Any Man of Mine (Holmes Crossing Book 5)

by Carolyne Aarsen

  "I'll see you outside," I said to Chip, executing a perfect about face in my high heels.

  As I stalked out of the garage I heard Carter say, "I'll bet you any money, she'll change her mind."

  "You're on," I heard Chip call back.

  "Make it double or nothing." Did Jigs seriously just say that?

  Guys. No thanks.

  I started my car again and waited for Chip to join me. I closed my eyes, laid my head back against the headrest of my car and prayed for patience, trying to let my anger ease away. I needed to get into a better place mentally and physically. Too many memories crowding in on me. I knew, from years past, that I would just have to get through this week and I'd be okay. For now I just had to keep my focus on something else.

  Like moving to Edmonton.

  I could already visualize myself living in a cute apartment overlooking the river valley. I'd have my own space that I could paint as pink as I wanted, and decorate as frilly as I desired. I could have a white couch and a fancy coffee maker, and the kitchen sink would never have car parts in it waiting to be cleaned. The entrance would never be cluttered with tack, dirty rubber boots or tool boxes.

  I could see myself going to plays, making new friends, eating out in cute restaurants on Whyte Ave., and going for walks along the river valley.

  Maybe meeting a man.

  And doesn't that make you sound desperate?

  The car door opened and Chip jumped in, breaking into my momentary dreams. "Sorry to make you wait. I had to...uh... answer the phone. Business stuff." He gave me his best sweet-little-boy smile, pretending that moment back in the garage hadn't happened.

  I had to go right for the jugular.

  "Chip? This guy, Jigs? You and he will lose your bet. He's not my type at all. It's not happening."

  "You haven't even given him a chance," he sputtered. "Jigs is a great guy. He loves to play hockey, he likes fishing and even did a few circuits of the rodeo a couple of years ago."

  And that. Right there. All the more reason to stay as far away from him as possible.

  But Chip didn't realize that all of these so-called good points were severely impairing their friend's appeal quotient.

  "He thinks you're cute," Chip added. This, of course, sealed the deal. How could I not fall for a guy who thought I was "cute."

  "He barely met me," I said, pretending to forget that I had seen him in the store.

  "He said he saw you in the store. He thought you were funny. And then he saw your picture on the wall in the shop and recognized you right away. He was pretty stoked that you were our sister."

  In spite of my frustration with my brothers from time to time, I knew they loved me. How many guys would hang a picture of their sister up alongside the requisite calendar girls in the place they worked?

  But still.

  "He's a great guy," Chip said, clearly still campaigning for his friend.

  "I'm sure as far as you guys are concerned, he fits right in," I agreed. But I could see that Chip was hurt with my assessment of his friend so I decided to cut him some slack. "Chip, I'm really not interested. If I get this job in Edmonton, I'll be moving anyway. So this guy is a non-starter."

  Chip tapped his fingers on his leg, frowning at me. "Why do you want to go to the city anyway?"

  I had gone over this ground so many times it was dust. "I've told you enough times Chip. I want to get out of Holmes Crossing. I want to meet new people. I want to run away and join a different circus." I backed out of the parking spot and turned onto the road.

  "You just hope to connect with some lawyer or accountant or some guy who goes to work in a suit."

  "You make that sound like a disease," I said.

  "It's unnatural is what it is," Chip grumped. "You'll end up with some guy who uses words like 'actualize' and 'agenda' and we'll end up looking like a bunch of dumb farm hicks."

  "You're being prejudiced. There's lots of nice men out there," I said, understanding where his frustration with any future boyfriend came from.

  Chip has dyslexia. He struggled through his classes until he got to high school. There he enrolled in a good vocational program where he excelled in mechanics. Chip had always helped my dad and brothers fix the machinery on the farm and he had a surprising connection with engines. He parlayed that into an apprenticeship and as soon as he got his journeyman's ticket at a tech school in Edmonton, he had come back to Holmes Crossing to work at the same garage Neil worked at.

  He had done well for himself, but along the way his self-esteem had taken a few blows from teachers and those who had done better in school. When he had gone to the bank to apply for a loan for the car restoration business he wanted to start, Chip had been treated poorly by one of the loan officers there, an old schoolmate. A man in a suit who used words like "agenda" and "actualize." They got the loan but it had given Chip a deep seated dislike of men in offices wearing suits.

  My other brothers' own disregard for professional men didn't have the same deep-seated angst. They plain didn't like men who they couldn't relate to.

  "You're only as dumb as you let people think you are," I said, letting a touch of anger slip into my voice. "And if you were serious about starting your own business you wouldn't let one petty loan officer scare you away. There are other banks and other people you can deal with."

  A stubborn silence met that remark, and I backed off. Chip was immovable once he'd made up his mind.

  "And how was work today?" I asked, shifting back into sister mode.

  "Busy. Old man Thompkins brought his tractor in. A gear in the tranny piled up. Then one of Brody Cherwonka's guys brought his buncher in and it's gonna need a final drive. We're swamped."

  Chip delivered this information like I should know what a final drive was and that I knew Mr. Thompkins would need a new transmission.

  The trouble was, I did know all this.

  For a woman who liked pastel colours, manicures, gourmet food, classical music and good books, I knew far too much about mechanics, farming, welding, hockey and rodeo. Especially rodeo.

  "What time are you guys going to be home?" I asked as I turned the car into the driveway of the farm.

  "Not for another hour, maybe more," Chip said. "I got to bring Neil's truck back and maybe have a quick look at it to see if I need to order any parts."

  I knew from experience that Chip's "quick look" meant that they wouldn't be home until 8 p.m. and I wouldn't be done with the dishes until nine.

  The sun was dipping above the horizon by the time I got to the farm. And as I parked my car I had to stifle another feeling of dismay. No lights shone from the windows and no smoke came from the chimney, which meant my dad was probably sleeping.

  I let myself into the house, and as I walked through the darkening kitchen into the living room I saw my father sitting on his recliner, staring straight ahead. The TV wasn't on, neither was the radio. He was just sitting.

  "Hey, dad, you okay?" I asked, coming to his side.

  He shrugged then sighed. "I'm tired," was all he said. Then he got up and without another glance at me, shuffled to his bedroom.

  I watched him go, struggling not to feel disheartened.

  How could I think about leaving Holmes Crossing when my dad was still so not himself?

  2

  It was late afternoon a couple of days later, and as I stepped into the Holmes Crossing Cafe I noticed only a smattering of people, most of whom I recognized. Wednesday at the cafe was usually a quiet affair. Father Sam and Cor weren't even there, which meant things were really dead.

  Tracy had called me before I left apologizing because she wouldn't be able to meet me for our biweekly supper date. One of David's clients had cancelled, which left David free. Then Tracy's mother had called and asked her and David to come for supper.

  Tracy had recently reconciled with her estranged mother so I encouraged her to take Velma up on the offer.

  That left me dateless, and I didn't feel like going home to cook for my b
rothers.

  "Are you waiting for Tracy?" Helen, one of the regular waitresses at the cafe, asked me.

  I shook my head, trying not to feel sorry for myself. I was getting really good at it, but even though practice makes perfect there were some skills that didn't look good on a resumé. "She couldn't come. So I'm on my own."

  "Too bad. Well, just go sit down, and I'll be right there," Helen said and hurried toward the kitchen.

  I wandered over to Tracy's and my regular spot. When Helen came back, I ordered my usual cup of Earl Grey tea and my usual chicken breast entrée, and glanced out the usual window at the unchanging face of Holmes Crossing. Across Main Street I saw the signs the owner of the Sheiling Boutique had put up two and a half weeks ago announcing a huge sale. Huge.

  I know that because I was sitting right here when she put them up last month. They would come down again in a week and then in a month, another set of hand-lettered posters would be up announcing the new summer fashions. Now and then Becky Talbot would put up "Closing Out Sale", just to make people think she was leaving. Women would flock to the store, buy up her stock, and she would take the signs down.

  The good women of Holmes Crossing would then think they convinced Becky to stay, taking satisfaction in their powers of persuasion.

  I knew that as well because I've seen the same scenario play out season after season, year after year. Like I had said to Tracy, I knew too much about Holmes Crossing.

  Helen brought me my tea and as I sipped it I fought down a surge of self-pity. I rarely ate alone. But this would be good practice for when I moved to the city. I would have to get used to being on my own until I established a network of friends.

  Movement on my right side caught my attention and drew me back to the land of the normal. Well, Holmes Crossing normal.

  A tall man sat down at the table beside me, taking a seat on the opposite side, giving me a clear look at him. His well-cut suit emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, its soft grey setting off his light brown, slightly wavy hair. His hazel eyes were fringed with thick, dark lashes that made me jealous. Well-defined nose, firm mouth. Faint hint of a five-o'clock shadow but not enough to make him look scruffy.

  He didn't look familiar but he certainly looked good. He looked like the kind of man my brothers would immediately distrust.

  He glanced up in time to catch me staring at him. When he smiled I blushed and looked away.

  This was not being responsible, I told myself. He's a complete stranger. Didn't your mother always tell you...

  But then another man stopped by his table. It was Eric Lougheed, the manager of one of the banks in town. Eric was as straight-laced as a Victorian grandma. He glanced at me, gave me a vague nod, then turned back to my mystery man, chatting with him like he was an old friend.

  "So, we'll have to get some more info, obviously, but we'll certainly be getting back to you," Eric was saying in that salesy bank-managery way he could adopt. He talked like this to my father too, every time Dad wanted a new truck or another quarter of land.

  I tried to listen and look as if I weren't listening, but in spite of my nonchalance, I still didn't catch the handsome stranger's name. Either he and Eric weren't on a first-name basis or they knew each other so well, they didn't have to exchange names.

  After Eric left with a few more assurances and hopes for his business, I waited a suitable moment then let my eyes wander oh-so-casually around the restaurant, drifting past the stranger, then stopping when I saw he was reading a book. I couldn't see the title but that didn't matter. He was reading something besides Truck and Heavy Equipment Trader like my brother's always did.

  After a few minutes, he glanced up at me and smiled again. As if he knew me. "Hello, Danielle. How are you?" he asked, his voice deep, with a hint of roughness.

  This caught me off guard.

  He knew who I was. But who was he?

  Client? Lawyer I had met during one of my cases? Department person? Social worker? Salesman?

  Out of habit I glanced at his left hand. No ring, so not married. Eric knew him so that ruled out potential axe murderer.

  "I'm fine," I said, holding his gaze as my mind raced, feeling dumber the longer he looked at me. Maybe I'd remember his name if I kept him talking. "And you? How are you?" Oh, very intelligent repartee.

  "I'm good," he said, his smile shifting into a grin. Like he knew something I didn't.

  As a social worker I've learned quickly how to assess people. In spite of the borderline smirk on his face this man didn't ring any alarms for me.

  Just then Helen came between us setting my supper on the table. I thanked her for the food then waited for her to go so I could try to remember this very attractive man.

  "So how are Tracy and David doing?" Helen asked, lingering a moment. "I think it's so cool they bought Eva's old place."

  Usually I didn't mind conversation. Usually I was glad to talk about Tracy and David, my good friends, and their happiness and how things have worked out so well for Tracy.

  But right now all I wanted was for Helen to leave so I could chat with the mysterious, but good-looking, man who knew who I was, sitting a few feet away from me.

  "They're good. Happy."

  "That's so wonderful. I know Terra feels the same way."

  Terra being the owner of the cafe.

  "Just the other day Terra said she and Jack might have David and Tracy over for supper," Helen continued, happy in her role as bearer of ordinary-things-that-married-people-do.

  "Isn't that special," I said, forcing a smile. Again, happy for my friend but seeing her enfolded by the marrieds of Holmes Crossing made me feel further away from her than before.

  Which made me think of the fellow across from me.

  I knew I was being borderline rude, but I figured I was due for a good look at a real live man after the Jigs deal the other day. Helen got the hint and with a wink at me, left. Perfect. All I needed was for her to tell Terra that single, pathetic Danielle Hemstead was eyeing up the new guy in town.

  Then I noticed the very good-looking, maybe-single man was still sitting at his table, still looking at me. His glances made me feel a little special.

  Now, I usually pray before my meal. But this man was watching. Would he figure I was a fanatic who would push tracts at him while he ate and immediately ask him if he had a personal relationship with Jesus?

  He who honours Me I will honour him. The words from Samuel settled in my head and I realized that I was splashing toward the shallow end of my gene pool.

  So I sent up an apology, bowed my head and tried to concentrate on my prayer. It took a while, but I slowly worked my way toward sincerity and when I was done, gentle peace suffused through me. I was thankful God understood and forgave. And He knew my constant need of both.

  I looked up to see the man watching me with a whimsical expression on his face.

  "I'm sorry for staring," he said quietly. "It's not often you see someone praying in public. I think that's admirable."

  "Thank you. It's not a big thing." Though I was still blushing as he spoke.

  "Maybe not to you, but I think it is.” He put his book down and picked up the menu. "So, Danielle, is there anything on the menu you recommend?"

  There he was with the name thing again. This was driving me crazy. Why could I not remember who he was? College?

  "The chicken is good if you want an entrée and so are the ribs, but they're a little messy," I suggested as my brain scrambled backwards. High school? One of those geeky types who sign your yearbook with a heart and then, one day, morphs into Mr. Irresistible? "I personally recommend the pecan pie."

  Had to be high school. He reminded me of Ron Dessler, my Grade 10 Chem partner. But Ron had reddish hair and a mole on one cheek.

  "I think I'll have the chicken then." He set the menu on one corner of the table, eased the knot of his tie and undid the top button.

  Okay, I'm a weak woman but there's something intimate about a man loosening his ti
e. I get the same little thrill when I see a man unbutton his cuffs and roll up the sleeves. Anthony used to do that too. One of the things I truly liked about him. Wyatt did the opposite. Every time he climbed on a horse.

  And stop.

  Back to the matter, and man, at hand. Which meant right now I had to swallow my pride and plunge in. "I'm sorry, but I have to confess that I can't remember your name. Forgive me."

  He gave me a puzzled look as if I should know him then released a devastating smile and held my gaze. "Sorry. I should have introduced myself. My name is...James. James Ashby."

  Nope. Still not ringing any bells.

  He angled his head toward the empty seat across from me. "Do you mind if I join you?"

  This is where Mom's warnings about strangers should kick in. But I still didn't get any strange vibes from the man. In fact, the vibes I was getting were on the opposite end of 'Save yourself and run' and more like 'lets find out more about him.’

  "No. Please do," I said. "Eating alone does have the tendency to make one look like a loser, doesn't it?" Too late, I realized what I had said. "Not that I'm implying you're a...well..."

  "Of course you're not," he said with a light laugh as he got up. I didn't realize how tall he was until he sat directly across from me, his elbows resting on the table, his hazel eyes holding a hint of humour and a few very attractive flecks of gold.

  "I usually have better manners," I said, pushing the potatoes around on my plate with my fork. "Living with three brothers, who are full-fledged guys, has taken the edge off my social graces."

  "Guys. What do you mean by that?" James asked.

  "You see, there are two types of males in the world," I explained. "Guys and men."

  "The difference being?"

  "Very simple. If a man comes across a beautiful, quiet canyon, he will take a picture of it. A guy will belch to see if he can get an echo. A man will give you the shirt off his back, a guy will give you a beer. A man will campaign for world peace, a guy will campaign for peace between NHL players and the owners. My brothers are guys."