Page 1 of Nixon’s Promise

1

“Do you need some help?”

I was balancing a fifty-pound bag of dog food on the tailgate of my pickup watching kibble pour out the side. As much as it pained me to have to say yes, the growing pile on the asphalt was indicating I had to.

“If you wouldn’t mind. I ripped open the bag on the cart.”

The man stepped into my peripheral and if I hadn’t been using my hip to keep the bag from slipping, I would’ve stumbled back.

Good God.

He hefted the bag up then to the side, stopping the spillage, and lifted it the rest of the way into the bed. I would’ve found this impressive if my attention hadn’t been solely on the size of his biceps. I was concentrating so hard trying to work out if I could wrap both my hands around one and have my fingers touch, I hadn’t noticed he’d stepped back.

“Thanks. If you hadn’t come along when you did, I’d be scooping up all fifty pounds’ worth.”

Jeez, could I sound any more like a putz?

“Glad I came along then. I’m Nixon.”

“I know who you are,” I told him.

His head cocked to the side, his piercing brown eyes narrowed, his lips formed two flat unhappy lines and I would’ve tinkled a little had I not been so enthralled by his arms. Yet again, his biceps, now firmly crossed over his chest, held my attention.

They defied all laws of nature. It was simply unnatural for a man’s muscles to be that big.

“Small town,” I mumbled when the silence had stretched to uncomfortable.

Gossip about Nixon Swagger being home had hit Cliff City like a hurricane. Everyone was talking about the local war hero’s homecoming like it was the second coming of Christ. Rumors had been circulating for the last two weeks.

I didn’t even work in town, and only came in when I needed supplies, much preferring to stay out on my farm away from nosy, prying eyes. Yet, I’d still heard all about Nixon. The stories were hard to ignore. Not because I was one of the nosy, prying types, but because I had ears and spoke English, therefore I couldn’t miss the talk.

Everything from, Nixon was suffering from PTSD and he should be avoided at all costs, to he’d come home after his enlistment was up and needed quiet to soothe his ravaged soul, were circulating. I didn’t grow up here but I’d lived here long enough to know rumors were as abundant as the steamed crabs from the Chesapeake Bay, and they were just that—rumors.

“Right.”

“Anyway, thanks again.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Micky.”

“Micky?” His head dipped and I was now staring at his ratty blue hat with gold stitching that read NAVY, just as worn I might add, across the front.

“My name’s McKenna but everyone calls me Micky,” I explained.

“Well, McKenna, will you be able to get that bag out without spillin’ the rest?”

“You offering to follow me home and unload my feed?”

Jeez, why’d I ask that?

Now the poor man was gonna think I was hitting on him. Which I wasn’t.

Nixon’s gaze slid from me to the bed of my pickup, Old Blue, and he smiled. “How many animals do you have?”

“The bags of corn and wheat are for the ducks and Goat,” I started. “The Buckeye is for Sally, my Chincoteague pony rescue. And the dog food, is well, for the dog.”

“You have a Chincoteague pony?”