Miss Goody Two-Shoes: Contemporary Romance Read online

  Miss Goody Two-Shoes

  By Charlotte Hughes

  A Romantic Comedy

  Copyright © 2015 by Charlotte Hughes

  http://readcharlottehughes.com

  All rights reserved, in whole or in part, in any format. The content should not be used commercially without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is provided for your personal enjoyment.

  Miss Goody Two-Shoes was originally published as a Loveswept paperback in 1994 by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam, Doubleday, Dell Publishing Group, Inc., under the title The Devil and Miss Goody-Two Shoes. It has since been updated and revised.

  The content that follows is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons and events is coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Kane Stoddard cut the engine on his battered Harley, shoved the kickstand in place with the heel of his boot, and read the address on the rustic frame building once more. As he climbed off his bike, he could still feel the vibrations from the powerful engine rumbling through his body. His right hand ached from having gripped the throttle for so many hours. His shoulder muscles were sore. He didn’t care. It felt good to use all the parts of his body.

  Prison had taught him to appreciate the simple things.

  He sucked his breath in deeply and tasted the crisp Mississippi air. It was fresh and clean with no lingering scents of urine and disinfectant. Spring, how fitting to be given a new start in life when everything around him was coming alive, as well.

  He smiled, and then realized it was the first time he’d smiled in months. Not that he’d had a whole lot to smile about these past three years. But, out of the blue, everything had changed. The warden had called him into his office to apologize for the terrible mistake they’d made; they being the judicial system that Kane had long ago lost respect for—the same system that put bank robbers behind bars for forty-three years and gave child molesters three.

  “I’ve good news for you, Mr. Stoddard,” the warden of Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary had said, as if addressing inmates respectfully took the sting out of all the other humiliations they were forced to endure. “A man fitting your description robbed a Memphis convenience store a couple of months ago. The clerk shot him in the chest. The man eventually died, but not before he confessed to several crimes, including the one for which you were convicted.” The warden paused. “His story checked out, and his DNA was at the scene of your crime. He knew details about the crime that only the police knew. It appears you were wrongfully convicted.”

  Now, three days after his release from Leavenworth, Kane stood before Abercrombie Grocery. He thought of the bundle of letters in his duffel bag that had led him from Leavenworth to Hardeeville, Mississippi.

  Melanie Abercrombie had begun writing to him a year earlier when she’d received his name from her pastor. Kane suspected the preacher hoped his congregation would bring a few criminals to salvation. Well, Miss Abercrombie hadn’t saved his soul, but she’d certainly made the small Mississippi town and its occupants sound interesting. Through her letters, Kane knew the good Reverend Potts had a weakness for rhubarb pie, and his wife a fondness for gossip. He’d also read about the Babcocks, who owned the local bakery and often left their loaf bread and rolls on the shelves too long instead of moving them to the “thrift” section and marking them half-price. This, Miss Abercrombie declared, was probably due to the fact that their teenage daughter, Desiree, refused to buy her clothes at the moderately priced Aaronson’s Department Store like everyone else, preferring the Neiman Marcus (Melanie had called it Needless Markup) in the new mall in the next town instead. It was no wonder folks in Hardeeville were being forced to pay top dollar for stale bread.

  Kane had read each and every letter, sometimes three or four times before tucking them into the shoe box beneath his cot. He’d never answered them, of course, not only because he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say to the woman, but because he didn’t want anyone to think the letters were important. The minute someone found out something mattered at Leavenworth, they took it away.

  Nevertheless, he had found himself wondering about Melanie Abercrombie: what she looked like, the sound of her voice. She had to have a pretty voice, because she’d mentioned singing in the church choir. As for looks, she was probably as plain as a dust mop, he’d convinced himself. Otherwise, she wouldn’t spend all her free time writing to him, a convicted felon.

  Kane pulled his duffel bag from the bike and approached the store, trying to decide if it looked as Melanie Abercrombie had described it. The building had to be at least a hundred years old, the wood faded and warped in places from the weather. A vintage soda-pop machine shared space with two long benches on the front porch, where a faded green awning offered relief from the elements. Double screen doors marked the entrance, both of which sagged and looked as though they’d come completely unhinged in the next strong wind. Beside one door a small sign listed the hours of operation. A sign on the other side of the doors listed the rules. No loitering, profanity, or alcoholic beverages allowed. Kane didn’t have to be psychic to know who’d put up the sign. Even in her letters, Miss Melanie Abercrombie had come across as a real southern lady.

  He paused before the door, suddenly nervous at the thought of meeting the woman who’d written to him faithfully the past year. How would she react when she saw him for the first time? His release had come about so quickly, he hadn’t had a chance to notify her of his whim to visit.

  # # #

  Melanie Abercrombie was in a sour mood, brought on by hunger pangs, her younger sister’s desperate, incessant phone calls, and a feeling of being overwhelmed. She peered through clunky square-framed glass at the mess before her.

  Abercrombie Grocery was as disorganized and cluttered as a child’s playroom, proof that her father preferred visiting with his customers and listening to gospel music to sweeping and restocking shelves. Mel ran a finger across the lid of a jar of pickled beets where a layer of dust and grime had long since settled and made it impossible to read the price.

  She knew she was partially responsible for the mess. Her flower shop had been in an uproar for a solid month, what with Easter, Secretaries Day, and proms following one right after the other. It was so bad her assistant, Eunice Jenkins, claimed she was getting varicose veins from standing on her feet so long, and prickly heat rash from sweating and handling pompoms. Mel simply hadn’t had time to come by her father’s store and clean the way she usually did. It was no wonder folks were driving into town to shop at the new Thrifty Sack.

  Nevertheless, Mel had had no idea how bad business had been until she looked through her father’s financial records. Only then did she realize they would have to take desperate measures. The store must be cleaned up once and for all. They’d have to pull up all that scarred linoleum and tear down the warped shelves. They’d have to patch the roof over the meat cooler and repair the faucet on the bathroom sink, and have someone look at the old heating and air conditioning unit that never quite kept the place warm enough in winter or cool enough in the summer.

  Mel sighed heavily. It was going to take so much time and money, neither of which she had very much of these days.

  That brought her to the next problem: Where the heck was the carpenter she’d hired to do the work? She groaned inwardly as she wondered about him. She’d hired the man sight unseen from a Craig’s List ad stating he was unemployed and would work cheap as a handyman. She’d later learned, through the grapevine at church, that the fellow was unemployed due
to a tendency to drink and forget about work altogether.

  Mel was interrupted from her thoughts when one of the screen doors was thrown open and a man stepped through.

  “Melanie Abercrombie?” he asked, trying to make himself heard above a modern rendition of the gospel song “Oh Happy Day” coming from a radio at the back of the store.

  At first all Mel could do was stare at him.

  She felt her jaw drop clear to her collar as she regarded the man before her. His head and face were covered with snarled blue-black hair. His brown eyes were so dark they appeared black. His expression was hard, flat, and emotionless. It was the sort of face one expected to find on wanted posters, the sort of face that prompted decent folks to lock their doors at night before they went to bed.

  So this was her carpenter. No wonder he couldn’t keep a job.

  “Well, it’s about time you got here,” she said, her voice as crisp as fried salt pork. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be put off by that beard. She took in his clothes, the blue sweat-stained work shirt, and shamefully tight jeans. He looked tough, lean, and sinewy, and probably could do the work if he stayed sober. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

  “You have?” Kane was clearly surprised. He couldn’t imagine how she’d learned he was getting out.

  “Yes,” she replied, noting he didn’t look the least bit remorseful for being so late. Didn’t he want the job, for heaven’s sake? “I suppose an apology is out of the question,” she said.

  He went blank. “You can apologize if you want, but I certainly don’t expect it.”

  Her irritation flared. “I wasn’t talking about me apologizing to you,” she said tightly.

  His bafflement quickly turned to annoyance. She had obviously called the prison, although he couldn’t imagine why. She had never once tried to contact him by phone. “Why should I apologize?” he asked. “I came as quickly as I could. Hell, I don’t even have to be here.”

  “Oh, is that right?” she quipped, meeting his gaze. She paused. “You think I’m desperate, don’t you?”

  He was growing more confused. “Come again?”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” She fidgeted with the buttons on her blouse. “You think I need you so badly that I’ll put up with this sort of behaviour.”

  Kane was truly at a loss as he studied the woman before him and wondered where in the hell the conversation was going. “I don’t think you’re desperate,” he said, at the same time wondering if she expected him to court her in return for all those letters. She was clearly not his type. Her skirt and blouse were too prim and proper; her hairstyle—slicked back into a bun—too severe. Her glasses were downright ugly and made her face appear misshapen. “I don’t want to appear rude, Miss Abercrombie, but I’m not looking to get romantically involved with anyone right now. I just want a fresh start.”

  “What?” Mel’s head spun. What in blazes was he talking about? Did he think she was making a pass at him? Was he insane? She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

  “Look, I don’t want us to get off to a bad beginning. I’m not sure I would have made it this past year without your letters.” It wasn’t easy for him to be so honest, but she had done much for his morale these twelve months; he owed her.

  Mel was at a loss. He wasn’t making sense. “Letters? What letters? Who are you?”

  “Kane Stoddard.”

  She froze as realization swept through her with the force of a tidal wave. “Kane Stoddard? From Leavenworth Penitentiary?” He nodded, and she thought she detected a small smile, but it was hard to tell with the beard.

  But how can that be, she asked herself. The Kane Stoddard she knew was a convicted killer, serving life without parole. How had he gotten out? The answer came to her with lightning-quick clarity. She knew of only one way a prisoner could get out that fast.

  Kane watched the color drain from her face. He had expected her to be surprised, but she looked as if she’d just received the scare of her life. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She knew she ought to do something, but what? Dial 911? Race outside and flag down the first motorist who came along? She tried to move, but her feet felt as though they’d been set in cement.

  An escaped convict in Hardeeville? Was it possible?

  Kane watched, transfixed, as Melanie Abercrombie’s eyes glazed over, and then rolled back in her head like dice in a card game. She swayed, and he reached for her. He wasn’t fast enough. She collapsed and fell against a box of drain cleaner with the grace and finesse of a hundred-pound gunny sack of Vidalia onions.

  Chapter Two

  It was all Kane could do to keep her from injuring herself in the fall. Her head barely missed the sharp-edged counter, and he caught her a split second before she hit the floor. He couldn’t save the glasses. They landed hard, shattering both lenses. He figured it was to her advantage.

  “Somebody help me,” Kane called out, not knowing what to do with the dead weight in his arms. Suddenly, the music at the other end of the store died. A stocky, square-faced man with gray hair stepped out from behind the meat case, took one look at the situation, and raced forward.

  “What happened to my daughter?” he demanded in a voice that told Kane he’d better not be responsible.

  Still clutching an unconscious Melanie Abercrombie against him, Kane lowered her gently to the floor while cradling her head with one arm. “I don’t know. One minute she seemed fine, the next thing I know, she’s out cold. Help me find something to put under her head.”

  Wilton Abercrombie stripped off his apron, wadded it into a ball, and tucked it beneath his daughter’s head. He patted her face gently with meaty hands. “Wake up, Mel, honey,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

  The woman on the floor stirred.

  “I think she’s coming around,” Kane said. “Miss Abercrombie?” Her eyelids fluttered open, and Kane noticed for the first time how her brown eyes sparkled.

  Mel blinked at the dark-haired man several times. “What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  She touched her temples. “Where are my glasses?” Kane reached for them. “They didn’t survive the fall.” He noted the perfect oval face, the clear brown eyes. “You ask me, I think it’s a blessing.” He paused. “Why’d you faint? Are you sick?”

  Mel pushed herself up into a sitting position, brushing her skirt into place and praying the man had not caught a glimpse of her unmentionables. She wondered how she was going to come up with the money for new glasses, but was more concerned with the possibility of having an escaped convict on her hands. “I never get sick,” she replied, as if falling prey to an ailment were a sign of weak character. She would not let him see that she was frightened. “I was just surprised to see you, Mr. Stoddard,” she managed. “I had no idea you were—” She paused. “That you had left your other place.”

  Kane caught on quickly. She obviously didn’t want her father to know he was an ex-con. “Neither did I. It sort of happened at the last minute, he said, emphasizing the words so maybe she’d understand why he hadn’t notified her. He saw the funny look she gave him and wondered at it.

  “Do you two know each other?” Wilton Abercrombie asked.

  “This is Kane Stoddard, Daddy, from Kansas.” Mel added. “We’ve been writing to each other for about a year.”

  Wilton took the younger man’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically, as though he didn’t find it at all strange that his daughter had been corresponding with a man who looked like a refugee from a soup kitchen. “What part of Kansas?” he asked.

  Kane was the first to pull his hand away. Prison had taught him never to appear overly friendly and to immediately suspect those who were. “Leavenworth,” he said without blinking.

  “I hear it’s a fine town,” Wilton replied, always quick to find something nice to say about a person or a place.

  “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t spend much time in town.”

  Wilton nodded as though it mad
e complete sense, then turned to Mel. “I know why you fainted,” he said, changing the subject abruptly.

  She fidgeted with her buttons again. “You do?” she asked, still trying to figure out how Kane had gotten out of prison. All sorts of images flashed through her head: Kane scaling a nine-foot concrete wall, Kane cutting through barbed wire. Or maybe he’d put a makeshift knife to a guard’s throat and walked through the front doors?

  Wilton faced Kane once more. “She’s been listening to that skinny sister of hers.”

  “The model from New York?” Kane asked, remembering how often Mel had mentioned her younger sibling in her letters.

  “That’s the one,” Wilton told him. “Blair’s as skinny as a two-by-four, but she has to starve herself to stay that way. Anyhow, Blair got miffed with Mel the other day at breakfast for eating waffles. Called her pudgy.”

  Mel’s cheeks burned. “Daddy, I’m sure Mr. Stoddard isn’t interested—”

  Wilton ignored her. “See, Mel can eat anything she likes, and she doesn’t gain weight ’cause she works it off. Blair don’t so much as lift her little finger. But Mel must’ve taken what her sister said to heart ’cause she hasn’t eaten a decent meal in days.” He faced his daughter. “I thought you had better sense than to listen to Blair.”

  “You’re definitely not pudgy,” Kane said, his eyes raking boldly over her. She was slender and healthy-looking with curves in all the right places. He was both surprised and pleased by what he saw.

  Mel felt her mouth go dry as the bearded man scrutinized her as thoroughly as one might a broodmare. “Would you please step back so I can stand?” she asked, wanting desperately to put some distance between them.

  “Yeah, and after you do that, you can take her somewhere to get something to eat,” Wilton said.