One Foot in the Grove (8 page)

I thought it was another one of my kooky dreams. It was inky dark and I couldn't see. I was cold and shivering as big gusts of air—first icy, then blistering hot—blasted over me. Was I on the ground? I smelled dirt. My heart felt like a trapped bird, wildly fluttering inside my chest, thudding in my ears. I felt sick. Weak. Tired.

There was blistering heat crackling and roaring around me, along with eerie howling and loud snapping sounds. Then, the ground rumbled. I felt a massive creature, breathing . . . no . . . snorting. Fire and snorting . . . a dragon? The ground shuddered. Metal clanged. Someone cursed.

“Ye're alright, lass,” whispered a voice. A man? Yes. I felt a hand brush across my cheek. A big, warm hand. Soft. Okay, a big man with soft hands. He had a Gaelic accent. And he'd called me “lass.” Was I in Scotland? I'd always wanted to visit Scotland. In fact, I'd dreamt of Scotland often.

“Ahh crikey. You're drookit and bloody Baltic,” he mumbled.

There was frenzied motion. My heart raced, yet I felt powerless. Dead. His arms wrapped around me, and my
face fell into his warm, muscled chest as he moved us as one. I inhaled his masculine, musky scent—a seductive bouquet of earthy oakmoss, vetiver, and leather with the tang of pine and the smooth, lingering pungency of grayed smoke. It was the unmistakable scent of a wealthy outdoorsman. Although I'd never known a wealthy outdoorsman, I was sure this was what he'd smell like. Maybe he was a Scottish prince and we were in the Scottish Highlands? My ancestors were Scottish.

I sensed the unmistakable tang of horse sweat, and suddenly, we were moving through the darkness. Fast. Holding me tight in his strong arms, my Scottish prince and I jostled and careened up and down through the murky Highlands, racing over rough terrain, through angry rains and howling winds. Creaking, clanking, and whacking of metal and leather echoed in my head as I jostled over the front of the saddle, safely encircled by his brawny arms. I felt his heavy, warm breath in my hair. We must be headed to the castle, I thought.

I didn't want to wake up. Still, I had to see him. I peeked open one eye. Just inches from the tip of my nose, my handsome prince's dark, wavy hair fell over his smooth forehead to frame intense green eyes. They flashed bright with alert intelligence. His lean face was both rugged and handsome, with a strong jaw and day-old beard.

Then, unexpectedly, we rode out of the ruinous forest and into a car wash.

Which reminds me, I thought, I need to wash my BMW. The one sleazoid Zack bought for me as an engagement present. The dark green paint showed all the dirt. With no saved money, no assets, and questionable income, it'd be a while before I could afford another car; I needed to take good care of it.
Oh crappy!
Speaking of no money,
I forgot to pay my auto insurance.
Again. Must remember to do that in the morning when I wake up, I thought. Must not forget . . . But don't wake up! Not now. Not yet.

Water wooshed over me. My mind rambled back to the car wash.

It was the cleanest, whitest car wash I'd ever seen. White tile everywhere. It hurt to look. I snapped my eye shut. Hot, soapy water sprayed over me as my sexy Scotsman's big, warm hands carefully undressed my frigid, shaking body. He ran a cloth over me, rinsing free the mud and muck that was caked on my skin and trapped in my hair. He was strong, but he held me ever so gently. Like I might break. Big, warm hands pressed against my backside as the water rinsed over us. Still, I felt cold. My teeth chattered. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My heart raced.

“Easy. Ye'll be alright, lass,” he whispered in my ear.

He held me tight against his drenched shirt. I pressed myself deep into his warm, wet body. He held fast. My stomach flipped. I heard him call me “precious.”

Best dream ever.

Someone burnt the toast. The earthy, acrid smell was everywhere. Must've been Pep, I thought. She never could cook anything . . . even toast. Although, when you think about it, Daphne never could cook, either. Nor could I. That makes three Knox women who aren't worth a lick in the kitchen. It's no wonder none of us can keep a man. Maybe Tammy Fae was right after all.

Pep was still married, at least. Only, hadn't she told me she and Billy were having troubles?
Oh well
. Was it only a matter of time before she, too, would fall off the man-wagon?

I pushed the charred, burnt toast smell out of my mind as I rolled over. Icy cool sheets, pressed smooth, caressed my skin as I buried my nose into the lavender-scented pillow. I tried to reclaim my dream, tried to remember my tall, dark, and handsome Scottish prince as he rinsed my nearly naked body in the steamy car wash. I wanted to feel his strong, unshaven jaw against my neck. His warm, steady hands caressing me, holding me against his big, taut frame. Ancient tribal tunes pulsated in my head. I heard his hunky Gaelic voice whispering to me . . .

“Mornin', Sunshine!” chirped a deeply Southern woman's voice. I heard the
swoosh
of heavy draperies sliding across a rod. “Doc says you'll be back to your old self in no time. I brought you some chamomile tea.”

I pried one eye open. Bright sunlight filtered through an ornate lacy curtain decorating a floor-to-ceiling window flanked with voluminous folds of heavy velvet cerulean blue draperies. I lay ensconced on a gilded four-poster bed, heaped with embroidered linens and pillows.

“Where . . . ? Uh . . . is this the castle? Wait . . . Versailles?” I thought I'd been in Scotland. However, perhaps it was France.

Okay, so I wasn't totally awake yet.

“Child, this is anyplace y'all want it to be!”

The woman laughed as she sashayed to my bedside. She was extraordinarily tall with a large frame, like a great warrior maiden, with copper-colored skin and close-cropped hair in the same rich copper color. She had full lips and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was flawless, and her face was impeccably made up. It was hard to tell how old she was. Not old. Not young. She wore giant gold hoop earrings, a tight-fitting black skirt, and a ruffled, contemporary yellow chiffon blouse with butterflies patterned on it. The butterfly blouse looked pricey. Had to be a designer piece, I thought.

I blinked and took a better look around. Well, if it wasn't the Palace of Versailles, I thought, it certainly could've been. The resplendent room had ceilings that were at least fifteen feet high, with elaborate moldings, chair rails, and carved panels that surrounded blush pink and ivory damask wallpaper. At first, no doors were visible anywhere. It took me a moment to figure out that invisible doors were built seamlessly into the walls.

Oriental rugs sprawled over European oak floors that supported gilded rococo furnishings, including tufted slipper chairs, oversized and heavily framed mirrors, ornate wardrobes and matching dressers. It was a palatial space fit
for a queen. You could fit two cottages like mine inside the room.

Suddenly, the resplendent luxury was pierced by raised, angry voices from somewhere outside the room. The woman pinched her lips, put her hands on her hips, and rolled her eyes.

“Miss Sunshine, y'all just sit back and sip some chamomile tea if you can,” she said to me. “I'll be back in a few minutes after I call Doc and tell him you're up. First, I need to straighten out those men. I swear, the two of 'em think the sun comes up just to hear 'em crow.”

“What's . . . going on?” I stammered. My head ached so bad I felt like it would explode. My mouth felt like a desert, and I barely recognized my hoarse voice. I was thirsty. My heart was racing. My ribs hurt terribly. And I was realizing that every bit of me was sore and achy. I felt a bandage wrapped around my left foot.

“Nothing y'all need to worry about, Sunshine. Just let ol' Precious Darling here take care of everything.” She stepped to the table next to the bed and poured a little tea from an ornate silver teapot into a delicate china cup. She patted me on the shoulder. Her large hand was warm. I realized that I was cold. And shaking.

“Wait!” I croaked. I wanted to ask where I was. Find out who she was—Precious Darling?
Who is Precious Darling?
But I never got the chance. The warrior woman strode swiftly to the wall—red-lacquered soles of her spiky yellow Christian Louboutin pumps flashing with each step. She grabbed a lever in the wall, yanked open a hidden door, stepped forward, and was gone. Quietly, the door clicked shut behind her amply endowed butt.

I pinched myself.

It hurt.

“Nope. Not a dream,” I mumbled.

Bright sun made my eyes water. I turned toward the antique tea service on the carved table next to me. As I pushed myself up and off overstuffed pillows to reach for
the cup, voices outside the room got louder. Arguing. I froze to listen.

“I said, you can't go in there!” scolded Precious Darling. “Doc needs to examine her. Her condition is quite precarious. It's her heart. She's not well. You'll
have
to wait.”

“Darlin',” calmly purred a man with a smooth Southern drawl. His low, sotto voce voice was muffled behind the heavy door. It was almost familiar. “Out of respect, I've been coolin' my heels since before sunrise. And I thank you for the coffee and homemade muffins. They were mighty fine. Better than Mama's—but don't you let Mama know I said that, or she'll have my hide.”

“Why, thank you,” quipped Precious Darling. I could hear the pride in her voice.

“However,” the man cautioned, “unless this woman is in a hospital and Doc tells me she's too ill to speak, I'm going in. Now.”

I heard quick, heavy footsteps on the other side of the wall.

Precious Darling raised her voice. “No! I see what you're up to—praisin' my muffins! You're not smooth-talkin' me. No, sireee!” She raised her voice. “Mister Collier will see to it that y'all leave his home right quick. In fact, he's on the phone talkin' with his friend the judge right now!”

I imagined her standing outside the door, hands on hips, feet planted firm.

“Please, step aside,” he asked quietly.

“Over my dead body!”

“I don't think you mean that,” he said flatly. I heard scuffling.

“Like hell I don't!”

“Given the circumstances,” he continued coolly, “I can't admire your choice of words.”

Still weak, I pushed as hard as I could to sit up against the huge pile of flouncy pillows. That's when the bedcovers fell away. I realized for the first time that I wasn't wearing any clothes. How could I've been so out of it that I'd not noticed my own nakedness?

“What the . . .”

The hidden door flew open. My trembling fingers snatched at the sheet to cover myself.

Just in time.

The man marched in. He stopped short at the foot of the bed.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said.

My mouth dropped open, and the sheet fell from my shaky fingers.

Standing before me in boots and sheriff's uniform was a rock of a man. Thirty-something, tall, tanned, and sexy by anyone's standards, he had an immense chest and shoulders, well-muscled neck, and strong farmer's hands. His dark brown hair was cut short, and he wore aviator sunglasses. A pristine, short-sleeved, collared white button-down shirt fit him to a T—almost as if it'd been painted over his finely muscled form. On one shoulder, he had a large patch and bars denoting his rank. There were small gold pins with the letters “ACSD” embellishing his lapels, and a gold badge with a star in a circle covered his right chest pocket. Loaded with little pouches all around, a heavy-looking black belt holstered a large gun over his hip.

“Eva Knox!”

And when he smiled, he still had those damned cute dimples.

“Buck Tanner!” I gasped.

My high school sweetheart. Eighteen years earlier I'd left him waiting for me at the altar—standing in a rented tuxedo like a soldier in the blistering Georgia summer heat—while two hundred and fifty wedding guests sat fanning themselves on hard wooden pews. The story goes that when I didn't show up, Buck refused to leave the church. He was sure of our love. Sure that his beloved sweetheart would be there. Still, with each passing minute, as folks watched him standing there, waiting, proud and sure, they felt sorrier and sorrier for him while they grew angrier and angrier with me. Finally, after hours passed and all the guests had crept quietly from their seats, someone dragged
poor jilted Buck from the church and took him back to his mother's house.

I never showed up. I never spoke to him. I ran straight from Abundance to New England. The fallout from that dreadful day was the very reason I'd never returned home.

Even so, when the sheet covering my naked body fell suddenly from my grasp, Buck Tanner never missed a beat.

“Lookin' damn good, Babydoll,” he said with a smile.