Bluegrass Hero

by Allie Pleiter

  “Time for what? What’s going on?”

  She spun back around. “Don’t you dare stick around to find out. Leave her be, you understand me?” She gave him a fierce look and started walking again.

  He started after her, completely stumped. “Her? Who?”

  “Nope,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Then maybe I’ll just stand here till I find out.” He could never seem to let her have the last word.

  “You will not.”

  “I could.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she said.

  “Who’s stopping me?”

  “I am. And your sense of honor.”

  Well, now, that was dirty pool. How, by any stretch of the imagination, could it be a matter of honor that he leave a bar of soap dangling from a mailbox in privacy? “Honor’s got nothin’ to do with this.”

  “Well, I’d appeal to your sense of romance, but seeing as you have none…”

  “I…” That should go challenged somehow, but Gil was hanged if he knew how. “I do, too.” Oh, brilliant, he thought to himself. Mud could have come up with better than that, and he’s a dog.

  “Then leave them be.” Emily looked back over her shoulder, checked her watch another time, and made a herding motion with her hand to hurry him up the block before whatever it was that was supposed to happen took place.

  They walked for a few steps, her shorter legs working to keep up with his long strides. He noticed she had a lacy white scarf to match her fuzzy beret. With her face surrounded by all that frothy white, her eyes stood out in contrast. Hazel wasn’t really a stand-out eye color, normally, but her eyes had a clear, shiny quality surrounded by all that softness. He’d known her for months—maybe even seen her around town for years—but he’d never noticed that before.

  Gil kept glancing over his shoulder as they made their way down the street. Just as they reached West of Paris, Megan Walters turned the corner in her postal uniform. And he realized who the soap was for. “She’s here,” he warned. He and Emily scurried into the small alcove made by her shop entryway and peeked back.

  “No, don’t,” Emily said, tugging on his coat sleeve, but she didn’t really mean it. He knew she couldn’t help herself from watching.

  Megan stared at the mailbox for a long time, glancing around before peering at the package. Her body language made it obvious when she realized the package was for her, even from this distance. “Who’s it from?” Gil asked quietly, noticing how Emily’s head fit under his chin as they peered around the corner.

  “I’m not telling,” she whispered, tilting her head back around a bit to see him. Her eyes seemed to have six different colors in them, not just hazel.

  Megan pulled the soap out of the bag and held it to her face. She’s smelling it, he thought. Why is everyone in Middleburg suddenly smelling things? Emily smelled nice. “Does she know who it’s from?”

  “You don’t get to know,” Emily said, her voice more playful. Gil could tell she was getting a huge kick out of watching Megan, even though he was sure she’d never admit to it even if he pressed her. Megan pulled something shiny out of the bag, then looked up the street toward the shop. Emily and Gil ducked back quickly into the alcove so as not to be seen.

  It made Emily laugh.

  It made Gil feel idiotic. A grown man ducking into corners like a prank-pulling schoolboy.

  “So what did I just watch?” he said, trying to sound as if the current situation was completely normal. “Patience? Kindness? Pirate?”

  “No,” Emily said, trying to sound conversational, but completely failing to keep that girly, dreamy quality out of her voice. “Love.”

  “Love Soap.”

  “Love Soap,” she repeated, still trying to sound businesslike.

  As he followed her into the store, Gil decided there just wasn’t a way to say “Love Soap” in a businesslike manner. Gil just didn’t get the whole scented soap thing to begin with. He didn’t know how to make heads or tails of what he just saw, and it was driving him crazy. He stood for a moment, watching her put away the basket of supplies she’d used to decorate Megan’s gift, then abruptly snagged a bar of the Gentleness Soap off the table. He sniffed it, then wrinkled up his nose at the smell. You can’t smell gentle. You just can’t. She laughed at the face he made. “All right, I give up. I don’t get it. I saw Megan’s face, I saw your face, but I still don’t get it. It’s just soap. Men don’t care about this kind of stuff and I just don’t get what’s so special about it.”

  “I’m not sure I can explain it. It’s not the kind of thing you can easily put into words.” She considered him for a moment, then reached for a nearby stool. “Take off your coat and come over here.” She turned her shop’s Open sign back to Closed again.

  “What?”

  “I can only think of one way to explain this to you, and you’re going to have to sit right here for it to work.”

  Gil looked highly suspicious. She had to point to the small stool a second time before he settled his large frame onto it. His knees practically came up to his chest, but he managed to park his elbows on them and shift his weight a bit. “What’re you gonna do?” Emily just smiled at him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Close your eyes.” A tiny curl of enjoyment let loose in Emily’s stomach. She’d never tried to explain the power of scent before—at least not to someone who didn’t get it already. Certainly never to someone as clearly resistant as Gil Sorrent.

  “You’re not gonna put anything on me, are you?” He gave her a look as if to suggest that contact with hand cream might melt the skin off his bones.

  “I’m not going to do anything of the sort. But if you close your eyes, you’ll find it easier to concentrate on your sense of smell.”

  He stared at her, then closed his eyes, only to pop them warily back open a second later. His glare was half caution, half annoyance.

  “It won’t hurt,” she teased.

  “That’s not what I’m afraid of,” he muttered as he closed his eyes and flexed his fingers against his knees.

  Best to start with something familiar. Emily picked up his leather coat, which he’d parked on the floor by the table. It was thick and soft, and her fingers touched the inside collar when she picked it up—it was still warm from his neck. “This is your coat. All leather has a smell, and lots of times it’s distinct to each thing. Can you smell it?” She held the coat up to his face and watched his brows wrinkle up as he inhaled. “It’s probably familiar, so you might have to work at it a bit at first.” He was trying. Feeling a bit foolish, maybe, but trying. “What does it smell like to you?”

  Gil opened one eye. “It smells like a coat.”

  “But what does your coat smell like? Horses? Saddle soap? Hay?”

  Gil closed his eyes and made a big show out of sniffing his coat. It made her laugh. “Hate to break it to you, but all I smell is my coat.”

  Maybe familiar wasn’t the way to go. “Let’s try something else.” She selected the Peace Soap and held it toward him. “See if you can name anything you smell. The sense of smell is fully developed in us from birth, and is one of the last to leave us in death. Babies can smell their mothers just hours after they’re born, you know.”

  “Anyone who’s ever spent time near a barn won’t argue with you about the power of smell.”

  “I’m not talking about powerful smells, I’m talking about the power of scent. They’re different things.” Emily waved the soap near his face. “Aromas have been known to shift emotions, evoke memories and even bring about chemical changes in your body. Like how you get hungry when you smell ham cooking.”

  “That’s it, cooking,” Gil ventured. “It’s kind of a baking smell.”

  “See? You can smell things. That’s vanilla. Very calming, mostly because we associate it with home. What else?” She watched his eyes shift and search beneath closed lids. He had long, thick lashes.

  “There’s more in there?” Ever the skeptic.


  “Yep. See if you can find it.”

  He shifted slightly toward her on the stool. She noticed his corduroy shirt had a button missing up by the collar. It had the uneven, worn color of a man who didn’t take much care with his laundry. “Flowers. Something flowery. Girly—well, sorry, but that’s the word that came to mind.”

  “Lavender. See? You can pick it out. And yes, it’s considered very feminine. Both lavender and vanilla are calming scents, so you can see why they’ve put them in the Peace Soap. There’s one more note, though, so see if you can pick it out.”

  “Note?” He started to open his eyes.

  “Keep those shut.” Emily put her hand to his shoulder before she realized it, and the contact did something to her she wasn’t ready to admit. She pulled her hand away, but not before she saw his whole body react. “We identify scents by calling them notes.” She continued, more formally. “You’ll hear people use that term when they talk about wine or perfume.”

  “Or soap.” His voice was so low it rumbled through her.

  “C’mon,” she said, thankful he couldn’t see how flustered she felt, “play along here.”

  He took a moment, searching for the scent. “Um…nuts of some kind?”

  Emily smiled. “Almond. See? You’re good at this.”

  “Don’t let that get out,” he said, and opened his eyes. When he did, she felt as if she ought to back up ten steps. They were a little too close. He knew it, too—she could tell by the way he shot up off the stool. “I’m pretty much a Pine-Sol kind of guy and I think I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “You like pie, right? A huge part of how we taste is connected to our sense of smell. No shame in that.”

  “Apple pie is one thing. Lavender vanilla whatever is a whole other ball of wax. If I used that out on the farm, I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Emily put a hand on one hip. “There’s a whole ball of wax between a good-smelling man and one doused with bad cologne, too, so don’t write off scent so quickly, mister.”

  “Exactly,” he said, pointing at her. “There’s scented and then there’s smelly. Perfume’s perfume. Why’s soap got to smell like anything but soap?” He picked up the bar she held. “I can’t believe this stuff’s any better than plain soap.”

  “Not all soap is created equal.” Emily adjusted the cardboard list of Bible verses she’d propped up on a tiny white easel behind the Fruits of the Spirit soaps. “But it was more than just quality soap. I liked the idea. You know, the Bible verses on the labels. It’s unique.” She caught Gil’s face and added, “Okay, maybe odd, but you gotta admit it’s a clever way to get a bit of scripture into someone’s hands.”

  Gil squared off with her. “You know what guys look for in soap?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Soap.” He chuckled, and for a moment she saw his laugh light up shades of topaz inside the dark brown of his eyes. Just a moment, though—a fraction of a second before he looked away and reached for his coat. “Well, thanks for the lesson. Can’t say as I get it any better than before, but, well, you tried.”

  “So you won’t be joining the ranks of Homestretch Farm Pirate Soap customers?” she teased.

  “Actually, I have to, don’t I? Gotta keep my end of the deal, since you got on the horse.” He pulled out his wallet. “Three bars of the smelliest stuff you got. I believe that was our bargain.”

  “You remembered. Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that. I could give you something so full of scent you’re likely to hide it away in your barn, but I’d much rather sell you something you might actually use.”

  He cast her a doubtful glance, as if the possibility of her having anything he would actually use was mighty slim. “You’d have to look pretty hard to find somethin’. No offense.”

  Emily reached into a counter drawer and pulled out three square bars wrapped in brown paper. “This is gardening soap. It has a scent, but not one likely to send you running. It’s meant for working hands. There’s things in here to get a lot of grime off your hands, to remove plant oils, and some protective elements to keep your hands from drying out. Functional all the way. Think of it as hand cleanser in solid form.” She handed him the trio of bars. Much like the Pirate Soap, they had decidedly rugged packaging. “But they’re two dollars more per bar than the Edmundson’s, so there’s a definite trade-off.”

  He gave a broad, genuine smile. “You do like to cut a deal, don’t you? Six extra dollars to not smell like a perfume bottle? I suppose that’s fair.” He held up a hand. “But I’m makin’ no promises to actually use the stuff. I said I’d buy it, I never said I’d use it.”

  “Fair’s fair,” Emily said, smiling to herself as she rang up the sale. The register’s ching sounded particularly victorious on this transaction.

  Gil put his coat on. “I got to get to lunch. I always eat late to miss the lunch rush at the Grill.”

  Emily raised an eyebrow. “This is Middleburg, Kentucky. We don’t have a lunch rush.”

  And there it was—an actual full-fledged laugh from Gil Sorrent. She found she very much liked the sound. When he looked back up at her, the topaz had returned full-force to his eyes.

  Emily recounted her last two visits with Gil Sorrent as she and Sandy stuffed envelopes for a church mailing that night. They were the only two volunteers who showed up, so it was the perfect chance for a private chat about her growing fascination with Homestretch Farm and its surprising owner.

  “Well, he looks like the gizmo type to me,” Sandy agreed after Emily described the session in Gil’s office. “He’s always flipping his cell phone open or that little black doodad of his to make notes or appointments. And his truck looks like it has every option known to man. Why is it men think we’re all impressed by how complicated they can make things? George put in a new computer system in the stores, and he spent months yapping at me about how it would make life easier. That man ought to have been married long enough to me to know I don’t trust all them fancy machines. So you can imagine my surprise,” she said as she laid a hand across her chest in mock drama, reaching for another stack of envelopes, “when it’s been nothing but trouble. I can hardly sell a pair of socks without something flashin’ ‘Error’ somewhere and beeping all over the place.”

  Emily laughed. She could just picture the kind of talking-to Sandy would give a malfunctioning machine. But she couldn’t imagine Sandy’s long pink fingernails making friends with any kind of keyboard. George had one long uphill battle ahead of him, that’s for sure. “Well, you already know how far I keep from electronics, but I have to say I was impressed. He’s done some pretty amazing things with the technology out on the farm.”

  “Honey, will you think for a minute about what you just said? ‘Technology out on the farm?’ Sound like one of them oxymorons to you?”

  Emily thought about it for a moment. “I thought so at first, but I suppose it makes sense. Farming’s a business like any other—technology could be a help.”

  “Assuming, of course, that the stuff actually works.” Sandy shot Emily a knowing glance over her envelopes. “And my goodness, when did you soften up your stance on software? I do recall havin’ to harp on you even to get a cell phone.” She gathered up her envelopes and began tapping them into a neat stack. “Oh, it’s obvious Gil Sorrent’s made an impression on you, bless your heart. But it ain’t the normal kind of electricity we’re talkin’ about here.”

  Emily cringed. She’d gone out of her way not to color her description with anything that might tip Sandy off to the insistent spark of attraction she was feeling for Gil. She should have known it was a lost cause—hiding that kind of stuff from Sandy was impossible. The woman had abilities the FBI couldn’t match. “Okay, I admit I may have…adjusted my opinion of him.”

  “Adjusted?” Sandy raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “What kind of fool do you take me for?” She put down the stack. “Emily, hon, why are you treating this like it’s some kind of disease? I’m glad for you. Baffl
ed, but glad. I didn’t picture the two of you gettin’ on well at all.”

  “But Sandy—”

  Sandy rolled her eyes. “So he’s a bit of a sourpuss, but there’s evidently a nice guy hiding under all that grumbling. He’s single, he’s a man of faith and he’s not so hard on the eyes. And as for the herd of hoodlums, well, all men come with some kind of baggage, honey, even the ones who look like they don’t.”

  Emily allowed herself a tiny smile. “He has such a passion for what he does.”

  “That’s a good thing. Not too many men willing to put it on the line for something like that.” Sandy softened her voice to a whisper and reached out to touch Emily’s arm. “It’s time, Emily girl, it’s more than time. You been alone long enough. Even Ash wouldn’t begrudge you finding happiness again.”

  Emily couldn’t form a reply. It’d been years since a man kindled a little bit of anything in her, despite Sandy’s many attempts to set her up. But that was just the thing—Sandy would have never tried to fix her up with someone like Gil. He was so far from her idea of the right man. The whole thing had caught her off guard. And there was still so much she didn’t know about him. Like why he was so dark and hard and sullen. But there was something else in there, too. Something she guessed he didn’t show often or easily. It would slip out in a word or a look when she was around, and he always seemed just as surprised to reveal it as she was to discover it. Something seemed to click when they were together, even though they both had pieces of their past they weren’t yet willing to share.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready,” she said after a long pause.

  “Who’s ever ready? No one said you have to marry the man by sundown. Start out with a dinner or something. There ain’t a deadline involved.”

  Emily wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. Her heart already had a wound in it a mile long. Could Gil Sorrent be the man to heal that wound? Or would he just be the man to deepen it?