“Nah, you’re a bee, like the pollinator.” Jedd snorts before making a buzzing nose and moving his hand away from my mouth and through the air like the hyper insect. “You’re full of sting, Bev-er-lee, but you don’t fool me. Your tongue is sharp, but it’s only words. Nothing long-lasting. Sticks and stones and stuff.” Instantly, I think of Howard. Only words. Thousands of insulting words. I step back from Jedd, giving us some much-needed space.
“Bee stings can be deadly,” I snap. “I’m allergic.” The pollinators’ potential can be just like words that cut deep, very deep. A metaphor isn’t unwarranted. I’ve been stung by many a bee, and the itching, throbbing aftereffects lasted for days. A strong reminder that while the initial pain lasts a second, a sting lingers long after the offender is gone. Just like words. Hurtful words. And mean men.
“Really?” Those midnight eyes widen in concern.
I hate that I can’t lie. “No, not really.”
Jedd chuckles. “Teasing me again.” He pauses another second and then tilts his head. “Having a sense of humor is good. I like that. I’ll figure you out yet, Bee.”
He wants to figure me out? What’s to figure out? A lump forms in my throat.
“I admire you, you know?” He admires me? “You’ve been able to keep this place. With all that you’ve been through, all your daughter has done, you still have your land, and that’s something. It’s admirable.”
Admiration. No, no, no. Determination maybe. Dedication possibly. But admiration is not what we have here.
“So dinner?” he interjects on my -tion list. “Will Tripper be joining us?”
“Tripper.” I bite the inside of my cheek. People think what they want, he just said, because they don’t ask. “Not tonight. We eat at six.”
We’ve been standing outside by my back steps. Jedd’s eyes haven’t lingered on my crutches, and over the course of time, I’ve become less and less conscious of them. What are we even talking about? I’m lost again in Jedd’s smile, and he’s looking at me as though I’m a drooling idiot, which is how I feel.
Will he touch me again? I might not complain.
“So…”
“Oh…” We speak at the same time, and I stand a little taller, ready to dismiss him. I’ve had an overdose of Jedd’s junk—I mean, The Jedd Juncture—and I need a commercial break from that smile that makes me feel warm and fuzzy when I don’t warm and fuzzilate.
“You go…” we say in unison, and now I blush. This is silly.
“I was going to say see you at six.” I nod, dismissing Jedd, but he holds firm a second.
“I was going to ask what interests you. You said there was nothing of interest in my room, but what does interest you?”
My eyes leap to the outline of where a garden once stood. Where weeds are more predominant than flowers. Taking a long minute, I realize I don’t know where my interests lay. Where did they go? What do I like to do?
Momma, you need a hobby. Something to keep your mind active if your body can’t be.
“I fucking hate tomatoes,” I blurt, and Jedd’s eyes widen, his lids blinking once before his lips curve again.
“Okayyy…” He waits. I waffle. I have no idea why I said that other than it’s the truth. I’m sick of tomatoes.
My eyes meet Jedd’s. Oh Lordy, that is not a good idea. The gleam to them is like a beacon, calling me to say all the naughty thoughts in my head, curse the things in my heart, and strip bare the truths I’ve been holding deep inside for a long time.
It’s not like he asked you to rip off your clothes. I might if he asks.
“I don’t have any interests,” I snap, suddenly irritated with his asking.
Jedd nods, pursing his lips. “Okay, Bee. You have until six to think on it.”
What? “What?”
“See you at six, and I want one thing of interest. Dinner conversation.” He tips his head as if he’s wearing a cowboy hat and turns for the barn.
Conversation? No tion-ing, my brain screams. Discussion or otherwise.
And definitely no admiration.
Chapter Seven
[Jedd]
Grady’s Seed and Soil was just outside Green Valley proper and one of the only places around for farm and feed supplies. As a frequent visitor when I was a teenager, Vernon Grady and I had struck up your typical farmer-kid friendship. Backroad driving. Empty field partying. Late-night shenanigans. And neither of our daddies spared the rod at our unruly behavior. But where Vernon’s father had visions of his oldest son taking over the family business, my stepfather had other plans.
“What do you mean you’re giving everything to Boone?” At twenty years old, I’d stared at the man I called Father. When my mother married Hasting, I was four and Janice six. We’d been encouraged to consider him our daddy as we didn’t know any other man to give the honor, but when Boone was born, everything changed.
“He’s my son.” Hasting had stated of his then fifteen-year-old offspring—his biological son with my mother.
“But I’m the one taking care of everything.” My life plans had included his land because the land wanted me. The farm. The horses. I’d be damned if I worked for my little brother. I’d worked hard—as hard as Hasting—to keep things running smoothly on his family’s legacy. The future was mapped out. Breeding. Therapy. Hasting Horse Farm was his pride and joy, next to Boone, apparently, and Boone didn’t care one horse’s ass for the animals or the land.
“Mama?” I’d questioned. Turning to her had been my downfall. Our mother would always side with Hasting, and Hasting snapped.
“Why you looking at her, boy? Your mama ain’t going to help you here”.
Hasting and I had been rivaling for a while. He’d thought I was trying to one-up him with my new ideas about horse rearing and rodeo possibilities. He also couldn’t use the belt as much when I grew bigger than him. His words lashed just as hard some days, but I developed a thick skin to leather straps and verbal slaps. He was delicate on his own son, though, spoiling him, and this turn of fate was my breaking point.
I was out. Out of Green Valley. Out of the mountains.
I ran off for the military.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Vernon stated when I’d arrived at his store some twenty plus years after leaving Green Valley, and we picked up right where we’d left off.
“Shower,” I announce as I enter his office in the upper levels of the supersized store featuring farm equipment, feed supply, and a garden center. As I don’t have running water in Beverly’s barn, Vernon’s been allowing me to use his office bathroom. An outdoor shower is on order to rectify the plumbing situation.
“Evenin’, Jedd,” Vernon states, reminding me I’m not using my manners. I’m running late. The eldest Grady is your typical mountain man, complete with thick beard and belly and a different colored flannel shirt for each day of the week. He loves the small-town community of nearby Green Valley and the large home he owns up on the ridge. He’s done his daddy proud with the family business, and he’s been a good friend.