Bluegrass Hero. Allie Pleiter

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      “Okay, well, perhaps you should tell me what happened,” she said as calmly as possible. Behind him, one man was pressing an ear to the glass as if to eavesdrop. It was the strangest thing she’d seen in ages.

      “Ethan—you remember Ethan from yesterday?” he began, “Well, he’s not exactly a ladies’ man. Not a fan of clean and shiny, if you know what I mean. But he got caught in a greased chain on the tractor—well, skip the details on that part. Anyways, he got stuck having to use my shower. I tossed him that soap you gave us yesterday cuz I didn’t want him griming up my own soap cuz he’s filthy and…well, that night…” The man flushed crimson.

      “And?” Emily said. “What? Hives? A rash of some sort?”

      Gil Sorrent leaned over the counter. “Women. They were all over him like flies on honey. As if he were the last man on earth. And he claims it’s the soap.” Sorrent lowered his voice even further. “Now, I wasn’t there, but you and I both know women do not flock to a man just because of the way he smells, no matter what cologne ads promise. But I had to near wrestle Ethan to get him to give me back that bar. He thinks the soap got him all that attention and those guys out there, they are more than ready to believe him.” He pushed the second bar across the counter. “I can’t have this kind of thing going on at my farm. So prove to me so’s I can prove to Ethan there’s nothin’ in there to make my foreman such a center of attention.”

      “Well, of course it couldn’t be the soap.” She pulled the unused bar from the bag and scanned the rustic packaging. The usual soap and scent ingredients were listed. The wrapper was a vintage style, with a line drawing of ships and waves—nothing to suggest large-scale female attraction would result from use. No enticing claims, no warning, nothing really out of the ordinary except the Bible verse that had drawn her to Edmundson’s Soaps in the first place. Every Edmundson soap had a Bible verse on the label.

      She pulled open the wrapper.

      Sorrent grew still. The young men at the window pressed closer. At the other window on the opposite side of the door, three women now peered inside, curious as to what the fuss was all about.

      It was a rather unimpressive little bar—nothing dashing or flashy. Hand-shaped, a bit lumpy and an inconsistent oatmeal-beige color. The Edmundsons probably gave it such a colorful name because it was such a bland-looking soap.

      She stared at it, looking for some clue.

      He stared at her, agitated.

      Because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she sniffed it.

      Sorrent held his breath and nearly gripped the counter edge.

      She sniffed again. Then a third time. It did smell wonderful. No single ingredient came to mind, but a cascade of scents left her with a single impression of strength, charisma and—though she couldn’t explain it—security. It wasn’t as though any of these characteristics had a scent. You would never say a man smelled charismatic or secure. Yet, those were the exact words that came to mind when she inhaled. Emily took a small knife from a drawer in her counter and sliced off a corner of the bar. The inside looked the same as the bland outside. No surprises.

      She picked the soap back up and inhaled again. It was extraordinarily pleasant, she had to admit. But it was a bar of soap.

      She took the corner she’d just cut off and rubbed it against the inside of her wrist. No tingle, no itch, no sudden burning desire to find male company. Well, she was already in male company, and he wasn’t a hideous-looking man, but…

      Emily shook her head, rewrapped the soap and returned it to the plastic bag. “I haven’t got an explanation for you.”

      “I saw your face when you smelled it.” Emily blushed and started to defend herself, but Sorrent pointed at her. “It’s just soap, for crying out loud. You and I both know soap can’t do that. Make sure no bar of that stuff finds its way back onto my farm. Got it?” Without another word, he turned around and walked out of the shop, the posse of young men scattering to avoid him.

      Emily huffed at the door as it swung shut. Not hideous-looking, but a far cry from good-natured. He can’t tell me what to do. He’s getting all angry over nothing, besides. She bent over to toss the cut bar of soap into the trash bin. The way he’s acting, you’d think I’d suddenly become a popular shopping destination for tough-guy farmhands. Honestly.

      When she looked up again, however, Sorrent’s guys had scrambled back to her window. After a split-second hesitation, the entire group lurched through her door, nearly knocking each other over to get to her counter first. Emily tried to tell herself there was no cause for alarm, but they were an alarming-looking bunch, all mobbed together like that. And Ethan was nowhere in sight. One was as tall as Gil and twice as heavy, looking as if he could be a bodyguard or a professional wrestler. Another peered at her with squinted eyes, and she could see he was missing a tooth when he smiled—it wasn’t exactly the kind of smile anyone would describe as “warm and friendly,” either. Another had thick dark hair and spoke with a silky, accented voice. The group contained every version of “tough guy” that Emily could imagine. And this was definitely one of those situations where the whole was scarier than the sum of its parts.

      “I’ll give you ten dollars for that soap,” offered the one with the missing tooth as he pointed to the first wet bar in its plastic bag still on the counter.

      “Forget him, I’ll give you twenty. You got more?”

      “If you can hold it till Wednesday, I’ll give you thirty!” a third one cried.

      Emily placed her hands over the bar and slid it protectively closer to her side of the counter. The men had been in such a hurry to get to her that the whole lot of them had walked clean past the dozen bars of Pirate Soap on the table behind them.

      What in the world is going on here?

      Slowly, with all the authority she could muster, she raised her eyes to meet the crowd. “Did you know your boss just told me not to sell you any of this soap?”

      A chorus of disappointed moans met her declaration.

      “Come on now, ma’am. You don’t have to do what he says. He’s not your boss.”

      “I could have fifty dollars here by tomorrow morning, lady,” offered a small, dark-haired teenager as he pushed his way from the back of the crowd. He had black, beady eyes and a rodent-like grin. “Hey, where else you gonna get fifty dollars for a bar of soap?”

      Emily stared at her sudden customers and told herself to remain calm. When she’d asked God to send her a way to make her next loan payment, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She was thinking more along the lines of a busload of wealthy tourists. Now she found herself holding soap she hadn’t ordered with scary-looking men fighting to give her more money than she’d ever made on even her best ladies’ soaps.

      Maybe she should get another cup of coffee under her belt before she prayed over her to-do list in the mornings.

      “Now gentlemen, let’s just slow down a minute and—”

      “You all better get your sorry backsides out of this shop this instant!” yelled a booming voice from the door. The group turned to find a furious Gil Sorrent stalking toward them. He didn’t have to finish the threat. They were scrambling out of the store as fast as they had entered it. The beady-eyed one turned to mouth Fifty silently to her, СКАЧАТЬ