A Taste of Dixie

by Suzanne D. Williams

  “I guess I should admit he’s a surprise,” she said.

  Mrs. Chapman offered a quiet chuckle. “No truer words. The doctor told us we couldn’t have children, yet a year later, there he was.” His voice sobered. “Whatever sent you here, God guided your footsteps. He made sure you had a place to be, and I’m thinking ... His best plans are yet to come.”

  Lottie didn’t respond, but watched Harlowe’s figure fade into the distance.

  CHAPTER 3

  Smallsville, Montana, was a collection of buildings built primarily in the fifties with a single street and stoplight running down the middle. The church, situated at one end, was a converted storefront, the display window painted over.

  Lottie trailed behind Harlowe’s mother through a pair of large glass doors. Worn commercial carpet stretched across the floor and down a hallway running left to right. To the left, she glimpsed the sanctuary, a couple dozen padded chairs facing a small wooden podium. Through a door, diagonal, to the right, there was an office, containing a small metal desk.

  The woman behind it was as outdoorsy as you’d expect, her button-up shirt printed in some southwestern pattern, her graying hair drawn into a wavy ponytail. She had large hands and a wide smile. “Good morning, Vickie. Who have we here?”

  Lottie made a mental note of Mrs. Chapman’s first name and chose to introduce herself. “Lottie Stratton.”

  The woman’s smile seemed to grow. “Hoyle’s daughter.”

  Her dad had grown up here, so she should expect others to know him. He’d catered to her mom’s wishes in moving south to Georgia, but made frequent trips home to visit his brother over the years.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s so good to meet you,” the woman said. “I’m Reverend Matilda Harris.”

  Lottie blinked. This woman was the pastor?

  “Mattie.” Mrs. Chapman spoke as if that wasn’t an issue, and probably, it wasn’t. “I wondered if we can look through the donations. Lottie’s in need.”

  Reverend Harris, without pause, pushed to her feet. She towered over them, standing well over six feet, and was squarely built, her stride long. She and Harlowe’s mom were hard-pressed to keep up with her.

  Circling the hallway, they entered a small room lined with metal shelves, holding everything from kitchen appliances to foodstuffs. To the side was a rack of clothing. Mrs. Chapman grasped several hangers and lifted them up to her. The blouses were severely out-of-date, fashion-wise, and, it looked like, in need of a wash. She accepted one and rejected another. She held out a third.

  “This will fit, but might need to be let out. You’re bustier,” she said.

  “You’re here for a visit?” Reverend Harris folded her hands at her waist.

  Worn blue jeans and heavy boots completed her outfit. Lottie half-expected her to have a gun tucked in her belt.

  She shifted her gaze. “I’m staying with the Chapmans, but, I guess, came unprepared.” That was obvious given their mission.

  The older woman’s forehead rose, forming tiny horizontal lines. “I was sorry to hear of your dad’s passing, but know he’s in the best place.”

  Lottie didn’t reply. The thought of anything celestial felt foreign anymore.

  She’d attended church with her parents, sat through Sunday School and dozens of children’s sermons. She’d sung all the familiar songs and had pleasant memories of all of it. Yet looked at just so by an older man, she’d ignored all the words she’d heard on morality and done what she wanted. Perhaps that was a lesson on the truth. What did she do with it, though?

  “We miss him,” she replied simply.

  Mrs. Chapman caught her eye. “We’ll take these. Thank you, Mattie. I believe we’ll visit Al’s place next, buy her some long johns.”

  Pastor Harris nodded and walked them back to the front of the church. She held the door as they exited. “Good seein’ you,” she called.

  Mrs. Chapman waved and Lottie offered a smile.

  “It’s a nice day,” Mrs. Chapman said. “We’ll walk. It’s only a block.”

  A long block, and though the diminutive woman had short legs, she set a fast pace. She didn’t hesitate to greet others, though, calling each one by name. Her own presence garnered a lot of looks, but then, a redheaded Southern belle stuck out in this town.

  At the open door of an animal supply store, they came to a halt.

  Her heartbeat pounding from their brisk speed, Lottie pulled in a breath. The air rushed back out at the quirked lips and teasing gaze of a cowboy standing to one side of the entrance. He was thin, but fit, with a thick head of jet black hair. Clean-shaven, his angular jaw and deep-set eyes spoke of some faint Native American heritage. He hooked one thumb in the forward belt loop of his pants; the other hung casual at his side.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Chapman,” he said. “Where’d you pick up this stranger?”

  A lot more than a simple greeting hung in his words. She heard the tone, read the implication, and knew, unlike with Harlowe, this cowboy brought trouble. Mrs. Chapman’s snappy response further implied it.

  “Mr. Butler, we have business inside.”

  Though he didn’t move out of their way, a certain amount of respect did form on his face. Nearing him, however, it was replaced by a look she recognized.

  Why had she fallen for that? The promise of things that, though tempting when viewed through rose-colored glasses, were, instead, the worst kind of pain. A forbidden kiss and stolen body heat had only the most fleeting thrill and, afterward, no value at all.

  Ducking her gaze, she hung close to Harlowe’s mother, relieved to walk out of his view. Following their purchase, he was gone, and by the time they’d returned home, she’d forgotten about him entirely. Until Harlowe returned late afternoon. His head bent against the cold, his hair disheveled, he led his horse into the barn, and Lottie, unsure of herself, grabbed her borrowed coat and followed.

  It was warmer inside the open space, the air scented with hay and animal flesh. Searching the darkened interior, she spotted him and walked alongside, her hand rising to pat the horse’s flank.

  Harlowe didn’t stop his motions. Unfastening the saddle and lifting it from the beast’s back, he retrieved a soft brush. He looked at her while he worked, running it over the horse in slow circles.

  “I think I met Brenna’s cowboy.”

  That thought having popped into her head, though she had no proof, she was sure she was right. A young girl like her cousin, naïve to the things of the world, would get sucked in by his insouciant manner.

  “Is his last name Butler?” she asked.

  A definite scowl formed on Harlowe’s face. “Kees Butler. Where’d you find him?”

  “Al’s place? Your mom didn’t like him either. I take it he’s trouble?” She knew he was without asking, but was curious what Harlowe would say.

  “He’s a ladies’ man. Brenna was starry-eyed around him. The town being small, Malcolm wanted to make some space so she’d come to her senses.” He paused his motions, at last. “He didn’t bother you?”

  Lottie shook her head. “I recognized the type.”

  Harlowe began with his care for the horse again, but questions wrote themselves on his brow and, once the horse was fed, she felt obligated to address them. Needing to say something and knowing the words were two different things. He hadn’t asked for a confession, and she hadn’t been around him enough to be required to share one. Something about him and her always brought it out.

  “I was a fool,” she said.

  Harlowe slanted her a look. However, true to his nature, he didn’t speak.

  “I got involved with someone who I shouldn’t have, and he turned ... weird.”

  Concern rose in Harlowe’s eyes. “You ran.”

  She nodded. “As far north as I thought I could. I can’t ... I won’t go back.”

  “No one’s sending you back.”

  Lottie pulled her hands from her coat pockets and laid one on the stall door beside hi
s. She looked small and pale in comparison, soft and ... in many ways, green. “You want me to go back?” She tensed. Why did it matter if he did or didn’t?

  Angling himself sideways, he pursed his lips. “You’re looking for redemption? Acceptance?”

  “Friendship?”

  “Friendship,” he said flat.

  “Not ... not like that. I ... you ...” She exhaled, blowing loose strands out of her face. “I’m messing this up, but that’s what I seem to do a lot ... only I don’t want to mess up anything right now.”

  When he didn’t speak, she continued.

  “I learned something from my mistakes, and yet I don’t know anything at all, as far as how to behave. I thought I did, but that only got me in trouble, and truthfully, when I got on the plane, my plan was to lay low, spend time with my uncle and my cousin, and see how I felt come spring. And now ...?” She shrugged.

  Harlowe eyed her. “I planned to work cattle for the rest of my days,” he replied. “And I’m pretty well set. From today until I’m old and gray, I don’t have to change.”

  “You don’t like change?” Lottie asked.

  He offered a crooked smile. “It isn’t about what I do or don’t like, but what’s standing at the door, asking to come in.”

  “What or who?”

  His smile broadened. “Who’s knocking?” he asked.

  Lottie dared herself to step closer. A good foot and a half remained between them, but it might as well have been inches. As powerful as her mistake had been, Harlowe was that much stronger. Except good and clean and right. He was embracing the daylight instead of crawling around in the darkness.

  He was also red-faced and trembling right then, though, she imagined, he wouldn’t admit it. Another difference between him and her recent past, a distinct lack of ego.

  “Lottie’s here,” she replied.

  Harlowe lowered his face a fraction. “I see you, Lottie.”

  Harlowe shed his boots inside the front door and inhaled the sugary scent of unknown baked goods. Laughter floated from the source of the smell, his mom’s voice mixing with Lottie’s, and his heart thumped hard. He hadn’t been around much the last few days, the state of the sky forcing long hours outdoors. Snow was definitely coming, and they had to be prepared. But knowing Lottie was here had given him something to look forward to when evening came.

  He shed his jacket, dropping it atop his boots, and padded his way across the space. The two women looked up from several trays of cookies, set here and there.

  “What’s this?” he asked. He leaned forward, snatching a cookie from the tray.

  His mom gave his hand a resounding smack. “How many times do I have to remind you to ask?”

  His fingers stinging, he stuffed the cookie in his mouth and spoke, his voice muffled. “Sorry.”

  Lottie’s eyes sparkled, her lips curving in amusement.

  The clothes his mom had acquired for her weren’t the best, most of them either too large or too small. Her current choice was too tight across her chest, the buttons straining to hold the fabric together. His eyes dipped, unerringly. A second later, he forced them upward ... right into his mother’s tight gaze.

  “I should ... take a shower,” he said.

  Lottie’s soft giggle trailed after him into the hall. He emerged to find his mom absent and the kitchen clean. Lottie slid him a small plate of cookies. He fingered it, glancing behind. He’d never noticed how truly small the house was until now.

  “She said she was going to go read her Bible, but I suspect her motive.”

  Harlowe stuffed a cookie in his mouth. He reversed a few steps, taking a seat at their small dining table.

  “You want a drink?” Lottie asked. “Milk? Coffee?”

  “Milk’s good. Coffee will keep me up all night.”

  She turned her back, removing a glass from an upper cabinet and filling it. She set it in front of him and took a seat opposite. “I can make you a sandwich if you like.”

  He bit into another cookie. “This’s all right. Truth is, I’m kind of tired.”

  “You’re gone all day. Is that normal?”

  Harlowe swallowed and took a swig of his milk. “More normal than not, unfortunately. I’m the only person here to work things. In the summer, Malcom’s hands help take cattle to market, but with the season’s end and winter arriving, it’s left up to me. I don’t mind it, really, but I spend a lot ... too much ... time alone.”

  Her hands folded in her lap, Lottie reclined. “I’m used to going out more, doing things. I told your mom it takes effort to slow down. I wish I had a hobby. I should take up painting or writing.” She laughed light, as if that were a joke. “Past ranching, you have a hobby?”

  “I mostly sleep or watch TV,” he replied. “Mom and I talk, but she already knows all there is about me.”

  Lottie’s smile spread. “I don’t know much ... except you hate ketchup and, according to your mom, use too much salt.”

  He matched her happy expression with one of his own. “And you’re afraid of mice.”

  She shivered. “I warn you. If I see that creature again, I will turn up at your bedside.”

  His face straight, he raised his foot and dusted the toe of his sock across her calf. She squeaked and jumped back, staring downward. His laughter raised her face again.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  Harlowe stuffed another cookie in his mouth, chewing slowly. Lottie gradually softened her rigid posture. Uncertainty flitted across her face, and seeing it there, he polished off the last of his snack and rose, extending his hand. She stared at his fingers, silent, so he wriggled them, and hesitant, she laid hers in his palm. Curling his hand around them, he tugged her to her feet and headed for the couch. Taking a seat, he placed her at his side, opening one arm. “You’re safe here.”

  That seemed to seal something in her. Her eyes closing, she laid her cheek against him, her hand straying across his waist. “I’m such a fool.”

  His heart, light and joyful moments ago, squeezed painfully. This was the second time she’d berated herself with those words.

  “How long will I jump at every stray thought?” she asked. “And I did this to myself.”

  “Hey ...” He patted her arm, drawing her gaze, and couldn’t speak, at first. “I don’t wish your fears back on you, but I’d be lying to say I wasn’t reaping the benefits.” It seemed harmless to admit the truth. She provided him with something he really needed. He hoped he did the same for her.

  She didn’t respond, and time passing, he reached for the remote. Nothing else was said, and his mom, strangely, didn’t reappear. A couple hours later, his eyelids closing on their own, he mumbled about his need for sleep, and they parted, going to their own rooms. But sometime in the wee hours, two hands shook him awake.

  Harlowe gazed bleary-eyed at Lottie’s curvy shape, the bed growing hotter than it already was.

  “It’s ... it’s back,” she said.

  Unsure what she meant, he released a long breath, rubbing two fingers across his brow. A thought flitted through. “The mouse?” He wanted to chuckle, but between his sleepy state and her panic, he didn’t. He coughed, better finding his voice. “You need me to check for it?”

  She shoved at him. “I’m not going back in there. Scoot over.”

  Scoot over. He stared at her, surprised by the request, but when she shoved at him again, he obeyed. Lottie lifted the bedcover and crawled in beside him, rolling onto her side and fitting herself against him. He’d seen how great she was ... in a towel, in her pajamas ... but he knew her beauty then and was hard-pressed to not react to it.

  “I’ll get up when you do,” she said. “Your mom will never know.”

  Her chin fell to his chest, and unsure of himself, he wrapped his arms around her.

  His mom wouldn’t know, but he would, and he warred with himself. She wasn’t asking him to do anything. Just the same, he couldn’t help but wonder exactly how far she’d been with a man, given how c
alm she’d been climbing in beside him. Going further, barring his nervousness over his mom on the other side of the wall, he liked her being there. He knew the moral rules, and he’d thought he believed in them. Yet here, he was, what could happen within easy reach.

  Lottie’s breaths slowed, the press of her mouth moistening a patch of his skin.

  He didn’t like thinking of her as someone light with her affections. He didn’t like labeling her alongside people like Kees, who’d long ago lost his respect. But she’d said she’d been involved with someone and the relationship had turned sour. He’d said it didn’t matter what she’d run from. Why did it feel like now it did?

  “What are you doing?”

  His mom spoke, sharp, from the doorway, and Harlowe glanced behind, a length of floorboard in his hand. He stayed there only a moment, though, quickly looking back at his work. He set the board in place and reached for his hammer.

  “There’s a mouse. I promised Lottie I’d take care of it.”

  Guilt tightened in his chest again. Though Lottie had risen early, like she’d said, their joined body heat and tangled limbs had been more like a husband and wife, and he’d enjoyed it – too much.

  “I thought you’d planned to check on those late-season calves today.”

  “I have. I will,” he said. But unless he took care of the mouse, she’d come crawling back to him, and he feared his reaction. She’d come here to escape and ended up in a similar mess. Except he’d never harm her. Or would he?

  “I think there are a couple traps in the pantry. I’ll go look,” she continued. “But I don’t see why you have to delay more important work for a tiny mouse.”

  “The traps would be good,” he replied. He buried her receding footsteps behind the thud of the hammer and so startled when Lottie’s toes poked into view. A lump lodged in his throat, he sat on his haunches.

  “I’ll talk to your mom about the mouse. It can’t continue to interrupt things.”

  Pushing to his feet, Harlowe gazed down at her. “You shouldn’t have to always worry it will pop up somewhere. We’ll set some traps and probably capture the thing within a few hours.”