Down Home Dixie. Pamela BrowningЧитать онлайн книгу.
up with a room.”
“I checked there on my way into town. They’re full up.”
“Oh, must be another tour bus. Lately the Magnolia never has vacancies on weekends.” The fact that the town water tower was painted like a giant peach but more closely resembled a fuzzy pink derriere had something to do with the recent increase of tourism in these parts.
“Are there any other hotels in town? I’m desperate.”
She’d like to help him out, but that uniform turned her off, as it would any respectable Southerner even so long after what was still referred to around here as the War of Northern Aggression. Or as he called it, the Civil War, though Dixie was quite sure that there had been nothing civil about it.
While Dixie tried to figure out what to do, the Yankee dropped his keys. Right at her feet. And bent over in an attempt to retrieve them only to straighten in pain, giving a little moan.
She picked up the keys. It seemed the polite thing, and besides, she hated to see anyone in pain.
“I’d better not drive,” he said unsteadily. “Is there a taxi service?”
“I wish.”
“A boardinghouse? Anything?”
She tried to think. “The only boardinghouse closed when the last Pankey sister died.”
“I could sleep in the back of my truck. I have a sleeping bag,” he said.
“Our local police chief tends to hustle vagrants out of town real fast.”
The soldier leaned against his truck and closed his eyes. They were several lovely shades of golden brown, putting her in mind of autumn leaves floating on the tea-colored water of Sycamore Branch. His hair, at least what she could see of it peeking out from under the cap, was a gingery color, or maybe chestnut depending on the amount of light glinting through the trees. He was a handsome guy if you didn’t mind the sharpness of his nose.
Dixie wondered at the wisdom of getting involved in this situation.
“Look, uh, sir,” she said. “I could ask my friend Bubba if you can stay in his spare room.”
“Anything,” the soldier said. “Anything at all.”
He recognized her indecision for what it was and looked her straight in the eye. “I promise I’m harmless, and I’ve never been in trouble with the law,” he said, adding, “except for a parking ticket when I was seventeen.”
Dixie whipped out her cell phone. “Bubba, would you consider renting your spare room for the night?” Bubba had recently married, but before that, he’d endured a succession of boarders in the second bedroom of his small brick house.
“You got to be kidding,” Bubba said. A television set provided background roars, which let Dixie know that Bubba was watching a NASCAR race on TV.
“I’m not joking,” Dixie said with the utmost seriousness. “I have a man in need here, and the Magnolia Motel is full.”
“Listen, Dixie, I always like to help someone out, but my old coon dog and her new puppies are occupying the spare bedroom at present.” A pause. “Hey, did you hear that?”
“I maybe heard a tire blowing out.”
“That was no tire. That was the caps popping off the beer I made.”
“You make beer now? Is that legal?”
“As long as it’s for my own consumption.”
Dixie opened her mouth to ask why the bottle caps were popping, but Bubba was back to business. “Sorry, Dixie, but I really can’t take on a guest right now. My bride wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion. Katie’s pregnant, in case you haven’t heard.”
“Yes, she told me. Congratulations,” Dixie said, but Bubba and Katie’s news hit hard. With so many of her friends already married and having babies, Dixie was convinced that life was passing her by. She deserved a husband. She deserved a family. But when was it going to happen for her? Soon, if she had anything to say about it. That’s why she’d embarked on a self-improvement program that included teeth whitening.
“Well,” she said to the Yankee after she clicked off, “that didn’t work out.” To say the least.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” the soldier said apologetically. “I have an overblown reaction to anesthetics sometimes. Since Dr. Johnson isn’t my regular dentist, I suspect he gave me more than I can handle.” He spoke with a Midwestern accent, certainly not Southern. Which, Dixie supposed, was to be expected. No self-respecting Southern man would ever entertain wearing that uniform, reenactor or not.
Still, he was counting on her, and Dixie wasn’t prepared to give up. “Just one more phone call, okay? This one in private.”
The soldier only stared.
“Are you going to be all right standing there?” she asked him.
“Maybe not. I’m going to sit down on that bench.” He navigated sideways to a white wrought iron bench situated beside a forsythia bush in full bloom.
She waited until he sat and cautioned, “You’d better drop your head between your legs. You look a bit puny.”
He seemed as if he’d pass out any moment. She steadied him by holding his arm, figuring that even if he was Jack the Ripper, he was in no condition to do her any harm. After a time, he lifted his head. “Wow,” he said wonderingly. “I felt as if I was going to faint.”
She released his arm as soon as he rallied but not before noting the firm bulge of muscle beneath the blue fabric. She hadn’t wrapped her hands around a muscle like that since the local National Guard unit shipped out to the Middle East. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t mind feeling this one again under the right circumstances.
“Like I said, I need to make another call,” she told him before hurrying to her car. Keeping a watchful eye on the Yankee, who continued to sit hunched on the hard bench with his elbows balanced on his knees, she dialed her friend Jasper Beasley, Yewville police chief, and recited the number on the truck’s Ohio license tag.
“I’ll run the tag, see what I can find,” Jasper promised, not even asking her why she needed the information. Dixie and Jasper went all the way back to the first day of kindergarten when he’d smashed her flat in the school yard at recess and then picked her up, dusted her off and offered her a moon pie. They’d remained good friends.
Dixie waited in the car, observing the Yankee from a safe distance. Those uniform sleeves were a bit short, exposing thick wrists and large meaty hands. He had a mole on his left cheek, kind of sexy. His hair tended to curl at the back of his neck, and she wished he’d take off that danged cap so she could study the shape of his head. Her grandmother’s belief was that you could divine a lot about a man from the shape of his head; a high forehead meant an intellectual bent, a rounded curve at the back of the crown meant more room for a brain to develop, and a pointy head—well, Memaw Frances always cautioned not to get involved with one of those.
Her phone played the crazy ka-ching ka-ching cash-register ring that she’d chosen after starting to work full-time as a real estate agent.
“Dixie, that license tag comes up clean,” Jasper told her. “The vehicle is registered to Kyle T. Sherman of Ledbetter, Ohio, a suburb of Columbus. No priors, no record of any kind.”
“All right,” she said, eyeing the Yankee. He didn’t seem like a Kyle. He looked more like a Brian to her, or a Scott, but he wasn’t responsible for the name his parents gave him any more than she was for being named Dixie Lee. Kyle was a decent name, hunky but not overbearing, trendy without being funky.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Jasper asked.
“No, that’s all for now. Thanks, Jasper. Tell Lori I said hi.”
“Sure will. When