Don't Bet On It (8 page)

He checked his mirror, then slowed until he could pull off onto the shoulder. His flashing lights made the nearby black woods look like they were staggering.

“So, what is it that you want,
Brett
?”

When he held out his hand, I placed mine on top of his and he gently curled his thick fingers around mine. “You. I want you.”

Couldn't help gasping. I felt like a teenager when the popular boy asked me to the prom… only that had never happened to me. “Me?”

“You. You're the one I've been looking for since I got back from the Army two years ago.”

Somehow my brain struggled to apply a logical thread. “But I've been right here at the elementary school this whole time.”

He pulled my hand to his lips and kissed my fingertips, softly. “It's been a long time since grammar school, Chloe. I've been out in the world with some of the bad dogs and I just wanted to come home, help the family business, and live out a peaceful life.” He cleared his throat softly. “But I don't want to do that alone.”

Sometimes, at the most inopportune moments, my inner idiot blurts out a question which should have remained unspoken. “But why me? There are plenty of young women…”

“None of the others ever hired me to hold their place in line.”

That inner imbecile was struggling to interfere again, but I squelched it. “Well, it's lucky you happened by at just the right time.”

“I'd jogged that same circuit almost every morning for nearly two years. What took you so long to get into that line?”

Their super sales were only twice a year, but I sensed he didn't mean it literally. “Well, I wasn't sure I could get a good deal.”

“Did you?”

“Get a good deal?” I smiled and squeezed his hairy tanned hand. “Yes, a very good deal.”

“So it was win-win.”

I nodded in the darkness.

“But I still don't know where we're heading tonight… and I'm burning up gasoline.”

I pointed straight ahead, which actually told him nothing. And I tried to concentrate, but couldn't. “Well, as I've already explained, I'm no prize in the kitchen, but I can usually make popcorn without burning it up.”

After checking his mirror and pulling back on Highway
70
,
Brett
turned and flashed an eager smile. “What else can you cook?”

I thought again about how well we'd fit together on that warm dance floor and how it felt when we'd kissed. Truly, I couldn't remember ever realizing that degree of closeness with any other man. “Well, not that you'll see the proof right away… but I also know how to scramble eggs.”

This time, he blushed.

Wait ‘til I tell Joan I embarrassed the axe murderer.

Then, rather slowly, Brett continued, “One of the side products we sell at the Co-op is homemade Mayhaw Jelly from an elderly couple who trucks in the berries from relatives in north Louisiana.” He glanced over to be certain I was paying attention. “It tastes so addictive on fresh warm toast, that some folks might think — if I offered anyone a free pint — that it was a bribe… to get something I wanted.”

“Don't bet on it,” I said silently, with only my lips moving.

As he had seemingly done since our first few encounters, he apparently read my mind… and smiled.

When he nodded over his shoulder to the cargo compartment behind our seats, I saw a box with a dozen pint jars. It was too dark to read the labels, but I knew they were Mayhaw. “Looks like you always come prepared.”

He clasped my hand again and then accelerated.

The End

This short novella actually began as a short, short story which I'd intended to submit for possible inclusion in an AP anthology. However, my characters and situation quickly overreached the confines of a format so brief and I knew I had to let the scenes play out. As often happens when I'm writing, I had no idea where the story was going, so I just followed my characters.

I am greatly indebted to my publisher, Stephanie Taylor; this is my fifth title released by the wonderful folks at
Astraea Press
. Delighted to work again with AP Senior Editor Kay Springsteen and to take advantage of the editorial assistance of Traci Pollitt.

Special thanks to my wife, Denise Williams Salter, for her assistance proofing the galleys.

My published novels (with Astraea Press) are: “Called to Arms Again” (May 2013), “Rescued By That New Guy in Town” (Oct. 2012), and “The Overnighter's Secrets” (May 2012). Also released through AP is a short novella, “Echo Taps” (June, 2013). Romantic comedy and romantic suspense are among eight completed novel manuscripts.

I'm co-author of two non-fiction monographs (about librarianship) with a royalty pub-lisher, plus a signed chapter in another book and a signed article in a specialty encyclopedia. I've also published articles, book reviews, and over 120 poems; my writing has won nearly 40 awards, including several in national contests. As a newspaper photo-journalist, I published about 150 bylined newspaper articles, and some 100 bylined photos.

I worked nearly 30 years in the field of librarianship. I'm a decorated veteran of U.S. Air Force (including a remote tour of duty in the Arctic, at Thule AB in N.W. Greenland).

I'm the married parent of two and grandparent of six.

Chapter One

Drank way too much punch before I realized it was spiked — right before I passed out Saturday night…

Coming to in total darkness, my foggy brain ached and my eyes strained. Nothing but the sensation of immense space. Pinched my forearm to rule out a bizarre dream.
Ouch!
Final recollection before everything went black: exhausted and still desperately thirsty.

My tentative hands groped enough to establish I was still on the hard plank bench. No telling how long I'd been there — everything hurt when I sat up. Stretched out my arms. "Ow!" Splinter. Yeah, the fund-raising
jail
with square wooden bars. But why was I still there?

"Hey!" Ghostly echo. Completely alone in the dark. The Greene County Halloween Festival was obviously long over and the spooky former armory building clearly abandoned.

As I struggled to my feet, I also realized I'd selected a terrible outfit for a jailbreak: low-cut satin blouse almost covering the bustier which threatened to squash my innards. Plus a tight high-hemmed skirt, patterned hose, and one remaining shoe with a four-inch heel. No telling where the other one was. Yeah, I'd had the terribly original notion to come as a sexy witch — including a pointy hat and hand-made broom.
Sure wish I'd worn sneakers and a sweatsuit
.

So, how on earth did I get left behind? And exactly how would I get out?

"Hello?" I knew it was too tentative, but somehow it seemed yelling into that vast darkness could make me feel even more vulnerable than I already did.

Dilemma.

One of the big festival fund-raisers was to lock up attendees until someone donated enough money to bail them out. At first I was steamed to be imprisoned since I'd spent two weeks working on that stinking event. Then I figured at least I was off my feet for a few minutes. Once I sat down exhaustion took over, plus the spiked punch, of course. But that didn't explain why I was
still
there in the dark with everybody gone… all alone.

At least I think I'm alone
. "Hey! Hello?" Louder. "Anybody here?"

Silence could be good or bad. But I wished somebody would come turn the lights on and get me out.
Plus, I need a restroom.
Why did I leave my cell phone locked in the car? Not that there was any point waiting on a rescue.
When you wake up behind wooden bars in real life, no handsome stranger comes to your aid.

My forefinger hurt but I couldn't extract a splinter in the dark. Took off my right shoe since I couldn't walk in the dark with one high-heel.
Better find the other one.
Maybe later. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail.
Straight ahead should get me to the door
. Tripped on something. Oh, my other shoe. Thank goodness, those heels were way too expensive to leave behind.

Just a few more steps.
Yikes!
Bumped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail. Maybe a light bulb! Checked
.
No, just something with a disgusting spider web attached that I didn't want to touch again, or think about, ever.
Hate spiders!

One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall.
Good.
Door couldn't be far away. Sideways to the left.
Nope.
Other direction.
Ah, door frame
. "Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?" No, I didn't. And I was talking to myself again. I put both shoes on the floor, reached one hand through the bars, and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.

What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle… it moved. But the door didn't open. "What did the latch look like, Kristen?" I asked myself. A freezer door?
No
. Gate hasp?
Nope.
It was like those rental trailers.
Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa
. Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn't do both with one hand.

"Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?" Multiple echoes. I'd forgotten how big the main armory space was. When the Tennessee National Guard used it, dozens of cargo trucks fit in there. After the local unit was combined with the battalion in nearby Nashville, Uncle Sam donated the facility to the county. "Thanks a lot, Sam. Now I'm stuck here." Needed to stop talking to myself.

Tried the latch again from the other side.
Ouch
. Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicker. Wished I hadn't drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I'd seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I'd just said, "Whatever" and drank another cup. That's how I slept through the abandonment by my
former
friends and the people I'd worked with on the community extravaganza. "Memo to Kristen," I muttered, "don't ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises."
Ha.
Not that anybody would see them. Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life. Nobody else in my rented house besides Elvis the neutered feline. Even that cat was probably more romantic than Wally, AKA Walter-who's-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again.
Hmm, sounds awful
. Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his—

Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what's-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. "Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who'll let me out?"

What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over?
Better be a "good" somebody.
"Hey! Over there… out there. Who's there?"

"O-o-ow!" From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. "Who's here? If you can speak, you'd better say something real quick, 'cause I've got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!"
Bluff 'em, Kristen
.

"O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head's about to explode." Closer. Man's voice. Could be good news… or bad.

"Well, you'd better show yourself. And get some light over here."
Take charge, Kristen
.

"I don't know where the stinkin' lights are. And stop yelling." Closer… I could almost smell him.

"Don't you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters."

He groaned a bit more. "Only the ones that smoke."

"Terrific. The one non-smoker in Verdeville has finally arrived to let me out."

"Out of what? Where are you? Ow! Crud! What is this?" He'd finally found the left side of my cage.

"I'm in the fund-raiser jail. Quit stalling and get me out. I need a restroom. Come around to the front and watch out for the…"

"Ow! Splinters!"

"…splinters."