Page 7 of Freak
Until the day her homestead was attacked, she’d known Mel no better than anyone else in the Night Horde, and she’d known few in the Horde any better than anyone else in town. Some of their women, particularly Adrienne Ness, Candy Kohl, Lilli Lunden, and Shannon Ryan, she knew a little better, because those four were in charge of virtually every major event in town, and the seasonal festivals were the most important events of any year. Since she booked a booth slot in each one, she knew those women a little bit. And she liked them all—they were wildly different from each other, but each was strong and smart in her own way, and none wielded power like a personal entitlement.
Mel, though? She’d known him only well enough to connect face and name, until that day. When she’d decided she needed the Horde’s help and called their clubhouse, Mel had answered.
She’d believed herself through the shock of it, but a burst of emotion had overtaken her while she’d described the attack. Mel had been patient and sweet with her while she pulled herself back together, and he’d promised the Horde would fix everything. Since then, he seemed to have taken up her cause as his own.
The damage had been repaired and the only remaining sign anything had ever been amiss was the newness of the replacements and repairs. But it remained a mystery who’d made the mess.
Though they’d not learned who’d run roughshod over her home and animals, the question had quieted from an outraged roar to a puzzled whisper in the two months or so since that day. Abigail didn’t think the club was trying to find the culprits any longer, and she was, truly, fine with that. She had no need for revenge, and the damage had been repaired. She didn’t really need an answer for why anymore, either. Once she’d worked through the initial shock, she’d understood that there would never be a satisfactory answer for why. She’d done nothing to provoke it, she hadn’t deserved it, so no answer could fill the hole the question left.
Mel, however, remained focused on it, still determined to find what he called the ‘doers.’ He’d taken charge of the clean-up and repair work, and thereafter he’d stayed close, showing up a couple times a week to ‘check on things.’
He always asked if there was anything he could do for her, anything at all. Raised as a barterer, Abigail never deflected that question but instead answered it honestly. If there was help she needed, she said so, and then she worked out what she could trade in balance. Mel was a particular fan of her strawberry rhubarb ... everything, so at first she’d swapped several jars of jam and a packet of fresh buttermilk biscuits, or a whole pie, or a few pints of berries, for help on the property. She’d also invited him to share meals, when he was around at the right time. He seemed particularly enthusiastic about getting a home-cooked meal, and it was becoming a regular thing.
Abigail enjoyed his company; Mel was a good soul, friendly, compassionate, and patient. He listened when she talked, and he made connections between their experiences so they braided into a shared story. He had a ready smile, and it was one of the most beautiful, welcoming, comforting smiles she’d ever seen. His aura was a lovely soft blue, so clear and strong it nearly sparkled. The aura of a truly decent, warm-hearted man.
She didn’t mind his company at all.
Earlier in the week, he’d changed the oil on her truck and rotated the tires on that and on her trailer. She’d given him a few loaves of fresh bread and some honey butter (made from the Morgans’ honey; she didn’t have a hive of her own—not yet, anyway), and he’d taken a raincheck on dinner.
He was due anytime now. Abigail set the table for two and went back to finish making dinner.
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~oOo~
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Abigail knew Mel hadarrived before he’d cleared the big turn and low rise of her driveway—the dogs both rose from their fluffy beds and strolled to the back door, ready to greet their guest. Bogie and Mitch were better than any alarm system she could buy because she could tell not only that someone had arrived but whether they were friend or stranger. When the boys recognized the vehicle, they strolled calmly to the back door, in no particular hurry, as they had now. When they didn’t recognize the vehicle, they went with purpose, first to the front windows and around to each window until they reached the door, then they stood there at full attention, ready to protect if needed.
She heard his step on her deck while she was bent over, checking the chicken. On the stovetop, she had potatoes boiling and gravy starting; on the ledge above the stove sat the loaf of rosemary bread, wrapped in a towel and snugged in a basket.
Three raps on her screen door. “Hey, pretty lady,” Mel said.
Still bent over at the stove, presenting her whole rear end to the back door, Abigail grinned. What a ridiculous compliment to make at this moment.
She closed the oven door and straightened as she turned. “Hi there, hon! C’mon in!”
He opened the screen door and stepped in—and immediately crouched to love on the dogs, whose own big butts swung back and forth with happiness. There was no better seal of approval than a dog’s love.
Abigail knew better than to get swoony over a man at this point in her life. Great glory, she’d be forty-three come Thanksgiving, and she hadn’t been anywhere near a man in a romantic way since her twenties. Also, while she was perfectly comfortable in her own skin, she was perfectly aware that she was not and never had been widely considered a great beauty. She’d been plump her whole life and had given up all that starve-yourself-skinny silliness not long after high school. It hadn’t been anything but stressful, anyway; her body resisted dieting like it was perpetually preparing for hibernation.
As her grandmother had always insisted, a body that didn’t lose weight on a diet was a body that was not meant to be skinny. When Abigail finally tossed out the fashion magazines and accepted—nay, welcomed—that truth, her whole mindset about herself and her life changed. A body was not a fashion choice. It should not go in and out of ‘style.’ A body was the soul’s house, meant to shelter and protect the person within it.
As Abigail’s actual house could attest, Freeman women were not minimalists.
As soon as she was old enough to understand her own mind, she’d stopped bothering about how other people said she should be, or look, or do. Just as Granny Kate had always counseled her: be true to yourself, and the people who are drawn to you will be those who belong with you. Be false to yourself, and your friends will be false as well.
Abigail had never really had friends, and few beaus, but her life and heart were full even so. She was content, through lows as well as highs.
And yet. Lately there were some flutters in the deep parts of herself when Mel Lind was close, smiling at her like he was now.
And he was holding a big bunch of wildflowers in his hand.
“What’s that you got?” she asked, setting the potholders on the counter beside the range.
Mel—in his late forties, at least six feet tall, broad at the shoulders, and strong as a bear—glanced at the flowers he held and blushed like a little boy caught doing something naughty.
“Uh ...” He held out the bunch. “Flowers.”
