needed him most. He’d also talked of betrayal and how the devil worked magic on the willing. Gunnar could relate to letting people down and probably why he’d felt an immediate connection with the pastor. Gunnar felt Pastor Trace had needed a friend as much as Gunnar needed one too. Two men at different ends of the world looking for peace.

  Growing up on a farm in Ohio, he’d worked side by side with his dad. They took pride in cultivating the land. Then Gunnar started getting into some trouble, rebelling and feeling as though he didn’t belong anywhere. He decided change was needed. Enlisting into the Marines, he’d felt a certain pride again. When he’d told his dad the news, he’d gotten angry. Things just weren’t the same between them. His father had wanted Gunnar to stay and run the farm, but he’d grown up with an unexplainable, nagging desire to fight for his country—explore the world. Too bad things would never be fixed with his dad. He would be gone three years next month.

  Pastor Trace had given Gunnar something he’d lost long ago and he’d missed the letters from Georgia—the only link to his homeland. The communication had kept Gunnar’s sanity while he was stuck in hell on earth.

  He looked down at the tattered envelope he held clutched in his palm. This particular letter had been special, not only because it was the last he would receive, but tucked inside was a picture—worn and the edges faded just like the envelope now, but the faces staring back at him were etched into his memory. He’d kept the photo as if these strangers were his family, or a bright light guiding him home.

  There was a sense of blame flowing through Gunnar. He’d often had dreams of the woman in the picture. Her long, shiny hair and a glimpse of slender, toned legs exposed in the flowing skirt. He was a red-blooded male and only a blind man wouldn’t see her beauty. Her pale blue eyes and the sparkle in her smile did something to him, way deep in the depth of his soul. These feelings reminded him of his goals, his future. A wife of his own, someone who would love him, regardless of his jagged edges

  He smoothed the pad of his thumb along the glowing reflection of Grace. A name meaning beauty and elegance. Although he’d never met her in person, he guessed it fit her well. Trace had spoken highly of her. How she helped with the parsonage. Held bible school for the kids. And been his number one support system. Gunnar couldn’t help but already admire her.

  “Can I get you anything else, sugar?”

  He looked up. The waitress’ smile spread from one tarnished hoop earring to the other. He slipped the picture inside the pocket of his shirt for safekeeping. He looked at her name tag. “Lola, can you tell me how close I am to Buttermilk Valley?”

  “You’re about two hours away, give or take a minute or two, depending on your mode of transportation.” She skipped her gaze down his shirt, to his belt buckle and back up.

  “I’m walking, ma’am.” He scratched his jaw. The beard growth rasped.

  “You’re hitchhiking?” An overly plucked brow shot up.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’re a military man. I can see that by the dog tags, but that haircut and beard ain’t regulation.”

  Gunnar nodded and touched the ends of his hair. This was the longest he’d worn it since before he joined. “I took the scenic route here from Ohio. Nice, beautiful country, but didn’t look in a mirror too often. I guess I’m a bit due for a cut.”

  “You look better than most traveling through these parts. Hey, Charlie!” she yelled across the room to a scruffy, overweight man sitting at the end of the counter nursing his cup of coffee. “Are you heading south?”

  Charlie gave her a thumb’s up sign. “Sure am, Lola.”

  “Give this young man a lift, will you? He’s hoofing it and needs a ride to Buttermilk Valley.” Lola winked at Gunnar proudly and then said in a whispered voice, “We’ll find you a ride. No worries.”

  “I can get you as close as ten miles, if that’s okay,” Charlie said. “We’ll head out just as soon as I fill my stomach.”

  “I’d be very grateful,” Gunnar said and went back to finishing his coffee that had turned cold.

  “Too bad you’re leaving. There’s a country band playing at the local tavern and I bet you’d be pretty good at line dancing.” Lola wagged her brows.

  Once upon a time he probably would have jumped at the chance to spend some time with the waitress. She was at least ten years older than him, but he didn’t mind age. It was a number that only mattered for the government. Lola was attractive enough with smooth skin, bright eyes and nice lips. And after spending twenty-four months in the dessert surrounded by impolite, farting, burping men and a couple of nudie magazines, she could have been Miss America for all he knew. A night with a woman was something he could use—needed—but for some reason he didn’t feel the least bit motivated to respond. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he took matters into his own hand each night, he’d think parts no longer worked.

  His silence answered her question. She bent close and said next to his ear, “If you change your mind, darlin’, I get off at eight. There ain’t nothing in Buttermilk Valley but acres and acres of emptiness. Unless you got a pretty girl waiting for you there?”

  “No.” He inhaled sharply and got a strong whiff of wildflowers, and a glimpse at large breasts underneath the waitress’ uniform. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t feel a bit of stirring. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I better catch the ride while I can.”

  She stood, shoulders slumped. Sighing, she walked away and he felt a sense of relief.

  He was beginning to think he liked his solitude a little too much. On the other hand, he didn’t think many people would like his company. He was long overdue for a shower and deodorant.

  He hadn’t expected to be in Buttermilk Valley until tomorrow, but he wasn’t disappointed. Pastor Atwell had invited Gunnar to come and visit. He sure hoped the welcome mat was still out.

  ****

  “Come on, Mom! I’m going to be late for school. Ms. Trainer said anyone who is late won’t get to be the leader and today’s my day.” Daxton attempted to pull away from his mother who was still tying his shoe.

  “Daxton Atwell. You hold your horses, young man. You can’t go to school with untied shoestrings.” Grace looked at him with what she hoped was her best stern look. She had nothing but love for the rowdy boy, but if she gave an inch, he’d take a mile. He was getting harder to keep up with these days, and stubborn to boot.

  The little boy crossed his arms high over the Superman emblem on his shirt and blew out a disgruntled breath. “Oh, Mom! I can do this in the car.”

  “Is that right? You’ve gone through three pairs of laces in two months.” Finishing the lace, Grace stood and tugged the hem of her shirt down over her hips. “There. All done.” She reached out to give him a brief hug. The horn sounded from the driveway…again. “Grandma means business this morning. You better hurry.” She grabbed his school bag from the table by the door and gauged the weight. Unzipping it, she peeked in. Pulling out the hand-held video game, she shook her head. “You know you’re not allowed to bring these things to school. How many times have I warned you?”

  “One hundred and one times.” He rolled his eyes and tapped his foot.

  She bit back a smile and handed him the empty bag. He slung it over his shoulder, darted out of the screen door and flew down the steps.

  Grace waved at Martha and the woman turned her cheek. Grace blew out a long breath through the corner of her lips and crossed her arms. Martha’s mood changed quicker than the weather.

  Since Trace’s death, Martha hadn’t been the same—she’d always b
een moody, but add grief to the mix and the older woman was downright cantankerous. She understood it had been hard on Martha losing her only child. No parent should have to bury their child, but there were times when Grace thought her mother-in-law forgot that she wasn’t the only one who had lost someone dear.

  Martha had never been satisfied with Grace, even from the very beginning. The woman had prospects for Trace that didn’t include marrying a girl from the city. Martha had wanted her prized son to marry a sweet girl from the small town who’d make the perfect pastor’s wife. Grace, on the other hand, was an educated woman who had dreams of her own and a penchant for saying what came to her mind. Although, somewhere along the way, those dreams had fizzled and her tongue didn’t move as freely as it once did.

  Grace had tried very hard to meet Martha’s appreciation but always failed. Why did she want the woman’s approval anyway?

  After Daxton was born, Martha had made it her job in life to point out and correct Grace’s inabilities and inferiorities as a mother and wife. The apple pie crust was always soggy. The mashed potatoes were lumpy. Her hair was never combed into sleek perfection. And Trace never had ironed clothes to wear for Sunday service.

  Grace rolled her eyes.

  Now that Trace was no longer here to bridge the gap, the relationship with Martha had grown horns. Grace chalked it up to grief and always attempted to take the higher road, but somehow she believed Martha blamed Grace for Trace’s tragic death. If it hadn’t been for her, Trace wouldn’t have been at the wrong place at the wrong time almost eighteen months ago.

  A person could never imagine or understand the feelings of losing someone close until that moment came. She’d walked into the corner store, found her husband lying in a pool of his own blood and her world stopped turning, yet her heart continued beating. The pain was almost unbearable. She’d blamed herself too for his death. If she hadn’t told Trace how much she wanted to get away from Buttermilk Valley…

  A year after his death, she woke up one morning and knew she had to drag herself out of the depths of hell, not for herself, but for her son who had lost a father and didn’t need to lose a mother too. Daxton needed her as much as she needed him.

  And she needed an outlet.

  Grace had decided to open a floral business and greenhouse. She loved gardening and it was the best therapy. It would be the first time she’d done anything just for herself. She’d met Trace, fallen in love, married, and she’d lost herself. She’d given up everything to dedicate herself as Trace’s wife and Daxton’s mom. Although it had been fulfilling in many ways, after Trace’s death, she was left empty and facing a serious roadblock. She was no longer a pastor’s wife and it seemed all of the people who’d once doused them with love and friendliness faded into the woodwork since Trace was no longer in the picture.

  Using part of Trace’s life insurance, she had a greenhouse built on their land, bought the necessary equipment, and planted seeds. Lots and lots of seeds. Martha had been as angry as a hornet, but there wasn’t much she could say. Grace had a hundred acres of land that Trace had left her in his will. Martha lived on the adjoining property.

  Her white Cadillac backed up in the driveway and Daxton waved from the backseat as they pulled out. Grace waved and blew him a kiss which he didn’t return. She guessed her little man was getting too big for kisses—even air kisses.

  Her heart tugged. Since his father’s death, Daxton was growing up way too fast. He missed his father. Grace saw it in his eyes every day that he was trying hard to be a big boy. He no longer liked public acts of affection, bedtime stories, and her cutting his sandwiches into animal shapes. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away, feeling her chest tighten. There was no time for emotion this morning. She’d come too far to allow her sadness to control her and she had lots to get done in the greenhouse. More than anything, she hoped to find a handyman today. There was another leak in the roof. She was afraid the ceiling would tumble down if it wasn’t fixed soon and the forecast called for storms.

  Pulling on tall, rubber boots, she went outside, stopping to feed the dog and cats on her way down the path, passing the large pond where she and Daxton liked swimming on hot days. Although still early, the air was stifling, promising a hot and humid day. She’d rather be swimming and fishing instead of heading to work, but at least she loved the work she did. That was one thing her dad preached on about. Do what you love to do. He’d come home each day after dark from his corporate law office, then was incapable of relaxing because his head would be full of a to-do list for the next day. Grace was certain he’d never been happy one day at his job and certainly didn’t follow his own words of wisdom.

  By the time she made her way to the garden of vegetables, her shirt was drenched in sweat, her legs were sticky, and her hair was plastered to her cheeks. She stopped to examine how her cucumbers and green peppers were coming. Nice!

  Continuing on to the office connected to the greenhouse, she unlocked the door to the building and, as always, felt a sense of pride. Business wasn’t booming, but she had high hopes. For the first time in a long time she could see a rainbow at the end of her struggles.

  Pushing boxes out of her pathway to the desk, she made a mental note to herself to put away the contents sometime today. She also had to make a delivery later in the afternoon for a wedding, and drop off a bouquet for a birthday. Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she gave herself a pep talk. “I can do this. No worries.”

  Checking the temperature on the thermostat, she adjusted the AC and the fans roared and kicked in, blowing semi-cool air through the vents. She stood, straddling the one by the desk, her shorts blowing out wide around her thighs. She felt somewhat better.

  Grabbing a paper cup, she poured it full of water from the cooler and drank it in one gulp, then tossed it in the trash on the way to the chair. She sat and perspiration made her legs slippery. Sighing, she peeled her body from the wood, realizing she’d have to break down and call a repair man to fix the AC. The system had been on the fritz since the serviceman put it in.

  Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window, she grimaced. Maybe she needed to call the beautician too.

  Her mother had told her recently, “If you don’t start taking care of yourself, men won’t notice you.” Her mother just didn’t understand that Grace didn’t care about dating, at least not enough to get all dressed up. Sophie always had encouraging words. She believed Grace’s lackluster love life was the reason for her overwhelming stress. That all she needed was a man and everything would be okay.

  Sure, her dating life could be defined in one word, depressing. She’d love to meet someone special—someone who made her laugh and who loved her son, yet when she started thinking—really thinking—about entering the dating world again, she found reasons to deny herself any opportunity, the biggest being the widow factor. Some days it seemed Trace had been gone for a long time, and some days she expected him to walk through the door any minute.

  Truth was, she didn’t have any fantasy-like notions on finding someone who would sweep her off her feet. If she found someone to go out to dinner and a movie with, she’d be happy. The biggest problem didn’t come down to her lack of desire for companionship. Living in Buttermilk Valley, there were slim choices in the way of dating material. Her mother told Grace she was too picky. Tomatoes/tomahtoes. She sighed.

  The light blinked on the phone, alerting her that she had unchecked voice messages—three messages. Her heart picked up in speed. She hoped they were people wanting to place an order because she could use the business and a boost to her ego.

  She lifted the phone receiver and pushed the voicemail button at the same time she heard tires on the gravel outside. Rising up on her tiptoes, she looked through the front window at the truck pulling up alongside the fence. She glanced at her appointment book. It was blank for the day. No scheduled incoming deliveries. The passenger door opened and a man slid out, crossing around the front then throwing up his hand to th
e driver.

  He was a large man, scraggly really. In a town the size of Buttermilk Valley, everyone knew everyone, and she’d never seen him before. The hairs on the back of her nape stood and she tightened her fingers on the phone. She’d hoped by now she wouldn’t respond to every stranger with her guard up and her mind wandering to the shotgun she kept locked in the cabinet up at the house. Her therapist, who she stopped seeing a few months back, told Grace that her feelings were normal and eventually she’d stop looking over her shoulder in fear.

  The stranger was here to order flowers, that’s all. A person couldn’t expect to run a business without customers.

  The truck backed out and drove away, which made her even more curious—and fearful.

  She counted to ten, slowly, then backward, concentrating on the voice on the message.

  Pulling her mind back on track, Grace found paper and pen, quickly jotting down information as the bell above the door chimed. The man walked in, wiping his worn work boots on the welcome rug and adjusted his large bag on his shoulder. He gave her a curt nod in greeting and she smiled, a little forced, but still a smile. It wouldn’t do her any good to drop the phone and run screaming.

  She slipped her gaze over the tall, burly man who seemed to take up a lot of space. His hair was longish, his skin tanned, and he had a lot of thick facial hair that hid most of his features. He let the bag slip from his arm, dropping it on the floor next to the door. She recognized it as military issue because Trace had one very similar that he’d kept from his active duty in the Marines.

  Her mind shifted to a hyper sense of awareness, preparing herself if things took a turn for the worse with this brute of a fellow. He didn’t look like the type to order flowers. Once the thought processed, she chastised herself for judging a book by its cover. Being that she’d lost a whole heck of a lot of trust after Trace was killed, her mind always wandered to the darker side of people and their actions. It wasn’t by choice, but by circumstance.