Table of Contents
Title Page
SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS
But as they persisted in their questioning, he straightened himself up and said to them, “Let the one among you who has never sinned throw the first stone at her.” (Jn 8:7 PHILLIPS*)
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS
www.feelgoodromance.com
© 2017 A TASTE OF DIXIE (GRACE & COWBOYS) BOOK 1 by Suzanne D. Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
* The New Testament in Modern English by J.B Phillips copyright © 1960, 1972 J. B. Phillips. Administered by The Archbishops’ Council of the Church of England. Used by Permission.
But as they persisted in their questioning, he straightened himself up and said to them, “Let the one among you who has never sinned throw the first stone at her.” (Jn 8:7 PHILLIPS*)
CHAPTER 1
He tugged on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop, his gaze traveling down the craggy slope to the vehicle crawling along the long ranch driveway. From this distance, it appeared to be toy-size, a white, four-door, kicking up a tiny thread of dust from its wheels. His horse blew out a breath that spread, frosty, in the air, its tendrils blending with the remains of his own breaths. Shrugging deeper into his coat, he tapped the animal’s sides and continued ahead.
He lost sight of the car amongst the pines and firs of northern Montana. The green of summer had turned brown and crisp as the year edged from autumn into winter, the sky growing pendulous with expected snow. Glancing upward, he wished for a few more weeks before it fell, but feared it wouldn’t hold that long.
The rocky ground grew steeper still, sending them north in their descent before switching back south, but his horse, surefooted, never lost its pace. They emerged at the edge of the bottom pasture. A handful of cows raised black-furred heads in curious observation.
He whistled, startling them, and they parted in a thud of hooves, giving him space to proceed. He set his sights on the gate a half mile distant and the car on the opposite side, now parked at the front of the house.
A figure emerged, a dot, but given the driver’s stance and the flash of bare legs, the visitor was female. A woman had driven this far alone? And as he drew closer, a woman not dressed proper for the weather. For that matter, she’d dressed for a tea party during the summer, her lightweight gown barely covering delicate shoulders.
A ray of sun lit her hair, glowing red and gold, and for an instant, it seemed as if she were made from the light and the dress merely an expression of something she carried within her. A strange tingle crossed his gut that he couldn’t account for, and he fancied her eyes met his even from this distance. Blinking, he lowered his gaze to the horse.
His senses had returned by the time he dismounted and, with them, the knowledge he looked less than presentable. His coat was older and pulling apart along the seams, his blue jeans dusted with soil from a climb he’d made on a particular rise. He acted as if they weren’t, though, focusing on the slight tip of her chin and the twitch of amusement formed on her lips.
“Can I help you?” he asked. Nervousness flickered in his fingers, and he stuffed them in his coat pockets for relief.
“I’m looking for Malcom Stratton.”
Hearing Malcom’s name, he started, leaning his weight on one leg. “I know Malcolm,” he replied, “but he lives about ten miles west.”
The humor on her face faded to a look of concern. “Perhaps you can point me in that direction?”
Again, he wiggled, shuffling his feet this time. “I could, but Malcolm’s gone east for the winter months. He’s closed up his place and taken his daughter, Brenna, with him. Plan is to look at colleges.”
The girl’s concern became fear. “East?”
He nodded. “I should introduce myself. Harlowe Chapman.” Unsure how else to greet her, he curled his fingers into a ball inside his pockets. Somehow, any motion to touch her felt volatile, even if it were simply to shake her hand.
She blinked, and the light that lit her hair fell into her eyes. “Lottie Stratton,” she replied. “He’s my uncle. I didn’t tell him I was coming.”
An obvious fact, since she was here and Malcolm was gone. Another followed, a shiver coursing down her frame. That dress wasn’t enough, and she was cold.
“Here ...” He waved toward the front door. “It’s warm inside. I need to clean up, but Mama will want to meet you.”
She held in place for a moment, as if questioning his statement, then turned on her heel and headed for the steps. The sway of her hips, the swipe of her palm on her skirt, the fluttering of her hair along her cheeks tugged him along behind, until he stood a mere arm’s distance away. She halted and angled sideways. Standing so close, something fruity from her skin tickled his nose, the scent dragging his eyes down a most entrancing line of freckles dusting her neck.
Her amusement returned, and he shook himself awake. He reached past her for the knob and tugged the old screen door open. A blast of warmth hit them in the small entrance. Stepping to the side, the girl twisted her gaze around, settling it on the fireplace immediately ahead.
The house was small and open, without a closed-in foyer or any walls between the living room and kitchen. His mom had cluttered it, however, with knickknacks and collectibles gathered over years of living with his dad. He’d added his own – shed antlers he’d picked up while out in the forest, a deer hide tanned by an old friend several miles distant, and a collection of aged magazines, mostly on the subject of ranching.
“It’s so Montana-y,” Lottie said.
It rose in him to ask what that meant, but his mother, hearing the female voice, stood from her usual chair to the right of the fireplace and eyed them both. Harlowe tried to act less rattled than he felt, but imagined his mother saw through it.
“I didn’t know we had a visitor,” she said, as if they received them every day.
He motioned Lottie forward. “She’s Malcolm’s niece, says she came for a visit, but I told her he’s gone east.”
“His niece?” his mama wrinkled her brow. “Hoyle’s daughter?”
Lottie smiled and inclined her head, but some sadness hung in the expression. Hoyle, Malcolm’s older brother, had passed about four years ago, his sudden death hitting the family hard.
“The same,” she said.
His mother rounded the end of the couch and, approaching, took the girl’s hands. “My dear, last I saw you, you were only knee high, the most precious thing.” Her gaze softened. “I was so sorry to hear about your father.”
Lottie’s shoulders dipped. “Thanks.”
His mom took another breath. “Malcolm didn’t know you were coming?”
And why didn’t he? That was the biggest question, one his mom didn’t ask. Lottie had gotten lost, albeit barely, when finding their place. That implied she hadn’t spoken to him. Plus, he knew Malcolm would never have allowed her to drive this far alone. For that matter, if he’d known she was coming, he would have prevented her trip entirely. All three suggested the girl had another reason for coming.
Her behavior seemed to further substantiate his thoughts, becoming uneasy. “I ... I thought to surprise him.”
Had s
he? Or, as he suspected, was the real reason something else?
“It’s a long way to come for a surprise,” his mom replied evenly. She took a deep breath. “Well ... however it happened... I’m sure we can get this figured out. In the meantime, you are welcome here.” His mom’s gaze shifted to his. “Why don’t you go take your shower? I’ll see to the girl.”
Obedient, Harlowe reversed, the heels of his boots scuffing on the wooden boards, but nearing the corner, he caught the girl’s eye again and couldn’t breathe for the briefest instant. Whatever reason she’d come, for the next few days, or if the snow fell, weeks, she’d be theirs to care for.
Why did that thought scare him half to death?
Lottie was embarrassed to have intruded on the Chapmans and could see their unasked questions written in their eyes. She wasn’t going to volunteer the answers either, but, while waiting on Mrs. Chapman to lead her to the spare room, filled with regret. She’d run from home, leaving her mom the barest note.
I’m going to see Uncle Mal. I’m not taking my cell. I have to get away.
She could have done so much better than that. If she’d had enough nerve, she could have talked to her. Because if her uncle had gone east, chances were he’d end up at their place anyhow. He’d been good to check up on them after her dad, his brother, died, and, though he lived so far away, he’d filled some of the hole left in her heart.
Some, but not all. That was impossible, and thinking on it, maybe a hidden reason why she’d come in the first place.
“This way, dear.”
Mrs. Chapman was not even five-foot-tall and looked to weigh eighty pounds. But in her manner she was imposing, whether she meant to be or not. She didn’t favor her son at all, or rather, he didn’t favor her. He was broad-shouldered, with thick arms, and a well-muscled chest ... clear evidence of hard work. His skin had darkened from hours in the sun, the corners of his eyes crinkled from squinting, yet given a guess at his age, she’d bet he was only thirty. Thirty, and his ring finger bare.
Shutting her eyes, she halted in the narrow hall, letting her interest fade. She hadn’t come here to find a man. She’d come to escape one and the royal mess she’d made. Besides, though Harlowe had stared at her plenty, he was probably thinking what a stupid kid she was. Eight years wasn’t much difference between them, but she’d acted a lot younger showing up like this.
“It isn’t much,” Mrs. Chapman continued, opening the bedroom door. The hinges made the slightest squeak. “But the mattress is newer, and there’s a dresser for your things. When Harlowe gets out, I’ll have him fetch them. You have a suitcase?”
Lottie’s embarrassment grew. “An overnight bag.”
This truth lengthened the lines on the older woman’s face.
She hadn’t been able to pack more than that or her mom would have suspected something. She couldn’t bring heavy winter clothing for that same reason. What little she even had would have taken up too much space. She’d settled on blue jeans, a couple t-shirts, and an old flannel, plus a pajama set and few changes of underwear. Woefully inadequate.
“The church has a donations box. I will make a point to inquire tomorrow about what’s there.”
The fact she didn’t ask her why she was unprepared was a relief, but the thought of wearing someone’s castoffs bothered her. Just the same, she couldn’t afford to complain. She’d gotten herself into this and would have to suck it up and take what she was given. But first, she owed them an apology.
“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” she said. “I feel like I’ve made the worst problem.”
Mrs. Chapman approached her, once more. “Whatever problems we have need only be turned over to the Lord. You are safe here.”
Safety was a good thing, and she believed her. Greater, she felt it. No one here looked over her shoulder; there’d be no odd phone calls at unusual hours of the night. No one could find her in these mountains and, perhaps in that, she could, at last, find herself.
She needed to do one thing before the day ended, though. If her uncle was down south, then her mom would worry about where she’d ended up.
“If ... if it isn’t that much more of a burden ...” she began. Anxious, she moistened her lips. “I need to use the phone.”
Harlowe didn’t head for the shower immediately, but returned outside to put up the horse. He lingered at the stall, his elbows on the door, his thoughts drifting. Less about why Lottie was here and more about why she disconcerted him. Living this far away from crowds of people had prevented him from dating for most of his twenties, and the few times he had, no one had clicked.
His parents, his mom especially, had never pressured him about it, but it seemed like, with Lottie, he pressured himself. There were a lot of unknowns about her, so he wasn’t making any immediate decisions. He was thinking about his long-standing bachelorhood, though. Over the last few years, the cows had been his companions and his horse, the closest thing to intimacy. Nothing too unusual about either one with his lifestyle, but he missed that spark, the zing that’d passed from him to her and made him stand there, apprehensive. He’d not known he missed it until that moment.
The horse snuffled at his outstretched fingers, and he turned them over, scratching the animal’s forelock. A good horse and enough hours in the day had been his only goals. Maybe he’d sold himself short.
Time passing, Harlowe detached himself and aimed for the house.
He made no effort to hurry, distracted by memories of his father. He saw him everywhere, on the porch, seated in the wooden rocker on the end, most of the time with his rifle in his hand. Or ambling down the steps with his peculiar gait, swish-swish, pause. The images had softened some over the last decade, but there were times when he swore he heard him talking.
That feeling must be much sharper for Lottie. Mention of her dad had saddened her noticeably. Had she come to spend time with her uncle and recapture it? Maybe, in part.
He reached the steps and climbed, listening to the familiar pattern of squeaks, then the twang of the springs on the screen door and the click of the lock. Dusting his boots on the worn mat, he trod carefully toward his room, to avoid creating a mess. Passing the spare room, he caught the tail of Lottie’s words and paused.
“I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I had to escape, and I thought ... Yes, I heard Uncle Mal was there. That’s why I called. I didn’t want you to worry ... the Chapmans have taken me in ... Please, Mom ... I can’t come home.”
Why? He stared at her door. The next second, he shook the question off and continued forward. It was none of his business. The sun would rise tomorrow and the animals would still have to be fed. He couldn’t let Lottie’s problems, or any strangeness he felt, get him off track.
Harlowe Chapman cleaned up well, and in spite of the fact his mom noticed her staring, Lottie couldn’t stop. He was doing the same, and other small motions that showed his nervousness – fiddling with his silverware, rearranging items on his plate. He appeared to make every effort to avoid looking across the table at her, but seemed forced to it anyhow.
She was similarly afflicted.
The buttons on his shirt pulled taut across his chest, drawing her eyes to where the collar parted at the neck to reveal golden skin and a hint of curled chest hair. He’d shaved, exposing the rugged outline of his cheeks, and an unwanted fantasy of stroking her hand across them formed in her fevered brain.
She tightened her grip on her fork and cleared her throat. “This is delicious Mrs. Chapman.”
Harlowe’s mom smiled. “Thank you, dear. It’s nice to have someone to share it with besides Harlowe. He’s a wonderful son, but not too big on complimenting the food.” Mrs. Chapman gathered her napkin in her lap. “Tell me. Do you cook?”
Lottie smiled, grateful for the topic. Anything that would shut off Harlowe in her head.
“I love to cook and will be glad to help out. I didn’t come here planning to live off my uncle.”
His mom’s gaze altered. “My dear, I f
eel I must ask what your plans were. We have plenty of space, and you are welcome here, as I said, but if we can help you in any way ...”
Help her return home. It was held in between her spoken words, though she hadn’t directly said it, and logically, she understood. But they didn’t know all the facts. She couldn’t go back there.
“You’ve already been so much help,” Lottie replied. “I don’t want to make you feel used in any way. Being honest, it was such a long trip that I need a few days to decide.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Chapman nodded. “I will enjoy having someone new to talk to, and, I think ...” She flashed a smile at her son. “So will Harlowe.”
Lottie’s cheeks heated, and his shaded red. The next instant, he concentrated solely on his food. The laugh his mom didn’t release wrote itself all over her expression. Lottie faced it briefly, before shifting her thoughts toward cleaning her plate.
The meal ended, sometime later, she rose alongside Mrs. Chapman, her plate in her hand, but Harlowe’s mother, deliberately, to her thinking, waved her off. “Oh, no, dear. I’m sure you can help me another time, but as you said, this is your first night with us, so let me do it.” Her eyes traveled to her son’s. “Why don’t you entertain our guest?”
Lottie wanted to laugh, but muffled it, walking ahead of him to the far side of the room. Harlowe, as he’d done when she arrived, crammed his hands in his pockets. He offered an apologetic glance.
“No need to talk to me if you have other things to do,” she said.
Guilt replaced his previous expression, and he exhaled. “I have nothing else to do ... bookwork if I want to punish myself ... but it can wait.” He paused. “I’m sorry about Mama’s meddling.”
“I like your mom,” Lottie said, “though we’ve all just met ... or at least, I don’t remember when she knew me before. I imagine she has the hopes and dreams of any other mom; they’re just altered by your lifestyle.” Lottie waved around the room. “This is so like Montana.”
A Taste of Dixie Page 1
