Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(6)

Is it the sound of a male determined to protect what’s his?

“There’s a .410 shotgun under your seat too,” he says all casual-like. “But that’s for snakes.”

“Snakes?” I ask, going pale because he’s said the one word that can scare me more than gun. Oh God, if I’d known there would be snakes out here, I would have been way more terrified to be stranded!

“Okay, maybe the guns are okay,” I grudgingly admit, because I don’t like the idea of sitting on lethal weapons, but I like snakes even less.

Caleb chuckles, turning the truck onto a gravel road, and everything leaves my mind save for the way his hands look on the steering wheel. Big and rough and capable.

The turn points us right at the encroaching line of the storm, and I see lightning flickering in the distance. Caleb gives a sigh.

“Fucking storm,” he says under his breath. Then, “Here’s our pit stop. It’ll just take a minute.”

We’re pulling into a long driveway—although “driveway” feels like an almost luxurious term, given that it’s a dirt track with weeds growing up the middle and plenty of long grass along the sides. A low-slung white bungalow comes into view, all the windows covered with old-fashioned aluminum awnings. Several wooden outbuildings surround the house, gray and tired looking, and a gleaming twenty-year-old Cadillac nestles close to the house. A windmill spins in brisk, dizzy circles, and a couple of acres away, I see the slow nodding head of an oil drill.

“Is this your friend’s house?” I ask, wondering if this is pickle lady.

“Yep,” Caleb answers, throwing the truck into park and opening the door. Greta hops over his lap and is off like a shot, racing around the house like she’s being chased. “Mrs. Parry sometimes has ducks wandering up from her pond,” he says by way of explanation for Greta’s bolt for freedom, but I stop at Mrs. Parry.

Mrs. Parry?

Surely that can’t be the name of a lover—

The screen door of the house goes whirr-BANG as it opens and then slams shut behind an old woman in buttercup-yellow polyester pants and a white top with matching yellow flowers. Caleb gets out of the car and walks over to hug the woman—presumably Mrs. Parry—and gives her a kiss on the cheek. He’s so much taller than her shrunken frame that he has to bend down considerably to do it.

“Now, what’s this?” she asks, pulling away from him and eyeing me with some amusement as I climb carefully out of the truck and join them. “Caleb, have you found yourself a sweetheart?”

“Well, I—”

To my surprise, Caleb is stammering a little.

Mrs. Parry is already turning toward me and extending her hand. I take it and sense her approval of my firm grip. She makes no secret of how she appraises me, looking from my muddy flats all the way up to my lavender lipstick and windblown hair. She may be wearing a matching polyester set, but her eyes are still sharp, and I get the feeling not much gets past her.

I open my mouth to explain I’m just here to take pictures, but she interrupts me.

“She’s a good, sturdy one,” the woman says with a nod. “You and Ben did well.”

Sturdy? I want to give a huff at that, but then my brain catches on the name Ben. Who’s Ben? Why would she mention a Ben when she’s sizing me up for suitability as Caleb’s woman?

Also why am I even wondering this? Why am I even letting her talk about this when I am absolutely not Caleb’s woman, or this mysterious Ben’s?

“I’m Ireland Mills,” I say as our hands finally part. “I came out to take some pictures of Caleb’s farm for a client.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Parry says, and there’s a real look of disappointment on her face. Real enough that I forgive her for calling me sturdy. “Well, then. I guess you’ll still need some food, Caleb.”

“No, ma’am,” Caleb insists. “This morning, Mrs. Harthcock sent home more food than I know what to do with, and I—”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Parry is already bustling back toward the house. “You and Ben are growing boys still.”

“—don’t even like pickles,” Caleb finishes his sentence in mumbled defeat as we watch Mrs. Parry disappear back inside. “You should see our pantry,” he says, looking over at me. “It’s filled with mason jars.”

“‘Our’ pantry?” I ask. “Is this the Ben she was talking about?”

“Yes. My roommate.” He looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t know what he should say. He looks…uncomfortable.

A thought clicks into place.

Oh.

I guess I’m too used to how things are back home in Kansas City, because I should have picked up on the clues earlier. Roommate might very well be what a hunky farmer calls his boyfriend out in the Kansas countryside.

I feel a retroactive rush of embarrassment at how much I’ve been privately lusting after him. And embarrassment on his behalf that Mrs. Parry thought I was his girlfriend.

“And the pickles and the computer,” I ask, looking for something to move me past this awkward realization. “That’s from another lady like Mrs. Parry?”

He seems relieved at the change of subject. So am I.

“That’s right. Mrs. Harthcock and Mrs. Parry got left all sorts of land when their husbands died. Some of it they sold, but the rest they rent out—to me.”