Page 3 of Beehives and Broken Heroes

Andy held his hands up. “Fine.”

Brandon breathed deep. The frigid air filled his lungs and made his side ache where he’d slammed into the stall wall. “It’s my year for B.O.T.s already?”

Andy nodded. “Every fifth year. Are you up for it? Because if you’re not …”

B.O.T.s stood for Black Ops Tag. It was a game Brandon, Andy, and three other friends had started fifteen years ago. Each year, one friend would be “tango,” or the “target,” and the other four would track them down at some random point during that year and try to tag them by taking them down, literally, to the pavement. Brandon had won every year for the last nine years—either by taking the other down or by not being taken down. He couldn’t back out, despite the mess his life had become or because of what he was trying to get away from.

He pointed toward the side door of the house. “Kitchen’s through that door. Take your shoes off. Coffee’s on the counter. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right of the sink. Give me five.”

Andy headed inside, and Brandon went back to the barn. He passed his truck, trailer, and motorcycle at the front of the barn, and stopped outside the gate separating the garage section of space from the horse stalls. Titan had settled down and hovered at the gate, anxious to get back to his stall.

Brandon grabbed several hay cubes and gave them to the horse. He ran a hand down Titan’s silky neck and attached a lead rope to his halter. “You’re okay, boy.” He led the horse back into his stall and closed the gate behind him. He checked the other horses, put his gloves away, and hung his jacket back up in the wood workshop turned storage area for all things Sticky and Sweet Honey Co., the company he’d recently decided to invest in.It was almost time for dinner, and he had no intention of being late.

He made his way to the side door of his house and stepped into the mudroom. His jackets were hung up in order of weight—the one on the far right for light rain and the closest one for heavy snow. The corresponding boots were tucked against the wall under the coats. He’d swept the floor that morning.

As he removed his boots, he poked his head in the kitchen door. Andy sat at the little breakfast nook that overlooked the river, nursing a cup of coffee, and watched the small-screen TV Brandon placed on the counter. It was one of the few things he’d added to the house upon moving in. There wasn’t much he’d had to bring, since he’d bought the furniture that had been custom made for each space.

The national news was on, and a report of a fire near Fort Bragg, his old base, caught his attention. A chill ran up his spine as he watched coverage of an old warehouse in flames. He cleared his throat. “Was anyone hurt?”

Andy shook his head. “No, it was an old storage facility. Army blankets, tents, stuff like that.” Andy turned the TV off.

A sense of unease started to wind through Brandon’s core as thoughts of another fire from eight years ago surged through his mind. He pushed those thoughts back and turned to his friend. “You staying for a while?”

“For the weekend, if you’re down with that.” Andy glanced out the window that faced the Southern Run river a quarter of a mile off. “Though with this view, I might never want to leave.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “I didn’t know the Carroll family farms did as well as all this.”

Brandon nodded. He’d been a career military man, but he’d also handled all the marketing for his family farm for the last twelve years. They’d been doing well before he’d started, but Brandon had a knack for the position, and their farm, as of now, was leading the industry in three states, including his home state and Virginia.

He stepped onto the wood floors in his socks, then whipped a leaf off the top of one of them and tossed it outside. He hurried to the farmhouse sink and washed his hands. “Your room is at the top of the stairs on the right. Doors open. I have to shower and get ready.” He sniffed under his arm and wrinkled his nose. “I stink.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that you have . . .”

Brandon chucked the towel he’d used to dry his hands at his friend.

Andy caught it. “Get ready for what?”

“Dinner—I’ve been invited over, and since you’re here, I guess I can’t leave you.”

“Who’s cooking?” Andy wadded the towel and set it to the side. “Am I gonna like the food, or should I just stay here and scrounge the kitchen?”

Cash Evans, Jo Ward’s fiancé, was cooking, and Brandon had to admit the man knew what he was doing. “Best food you’ve ever had.”

Andy came around the island, rubbing his hands. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Grab your gear and get set up. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Brandon limped upstairs and down the hall to his room—man, did his hip hurt. His room wasn’t the master, but it had a bathroom and a view of the river, the guest house, and the barn. He’d tried the master suite for three nights, then abandoned it for this smaller room. He felt like less of an intruder here—and the view was better.

He’d purchased the house from Allie and Jo Ward when they’d had to sell it last October, and now that he knew them, had become friends and business partners with them, and knew the hardships they’d faced, he couldn’t help but feel like a visitor in their house. He did his best to keep it just as they’d kept it, and spotlessly clean at that. For what reason, he didn’t rightly know, but he felt better for it.

He shucked his clothes off as he crossed his room to the bathroom and jumped into the shower. It would make more sense to stay dirty; dinner was at the Winslow’s, the twins’ aunt’s house. Mrs. Sophie Winslow was a woman of good breeding but as subtle as a tank. She dressed in attention-grabbing colors like hot pink and orange, wore her hair in fancy updos, and made her mission in life clear: to marry off her daughters—all five of them. She made it more than clear that she intended one of them for him.

His first dinner there, she’d sat him between her two oldest, Caroline and Jessie, and had told him it was so he could get to know them better before giving him a wink. He’d sat between them nearly every Sunday since. He’d rather face an enemy combatant in a knife fight than the woman’s setup attempts. It hadn’t helped that Allie Ward sat across from him, giggling and making suggestive comments about his future with the family, though he’d liked the sight of her smile nonetheless.

At least Caroline and Jessie had tried to play down the awkwardness and had been darn good company. Caroline was all ease and politeness, and she was downright pretty with wheat-colored hair and hazel eyes. Jessie was witty and quick and right pretty too, though with light-brown hair like her mother and three younger sisters. Brandon considered both women friends now and had even gotten used to Mrs. Winslow. But they weren’t for him.

Allie was another story altogether. If he was being honest, she was the reason he put effort into getting ready each week. From the moment he’d first seen her in the manor house as she and her family were moving out, he’d known he liked her. She was so open, uncaring of what people thought of her, and full of life—it’d been intoxicating.

She’d stormed off, her fiery red hair whipping behind her, with tears in her deep blue eyes, and even though he’d known her for only a matter of minutes, he’d wanted to go after her and fix whatever hurt she had inside.

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