Once Upon a Valentine (2 page)

“Here you go,” Mr. Hadley said, handing him a metal urn.

Andrew stared down at the urn, confused. “What’s this?”

“Your father’s ashes,” Mr. Hadley said. “Those were his wishes—to be cremated.”

Andrew almost dropped the urn, but juggled and caught it. “Since when?”

“Since always. Every time Barber set foot in this place, he apologized to me in advance for denying me a big crowd here at the funeral home.” Hadley smiled. “That was his way.” He opened a file drawer and rummaged through it, then removed a yellowed sheet of stationery. “Here you go. He made me keep a copy of it on file.”

Andrew shifted the urn to the crook of his elbow and took the sheet of paper to scan.

I, Barber MacMillan, being sane and all of that, upon my death, wish to have my body cremated and my ashes scattered over the Mane Squeeze Ranch. No muss, no fuss, no funeral and no headstone.

Andrew blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Hadley said. “Barber was an odd bird…but then, you probably know that better than anyone.”

Andrew nodded. “Yes.” He folded the paper and stared down at the urn. “So, how am I supposed to do this?”

Mr. Hadley shrugged. “Just unscrew the lid and start scattering. Make sure you’re upwind.”

Andrew pursed his mouth. “Aren’t there laws against scattering remains?”

Mr. Hadley gave a dismissive wave. “If you don’t tell anyone, neither will I.”

Andrew nodded, remembering that in Tiny, Tennessee, laws were elastic. “What do I owe you for the, um, services?”

“Already taken care of,” Mr. Hadley said. “Barber saw to that ages ago.” He handed Andrew another piece of paper. “Here’s an obituary for the paper. I think your dad would be okay with that, at least.”

Andrew read the write-up about the man who had been a pillar of the community, a source of comfort and know-how for the farmers in the area who had depended on him to vaccinate their cattle against pink eye, treat swine pneumonia or birth stubborn foals. Barber MacMillan treated any animal that needed his help, but he was especially gifted with horses, a trait not passed on to Andrew, who had always worked in the stables, but didn’t bond with the animals the way his father had.

Barber MacMillan is survived by his son, Andrew Barber MacMillan of New York City, and a host of grateful friends and neighbors, human and otherwise.

“It’s a fine obituary,” Andrew said.

“Summer wrote it.”

Andrew frowned. “Summer…Tomlinson?”

“One and the same.”

The image of the coltish, towheaded teenager who lived next door came to mind. Summer was five—no, six—years younger than Andrew. He had a vague memory of her giving him a Valentine’s Day card when she was a shy preteen. He hadn’t seen her since he’d moved to Manhattan after college. Even though his dad spoke of her often, because she’d assisted him in the stables on occasion, she hadn’t been around during his holiday visits. But apparently, Summer had been close to his father. He felt a rush of gratitude toward the young woman.

“Oh, and my daughter Tessa asked me to give you this.” Geary handed Andrew a business card.

Andrew glanced at the real-estate logo and the picture of his former classmate—still pretty…and probably still as vapid. “How is Tessa?”

“She’s done real well for herself,” Mr. Hadley said, pride in his voice. “She thought you might be interested in selling your dad’s place.”

Andrew nodded. He’d seen his dad’s will and knew he was the sole beneficiary. “That’s the plan.”

The man’s eyes twinkled. “Tessa’s still single, too.”

Andrew coughed, then tucked the card in his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Hadley. I’ll give Tessa a call…about the property.”

He shook the man’s gnarled hand again and left, carrying the dubious burden of his father’s ashes in his hands. Andrew settled the urn in the passenger seat of his car and shook his head. “You managed to throw me one last curveball, old man.”

How could he in good conscience scatter his father’s ashes over the farm and then sell it?

Andrew’s mind clicked as he drove over familiar roads, past recognizable landmarks, and allowed nostalgia to flow over him. The high-school campus and the city pool looked incredibly small. He shook his head, thinking about how big and important they had seemed when he was young. Ditto for the movie theater and bowling alley, around which his social life had revolved.

The road leading to the Mane Squeeze Ranch was hemmed by overgrown foliage on either side of the paved road barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The closer he got to home, the more memories assailed him. The gigantic weeping-willow tree at the fork in the road where he used to ride his bike, tap the trunk then ride back, the wide spot in the road where he’d waited for the bus, now tangled with dormant blackberry bushes, the grouping of community mailboxes, all shapes and colors, lined up in a row.

As he drove by the Tomlinsons’ house, he was distracted by the sight of a slender woman sitting on an upstairs balcony, combing her waist-length golden-blond hair.

Summer Tomlinson, he realized with a start. No longer in cutoffs and sporting a boyish pixie cut. She looked up and saw his car, then jumped to her feet, shouting and pointing.

Andrew looked back to the road and his heart leaped to his throat. Standing in the path of his car was a swaybacked gray horse that looked too old to move…and too big to miss.

2

SUMMER SCREAMED AND closed her eyes against the impact. After the crash, she opened her eyes and gasped at the sight of the black BMW sitting tilted in the ditch with its bumper butted up against a small tree. The gray horse—Max—lifted his weary head and whinnied at the vehicle that had spoiled his run for freedom.

Summer ran down the stairs leading from the balcony to the ground and rushed across the yard toward the car. Truman, Barber’s setter-shepherd-mixed dog, was on her heels then bounded ahead, barking excitedly.

The car’s airbag hadn’t deployed, which was a good sign. The driver was climbing out from behind the wheel, another good sign, even though he wore a scowl on his face.

And his face was unmistakable—Andrew MacMillan. Dark hair, light brown eyes, strong nose, square chin. Rendered tall and sturdy on simple country food and hard work on his father’s farm. She remembered the thrilling glimpses from her bedroom window of him, shirtless, riding a tractor across the MacMillan fields. Now dressed in tan-colored slacks and a long-sleeved collared shirt, he looked every inch the refined businessman. By comparison, she felt self-conscious in her cotton dress and bare feet and her drying hair loose around her shoulders.

Truman jumped up on Andrew to give him a lick and a sniff. The man took a moment to rough the dog’s scruff before gently brushing him away. “Down, boy.”

His voice was so similar to Barber’s, she realized suddenly. Apparently, the dog thought so, too, because he immediately sat down, although his tail thumped the ground impatiently.

“Andrew, are you okay?” she asked.

He nodded, then jammed his hands on his hips. “I’m fine.” His gaze swept over her. “Hello.”

Her bare toes curled in the wiry winter grass. The ground was colder than the air temperature. “Hi. I’m Summer.”

A smile curved his mouth. “I remember.”

When their eyes met, her breath was squeezed out of her chest. Her ears popped and cracked as if she were being lifted to a higher altitude. Then a gust of wind picked up the ends of her long hair and whipped it into Andrew’s face. He blinked, and she grabbed at the wayward locks. He lifted his arm, presumably to help, then she felt a yank on her scalp.

“Ouch,” she murmured, tilting her head.

“Sorry. Your hair…it’s caught in my watch.”

“Ow, ow, ow,” she said as the tension on her scalp increased. She lurched forward, following his hand, and suddenly, they were face to face.

She inhaled sharply. His eyes were so sexy, like drops of caramel, fringed with thick lashes and brows. His lips parted, then he gave a little laugh. “I think I’m making things worse.”

Not from her perspective, she thought abruptly. But she couldn’t seem to speak.

“Maybe I should just remove my watch.” He moved his hand, but Summer shrieked in pain.

He winced. “Sorry.”

“Let me try,” she offered out of self-preservation. She gingerly turned her head toward the snarl and began to work methodically to remove a few strands at a time. But the proximity of his body to hers messed with her concentration.

He had nice hands—big and strong-looking, but well-groomed. She knew from Barber that Andrew wasn’t married, but seeing up close that his ring finger was empty did something to her stomach. As she worked to free her hair from the stem of his watch, she realized it was probably a very pricey piece. She prayed she didn’t damage it in the process. Just as she was getting ready to suggest the dreaded “cut it out” solution, the last of the strands came free.

“Sorry about that.” She wound her hair into a rope and held it down. “It was such a nice day, I was drying my hair in the sun.”

“No problem,” he said, but he stepped back, as if he were afraid he might be entangled again.

Which irritated her because his protruding watch was at least half to blame. The air between them held the tingly remnants of their forced intimacy.

Behind them, the gray horse brayed to remind them he was supposed to be the center of attention.

“Hush, Max,” Summer called.

Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “Is that your horse?”

“No…that’s Max. He belongs to your father.” Then she caught herself. “He…
belonged
to your father. I’m sorry for your loss, Andrew.”

He nodded, his face somber. “Thank you. And thank you for writing the obituary. Mr. Hadley gave me a copy.”

“It’s the least I could do. Barber meant so much to so many people around here.”

He averted his gaze, but not before she saw pain and confusion there. She hadn’t meant to imply Barber MacMillan had meant more to the town than to his own offspring. She’d gathered from Barber’s remarks and Andrew’s infrequent visits that father and son hadn’t been close. Still, being orphaned…well, she knew a thing or two about that. She’d lost both of her parents in the past five years. On each occasion, Andrew had sent flowers, a thoughtful formality, she knew. But he couldn’t have known how much his gesture had meant to her, how many times she’d written the thank-you cards to get the phrasing just right, just like the sentiment she’d written on the Valentine’s Day card she’d given him when she was twelve. She was annoyed with herself that she’d cared so much what he thought.

She gestured to the lopsided vehicle. “I can call Red to bring the tractor down and pull you out.”

He worked his mouth back and forth. “No need to bother Red. I think I remember how to fire it up.” He nodded toward the braying horse. “But him, I might need a hand with.”

“I’ll walk with you and put Max back in the stable,” she said, then looked down at her toenails which were painted a vivid blue. “Uh…let me get my boots.” She hurried back toward the steps leading to the balcony, feeling like a rube. She was relatively sure that women in New York City did not scamper around barefoot. As she climbed the steps, she felt Andrew’s gaze on her. He was probably marveling over the fact that she was still there. In fact, the farthest she’d moved geographically was from her childhood bedroom down the hall to the master bedroom in the home she’d grown up in.

But she didn’t care, she thought, tossing her head as she walked across the timeworn wooden planks of the balcony to the French doors that opened to her bedroom. She’d had her chances to live elsewhere. She’d gotten a marketing degree from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, but had passed up job offers there to work at the Tiny Caves State Park just a few miles down the road. And she’d never regretted her decision—working at the Park and helping Barber in her spare time kept her busy and fulfilled. She preferred this place, where rush hour was Sunday morning before church and the closest thing to police sirens was the call of screech owls.

Summer entered her bedroom, wondering how much of a miracle she could perform on her hair in sixty seconds. She stopped at her dressing table and surveyed the tangled mess with a sigh. Some days the long locks were more trouble than they were worth, but lopping them off seemed even more daunting.