Page 8 of Beehives and Broken Heroes

She threw the screen open and marched inside. “Aunt Sophie, I need scissors!”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Winslow sounded way more chipper than she had right to, given the demand.

Jo slipped out of Cash’s embrace and pointed after her sister. “I’d better . . .” She moved quickly toward the door. “. . . stop that.” Then she ran inside. “Aunt Sophie, you’d better not give her those scissors, or so help me, I’ll scare off every gentleman suitor who comes anywhere near your door!”

Andy frowned. “What’s with the scissors?”

Cash turned back to the grill. “She wants to cut her hair. She does this every time she goes through a breakup. When she broke up with David Jenkins in high school, she got a self-tanner and was orange for a month.”

Mr. Winslow nodded with a chuckle. “In college, she broke up with some guy and wore only purple for six weeks.”

Brandon frowned. So, this was all about Tony?

“She’s a handful, then?” Andy laughed.

“You have no idea.” Cash grinned.

A handful who’d been upset when she’d arrived, and who he’d made even more upset. Brandon took a deep breath, set his drink on the porch behind him, and headed inside—trying not to drag his sore leg too much. To his left, Caroline and Jessie were setting the dining room table for dinner. Jessie had an earbud on one ear, and Brandon wondered if she was listening to a classic, listening to Carter Hughes’s podcast, or listening country music—each just as likely as the next. Last time he’d been here, she’d been finishing upPride and Prejudice—for the fourth time, she’d said.

On his right, the twins’ mom, Clara Ward, sat with Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Winslow’s three youngest girls on a plastic-covered, floral-print sofa in the living room. Clara was stunning with green eyes and the same red hair as her daughters, only hers had wisps of white that added to the drama of the vibrant color. Unlike her sister, she didn’t wear bright clothes much, preferring creams and pastels, and her personality was just as reserved. Her posture was so straight, it made his look weak, and he’d been in the army for half his life. Sometimes he wondered if she bounced a quarter off her bed after making it in the morning. Though from what he heard, she’d been much wilder when she was younger, like Allie.

Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Winslow were sisters and opposites in so much. Mrs. Ward’s flamboyance came only from her hair, whereas Mrs. Winslow’s came from her wardrobe. She had an orangey-pink dress on tonight. Mrs. Ward was quiet and sensible where Mrs. Winslow was chatty and unrealistic. Still, both always spoke their minds—just in different ways.

Mrs. Winslow winked at him and glanced at her three youngest: Diana, Maggie May, and Cecilia. Yeah, he was ignoring whatever that was about.

Mrs. Ward glanced up and smiled. She tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear. “Hello, Brandon. You gents doing okay out there? It’s chilly.” She gave a shudder.

“We’re good.” He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“What have I told you?” She stared her nose down at him. “It’s Clara.”

“Clara,” he said.

Clara smiled. “The girls went out back.”

Cecilia, the youngest of Mrs. Winslow’s girls at barely nineteen years old, patted the sofa next to her and gave him a saucy look. He cringed inside; he had over twenty years on the girl. And they thought Allie wearing purple for six weeks was a handful? The worst of it was not just that she was a silly flirt, but that she was cute too. All three of the younger girls were cute with light-brown hair, hazel eyes, and friendly smiles, but of the three youngest, Cecilia had gotten the jackpot, and she knew how to accentuate her looks. He didn’t envy Mr. and Mrs. Winslow the task of watching her.

Before Cecilia could speak up her desire that he sit next to her, he nodded and picked up his feet, heading through the house toward the yelling at the back of the house. Jo rested against the doorjamb and crossed her arms over her chest.

Brandon stopped at her side. “Everything okay?”

Jo jumped. “Oh, Brandon. Yes, it’s . . . it’s . . .” She breathed deep. “No, something has gotten into her. I mean, she’s been wanting to cut her hair all week, but this is something else.”

Brandon glanced outside. Allie sat on a porch swing under the backyard patio, slouched down, her hair splayed over the back. Her one-hundred-fifty-five-pound golden retriever mutt mix, Honey, sat beside her with his head in her lap as she petted him.

He cleared his throat. “Mind if I try?”

She shook her head.

He headed down to Allie, stopping overhead. She didn’t have a jacket on. She glanced up at him, sighed, and scooted over. He took the seat beside her.

Allie grabbed the binder from beside her and handed it to him. “Here are the projections for next year.”

He raised his brows but opened it and looked through. He’d known Sticky and Sweet would be a good investment, but he’d had no idea how good.

“What do you think?” Allie asked.

He nodded. “It looks . . . adequate.”

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