A Man of Few Words

Sweet Little Mary Sue

Synopsis: Emma Cantrell had been in love with Forrest Bondurant for as long as she could remember, but circumstances in life had always kept him from her, and she'd eventually married her best friend, Walton, not because she was in love, but because she was lonely. Now she was a widow, had been for ten years, and hard times drove her to Blackwater Station, to a position tending bar and cooking for the patrons, all under the watchful eye of Forrest, who she was certain was indifferent to her, as he always had been, but she was wrong. The truth of the matter was that he had loved her since they were teenagers, and he'd just never had the nerve to make his move, but how long would his resolve hold out now that she was right there in front of him each and every day?

Disclaimer: I'm writing this story for my own enjoyment, therefore I won't receive any monetary compensation for my efforts, nor am I trying to take credit for any part of the story of the Bondurant's. I am simply interweaving my own ideas (along with my own shameful wish fulfillment) into what already exists. The only things that I can claim as my own are Emma and Walton Cantrell, along with any and all who travel with them from my own imagination.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye: This story is rated M for mild to moderate cursing, violence and a variety of citrus, both limes and lemons.

Chapter One

Emma's POV

Had someone told me that the day would come where I would find myself standing on the front porch of Blackwater Station, feeling excruciatingly self-conscious and out of place while I tried to muster the courage to knock on the door, I would have told them that they were out of their minds. The Bondurant place was the sort of establishment that no self-respecting lady would have been caught dead in, and at one time I would have been firmly amongst their ranks, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and Lord knew that I was almost over my head in the sinking mire of despair.

Truth was, life hadn't been all that swell, even before Walton had passed, but I'd quickly learned that our simple life was a dream life compared to that which lay in store for a widow with no friends or relations. By the sheer grace of God I'd found a position with Chandler and Myra Hayes, an older couple who'd never been blessed with any children who might help them out 'round the house, and they had been kind enough to offer me room and board as part of my wages, but now they were moving to Georgia, to live with Myra's sister, and once more I was to be homeless and nearly penniless.

There weren't any jobs in town for a respectable female to fill, truth be told, there weren't any jobs for anyone for the most part, at least, not the sort that were palatable to those who were law-abiding folk, but I knew that I had to do what was necessary to survive, well, what was necessary that allowed me to keep my clothes on my body and stay standing on my feet. There were bills to be paid, and I was kind of fond of partaking of a meal on a regular basis, which meant that I was going to have to have a new job, whether it was respectable or not.

The prospect of tending the bar and grill at Blackwater Station was daunting enough, but even more unnerving was the thought that I would have to saunter inside and ask Forrest Bondurant to give me a chance, and if he was kind enough to do so, then I would see him each and every day. There had been a time in my life when a prospect like that would have made my heart soar, but I'd long ago accepted the cold, hard truth that he had never, and would never, see me the way that I beheld him, and I knew that it would be torturous to be in such close proximity to him every day.

He'd never married, and as far as I knew he didn't have a sweetheart, but what if he did, one that no one knew about, and what if I had to watch him with her? What if he laid his hand on her waist, or smoothed her hair back over her ear, right there in front of me? How on earth was I going to deal with that? How was I going to keep the green-eyed monster at bay if I had to bear witness of his love for a woman who wasn't me?

"Land sakes, Emma, get a grip on yourself!" I hissed beneath my breath. There I was, working myself into a frenzy over possibilities that I'd cooked up in my imagination, like an addle minded ninny, when my purpose here was to obtain a paying job, which I was never going to get, if I stayed where I was, stewing on the front porch, standing like a fool in front of the door, that I'd yet to knock on, not even once…..

"How do, Mrs. Cantrell?" a masculine voice asked from the steps behind me, startling me to such a degree that I jumped and squealed before I could stop myself. I heard scrambling footsteps moving to stand beside me and turned, with my face on fire, to find Howard Bondurant, looking half-soused, just as he always did, though there was concern in his eyes as well.

"Beg pardon, ma'am, I didn't mean t' startle ya," he said, reaching out a hand to steady me. "I thought ya heard me comin' up behind ya."

I should have heard him, I was fairly certain that he hadn't been tiptoeing as he came up behind me, but I'd been too fixated on other things to take notice of him, which didn't speak very highly of my survival instinct, did it?

"That's quite alright, Mr. Bondurant," I said, backing away from his hand as discreetly and politely as I could, under the premise of straightening my dress. "I should have been paying closer attention to my surroundings, so the fault lies with me."

"'Mr. Bondurant'?" he said wonderingly, then laughed heartily and slapped his hand against his knee. "Now, don't that beat all? I can't recollect a time in my life when anyone thought enough of me to address me so formally. That was kind of you to do so, ma'am, but then, you always was a kind woman, wasn't you?"

His speech was more than a little slurred, and he was swaying from one foot to the other, and for one awful moment it seemed likely that he was going to lose his balance and fall on me, but thankfully he avoided me as he tumbled, though he landed on the porch with a resounding crash, and promptly began snoring. I watched him for a moment, and wondered if I ought to fetch help, when, as if on cue, the door opened and Forrest Bondurant filled the doorway, glancing from me, to his brother, and then back to me once more.

He made a sound that was a cross between a grunt and a growl, which was a standard Forrest response, then reached out to nudge his brother, in a surprisingly gentle fashion, with the toe of his boot. "Hello, Emma," he said quietly, watching his brother snore for a moment, before he returned his eyes to mine. "I hope that Howard didn't bother you too much before he passed out."

He always addressed me as Emma, and never as Mrs. Cantrell, not even when Walton had been alive, not that we'd spoken all that much then, well, ever, to be perfectly honest. I suppose that decorum would have said that I ought to have been offended that he addressed me so familiarly, but I'd always enjoyed hearing his voice speak my name…it made me feel closer to him somehow.

"Hello, Forrest," I murmured self-consciously, because I could feel the heat that was radiating from my face and knew that I was blushing something awful. "He didn't truly bother me; he just startled me, that's all."

There he went again with that sound, then he nudged his brother with his boot again, this time a bit harder than he had before, not that it seemed to bother Howard. "What brings you out this way?" he asked, moving to stand beside the door, which I took as his way of inviting me to step inside. "Are you aiming to trade with me, or is this a social call?"

I started to follow him, then looked down at Howard, and wondered if I ought to help Forrest bring him inside. "Shouldn't we….?" I said, blushing brighter when he gave me the full measure of his gaze. "Oughtn't we….?"

"He's slept in worse places," he said simply, effectively closing the conversation, though his reassurance did little to convince me that leaving his brother where he was, as he was, was the proper thing to do. In the end I decided to take him at his word, figuring that he had plenty of experience with this sort of thing, then took a deep breath and followed him inside.

He led me across the room to a table that was filled with ledgers and stacks of cash and offered me a chair before he made his way over to the bar and poured a fresh cup of coffee, which he placed in front of me before he sat down in the seat that he'd undoubtedly abandoned when he caught wind of the hubbub that was playing out on his front porch.

"I need a job, Forrest," I said, figuring there was no reason why I ought to beat around the bush. "The Hayes' will be moving to Atlanta in a couple of weeks, and I wanted to find myself a new means of employment as soon as I could, so that I wouldn't have to scramble around at the last moment, but there's no jobs to be had in town. I know that it's more than a little presumptuous of me to ask, but I was hoping that you might need someone to help around here. I'm a good cook, and I'll work hard. I'm honest and I don't shirk my tasks and….."

"You don't have to tell me who you are, Emma," he interrupted, his voice quiet and unhurried, just as it always was. "I know what sort of woman you are, and what sort you're not. I just need to know when you'll be ready to start working, that's all."

I felt a bit flustered from his words and took a drink of my coffee, more of a gulp than a sip, and burned my tongue something awful, which was fortunate, in a way, because it helped to mask the overly strong taste of the beverage that I was none too fond of, and had only drank out of politeness and in a bid to hide the fact that he'd rattled me. Unfortunately, I started to choke, because I gasped when I burned my tongue and I could only begin to imagine the spectacle that I was making of myself as I flailed about in my chair, struggling to catch my breath.

Most times Forrest didn't move all that fast, but this time was an exception as he moved around the table and started slapping his hand on my back. I wasn't sure if his movements were born in haste and worry, and that was why it felt like he was bruising my flesh, or if his touch was actually one that he'd consider gentle, but I was relieved when I was able to breathe on my own again.

"It ain't the best coffee in the world, but don't you think that choking's a mite bit severe for a criticism?" he said, never cracking a smile, not even when I started giggling nonstop, like a moron, and was forced to dig into my purse for a hankie, to stem the mirthful tears that were pouring out of my eyes.

"I'm s-sorry," I stammered, once I'd gained control of myself. "I took a gulp, instead of a sip and burned myself, which caused me to suck the coffee into my windpipe and…well; you saw the rest, so there's no reason for me to babble, is there?"

He half-growled, half-grunted and raised one eyebrow at me, which I suppose was his way of agreeing with me. "What day should I expect you?" he asked, bending over with a handkerchief in hand, to wipe away the coffee that I hadn't noticed had splashed on my arm.

"Thank you," I said, getting flustered all over again. "Mrs. Hayes' sister will arrive from Atlanta on Saturday, to help with packing up the house, so I could start that day, if that would work for you."

He made a noise of agreement, at least, that's what it sounded like to me, and folded his soiled handkerchief. "I'll expect you at two o'clock, and we close down at ten. Will that suit you?"

Eight hours of pay, with nothing subtracted for room and board? That sounded like a dream come true to me. "That will suit me just fine, Forrest," I said, rising to my feet, feeling the need to leave as soon as possible, so that I could soak my dress before the coffee set in for good. I didn't have many nice things to wear, and it would be silly to ruin my dress by staying to visit. Besides which, Forrest wasn't exactly the sort to sit and shoot the breeze anyway, especially with a woman, I would imagine.

"I'll be here at two," I said, pleased that he'd risen to his feet to escort me to the door, and then further, to my car, stopping only to nudge his brother as we passed him.

"Drive safe," he said, helping me into the car, and closing the door behind me. "I'll see you Saturday at two."

"I can hardly wait," I thought to myself as I drove away, and cursed myself as a ninny when I blushed, though my chastisement didn't stop me from grinning like a fool all the way back into town. I reasoned that it was best to get all of that nonsense out of my system before Saturday, even though I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that those intentions would go right out the window as soon as he looked at me. Oh, well…there was never any harm in trying, was there?

Forrest's POV

It was odd how quickly Emma had established herself in our place, and I wondered how I'd gotten along without her for as long as I had. She was a hard worker, she showed up fifteen minutes early each and every shift and never shirked a task, not that I'd expected her to. She was friendly with all of the customers, and greeted them with a smile and was genial, but not encouraging to the men who all couldn't help but feel a little bit smitten by her. I knew how they felt, I'd been that way myself since I was fourteen, and it was an awareness that grew stronger with each day that passed.

Tuesday's were generally slow, as a rule, and I'd taken a seat in my office, to go over my books, when suddenly she made her way through the doorway with a plate of food and a fresh cup of coffee for me.

"I thought that you were probably getting a mite bit peckish," she said, waiting patiently until I'd cleared a spot on my desk before she placed the meal in front of me. "Is there anything else that I can get for you, Forrest, or do you have everything that you need?"

Hmm…that was a loaded question. Chances were, she didn't have any idea at all that I'd loved her from afar for so many years, so it wouldn't occur to her that what she'd intended as an innocent question, so that she might be of help to me, immediately brought to my mind the fact that there were a great many things that I wanted and needed from her, mainly I wanted and needed her, but I couldn't tell her that, could I?

"This will be fine, thank you," I said, taking a moment to admire her as she took a napkin, and the shakers filled with salt and pepper, out of her apron pocket. She had been a pretty girl who'd grown to be a beautiful woman, a fine lady, one who'd been too good for a man as undeniably stupid as Walton Cantrell had been, though I suppose the same could, and probably would, be said about me.

"Alright, then, I'll leave you to it," she said, flashing me one of her special smiles before she turned to leave, taking my dirty cup with her. It didn't dawn on me until after the door had closed that she'd probably hoped that I would return her smile, but it was just as well that she'd left, rather than waiting, because that sort of thing had never, and, I imagined, would never come easily to me.

I turned my attention to the plate, and, after checking to see that no one was watching, I bent my head and sniffed the smell deep into my nose. She was a fine cook, Emma was, spectacular, as a matter of fact, and tonight's fare was chicken fried steak, with mashed potatoes and cream gravy and corn. She'd placed a couple of her flaky sourdough biscuits on the plate as well, and I knew that there was apple pie for dessert, at least, I knew that she'd baked a couple of them, if I could wrangle a piece for myself once everyone else in the place got wind of them, that is.

It was funny, I suppose, that I'd never given much thought to courting, or to marriage. It was something that most men thought about at one time or another, some with anticipation, others with dread, but it had just never been something I'd thought about. It had hurt, when Emma married Walton, but the pain had been as much for her as it had been for myself, because I knew that she didn't love him.

It occurred to me, sitting there, cutting my steak into manageable pieces, rather than spearing it, whole, with my fork and eating it that way, just in case she was looking, that she had every quality that a man would want in a wife. She was beautiful, she was kind, and hardworking. She always seemed to have a smile on her face, she had a sense of humor and a figure that a man could admire all throughout the day and never grow tired of, and on top of all of that, she could cook. It was a wonder that someone else hadn't snapped her up after they'd planted Walt in the ground.

Then it dawned on me that someone might have snapped her up and I just didn't know about it. I realized that she might be in love with someone, a secret sweetheart, and the day might come when I would have to watch, from afar, while she shackled herself to some other halfwit who wasn't fit to lick the soles of her shoes, and damned if I didn't feel a red-hot surge of what could only be called a fit of jealous temper course through my veins.

"What in hell are you getting all worked up about?" I asked myself, in my mind, where no one would hear me. "Emma would no more think of you in that way than she would the man in the moon, and you'd do best to keep your feelings to yourself. You've never been one for telling others your wishes and desires, so why would you want to start now?"

It sounded like wisdom, like good advice, but then she passed by the office door, smiling that smile, with her brown eyes twinkling at me and I forgot all about my little speech in lieu of her face and her figure…and that blue speckled plate, holding a gigantic wedge of apple pie that she'd saved, just for me.