Randy White - Seduced

All I knew for certain was, we couldn’t return to the cabin until Reggie was ready.

“I’m the one at fault,” I said. “I came down here because I thought I heard people talking. Reggie asked me to check.”

“He brought you? In the limo? That’s quite an honor.”

“Yes,” I said. “Reggie did the driving, of course.”

The remark was so stupid, I wasn’t surprised by his puzzled reaction. I had no hope of weaving sense out of the nest of lies I was creating, but Kermit Bigalow was polite enough not to press. “Voices, huh? I didn’t see anybody.”

“Could’ve been birds, I suppose. Mockingbirds, they can sound like people. Let’s take a look; check the trees along the river.”

“Hmm.” The man stood there, the door wide, waiting for me to exit, but then showed smile lines from jaw to cheeks and snapped his fingers. “I’m a dope-it was me. A few minutes ago, I was on the phone with my daughter. Doesn’t matter where I am, or the time of day, I wouldn’t miss a call from her. She has her own ring, so I bellied up on the deck like a seal and put her on Speaker . Forgot all about it ’til now.”

I smiled, too, but was sweating on the inside. “That’s so sweet. A daughter.”

“Nothing in the world like it. Most men want a boy first time around. Not me. You have kids, Miss Smith? Or is it Mrs.?”

“How old is she?” I asked rather than answer the question.

“Ten going on eighteen. You’d have to meet her to understand. Some of the things she says-my gosh, you can’t help laughing. Here, have a look.”

Normally, it is a joy to meet an adoring father, but it took some work to keep my smile frozen while he produced a phone and swept through a dozen photos of a pretty little girl. Her name was Sarah, a tomboy with braids and a missing front tooth. The child, or her mother, was fond of bib overalls and red ribbons, but there were also shots of her in a dainty party dress with shiny black flats that buckled, white socks flush at her ankles. A great big smile on the face of a girl who enjoyed dressing up.

“I spoil her rotten,” Bigalow grinned. “Can’t help myself. All the teachers say she should be in advanced classes, but my wife thinks public school’s best for now. We’ve gone ’round and ’round about that.”

“I just bet you do spoil her,” I said. “That’s a good thing, not bad.”

“You really believe that?”

His interest in my opinion was sincere, which was unexpected. “You can’t spoil a child with too much attention and love. That never made sense to me, people who claim you can.” I started to add something about the girl, and the sun rising on her daddy’s head, but stopped when a woman on horseback came riding out of the trees at the edge of the river.

“Uh-oh,” Bigalow said. “She’s not gonna like it, finding us here. That’s Lonnie Chatham. Lonnie doesn’t like anyone being on what she considers her property. Including me-but especially other women when her husband’s around.”

“Never met her,” I said. “She’s jealous of a man that age?”

“She’s that mean,” the grove manager replied. “Or nice, depending on who she’s talking to, or what she wants.” Which is why he was taken aback when I charged out the door and waved to get the woman’s attention. Meeting Mrs. Chatham might be unpleasant, but it was better than her surprising Reggie inside the cabin. Blessedly, she saw me and kicked the horse into a trot.

“It was wrong of me to speak that way about his wife,” the man said, joining me outside. Not nervous about his remarks, just regretful. “I’m forty-two years old, Miss Smith, and I still haven’t learned to stop my mouth from saying what’s running through my mind. Tell Mr. Chatham what you want, but I felt the need to admit that to you.”

“Call me Hannah,” I replied, “and stop worrying. I’ve spent half my life apologizing for things I’ve said, even though I meant most of them-at the time anyway.”

He showed his smile lines again; cinnamon hair thinning, freckles showing through his tan, a man who was an inch shorter than me, and ten years older. “Call me Kermit. And when Lonnie gets here? It might be best if you just sort of follow my lead.”

I am a better judge of women than men-a trait that has plagued the women in my family for generations. Particularly my aunts, three of them named Hannah. For two of my namesakes, their flawed judgment resulted in violence and an untimely death. This sad fact, which I seldom share, has kept me awake at night, particularly if there is a moon and wind. It has also caused me to be wary in my dealings with men.

Loretta describes my behavior as prudish and cold, often adding, “No wonder you’re childless and live alone.”

My mother, of course, could not resist taunting fate, and her oversized infant, by saddling me with the name Hannah and the weight of my family’s unfortunate history. She has always had a sharp, judgmental tongue, but I blame the brain aneurysm for her decline into downright meanness. Perhaps it is my excuse to forgive the woman who bore me, and whose own life has not been easy.

Either way, it is true, I suppose. I have sidestepped the attentions of more men than I have embraced-not that large numbers can be assigned to either column.

When it comes to reading women, however, I believe my instincts are better than most. That’s why when Lonnie Chatham appeared, I had to caution myself because I disliked her immediately. It wasn’t her appearance so much as her attitude. She was closer in age to Kermit than to her late husband yet spoke with the veiled enmity of a queen interacting with the hired help. She sat atop a horse of glistening maple, so we had to look up. She seldom bothered to look down.

“Your days off are called days off for a reason, Kermit. I don’t see your truck”-the woman’s sculpted face became a cameo silhouette-“but I don’t care how you got here, just that you’re here. You know I exercise Axel on Friday afternoons. Swimming in the nude again, were you? Or just snooping?”

This was asked with a saucy edge that was laced with accusation.

Axel was the stunning Thoroughbred, who stood fifteen hands tall, with withers so muscled they strained beneath the tiny caramel saddle that matched the woman’s caramel riding boots. The animal snorted and backed against the reins, too wild-eyed to be a gelding.

The grove manager kept a watchful eye. “My truck was due for an oil change, ma’am. It’s parked behind the maintenance barn, and this young lady-” The horse sidestepped, came close to rearing, so he stepped forward. “How about I hold his halter, Mrs. Chatham?”

“Only if you want to lose a hand. I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

“This is Hannah Smith. Reggie was kind enough to bring her out for a tour. She owns a citrus grove that-”

“And you pick the only afternoon in the whole damn week I actually look forward to? Axel is easily upset. Strangers upset him, and his nose picks up on all that damn organic crap you’ve been spraying on the citrus. Now it’ll be hell wearing him down until he’s civil enough to ride.”

Kermit attempted to explain but was interrupted again. “Is Harney up there?” The woman’s head swung toward the cabin, which was screened by trees and moss. “I don’t see the limo, and no way in hell Reggie would drive that damn old truck.”

“The Lincoln’s there, ma’am,” Kermit responded, because that’s what I had told him was true.

“It’s not supposed to be. Harney claimed he had meetings in town this afternoon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came here today just to spite me.”

“Mr. Chatham’s been in the cabin most of the day,” Kermit replied. “Must’a finished early. I can’t say for sure. We haven’t spoke, but I know he’s up there.”