Scarecrow

by Zoe Dawson

  She was currently outside working on the plethora of plants both in hanging baskets and on the porch steps. She loved her flowers and greenery.

  He took a sip of his mom’s brew. It was rich and delicious, flavored with chicory, something he hadn’t had in a long time. There was nothing like coming home.

  He turned and pressed his backside against the counter, sadness working its way through him. He looked around at the clean and tidy kitchen. The warmth of the space always filled him with a feeling of home. This was where his mom had bandaged his scrapes and fed him hot baked goods when he got home from school or a long day running on the bayou.

  He closed his eyes, his throat getting tight. It was the place where his dad would tell him about the family’s past and all about his great grandmother and how she’d kept the farm going.

  The history of this place would be lost, his legacy gone. But he’d made his choice when he’d gone into the navy. He hadn’t been prepared to face his aging parents and the decisions that came with it. He always knew he’d have to deal with it, but now that it was here, he was feeling…sad, disoriented, torn.

  He was an only child, and although that hadn’t been too much of an issue when he was growing up, he felt it acutely now. He was the one who had to make the decisions that would affect his mom’s life.

  She would have to adapt to him because there was no alternative for him. Coming back here to live wasn’t an option he was willing to consider. He had spent many taxpayer dollars on getting to where he was on the teams. The training alone was expensive. He was a gunslinger, an elite of elites. His country needed him in so many ways, and he was determined to fulfill his oath to the best of his abilities.

  Could the CIA be what he was destined for?

  In the end, she would understand. She had to.

  “Let me help you with that, Aunt Rosemary.” The sound of his cousin’s voice made Scarecrow stand upright and stiffen.

  He set his cup on the counter and headed quickly for the front door.

  “I’m not senile, nor frail, Hank. I can handle a watering can,” his mom said tartly, bringing a slight smile to Scarecrow’s lips.

  He pushed open the screen door. Hank stood near his mom, his hand reaching for the watering can, but when he saw Scarecrow, his eyes flashed, and he left the task to his aunt.

  “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the prodigal son? Arlo.”

  Scarecrow leaned against the doorjamb, his body deceptively relaxed, his arms folded across his chest. “Hank,” Scarecrow said, matching the lack of warmth in his cousin’s use of his name and no welcome in his eyes. Hank Marshall was as good-looking as his deceased dad, standing two inches shy of six feet tall. It was clear he pumped iron and kept himself fit. He wore his dark brown hair slicked straight back from his face, drawing attention to his eyes, which were a pale blue. Though he was barely thirty, lines of dissatisfaction were etched deeply beside those shifty eyes and around a mouth that had a certain weakness about it. He owned a used car dealership and had the insincere wheeler dealer down to a tee.

  Hank straightened, as if he could make up the difference in the height between them. “The world-traveling warrior has come home? You done saving the world?”

  His mom stiffened, her eyes narrowing. They weren’t exactly on good terms, but no one said a bad word toward her son.

  “Now, you hear, Hank—”

  He cut her off like she hadn’t spoken. “There’s no need to protect him, Auntie,” Hank said with a smirk of condescension. “Aunt Rosemary was well taken care of with family to help out.”

  The accusation was quite clear, but nothing much had changed since he’d left home. Hank still thought Scarecrow was that skinny kid he could batter. He had no idea how much the SEALs had changed him. He was going to find out.

  “That’s right and I’m taking care of my mother now. So, thanks for your family help.”

  “Why, cuz,” Hank said, softly, conciliatory, “we can take care of her together, lighten the load.”

  Scarecrow pushed off the house, rising to his full height. Hank took him in, and it was as if a light dawned in his eyes. The “oh, shit, son” look in his eyes deepened as Scarecrow flexed his hands. Maybe now he was seeing him as the man he was now, the warrior that had come home from war and combat fully into his own. It was clear his cousin’s taunts were to belittle him, but Scarecrow had looked evil in the face and he’d eradicated it. There was no going back to lazy summer afternoons, polite conversations with assholes, or innocence. He’d seen the worst of the worst and survived. Hank Marshall was nothing but an echo of a past he wished to forget.

  It was also clear, even with her bravado, that his mom was afraid of Hank. Which then made Scarecrow wonder what the hell had been going on since he’d left, made guilt churn in his gut even more, and gave him determination to get her out of Red River and to San Diego with him.

  The soft touch of his mom’s hand on his forearm had him glancing down at her. She smiled with warmth in her eyes, the gratitude for him shielding her. “Let’s go inside and have some lemonade,” she said with a nudge, and his little mom effectively shifted them both into the house.

  “Have a seat,” Hank said. “I’ll get it.”

  “I’ll have nice in mine,” his mom said, and both Hank and Scarecrow stared at her. “Wait a second, did I say nice? I meant ice. I’ll have ice.” She rubbed at her forehead.

  Alarmed, Scarecrow reached out and touched his mom’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just didn’t sleep well. Slip of the tongue.”

  While his cousin poured the glasses, Scarecrow focused on his mom. Was this a sign of something more concerning or just the lapse she said? Maybe he should take her to her doctor and they should discuss it more.

  Hank set the glass down in front of her. “Just a slip, I’m sure.” He smiled, then set one in front of Scarecrow. With his own glass, he took a seat at the table.

  “Maybe we should see the doctor,” Scarecrow said, ignoring the glass of lemonade. He didn’t care for the sweet beverage preferring iced tea instead.

  “That’s not necessary,” Hank said, leaning back in his chair. “I just took her to the doctor a few weeks back. He gave her a clean bill of health.”

  His mom frowned, and Hank said, “You remember, right?”

  Her face evened out. “Of course, I remember. Dr. Sherman.”

  “Right. Dr. Sherman. He’s top notch.”

  “Yes,” she said, taking another sip. “Very good doctor.”

  “So how long are you in town this time?”

  “A month.”

  His mom rose from the table. “I think I’ll go lay down for a bit. I’m a sleepy.” Scarecrow half rose from his chair. “No, no. I’m fine, Arlo. You visit with your cousin. I’ll see you later, Hank.”

  Scarecrow settled again, then looked over at Hank as his mom paused, wobbling slightly, but then holding onto the doorjamb for a second.

  He rose and went to her, taking her arm. He helped her through the living room and up the stairs into her room, where he assisted her to the bed. She patted his arm absently as she settled herself on the mattress.

  There was a picture of his dad on her bedside table, and his chest tightened when he glanced at the frame. The picture was recent, his dad in his late sixties, tall and lean with shaggy steel gray hair. He had a mat of curly gray hair on his chest, and a thick mustache draped across his upper lip and trailed down the corners of his mouth. His eyes twinkled with mischief and wisdom.

  She followed his glance as he went to his knees beside the bed. “He was such a good man. You will never know how good. I miss him every day, every second. He was my rock and my savior.”

  “Savior?”

  She waved her hand. “Yes, yes. I mean he was always there for me.”

  “He was a good provider,” Scarecrow said, his voice strained. It was a stupid thing to say, but all he could manage. If he went into detail about how gr
eat his dad was, he was going to lose it. Not what his mom needed right now.

  She cupped his face, her thumb caressing his cheekbone, and his chest and throat contracted. “He was everything to me. He deteriorated so quickly. First his fear of Scarlett, she agitated him so, then his lapses and the running off into the bayou. It was all so hard.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I had to—”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you.” Her face softened when she looked at him, her eyes glistening. “You should go to his grave, visit with him, say your piece and let the guilt I know you feel go, my darlin’ boy.”

  Juggling duty and family were the toughest things he’d ever had to deal with being a SEAL. There were sacrifices to be made, and although he had regrets, the reality of serving his country, the nitty gritty boiled down version, was that he did what was required of him as a warrior and tried to pick up the pieces of what he’d lost as a son. Saying goodbye to his dad, understanding what kind of family secret he wanted to impart, and simply getting time with his dad was his right, but his duty trumped all of it.

  He shied away from going to the grave, something that seemed full of irony when not only had Scarecrow seen so much death, but he’d caused it as well, some of it without remorse. There would come a time, maybe, that he could face that. A little sick at his cowardice in facing that fact, he got to his feet, avoiding his mom’s eyes.

  “Soon,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I missed the funeral, sorry I missed…”

  “He understood, and he was so proud of you.”

  Somehow that made everything ten times worse.

  “He would. It was just the way he was,” Scarecrow said, blinking rapidly as he worked at tamping down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Not in front of his mom, goddamn it.

  It was up to him now to be her rock.

  He came back downstairs to find the kitchen empty, the glasses of lemonade still on the table. He needed something stronger than that.

  He walked to the front of the house, expecting Hank to be gone, but stopped short when he saw him sliding his hand down Scarlett’s arm while they stood close together on the front path up to their porch.

  She had a dish in her hand.

  Pushing open the screen door, he marveled not only at how good she looked after a night of hurricanes, but also his damned visceral reaction to her. These possessive feelings were unwarranted. He didn’t have any hold over her, and he didn’t want to have a hold on anyone on a permanent basis.

  She didn’t belong to him. He had no idea she and Hank were so chummy. Channeling the anger he was already feeling with the discussion of his dad, he let the screen door slam behind him.

  Hank turned to look at him, a smile on his face when he saw Scarecrow’s obvious reaction to him and Scarlett.

  Her eyes widened. The purple color of them seemed so big in her beautiful face. Today she was wearing a pair of snug cargo pants and a simple black tank top that showed the definition of toned muscle in her arms and the tantalizing line of her delicate collar bone.

  “Is Aunt Rosemary okay?”

  “What is wrong with Rosemary?” Scarlett asked, concern darkening her eyes. Then she paused and studied Scarecrow. That concern deepened when she took him in.

  “She just needs rest. She’s probably worked up about seeing her son after so long an absence. Wouldn’t you say, cuz?”

  This time her eyes flashed, and she looked like she wanted to slug Hank. She stepped forward, out of his personal space, reclaiming her own. Then she walked toward the porch and extended the empty white casserole dish.

  “Peach cobbler. It was brilliant,” she murmured as he took the dish. “How is your mum?”

  “She’s resting,” he said. There was a softness about her today, and he wondered if it was because of what had happened last night. He’d walked away. No matter how much Scarecrow wanted a woman, no way was he going to take advantage of her while under the influence. Besides, he didn’t want to muck this up with sex when he still wanted answers from her. She might like to play the seduction game, and he was no slouch, but coercing information out of a female he’d just made love to wasn’t his idea of interrogation.

  Hank walked up and draped his arm around Scarlett’s shoulders. “Let’s go for a ride, sugar. I have a new convertible.”

  “I’m not your, sugar,” she said. With a slick sidestep move, Scarlett was out from under his arm and two steps away before he could react. “No thank you. I’ve got things to do today. Working woman, you know.”

  Hank quickly masked his disappointment and annoyance. He was used to getting the ladies to fall into his lap, but he wasn’t used to this kind of savvy, smart woman.

  He threw the keys up in the air. “Maybe you should consider assisted living, cuz. Cleaning out the house and selling this land takes a great burden off my aunt. It’s clear you’re no farmer.”

  His words indicated that not only was Scarecrow not a farmer like his dad, but he wasn’t much of a son either. “Maybe you should take your convertible—”

  “For a spin,” Scarlett said softly.

  Hank laughed and walked away.

  “Thanks for the dish,” Scarecrow said as he turned toward the house. The touch on his arm stopped him, his skin heating and tingling from her touch.

  “Wait. You’re welcome, and your mum is an excellent cook…but really, how is she?”

  “She’s tired,” Scarecrow said, staying tight with the information about his mom’s health. Then he realized that Scarlett might have some good intel. “How has she been? How was she with my dad?”

  Scarlett looked away. “It’s been chaotic to say the least. Your dad…he took one look at me and started shouting. He kept rambling on about a pink coat. He told me to leave and never come back. I didn’t belong here, and old ghosts couldn’t get to them. I had no idea what all that meant.” She was still touching him, and she slid her hand up his forearm as if she was enjoying the feel of him. “It might have been his medication, or his decline. I didn’t take it personally.”

  He couldn’t deny he liked her hand on him, but this could go nowhere. “His decline?”

  He pulled away, setting the dish on one of the small tables.

  “When I first got here, he was cordial and kind. He even helped me with the plant spacing and gave me advice on fertilizer.”

  “When did things change?” He needed to keep her close, and he needed to keep her at a distance. It was a fine line to walk.

  “I’m not sure. Your cousin seemed to agitate him.”

  Yeah, that’s the way it was going to be until he figured out what her angle was. Him and Scarlett pushing and pulling between them. He wasn’t going to give in until he had his answers. “He irritates everyone.”

  She chuckled and said, “I get that.”

  She was trying to seduce and distract him. She was only causing one thing—trouble. Which didn’t stop him from doing his due diligence. “You seem chummy.”

  She laughed this time, her hands over her mouth, with absolute, contagious glee. “No. He might think so, but no.”

  That gave him great satisfaction.

  “I’m not going to apologize for last night,” she said. “But I will say you are too much of a gentleman. We both are fighting a losing battle.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, and I’m used to all kinds of battles. Just tell me why you’re here.”

  She stepped closer. “I like battles. It stirs the blood and gets the juices flowing,” she said. She placed her hand in the center of his chest and pushed him against the house, both of them knowing she wouldn’t have been able to budge him if he hadn’t wanted to go. “You seem like a tell-it-like-it-is sort.” She pursed her lips, and he knew she did it on purpose. “I told you and the story hasn’t changed. I’m here to grow chilies. Puckerbottom Peppers is the company name. Catchy, yeah.”

  He moved out from under her hand and away from her. She tilted her head and walked t
o the edge of the porch, her back to him. “Sure, right.” Not really. She was lying, but he wasn’t going to let that bother him. He would eventually find out what was going on. He just wanted—needed, in a caveman, alpha way—to be in charge of this.

  It wasn’t about sex.

  His gaze drifted up the length of her to where she was draped over the railing like she was in charge. No, it really wasn’t about sex. The wind came up, and the chimes jingled. The movement of the branches above them dappled the porch with shadows, dappled her. She had a line of sweat running from her temple, and her black tank was damp along her spine.

  She looked kind of tough, wearing those cargo pants and sandals that looked like gladiator boots. Her pants weren’t heavy cotton like he was used to, either.

  Damn she was a sweet sugar.

  Her hair slipped and slid over her back and shoulders in a gorgeous tangle of white silk, baring the nape of her neck—and when it did, he got that caveman, alpha feeling all over again. It was about the nape, the sheer tenderness of that soft expanse of satiny skin, the soft strands of hair lying damply across it, the delicacy, the vulnerability of it.

  The way he wanted to get his mouth on it.

  Yeah, that was the situation—the kiss-the-back-of-Scarlett Jones’s-neck situation. Talk about tough.

  Tough luck, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to be fulfilling that little fantasy anytime soon.

  As if to prove his point, the wind picked up and played peek-a-boo with her skin.

  As if she felt his thoughts, she turned to look over her shoulder at him, their eyes clashing.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  She didn’t trust him either. In the depths of her violet eyes, he could see it. Man, he understood that kind of mistrust. She intrigued him as much as she concerned him.

  Then she played her hand, and all bets were freaking off. Time slowed as their gazes met, and she did something he couldn’t fight against, even with an M4, even with a tactical knife. She bit her lower lip, her teeth gently pressing into that plump curve of super soft, divinely pink skin, and control was a memory.

  Without another thought, he was at the railing and took her mouth with his, his hand slinging around the back of her neck, over her soft, satiny nape, his fingers tunneling up into her hair, holding her, his tongue sliding into the warm, honeyed depths of her mouth.