Wanted: Wife by Gwen Jones Page A

Collies do. They herd things. Wait a little while and he’ll probably be herding you. Not that . . .”
    Perhaps it was my stunning appearance that stopped Andy as I climbed from the lake. Or maybe the mask of utter horror that was no doubt on my face. Because when I assessed myself—soaked to the skin, shoes gone, hair collapsed and hanging around my face and shoulders—I’m sure whatever vision of loveliness I previously affected had melted away with my make-up. Then an engine turned over.
    “I see she’s met Bucky!” Jinks called from his truck, idling toward the road out.
    “Thanks again!” Andy called back, never taking his eyes from me.
    I slid my hair back, pins pinging to the dock as the dog suddenly loped off. “So much for your beautiful bride,” I said, smoothing my ruined silk sheath.
    His arm slipped around my waist, and he lifted me into his arms. “Let’s go into the house.”
    “Why?” I said, looping my arm around his neck, my sopping dress turning his shirt translucent. “Do you think I need to change or something?”
    “Or something,” he said so smoothly my heart did a little flip.
    I could see a tiny muscle in his cheek thumping. I caught his clean, spicy scent—though mixed up with a bit of cow—and felt the hardness of his chest against me. Being this close, I felt a little unnerved, so I looked past his shoulder to the lay of the land. We passed old tires and bottles and crushed Salem packs, barrels of who-knew-what lying against a post-and-rail fence, rusty tools hanging on equally rusty nails on the side of the house. Further out, a picnic table and an ancient barbecue sat near the tree line, a pockmarked and faded bulls-eye nailed to a tree. If this is what he meant about the place needing work, I was starting to get the picture. Even so, I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t up to it, especially after freaking out over a dog.
    “Sorry for acting like an idiot,” I said. “But he scared the crap out of me.”
    He smiled, shaking his head tightly. “My introduction to Bucky was worse. He likes to sleep on the roof of the barn and he jumped me, knocking me into a pile of manure.”
    “ Eww . I’d say my intro was at least cleaner.”
    “And certainly less smelly.” He leaned in and sniffed my neck. “Much less.”
    A shiver shot up my spine. “You don’t smell so bad yourself.”
    “ Eau de heifer.” He set me down on a slate path at the foot of the house’s screened-in front porch. “Wait right here while I get your bags. Won’t be a minute.”
    This gave me a chance to assess my new home. From what I could see it looked sturdy enough, one and a half wooden stories of weathered cedar-shakes, most definitely a handyman’s special. I leaned over and gave my dress a good squeeze, a puddle collecting at my feet, then climbed the three creaky steps and yanked the door to the screened porch.
    I stepped inside to a rusty-springed porch slider, buckets of bottles, a third-hand wrought-iron patio set, and an old refrigerator, desiccated leaves and pine needles strewn across the scuffed, planked floor. Poison ivy grew through a crack amid crushed cigarette butts, and a mop handle was tilted in the corner beside a holey pair of Topsiders. I looked up to see crab traps, fishing nets, and dozens of dried bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters. I pushed aside what looked like basil and pulled open another perforated screen door, revealing the unlocked door to the inside.
    The curtains, or what served as such, were closed, and I paused, letting my eyes adjust to the musty interior. After a minute I could make out a stone fireplace about twelve feet away, slats of flattened wood stacked into its hearth. I turned to my left, my feet sticking to the greasy carpet as I went to the window and slid back the ancient curtains. Almost instantly I coughed to split a lung, a miasma of dust and filth shooting straight up my nose, a billion motes poofing into the stream of sunlight.