Chapter 11
Brooklyn turned up at six o’clock that evening. Zeppelin was still at my place, and he raced me to the front door to greet her.
She was wearing black dungarees with the legs rolled up a little to show her ankles and thick-soled black shoes. On top was a white T-shirt that was so short, a sliver of bare skin showed around her middle, disappearing under the bib of her dungarees. A leather satchel worn crossways across her body finished the look.
“Nice outfit,” I said. I was no fashion expert, but she looked like she could be a model on a runway. Only difference was, she was curvier and more beautiful. And a whole lot sexier. I could hardly keep from staring at that sliver of exposed skin around her midriff.
“It’s ironic.” She stepped into the hallway. “This is a New York version of a country look. I got these dungarees before I knew I’d be coming here, but now I fit right in.”
“Practically a local,” I agreed, thinking she was about as far from a local as she could be.
She bent to pet Zeppelin, who was bounding at her feet, excited to see her. Then she followed me into the living room, looking around with interest. When I’d invited her, it hadn’t crossed my mind to worry about how rundown the house was. But now I was conscious of the faded paint and all the moving boxes piled up behind the couch.
The place was a dump. And with Brooklyn gazing around, it seemed even worse than before. Had that ancient water stain on the wall always been so noticeable?
“Something smells good,” Brooklyn said.
I blinked. The woman who’d called me Deliverance seemed to have disappeared, and in her place was someone kinder. Instead of commenting on the house’s obvious state of disrepair, Brooklyn had found something nice to say.
“You hungry?” I asked.
I wanted to say that I liked her hair the way she was wearing it, loose around her face in long waves, but she’d already accused me of...how had she put it? Wanting to put the moves on her? So I kept those thoughts to myself.
“I’m starving.” She took off her satchel and put it next to the couch. With every movement, her midriff caught my eye again. Her olive skin was smooth and tempting.
Gemma’s bedroom door opened. My niece emerged, a steady beat of rock music flowing after her. She took in Brooklyn’s outfit and her expression of resentment turned into interest. “Hey,” she said.
“This is my niece, Gemma,” I said. “Gemma, this is Brooklyn.”
Brooklyn gave me a rueful smile that—surprisingly—seemed to contain a hint of an apology. “Actually, my name is Mags.”
The two exchanged hellos, then I asked, “Gemma, would you turn down your music? Dinner’s about ready.”
Gemma heaved a disgruntled sigh in my direction, then disappeared back into her bedroom. The music cut off abruptly before she re-emerged.
“You were listening to The Unforgiven?” Mags asked her. “I like that song.”
My niece looked surprised. “You know who The Unforgiven are?”
“Sure. Their first album was the best. Their second, not so much.”
“Wow. Yeah, that’s right.” Gemma flopped onto the couch, her expression more animated than I’d seen it in days. “Uncle Cy only listens to country and western music, so I thought his friends would be the same.”
“Country music.” Mags flared her nostrils. “There’s a good reason so many of those songs are about women leaving.”
Gemma laughed, her gaze flicking to me.
“Country music is soulful,” I protested, moving into the kitchen to check the buns weren’t burning. “Brooklyn, you can’t tell me you like that awful guitar noise my niece listens to, with lyrics that make no sense? Some of them, you can’t even make out the words.” Opening the oven, I saw the buns were almost perfect. Lightly toasted, just how I liked them.
“Of course I like indie rock,” Mags said. “I’ve been dating a musician.”
I froze with the oven door ajar. Did that mean she currently had a boyfriend? The sentence wasn’t clear. She could have said that she “used to date a musician” if their relationship was in the past. But saying she’d “been dating” implied it could be an ongoing state.
Not that I cared whether she had a boyfriend or not. There was no reason for me to be interested. And I wasn’t.
“Does he play in a band?” asked Gemma. “Would I know who he was?”
I jerked around to face Mags so I wouldn’t miss her reply.
Mags winced, then gave a reluctant-looking nod. “You might know him. The band’s called Storm Front and he’s the lead singer. Eric Storm.”
“No way!” My niece’s eyes went wide. “I’ve heard them. They’re great! But I only know that song called ‘City Pretty’.”
“That single’s the one that’s had the airplay,” said Mags. “He’s written other songs, but that’s his first hit.”
“Wait.” Gemma blinked rapidly. “What is Mags short for? You’re not Magdalena, are you? The Magdalena from that line in the ‘City Pretty’ song?” She gave an incredulous laugh. “Holy shit!”
“Language,” I said as I pulled the buns out of the oven.
My heart was beating extra heavily as though some part of me was disappointed she had a boyfriend. It was something that made no sense, seeing as she was off-limits anyway. And what did it matter if he was famous?
“Magdalena in the city, drinking coffee laced with whisky,” Gemma sang. It was obviously from whatever song they were talking about.
“You have a really nice voice,” Mags said.
Turning to the stove, I started putting together the burgers, doing it quietly so I could still hear them. I was trying to get past the fact that Mags was dating a rock star who’d written a song about her. Why did the idea irritate me so much?
Perhaps he was the man who’d threatened her over the phone. But that guy’s name had been Spike.
“Tell me everything about Eric Storm!” exclaimed Gemma. “What’s he like? When did you start dating him? You two are still together, right?”
Setting my homemade ketchup on the counter, I listened hard while silently applauding Gemma for asking the exact thing I wanted to know.
“That’s a lot of questions.” Stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her dungarees, Mags swiveled to face me. “Dinner looks like it’s ready. You want some help taking it to the table?”
Damn. Why didn’t she want to answer Gemma’s questions?
“Sure,” I said, giving no sign of my irrational frustration. “You take the plates, I’ll grab the wine. And there’s iced tea, whichever you prefer.”
“I’ll get the cutlery.” Gemma surprised me by jumping off the couch and rushing to help. She was happy tonight, with her face alight and her eyes bright. Looking at her made me want to either smile or sigh with relief, seeing as I’d started to think her anger might have gotten fused in. And I had Mags to thank for the change.
We sat at the dining table, and both Mags and Gemma praised the burgers. Zeppelin hovered next to Gemma as she ate, and I caught her slipping some food to him under the table.
“If you want to feed her dog, you should check with Brooklyn first,” I told her.
Mags shrugged. “Go ahead and feed him. He’s not really my dog. He just turned up the other night, so I’m looking after him for a while.”
“Why did you call him Zeppelin?” asked Gemma. “Did you name him after Led Zeppelin?”
Mags put down her fork, her eyebrows raised as though she was surprised. “You know Led Zeppelin, Gemma?”
“I only know ‘Stairway to Heaven’. And everyone knows that song, don’t they?”
“Not everyone. It came out before I was born, and long before you were born.”
“Well, it was the first song I learned to play on my guitar.”
“You play the guitar as well as sing?”
Gemma wrinkled her nose as she nodded. “I’ve had a few lessons. But my guitar was so old, it was warping, and I couldn’t play it anymore. I’ve been saving up for a new one.”
Mags threw both hands up as though overwhelmed by Gemma’s genius. “You’ll be playing your own rock shows soon.”
“That’s my dream!”
“When you’re ready, I could put you in touch with some people.”
“She’s only fifteen,” I said, startled.
Gemma’s delight turned into a frown, and Mags shot me an apologetic look. I instantly regretted ruining the moment.
“Sixteen soon,” Gemma muttered, giving me a glare that could breach a calf in the womb. Then she leaned closer to Mags, shutting me out of the conversation with her shoulder. “Tell me about the music scene in New York. I don’t get to hear any good music here. Uncle Cy is into old white guys singing about how lonesome and brokenhearted they are. Bunch of whiners.”
Mags snickered. Not that I minded. I was happy they were bonding if it meant Gemma was coming out of her shell. They could gang up on me all they wanted.
“Hey now, I like current music,” I protested anyway. “Keith Urban is one of my favorites, and Claire McClure, of course. You know she’s from Green Valley?”
“I’ve heard her name, but I don’t think I’ve heard her music,” Mags said.
“Have you heard of a band called MightNight?” Gemma asked Mags. “They’re my favorite.”
“They’re good. Eric opened for them when they toured last year.”
“You’ve met them?” My niece sprayed bits of burger out with her incredulous question, but she seemed too excited to notice.
“They’re nice guys. If you like owning vinyl, I could ask the guitarist to send you an autographed album.”
“He’d do that? That would be so cool!”
Mags nodded. “He owes me.”
“Why does he owe you?” I asked.
She turned her lovely brown eyes to me. The lamp was behind her, creating a deceptively angelic halo around her dark hair.
“One afternoon before their show, the lead guitarist and some of their roadies decided to play drinking games. The roadies got too drunk to work, so I pitched in to help set up the stage.” She rolled her eyes. “The guitarist was just as drunk as the roadies, but it was a sold-out show, so he couldn’t go and sleep it off. He had to perform.”
Gemma leaned in. “What happened?”
“He was staggering around so much, he almost fell off the stage. The other band members were trying to convince him to just stand still and play his guitar, but he wouldn’t listen. So I put a stool on stage and ordered him to sit.”
“He listened to you?”
She nodded. “Heaven knows why, but yeah. He did. After sitting down, he actually made it through several songs. Then for some drunken reason, he decided to start throwing his guitar pick into the crowd, and demanded I keep running on stage to give him more.” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “And that, kids, is why you should always say no to tequila.”
My niece laughed. “That’s so funny! I wish I could have been there. Have you met any other bands?”
“Well, let’s see...” Mags tapped her finger on her chin before reeling off some band names I mostly hadn’t heard of.
Gemma had heard of them, though, and she responded enthusiastically, asking questions with wide, excited eyes. As Mags launched into another funny story about a concert that had gone wrong, Gemma listened with her lips slightly parted. Mags was clearly a big hit with my niece.
And with me.
My first impression of her had been negatively influenced by her insults. But now I was seeing a different side.
She had a rapid, quick-fire way of speaking, as though her thoughts were working double-time and her mouth was trying to keep up. She seemed street-smart, adaptable, and personable, and those were qualities I admired.
After leaving home at a young age, I’d managed to make a home for Ruth and myself. I’d not just survived but thrived outside of Green Valley, and gotten to know myself well in the process. I was smart, but I wasn’t naturally good with people. Mags clearly was.
Watching Gemma gasp and laugh at her stories, I didn’t want the night to end. In a short space of time, my niece had become animated and enthusiastic. The transformation was better than I could have wished for.
“You’ve seen so many bands play,” Gemma said wistfully, after Mags had described a particularly wild concert. “I never get to see live music.”
“Apparently, musicians play at the community center on Friday nights,” Mags said, looking at me. “Joy and Amber from the bakery have been trying to talk me into going. It might just be rockabilly or bluegrass, but it could be worth a look. I might go next week.”
“We should meet you there! Uncle Cy, can we go? Will you take me?” Gemma turned her eager gaze to me, and I hesitated, not knowing how to answer.
All I wanted was to keep that smile on my niece’s face. But if the folks in town found out she was a Baxter, she’d be tainted by my family’s bad name. I couldn’t take her anywhere in public where she’d be seen with me.
Maybe Mags would be willing to take Gemma to the community center, but it wouldn’t be fair to ask her right now when she’d feel obligated. Better to ask her later, when she’d be more free to say yes or no without Gemma’s beseeching eyes willing her to agree.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Brooklyn, would you like more fries?”
“Thank you, I’m full.” She pushed her empty plate away. “That was really good. Even the fake ketchup.”
“Fake...?” I cut off my indignant question with a rueful shake of my head when I realized she was joking.
She grinned, her eyes sparkling with clear hints of mischief, and I found myself grinning back. Then I realized my heart was beating faster and my body was charged up, as though my blood was restless in my veins. I wanted to touch her. To reach out and stroke a finger down her cheek like I had after giving Zeppelin a bath.
And I was struck by a bewildering—almost overwhelming—urge to kiss her.
Mags gazed back at me, and her eyes widened, her lips parting as though she could see what I was thinking and it took her by surprise.
Gemma got up, scraping her chair back. I jerked my gaze to her, trying to snap out of it.
“I’ll take the plates out, Uncle Cy.” Gemma reached for the empty dishes. She was smiling in a secretive kind of way, but that could have been from all the stories Mags had been telling. Hopefully she hadn’t noticed the way I must have been looking at Mags.
I cleared my throat, pulling myself together. “Your momma’s going to call you soon,” I reminded Gemma.
“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Gemma darted a furtive glance at Mags as she stacked the plates.
I could tell from her expression that she didn’t want her new hero to know her momma was staying in a psychiatric institution. I wanted to tell her there was nothing wrong with where her mother was, and that she should be proud of Ruth for asking for the help she’d needed. But Gemma was still at an age where she embarrassed easily, so I didn’t.
“Go and do your homework in your room, and you can talk to your momma in there,” I suggested instead. “Leave the dishes tonight. I’ll take care of them.”
“Okay, thanks.” The gratitude in her expression made me want to grin in triumph. Tonight had easily been the best time we’d spent together since she’d arrived. And I had Mags to thank.
Gemma took the plates she was carrying into the kitchen, then disappeared into her bedroom and shut the door. Mags got up, and the two of us cleared the rest of the table. Then I went to the small stereo in the living room to put on some music, smiling at Zeppelin as he flopped onto the rug and lowered his head onto his paws with a heavy sigh.
The haunting sound of a strong, clear female voice filled the air as I went to the sink to fill the frying pan with water. The music was so good, nobody could possibly dislike it.
“Who’s singing?” asked Mags.
“Claire McClure. You said you hadn’t heard her music.”
Mags walked over to the sink. “I’ll wash, you dry?”
“Let’s leave them. I’ll do them later. Would you like a nightcap?”
“Thanks, but I can’t drink. I need to drive home.” She put both hands on the counter and gazed out of the kitchen window.
I moved next to her to see what she was looking at. The only thing visible was the barn, its roof silhouetted against a night sky that was full of stars, with a large, bright moon.
The sky was beautiful, but I’d seen it a thousand times. I was more conscious of the woman beside me who took the word beautiful to an entirely new level. She wasn’t tall, but she stood with her back straight and her chin lifted, the size of her personality exceeding her frame. There was something about the way her eyebrows were shaped in a natural quirk over her eyes that made her expression good-natured, even when she was being sarcastic. And the sliver of skin that peeped out from under her crop top kept drawing my gaze.
It was such a small glimpse of her midriff, it shouldn’t be so tempting. Why was it so fascinating?
“It’s quiet here,” she said, clearly not talking about the music, seeing as Claire McClure’s pure tones were still ringing from the stereo.
“That’s what Gemma says.”
“Where did you say Gemma was from?”
“Nashville. Home of country music and the Johnny Cash Museum.” I shook my head in mock sadness. “How any niece of mine could disrespect the Nashville sound is beyond me.”
“You have to admit, it is ridiculously quiet in this town. Everywhere except in the bakery, that is.” Her gaze was fixed to something outside the window, her lovely face in profile. Her lush lips were slightly parted, and my gaze lingered over them. They looked soft.
“How long are you planning to stay?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet. Jenn said I can work in the bakery for as long as I like, and Carla’s not sure how long she’ll need to be away. I’m hoping to head home in three or four weeks, but I’ll wait until Carla and Noah get back.”
“Do you have a job in New York?” I asked.
She turned to face me, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter. “I used to work in a fashion boutique, but I quit before I came here. I’d been at the same place for over five years and felt like I needed a change.”
“A fashion boutique isn’t much like a bakery.”
“No, not much. I’m still getting used to how busy it is at the bakery, but I really like the people. Before I arrived, I was afraid we wouldn’t have much in common, but everyone’s been so welcoming.”
“Maybe you’re not so different to the folks around here.” I leaned against the counter too, lifting my eyebrows and silently challenging her to argue.
She gave a little laugh. “I don’t have a beard,” she pointed out. “And I’d rather chew glass than wear a flannel shirt.”
“What’s wrong with flannel?”
“Nothing at all, so long as you’re a lumberjack in a remote wilderness. If you don’t own a mirror or interact with people, flannel is an acceptable fashion choice.” Clapping her hand over her mouth, she rounded her eyes. “I can’t believe I just said flannel and fashion in the same sentence.” She gave an exaggerated shudder, making me smile. I was sure she was both joking and not joking. Inflating her real dislike of flannel for comic effect.
“No flannel then.” I adjusted my features into a serious expression. “Got it.” I was also joking but not joking. I had some flannel shirts I’d probably never wear again.
“Thank you for becoming a flannel-free zone. I appreciate your sacrifice. And in return, I’ll attempt to wear shirts with a socially acceptable number of sleeves. At least when you’re around.” Her grin was small, crooked, and seriously cute.
“No need to wear anything extra on my account.” It came out a little more suggestive than I’d intended, especially because I couldn’t keep from glancing down at that enticing sliver of bare torso.
Her cheeks colored, and she turned toward the window as though to hide the fact she was blushing. Then she peered out at the darkness as though there were something to see.
“Is that a barn out there?” she asked after a moment. “Why is it so big?”
“It’s the shed my daddy used for growing marijuana.”
Her face jerked to mine, her expression startled. “Really?”
“He had a hydroponic setup. When I came back here after his death, nobody had been able to get past all the locks he had on the door. By the time I made it inside, his crop was so tall, it was trying to lift the roof off.”
“Do you still grow it?”
“I already told you I didn’t.” The idea of treading the same path as the man I’d hated was unthinkable, and my tone was firm. “I converted the barn to grow mushrooms instead.”
“Mushrooms?” She frowned as she said the word, making it sound like that was no better.
I stared at her for a moment, puzzled by her reaction. Then I realized what she must have thought and a pang of resentment shot through me. No matter what I did, folks always assumed the worst.
“Not those kinds of mushrooms.” My tone was flat. “Legal ones.”
“Sure.” She sounded doubtful.
“You want to take a look?”
“No. That’s okay.”
She suddenly seemed distant. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Or maybe growing mushrooms wasn’t something she approved of. Perhaps mushrooms were like flannel shirts, not hip enough for her New York sensibilities. For all I knew, she might even dislike the music that was playing. Some big-city people might really be that strange.
Turning away from the window, she walked back into the living room. “I should go,” she said. Only instead of going to the door, she sat back on the couch. “But first I have to listen to this song. As much as I hate to admit it, this singer is incredible. For bluegrass, this is really good.”
Her admission about the music made me feel a little better. At least she didn’t hate everything I liked.
“Careful, Brooklyn,” I warned. “You might turn into a Southern belle if you don’t watch out.”
She screwed up her nose. “You haven’t heard my opinion about cowboy boots yet.”
“Maybe you haven’t embraced cowboy boots because you haven’t discovered how practical they are.” I sat opposite her on the other couch, stretching my sneaker-clad feet in front of me. Just because I wasn’t currently wearing a pair of boots didn’t mean they weren’t a good choice of footwear. Now that I’d converted her to bluegrass, she’d eventually come to see the value in the rest. Assuming she stuck around for long enough.
But her gaze had gone to the stack of boxes in the corner. “What’s all that?” she asked.
I had to resist the urge to grimace at her question. The full answer could all too easily bring up things that were too raw and personal to talk about, so I kept my tone light and my answer succinct.
“Those boxes contain all my personal belongings.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, this is my daddy’s house. After he died, I moved here to sell the place. I thought I’d only be here for a few weeks, but I decided to stay longer, so I called a company and arranged for the contents of my apartment to be packed up and shipped here. The movers carried everything in and put it there. I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet.”
“How long have you been living here?”
I hesitated, considering whether to lie. The truth was disturbing. It didn’t feel like fourteen months. While I was living it, time had dragged. But somehow, all those months had disappeared.
“A year,” I said, rounding down.
“A year? And you still haven’t gotten around to unpacking the boxes?”
I shrugged, uncomfortable. “Tell me about the person who’s threatening you.”
She tilted her head. “Are you changing the subject?”
“Yes.”
My honest admission made her lips quirk up on one side in that cute, crooked smile.
“His name is Spike,” she said. “He’s a drug dealer. Eric owes him money, and Spike has decided I should be the one to pay his bill.”
Eric was her boyfriend’s name, and apparently he was someone who owed money to drug dealers. Hopefully, he was actually her ex-boyfriend, seeing as she hadn’t made their current status entirely clear. The one thing that was crystal clear was that he didn’t deserve her.
“Why can’t your boyfriend pay him?” I asked, using the word deliberately to see if she’d clarify their status.
“Eric’s on tour in Japan. He’s far enough away that he feels safe. I’m a lot closer, and easier for Spike to torment.”
I gave her a look that I hoped transmitted the extent of my stunned disbelief. “That’s not fair.”
“Yeah, and that’s exactly what I told Spike. Funny, though, the scary drug dealer seemed not to care. It was almost as though he had no morals.” She widened her eyes. “Weird, right?”
“Does this Spike guy know where you are?” Her description of him as a scary drug dealer was worrying.
“He knows I’m in Green Valley. He said he’d come here to find me, but I think he was just trying to scare me so I’d pay up faster.”
I shook my head, my disbelief mounting. “And your boyfriend let him threaten you?” Her shrug told me what kind of man he must be. “Well, you’ll stay here from now on,” I told her. “There’s a spare room. I’ll get it set up for you.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t let you go home if you’re going to be in danger.”
“You can’t let me go home?” She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Just that you should stay.”
“No thanks.” It was clear by her tone she didn’t like that I was pushing the issue. I considered backing down, but what if something happened and I could have prevented it?
“I’d feel a lot better knowing you weren’t alone. The room just needs clearing out is all. Won’t take long.”
She got out of her seat, her mouth set into a stubborn line. “I promised my sister I’d look after her cat and chickens, and that’s what I’m going to do.” Then she picked up the satchel she’d left on the couch when she’d arrived. “It’s getting late. Thank you for dinner.”
Zeppelin jumped up as well, and the two of them headed for the door.
So much for trying to keep her safe. I should have known she’d react that way. Her obstinate side had been obvious the moment I’d met her. And though it should have been annoying, I had to respect her for it. I wouldn’t want someone I hardly knew telling me what to do either.
I got up and followed her down the hallway. And though I was certain I was wasting my breath, I had to give it another try. “You shouldn’t go home if there’s a chance the drug dealer is going to come looking for you.”
“Listen, I appreciate your concern, and that you invited me for dinner. It was nice of you, but I’m going to be fine. There’s no need to worry.”
As she opened the door, she stepped even closer to me in the narrow hallway. Her head only came up to my shoulder, and next to my bulk, she seemed slight. Maybe she had a large amount of determination and courage, but it seemed like it was wrapped in a fragile package. No matter what she said, I couldn’t help wanting to keep her safe.
I had a sudden urge to put my arms around her and tell her not to leave. To kiss her until she agreed to stay. As we walked out together, her shoulder bumped against my arm, stirring up this urge to the point I had to put my hands in my pockets to keep them under control.
She had a long, determined stride, and when we reached the driveway, stones crunched crisply under her feet. Everything about her had attitude, even the way she walked. I couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to sleep with her. She’d probably want to call the shots in bed. I could picture her giving orders, making sure everything was exactly how she liked it. Kicking up a fuss if she didn’t get her way.
Mmm. That was an enticing thought. Tussling with her in bed was an experience I’d very much like to have.