Chapter 3 #2
“If a man sixteen years older than any of my daughters, once they grow up, tried anything, I’d rip his throat out and bury his body in the mountain.” Shit. Limp dick boys, then men will want to date my girls when they’re of age.
My sternum squeezes my ribs, making it harder to breathe.
“You have daughters? Plural?” she asks, surprised, but doesn’t look put off by the idea.
Exhaling heavily, I lean my forearms against the butcher block counter.
“Violet.” Her blue pupils dilate at hearing her name.
Ignore that, Hud. “I have three girls. All under ten. My lawyer thought getting married would help me win them back. This isn’t a game for me.
I don’t plan on bringing a strange woman into my home, legally tying me and the girls to her, risking their safety.
My lawyer was out of his mind to put that ad out. I’m sorry you came all this way.”
“You need to win them? Legally?” she inquires.
Not wanting to reveal more details than I already have, I bypass her question. “You’re a beautiful young woman. You have plenty of time in life. You’ll find a good, honest man you can marry someday. You don’t need to go through whatever asinine agency put this shitshow idea together.”
“Your pie is getting cold,” she says out of nowhere. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.” Her big doe eyes watch intently, anticipating my reaction to her homebaked food.
Already hating the idea of further disappointing her, I take my first official bite.
Damn it. I knew I’d be fucked. The seasoned chicken she gave a light grill before baking it, is tender and full of flavor, the vegetables, cooked to perfection, the creamy gravy, buttery crust… holy shit, this is good.
She exhales. Did she honestly think I’d hate it?
“While we’re being honest, I’m not interested in being anyone’s mail-order bride either. Definitely not as a means to find love.” Okay. That surprises and intrigues me.
I continue digging into her meal because let’s face it, I’d chop off anyone’s finger who tries to take this plate from me now.
“It’s only fair you know everything you’d get yourself into.” Violet leans over the counter. My eyes dart to her abundant cleavage her movements pushed up further. Quickly, I focus on the pie again.
She’s fucking twenty-two years old, you damn creep.
“The compensation,” she starts. At my confused expression, she takes out her phone and scrolls before showing me the screen.
“Fucking Sanford,” I grunt around my bite.
“If this still stands, my mother’s family home is in danger of being taken from us. I lost her,” she pauses, her eyes illuminating, not with sunshine but tears. “Five years ago. Cancer. My father used to work for Eden PD. Things are a mess at the moment.”
“And for a house, you’re willing to marry a complete stranger from the internet?”
“Not the internet, per se. The agency is reputable. I’ve been researching them. I’m a freelance journalist for Eden Ridge Newspaper.” My body locks up. She notices. “Oh no. Whatever happened in your past is none of my business. Now.”
“Now?” I ask, suspiciously.
“I may have written a piece about you three years ago, but if you hadn’t heard, Sheriff Jones was a crooked dick. And he’s dead, so maybe that’s bad of me to say about the dead?”
“He was an awful human, no regard for human life, greed drove him, and his actions hurt many people. His being dead doesn’t change who he chose to be in life. You’re only expressing facts,” I reassure her.
Leaning back again, I sigh. “Violet, I would love to help, but I can’t do this marriage thing. I have to think of my girls. They need me. My focus needs to be on doing everything in my power to get them home, to me, here in Eden Ridge.”
“Where are they now?” she asks.
I don’t want to get into that right now–at all. What I want is to call Sanford, then drive to Portland and kick his ass.
Knock, knock.
“Daddy!” Lucy’s voice yells through the front door. “Surprise!”
“Shit,” I spit, scurrying to my feet, skidding to a stop before getting to the door. My frantic gaze shoots over to the golden angel standing at the opening of the hallway. “Fuck,” I whisper. How do I explain her?
Lucy’s kicking the door, Angie’s telling her to stop, Silvie’s voice is strained, demanding that Lucy behave. I don’t think or rationalize. I rush to open for my girls.
“Daddy!” Lucy squeals, jumping her little five-year-old body up.
I bend and pick her up. “Baby girl, what have I told you about the door?”
Over by the driveway, Kristy sneers before revving the vintage car that I know is not hers and leaves. Not even a damn wave of acknowledgment. She’s pissed I won weekends. I know. But I can’t focus or care about what she’ll do about it. My worlds are home.
I use my free hand to pull Angie in for a hug before wrapping that same hand around Silvie’s hoodie and kissing the top of her head.
“Get inside, girls. It’s cold and wet out.”
“Who’s that?” Lucy asks as I set her down. Not even two minutes. Of course, she clocked her instantly.
“Hi, ladies. I’m Violet. It’s nice to meet you.” Goldie’s eyes sparkle.
She holds out her hand and shakes both Lucy’s and my shy girl, Angie’s. She holds it out for Silvie next, and as expected, my little woman is full of attitude, glaring up at Violet.
I lightly bumped my hip against her. “Behave,” I grunt quietly.
“Cookies!” Lucy’s already in the kitchen and clearly found Violet’s baked treats.
“Don’t you dare, Lucy Samantha Wilder,” I say, knowing she might already be halfway to stuffing three into her mouth. “You have to eat dinner later.”
“Have you girls eaten lunch yet?” Violet asks.
“It’s like four,” Silvie sasses. “We ate hours ago. Obviously.”
“Silvie,” I reprimand.
Rolling her eyes, she mumbles under her breath, “I’m gonna make sure Lucy isn’t inhaling whatever cookies she’s found.”
She walks off to once again mother her younger sister, which grates me. She’s ten. Her instincts shouldn’t drive her to motherly instincts already, so young. Fucking Kristy.
Violet kneels in front of my Angie, who has her long, straight, light brown hair intricately braided in pigtails. Violet smiles sweetly.
“Your braids are so cool. Did you do them yourself?” she asks.
Angie looks up at me for permission. I rest my hand on the back of her head and nod. She looks back at Violet and gives a small smile, nodding at her response.
“I wear my hair so short now, I never know what to do with it. It’s just easier,” she giggles. Damn it, her sounds are like crack.
“You could braid the front like a headband. It would look so pretty. Dutch braids are my favorite,” Angie answers softly.
“Maybe one day you could show me?” Violet’s blue gaze looks up at me, now she seeks permission.
I feel trapped. Do I disappoint my girl and say, No?
Do I lie just not to create drama and get this beautiful woman out of my home before my girls fall in love with her?
How could they not? She’s every antithesis of their mother.
The girls love their mother, of course. But they’ve never known the loving actions, words, nature of a nurturer, which Kristy just doesn’t have in her.
Violet, on the other hand, has it in spades.
This would be absurd. Marrying a stranger.
A woman half my age, at that. And she’s in it for the money.
What if she’s lying about the house and just wants to fuel some addictive behavior?
I hear it before I think it. I know I’m deflecting.
Kristy messed with my trust in women. But the girls are too important to take risks.
“We’ll see, baby,” I tell Angie. “Why don’t you do me a favor and make sure Silvie doesn’t kill your little sister?” I ask.
Angie giggles quietly, then heads to the kitchen. Once they’re out of hearing range, I lead Violet to the door.
“I’ll have your dishes returned as soon as I can. I have the girls this weekend, so I need to focus on that. Again, I’m sorry you thought the ad was real. It’s not. Please, drive safely. And thank you for the pie. And cookies.”
Her eyes dim at the dismissal, but a hint of fire sparks, too. “I’d love to discuss this further. If you need a wife to legally get your girls, I’d like to help.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t even know why I need to win them back. What if I’m a monster and you should be fighting to have the girls stay with their mother?” I challenge.
Her piercing gaze doesn’t leave my deep brown stare. “Two minutes, watching you with them, and how they respond to you? You love them. Unconditionally. A woman knows,” she says softly. “I don’t know your story or theirs. But I’d like to. Please,” she reaches out and squeezes my forearm.
The sharp zap of electricity at her touch has me pull an unexpected breath.
Her eyes flare differently than I’ve seen today.
She hasn’t let go. She smiles softly, finally releases me, and walks out to her beat-up, mustard yellow Ford.
I stand on the front porch and watch her wave as she pulls away toward the main path.
This string strains with the distant. Unconsciously, I rub my chest hard, wanting this bizarre pull to break. Once her brake lights disappear, I get back inside to the beautiful chaos of having my girls home.
Before meeting them in the kitchen, I dial Sanford.
“The fuck did you do?” I bark quietly when he answers.