Joey W. Hill - Rough Canvas.pdf - Joey W. Hill - renee2010

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Rough Canvas

ISBN 9781419912498

Edited by Briana St. James.

Photography and cover art by Les Byerley.

Electronic book Publication September 2007

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written

permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-

3502.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales

is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

R OUGH C ANVAS

Joey W. Hill

Trademark Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the

following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Armani: GA Modefine S.A.

Bud Light: Anheuser-Busch, Incorporated

Cabbage Patch: Original Appalachian Artworks, Inc.

Chopin (vodka): Podlaska Wytwornia Wodek “POLMOS” Spolka Akcyjna

Coke: Coca-Cola Company, The

Coleman: The Coleman Company, Inc.

Cracker Jack: Rueckheim Bros. and Eckstein; Frito-Lay North America, Inc.

Hallmark: Hallmark Licensing, Inc.

Home Depot: Homer TLC, Inc.

Jack Daniel’s Gentleman Jack: Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.

John Deere: Deere & Company

Karo: Corn Products Company

Maserati: Maserati S.P.A.

McDonald’s: McDonald’s Corporation

Rockettes: Rockefeller Center, Inc.

Tabasco: McIlhenny Company

Sheetrock: United States Gypsum Company

Shoney’s: Shoney’s, Inc.

Starbuck’s: Starbucks U.S. Brands, LLC

Rough Canvas

Chapter One

When the shop bells over the store entrance rang, Thomas didn’t pay much

attention. He was in the back tagging a wood chipper for repair and Celeste was out

front to handle visitors. But when he heard the customer speak to his sister, he raised

his head. Everything in him went tight, alert.

It was a male voice, the words as unintelligible as her response, but something

about that voice stirred something in his lower belly. Goddamn it, there was no way it

could be… The sprawling wooden farmhouse and barn which his father had turned

into a hardware store supplying this part of rural North Carolina area was hell and

gone from New York City. There was no way that voice could belong to who he

thought it did.

Thomas drew in a steadying breath, taking in the pleasing smell of old wood. The

building had been designed to feel like the farm stores of a hundred years ago. He’d

always loved that about it, the quiet, powerful aura of permanence, stability. It blended

with the landscape and served as a landmark of a time long past. It had become

somewhat of a tourist attraction, so they had a petting area fenced off beside the barn as

well as a large paddock and grazing field with a pony, goats, chickens and a pack of

pigs that roamed and rooted.

There was even one gentle-eyed ancient cow Thomas’ father had rescued from a

slaughterhouse. An ironic compulsion for a man who regularly sat down to beef stew,

but he’d seen the calf bawling for her mother, who’d already gone up the chute. He’d

purchased the baby and brought her home to his six-year-old son as a gift. Though in

his gruff way, the old man hadn’t called the female calf that. “She’s your responsibility

from here on, Thomas. You have to take care of her.”

A responsibility he’d embraced. It hadn’t caused a jagged ache in his gut the way

the responsibility of being back here some twenty years later did, despite his

attachment to the place.

An ache that was being intensified by a voice Thomas knew too well. Damn it. It

wasn’t him. He hadn’t slept well last night and he hadn’t finished breakfast. He’d just

keep checking out the chipper, because it wasn’t who he thought it was. If some

Twilight Zone reality existed and it was him, it was better for Thomas to stay back here

anyway.

But Thomas sat there, his hand in the machine, resting on some broken but entirely

forgotten mechanism as that far-too-similar voice coaxed things to life that he’d buried

six feet under his heart well over a year ago.

Joey W. Hill - Rough Canvas.pdf

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