Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (4 page)

“Oh brother. Can’t you just have a healthy interest in a woman without her being the one?”

“Nope.”

“That’s bull, Cletus. You’ve been with other women and none of them were the one.”

I glared at him, not willing to explain the obvious. Clearly my brother didn’t understand the concept of research: the value of gathering data, the necessity of testing theories, and the importance of post-coital analysis. Not everything could be discovered in a laboratory environment. Knowing something in theory is meaningless if you have no experience with real-life application.

“Maybe she isn’t the one,” he suggested, likely growing weary of my silent glare. “Maybe you’re just attracted to an exceptionally pretty lady. Have you thought of that?”

“Nope. She’s the one.”

“Momma always used to say that you have a fixation problem. You get a thought in your head and you can’t let it go. One of these days, making up your mind too fast is going to land you in a heap of trouble.”

I gave him a non-committal grunt in response. Our mother had frequently said I was a “fixator.” She was right. I was a fixator. I fixated. I focused. It was a good personality trait in that I never had difficulty achieving a goal, once I set my mind to it. But it was a bad personality trait in that sometimes I couldn’t stop focusing on something, even when I wanted to.

“Why does everything have to be black and white?” Jethro continued to press. “Why does every person have to be a zero or a ten on your worthwhile scale? Maybe she’s a seven or a four.”

I shrugged. “I don’t have time for fours and sevens, I have too much to do. If someone isn’t a ten, they’re a zero.”

He sighed loudly, like a deflating inner tube. It was not a healthy sound. “Well, whatever. You do what you want. You always do anyway.”

“I will. Now what is it that you want?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re not loitering around here for your health. You want to ask me a favor.”

The eyebrow lowered and now he was squinting, which meant I was right.

“How do you know these things?”

“I know everything. So ask. I’m busy.”

“Already planning the wedding?” Jethro teased.

I narrowed my eyes on him, not liking his teasing. “Something like that.”

He took the hint and changed the subject. “Fine. So, Sienna—”

“You mean, your fiancée.”

“Yeah. Sienna—”

“You should call her your fiancée.”

“What? Why?”

“’Cause that’s who she is to you. I’m your brother, you say, ‘My brother.’ Sienna is your fiancée and has earned that title in your life. She puts up with your ugly face and bad manners, the least you can do is address her properly.”

Jethro whistled low before saying, “I guess you really are irritated.”

“Just earning my title as your brother. Now, back to your fiancée.”

“Fine, crusty britches. So,
my fiancée
and I
,
we’re moving into the carriage house when she gets home next week.”

“She doesn’t like living with us?” I was disappointed. I liked Sienna. She made me laugh and often surprised me with her shenanigans and tomfooleries. Very few people ever surprised me. “Is it the bathroom schedule? She doesn’t like the idea of it?”

“No. She likes it just fine. In fact, she wanted to add her name to the schedule.”

I grinned. “That’s funny.”

Jethro scowled. “No. It’s not funny. And don’t repeat it either. I don’t like living with Sie—” He broke off, huffing when I lifted my eyebrows at him, and began anew. “I don’t like living with my fiancée and my five brothers—each of whom have more than earned their title in my life. So we’re moving to the carriage house.”

“You’re not living with five brothers. Roscoe is gone, off to horse school.”

“You mean veterinary school.”

I nodded once. “That’s what I said, didn’t I? And Duane and Jessica leave before Thanksgiving for Italy. Who knows when they’ll return? So it would only be three of your brothers.”

He ignored this detail. “Back to the carriage house, I can do the big stuff, finish the framing and such. But I need your help with the details, doing the drywall, running the electrical. I wouldn’t ask if I had more time.”

I waved away his explanation. “Why not move into Claire’s place? Didn’t she offer it to you before she left town?”

Claire McClure was an overall high-quality person, definitely a ten. It took some convincing, but I’d tricked her into performing with me at a talent show in Nashville next month. She’d sing and I’d play the banjo. I didn’t want to win the talent show, but I did want to buy a car from one of the judges.

It was a perfect twin of a car I already owned and I wanted it. The car did not blend, everyone knew it was mine, and therefore owning two would give me the ability to be in two places at once.

Unfortunately, the judge didn’t know she wanted to sell it to me yet.

Claire was also a good friend of Jethro’s, but had recently moved to Nashville to accept a teaching position, but that was only part of the reason. The real reason she left town was to avoid my brother Billy. That story is too long to tell and too depressing.

“Yeah, Claire offered her house. But I don’t like the idea of leaving the homestead completely. After all, it is my home. Momma left it to me. And I want our kids to live there from birth.”

“You planning on having some kids next week?”

Jethro’s eyes cut away and he shifted on his feet, a pleased and guilty looking smile mounting itself on his face.

And I knew.

“Wait a minute . . .”

Jethro pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhh—”

“Sienna is pregnant!”

“Hush!” Jethro clamped his obnoxious hand over my mouth, pairing the action with a stern look. “Shut your mouth.”

“Erfrenmafma,” I said. It was nonsense, of course. His hand covering my mouth meant I could speak.

He squinted a silent warning and dropped his hand. “What was that?”

“It’s about time you impregnated that woman.”

“Cletus. We’ve only been engaged two months.”

“I know. I’ve been counting. Well . . .” I rubbed my hands together; this was great news. This was the best news. “When do we start on the carriage house? Tonight? We’ll add a nursery. Yellow is a nice color. Maybe this’ll get Drew and Ashley moving. I’ll be the godfather, of course. Cletus is a nice name.”

Now he did roll his eyes, but he also smiled. I gave him a free pass on the eye-roll because he’d just created a Winston progeny. “You’re so anxious for babies, why don’t you go make some of your own?”

My good humor deflated. Not a complete annihilation of my happiness, just a slight tempering.

“Oh, I’ll never have kids,” I responded; but before he could think too hard or too long about what I’d said, I added with a meaningful grin, “But that don’t mean I can’t spoil yours.”

“If he be Mr. Hyde," he had thought, "I shall be Mr. Seek.”

― Robert Louis Stevenson,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

~Jennifer~

“I have some
great news.”

My mother’s announcement startled me. She had this habit of suddenly appearing and making a loud proclamation. I wasn’t a loud person, and her hollering usually caught me off guard.

“What is it, peanut?” My father glanced up from his newspaper, a tolerant smile on his features. He was very indulgent of my mother ever since the lodge started turning a sizeable profit.

My grandmother said he was an enabler, and it was a good thing my momma wasn’t an alcoholic because he would’ve been pouring her drinks.

“I just got off the phone with Jacqueline Freeman.” My momma glanced between my father and me.

We were sitting at the kitchen table. It was an early Sunday morning and I’d just sat down after spending the last four hours making goodies for the bakery. Sunday was a busy day because of the church crowd.

When we continued to regard her blankly, she huffed, shaking her head at us. “Jacqueline Freeman? You know, the talent agent? In New York?”

“Oh.” My father jumped in his seat. “That’s right, I remember you talking about her last month. How exciting. This is certain to bring in a lot of revenue for the business. It’s about time I upgraded the boat.”

I scrunched my face, not quite following the conversation. “Why would you be talking to a talent agent?”

“Jennifer, don’t make that face. It’ll give you premature wrinkles.”

I rolled my eyes. This earned me a stern look from both my parents.

“Jennifer Anne Sylvester,” my mother began, scowling, “you know I don’t like it when you are disrespectful.”

“Listen to your mother, Jennifer,” my father added unnecessarily.

“Sorry,” I offered wearily, an instinctive spike of guilt blooming in my chest. I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

I was tired. I hadn’t been sleeping well since recording the incident at the police station earlier in the week. I didn’t know what to do, and I had no one to talk to about it.

My momma didn’t realize I’d already gone to the station and recorded the testimonial, so she wasn’t asking for the video. All the charges against Razor had been dropped. Apparently, he’d been arrested for a misdemeanor drug charge, nothing too serious, but enough to place him in jail for a few months.

Without the missing evidence, they were unable to hold him in custody.

The decision to turn in Cletus should have been cut and dry. He’d taken the evidence, I’d recorded it, so I should have contacted the sheriff and showed him the video immediately. But I didn’t. Every time I thought about making the call, I thought of an excuse: too tired, too busy, too comfortable under my covers.

I didn’t want to think about the real reason I hadn’t turned him in, because the real reason made me a terrible person.

So I fretted and baked.

“It’s all right. Now, let’s see. I think I forgot to tell you.” My momma waved her hands in the air excitedly. “Well, here it is: Jacqueline Freeman is a talent agent in New York City—like I just said—and she got a call out of the blue from the Chiquita Banana folks about you. She has a relationship with the Kraft food people and—well, never mind. That’s not important.”

I was trying to follow but having difficulty making sense of her disjointed explanation. “So, some lady in New York—”

“Jacqueline Freeman, talent agent extraordinaire.”

“Ms. Freeman got a call from the people at Chiquita Banana about me?”

“That’s right.”

“Why would they call her?”

“Because that’s how this stuff works.”

“What stuff? Why did they call at all?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They want you to be their spokesperson. They want you in commercials, you and your cakes.” She clapped her hands together and addressed her next statement to my father. “Oh, this is going to make things so much easier with the lodge investors. Once they find out about this, the deal is as good as done. Lord, this takes a load off my mind.”

Meanwhile, my stomach churned. I felt like I was going to be sick.

“Commercials?” I asked weakly.

“That’s right. TV commercials to start, and Jacqueline mentioned a cooking show in the future. But you’d begin with some guest spots on the Food Network first. Jennifer, I don’t think I need to tell you how important this is, baby. This is it, this is what we’ve been hoping for.”

My heart thumped sluggishly between my ears before taking off at a gallop. The room tilted. I broke out into a sweat. My throat and mouth were as dry as a desert.

TV? Cooking show?

“Jenn?” My momma said, she sounded far away. “Honey, are you okay?”

I don’t want this. I don’t want this.

“I don’t . . . can I . . .” I tried to swallow but I couldn’t. The room was spinning. “Can I have some water?”

“Baby girl, you don’t look so good.”

Blackness creeped in at the edges of my vision and I flattened my palms on the top of the table for balance. It was too late.

The last thing I saw before succumbing to the darkness was my mother’s face hovering over me, frantic with worry.

***

I woke up
in an ambulance.

At the ER in Knoxville, they did tons of tests. The doctors finally decided I’d suffered from dehydration and exhaustion. Fluids were administered and I was sent home with strict orders to rest. By the time I left the hospital I felt more like a pin cushion than a person, and I’d decided what to do about Cletus Winston.

When my brother left home to join the army years ago, I moved into his old room even though it was smaller than mine. My mother didn’t understand why I wanted the smaller room on the first floor that had a window overlooking the porch when I could have the larger room on the second floor with a window overlooking the mountains.

She didn’t understand I needed an escape hatch. I didn’t make a habit of sneaking out. I’d only done it twice before and I made sure I wouldn’t be caught. But just knowing I could leave, if I wanted to, made the reality of each day feel less overwhelming.

I liked that I could, at any time, pack a bag and disappear. I liked knowing I could vanish, leave onerous expectations behind. I would never do it, I could never live with myself if I hurt my parents that way—especially my momma—but I liked knowing I could.

The first time I snuck out was when I was seventeen. A pen pal of mine was in Knoxville and my father refused to let me see him. Determined, I’d climbed out the window, donned a baseball hat, and met Oliver Müller and his parents at Daisy’s Nut house for decaf coffee and day-old pie. Oliver and his family were really nice. He was just one year older than me and has since gone to the University of Berlin and graduated with a degree in electrical engineering.

The second time I’d been twenty. An artist I liked had been playing a concert in Knoxville and my momma didn’t want me to go. She said it was too close to the state fair baking competition. Determined, I’d used the window again, borrowed my momma’s car, and went to the concert all on my own and had THE BEST time. I hadn’t been afraid. I’d wanted to see that concert and so I went.

Tonight I was using my escape hatch to drive over to the Winston place and confront Cletus Winston.

I was terrified.

But I was determined.

As soon as night fell, I slipped on my contraband jeans, sneakers, and baseball hat, stuffed my bed with pillows, and climbed out of the first-floor window. My car was at the end of the drive and, thank the Lord, was the new model BMW electric. It was quiet as a whisper.

I was careful not to switch on the lights until I’d turned onto the main road. The Winston place wasn’t far, just a few miles up Moth Run Road, and was set back on a large lot of several acres. No one would see my car from the main thoroughfare, but just to be safe, I pulled to the side of the house where a large pear tree was heavy with fruit.

I didn’t dawdle, because if I paused to think about the intelligence of my actions I would change my mind. My actions were about as intelligent as poking a bear with a stick.

But I was desperate.

If anyone could help me, it was Cletus Winston—even if I had to blackmail him to do it.

I shut the car door as quietly as possible and quickly maneuvered to the front porch, climbing the steps two at a time, and rushing to the door. I knocked. Loudly. Several times. And then I waited.

My heart was lodged in my throat so I tried to swallow past it. I couldn’t show weakness. I needed to be tough.

I can be tough.
I nodded, shifting from one foot to the other.
I can be real tough. You can’t be a sissy and make fifty loaves of bread in a day. That’s a lot of kneading. I’m tough as nails. I’m basically the Rocky Balboa of bakers. I’m unstoppable! Aint nobody gunna—

The door swung open. I jumped back a half step. My voice failed me.

It was Cletus. He stood in the doorway, a half-apron around his hips and a wooden spoon in his hand. He looked perturbed.

His eyes did a quick pass of my person and he said, “I don’t know you.”

I blinked at him, surprised by his patently false statement. We’d never spoken to each other, but we certainly did
know
of each other. The fact that he was looking at me and didn’t recognize me did wonders to conquer my fear.

Placing my hands on my hips, I stuck my chin out. “You most certainly do know me. Your momma used to read me stories on Tuesdays at the library and I went to Sunday school with your youngest brother.”

Cletus’s eyebrows ticked up at my claim, but no other sign of surprise was visible on his face. “The Banana Cake Queen,” he said flatly. “What do you want?”

Again, his greeting could not have been any more effective in pissing me off. For a moment, I forgot who he was. I forgot to be afraid. I forgot that I was bad at talking to people—especially men.

For a moment, my desperation and irritation superseded everything else I knew about myself.

So I demanded, “I need to speak with you.” 

He scowled. “Can’t. Busy. Bye.”

Cletus moved to shut the door. I stuck my foot in its path and braced my palm against the solid wood. “Make time. What I have to say is important.”

His eyebrows lifted again, higher this time. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Do you want to go to jail?” I challenged.

“For what? Not talking to you? Now I know you think highly of yourself, but you do know you’re not a real queen, right?”

I leaned in close, whispering through gritted teeth, “If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to call the sheriff and show him a very interesting video of you from last week.”

Cletus blinked and his eyes moved between mine, searching. I clenched my jaw and met his gaze, though my resolve weakened a little because he smelled like Italian food. He smelled like lasagna and lasagna was my favorite, and I wasn’t allowed to eat lasagna. My momma never let me have it. She said it was too fattening.

My stomach growled. He didn’t appear to hear it.

“Fine,” he said suddenly, turning and dropping his spoon someplace unseen. Clearly irritated, he stepped forward and into my space, forcing me to back up as he closed the door behind him. “Let’s go.”

Cletus strolled past me, not waiting to see if I followed, and down the porch steps. I watched him walk to his car and open the driver’s side door.

Without looking up, he called, “Get a move on, your majesty. I don’t have all night.”

I hesitated just a split second, then followed in his footsteps to his car, opened the passenger door, and slid inside.

Cletus usually drove an early 1990s Geo Prizm painted primer gray. Sometimes he drove a vintage Buick, but very rarely.

He was waiting for me in the Geo, his arms crossed, his eyes staring out the windshield. The small car made him look huge and imposing. He’d turned on the dome light and the forward reading lights. I closed my door, as he had done with his. A brief silence followed, during which the reality of my present situation crashed over me.

I was alone. I was alone with Cletus Winston. I was alone with Cletus Winston and no one knew where I was.

Oh. Shit.

“Well?” he barked, breaking the silence and making me jump. “Why am I sitting here with you when I should be inside tending to my tomato sauce?”

“I saw what you did,” I announced.

“You saw what I did,” he repeated flatly, apparently bored with the conversation and me. His eyes were on the rearview mirror.

But I would not be ignored or bullied. Not this time.

“That’s right.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. I do a lot of things.”

Gathering every ounce of courage within me, I said, “I saw what you did, last week, with the Iron Wraiths evidence. You took it. And now they can’t find it, and now they’re dropping the case against Razor.”