Chapter Nine
Belle
Adam drew a kettleful of hot water from the reservoir on the side of an enormous wood stove that hunched in a corner.
All four kitchen windows were open. Sheer curtains billowed and flared, mimicking the dance of the seven veils.
Belle primed the handpump next to the shallow porcelain sink, then added cold water and dish soap to the hot water Adam dumped into the dishpan for washing.
A second pan held scalding water for rinsing.
A drain in the sink led to places unknown that were best not to dwell on.
“Mavis has drifted from the plan,” Adam complained. He dumped the hot water into the dishpan.
Belle washed because Grady was fussy. Things that touched the mouth went first, followed by plates, then pots and pans, which from a health perspective, made perfect sense. Adam, however, wasn’t fussy at all. He grabbed whatever came to hand and scrubbed it without looking.
She dunked the flatware in the hot water. “How has she drifted from the plan?”
“Beau Jones was supposed to arrive, spend two months learning how to be a cowboy, put on a private concert for a guest, then leave. He was supposed to sleep in the bunkhouse and rise with the dawn. He was supposed to be kept so busy he’d be too tired to ask too many questions.”
“Didn’t anyone think he’d notice that things around here aren’t exactly…” She struggled to find the right word. Normal? Mundane? “Twenty-first century?”
“He’s from New York.” Which, apparently, was explanation enough.
“Benny planned to tell him we’re Amish, but then Mavis changed everything by insisting we wait a few days for him to settle in, then tell him about our theme park.
Now we run the risk of him blabbing about us once he returns to New York.
He’ll be asked where he’s been for two months, and he doesn’t care about contracts or NDAs. ”
There were eleven or so Amish communities in Montana, so as far as plausibility went, that story held promise. But it, too, had its flaws.
“How were you planning to explain the town wanting him to sing for a sheik from the Middle East? Who also, coincidentally, is going to be the town’s acting sheriff for a week?”
He seized a handful of the flatware that Belle had carefully rinsed and placed on a cup towel spread on the butcherblock counter.
He wiped the flatware with vigor. “That one was a little trickier. We were going to say we took in a refugee who’d suffered brain trauma when his village was bombed. Now the whole plan is ruined.”
“About that plan … no one told him he had to put on a concert while he was here,” she said.
“He’s a trained classical musician who performed rock music up until he won a spot on Diss Cord.
He doesn’t like country and says he’s giving it up.
What if he refuses to sing?” Because he sort of already had.
Adam wiped a plate and returned it to its proper place in an overhead cupboard. “The hell you say. What kind of career path is that?”
She suspected the same kind that had brought third in her class to Burning Scrub. Money could be a powerful motivator.
Beau’s question as to why Burning Scrub had made an offer to the third in her class had started her thinking, however. She’d always assumed it was because they’d done a little digging and discovered she had no one to miss her if she went off the grid. She could think of no other reason.
She reached for the first of the pots to be washed and dropped it into water that was rapidly cooling. She rinsed it, then set it to drain. “If you want him to sing, why not try being nicer to him?”
“Nicer to him? That boy doesn’t need nice. He needs toughening up. His agent wants him to learn how to be a real cowboy, and real cowboys don’t sleep until noon and have their meals cooked for them. The agent said we’d have our work cut out for us, and so far, he’s right.”
Belle heard Beau’s voice from the dining room—distinctive, even if the words were indistinct—followed by Grady’s laugh. They seemed to be getting along well enough, so the problem between Adam and Beau didn’t appear to be Beau. Not entirely.
The problem was her. Partly because Adam and Jayce were friends.
She should have made her feelings regarding Jayce clear before this, but there had seemed no real rush.
He’d held her hand. They’d shared one kiss.
Even asking her to go to Grand with him had involved separate motel rooms. None of which suggested unbridled passion.
She’d been the new girl in school plenty of times, and she knew how this worked.
Eventually, the novelty always wore off.
That was before Jayce decided Beau was competition for him, however. And it turned out he had a strong competitive streak. Whereas Adam?
Adam was loyal to Burning Scrub. Belle suspected his real goal in encouraging Jayce’s interest in her was to gain the town a permanent doctor.
“Beau doesn’t need to get up at dawn and ride horses to learn what his agent thinks he should know.
He’s a musician. He’s not planning a career as a cowboy,” she said.
“And he seems willing enough to be a team player to me. He’s already offered to take on a role while he’s here.
He can be a gunfighter and fill in for Andy.
” Whose broken arm wasn’t yet fully healed.
“We don’t need another gunfighter. Grady’s filling in for Andy.”
“Grady won’t mind if Beau steps in for Andy instead.”
“Jayce might mind, though. He won the white hat.”
“Jayce hasn’t tried very hard to be nice to Beau, either.” She couldn’t help but point it out.
She didn’t think the cayenne pepper incident had been deliberate, because neither Adam nor Jayce would do that to a horse, but they’d both enjoyed it too much. Beau could have been hurt. Again. And a doctor could only do so much.
Adam put the last pot away. “Jayce worries about the way he looks at you. I don’t like it, either. He’s moving to the bunkhouse today.”
“About that,” Belle began, but Adam was already shaking his head.
“No, Belle. You’ve had your nose in a book since you were a kid.
You’re smart, but you haven’t lived.” He hung his damp cup towel on a hook next to the sink.
“City boys like Beau don’t think anything of taking advantage of innocent country girls like you.
They love ’em and leave ’em. Jayce, though.
He’s the real deal.” His voice roughened and the tips of his ears had gone scarlet. “He’d take good care of you.”
Were they having the birds and bees talk?
This paternal side to Adam, who didn’t exude warmth, was unexpected and awkward, especially since she wasn’t as innocent as he apparently thought.
This was the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth.
She’d worked hard so she could take care of herself, and she’d chosen the medical profession because she liked helping others.
“I have a career. I don’t need a man to take care of me,” she said kindly, because she was touched, even if she didn’t need taking care of.
“Now you sound like Mavis, except she was brought up by Benny. She could take down a grizzly barehanded.” Adam’s face darkened. “You were seen kissing Beau on your front steps. That boy is trouble.”
Even though news traveled fast in Burning Scrub, this had to be some sort of record. It also felt like an invasion of privacy—and her privacy was something she’d always been careful about, thanks in large part to her childhood and her father’s conviction.
“What does your dad do for a living?”
“My dad? When he’s not in jail he delivers illegal funds to whale gamblers in casinos so they can launder it at baccarat tables.”
“He’s had a difficult week, and I was told to be friendly,” Belle said.
“A difficult week … he’ll look back two months from now and laugh at what a greenhorn he was.” Adam glowered at her. “And there’s no need to be that friendly with him.”
“He’s had a difficult week,” she repeated, and tried to sound firm, because the expression in Adam’s eyes didn’t bode well for Beau. “He’s going to remain at my house.” And then, worried that Adam wasn’t paying enough attention to what she was saying, she added, “Mavis said so.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll speak to Mavis and get things sorted out.”
She didn’t believe that Mavis would change her mind. Not after their talk this morning. But Adam could find that out for himself.
“While you do that, why don’t I take Beau on a tour of the town?” she said, because if anyone around here needed taking care of, it was Beau.
Otherwise, he might not make it to August.
*
Beau
Beau propped the crutch Belle had found for him under his arm and tried to decide which aggravated him more—his ribs or his ankle.
The padding on the crutch was worn thin and it was a few inches too short, but Belle had insisted he use it.
Timidness had to be part of her act, because when it came to real doctoring, she was pushy as hell.
After a few hours, though, he was glad he gave in.
While a tour of a nineteenth-century mining town didn’t take long, the residents of Burning Scrub turned out to be talkers, and the crutch gave him something to lean on while he listened.
He liked people and he liked listening to them talk about themselves.
He liked it a whole lot more than hearing how great they thought he was.
He wasn’t a great country singer. Morgan Wallen was great.
Nate Smith was great. Chris Stapleton was great.
But those weren’t his heroes, and he knew very little about them.
Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters had inspired him early on.
He’d worn out Metallica’s Black Album, trying to emulate James Hetfield’s unique down-picking technique.
And Cam Cole was a genius as far as he was concerned.
Whenever he’d wanted to soften things up when he performed on the streets, he threw in some Pearl Jam and Queen.
God, how he loved music. Why wouldn’t the words come?