Straddling the Fence (8 page)

Bellamy awoke to an empty bed. More used condom packets.
Tender thighs and the smell of Eli clinging to her skin.

An achy emptiness slowly filled her chest.

Again? Really?

She flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
There were jagged hairline cracks in the yellowing plaster above her head. A
few chunks missing here and there. One more thing that needed fixing on the old
place. Dust motes danced in the rays of early morning light streaming through
the window closest to the bed.

Then she heard an odd noise from the backyard.

Thwack.

Wrapping the blanket around her naked body, she scrambled
off the mattress to see what the source of the sound was.

Good heavens, would you look at that.

Eli was splitting wood. And she might’ve just had a tiny
orgasm.

She watched him heft the ax above his head, booted feet
braced wide, then bring the blade down, splitting the chunk of oak or hickory
or pecan clean in two before tossing the pieces onto a growing pile next to the
porch. He wore his shirt, but the front hung open, the sleeves rolled up past
his elbows. In spite of the cooler morning temps, sweat trickled down the
center of his chest, darkening the thatch of hair across his pecs, soaking into
the waistband of his jeans. The ends of his hair stuck damply to his face and
neck in dark clumps. Sunlight turned his skin golden, and every time he moved,
muscles bunched and flexed and rippled in a body so perfectly formed and
sinful, she felt her own flesh grow warm just by watching.

The ax looked newer, the blade gleaming and sharp.
Definitely not some rotting relic he found lying around her grandfather’s barn,
dulled by time and neglect. No telling what kinds of collectibles might be
hidden away behind the old building’s listing walls, but after seeing the size
of the rat in the fox’s mouth last night, Bellamy had no intentions of going
exploring. Ever.

Eli must’ve had the ax in his truck, just like the condoms.

Gotta love those country boys—always prepared.
Like
Boy Scouts with bigger muscles and less supervision. And much, much naughtier.

Barefoot, Bellamy stepped out onto the porch, shivering and
pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders to ward off the damp chill.
Weather was weird in the south during the fall and winter months—one day it
might be rainy and/or cold, a week later warm enough to wear summer attire.
Despite being cool this morning, by two p.m. it could climb into the
mid-seventies. There’d been several Christmases she could remember playing
outside in shorts and a t-shirt. But sadly, there was rarely ever snowfall in
this region. At least not enough to turn everything into a wonderland of white.
By the time the flakes hit the ground they were gone, almost as if you’d
imagined them.

Eli glanced up, smiled, planted the ax blade in the stump he
was using as a chopping block, and started sorting and stacking the pieces of
wood he’d split between two support beams near the edge of the porch.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, knowing her words
would fall on deaf ears.

“I wanted to.”

“Scared I’ll get snake bit?”

A chunk of wood in each hand, he stepped up onto the porch
where she was propped against one of the posts and leaned down to drop a kiss
on her mouth. “I like you. A lot. Wouldn’t wanna see you get hurt.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I like you too.
A lot
.”

“Good.” Then he went back to stacking the wood.

“You like pumpkin pie, Eli?”

A wicked smile. “I like all kinds of pie.”

Bellamy rolled her eyes. “I stepped right into that one.”

“Indeed you did. But yes, I like pumpkin pie. Why, you gonna
bake me one?”

“I was thinking about it. I bought a fresh pumpkin from Kai
yesterday to carve, but since Halloween is practically over, I thought I’d
repurpose it into something yummy. It’s the perfect size for a pie, maybe not
the perfect kind, but I think I can make it work.”

“I’m sure you can. I bet your granny taught you how to make
the crusts from scratch too.”

“She did.”

“Can’t say that I’ve ever had fresh pumpkin pie. Even Ruby,
in all her southern cooking expertise and glory, still uses the canned stuff.”

“It’s easier when you’ve got a thousand other things to
prepare for Thanksgiving dinner, which I’m sure Ruby does, and that seems to be
the only time people bother with making them.”

“You don’t have any work calls today?”

“Nope, I’m free unless there’s an emergency. Although I do
need to visit the Laundromat, and pick up what ingredients I’ll need for the
pie in town.”

“I’ve got a washer and dryer you can use, Bell.” He dropped
the last two chunks of wood onto the stack. Hip-high, it stretched six feet
from post to post. The wood would stay nice and dry under the eaves of the
house, so it would catch fire more easily and not smoke a lot as it burned.
That much she did know about wood and fireplaces.

“You don’t mind?”

He brushed his hands off on his jeans, then hefted the ax
onto his shoulder, wrapping those long, capable fingers around the handle.
“’Course not. And I probably have most of the stuff you’ll need to bake the
pie. What I don’t have we can grab in town or borrow from Mom.”

“You’re being awful nice to me. Not sure I deserve all this
special treatment,” she said, her heart thumping wildly behind her sternum.

Eli stood on the ground in front of her, his face level with
her chest, and looked up, squinting slightly in the sun. Bellamy reached out
and pushed damp hair away from his forehead. His free hand slid under the
blanket, up her thigh, where he squeezed the muscle. “Did you hear me say I
liked you?”

“Did you hear me say it back?”

“Okay then. People who like each other generally do nice
things for one another, like splitting wood and baking pies.”

“And fixing gates and swings and mailbox posts.”

He grinned, the look in his eyes playful. “You noticed that
too, huh?”

She nodded. “I think there are far more hash marks in your
column than mine.”

His smile dimmed. “It’s not about tit for tat, Bellamy. I
wanted to do it, simple as that. I don’t expect you to repay me in some way
every time I do something nice for you. That’s not the way this works.”

She squirmed beneath the blanket, nervous she’d said
something wrong and a little confused about what he meant. “Not the way what
works?”

“You. Me. Us…together.” He shrugged, glancing away, as if
talking specifics made him uncomfortable. “A relationship I guess.”

Licking her bottom lip, she asked, “Is that what this is?”

“Well, yeah. At least I hope that’s where it’s headed. I’m
shit with finding the right words, but I can tell you I don’t wanna be just
your Friday night fuck-buddy.” He dropped his hand from her thigh to prop it on
his hip and she immediately missed the warm weight of his touch. “If I’m
freaking you out or saying something out of line, then tell me. Am I wrong to
want that with you?”

“No. It’s just that you should know I’m not used to having
people do stuff for me. At all. I’ve always been self-reliant, so this sort of
thing,” she waved her hand toward the stack of wood, “even though I’m terribly
grateful, it still knocks me off my axis a little.”

The sexy grin was back. “Sugar, I’ve been knocked off my
axis ever since I met you.”

* * * * *

The first order of business once they reached Eli’s house
was a bath because he knew he reeked from playing lumberjack. He gave Bellamy a
quick tour, showed her where his washer and dryer was located, and ducked into
the bathroom for a shower while she sorted and started a load of laundry.

Once clean and shaved, he found all the items she needed for
the pie, honestly shocked that he had most of them with the exception of
allspice—
seriously, who keeps that crap on hand?
—then helped her scoop,
chop and cook the pumpkin. Watching her make the crust was fun, especially
since the closest thing he had to a rolling pin was a bottle of beer. He loved
the way she moved, so confident in everything she did. The process seemed to
come back to her easily, as if she’d just made one with her grandmother
yesterday. When she had the pie assembled, the edges of the crust crimped just
so, they popped it into the oven to bake.

“Now that we have some time to kill, show me the rest of
your property,” she said after dusting flour from her shirt and washing her
hands for the umpteenth time.

Eli knew plenty of ways to kill that time and all of them
included his bed and their naked bodies, but if she wanted to see his land,
those ideas could wait until later. He led her outside to the back porch, which
he’d equipped with a stainless-steel grill, small refrigerator, tables and
seating, and a large flat-screen television.

“You spend a lot of time out here?”

“When it’s not too hot. The fans help cool it down, though.
So do the trees.”

They stepped off the porch, wandering toward the back of his
land. “It’s so quiet and peaceful. I like that you can smell the pine in the
air.”

“That’s why I only cleared an area big enough for the house
and a little yard. I wanted the trees to muffle any noises from the highway.”

Shielding her eyes with one hand, she asked, “What’s out
there, beyond that fence?”

“A neighbor’s pasture. The fence marks the back of my
property line.”

As they drew closer to the fence line, Bellamy made a small
gasping sound, her eyes going wide.

“What is it, Bell?”

She pointed. “The horse.”

He glanced out at the big paint standing about two-hundred
yards away. “Yeah, so?”

“I’ve seen it before, I think, in a painting hanging in
Kai’s store.”

“Huh.” Eli still didn’t understand why she found the animal
so interesting. It was just a lone horse grazing in a pasture. Nothing special,
really. But then he remembered the things she’d told him last night in her
kitchen. The letter. Her desire to work with horses exclusively.

Shoving two fingers between his lips, he whistled loudly.
The horse lifted its head and started ambling in their direction. Eli’s gaze
swung to Bellamy. Her face lit up with pure joy, hands wrapped tight around the
top strand of fence wire. “Looks like he wants to say hello.”

“He?” she asked.

Eli nodded. “It’s a gelding. Back when I first cleared the
spot for the house, we met briefly a few times. I re-fenced this whole place
because the original fence was in pretty bad shape. While I was working, he’d
wander over to investigate.”

But as the sociable horse drew nearer to them, the smile on
her face withered before disappearing altogether. “Oh no,” she murmured.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look at him.”

He did, but Eli knew next to nothing about horses. The
gelding’s bones weren’t protruding like it was starving. Sure, there were a few
scratches on his legs, a long healing cut across the white patch on his chest,
and the tail and mane were matted. Well, the patch on his chest was
supposed
to be white. Really, it was more a dingy gray. Other than those obvious things,
he didn’t have a clue as to its overall condition. “You’re the vet and the
horse person here. Explain what
you
see.”

The gelding wasn’t shy, shoving his head across the fence
for Bellamy to stroke his muzzle and pat his neck. She cooed to the big animal,
concern still shadowing her face. Eli’s nose burned at the strong scent of
dirty horsehide. Dude could use a bath.

“You can’t turn a horse loose in a pasture and forget about
it. It might live, yes, but it won’t thrive. They need other food sources
besides grass. Hay, sweet feed, mineral supplements to keep ’em healthy.
Variety. You can look at the condition of his coat, the loss of muscle
definition and his eyes just to begin with. Healthy horses’ eyes are bright and
alert. His look dull and a bit listless. His coat should be shiny and his
muscles firm and delineated. And I seriously hope that stagnant pond out there
isn’t his only water source. Have you seen any other horses in the pasture with
him?”

“Nope, just him.”

She shook her head, running her palm over the gelding’s
forehead. “That’s disappointing too. A horse is naturally a herd animal. They
enjoy having companions just like we do. They play and loaf around and groom
one another, even huddle together for warmth when the weather’s wet or cold.
Did you know horses take turns watching over each other as they sleep?”

“No,” Eli said, patting the animal’s shoulder, his heart
heavy with the things she was telling him. Crumbling to pieces over the troubled
look on her face.

“They do.” She scratched the paint’s nose, chuckling when he
gave her shoulder a nudge. “He shouldn’t be alone and forgotten.”

Neither should you.

“The painting was so misleading. I wish now I’d never seen
it. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a hard blow when I found the real thing.”

“I’ll have to see this painting you’re talking about.”

“It’s beautiful. Kai said it’s a local artist, but he
prefers to remain anonymous for now.”

“That’s interesting.”

The gelding snorted and withdrew from Bellamy’s touch,
moving away to feed on a patch of dying grass. Wiping her hands on her jeans,
she asked, “What, the anonymity?”

“Well, yeah. Serenity’s so small and gossipy. Hard to keep
secrets here. And with that kind of talent, why would you want to?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want the notoriety. Could be a crazy
recluse. Artists are sometimes known for being eccentric or even bipolar. Look
at Van Gogh—a drunk nut who sent his severed ear to a prostitute. Pollock was
an alcoholic who died in a car crash at age forty-four. Michelangelo was said
to never bathe and slept in his clothing and boots.”