Page 40 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

Chapter 9

Hurrican Hogan

Buck says, “That last one wasn’t worthy of a name. I think they jumped the gun givin’ this one a moniker.”

“That’s because it’s your name,” Dick says, finishing his glass of sweet tea.

Hank asks, “Buck’s name isn’t Buck?”

It’s hard for my ears not to twitch at this information. Granted, it’s not Molly and Pest Digest-level gossip, but up until I was twenty-three years old, I knew Buck as Mr. Daley. I couldn’t conceive of the old farmer having a first name, no less it not being Buck.

Dick chuckles. “Head on over to the library. I think they have the old school yearbooks stashed somewhere.”

I inwardly groan. I hope that’s not true. My hair was about a mile high thanks to Betsy and Mama. To this day, I still call the former Miss Betsy.

Despite what Maddock might think, I do have manners ... and am not always sassy.

As I put away the clean coffee mugs, I go still.

What is he doing back here?

Well, not herehere. But in my head.

“I charge rent, you know,” I murmur.

“What’s that?” Hank asks.

“Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.” Which is a new habit, along with thinking about Maddock. A habit I want to kick, thank you very much. I root around in the wooden drawer under the cash register for a lollipop.

“Let me guess,” Hank says. “Is it Wilbur? Elrod? Applesauce?”

“Ain’t no one who’d name their kid applesauce,” Buck fires back.

“I have an aunt Peaches,” Dick says.

They all laugh.

If I had more time on my hands, I’d get to the bottom of this. Across the street, Thelma locks up the Hogwash Hairwash early. She must be hunkering down for this storm that has the guys speculating about whether it’ll be named. The last one missed us—the night I went to Tickle’s estate and had dinner with Maddock.

That night, the baby spit-up didn’t make me bat an eyelash. No, my cheeks flushed for another reason. When I walked into the dining room wearing the fire department T-shirt, the way Maddock looked at me with longing gave me a full-body flush. And the wayhelooked all massive with broad shoulders and big hands holding Leonie took my breath away.

Or it could’ve been the ghosts haunting the old house. That’s what I keep telling myself.

“Ouch.”

The Klatch trio goes quiet and looks my way.

“Bumped into the pie case,” I mutter.

The wooden one that has been there all my life. The one that I can navigate around while holding six luncheon special plates ora tray full of large cups filled with sweet tea. Yeah, that one. The solid one that reminds me that ghosts aren’t real.

But the way my thoughts repeatedly loop back to Maddock like I’m doing laps on a race track is very much real.

I sigh.

“All the same, I say you haul in the last of that crop in case the field floods, Buck ... if that’s your real name,” Hank says.

“I’ve been Buck since I was old enough to answer my mama and that’s what you’re going to call me no matter what the yearbook says.”

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