Begin Again (Crimson Romance) Page 17

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her back turned to him. She stood over the range, the newest appliance in the house, and plated breakfast for him. She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she set eggs, toast, and bacon before him, joining it a moment later with a glass of milk.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Brandt said before he picked up his fork and dug in. This was usually the calmest, most serene part of his day: dishes clinking together, the rustling of the newsprint as his father flipped through it. His father read the paper deliberately, quietly, and Brandt could never remember him voicing an opinion over its contents. He and Laura made small talk as she ate her own breakfast, and that was that.

  “Brandt.” Mitchell folded the paper closed and father and son locked eyes.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Don’t forget I need you to head into town this morning and pick up that new roll of fence at the farm store.”

  Brandt chewed for half a minute before he answered. “You don’t need me to check the herd this morning?”

  Mitchell shook his head quickly. “I’ll get Rawlings to help me with that. Besides, you need a better rapport with people. Most everyone finds you a little … ” Brandt’s mouth dropped in a frown at one corner. “Broody.”

  Brandt lifted an eyebrow. “Okay. As soon as I’m done eating, I’ll head into Layton.” He cleared his throat. “Is it on your tab or … ”

  Mitchell pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and passed it across the table — five twenty-dollar bills. “That oughta cover it.” He shoved his chair back, its legs scraping the pine boards, and stood. “Drive safe, son.” He pulled his hat from a hook near the back door and left without another word.

  “He’s not trying to be harsh,” Laura insisted, and Brandt knew it was to his benefit to listen. “He’s just from a different generation. Warmth is not his strong suit.”

  Brandt nodded and finished his breakfast. “I know,” he replied, shoving the bills in his jeans. He stood, grabbed his cowboy hat, and nearly had it slung atop his head before he remembered to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. “Later, Mom. Don’t work too hard today.”

  She smiled up at him warmly, both hands locked around her own cup of coffee. “I’ll try not to, sweetie.”

  The Conner ranch covered not quite forty-five acres on the outskirts of Layton, a town where everyone was a farmer, a future farmer, or a farmer’s daughter. This was the section of Kentucky that featured gently rolling meadows, a safe respite from the rocky foothills and limestone canyons that dotted points north and east, the verdant pastures and meadows providing ample land for cattle grazing. Other farms featured a passel of hogs, goats, even sheep, but the Conners never cottoned to anything but beef cattle and poultry. And that was just fine with Brandt — cattle were enough work, and he’d been dragging pails of milk and baskets of eggs in the house since he was big enough to walk. It was a lifestyle that both his parents were born into, and complaining about it wouldn’t have done much good — he had an advantage on both of them, having been indoctrinated in the importance of a college education by his parents from an early age. He’d read Shakespeare, researched in that big library until his eyes had gone crossed, learned all about the difference between the philosophies of Aristotle and Plato, and earned that four-year degree. There were times, when he was alone with his thoughts, that he couldn’t understand why all of it was so important — it wasn’t like he’d ever had to recite a sonnet down at the farm store. You asked for feed, or fence wire, or iodine. You paid the clerk or had it put on your father’s tab. Not exactly rocket science.

  There was some advantage to being an only child, and primary beneficiary of his parents’ affections. If Mitchell was somewhat gruff and distant, Brandt had never wanted for anything. His closet was full of flannels and jeans, and he had plenty of nice boots and warm coats. Good gloves that kept his hands from getting raw and chapped in the winter. A few nice Stetson hats. A black truck that was in his name and still under warranty. His dad paid only the insurance, and upkeep otherwise fell on his shoulders. As hard as ranch life could be from time to time, Brandt figured he was luckier than most — how many kids got to live out a childhood dream every day of their adult lives?

  It was early spring, the world outside the truck windows greening back to life. The redbuds were still colored with their bright blooms, the green leaves a few days away from bursting forth. Brandt cracked his window long enough to get a taste of the chilled air, then powered it back up and into place. It was a few miles into Layton, and this was the biggest stretch of quiet he ever got to experience. There was no silence to be found on the ranch, whether in or out of the house. There was always something more to do, something else to worry over, someone yelling for you to get your muddy damned boots off the back porch …

  Here in the truck, though, he heard nothing but the hum of the engine and his subtle breathing. He rolled on toward town, past the high school with its brand-new bleachers and running track paved in broken asphalt. In his years there, he’d consistently baffled the track coach, who couldn’t figure out why someone with a sprinter’s legs didn’t try out for the team. Brandt had always shrugged it off; he’d outrun a few bulls in his time, mainly because he didn’t listen to his father’s carefully-worded warnings not to piss them off. No matter — he’d never been injured on the ranch, aside from Mitchell reaming him up one side and down the other. Laura always defused conflict before it reached critical mass, a better peacemaker than anyone at the Ambassador’s table.

  Brandt had always been closer to his mother, from the time he was born. Mitchell had taught him everything there was to know about ranching, how to brand a cow or inoculate a calf, even how to turn a bull into a steer, but so much of that was technical, distant, as though the elder Conner was keeping his son at arm’s length. “Do this, not that. Stand up straight, don’t pout.” And so it went. Maybe that was the real reason he’d been marched off to college, he considered, pulling his truck into a diagonal space at the front of the farm store.

  To keep him and his father from coming to blows.

  • • •

  Different day, same routine.

  In the week since Marissa Sloan had started her job at Layton Farm and Supply Company, she’d done the same tasks each day: swept the floor every morning before they opened for business, but not before she’d inventoried and straightened all the shelves, wiped down the checkout counter, and started the coffee in the employee lounge that was little more than a cubbyhole between the restroom and storeroom. The manager, Mona Larkin, was a longtime friend of her mother who’d secured this job for her. The only stipulation was that she had to move from her hometown, not quite fifty miles away, which was no hardship — she had nothing holding her there, and thus far her college degree had proven useless. She was now renting the apartment above the farm store, the one that always smelled like seasoned lumber and feed corn. As she put away the broom, she gave the store a once-over — the interior was covered in aged wood, and looked like it would turn into a tinderbox if she breathed on it too warmly. Mona had given her a customary greeting as she unlocked the front door before heading back into the sanctuary of her office. Mona would never have made manager without a strong degree of nepotism — she didn’t display a whole lot of friendliness outside of superficial greetings: “Hi, how are you?” or “How is your (insert family member’s name here)?” was about as deep as she ever went. Still, Marissa was exceedingly grateful for this job, and the opportunity to earn a paycheck. She’d been without both for too long.

  She was settling in for another standard day, her butt planted firmly on a stool beside the cash register, when her world was knocked sideways. He ambled into the store, coughing as dust motes filled the air, a hitch barely noticeable in his gait. The white Stetson was pushed low, shielding his eyes from view. As he stepped close to the counter, she looked up into his gaze.

  H
er eyes swept over a wiry, rangy frame, his jeans and shirt well broken-in. He pushed up the brim of his hat and she caught her first glimpse of those green eyes — darker than an oak leaf, closer in hue to a blade of grass. His face was lightly tanned, nearly blending in with his brown hair. He had a sharp jawline but little else to distinguish an otherwise handsome face. When their gazes met, the back of her neck went hot, and she was suddenly relieved she’d worn her hair down that day. He cleared his throat and gave her a small smile.

  “Good morning,” he said in a roughened timbre.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “I’m here to pick up an order,” he murmured.

  “Okay,” she said, a little taken aback by his abruptness. She rifled in her pocket until she found the key that opened the storage locker under the counter, the usual place where special orders were housed.

  “Haven’t seen you around here before,” he continued, and she noted he’d shoved his hands in his pockets. Don’t look at his pockets, she chided herself. Don’t look anywhere but his eyes — beautiful, green, mysterious.

  “I just started this week … ” she said, trailing off as Mona entered the corner of her vision. She’d undoubtedly heard the whoosh of air when their first customer arrived for the day and come to supervise. Marissa reminded herself once more that she needed this job and would slowly have to earn Mona’s respect.

  “Brandt,” Mona said, somewhat tersely.

  “Mrs. Larkin,” he replied.

  “I noticed your mama wasn’t in church Sunday. I hope she’s feeling okay.”

  He nodded politely, but Marissa noted the square set of his jaw, as though speaking required great effort for him. “She was feeling a little under the weather. She’s fine now.”

  “Good,” Mona replied. Marissa set the bundle of electric fence atop the counter and Mona shot her a mildly exasperated look. “Don’t forget the insulators, Marissa. They should be right alongside the fencing.”

  Marissa found the bag of yellow plastic insulators immediately and laid them next to the fence. She was perceptive enough to notice the uncomfortable pose displayed by manager and customer, standing far apart on the other side of the counter, as though a chasm had opened between them. She wondered what that was all about, and then realized it was none of her business.

  “Brandt,” Mona said in a measured tone, “this is Marissa Sloan. She just started working for us.” He extended his hand across the counter and she shook it. His handshake was firm, the skin warm and work-hewn.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” she replied. She noted quickly that he couldn’t speak to anyone without meeting their eyes. Eye contact wasn’t her strong suit but this cowboy or whatever he was had her seemingly hypnotized. Their hands parted and he looked down at his purchases before meeting her eyes again.

  “How much do I owe you?” She totaled the items, told him the price, and money and change was traded.

  “Do you need a receipt?”

  He nodded. “Tax purposes. You understand.”

  “Of course,” she said, playing along. She dropped the receipt in his bag and he started to go. “Have a nice day,” she quickly remembered to say.

  He gave her an appraising look, then spared another smile. “You too, ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. She watched him the whole way, only breaking her stare when he disappeared and the door closed behind him. She felt the blush creep along her neck again, her insides turning molten. She met Mona’s eyes — she swore they were black, a totally unnatural color for anyone’s irises — and found them staring back at her hard.

  “Who was that?” Marissa asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant and disinterested.

  Mona frowned. “Brandt Conner. His family owns a big cattle ranch outside of town.”

  “Cattle ranch?” She gave her boss a quizzical stare. “I thought people called them farms around here.”

  She shook her head. “Most do, but I guess the Conners have a better PR agent.” She laughed under her breath. “Most farms have a variety of animals, but the Conners only deal in cattle. And they keep a few chickens around for eggs.”

  Marissa stared at her fingers as she began tapping them on the plastic covering that formed the top of the counter. “He seemed friendly.”

  “Oh, he is,” Mona retorted. Their eyes met again, and Marissa didn’t like what she saw there.

  “You said his name was Brandt?”

  Mona nodded. “You’d be wise to wipe that interested look off your face, young lady. Brandt is a first-class player. His parents might just as well install a turnstile at the top of their stairs. He’s already left a trail of broken hearts from there to here,” she said, sweeping her hand from the front of the store to the back. “If you’re looking for love, come to church with me this week. There are plenty of well-spoken, God-fearing men there who are looking for long-term commitment. With Brandt Conner, commitment lasts about as long as it takes to get his pants off.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, Mona,” Marissa replied quietly, anxious for the woman to be out of her hair and no longer spouting gibberish. She’d literally gazed upon Brandt for the first time five minutes ago — and while she was undoubtedly attracted, she hardly needed Mona to dissuade her from anything. She was old enough at twenty-four to make her own decisions, to form her own view of the world. Her own father had shown her that male reliability was not a given, and her luck with past boyfriends had been mixed. But this was a new town, a fresh start, and Mona was the only person here she knew. As her manager walked back to the safety of her office, Marissa couldn’t help but think she’d like to add Brandt to her short list of friends. With Mona’s door shut tight, she pulled a ledger from beneath the counter and scanned its alphabetical listings. The Conners had a standing account, and looked to be frequent customers. With any luck, she’d see Brandt again soon.

  Time would tell.

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