Mustang Summer

  Mustang Summer

  Book 2, The Walker Five

  By Marie Johnston

  Mustang Summer © 2017 by Lisa Elijah

  Developmental Editing by Razor Sharp Editing

  Copy Editing by Tera Cuskaden

  Proofreading by HME Editing

  Cover by P and N Graphics

  The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are coincidental and unintentional.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Brock Walker, part-time mechanic and full-time farmer, prefers figuring out what’s wrong with an engine over deciphering people’s actions—especially women. But when his standard aloofness prevents him from landing the classic car of his dreams, help comes from an unexpected source: the sister of the man his family put in jail.

  Josie Alvarez, part-time bookkeeper and full-time Daddy’s girl, knows the last chance for her father’s failing garage is the collectible car she’s been sent to acquire. But after hearing the history under the hood, she can’t bear to hand it over to her dad, who’d just flip it and sell it. Bad blood between her family and Brock’s doesn’t overshadow his passion for the classic car, so she jumps in to help Brock negotiate the car’s future.

  Walking away from the car proves easier than leaving the quiet mechanic. He’s refreshingly different from the other men in her life, opening her eyes to her own potential. And she’s the only woman to ever accept him as he is, without underestimating or coddling him. Brock’s cousins don’t want her on Walker land, but he wholeheartedly disagrees…until Josie’s desperate father comes up with a plan that’ll save himself, but pit family against family.

  Thank you for reading. I’d love to know what you thought. Please consider leaving a review at the retailor the book was purchased from.

  ~Marie

  To the little ones in my life who are alternative learners: My vivacious photosensitive, dyslexic little girl and my nephew with 16p11.2 deletion syndrome who loves his music and anything that plays a tune.

  Chapter One

  Brock hefted the oil filters under his arm and shifted his feet. The auto parts store was always a place that challenged every lesson his mother had taught him. Since his days in high school were long over, it topped his worst experience list.

  Eye contact, Brockie. The people, not the floor.

  He forced his gaze to the laughing older man behind the counter.

  “Get it?” Dale asked. “Because you Walker boys own all different brands of vehicles.”

  Smile. He’s telling you a joke.

  Brock pasted a smile on his face. Pickups. He could talk pickups. “Ford’s quality can’t be beat.”

  Dale waved him off. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. How’s your grandma doing?”

  “Fine.”

  Dale waited.

  Elaborate. It’s a leading question, Brockie.

  How was he supposed to elaborate this time? Gram was fine.

  “She’s doing okay after the vandalism on your cousin’s property and the shop burning down?” Dale prompted.

  Brock nodded.

  Dale chuckled and shook his head. “You’d make a great secret agent. Tight-lipped and expressionless. I bet you kill it in poker.”

  “I don’t play.”

  Another man strode out from behind an aisle stocked with windshield wipers. “Well, if it isn’t the Walker Five’s best set of hands.”

  Brock cringed. What did that even mean?

  Greet someone new. His mom might’ve moved out of town, but Brock took her standard here’s-how-you-deal-with-people phrases everywhere.

  He nodded toward Mac. Mac’s real name was something like Donnie, but he was big and loud, like a Mack truck. Brock missed many nuances, but that comparison he got.

  Mac rested his girth on the countertop, the buttons of his striped shirt straining. “How do the crops look?”

  “Fine.”

  Dale reached over his side of the counter and swatted Mac. “There he goes again. Hey, Brock, if one of them Mustangs of yours fell on your toe, would you say you were fine?”

  “It’d crush a lot more than my toe,” Brock replied.

  Mac and Dale roared. Brock backed up a step. Loud engine noises didn’t bother him, but rowdy guffaws set his teeth on edge. At least at places like the bar, he knew they usually weren’t aimed at him. And he didn’t have to try and figure out why they were laughing.

  Mac adjusted his Proud Motors trucker’s hat. “I drove past your west quarter the other day. The corn’s looking good. Knee-high by the fourth of July—looked like your fields are right on track.”

  “It’s been a good year.” Brock’s grip on his load loosened. He was back in comfortable territory. The only thing he liked talking about nearly as much as his cars was farming. “If we can stay hail free and the markets stay up, we’re looking at a good year. But the weather has the final say.”

  His dad had always said the same. Weather was king in farming.

  Mac nodded. “That’s right. Don’t count your chickens before them suckers hatch.”

  “I never count my chickens until it’s time to butcher.”

  Dale guffawed, and Mac laughed and shook his head. Brock stared behind them at the tractor calendars lining the walls. Sometimes it wasn’t worth figuring out what was so funny.

  He switched his gaze to the register. Dale, who was usually more attuned to his discomfort, took the hint.

  “We’ll throw it on your account, Brock.” Dale waved him off. “Hope the AC is working in your shop on a day like today.”

  “It’s always on in the long garage.” Brock dropped his eyes to the floor and made his way out of the store.

  Humid Minnesota heat enveloped him. Only the first of July, and June’s mellow days were long forgotten as the temperature was on target to hit the mid-nineties.

  Brock crawled into his Ford F250 and dropped his cache on the passenger seat. At least his cab was cool. Shutting off a diesel for a quick errand was foolish. His truck ran constantly unless it would be parked for hours. He might not know people, but he knew how to handle anything with an engine.

  On the Fourth of July, he’d be wishing he could sit in his truck all day as his family dragged him to the annual parade. Brock winced just thinking about it. Almost without fail, the day of the parade usually dawned without a cloud in the sky. His cousins always went an hour early to get a good spot, and because they usually had their own entry in the parade. Brock would help out, then perch on the sidewalk the entire morning as the blazing sun rose overhead.

  He threw his ride in gear and rumbled off.

  How badly he wanted to tell his cousins why he hated the parade. Why he disliked street dances and only tolerated the bar in hopes he could find a girl to have a lasting relationship with.

  But two decades of his mom’s insistence on secrecy had left an impression. It’s a small town. They’ll judge you and never give you a chance. Your mind works different, baby. You don’t need to justify it.

  His cousins, especially the four he ran the Walker farming and ranching business with, were the only people he felt moderately co
mfortable around. They knew his quirks and accepted them. He was just Brock. Telling them might change that, so he stayed quiet.

  He hit the highway and in minutes was turning onto the gravel road that would take him to his house. An afternoon of oil changes and an evening of working on his latest Mustang project equaled heaven in his mind.

  As he turned onto the long driveway that cut through the multiple rows of trees surrounding his property, a glint of silver a few hundred yards away caught his eye.

  He frowned and made a mental note to check it out. Summer wasn’t an uncommon time to catch teenagers parking in the surrounding shelter belts for a hookup. The rows of trees between fields concealed cars well, but didn’t make them invisible. One time, he’d even caught one of the guys he’d gone to school with parked out there—and not with his wife.

  Brock didn’t have to have a norm’s brain to know that shit ain’t right.

  He ambled past the large Butler building that housed the mostly finished cars of his collection and pulled up to his old-fashioned red barn. The back half was still dedicated to chickens, but he’d closed it off so he didn’t have to smell the coop while he tinkered. They were currently clucking around in the large pen behind the barn.

  He gathered the filters and jumped out.

  The interior of the barn was the opposite of his truck. Sweltering, clinging heat engulfed him when he stepped inside. He set his items on the workbench and went to open the massive barn door.

  He heard a soft scuffle of what sounded like steps on the packed dirt and spun in time to see a flash of color dart out the door.

  Someone had been in his barn? Had they done something to his cars?

  Brock bolted after the intruder, cursing himself that he’d quit locking up after the round of vandalisms that had plagued his cousin all spring.

  But the perpetrator was in jail, so Brock had slacked off.

  His boots dug into the driveway’s gravel. The person had disappeared into the trees by the time Brock cleared his truck. Pumping his arms and legs, he charged forward. The thick bushes of the first row tore up his arms and snagged his clothing, but he ripped past them. He dodged the narrow trunks of the green ash in the middle row and sprinted beyond the outer evergreens.

  He almost slowed when his gaze landed on the figure tearing across the haying field between his home and the next shelter belt.

  Because it was a nice figure. Rolling hips with toned legs that wouldn’t outdistance his height advantage. Her shoulders, bare in a white tank top, glowed in the sunlight. He kicked up his speed. He had to know what she looked like.

  Josie ran like a stray cat flushed out of that damn barn she’d lingered in too long.

  But the dude’s car collection… Suh-weet. Almost worth getting busted. She couldn’t get into trouble for this, not with her brother’s problems. No one would believe she only wanted to look, but if she could make it to her car, it was only her word against his that she’d been on his property.

  Her lungs burned, but the pounding footfalls behind her weren’t muffled enough by the weeds and he was gaining on her. Why did she take Auto-Tec in high school instead of going out for track?

  Her complaining thigh muscles informed her she hadn’t been out running nearly enough since family drama had taken over her life.

  Finally, her car became visible and she wanted to shout curse words her mother would’ve chided her for, bless her soul. Her normal ride was getting repaired, but her loaner sedan was so blah and sedate, it’d make a person develop narcolepsy just looking at it.

  But it was still faster than the guy behind her. He could call the cops, maybe track her license plate if he could identify it, but they’d have to find her. And still, all they had were stories. His claiming she was in his barn and hers that he’d chased her while she was out for a walk.

  Aw, hell. One more set of trees between her and her wheels. What was it with the farmers of Moore, Minnesota, and their rows of trees? She had to be bleeding from eight hundred scratches after the last set. Creeping through them when she’d had the stupid idea of ogling Brock Walker’s spread had been bad enough. Balls to the wall flight had been painful.

  She crunched her face up and prepped herself for another round when the equivalent of a Mustang Boss plowed into her from behind.

  They both went flying and he lost his hold. She scrambled up to take off again, but he caught her legs and she toppled over him. He twisted her under him and pinned her.

  She found herself staring into a pair of piercing blue eyes. Her breath would’ve frozen if her chest wasn’t heaving so badly.

  His gaze was glued to her hair for a moment before traveling over her features with open interest, down to the outline of her breasts through her shirt. Then he focused back on her hair.

  Did he have a problem with her hair? She’d chopped it to let go of the emotional baggage it had represented and his open perusal plucked at her insecurity. After the impromptu track meet, the spikey style was stuck to her forehead and neck.

  “Did you touch my ’Stangs?” he growled.

  She gulped. Not from fear, unfortunately. His voice rumbled like the smooth engine of a Shelby GT, all low vibration and masculinity.

  Somehow his baseball cap had stayed on, but she briefly fantasized about running her hands through his shaggy black hair to see if it was as smooth as new paint on a fresh sand job. One of her favorite textures. Thanks to her dad’s legally dubious hobby, she got to have the experience often.

  “My ’Stangs.” His expression was urgent, and while she understood his obsession, it’s not like she could’ve snuck out with one tucked into a pocket.

  “I touched them all over,” she shot back.

  His brow furrowed. “Why?”

  Seriously? “I was being sarcastic, jackass. Now let me go.”

  A flash of frustration was quickly covered with anger. “Why were you in there?”

  “In where?”

  Another scowl. “My barn.”

  Sweat dripped into her hair. “I wasn’t in your barn. I was out enjoying the nice day and out of nowhere, you tackled me.”

  “You were in my shop.”

  “I thought you said it was a barn.”

  “It is.”

  Okay… Was he playing some obtuse game with her? “Let me go.”

  “No.”

  He wrapped a massive hand around her wrists as he reached into his back pocket. She tugged against him, but she of all people knew how strong gearheads could be. Only this guy’s muscles weren’t just for show. But she wasn’t scared. Thanks to her brother, she knew of the Walkers—and their reputation was disgustingly good.

  She hadn’t heard much about Brock Walker. From his set-up in the barn he had yet to prove she was in, he was as serious about cars as she was. They weren’t an image thing, or a key to bragging rights; they were pieces of history that needed to be appreciated and preserved.

  “Yeah, Max?” he spoke into the phone. “I need you to come out here. I caught someone in my shop.”

  He paused and she strained to hear the other end of the conversation but failed.

  “Dunno… Yeah… Yeah… Trees just north of my house… ’Kay.”

  Man of many words.

  He stuffed his phone back in his pocket and craned his neck to stare down the road. Like the police she was sure he’d called would suddenly appear. Her stomach fluttered. The cops were getting involved and Brock held all the cards in the small town. She was an outsider. But—he had to prove she was in his barn. Her story might be a little outrageous, but the countryside was beautiful enough to inspire an impromptu walk.

  “Who’s Max?” she asked, more to break the silence and take her mind off the fact that she wasn’t bothered by a strange man parked on top of her.

  He didn’t turn to look at her. “He’s a deputy.”

  Perfect. “You need to get off me.”

  “No. You might run again.”

  “If I run, I’ll look guilty of someth
ing and I’m not. Unless you plan on accosting me.”

  “I’m not.”

  He still wasn’t looking at her. She studied his hard profile. Calmness. The girl he ran down admitted she was afraid he might attack her, and while her tone hadn’t been quivering in fear, he didn’t twitch?

  Why the nonreaction?

  She’d half expected him to strong arm the answers he wanted out of her, or attempt to seduce the truth from her. He had the looks and body to be successful. The muscles of his biceps and shoulders were outlined for ultimate temptation by the black T-shirt he wore. His grease-stained jeans were like Josie kryptonite. And he’d find out soon enough why she was in Moore. Her brother’s court date was approaching and she planned to be there for support.

  As long as they didn’t find out who she was until the cops were done with her, she had a chance of walking away without a legal trail following her.

  From the way Brock tensed and lifted his chin to see farther down the road, she gathered Max was on the way. She couldn’t hear anything while pressed into the weeds, but the lovely smell of prairie flowers took the bite out of the itchy foliage.

  Faint gravel crunching must be the deputy parking. She didn’t bother lifting her head; she wouldn’t be able to see above the weeds anyway. They weren’t even fifty yards off the road and within minutes, another male’s voice reached her.

  “Brock, what the hell?”

  Brock opened his mouth, but she shouted over him. “Officer, help! This guy won’t let me go.”

  That earned her a startled look from the man holding her down.

  He might know the whole town, have a solid reputation, but she was still little ol’ her being restrained by a big guy and he was surprised she’d accuse him of wrongdoing. Brock Walker was a bit of a conundrum.

  “Brock get off her.” The deputy approached, his gaze wary. He wasn’t twitching to put his hand on his gun, but from his expression she and Brock added a haven’t seen this before event to his career.