Unexpected Hero (Buttermilk Valley Book 1)

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  This man, who was at least six feet two, had muscles that popped out of his black T-shirt like coiled pipes and his big hands were fisted tight. His eyes were a bright green—and did funny things inside of her stomach. Some newer sensations she wouldn’t expect. No matter, these were the very feelings and apprehensions she had to overcome. Her goal of growing would be a futile effort unless she forced herself down the path of recovery. He shifted and the sleeve on his right arm lifted higher, exposing a tattoo. She followed the blue lines and curves—dog tags hanging from something…what was it?

  He cleared his throat and she brought her gaze up, meeting his. Yes, they were an intriguing color, like a freshly mowed lawn. His hair was as dark as ink, and as shiny. She had a feeling underneath all of that beard was a man who could make a woman sweat and her heart skip a beat. One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile and her breath hitched. Her mind wouldn’t function. She couldn’t think.

  “Hi.” His deep, throaty voice rasped through her veins.

  Get a grip, girl! She lifted her finger, motioning for him to wait while she finished taking the messages. She tried to wrap her brain around Ms. Sully’s request that Grace make her popular chicken and noodles for the church social, and Bennet’s order of…a dozen penises…no, that wasn’t right. Her cheeks flamed. Was it a dozen pansies or two dozen peonies? Maybe even roses.

  Oh, brother!

  Dropping the phone back in its cradle, she’d recheck the messages later. For now, she needed to find out what the stranger needed before she had a heat stroke—and it wouldn’t be from the heat.

  Chapter Two

  Gunnar recognized her immediately as the woman in the photo. His lungs seized, not wanting to work. He forced air in through his nose and out through his mouth, glad for a moment to gain himself while she was on the phone.

  Lola, the waitress, had flashed him nice tits and he didn’t feel a thing. This woman, Grace, looked at him with a shocked, Bambi-glare, and he found muscles on his body he never knew existed. Not good at all.

  He grabbed a peek of her while she stared at his tattoo, and his zipper, and then she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. There went his lungs again, refusing to function. She was much prettier than the picture, but he could see the dark circles rimming her eyes and the look of uncertainty. The happiness he saw in the photo was missing from her expression, exchanged for sadness. She looked tired, and no doubt, he could relate. He knew all too well what it was like to be exhausted in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. Her long, flowing red/blonde hair hung in soft ringlets over her bare shoulders exposed in the nice fitting tank top damp with sweat. Big blue eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, stared at him. A splattering of freckles covering her nose was the only thing that marred her perfect alabaster skin.

  What? When had he ever noticed the color of a woman’s skin?

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, checking himself on appropriate behavior. In his defense, Grace Atwell was a beauty, but she was someone else’s beauty.

  She looked about as surprised to see him as he was to see her, maybe even a bit frightened. He could have that effect on some people, and he guessed he should have taken the time to shave his beard and picked up a phone to call first to announce his arrival. What had he been thinking? No one wanted a stranger dropping in, especially a man who looked like he’d been dragged through war—literally.

  This was a huge mistake.

  He took a step toward the door, ready to high tail it out of there. A smile crossed her lips, but he knew it wasn’t real. He compared it to the one in the picture and it didn’t stack up, not even close. She acknowledged him with a narrowed expression and motioned for him to hang tight while she finished her call. He couldn’t just walk out now and leave her curious. He noticed the sign announcing a sale on roses nailed to the side of the counter. He could buy flowers. That’d make perfectly good sense why he showed up. Just a man buying flowers.

  No, it wouldn’t work. Not when his ride dropped him off and his bag and clothes had seen better days. He spoke hitchhiker without saying a word.

  Finally, he nodded. He wasn’t in a hurry to leave, although now coming all of this way seemed strange, almost stalker-like. That was not the impression he wanted to give. The first time in his life that he’d acted on impulse and look where it got him. Realizing he was staring, he turned and pretended to examine the room. A maze of boxes scattered the space and the walls were bare except for a large bulletin board. He scanned the contents with little interest until he came to the picture of Pastor Trace—younger and he was standing at the pulpit. Gunnar stepped forward, his heart skipping ten beats as he read the newspaper article pinned to the cork board. “Pastor killed in a foiled robbery. A town mourns.” The words seemed to blur as he searched for information—searched for a date.

  Then he saw it. Pastor Trace was killed eighteen months ago, two weeks before Gunnar had received the last letter.

  His mouth dried. He felt sick to his stomach as the puzzle pieces came together.

  He stopped receiving letters from the pastor for a reason…he was killed.

  Gunnar’s mind spun in circles as he wrapped his brain around the truth. How could this be possible? He’d been in a war forsaken country and lived to tell about it, and Pastor Trace, a man who’d saved Gunnar’s life with encouragement and words of support, living in the safety of a small town, was shot to death during a robbery.

  He couldn’t understand. He’d come all this way, for what he wasn’t sure, but he’d been pulled here. He’d wanted to say thank you at least.

  His gut lurched as he leaned forward, accidently striking the board. A piece of paper floated downward, falling to his shoes. He bent and picked it up.

  “Please tell me you’re here about the handyman job. Denise from the book shop told me she was sending someone over, although that’s been a few days…I just figured you’d changed your mind.”

  At the sound of the soft voice, Gunnar swiveled on the heel of his boot. “Handyman?”

  She blinked. “You are here for the job, right? You’re holding the job details in your hand.”

  Words were stolen from his tongue. His mind wouldn’t function. “Uhm—”

  “I’m in need of someone immediately. One more rain drop and I think the house will float away.” She smiled and her face lit up hiding the inky smears under her lower lids, but not completely. “Please tell me you can start right away. I don’t pay a lot, but room and board is included, that is if you don’t mind sleeping in the loft here. It’s comfortable, although you have to come downstairs to use the bathroom.” She pointed to the door on her left.

  The sadness in her eyes made sense.

  Oh damn! She was in mourning.

  He needed to say something, anything, but he couldn’t get the words to surface. He took a small step forward. “This is horrible.”

  “What is?” Her eyes narrowed and she stuck her hands on her hips, which were pleasantly rounded even underneath the loose fitting, faded shorts.

  He should tell her who he was and why he’d come, but he couldn’t seem to mold the words. All he could hear was that she needed help…his help. He didn’t have a lot of money, no college degree or exceptional skills, but he did have the capability of helping the widow of the man who’d made life seem a little brighter for Gunnar.

  Would she think he was crazy if he admitted he’d hitchhiked from Ohio just to…what? Work as a handyman.

  “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you? You’ve seen the place and it doesn’t interest you.” She blew out a long breath then one corner of her mouth dropped. “I know there’s not much out here. Last handyman I hired lasted a whopping two days.”

  Did he see tears fill her eyes? A sharp pain shot through his chest. “That’s not long.”

  She gave her head a shake. “First it’s the AC. Then the roof. Do you think it’s true that home mishaps happen in threes?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I’m sorry. I�
�m rambling which I tend to do when I’m—” She cleared her throat and tucked hair behind her ear.

  “Not sure of the specifics of what you’re looking for, ma’am, but it’d be a shame if your house floated away. A new roof can cost a bit.” His voice was weak, but at least he managed to not make a bigger fool of himself. Where had the usual calm, cool guy gone? “You just need a roofer?” He could do that. Back on the homestead he’d roofed the old house. Even built a new fence and put on siding. Now that he thought about it, he hoped the owners liked his hard work.

  He saw a spark of relief in her eyes, maybe even a twinkle. “I need someone to do the labor around the house—ceiling, hanging shutters, odd jobs—we had a bad wind storm last month and I thought I’d end up like Dorothy.” She laughed.

  He blinked. “Dorothy?”

  “You know, from the Wizard of Oz.”

  “Oh, okay.” He shoved his hands into his front pockets.

  “I’m afraid I’m not as handy as I should be around the farm. Once upon a time we had a few cows, chickens and horses, but after—” One corner of her mouth crooked and the sadness crawled back over her delicate features. “Well, I got rid of them. I could also use someone to help out here at the greenhouse. Business ain’t booming, but I keep busy. If that works out, we can discuss a possible long term position, that is, if I get more customers. I’m attempting to build my online business. You have a green thumb?”

  He swallowed. He hated seeing a woman sad. His mother had been depressed for years. He’d come home from school almost every day, finding her in bed, then he’d make dinner, clean the house, all before his dad got home. “I’ve done a lot of handy man jobs in my time.” He gave his bag a kick so he could pass. “But I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have much luck with the living. Flowers that is.”

  “It’s all in the touch. I can teach that.” She shrugged and tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I recognize the bag. Active military?” She moistened her bottom lip. Did he see trembling in the plump curve?

  “Ex-military, ma’am. Six months out. Two year tour in Iraq and—” He searched his brain. Did she really want to know that? Probably not. “I found myself in this town. I could use a place to stay and a job. I didn’t find many accommodations around here. In fact, I didn’t see much of anything on the main strip.” It was all true. He needed a break, a shower and a pillow to lay his head…at least for a few weeks.

  One corner of her mouth lifted and she nodded. “Yeah, if you were on Main Street then you saw all that we have to offer. Not much, I’m afraid. If you’re looking for hustle and bustle, you’ll want to head north about two hours into Atlanta.”

  “No, ma’am. I like the quiet. I’m a bit of a loner,” he admitted. Damn, after he was finished she’d be sending him packing. “This is beautiful country.”

  “Then welcome to Buttermilk Valley, but I wouldn’t call it a loner’s paradise. We’re all up in everyone’s business”

  “I grew up in a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and everything.” He figured this was a good time to tell her that he knew her late husband.

  “Then you’ll fit right in.” She smiled, but it fizzled. “Maybe that’s not what you’re wanting.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever fit in.” These days he was more of a black sheep.

  “I didn’t when I first moved here. Takes some getting used to, but at least you get an idea of small town dynamics. Not always pleasant, but there are a lot of good people.”

  “I’m sure there is, ma’am.”

  She twisted her hands together. “Back on track. The job does include a room and board, I think I already said that, but I’m afraid if you’re expecting a lot of pay—” Her gaze drifted from his chest downward as if she was sizing him up. He knew he didn’t look like he stayed at the Ritz or ate off fine china.

  He was glad to see she was a little reserved, although she definitely liked to talk. A woman needed to be wary of the people she brought into her life, but obviously she was in dire need to get someone hired. “I don’t need much to survive. A roof over my head and grub in my belly is a lot more than I’ve had at times in the past.”

  The area around her eyes softened. “Are you only planning to stick around for a few weeks, a few months…?”

  “I don’t have any plans, ma’am. I’m just going with the flow.” He could have kicked himself in the ass. What thirty-two year old says something like that? An aimless, lost man, that’s who. He wished he had better communication skills because he didn’t want her to think he didn’t have goals in life and couldn’t use the English language properly. Hell, he was nervous—a lot nervous to be honest. He couldn’t remember being this out of sorts since he was in high school and asking his crush, Becky, to the dance. She’d said yes and boosted his ego, but this situation was different. How does a man explain to a woman, a stranger, that he kept her picture in his pocket and her dead husband had brought him here? Just thinking it cast Gunnar in a bad light.

  She nodded. “Then let’s play it day by day. As far as I see it, I can’t be choosy. It’s hard to find good help around here.”

  “Thank you. I think.” He scratched his neck. It was getting warmer by the second.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it as a put down.” She stepped across the room to the thermostat. “You’re sweating. The AC is on the blink. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Ever had one of those days? Except mine has lasted a bit longer.” His gaze automatically shifted down the white tank, jean cut offs with holes, and the tall rubber boots that looked like she was getting ready to muck out a horse’s stall, and still the prettiest woman he’d laid eyes on in a long, long time. When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “I’m rambling again.”

  “At least a person knows where they stand with you.”

  “I promise, most times I have a filter.” She held up her fingers in the symbol for scout’s honor. “I lose it once in a while.”

  “The world is overflowing with people who are worried about being politically correct. Speaking your mind is refreshing. Her cheeks turned a pale pink, much like the sweetheart roses lining the front of the office entrance. It was about the only flower he knew because his mother loved them.

  “You’re hired.”

  “Do you have an application I need to fill out?”

  “No, not really. I guess I should get your name.” She grabbed the paper and pen from the counter. “I’ve only hired folks that live around here. No reason to ask them to fill out an application when I already know everything about them.” She sighed. “But as you can see, that didn’t work out so well.” Pad and pen in hand, she asked, “Name?”

  Would she recognize his name? His mind scrambled. Had Pastor Trace mentioned him? Her gaze narrowed. “Gunnar.”

  Her smile widened. “Just Gunnar?”

  “Gunnar Knox, ma’am.”

  “Okay, Gunnar Knox. Welcome aboard, but first things first. My name is Grace Atwell. You can call me Grace, not ma’am. Don’t make me feel older than I am. Deal?”

  He nodded. “Sorry. Old habit, I reckon.”

  “Where are you from, Gunnar? I think I’m catching an accent. Mid-west?”

  “Ohio.”

  “You’re not too far from home.” She winked. “You hitchhike all that way?”

  “Pretty much, ma—, I mean, Grace.” The name sounded odd coming from him, almost too close for comfort.

  “How are your shoes holding up?”

  “Second pair.”

  “I have an extra pair of rubber boots in back. Help yourself. They come in handy in the greenhouse and garden. Let me show you around and you can put your bag away.” She waved him toward the back door.

  They stepped out into the greenhouse and Gunnar inhaled the sharp scent of soil and flowers. He’d never been much of a flower person, but one could appreciate the look of the place. From what he’d seen so far, she definitely had a magical touch. His attention automatically dropped to her hands. Slender with long fingers, nail
s cut short and no polish. And no ring.

  “The greenhouse is important for climate control.” Her voice brought his gaze up. “Here I grow plants out of season, or those that need extra care.” She moved between the wooden tables laden with rows of foliage. She stopped and examined the plants with bright purple blossoms. He’d never seen that type of flower before, or any of them really, and he realized he was out of his comfort zone. She’d realize that soon enough, he guessed, and keep him working the land. He found comfort in wielding a tool.

  She continued, “These are orchids, an exotic flower needing a gentle hand. Over there we have more tropical plants which are gaining popularity at weddings.” She picked up a thin hose from a hook and sprayed the plant beds, then dropped the hose back in place. “This is only the tip of the iceberg, though.”

  He followed her through another glass door and he couldn’t believe what he saw. Different varieties of flowers spread across the fenced in area, curving and winding around a stone arch. Ivy draped a wooden pavilion where visitors could sit admiring row after row of flowers. A central fountain had water splashing around a rock hearth. Obviously, she loved her work. It showed in the time and effort she put into growing each flower. “This is amazing.”

  “Ask an artist to draw a garden and he’ll draw some flowers. Give a gardener a hoe and seeds and they’ll create a paradise.”

  “I think I need to tell you something.”

  She stopped, tilted her chin and looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “I think I should stay far away from here. Last time I had a plant I was twenty and I killed it the very first week.”

  “It’s okay. The basics of a plant’s needs are sun, water and healthy soil. We’ve got that covered. I’ll show you the vegetable garden later. I take a load of vegetables to the farmer’s market twice a month. It gives me and the kid spending cash.” The sun made her eyes turn a bright blue.

  “Daxton?” Shit! He realized what he’d said.