A Taste of Dixie Page 2

  Interest rose on his brow. “You said that before.”

  “Houses have personalities,” she explained. “My mom’s is frilly, a fine lady dressed for an evening out. Yours could rope a cow with a gun in its teeth.”

  To her surprise, he laughed, a rich sound that seemed to fill her chest.

  “Your mom strikes me that way, too. She’s strong, hearty, like the environment.”

  His hands slid from his pockets, hanging easy by his sides. “And yours? If you had a house, what would it look like?”

  Lottie considered that, both in her vision of the future and how the answer would affect them, right then. She’d always been a bit of a flirt. She didn’t have a high opinion of herself, but knew her red hair and freckles got some men’s attention. Her recent experiences had soured that image, and she found, staring at him, she couldn’t return to it.

  “My home would look like him,” she replied, “and his would look like me.”

  She fancied she saw respect on Harlowe’s face.

  He curved his hand, raising it upward, as if he wanted to do something with it. He didn’t, but held it away. “You like Montana?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Harlowe wished his mom an early goodnight and settled in on the couch, a couple throw pillows beneath his head. He grabbed the remote and tried to watch TV, but no matter what channel he selected, he saw himself.

  You like Montana? What had made him ask that? Lottie had interpreted the question the way he’d intended it, too, as a definite come-on. Saying such wasn’t like him at all.

  The gurgle of water in the walls made him think of her in a way he shouldn’t, and his temperature raised ten degrees. He willed the erotic picture away and tried, once more, to concentrate on the program, but minutes later, his thoughts had drifted.

  Times like these he wished he could talk to his dad, wished he could hear him crack lame jokes again. Harlowe smiled to himself thinking of it. He always started his fatherly advice that way, using humor to lighten the atmosphere. Then, when he talked, his corrections hadn’t seemed quite so bad. He’d always say you had to mix salt with sugar to balance things out.

  Felt like he’d spent a lot of effort trying to do just that in recent days, only on his own.

  From the outside, he had no reason to struggle. The ranch itself ran smooth, so financially, they were doing fine. Socially, he had plenty of friends in the area. Malcolm certainly was one. Plus, there were others, both work and church-related, that he spoke to now and then. But in his head, he’d fallen into a rut, a bland one.

  Harlowe shut his eyes and tried to hear what his dad might say, what bit of advice he’d give. He was shaken, instead, by Lottie’s high-pitched shriek. He sprinted in her direction, arriving outside the bathroom door right as she opened it, and she slammed into him, the towel she’d wrapped in slipping downward.

  His fingers stuck to her moist heated skin, and the fear on her face was replaced by something else, awkwardness. Grasping the edges of the towel, she secured it and glanced behind. “There was a mouse.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I ... I hate mice.”

  “They don’t eat people.” A chuckle emerged in his words.

  Her face colored further. “I’m not going back in there.”

  He couldn’t bury his smile. “Here, I’ll check for it, but probably it’s seen you and is long gone ... We have traps somewhere. I’ll find them. Meanwhile ...” Harlowe glanced toward his mother’s room. She slept sound, so he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard anything. “Meanwhile, we won’t tell about this.” He faced forward again.

  “Your mom or my uncle?” Lottie asked.

  “Both.”

  Harlowe guided her out of the doorway and stepped inside the bathroom, checking along the wall for any signs of the mouse. As predicted, it was gone. He spotted a hole it must’ve come from and made a note to do something about it.

  He turned in place. Lottie blocked his exit, and his throat closed tight.

  What had sent such a beautiful girl running north? And she was very beautiful. Her hair clung to her cheeks in damp coils, a thousand freckles danced across her skin. Even her feet, slender beautiful toes. This was the most he’d ever seen of a woman in a private situation, yet he knew he could never compare her. There’d be no equal, and in that, he saw the flavorlessness of his life once more.

  “No sign of it,” he replied. “If he runs at you again, call me. I’ll be up for a while”

  He didn’t breathe until back in the living room, and then his lungs ached. “I’m doomed,” he mumbled to himself. She’d already written herself permanently on his brain, but this ... this he would never forget.

  Lottie was more than a little bit paranoid about the mouse popping up during the night and could have sworn she heard scratching noises in the wall. As a result, her fear, mixed with being somewhere new and all the events that’d transpired to bring her here, kept her awake. Close to two a.m., she desperately wanted a drink and snuck out, unsure if she should or not.

  Her footsteps took her through the living room, and she started at finding Harlowe there. The TV was on still, some infomercial playing on repeat. Grasping the remote from where he’d dropped it on the floor, she switched the set off and, unsure of herself, stared at him. He’d curled on his side, his knees tucked against the cold that’d crept in the house.

  She could cover him. There was a spare blanket in her room.

  She held in place a little longer, then deciding it was the least she could do, retraced her steps and retrieved it. Shaking out the blanket, she draped it over him, careful to cover his feet. She straightened. She’d go back to bed and not disturb him by making noise in the kitchen.

  In reversing, however, his eyes opened, and all the blood in her face drained to somewhere in her toes. His hair rumpled from turning his head on the pillow, his eyes shaded a deep hue, he slid one arm from beneath the quilt, grasping the edge, and sat up.

  “I ... I couldn’t sleep and was thirsty,” she said. “You looked cold.”

  The heat of his gaze amplified, and she became aware of her semi-dressed state. Her pajama shorts and tank top were too summery for Montana. She crossed her arms over her chest. “You keep catching me like this.”

  “Tell you what,” he said.

  She fancied she heard amusement in his tone.

  “I’ll close my eyes while you scamper on back and cover up. Then we’ll find that drink together.” He didn’t wait for her to accept, but shut his eyes, as promised.

  She obeyed, tossing on jeans and a bra. Buttoning her flannel, she trailed from the bedroom to the kitchen and found him holding a box of hot cocoa.

  “Unless you want coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head. She would have probably just poured herself a glass of water, but hot cocoa sounded better, and protesting, thereby drawing his gaze, was out.

  His back to her, he dug two mugs out of an upper cabinet and a small saucepan from below. He filled the saucepan with water and set it on a burner, then opened two packets and dumped them in each mug. The pop of the pan as it heated made up the space between them. He leaned his weight to the left, against the counter’s edge, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “What do you do up here when it’s cold?” she asked, the silence growing burdensome.

  “Besides anticipate the snow?” he asked.

  She bit the inside of her lip, unsure how he meant that. “I’ve never seen more than a few inches and they usually melt by noon.”

  He didn’t answer, for a moment, tapping his fingertips on the counter. “There isn’t much to do when it gets deep other than wait it out.”

  “You get trapped up here?”

  The road had been curvy enough, so it seemed like they would. Plus, he’d implied it.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “But we manage ... and my horse is capable of carrying me when tires won’t work.”

  The water reached a rolling boil, and Harlowe poured
it into the mugs in equal amounts. He carried her one with a spoon. “My apologies, that we don’t have any marshmallows.”

  The heated porcelain warmed her palms, the steam moistening her cheeks. He raised his mug to his lips and gazed at her, frank.

  In that, her thoughts whisked back home to the man she’d run from.

  There was no comparison. The one relationship had been wrong from the start and had ended badly, as should have been expected. But Harlowe was ... not any of the things that’d come back to haunt her three months later. Hiding in the closet, a man’s hands up her skirt, and later, taking the stairs, hopeful she wouldn’t pass him at all. Harlowe was kind. He was as free and alive as Montana.

  The flavor of that fell from her tongue. “You know what they say, don’t you?” she asked.

  Harlowe took a long draw of his cocoa. How he drank it so hot, she couldn’t fathom.

  “What’s that?” he replied, lowering his mug again.

  “Save a horse ...”

  He laughed, and the rich sound curled around her, delicious.

  “Along that line,” he said, “how about we go for a ride tomorrow?”

  Lottie let his words sink in. “Me and you?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re going to have to hang onto me,” she said. “I’ve never ridden before.”

  “Well ...” he said, taking another swig. “There’s the other half of that saying to consider.”

  Seated comfortably in the saddle, Harlowe leaned down and offered Lottie his hand. “Put your right foot in the stirrup, and swing your left leg over behind me. Don’t worry about falling. I’ve got you.”

  Her face said, though she believed him, she was still unsure. So was he, for that matter, but not about helping her mount. His worry was on doing this at all. His mom had given him her sternest expression when he’d mentioned it at breakfast, but she hadn’t spoken against it. She wouldn’t in front of Lottie.

  Which made him wonder about his motive. He’d waited for Lottie to be in the room to bring it up. Because his mom wouldn’t object and he’d get away with it? Why did he feel like he had to “get away with it” at all? He rode almost every day. This once, he wanted to take a beautiful woman with him.

  Lottie pressed her lips together and, gripping his fingers, leapt upward, her weight falling completely on his shoulder. In the next second, she was clinging to him, her arms around his waist, her breaths coming fast.

  “It’s higher than I thought it’d be,” she said.

  He patted her hands in reassurance. “You’ll get used to it.”

  She trembled somewhat and held tighter than was needed. He made no remark on it, tapping the horse’s sides. The animal aimed for the fields, as they did most mornings. Eventually, Lottie’s shaking stopped, and her head lifted from where she’d pressed it in the center of his back.

  She’d worn blue jeans and sneakers. The jeans were okay, but the sneakers would be a bit cold, though she had on two pairs of socks his mom had loaned her. She wore last night’s flannel shirt and an old coat of his, the sleeves too long. He’d loaned her a knit cap as well and a pair of his mom’s gloves.

  In spite of all of that, he was still aware of her sensuality. And his maleness.

  Having her there felt as natural as breathing, and that surprised him, as had everything about her so far. He had no hesitation being here with her and if anything, after last night’s two incidents, a good amount of anticipation. Having anything to look forward to was nice, for once.

  He’d mapped out his life at around age seventeen and buried himself in it, learning all he could about cattle ranching in Montana. Nothing was ever as smooth as you think it’ll be at seventeen, though. He’d certainly had ups and downs along the way – losing his dad was the biggest. Turning thirty was another. Somewhere in his twenties, he’d vowed to honor God in his personal life, then at thirty realized he had no personal life at all. He was, by no means, shoving Lottie in that direction. They’d only just met, but he couldn’t deny the thought its minute to surface.

  “I called my mom,” Lottie said, her voice muffled by his coat.

  Though he knew that, Harlowe wasn’t about to say so. He was taken aback that she’d brought it up so soon.

  “She’d already heard from my uncle. She didn’t tell him I was missing yet ...”

  Missing. She’d run off then. Why?

  She seemed to anticipate his question. “I’m not sure what to say about why I came.” Lottie paused and released a long breath. “I don’t know why I feel I should tell you either, except probably, you want to know. I guess I’m humiliated ... and afraid. I don’t know what I should do now. I don’t know why I’m on this horse. I’m scared of that, too. But ...”

  “But?” He prompted her.

  “I ... I’m not scared of you.”

  That was, perhaps, her greatest revelation. Because why would she be scared of him at all?

  Their conversation fell away, fading to the thud of the horse’s hooves and the rattle and squeak of the saddle. Twenty minutes later, he reined in on the rise above a creek bed. “Let go of me and sit square,” he said. “I’m going to dismount. I’ll help you down.”

  Her breathing sped again, but she didn’t complain. Reaching his hands for her, he wrapped them around her waist and swung her to the ground. She released a breath and leaned on him. A harmless gesture brought about by the ease of her fear, yet neither one of them bothered to break it.

  “I miss my dad,” she said.

  Another important statement. Harlowe held silent, waiting for her to continue.

  “I think I wanted to reconnect.” Lottie pulled her head back, gazing upwards at him. “Is that so wrong? Uncle Mal knew him. He has memories and stories. My mom ...” Lottie released a breath. “She won’t talk about him at all.”

  She shivered, and instinctively, he folded her in his arms.

  “Is this wrong?” she asked.

  He couldn’t say, couldn’t really believe he found her there, and his thoughts revolved back to her previous admission. Her need to reconnect might be one thing that brought her here, but someone didn’t hop a flight without telling either the people you were leaving behind or those you would see when you arrived. Not unless you were trying to escape something pretty big. Or someone.

  “Your uncle didn’t entirely leave for the winter to visit colleges,” Harlowe said. “I mean, he did ... but his reason for wanting Brenna to go east is more personal.”

  “To visit Beverly?”

  He tilted his head, not answering. Beverly, Brenna’s mom, Malcolm’s ex, lived with her second husband and stepdaughter outside of Atlanta. “I think he’s going to do that, too, but, no ... He’s keeping her away from a certain cowboy.”

  Lottie’s eyes spread.

  “Not me. Another one.”

  She smiled then, but an instant later, sobered. “I admire him for that,” she said, “but some things can’t be taught. They have to be learned.” She held his gaze, for a moment, then straightened and glanced toward the horse. “Like riding,” she said. “It’s a lot easier with a cowboy to hang onto, but maybe if I was thrown a few times, I’d figure it out on my own.”

  A lot pulsed between the lines. He didn’t comment on it, leaving the moment that happened, if it ever did, in God’s hands.

  Harlowe’s mother crossed the stoop and paused her sweeping to glance their way. Lottie couldn’t say for sure, but it seemed like she’d positioned herself there on purpose.

  She wished she looked less awkward clinging to him, wished, further, that her mind and heart would get in sync and stop fighting against the foolish girl she’d been and the new mature image she wanted to project. Then there was the confusion she had being close to a man so soon.

  Not that Harlowe was a threat. He was a quiet, gentle soul, more inward than outward.

  He’d laughed a few times with her, flirted even, but not really shared anything too personal. Why would he at this point? If she’d not co
me here looking for a man, then he’d not gone to work expecting a woman ... a girl ... to show up either. He didn’t need someone like her anyhow. The stain of her actions, the sin that’d sent her running, glowed brighter, despite the miles. If he knew of it, he’d go the other way. But the truth was, she had nowhere else to be and simply couldn’t return.

  She’d told his mom she needed time to decide her actions, and though she felt guilty for poking into their lives, the harassment she’d endured being within the other man’s reach was too overwhelming. She couldn’t bear the threats anymore, and being here promised peace.

  But what happened if she stayed? Because she’d gotten away from one romantic situation, but fallen into another. Harlowe felt their connection, and surely, his mom saw the sparks.

  He brought the horse to a halt at the front of the house and, once more, helped her to her feet. One hand on the reins, he glanced up at his mom. “I have work to do. You look like you have plans.”

  Mrs. Chapman leaned her weight on the broom. “Since the young lady has a car, I think we’ll go to town and see about finding her some additional clothing.” Her gaze sharpened. “I spoke with your uncle this morning. He called me, actually. I told him you had a place here if you want it.”

  Lottie eyed her, then Harlowe. She spoke to both, but kept her face toward his. “I need time.” She’d shared enough he would, hopefully, understand. “I promise I won’t be in the way, and I’m willing to work.”

  His brow wrinkled, but he didn’t speak. She switched her gaze to his mother’s.

  “I’m grateful to you for taking me in. I ... I don’t know what else to say, except if you hadn’t, I don’t know where I’d be.”

  Mrs. Chapman’s face softened. “Why don’t you come in and clean up a bit? It’ll take us most of the day to go to town and back.”

  Obedient, Lottie climbed the steps. At the top, she turned. Harlowe had already remounted. The reins tight in his hand, he tugged, spinning the horse back the way they’d come. She admired the strength of his movements, the ease he had in the saddle. He fit there, a stereotype perhaps, but a handsome one.