Authors: Annie Jones
“
High-handed? I have never been called high-handed in my life!
”
She apparently had no reservations about showing anger when she felt justified.
“
I will have you know that I was raised
on the principles of fairness and kindness in a family that values things like honor and morality. High-handedness is not the kind of thing we aspire to. I assure you, I strive to respect all God
’
s creatures.
”
Had she just likened him to a
creature
? He did his best not to smile too much over how much he was genuinely enjoying her huffy display.
“
That
’
s mighty decent of you, Princess Prissypants. Yes, indeed, that you would strive so to respect the likes of even me. Shame you don
’
t have the same respect for the laws of the road and the rights of others using them.
”
“
What did you call me?
”
Her cheeks went red. Her eyes grew wide.
On her, it looked good, but it didn
’
t change Riley
’
s mind. And though he couldn
’
t believe he
’
d used the phrase that proved he had to find a way to communicate that neither included lumbermill swearing nor six-year-old teasing, he felt compelled to say it again.
“
Princess Prissypants.
”
“
How
dare
you!
”
If she
’
d been closer, Riley had no doubt he
’
d have felt the sting of an old-fashioned Southern belle slap in the face.
“
How dare you almost plow into my car, then try to blame me, then without so much as knowing who I am or anything about me, start calling me names than imply I
’
m some kind of...of...spoiled brat.
”
He let his expression tell her he called them as he saw them.
“
Ohhh.
”
She wrung the single syllable out between her teeth.
If she was going to say more, he didn
’
t know because just then that red car of hers jiggled a bit.
Riley narrowed his eyes, trying to assess what was happening. But the back side of the car had one of those detachable, tinted plastic window shades
”
pulled down, which blocked his view into the backseat.
From the far side, the back passenger door opened. A puff of hair that looked like orange-
tinted cotton candy stuck out first, getting a good two or three seconds lead on the head that sported it. The woman, dressed in varying shades of clashing pink from head to toe, didn
’
t say a thing. She seemed oblivious to Riley
’
s huge truck or the driver
’
s flamboyant act of putting her body in its path.
The woman just turned, stuck her head back in the car, and began making cooing sounds...as though she were coaxing someone else to get out.
That figured. This lady
’
s car was probably like one of those cars at the circus where clown after clown after clown climbs out, and just when you think there can
’
t possibly be any more...
The woman pulled out the smallest, surliest looking bundle of fur—dressed, no less, in one of those froufrou doggie sweaters with big red hearts on it—that Riley had ever seen.
Making kissing sounds that only seemed to egg on the tiny poodle
’
s hostilities, Cotton Candy Hair shut the car door with her hip. Hurrying off down the sidewalk, she called out,
“
Don
’
t you tell your grandfather I
’
ve gone to the drugstore, you hear me? You know he
’
s only allowed in there for lunches anymore, straight to the counter, straight out again. I won
’
t have that ornery old sticky-fingered nincompoop wandering in there and getting us both ejected before I can pick out all the magazines I want this week.
”
Riley tilted his head and raised his eyebrow a bit.
“
Raised in a family that values honor and morality, huh?
”
“
So, my grandfather has a...
”
She shut her eyes. Something that was neither a twitch nor a wince passed over her features, she waved her hand, and just that quickly the expression disappeared. She stuck her pen out and looked him straight in the eye.
“
My grandfather has a problem, but at least he understands the concept of there being some places he must not go. And he heeds those boundaries like the gentleman that he is.
”
“
And that I am not? Is that what you
’
re saying, Princess?
”
She did not reply. But then a true lady wouldn
’
t have, would she? Riley snorted to show his opinion of her superior attitude and her imaginary
“
boundaries.
”
He flexed his hands against the steering wheel. For one utterly decadent moment, he imagined gunning the engine—with the brake on, of course. One good rev that would make the old truck shake and sputter, maybe even backfire, combined with the no-nonsense look he usually saved for rowdy mill workers might just put her in her place.
Or at least move her out of his.
She glared at him, as though she knew what he was thinking and daring him to try it.
“
Why am I even bothering with this?
”
He shook his head and forced himself to let go of the notion of parking his truck, of making his point, and most of all of reaching this woman
’
s conscience and showing her how destructive her actions might have been.
“
Women like you never learn anyway. You don
’
t take responsibility for your actions or care how your selfishness affects others. It
’
s all about you and demanding that the world revolve around your wants and desires.
”
Her lips parted. The flush on her cheeks went pale.
He almost felt sorry for her, almost questioned his snap judgment. But he, of all people, understood the level of manipulation and personal denial this type of woman used. He knew firsthand the kind of devastation a woman like this, intent on having her own way, could leave in her wake. Nothing he could say or do would make one bit of difference.
He sighed.
“
Keep the parking space lady.
”
She tipped her chin up. If it was in triumph, it seemed a sad one. She mouthed a thank you.
Riley gave her a nod, his lips pressed shut. He backed the truck up just as the white-haired
gentleman appeared at the door of the doctor
’
s office pushing a wheelchair.
She stuck her pen in her jacket pocket then rushed to her grandfather. She took control of the chair but did not allow the old gent to climb on board. Instead, she took off with the thing at such a clipped pace the man did not even try to keep up.
Riley drove by slowly, wanting to make sure she knew that somebody saw her for what she really was.
She never so much as looked up at him. She just hurried to the car with the chair, set its brake then opened the back door on the driver
’
s side.
Figures. She wanted the spot so she could more easily load the chair she wouldn
’
t even let her grandfather use. Of course, that was a shortsighted jump to an uncertain conclusion, but Riley did not feel particularly generous right now. He turned his attention to the road, took a moment to size up how best to get out of town and head home, then took off.
Despite his ill feelings, something in him would not let him go without one backward glance. What he saw made him feel like a world-class heel and called into question every ugly thing he
’
d imagined about the woman he
’
d just decided was beyond redemption.
At the next stop sign, he twisted his head to get a better view over his shoulder, to make sure he hadn
’
t imagined it.
There, making use of the extra space provided by the vacant spot, the woman who seemed all flash and self-importance, helped the littlest sprite of an old, black woman out of the backseat of the big red car and into the wheelchair. With a tenderness and patience reserved by most for their greatest treasures on earth, the younger woman settled the gnarled figure into the seat.
His nemesis fussed here and there to get things situated, stood back then stepped forward to go at it again. This time she fixed her charge
’
s dress, making sure it covered the stick-thin legs, then set the woman
’
s sparkling white tennis shoes on the footrests with the most delicate of care.
One trembling, bony hand touched the younger woman
’
s arm then reached up to tug at her jacket. The woman who had refused to let Riley use her luxurious pen, slipped it out of her pocket, handed it to the old woman, then whispered something that made her companion grin like a jack-o-lantern, missing teeth and all.
Riley exhaled slowly. He should have asked why she wanted that space, not just assumed the woman
’
s motivation was selfish. She might not have told him, of course. Even today in Mississippi, there were some whites who would not give up even a parking spot for the sake of a woman of color, no matter how frail or old she might be. That this fiery woman of gentle breeding stood up to some stranger in a beat-up truck—a man that she, right or wrong, thought had almost run her down—on behalf of this small, dark-skinned woman said more about her than all the assumptions Riley could concoct in a month of Sundays.
The young woman smoothed her hand over her charge
’
s thin matte of gray and silver hair, gentle as a mother caressing a child
’
s downy head, then leaned down and placed the sweetest of kisses on that gaunt, dark cheek. She moved around to take hold of the wheelchair and, with one flip of her hair and shake of her shoulders wheeled her charge forward, like a lady-in-waiting bearing the queen of the land.
Riley couldn
’
t help smiling to himself again. Fulton
’
s Dominion was going to be the right place for him to raise his daughter after all. He just knew it.
Chapter Two
Dixie
’
s whole body ached. Her head, her neck, her stomach, her calves...everything right down to her toes resonated with dull, throbbing weariness.
That
she could handle, of course. A hot bath, a couple of aspirin, and those discomforts would pass. What she could not so easily rid herself of was the building sense of worry and dread that gnawed at her already frayed nerves. Those amplified her grief and left her feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life.
She missed her daddy. Plain and simple. She mourned him as much today as she had just over a week ago when a heart attack had taken him away.
Dixie clutched an overstuffed cushion from the display sofa, which sat with its back to a big plate-glass window in the showroom of Fulton
’
s Fine Furniture Outlet Store. She closed her eyes and curled forward over her tightly crossed legs. Still, even in her melancholy, she was careful not to let her simple black dress hike up too much or to do anything that could be called unladylike.
She was, after all, Dixie Prescott Fulton-Leigh, daughter of John Frederick Fulton-Leigh, great-granddaughter of Samuel Prescott Fulton. Her great-grandfather had founded this town where even now every family had at least one person working for, retired from, or hoping to get on at Fulton
’
s Fine Furniture Manufacturing or one of its connected businesses. She had a heritage to live up to, an expectation both past and present to think of. It was only that very old, Southern school of thinking—that notion of propriety, duty, and comportment drilled into her since childhood—that kept her from curling into a ball right now and crying her heart out.
Her daddy
’
s death may have made her feel like a lost little girl, but that did not mean she had the luxury of wallowing in self-pity or grief. She was a grown woman with very grown-up responsibilities pressing down on her. And if she didn
’
t get back to work now, those responsibilities could well push her under. And take the better part of Fulton
’
s Dominion, Mississippi, with her.