Chapter 15 Pane
Pane
I am so screwed.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rowe tells me on the way back to the farm. “We’ll figure out something else.”
“There’s nothing else to figure out,” I snarl.
“There isn’t time to run around the countryside begging store owners for help.
And on top of that, I made a fool of myself in front of the entire town.
” My head snaps in her direction. “How did they wind up there? Does word about newcomers travel that quickly?”
“You know, it must,” she says, sounding mystified. “No clue how that happened.”
Rowe looks out the window, avoiding me. She’s lying, but I don’t know why.
I’m too pissed off to care anyway. Dammit, I need the wood, paint, and hardware if I’m to have a fighting chance at winning this competition.
My stomach knots in anger. Un-fucking-believable. Stone probably has half of Boston eating hot dogs by now, and I’m still scrambling to get a plan together. Thanks, Mom. You wanted to challenge us—well, you’ve got your challenge.
Sunbeam glances back my way and says in a soothing voice, “Don’t worry, Coleman yells at people all the time.”
An image flares in my head, one of Coleman, arms in the air, glasses askew on his face, and spit flinging from his mouth as he screamed—at me—from the top of his lungs.
“Thank you for the reminder,” I say, my voice sounding cold even to me. “That’s a memory burned into my brain forever.”
“I told you he could be something else.”
“You didn’t say that he’d be evil.”
“Did he even ask if you could run a chain saw?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you tell him?”
I pause. “That I could.”
“Then you have no one to blame but you. You got yourself into this mess—”
“And I’m going to get myself out of it,” I bite back. “Thank you for the useless platitude. You want to add more to it? Something like, Whether it gets done today or tomorrow, it’s got to get done?”
From the other side of the truck, I feel her glaring at me. “What’s your problem with sayings?”
“Everything. Nothing. Never mind. It doesn’t concern you.”
“Good. I’m glad it doesn’t. I don’t want anything that deals with you to concern me. But unfortunately”—she tosses out her arm—“you’ve shown up promising to help me, so I’m stuck with you.”
We reach a stop sign and I slam on the brakes. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be. I don’t want to be with you and all your”—I wave in her general direction—“stuff. You’re nothing but a little sunbeam, and I’m not interested.”
“Great! Neither am I!”
“Me neither.”
A car behind me honks, and I gas the truck through the intersection. “I’m stuck with a dying farm and no prospects. On top of that, I get to sleep in a shamper with men staring at me.”
“Don’t you touch any of those posters.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. But maybe I’ll take out my sexual frustrations on them.”
Her jaw drops in horror. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No, I wouldn’t, because I don’t swing that way. I’m just pissed off right now, and you’re not helping.”
I drive in silence for a few minutes, until Rowe meekly ventures, “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know.”
I swing the truck onto the farm’s gravel drive. It tosses from side to side as we make our way to the front of the house. In the far yard, piggycorns race to greet us, kicking up their squatty hind legs in excitement.
There are maybe twenty of them, all white bodied, with golden horns that glisten in the sunlight and pink fur topping their heads. “Why are there so few pigs?”
“What?” she asks, facing me.
I throw the truck into park and kill the engine. I nod toward the swine. “Them. I thought pigs had huge litters. Why do you have so few?”
“I watch when a pig’s in heat, and I separate her. No use in having too many if no one’s buying. Besides, their feed’s expensive.”
“Huh,” is all I can think to say.
I’m numb, my confidence shattered, my plan burned up, and all hope gone.
“You know,” she says quietly, watching me closely with those soft brown eyes of hers, “if you’re nice—and only if you’re nice—I can show you how to work a chain saw.”
“I’m not nice.”
“I know that. But I do know how to work one. Not that I enjoy watching you eat crow. Oh, who am I kidding, of course I enjoy that.” And then, as if it’s a side note, she adds, “However, my dad taught me.”
So Rowe does know how to use one—and I laughed in her face at her first offer to help me, an offer that would have saved me in front of this entire town.
The guilt I now feel rolls over my bubbling anger like a creek over rocks, extinguishing it.
There’s a long, drawn-out moment before I quietly admit, “So you can run a chain saw? You? Sunbeam?”
She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “First off, I don’t like that nickname. It doesn’t sound genuine. Secondly, yes. My dad was a champion chain saw carver. There used to be competitions around here. He won ten years in a row.”
This gets my attention. “Do you think that if I can go back to the store . . . ?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs noncommittally, tipping her face toward me. But her brown eyes spark with possibility. “Coleman Barrier has a heart in him—and to be honest, what he had you do wasn’t fair, and I think it may have been because . . .”
Rowe shoots me a look full of uncertainty, and I know what she’s going to say. “Because he wanted to see what kind of man I am?”
“Yeah.”
“My thought, too.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t all make you jump through fiery circus hoops.”
I give her a wry look. “You’re not going to put the hoop over a pond of water filled with spiky objects and sharks?”
She tips her head back and laughs. “Look who’s read Matilda.”
The smile on her face makes my rib cage tighten. “Not only have I read it, but I’ve watched it.” Her smile threatens to be infectious, so I tip my mouth down into a frown. “Too many times to count.”
“Really? You don’t strike me as the type to enjoy children’s literature.”
I glance out the windshield. “I read to my younger sister sometimes.”
She’s quiet now. Sunbeam must be shocked that I’ve got a sister, and that I’d do something as humane as help piggycorns cross a road and read a book to someone else.
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry about what happened. That Coleman Barrier put you through that.”
“Some people just want to knock others down a notch.”
“I don’t think he meant it like that.” She places a hand on my arm. She’s warm, and an inferno flares to life on my skin, winding its way up my shoulder, threatening to overtake my chest.
I shift uncomfortably and she pulls back. “Like I said, I don’t think that’s how Coleman meant it. I do think that he wanted to test you, but I don’t think he thought you’d be—”
“Humiliated?”
“Yes. But just so you know,” she adds quickly, as if trying to soften the blow, “half those people literally have nothing to do all day, and most of them wanted you to win.”
“And you?”
Why am I asking this? Obviously it doesn’t matter if she wanted me to win. This is a business arrangement, and you don’t have to like who you’re in business with—you only have to tolerate them.
But there was something about seeing her out there, looking worried, that got under my skin. Maybe because it was unclear whether she was concerned for me or for her farm.
Not that it matters. Isn’t this settled? She’s a verified fortune hunter. End of story.
“Well, of course I wanted you to win.” She says it to the window, like it’s painful to admit. She gestures to the farm surrounding us. “Without you, we’re . . . we’re done.”
Well, it’s settled. She was worried about the farm. That pisses me off, too. Everything’s pissing me off today—her being a social climber, the chain saw breaking. It’s one big mess.
Rowe’s gaze drifts from my drumming fingers up to my face. Color dots her cheeks, and she unstraps her seat belt.
“But I’m guessing,” she tells me, “that if you show back up there, unfazed by Coleman firing you, and prove that you can cut those posts, he’ll be impressed.
Heck, the whole town will be.” She tugs on the door handle and opens it slightly.
“So what do you say? Will you let me teach you a thing or two about working a chain saw? Or are you going to pretend to know everything?”
I swipe a hand down my face in exhaustion. Seeing as how I’ve got a company to win, I may just have to be willing to take lessons from anyone I can.
“Sure. Why don’t you show me a thing or two about chain saws?”
She slowly grins like this is a victory. “Great. I thought you’d never ask.”
This is something I never thought I’d say—watching a woman work a chain saw is about the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
We’re in Rowe’s dad’s shop, which is covered in vintage product signs—from Coke to Pepsi to Shell to Castrol. They’re all neatly hanging on the walls, and most of them look brand new. They’ve been cared for, revered.
There is also just about every tool a man could need, as well as half a dozen chain saws.
I run a finger over the smooth surface of a Husqvarna. “These are your dad’s?”
“Were his,” she clarifies in a hard voice.
“He collected them.”
She glances up from the smaller STIHL chain saw she’s holding and says with surprise, “Yeah, he did. I never thought about it much, but yeah.”
“I can appreciate a collector.”
“Oh? Do you collect things?”
“Vintage Land Rovers,” I tell her. “The older, the better. The rougher, the better. There’s nothing like finding an old Discovery 1 series and rebuilding the engine.”
Her jaw drops. “You can fix a truck?”
“I’m not just a pretty face,” I growl. “I do have talents that don’t include playing golf and investing money.”
“And eating caviar,” she tosses out sarcastically.
“And that.” I glance up around the barn, noting the patchwork of different-colored wooden boards that line the ceiling and walls. There are shades of gray, brown, and tan, all lined up on top and beside one another, creating a symphony for the eyes. “This is a nice space.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”