by Diana Palmer
“Excuse me? I’ll be the one issuing invitations. Which I didn’t do.”
“Sorry to be rude. But there’s no way you can manage all those dogs alone. What will you do with your daughter?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out, okay? Look, I don’t even know you.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s not exactly comfortable, is it? I can sleep in my truck or in the barn.”
She tossed her head back, looking at the sky. “There’s no way that will work! The barn and the bunkhouse aren’t winterized, not well enough for a person to stay, and you’ll freeze to death in your truck. And you’re sick!” She bit her lip and looked around, struggle evident on her face.
“I assume you’ll give me a blanket if I’m extranice?” He meant to lighten her mood, but the line came out sounding flirtatious. Great move, Camden.
She ignored him. “I guess,” she said slowly, “you can stay in the TV room. And I’ll lock the doors upstairs.”
“If you’re sure, that would be fantastic.” It was a shame that women had to be so careful, but they did. And he was glad his daughter—his daughter, he could still barely wrap his mind around that concept—was safe with someone like stern, protective, beautiful Fern.
She was worrying her lower lip. “For now, I’d better check on Mercy and then go out and make sure the dogs are okay. They got their dinner, but I want to make sure they’re warm enough. Let them out into their runs one last time.”
“I’ll go with you.” He stood and got his feet under him.
“No! You don’t need to come.” Then she bit her lip, and he couldn’t help thinking how cute she was. Not a stereotypical librarian at all, despite the thick glasses.
“What?”
“I... I guess I don’t want you to stay here alone with Mercy, either.”
“Then, you’ll have to accept my help. As much as I can do anyway. Bull can watch over...your little girl.” Whoa, he had to be careful what he said until he decided how he was going to punt.
She let out a sigh and he recognized it. “Not a people person, eh? Me, either. We don’t have to talk.”
She stared at him. “You get that?”
“I get that. I’ve got an introverted side myself.”
She raised an eyebrow and then put on her coat and sat down to pull furry boots over her skinny jeans. “I guess I could use some help, come to think of it. It’s like a Little House on the Prairie storm. Wonder if we should tie a line from the house to the barn.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “But I think we’ll be able to see our way back. The structures are bigger than in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s day.”
She stared at him again. “Why do you know about Laura Ingalls Wilder?”
“Because I have a little sister,” he said. “I used to get books at the library for her all the time. Those were some of her favorites. Mine, too, if you want to know the truth.”
“You’re a sensitive soldier?”
“More like a desperate big brother.” He chuckled. “It was either books or playing with her one and only Barbie doll. I couldn’t stomach that.”
She opened the door and cold wind cut into Carlo’s body like a frigid knife. He wasn’t used to this, not after years in the tropics. “You ready?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.
“I guess. But if you collapse out there, I don’t think I can drag you back.”
“I won’t collapse.” In truth, he felt better after the meal and the bit of a nap. Strong enough to make it out to the barn, which he could barely see through the whiteout conditions. Maybe a rope wasn’t a bad idea, at that.
He broke a path all the way to where the dogs were, checking back frequently to make sure she still followed. She was small boned and thin, and the cold and wind had to affect her more than it did him, but she pushed on without complaining.
When they got to the kennels, she took the lead, unlocking the gate and then the barn door, letting herself in to a chorus of barking. She approached each dog, touching them, clucking at them, and they calmed down quickly.
Okay, so on top of being cute and maternal, she was a dog whisperer.
And she was raising his daughter and hoping to keep the child away from her worthless birth father, he reminded himself. She was his enemy, not his friend. He was here to learn more about her, not admire her looks or skills.
“If you start at that end, we can let out whoever wants out,” she said, nodding toward the kennels closest to the door.
He knew from his sister’s notes that most of the dogs were bully breeds because Troy, who owned the rescue, took in dogs that wouldn’t otherwise find a home. As he started opening kennels, he could see that some were scarred, probably from abuse or neglect. But their rough background didn’t mean they were stupid; most elected not to go out in the storm. When he finished his side, he checked the heating unit.
Fern was taking twice as long as he was to work with the dogs, and he realized she was patting and playing a little with each one. She was obviously unafraid of them, even though several stood as tall as her waist.
Carlo started letting out the dogs on her side, this time taking a little more energy to pat and talk to them.
By the time they met in the middle, he was feeling feverish again, but he still needed to keep the energy to get back to the house. “Ready to go back?”
“Sure. You look done in.”
“I am. But I’ll do my best not to collapse on you.” He tried to smile.
“At least let me lead this time.”
“No, it’s...”
But she was already out the door. She obviously was a woman who did what she wanted to do, who, despite appearing shy, was very independent. Okay, then. He could respect that.
The storm had grown even worse. His breath froze and the wind whipped his face, and despite the fact that he’d broken a path and had someone walking in front of him, Carlo came close to losing his footing several times. His head was swimming.
Then Fern stumbled and fell into a thigh-deep snowdrift.
He reached for her, braced himself and pulled her out, and as he steadied her, he felt a sudden stunning awareness of her as a woman.
She looked up into his eyes and drew in a sharp breath.
Did she feel what he felt, or was the closeness a distinct displeasure?
Wind squealed around the fence posts, and whiteness was all he could see. Whiteness and her face. “Come on,” he said into her ear. “We’ve got to get inside.”
She pulled away from him and soldiered on toward the house, tossing a mistrustful look over her shoulder.
It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER THREE
FERN WOKE UP to silence, utter silence. The light in the room was amazing. She walked to the window and gazed out into a world of soft white mounds overlaid with a crystalline sparkle. Sunlight peeked through a gap in heavy clouds that suggested the snowstorm wasn’t done with them yet.
When you see the wonder of God’s creation, how can you doubt Him? She smiled as her friend Kath’s words came back to her, even as she marveled at her friend’s faith. Despite Kath’s horrendous past and her illness, she’d been able to praise God and had taught Fern to do the same.
She slipped out of bed and went to her bedroom door.
Locked.
Oh, yeah. The stranger.
As if a locked door could stop a man of Carlo’s skills. But it had made her rest a little easier.
Her feeling of peace shaken, she took a deep breath and headed down the hall into Mercedes’s room. Maybe the stranger would sleep for a long time. He certainly needed to; by the end of the evening last night, he’d looked awful.
She frowned at the intrusion into her safe world. She’d wanted to be out here alone, not hosting a stranger. A disturbing stranger.
Why was he so
disturbing?
Because you’re attracted to him, an inner voice said.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. To anyone, really, but especially to this jock type who was so handsome, so far out of her league. She didn’t need to get her heart broken. She needed to protect it, because she needed to stay sane for Mercedes. Opening herself up to feelings would make all the bad stuff come back in, and she just wasn’t ready for that.
She opened Mercy’s door and walked over to the child’s bed. She was staying in Xavier’s room, so the surroundings were pure boy: race-car sheets, soccer trophies, toy trains and a big container of LEGO blocks.
Even in that setting, Mercedes glowed with girliness in her pink nightgown, her long curls spread across the pillow.
Fern’s heart caught inside her. She’d never loved anyone so much in her life. And if she could save one child, maybe more, from the pain she’d been put through as a ward of the state, she’d have done a lot.
Mercedes was sleeping hard. For better or worse, she was a late riser. Well, Fern would take advantage of the time and the light to do some artwork.
She grabbed a diet soda out of the refrigerator, not wanting to take the time to make coffee, and headed right toward her worktable. Sat down, got out her paints and immersed herself in capturing the snowy scene out the window.
A while later—minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell—she smelled something that plunged her straight back to her own childhood. The memory was mixed, and she painted awhile longer, taking advantage of her own heightened emotions to evoke more feelings with her art.
“Breakfast’s ready!”
The deep voice startled her, making her smear a stroke of paint. She jumped up and turned around. The sight of Carlo with a spatula in hand disoriented her.
“Whoa,” he said, approaching her with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Fern pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s fine. What’s that smell?”
“Bacon. I hope it’s okay...”
“You got in the fridge and took out bacon and cooked it?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “Really?”
“Yeah, well, I figured Angelica would have some. Actually, it was in the freezer. But I also stole some eggs, which may have been yours. And they’re getting cold. Where’s Mercedes?”
Fern was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that this...this man was cooking in her kitchen. Well, her friend’s kitchen, but still. She’d never had a man in her home. She didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t want to know.
“Mama Fern?” Mercedes’s plaintive voice from the top of the stairs gave Fern a welcome focus.
She hurried up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Hey there, sleepyhead. What’s going on?”
“What’s cooking? It smells yummy.”
“Um...bacon.” Up until this moment, Fern hadn’t intended to eat any; she wanted to get this man out of the house quickly, not break bread with him.
But if Mercedes liked bacon, then bacon it would be. “Our guest cooked breakfast,” she explained. “Let’s wash your face and hands and you can come on down and eat.”
Minutes later, the three of them sat around the wooden table. Carlo had served up plates of bacon, eggs and toast, and he’d even poured orange juice and set out fruit on the side.
“This is good,” Mercedes said, her mouth full, jam on the side of her face.
“It sure is good, Mercy-Mercedes.” He made a funny face at the little girl, and she burst out in a torrent of giggles.
Fern’s breath caught.
Amazing that Mercedes could still be so happy and trusting, given the difficulties of life with her mother and then the loss of her. Amazing that she, Fern, got to raise this incredible child.
And it was amazing to be sitting here around the table with a child and a handsome, manly man who knew his way around the kitchen and could joke around with a child.
Thing was, Carlo was trouble.
Oh, he’d been questionable when he showed up here on her doorstep, sick and wild looking. But that man, that kind of trouble, she’d been able to handle.
Now, seeing him feeling better and being charming and domestic, she felt the twin weights of longing and despair pressing down on her heart.
She wanted a family.
She’d always wanted a family, wanted it more than anything. She hadn’t had one, even as a child.
But there was no way she could form a family with any man worth the having. She just wasn’t the type. She was shy, and awkward, and unappealing. She wore thick glasses and read books all the time and didn’t know how to flirt or giggle.
So the part of her that looked around the table and wished for something like this, forever, just needed to be tamped down.
She couldn’t have it and she needed to stop wanting it.
Abruptly, she stood up. “I’ve got to go feed the dogs.”
“But, Mama Fern, I want to come see the dogs.”
Fern hesitated. The animals were generally good, but they were just so big and strong. The idea of having a four-year-old—her own precious four-year-old—in their vicinity was a little too scary.
Carlo put a hand on her arm and she jerked away at the burn of it, staring at him.
His eyebrows went up and he studied her. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m jumpy.” Awkward, awkward.
“Let’s finish breakfast, and then we can all go out together.”
“Yeah!” Mercedes shouted.
Oh, great. More pseudo–family togetherness. “That’s fine,” Fern said. “I’m going to start the dishes.”
“But you haven’t finished your—”
“I’m not hungry,” she interrupted, and it was true. Her appetite had departed the moment those feelings of inadequacy and awkwardness and unlovableness arose in her.
She carried her dishes to the counter, fuming. Why had he shown up? Why hadn’t he left her there in peace, to do her art and create some kind of family, even if not the real or the best kind?
You couldn’t have handled the dogs alone, a voice of logic inside her said. Maybe God’s looking out for you. Maybe He sent a helper.
But did He have to send a helper who was so handsome, who woke those desires for something she could never have?
She scrubbed hard at the pan that had held the bacon and eggs. Looked out the window toward the kennels, and breathed, and tried to stuff her feelings back down.
“What were you working on in there?” Carlo asked.
“What do you mean?” On the defensive.
“Your easel. Your art.”
“I... I do some writing and illustrating.”
“Really? Can I see?’
“No!” She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and hurried toward the easel, bent on covering her work.
Carlo scooted his chair back to watch her from the kitchen. “Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t have looked without your permission.”
“I’m just... It’s silly. I... I don’t like to show anyone my work before it’s done.” Truth to tell, her stories and illustrations were the one place she felt safe to delve into her own issues, to the challenges of her past. Sometimes, she felt it was all too revealing, but she was so driven to do it.
She could do her children’s books and raise a family just fine. But to have a handsome man looking through her stuff, making fun of it maybe, asking questions—that she couldn’t deal with. No way.
The wall phone’s ringing was a welcome respite. She tucked the cover over her easel and hurried over to it.
“Hello?”
“Fern, it’s Lou Ann Miller. From church?”
Fern vaguely remembered a tart, smiling, gray-haired woman who often sat with Troy and Angelica. “Hi, Lou Ann.”
“Listen, I had an email from Angelica waiti
ng for me this morning, and she let me know you have some unexpected company. Are you all right? How’s Mercy?”
“We’re doing fine.” Fern looked at Mercedes. Carlo had found a clean dishcloth, wetted it and was washing off the child’s messy face and hands, making silly faces to keep her from fussing about it.
“That’s great. And don’t worry about your new helper. He has a good heart.”
“You know him?” She heard her own voice squeak.
“Oh, yes. I’ve known that boy most of his life.” Lou Ann chuckled. “Pretty rough around the edges, isn’t he?”
Fern looked at the man who’d invaded her safe haven. Even playing with an innocent little child in front of the fire, he looked every inch a mercenary: thick stubble, bulging biceps, shadowy, watchful eyes. “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “Yes, he is.”
* * *
CARLO SAT ON the floor building a block tower with the child he was almost certain was his daughter. He studied her small hands, her messy curls, her sweet, round cheeks.
His daughter’s foster mother was talking to someone named Lou Ann on the phone. Probably Lou Ann Miller, who had to be getting old these days. He remembered stealing pumpkins from her front porch with a big gang of his friends. She’d chased after them and called all of their parents.
All the other boys had gotten punished. Not him, though. His parents had thought it was funny.
As he’d grown up, he’d realized that their neglect wasn’t a good thing, especially when he’d seen how it affected his younger sister. When he’d had to take up their slack. He’d judged his folks pretty harshly.
But they’d been there at least some of the time. Unlike him, for his own daughter. How had it never occurred to him that Kath could have gotten pregnant during their brief reconciliation?
He wanted to clasp Mercedes tight and make up for the previous four years of her life. He wished he could rewind time and see her first smile, her first step.
But no. He left his wife pregnant and alone, and even though she’d kicked him out without telling him the truth about the baby she carried, had pressured him into signing the divorce papers, he should have tried harder. A lot harder.
