“And you contacted the sheriff?” I’d been to the sheriff’s office when I first arrived in town, but that Jackson James character took small-time county protection to a new level of assholery. Maybe Janice would have better luck as an attorney dealing with local law enforcement.
“I have. He promised to look into it again, but the place is rundown, so it’s hard to say if there was a struggle or not.”
Taking out my brother would have caused a scuffle as he is rather big. Solid and broad like his father, he was already as large as I was when he was fifteen and I was twenty. I imagine he still had height to grow and weight to gain, given he was only an adolescent when I’d left.
“What did he find?” I ask Janice, who looks back at me, puzzled by the question. “What did the sheriff find when he looked at the house?”
“I don’t understand. I just told you, it was a mess.”
That’s not what I’m asking and decide I need to do my own investigation. It’s time to steel myself to the memories and return to the old farmhouse.
Chapter Six
[Beverly]
“Hannah,” I bellow as I watch a silver pickup truck pull up the gravel drive and park next to the barn. My eyes don’t leave the large vehicle as the owner slides out the driver’s side. I recognize his build before he even turns for the house. Broad back. Thick thighs. Nice butt. How do men get backsides like that? Two well-formed globes of perfection.
I’m seated in my room, rocking in my chair, hopefully hidden by the sheers hanging over the three windows facing the dilapidated building. The bed of his truck holds a pile of two-by-fours. My blood sort of white-water rapids through me, and a cold shiver ripples up my spine. My breathing hastens.
He’s here. He’s really here.
“Hannah,” I call out again, watching as Jedd Flemming enters our barn, seeming to make himself at home.
My eyes briefly flick to Tripper Hanes on my television set, watching him hammer studs as he frames a new wall during a renovation project. There’s just something about a construction project…
My eyes travel back to the live man lugging a few boards at a time over his right shoulder and bracing the stack with the attachment on his left. That ass. Two moons draw my attention to the tight khaki-colored work pants. The muscles of his back expand with the effort of balancing the studs on his shoulder, and his gray tee tightens. He adjusts the weight, and something in me pulses to life.
“What, Momma?” Hannah says from behind me, scaring the bejesus out of me. My hand clutches at my throat.
“Sweet butter on biscuits,” I hiss, startled. Taking a deep breath, I search for the reason I called her name as I watch Jedd walk toward the barn. Has anyone ever made the motion that incredibly irresistible to observe? The power in those thighs. The tightening of his backside. The pinch to his spine.
“Momma?” Hannah questions, and I clear my throat.
“That man is not pitching his tent in our barn,” I stammer, unable to draw my eyes from the structure where he’s disappeared.
Where’d he go? my heart whispers, although I know the answer. I’m acting a fool over him, but my breath hitches in relief when he reappears to collect more wood from his truck. He disappears again, and I can’t remove my eyes from the open door. My breathing is doing this teasing tango where it holds when Jedd slips into the hollow of the wooden structure and then catches once he reappears in the brightness of the fall day.
“It’s fifteen percent,” Hannah states.
No, he’s one hundred and ten percent, I think. Then I realize what she means.
“What did you do?” I turn to her, eyes widened in surprise. The sheepish look on her face is one I haven’t seen since she was ten and wore my high heels to play dress-up. She stumbled, and the heel broke off a pair of shoes I hadn’t worn in years.
“He’s going to rent the space for fifteen percent of his profits once he’s up and breeding horses.”
Aghast, I stare at her. What is she saying? I heard the words, but I can’t believe my ears.
“He can’t live here,” I bellow.
“He isn’t,” she clarifies. “He’s living in the barn.”
My eyes remain wide, unable to blink. “Why would you do this?”
For a moment, I can’t read the expression on my daughter’s face, and then she steels her emotions. “Because we could use the money.”
My mouth falls open. Then shuts. Opens again. Snaps closed. Money has been a constant struggle for us. We’ve gone with less. We’ve scrimped. We haven’t saved, and it’s an argument I don’t wish to have with my daughter as I haven’t been a contributor to our finances. I’ve grown a few tomatoes for the local farmers’ market, but it hardly pays for a week’s worth of groceries.
“We agreed we wouldn’t take handouts.” Whether we actually made a verbal agreement or not, pride on both our sides has kept us from asking for any means of support over the years.
“It’s not a handout. He’s using our land, and he’s going to pay for it.”
“With money we won’t see until he begins breeding or whatever scam he plans to participate in. Gambling implies just that—a gamble. Fifteen percent means nothing to me.” I pause, taking a deep breath before I whine. “I don’t trust him. We don’t need anyone else out here. We’re doing well enough, right?”
“We’re perfect, Momma, just as we’ve always been, but this might be good for us.” She tries to assure me, but a trace of concern scribbles over her expression.
“Hannah, you can never count on a man’s word. Trust me on that.”
She shakes her head in response. “I need to get to work.”
I snort. “Try to keep your clothes on.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s the very opposite of what she does.
“If he makes the money I believe he can, then I could possibly quit the Pink Pony.” Well played. This argument should solidify the decision. Wanting her away from that place has been a goal since the moment she took the job. What if some old man waltzes in and steals her heart like her father did to some young, unsuspecting thing? Is that Jedd’s intention? I try to vigorously erase the thought.
Still, a stranger living in our barn—a strange man, for that matter—with my young daughter in the house doesn’t seem right. It just doesn’t seem appropriate.
My eyes draw back to his movements—unloading wood from his truck. A peek in my peripheral shows Tripper Hanes doing nearly the same action.
What kind of surreal, alternate universe am I living in?
“He’s promising us, Momma.”
“Men make promises all the time, sunshine. It’s in their nature, just as it’s in their nature to break them.” It’s a cruel lesson in male psychology, and one my girl has learned through her father’s disappearance and her lack of relationships in the past decade.
Hannah looks out the window and sighs, then lowers her voice. “It’s fifteen percent.”
I don’t know the first thing about return on investment or percentages on net worth. I just know we won’t see the money. Howard wasn’t only a cheater, he was also a liar and a weasel, especially when it came to finances.