Faded Cotton (Erotic Romance) (9 page)

Laurel blew her a kiss. “Hey, Ellie,” she
stopped her as she was about to walk past the end of the plush red
booth, “stop by the mall and see if you can figure out what
Victoria’s little secret is. Get something that makes you feel
sexy. He’ll appreciate, it too. You are his gift, let him enjoy
unwrapping it.” Ellie nodded and rushed out with new
confidence.

Laurel let out a big sigh with a humph, her
bottom lip out, blowing her bangs skyward. Why was a beautiful girl
like Ellie Tanner having trouble with the intimate side of her
marriage? She knew Daniel was a wonderful husband to her. A pang of
jealously stabbed her, followed by longing.

Jahn. Thoughts of him always wrecked her
emotional state when she realized she was lonely. She closed her
eyes to see him. She felt like a cheat, wanting the love of a man
when he was gone just barely a year.
Time to go home
.

Laurel opened her eyes.

He was the wrong color to be Jahn, so she
hadn’t died, and gone to Heaven. The handsome man now standing in
front of her had features much like her dead husband. Square jaw,
broad shoulders, tall, handsome. She shook her head like a young
horse trying to spit out a bit. He took his hands from the pockets
of his obviously expensive suit and clasped them together with a
nervous energy, ending his patient stance.

“Laurel, is it?” He started.

“Yesssirrr.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear your
conversations earlier.” He looked apprehensive.

“Well, Mr. ...uh....”

“Jones. Reverend Darren Jones.”

Laurel blushed a little, wondering just how
much the Reverend had heard. She supposed she was going to get
quite a verbal Bible thumping. She perked up with a twisted grin,
ready for battle.

“How. Can. I. Help. You?” She said
defensively, pushing each word, ready to verbally joust.

“May I sit down?” He gestured to the open
space in her booth.

“Sure...why not?” Laurel retorted. It was
more of a statement than a question. He scooted in, keeping a
comfortable space between them, and leaned his long arms on the
solid oak tabletop.

“Laurel, you seem to have quite a dilemma,”
he began.

She shook her head. Was he really going to
drill her?

“Please, let me explain, I know this is a
little odd.”

Darren Jones had heard most of her
conversations with Addy, and Ellie, from his secluded position to
the left of the opening where their booths sat back to back. The
semi-circle seating was one of the design ideas she and Addy had
loved when building City Creek. He hadn’t meant to eaves drop while
finishing his glass of wine, but had needed time to think. The
restaurant had been too quiet.

“The argument I heard earlier, with those
men—that was you?” Laurel queried searching for details. She
remembered hearing his voice in heated discussion behind her.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

It had drawn a lot of attention. The
conversation had grown loud with the four other smartly suited men
he was seated with.
“Do something or we will have no other
choice but to remove you!”
She had heard.

Darren Jones proceeded to tell her what
seemed like a short-version life story, with the emphasis on his
son. Derrick Jones was nineteen and involved in some sort of a rich
kids’ gang. His mother had passed when he was only ten. She’d had
brain cancer and it had taken two years for it to take her
life.

Derrick had been devastated. He had rebelled
against his father, who he’d found in the arms of a woman a year
later. His friends at school had given him a feeling of control
over his life, his father had thought. His initiation at sixteen
had been to beat up a fellow church member and friend. Things had
gone from bad to worse. The next step, he’d heard, was gang rape.
Reverend Jones had been meeting with the deacons of his church who
had gotten wind of the gang’s plan.

“I have to do something. I’ve tried
everything I know. I know he can be saved from this. He’s a good
man on the inside somewhere. I honestly believe he’d never do that
to a woman, but he is still hurting and I just can’t reach him.”
Darren Jones’ eyes misted as the concern for his son surfaced. He
ducked his head into his hands.

“And here I thought I was going to be
chastised for the topic of my conversation.” Laurel mused. He
chuckled a little nervously in response.

“Believe it or not, I share your belief that
we are meant to be enjoyed fully, with love and tenderness. As a
pastor, I ride a fine line, but no, your conversation was not
something I have an issue with. Again, I’m sorry that I overheard
your personal exchange.”

He looked up at her with a look of
desperation behind cool eyes.

“I need help and so do you. I’m risking a lot
here, so please understand I mean nothing other than to help you
and my son. You mentioned needing help on your farm?”

“It has been a challenge since my husband
died.” Laurel stated, not knowing what he was implying.

“Derrick is a big, strong young man. I’ve
seen how hard he can work when he wants to. You seem very
matter-of-fact and goal-oriented. I think you would be a good
influence on him, change his perception of women.” Reverend Jones
plied in his convincing preachers’ drawl. He reached into his
wallet and pulled out a photo. He placed the worn senior picture on
the table and pushed it to her.

“So, let me get this straight. You want a
chubby farm widow to straighten out your linebacker-sized gang
banger?” She laughed mockingly, “Yeah, right.”

His face fell. “Please.”

She wasn’t sure if it was his look of
desperation, the kind eyes she saw in the photo, or her own
exasperation, but she shook her head no, as she said yes. “I must
be crazy.”
What the hell
.

She was between a rock and a very hard
place.

__________________________

Jen interrupted, “How big is your farm?”

“Siddy Creek? About 1,200 acres. A lot of
it’s leased out right now. It’s a lot to handle by myself. It’s
beautiful. When you get to the house, you can see the farm on both
sides of the road for quite a ways. It started with the 236 acres
Grandpa Siddy inherited, and he added from there. Grandpa Siddy was
proud of the legacy he created and how we took care of it.”

Grandma Maralee had told her so before she
died. Speaking to Laurel, she had inhaled hard, then gasping,
“Siddy—happy—with you,” she’d said, smiling, as she had closed her
eyes.

Seeing Laurel’s eyes, Jen said, “I’m guessing
your grandparents were very special to you?”

Laurel’s head jerked in thought as if she had
come back from another place, she laughed gently, “Yes, very much
so. Everyone that knew them said I am just like Grandma Maralee,
with a strong dose of Grandpa Siddy’s stubborn streak.”

“Did you see Reverend Jones after that?” Jen
grinned mischievously, eyebrows cocked.

“No,” Laurel knew what she was insinuating,
“I haven’t seen him since he brought Derrick to the farm.”

“I’m guessing there is more?” Jen
prompted.

“Sure, as long as we don’t miss our dinner
date.
‘Navy’
has a temper!” They both laughed.

__________________________

Down the two-lane road north and west of
Summerville was the turn off for Siddy Creek road. Turning onto the
gravel, the car didn’t travel far before the trees cleared and the
MacClain farm spread out on both sides of the gently rolling
hills.

The shiny, long black limo gathered dust from
the white limestone gravel as it moved toward the modern farmhouse.
The soft hues of lavender and yellow iris in full bloom graced the
circle drive in stark contrast to the sleek car Laurel saw pull up.
Four large men in suits spilled out to escort a combative young man
to the porch. Reverend Jones followed with two large duffle bags.
Laurel watched from behind the screen door before she decided to
step onto the porch.

“Leave him alone. He has nowhere else to be
right now.” Laurel’s eyes met the inferno behind Derrick Jones’s
eyes as the men unhanded him. She worked to keep her
“I’m-not-taking-any-bullshit-from-anyone” look while quivering
inside. Not only did he tower over her, he was incredibly good
looking. She sized him up to be about six-foot-four. His broad
shoulders looked striking under his silk suit jacket.

Spoiled rich boy
. He was a tower of
strength, okay a little soft—maybe, but the farm would take care of
that. His liquid amber-brown eyes seemed to bore through her like
an oil field drill, hard and steady. They were not the only thing
she noticed about his chiseled face. With rich light mocha brown
skin and close-cropped hair, he was quite possibly one of the
best-looking men she’d ever laid eyes on. Her breath hitched and
she coughed to cover it up.

“Derrick, you have only
one
choice.
Stay here, work for Mrs. MacClain, help her, or go back and be
handed over to the police. Leave, and these men will hunt you down.
Hurt Laurel or anyone else, and you will pay the price.” Derrick
knew his father was serious. He’d seen these men go after people. A
congregation in the thousands gave Reverend Jones powerful support
and protection, courtesy of the church.

“How long?” Derrick spat as he glared at
Laurel, turning a diamond-studded ear to his father.

“However long it takes.” Darren Jones sighed,
feeling relieved. Reverend Jones hoped this would be a turning
point. He hoped that Derrick would want to go on to college, and
have a decent future instead of mob life. Derrick stepped onto the
porch and plopped his long frame into the porch swing. He was so
tall that his knees bent upward from his seated position. So
strong, the outlines of the muscles in his thighs were easy to see,
the suit pants clinging to them. His long muscular arms easily
spanned the back of the swing.

She wasn’t quite sure what kind of gang/mob
thing he was involved in. A silk suit was an interesting choice for
a gang member, different than she figured, anyway.
Armani?
He sported a swagger in his designer suit and Italian leather dress
shoes. His countenance was more of a filthy rich, misguided
linebacker than a hoodlum. At least he didn’t have his pants down
around his butt, Laurel mused.

“I hope you brought jeans and work boots.”
She spun around, flung open the screen door and marched into the
house. Laurel heard yelling between the men, then spinning tires
flipping gravel.

An ice water calmed her a bit, as she sat at
the kitchen table staring out the glass doors, past the deck to the
pasture where her gaze became vacant. She breathed deep as she
remembered Jahn walking up the short stairs and through the doors
to sweep her into his arms, pressing her against the kitchen
countertop in a passionate kiss.

She missed him, them, together. Her eyes
closed, and for a moment, she felt his breath against her neck,
like the times when it was only the two of them during the day.
He’d kiss her shoulder and chores would wait until later.

But, he wasn’t there, and she realized it was
the presence of Derrick Jones standing behind her that she felt.
She turned her head to him slamming his bags to the floor.

Derrick’s eyes yielded the fury burning in
his soul. He was just plain mad.

“Let’s get one thing straight. It was the
great and powerful Oz that arranged this shit, not me,” Derrick
vomited the words, hate oozing from him. She whipped up, standing
to face him.

“Mr. Jones, a gentleman announces his
presence! Don’t you ever speak to me that way again. Save your hate
for the hayfield or shoveling shit from the barn.”

He seethed and scowled hideously at her. She
was furious on so many levels. She reached up and slapped him hard
across the face. He didn’t falter, standing stock-still. Standing
there face to face, he trembled in rage and she in fear. She was
taken aback by her own actions, but wasn’t about to back down. How
had saving her farm come to the likes of dealing with Derrick
Jones’s style of bullshit? She was disgusted with herself.

Derrick’s jaw fell slack and his stiff stance
softened a bit. He retrieved his bags as he shook his head trying
to understand what the hell he was doing standing in Laurel
MacClain’s kitchen, damn near getting his jaw jacked by the
woman.

“Mrs. MacClain, where do you want me?” He
asked in his lush baritone.

“Up the stairs, second door on the right,”
she said flatly.

As he moved off, he looked back at her in
time to catch tears streaming down her tired face. She turned away
from him and he wondered whether she was sad or scared and why he
even cared.

The dark stained oak banister was a simple
guide to follow. The stairs showed wear in a satisfying, homey
manner. He passed an open door on his right and briefly gave it
notice. A large sleigh bed filled the distance between the room’s
two windows. Lavender and pink colors gave the room away as
decidedly feminine.

The room he’d been assigned was more
masculine in tans and blues, the same large sleigh bed in the
center of the room. The bed was neat and freshly made. So different
from the cool, calculated décor of his room in his father’s
mansion. No electronics and no remote for the drapes; he would miss
that.

Emotionally drained, Derrick tested out the
center of the bed. It would do. His thoughts muddled together until
he closed his eyes and drifted off.

__________________________

“Mr. Jones, MR. JONES!” Derrick awoke with a
start, recognizing his new surroundings. He lifted his head to peer
at Laurel with one eye partially open.

“Mr. Jones, you slept through evening chores.
Dinner is ready anyway.”

“Evening chores—what?” He scowled at her.
Then it occurred to him that this, middle-of-nowhere hellhole he
was banished to, was indeed a farm and he knew that probably meant
physical labor. He groaned, and plopped back down, as he watched
her spin around in a huff and retreat back down the stairs.