Southerland's Dilemma

By Bonnie Gardner

Attorney West Southerland is pretty comfortable in his job at a prestigious Montgomery law firm. Then the senior partner asks him to "wine and dine" a young farmer in order to talk her into selling out to a bigger landowner who's been coveting her property. At first, West is annoyed and then insulted, but when he meets the young farmer and falls for her, all bets are off.

Natha Sessoms has worked hard to bring her grandmother's subsistence farm up to modern organic standards. Even the attentions of the handsome, young lawyer don't sway her from her mission. Then she learns that West is the son of the competitor who wants her land. When a crop dusting accident threatens to ruin her crop, she suspects that the buy-out proposition is connected to the "accident." Can West convince her that the accident is just that, or will his complicity end what might have been a beautiful future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Gardner
• Release date: Apr 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370032549

Bonnie Gardner

After spending most of her life as either an army brat or a military wife, the last people that Bonnie Gardner expected to find herself writing about were military men. After all, she'd looked forward to the day she could put that spit and polish and moving around behind her. Then she sold her first book. Her hero was ex-military. Then she sold her second book. Her hero was retired military. You get the picture. When her editor suggested that she use her military knowledge and background, she resisted. She really did. But common sense won out. After all, they say to write about what you know, and that's what she knew. Bonnie grew up on army bases around the world. According to her parents, one of the first homes she lived in was a converted World War II army barracks. She lived in Hawaii before it was a state, and has either visited or lived in almost every state of the Union. During six years in Germany in her formative years, Bonnie developed her love for reading and movies. (In those days, there was no American television to watch overseas, so books and movies were her entertainment.) Even at the tender age of 12, she was a critic. If she didn't like the ending of a book or a movie, she'd spend half the night rewriting it in her mind. Though she didn't actually write any of these ideas down, she honed her skills by writing long letters to friends she'd left behind. Finally, when she was almost 16, her father retired to his home state of Alabama, and there, Bonnie met her husband. Wayne was the cutup sitting next to her in geometry class at Marbury High School, the last of 11 schools she'd attended while growing up. She tried to ignore him, but his clowning won out. They married at 19 and have been together for over 30 years. They have two grown sons, one of whom is now serving in the air force - the third generation in their family. Though Bonnie swore she would never marry a military man, Vietnam intruded and Wayne was drafted. He joined the air force because his father had retired from the air force. It was only supposed to be one enlistment, but...he stayed for 25 years, and Bonnie followed him whenever she could. And Bonnie wouldn't have missed a moment of it. She learned how to do things she never thought she could do - like repair a toilet - when her husband was away for weeks or months at a time. She learned how to be alone. And she learned she could handle anything if she set her mind to it, even Casualty Duty when she and her husband had the unpleasant task of notifying a friend that her husband had died in the line of duty. All those things made Bonnie what she is today, and all of that experience shows in her books. When she writes about her men in uniform, she knows them. She knows the joy and the pain of loving a man in uniform. She knows their wives, their girlfriends, and their mothers. She's been all of them.

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SOUTHERLAND’S DILEMMA

Copyright 2017 Bonnie Gardner

Published by Books by Bonnie

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

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Scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of this book with out the permission of the author is unlawful piracy and theft. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author.

Thank you for respecting this author’s hard work and livelihood.

Thanks to Bev and Barb who read.

Thanks to Connie who helps me mind my Ps and Qs.

CHAPTER ONE

The last thing West Southerland needed today was to be called into Jock MacDonnell's office only to be left sitting in the anteroom half the afternoon. He'd rather be working on the Harris case. West folded his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair and smoothed out his shirt sleeves as he settled down to wait.

He cast a glance at the ornate wall clock as he pushed his tie back into place. He had a date tonight, and the way things were going, he would be late.

West straightened and forced himself to sit erect in the heavy armchair, darkened by the patina of age and use. He took another look at the clock on the wall above the secretary's desk in the richly-paneled outer office and struggled to hold back a frustrated sigh. He wasn't successful.

MacDonnell's matronly secretary looked up from her keyboard and presented West with an apologetic smile. She had made a nice gesture, but it wouldn't get him out of there any quicker.

The intercom buzzed, interrupting West's thoughts, and Mrs. Wright stopped long enough to pick up the phone. She listened for a moment then turned to West. Mr. MacDonnell will see you now, Mr. Southerland.

West got up, shook out his jacket, and put it on. He paused at the door and brushed a speck off the dark blue wool. Making a final adjustment to his tie, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

He should have known. A dog and pony show. His father, Magruder (Mac) Southerland, wearing worn jeans, a corduroy blazer and dusty cowboy boots, leaned against MacDonnell's massive oak desk while Jock, dressed in pinstriped suit, minus the jacket, practiced putting on a patch of green artificial turf in the middle of the spacious, corner office.

Mac held up a hand to silence West as MacDonnell lined up his putt. West waited impatiently, but he knew better than to disturb the man while he was putting.

The dimpled white ball found the hole, and Jock MacDonnell straightened. Ten for ten, he announced with satisfaction as the putting machine spat the ball back to him. Jock caught the ball with the tip of the club and scooped it up toward his hand. I get some of my best thinking done on the golf course, he declared as he put the ball and putter away. And when I can't get there, I do what I can here.

West smiled perfunctorily at Jock, then turned to greet his father. Hey, Dad. What brings you into town today? It had to be important for Mac Southerland to leave the place on a Wednesday afternoon during planting season. Maybe it wasn't a pony show after all.

MacDonnell settled his portly body into his saddle leather-covered chair. Your Daddy brought me some work to do a while back which I'm passin' on to you. Strictly unofficial, you understand.

West was puzzled by Jock's caveat, but he listened.

Jock went on. I reckon you know the old Sessoms place that runs up against your Daddy's property.

West nodded. It was no secret that Mac Southerland had coveted that forty-acre spread for as long as West could remember. That tiny, one-man farm had been a thorn in Mac's side for years. One-woman farm, actually. It was the only piece of land that Dad didn't own within four miles, and it irked him to no end that Rue Sessoms was the only impediment to him owning the biggest farming enterprise in the south-central part of Alabama. It wasn't as if Dad needed it for anything.

I'm making another offer for it, Mac interjected with a determined set to his jaw.

West raised an eyebrow. You think you’ll get Rue Sessoms to agree to sell?

Jock leaned back in his chair, the worn leather protesting his weight. Gonna try. We sent an offer to Natty. Ain't a done deal yet. He paused. I got young Davidson started working on it.

West shifted a knee to relieve the tension of standing so straight in front of the two older men. Young Davidson was a good ten years older than West and perfectly capable of handling a simple real estate transaction by himself. What did they need him for?

Rue Sessoms wouldn't never listen to any offer I made, but little Natty's been in charge since old Rue had that last stroke. Maybe she'd be more open to change.

Natty Sessoms. West remembered her from when they were kids and he was still living in Mac's big farm house a couple of miles down the road from her grandmother. Natty had been a scrawny, smart-mouthed little pest. And ugly as homemade sin. She had big light brown eyes that made him call her Froggie when he teased her— which was most of the time. He grinned, thinking about her.

And Granny Rue. She had made some of the best peanut butter cookies that West had ever tasted. His mouth watered, just thinking about them. He swallowed as he reminded himself that it had been another life.

What did they want him to do that Davidson couldn't do as well himself? He could hardly sidle up to Natty and appeal to her for old time's sake. They hadn't been friends. Hell, Natty had been a pest. He hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years, not since Mother had left Dad and taken West back across the river to live among the people she had grown up with. After that, West's circle of friends had changed dramatically.

She's a grown woman now, Mac told him. Even went off to Wellesley College in Massachusetts and got her some fancy degree.

That surprised West. He couldn't imagine Natty in anything but grubby overhauls with dirt smudges on her narrow face. He wondered what she could have studied that was so fancy, as Dad had described it. Wellesley was an expensive, women's college. How could she have afforded the tuition?

We want you to soften her up, Mac Southerland said, slapping his son on the back. You know, wine and dine her and give her a taste of the life she could have if she sold.

West stiffened and struggled mightily to hold back the retort that waited at the tip of his tongue. Hell, what Dad had just suggested was downright insulting. He was only a junior associate in this prestigious, Montgomery law firm, and he might want to be a full partner someday, but if this was what they expected of partners, he wasn't so sure he was interested. He clenched his fist and squeezed his jaws tightly together until he felt he could be civil.

The two older men watched him, waiting for his reaction.

I can’t do that.

Jock looked at him as if he hadn't heard right. Sure, you can. You think about it, son. It won't hurt you to squire the girl around town some. Soften her up. Remind her of what she’s been missin’.

Hell, West. There was a time when your mother and me couldn't pry the two of you apart. What could be so hard? Mac truly looked as if he thought he wasn't asking much.

West sucked in a deep breath. He didn't like being put on the spot like this. And he damned sure didn't like what they were asking him to do. Especially with homely, pesky little Natty Sessoms. He tried to picture Natty all grown up, but he couldn't get past the image of Froggie. West shook his head. I'm seeing someone.

What if his and Blaine's were only casual dates. He hadn't spent all that time in law school to do what some good-looking stud in tight pants could do just as well.

Is that all? he asked, surprised that his voice had come out so evenly modulated. I have an appointment this evening, and I'm already late.

Oh sure, Jock said, rocking back in his chair. He waved dismissively. You go on. We'll talk about this again.

That's what he was afraid of.

***

Natha Rae Sessoms strolled up the dirt lane from the mailbox and sorted through the day's accumulation of junk, circulars, and the real stuff. Bills, bills, and more bills, she murmured in disgust and brushed a strand of flyaway hair out of her eyes. Why do the electric, phone, and gas bills always come on the same day? I wish there'd be something else just once.

Then she spotted the expensive looking, cream colored envelope at the bottom of the stack. She stumbled, kicking up a cloud of dust, as she took a closer look. She righted herself. Theron, MacDonnell, and Jones, she muttered. Boy, they sure have the wrong address.

But closer inspection of the envelope proved that the letter probably was for her. Ms. Nathan R. Sessoms, she read out loud as she lowered herself to the middle riser of the steps that led up to the shady wooden porch. They could, at least, try to get a girl's name right if they're going to write to her. Wouldn't you think so, Tom? she said to the plump, yellow tabby sunning himself on the porch rail above her. It’s Nay-thuh. What’s so hard about that?

The cat stretched and yawned and hopped down to the rough wooden floor. He ambled over to where Natha leaned against the rail and nuzzled Natha's arm as she tore open the flap and read.

Humph. Seems like somebody wants to buy us out, Tom. Probably wants to build a development of cookie-cutter, tract houses with a view of the river, she said as she pushed herself up. I guess they don't know about Gran. She'll never give up this place, and I don't want to either. It’s our home.

Natha stood on the top step, squinting in the afternoon sun, and looked out over the line of trees that edged the banks of the Alabama River. Above the willows and live oaks, she could just the see the buildings that made up the Montgomery skyline. Civilization was so close, as the crow flies. She shook her head and bent down to ruffle the fur behind the cat's ears. Well, they won't be constructing anything like that here.

She pocketed the business card she'd found tucked inside the purchase offer, but she crumpled the sheet of linen-blend stationery into a tight little ball. No use ruling out the option entirely, she reminded herself as she tossed the paper ball from hand to hand. Harvest Home Organics might not be a household name yet, but it will be, Natha said as she dropped the makeshift ball in front of Tom. She patted the slip of embossed, cream-colored cardboard in her pocket. Who knows? I might need a lawyer to work for Harvest Home someday.

Tom, busy batting the wadded letter around on the painted porch floor, had no comment as Natha unlaced her scuffed, Sears-Roebuck work boots and stepped out of them. Setting them neatly beside the wall, she pushed open the patched screen door and went in.

***

I just cain't see what you gettin' so worked up about. Going to see a room full of pictures that look like somebody spilled paint and didn't bother to clean it up, Gran grumbled as she watched Natha prepare for the Saturday opening of the visiting Impressionist exhibit at the Museum of Art.

Natha laughed. I should never have showed you that book of Jackson Pollack's work, she said as she brushed one last coat of clear polish on her stubby nails. Holding her hands out in front of her, she inspected them critically and shook her head. There just has to be a way to keep my hands looking nice and work this farm too, she murmured.

When I was a girl, ladies wore gloves, Granny volunteered.

To keep from touching strange men's skin, I suppose, Natha returned dryly. I wear gloves when I'm working. It's the only thing that keeps them from looking like a farm hands, as it is.

Gran snorted. We just used 'em to cover up the damage after. I reckon it was more'n likely to hide the dirt and berry stains than anything else. She thought a moment. You're not going to see that guy who paints pictures of soup cans, are you?

No, Gran, Natha replied patiently. I think you'd like these. They're soft and full of color.

Do they look like anything an ol' lady would reckonize?

Yes, they do. Natha scanned the room for a back issue of American Artist Magazine that had a layout of Mary Cassatt's work. She spotted the book and picked it up. Thumbing carefully through the pages so as not to smudge her drying nails, she found the article. Look, this is the type of stuff I'll be seeing.

Gran accepted the magazine with obvious skepticism and perused the spread carefully. Well, these are right pretty, aren't they now? she said in a hearty voice that belied her fragile health.

Natha grinned. See, I knew I could convince you. You sure you wouldn't like to come along with me?

Naw. It all seems like a bunch of tomfoolery if you ask me. I can think of better things to do than stand around making chit chat and drinking coffee from them dinky little cups. I got me a movie I'm planning to watch tonight.

Okay, Natha said agreeably, playing out the same scenario she did every time she went out and left her grandmother at home alone. You can't say I didn't ask.

I'd never say that, sugar. You know I appreciate you giving up your social life to come live with a crippled ol' lady like me. I hate that you think you have to set around with me when you could be going out and having fun.

You're my family and all I have since Daddy died. Why shouldn't I spend time with you? She reached for the burnt orange dress she’d chosen for tonight and pulled it on.

Well, you just remember, I don't expect you to give up your life and turn into an old maid for me.

Natha laughed, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. I'm only twenty-seven. That's not considered old maid territory these days. I've got plenty of time to look. If I were interested in looking. She qualified. Besides, I've got a college education. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

Piddle. When I was coming up, you'd already be six years past prime at twenty-seven. And what good's a fancy Bachelor of Fine Arts gonna do you out in the real world?

There's lots of things I can do, Natha responded, trying to justify the statement as she poked her head through the neck of the dress. But at the moment, she couldn't think of anything specific. She struggled with her zipper while she groped for an answer. Well, she finally said. If the wolf comes huffing at my door, I can always teach. Anybody could have heard the defensiveness in her voice, especially the sharp-eared Gran.

The older woman shrugged and hoisted herself up off Natha's bed. I reckon I'll just leave you alone to finish your primping and preening.

Natha rolled her eyes. I'm not primping. It's just that after spending so much time in work boots and denim, it feels good to look like a woman again. Even if I have already smudged my nail polish. She looked regretfully at the smear, but shrugged. It was clear polish. Nobody'd notice.

Gran leaned heavily on her four-pronged cane and made her way slowly over toward Natha. She patted Natha on her cheek. You don't have to worry about a thing, sugar. You gonna turn the head of every man at that fancy party.

I'm not going there to turn heads, Gran. I'm going to see paintings. But Natha couldn't help thinking about it as she watched her grandmother lumber out of the room. It would be nice to be the center of attention.

Just once.

***

There were moments when West Southerland wondered if it might be easier on him to let Blaine depend on somebody else to be her fallback escort. He could think of better things to do with his spare time than to stand around like a dummy at this stupid art exhibit. He never could understand what Blaine saw in these events.

He appreciated art as much as the next guy. In small doses on the living room wall. But he wasn't overjoyed at having to stand around and pretend knowledge he didn't have. He either liked a picture, or he didn't. And he didn't see much point in arguing about it as half the other people in this room seemed to be doing. It was a simple enough philosophy. Why couldn't Blaine just accept that?

Don't you just adore the way Pissarro handles the light in this one? Blaine cooed in West's ear.

Oh, sure. He guessed it was a nice enough picture — painting, he reminded himself. If you liked looking at pictures that always seemed slightly out of focus. It's great.

Blaine patted him on the cheek, startling West with the brightness of her purple, painted nails. Oh really, Westling. Sometimes you act like such a farm boy.

There she goes again. Blaine would not let him forget that he'd started his life on Mac Southerland's thousand plus acre plantation. Admittedly, it was somewhat smaller then, but it didn't seem to matter to Blaine that Mac had raised himself up from overseer's son to owner of the huge commercial farming enterprise that now had a net worth of somewhere in seven figures.

Mac would always be a farmer to Blaine, and by extension, so would West. In spite of his education and his position at the Dexter Avenue law firm, West felt he would never measure up to Blaine's requirements.

Oh, excuse me, lover. I see an acquaintance I haven't spoken to in years. Blaine hurried off in pursuit of her friend, leaving West alone and relieved. And stuck holding a minuscule cup of espresso and having no one to talk to.

West drew in a deep breath. He could have spent the afternoon servicing the bike. He'd rescued that Harley from the junk heap when he was barely old enough to ride it. And he and Dad had spent many hours together making it run again, much to Mother's dismay. It wasn't his only transportation these days, but it was one of the ways he blew off steam.

And he hadn't