Sally: Autumn Storms (F&L Story #4)

Sally: Part 8

He remembered how her fingers trembled as they clutched his arm and how sweet and frightened her face had been when he looked down at her earlier. Her bottom lip had quivered and her eye widened with dread at what lay beyond the small doorway at the back of the trailer. He'd never been more tempted to kiss a woman than at that moment.

“And the cushions from the benches and chairs?” she asked, jolting him back into the conversation.

“Just as bad, ma'am,” he said, which irritated him, but he'd never let her know that. He bent over to pick up the broom where it’d fallen while he shoved the mattress out of the doorway. He dropped pretty far in life in the last few years, coming from a two-story, luxurious cabin on his brother's ranch and going into a eight-by-eight prison cell that he shared with a carjacker named Zee, to a camping trailer not fit for the rats that inhabited it. But he'd make due and tolerate what he could. He had no choice.

Sally chewed her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes at the camper. “I've had that thing for almost fifteen years. I guess it's time to finally junk it.”

Whoa, he thought. Let's not be hasty. It might be a heap of junk on wheels and hers to do with however she liked, but it was the only home he had right now. She must have seen the panic in his face, because she smiled gently at him.

“Don't get your panties in a bunch, cowboy. I know the guy that owns the RV place out on the interstate. We'll take this piece of crap over tomorrow and see what he'll give me for it.”

Wilson shifted in his boots and leaned against the broom handle. This was not what he had in mind either. He didn't want her to have to buy a whole new trailer just for him. “Ms. Sanborn,” he began, and she cut him off, “It's Sally, Wilson, or that God-awful ma'am you like to call me, but never Ms. Sanborn.”

Now, he done forgot his words. She smiled prettily with that charitable soul in her gaze, and he didn't have the heart to complain. “If you're thinking what I think you're thinking,” she went on, “don't worry about it. Since the farm is completely paid off now, I've got some spare cash to throw around, and if you live in the camper, then I can write it off as a business expense. I'm not doing this for you, so don't you get a swelled head.”

But she was doing this for him, and they both knew it. She suspected that he had no where else to go, and now she was buying him a home. After living in conditions where no one got anything for free, he couldn't help but wonder what she wanted in return. Owing a debt never set well with him. His policy had always been: if he couldn't afford it, he didn't buy it.

The fifteen-hundred monthly wages she would be paying him wasn't much, but he'd gladly take less in exchange for his living expenses. “What would I owe you in rent?” he asked her. She'd been studying the mattress, lifting a gnawed corner with the toe of her boot.

“Nothing,” she answered, not acknowledging him in any other way.

“I can't--”

She snapped a glare at him. “You can, and you will,” she said fiercely. “And that will be the end of it.” The sight of her amber eyes throwing fire in his direction, when she looked no bigger than a minute, made his mouth twitch. Then he thought about all those guns she owned, and he figured it’d be best to not argue the point...or laugh at her.

Fine, he huffed. If she wanted to spend her money on a stupid camping trailer for him, then…then fine! Why should he care? He’ll be pulling over forty hours of hard, physical labor every week on a measly salary, so why shouldn’t she provide his living quarters as well? She can be generous and indulgent and foolish all she damn well wants to be. He was honky-dory about it. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass what she blew her money on. Let her throw her working capital away... She can run her farm any damn way she chooses...

“You want some cotton balls for your ears?” she asked him, jabbing her fists at her waist, which he'd already figured out was a sign of aggravation. “Because that temper of yours is steaming your brain mass. I’d hate for any of it to ooze out while you’re over there fuming.”

He blinked at her…and realized his hands had curled up into massive, throbbing fists and snapped the broom handle in two. His back teeth locked together in a brutal grind, triggering a mass of spasms along his cheeks. She’d gone hazy and red in his vision as his eyes glazed over with his inner rant.

Wilson stared stupidly at the broken broom. What was happening to him? He’d been an easy-going guy in his youth, full of effortless grins and laughter, and not much of a temper to speak of. Since Macie’s death, he’d changed. He had changed so far beyond the person he had once been that he didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

Now, here was a good, kind-hearted woman, willing to give him a second chance at a normal, free life, and look how he acted. Shame, straight to the marrow of his bones, forced the apology from his lips. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll buy you a new broom.”

Sally cocked her face to the side. “Why? So I can break it?” She laughed. “I buy those things in bulk. Got four more in my pantry, ‘cuz you never know when you just need to break something. I’ve got some plates that I picked up at a garage sale just for that reason, too. People think you’re crazy when you have to shoot something to calm a temper…so I throw plates and beat brooms against trees, too.” She shrugged at his bewildered expression. “I have a punching bag hanging in the barn, if that’s more your style. Personally, I want to see something destroyed.”

Her gaze strayed to his hands, and she gave them a wary look. He knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life,” he blurted out, hoping to reassure her.

She smiled up at him. “Not even in prison?”

“Oh…well…” He dropped the broom pieces and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve never hit anyone that didn’t deserve it,” he amended with a sheepish frown.

“I'm glad to hear it,” she said, checking her watch. “You've still got an hour for your break. I've got some things to do, and I'll see you at the house in sixty.” She didn't wait for his reply before turning on her heel and trotting away. Wilson piled all the cleaning supplies back into the wheel barrel and then propped his back up against the shaded side of the tractor barn. All he could think about was that Sally would regret getting a new camper when the end of next week came and she finally gives him the boot.