Page 4 of Jameson’s Salvation

But Jameson was a whole different story. He was the kind of man who made you do a double-take. I didn’t want him to see me looking like a farm hand with filthy clothes and messy hair. But it was too late for that. There I was, standing in front of the sexiest man I’d ever seen, looking like shit.

I’d been so pissed that Reggie had cornered me—again—and had again threatened me, I’d marched my happy ass straight to the Swagger Farm to ask for help. I wasn’t sure what Nixon could do, but I needed someone to do something. And while I could fend for myself, the situation was spiraling out of control and I couldn’t go at it alone. Not anymore.

I’d had enough.

It had been annoying six months ago. It became tiresome three months ago. And in the last month it was infuriating.

“Kennedy?” Jameson called.

“You work with Nixon?”

“Maybe you shoulda asked that before you told a stranger about your problems.”

I couldn’t help but smile. He was a little gruff and a whole lot short, but there was something about his grumpy attitude that made me want to make him smile, like I had a moment ago. I’d bet he didn’t smile that much.

“You’re not from around here,” I stated.

Having grown up in Kent County, I would’ve known him if he had. First, because there was only one county high school, and second, a man like Jameson couldn’t be forgotten. He was a giant, almost a foot taller than me. Big, broad shoulders, and hair so black it could be described as inky, or maybe midnight.

“Yeah.”

“But you obviously know Nixon.”

“And?”

“If you’re a friend of Nixon’s that means you’re good people. And if you’re at his barn and he’s not here, that means he trusts you.”

“You’re correct on all accounts, but I don’t see how that explains why you told a stranger about Reggie Coleman.”

Perhaps it was a KC thing. But the company you kept and who extended their trust to you went a long way around here. And your word and your reputation still meant something. Deals were made with a handshake and a nod. Jameson wouldn’t be standing on Nixon’s land if he didn’t like and trust the man.

“Well, if Nixon trusts you, I know I can, too.”

Something flashed in his eyes and he didn’t look happy.

“That’s not smart. You shouldn’t trust someone you don’t know. People are assholes.”

“That’s cynical.”

“That’s real. You need to be careful to whom you extend your trust. You don’t know me and just because Nix does doesn’t mean shit.”

“Are you telling me I can’t trust you?”

“No, I’m telling you, you need to be smart or you’ll get hurt.”

“Right. I can only be who I am, Jameson. I extend my respect and trust until someone proves they don’t deserve it and if I get hurt in the process that says more about them than me. If I allowed every asshole who I’ve run into over the years to change me, I wouldn’t like myself very much. If you guys can help me with this Reggie Coleman situation, I’d appreciate it. Of course, I’d pay y’all. I’m not asking for a freebie.”

Jameson was still studying me and I fought not to wilt under his scrutiny. He probably thought I was some naïve hick who didn’t understand there were dishonest, shitty people in the world. But his assumption would be incorrect. I understood to my bones how unfair people could be. How they made judgments about you before they knew you. How they lied to get what they wanted. How they’d step on your back and crush you to get ahead. That was precisely why I tried my best not to behave that way toward others, and often times it was at my own expense. But I’d rather be hurt than turn into someone I wasn’t proud of. Someone my father wouldn’t be proud to know.

“Let’s go up to the house and talk,” he suggested.

“You wanna ride up?” I offered and started back toward my truck.

Jameson looked at my dirty truck, down the lane to the house that was less than a quarter-mile walk, then back to my pickup. His own two feet would probably get him there quicker than it would take me to start up my truck, turn around, and drive up—but still, the polite thing to do was offer, even if I was hoping he’d decline. I wasn’t a slob, my house was always clean, but my truck was another story. And I’d spent the day working so the interior cab looked worse than the mud slung all over the outside.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Well, damn. Looks like Jameson was going to be treated to my mess.