Unfinished Dreams

UNFINISHED DREAMS

Amanda McIntyre

"Mesmerizing. Very highly recommended.”~
Midwest Book Reviews

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2015 Amanda McIntyre

Cover design The Killion Group

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amanda McIntyre

http://www.amandamcintyresbooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

Interior format by The Killion Group

http://thekilliongroupinc.com

Dedication

To those who believe that love will find a way.

Chapter One

“God blessed son-of-a—” Gabe scooted out from underneath the sink muttering oaths that would’ve made his mother’s teeth fall out. He tossed the wrench across the bathroom tile, sat up, and dropped his arms over his knees. If his luck got any worse, he figured he’d be eligible for the book of world records.

“You okay in there, Gabe honey? Need any help?” Mrs. Crane’s sultry voice issued from downstairs.

He shut his eyes to the frustration building inside him. It was hard enough to travel out here three times a week, but he really hated it when she offered to help him. This time, unfortunately, her help was a matter of convenience. Besides, it kept her in the basement, while he worked on the third floor of the old farmhouse. It was enough to wrestle with the cursed pipe, much less the shapely widow’s loneliness.

“Nah, I’ve got it under control. Thanks, just stand by. I’ll let you know when to turn the water on.”  He sighed, and glanced at the wrench. Scooping it up, he considered what they might do to a man who beat the daylights out of a drainpipe.

He eyed the fixture, wiping his brow with his palm.

For the better part of two years, he’d lived on the money made from auctioning some of his family’s antiques, trying to put away every spare dime he had for a down payment to regain his home.

As much of a pain as it was at times, he was grateful his father had made sure to teach him some practical skills, like repair.

“You never know when this knowledge might come in handy,” his dad would say as he shook a wrench at him.

“But, Dad, I want to go to school and
be
something. I want to do something with my life.”

His dad would chuckle as if he knew something Gabe didn’t.

Gabe laughed sarcastically as he slipped back under the sink.
Little good all that education did.

A graduate degree in agricultural science hadn’t prepared him for the stroke that killed his mother. Worse yet had been leaving school within the same year, before graduating, to care for a senile father made stubborn by the Alzheimer’s. The disease had been slow, eating away at both him and his dad. By the time the old man died, he hadn’t even recognized his own son.

Gabe ran a flashlight over the same spot he’d checked fifteen times before in the last hour and then let out a heavy sigh. Running his tongue over his lip, he tasted residue of God-knows what from having been under the sink all morning. It made his stomach churn and he quickly wriggled out of the tight space under the counter.

Taking a deep cleansing breath, he raked a filthy hand through his shoulder length hair, pushing it back over his ears. Too long since he’d thought about a haircut, he made a mental note to get one next week.

“Turn it on now, Mrs. Crane.”  He waited, rolling his gaze to the ceiling, hopeful she wouldn’t take that the wrong way. Two minutes, then three went by.

Hauling himself to his knees, he peered under the sink and banged the pipe a couple of times. Surprised, then pleased, he listened as a low rumble echoed from deep inside the pipe. He sat on the edge of the tub, his gaze transfixed on the faucet, feeling the same thrill as when he’d seen the first man walk on the moon. Silly, he thought, for a man’s life to be reduced to getting excited about a woman’s pipes working correctly.

“Do you need more from me, Gabe?” Her words beckoned to him for more than the simplicity of the pipe repair.

A faint trickle of water grew into a gushing torrent. He offered a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. Today he felt like he’d actually solved Mrs. Crane’s drain problem for good. He often wondered if the widow simply manufactured repair problems just to have his company.

Lately though, he sensed a desperation in her that gave him pause about accepting jobs at her secluded home. Why she stayed in this small rural town puzzled him. Still, he didn’t want to ask questions for fear she might take it the wrong way.

He wiped his hands on a torn rag as he strolled from the bathroom, stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze followed Mrs. Crane’s painted toenails, up the red satin kimono, finally settling on her glossy red lips.

She was serving lust
ala Carte
today.

“That ought to do her, Mrs. Crane. Shower and sink should work just fine....” Gabe’s words trailed off and he swallowed as she waltzed toward him.

“Why thank you, Gabe, honey. Lord, it’s so blessed hot in that basement. I can’t imagine how you feel up here. You know what they say. Heat travels up. Maybe you should test the shower too, just to see if it works properly.”

She held a glass of iced tea against the generous gap in her robe. The condensation from the glass dripped, sending a single drop sliding down her barely concealed cleavage.

Gabe’s throat went dry. This was about the strangest encounter he’d had with her. Hell, maybe the strangest encounter with any woman—
ever
.

He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, yet with money getting harder to come by, the high road to morality was getting tougher and tougher. Reason warred with his libido.

Besides, with that body, she didn’t appear to be fifteen years his senior.

“Uh, thanks, I’ve got to get over to Bill Buxom’s—Buston’s place.”

Her lips curled up at the corners, forming a smile that left her closely resembling a spider closing in on her prey.

He quickly wiped his mouth, picked up his toolbox, and slid past her, feeling her shoulder brush his arm. There were days when living in a small town gave a man few choices, especially in women, and he supposed it went likewise for some women.

“Do you like me, Gabe?”

Lord, did she think he was dead?
How much could a red-blooded male take? Little by little she’d worked her way to this moment. Hadn’t he seen it coming? Yet he continued to dutifully arrive every time she called for help.

So, here was the
gauntlet
.

He let out a sigh as he turned to find her leaning against the wall, a sassy pout on her fire engine red lips. The woman should come with a highly combustible label tattooed on her forehead. The humorous visual caused his mouth to twitch in a smile. She raised brow and he sobered quickly.

A gentle movement of her hip parted the robe, revealing a set of incredibly enticing legs that stretched—

She’s old enough to be your aunt and that would be your mother’s sister.
Gabe frowned as that particular thought took a grapple hook in his brain.

He tore his gaze from her body and focused on her face instead. The look there was as open as the great outdoors. He had a sudden overwhelming sadness for her.

Still, there was something else behind that melancholy twinkle in her eye.

“You feel sorry for me, don’t you, Gabe?”

He’d heard talk it was bad news to get tangled up with this one. The woman went through husbands like he went through a bag of potato chips.

No telling what she’d do to you, boy
. He shivered at the thought, imagining her teeth beginning to lengthen into fangs.

He blinked a couple of times, clearing his head of the hallucination. “No charge today, Mrs. Crane.”  He quickly turned on his heel and headed straight for his truck. Only when in the safe confines of his cab, did Gabe chance to look back at the house.

He eyed the front door weighing his physical need against his intelligence. Sure enough, she appeared behind the screen door.

Smiling, she zeroed in, locking on his gaze, then with a flick of her wrist, the belt fell and the robe slid from her shoulders.

As though struck by lightning, Gabe flicked on the ignition, keeping his gaze glued to the dash. He put the truck in reverse and quickly ordered himself not to take any more jobs from the widow Crane. The woman gave new meaning to the words
good neighbor.

He fought the signs of an oncoming headache as his truck bounced over the dusty road toward town. It’d not been an exemplary day so far, having spent the greater part of the morning banging on some desperate woman’s pipes. He chuckled sarcastically at the play on words, thinking she probably would have doubled what she might have paid him. Had he, of course, charged her.

His mirth dissipated quickly as his childhood farm came into view.

Once again the overwhelming sense of failure gripped him and he heard his dad’s voice. “You’ve got the farm, Son, hang on to it. We always come through, you’ll see. You got to be tough.”

The memory of his father’s frail hand grasping his was more than Gabe could handle. He pushed it to the darkest corner of his mind, but not before the promise repeated itself in a mocking tone in his brain.
“Just like always, Dad, we’ll pull through.”

The same conversation came many times after that, always new to his dad. It was always the same for Gabe driving guilt—like a bloody stake—a little farther into his heart.

e studied the familiar white fence surrounding the outer edge of the massive front yard. His mind traveled back to his youth when he had climbed those same apple trees. Slowing, he searched the yard for signs of life. He’d been told someone new had moved in, a woman. No one seemed to know much else more about her.

He snorted, quietly considering that any woman choosing to live in Elliot was most likely an aging unmarried woman. What should it matter? Whoever she was, she best have plenty of money and a great deal of common sense. What kind of woman would want to live alone on a farm?

Gabe smacked the wheel in frustration. Pressing his boot to the accelerator, the gravel shot from beneath his tires as he sped down the road hoping to leave the ghostly pain in the dust. It was the damn promise to his dad that continued to haunt him. He shouldn’t have tried to take care of everything himself. Hospital visits, random hospice care, repayment of school loans and upkeep on the farm, placed a dent so large in the savings that finally there was nearly nothing left.

He’d tried as many ways as he could to hang on, but eventually his
Band-Aid
tactics failed to heal the damage and they foreclosed on the farm. One day it was a home where his great grandfather farmed and the next it was on the market, ready to go to some stranger who had no idea of the lives that made it what it was in its glory.

His heart slowed again as he approached the paved road. It was important, he knew, that he get used to the fact that his life was not the same.

Gabe’s attention zeroed in on the young boy riding his bike along the cracked sidewalk.
Not a care in the world.
Like a flash fire in his brain, he remembered the fateful day his life fell completely apart.

The eviction notice came one Tuesday morning. He remembered because a gentle rain had washed over the valley, leaving a fresh scent of wet field grass. It was one of his favorite times. With the simple tearing of an envelope, his world came crashing down around him. In essence, the letter told him he wasn’t strong enough, that he hadn’t worked hard enough to satisfy the creditors, and though the words weren’t exactly the same, that’s how Gabe viewed them.

He wound up staying in the apartment above the garage and working for Merle, an old friend of his father’s, who allowed him the extra work of doing construction repairs.

Gabe had considered, at the time, moving on. He’d thought of maybe driving for a trucking firm or commuting to the city. However, as each day passed, folks around Elliot needed help. Some of them were very close to what had happened to him. He started helping out where he could, and the years passed by. Sometime, thereafter, his love for his boyhood home and the desire to make good on his promise to his dad renewed his determination. He just hadn’t figured out a way to get the farm back.

He pulled into the side lot next to the repair shop, hooked his sunglasses to the rearview mirror, and looked forward to a cool shower.

“You had a call.” Merle handed him the note and smiled. “Sounded kinda perty.”

Gabe raised a brow. “Not Mrs. Crane?” He grimaced.

Merle broke down in a fit of laughter. “That woman still got problems with her pipes?” Merle scratched his neck, ducking his face to cover an evil grin.

Gabe was in no mood for jokes. “Yeah,” he mumbled and stuffed the note in his pocket without looking at it, “something like that. Thanks.”

He plodded up the stairs to his sparse room, lowering himself to one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. Gazing glassy-eyed out the window toward Main Street, he contemplated the direction of his life.

Gabe dragged the phone across the chipped Formica tabletop; he stared at his hand on the receiver. “It can wait until after lunch.” He tossed the crumpled note to the table.

* * *

Tess planted her fists against her hips and stared across the rolling plains that soon would be hers. There was no way she could describe the myriad of emotions inside of her. The last two years of her life had been riddled with struggle and heartache. Yet as she filled her lungs with the fresh country air, she realized that perhaps if the journey had brought her here, it was worth it. She hadn’t felt this much at peace in ages.

In her years of working the collections department at Sullivan Loan, she’d been in the business of helping others, when she could. Often times, she obtained better results with sensitivity and understanding than with the heavy-handed tactics people associate with collection companies.