by Lori Wilde
“Jesse was with me,” she said, dropping the whole conversational thread about Beau and their broken engagement. “He has an alibi.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
How did she explain it? “I…didn’t want the whole town knowing Jesse and I were seeing each other. The relationship is new and…”
“You didn’t want to hurt Beau by flaunting it in his face.”
Flynn nodded. “But I can’t…won’t…let Jesse take the fall for something he didn’t do.”
“It’s nice of you to come clean and let me in on this,” the chief said. “But I’m afraid your alibi does no good. Jesse’s not off the hook.”
Alarm spread through her. “What do you mean?”
The chief’s eyebrows knit together.
“What is it?”
“You can’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Especially not Jesse.”
Flynn gulped. “All right.”
“Not even Beau. This is just between you and me.”
Why was he telling her this and then swearing her to secrecy? Was he on some kind of fishing expedition? Was he trying to warn her? Whatever it was, Flynn had to know. “I promise not to tell anyone.”
Chief Rutledge narrowed his eyes. “The dynamite was rigged to a timer. It could have been set up for days. All it took was one cell phone call and boom…” He slammed his fist against the table.
Both Flynn and the bear claw jumped.
“Kablewy.”
The following two weeks were a bit uneven between her and Jesse. They’d been friendly, often eating lunch together and helping each other set up their shops, but he hadn’t asked her out on a date, and she hadn’t issued any invitations either. They were feeling their way in the relationship, trying to find their footing with each other, and the ground still felt unsteady.
She’d spent a lot of time at Froggy’s, helping her father make sure the repairs to the water main were done and getting estimates for the foundation repair. Luckily their insurance covered the bulk of damage. Thank heavens she’d had the foresight to insist on a flood policy.
Jesse’s lawyer had told him that Chief Rutledge had found no evidence linking anyone to the bombing of the bridge, but they had discovered someone had stolen dynamite from the rock quarry upriver from Twilight. They had no further clues or leads. For now, Jesse was in the clear.
That put Flynn’s mind at ease. She was left with only one niggling little concern. She was going to have to pretend to knit in front of a town filled with onlookers, while Carrie would be knitting the items in secret in the Yarn Barn and then smuggling the garments over to her. They’d rehearsed ways of maneuvering the handoff and the plan seemed fail proof, but still she couldn’t help worrying that somehow she’d be found out.
And how would that look? The organizer of the knit-a-thon—the daughter of the woman who’d won three state fair blue ribbons—exposed as a fraud on the courthouse square.
Don’t fret, it’s going to be fine. You’ve managed to fool everyone for years. You even fooled your mother.
Honestly, everything was coming off without a hitch.
By the Fourth of July weekend, the Yarn Barn was almost finished. The supplies Flynn had ordered had arrived. She pried open boxes and filled up the cedar bins her father had built for her with hanks and skeins and balls of festive yarn, all the colors of the rainbow. Even though she couldn’t knit, she had to admit there was something bright, comforting, and optimistic about yarn.
The airy aroma of silk, cotton, linen, wool bathed her in a quiet calm that came from methodically sorting and stacking the colors and types of fibers. The work came quickly, easily as she found her rhythm and took pleasure in her achievement. This was it. On Tuesday, she’d be ready to open.
By fulfilling her mother’s dream, Flynn was hoping to find her center. The yarn store was simply the means to that end. If her store could bind the heart of the town square, if it could knit the Sweethearts together in a thread of community, hope, and love, then she knew that she would find her own center, even if knitting wasn’t her personal strength.
She finished her task and stepped back to look at her handiwork. Floyd’s diligent attention to detail had paid off. In his handcrafted cedar bins, the yarn captivated.
“I did it, Mama,” she whispered into the silent confines of the room. “I made your dreams come true.”
With jaunty spring to her step, she left the Yarn Barn and went out onto the sidewalk.
The knit-a-thon was scheduled to last the entire holiday weekend, running from Friday at noon to Monday at sundown. Entries had exceeded the cut-off limit, and Flynn didn’t want to turn people away, so she and the Sweethearts had set up knitting stations all around the town square, not just on the courthouse lawn as previously planned—in Sweetheart Park, on the street corners, on the balconies of the storefronts. Along with big electric floor fans to keep the knitters cool in the Texas heat.
The money was raised in three ways: by entry fees, by selling the items they knitted, and by sponsors who donated money for however long the knitters knitted, like in a charity walk-a-thon. You knitted, the local businesses or private donors paid for your time and effort.
Sponsorship money rolled in. Ivey’s hardware pledged a hundred dollars for every registered knitter who knitted for twelve consecutive hours. Not to be outdone, other businesses had made similar pledges, including the Ford dealership. They donated a new pickup truck to the grand prize winner of the knit-a-thon.
Moe had fashioned a tally board and raised it on the courthouse steps to keep track of the money raised. Terri and Marva had made two giant balls of yarn out of papier-mâché and a couple of matching knitting needles for the display. Outside her Sweetest Match office, Belinda set up a booth to sell the knitted items. Local restaurants got into the swing with portable food carts vending Italian meatball subs from Pasta Pappa’s, tamales from Taco Hacienda, steak on a stick from the Funny Farm, fried chicken from Froggy’s, and barbecued sausage from Texas Joe’s.
The annual Fourth of July parade would kick off the event in exactly two hours. At nine A.M. on Friday, everyone was in motion, setting up, preparing, organizing, and arranging. Flynn took a deep breath. It was going to work. She’d brought the town together for a common goal. Her chest swelled with pride. She’d done a good job.
On the walkway leading up to the courthouse, she found Carrie and Terri setting up the eye-catching artwork of yarn balls and needles. Carrie was on a rickety ladder, wearing purple short-shorts and a white midriff top. Flynn noticed several local boys had gathered around to watch, but none offered to help. Typical adolescent guy behavior.
“Shoo.” She put on her best big-sister face, glowered, and waved her hands at the teens. “Go away or I’ll put you to work.”
Once the boys had scattered, Flynn turned to Carrie. “You’re incorrigible.”
“What I’d do?” She grinned.
“Dressing like that, climbing a ladder, toying with young boys’ minds.”
“Who me?”
“What would Logan think?”
“Who cares? We broke up.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last week. You were right. He was pompous. Always correcting my grammar.”
“Told you.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug.”
“Stop wiggling around.” Terri had both hands on the ladder. “And hurry up, I gotta pick Gerald up from day care in fifteen minutes. They’re closing early for the parade.”
“Go ahead and go, Terri,” Flynn offered. “I’ll hold the ladder.”
“You sure? You’ve got a lot to do.”
“Everything’s running smoothly.”
Terri winced. “Don’t say that.”
“Don’t say what?”
“That everything is running smoothly, you’ll jinx it.” Terri was a bit on the superstitious side. She read her horoscope—Leo—religiously, wore an emerald four-leaf-clover necklace, and consulte
d Madame Drucilla out on Highway 377 whenever something went haywire in her life, even though the turban-wearing woman had twice been busted by the Fort Worth bunco squad.
“What could go wrong? All the yarn we ordered arrived, the rocking chairs are set up, Moe’s here to collect the money, we have massage therapists at the ready to knead knotted necks—”
“Good alliteration, Flynn. Logan would love you.”
“Everybody loves Flynn,” Terri teased. “Beau, Jesse, now Logan, probably even those boys you chased off.”
“They are in love with you, Flynn,” Carrie said. “You think they were just ogling me? When you bent over that big basket of yarn…”
“They were not.”
“They were too,” Terri added.
“Stop it.”
“Imagine, Flynn’s a cougar, grrr,” Terri growled. “Watch out. You’re gonna have to change your name to Demi or Madonna.”
“Don’t you have a kid to pick up?”
“Luckily for you. Otherwise I’d spend the rest of the morning teasing you unmercifully.”
Flynn took Terri’s place at the base of the ladder and Terri went off to retrieve her offspring. It was already eighty-five degrees at nine in the morning and her blouse was sticking to her back.
Carrie leaned over, trying to artfully drape the rope, dyed to match the deep scarlet color of the papier-mâché ball of yarn, around the gigantic wooden needles so that it would look like a knit stitch.
Flynn’s gaze wandered around the town square, supervising the bustling activity. Belinda was decorating her booth with helium-filled balloons and a cheery banner. On the corner, off-duty firemen were setting up a first aid station. And directly across the street, Jesse was parking his Harley on the sidewalk, setting up a motorcycle display. Polish rag in hand, he bent over the back of the bike, buffing up the chrome.
Flynn zeroed in on his tush, on compelling lines and honed angles as fine as his motorcycle. She licked her lips and felt something powerful stir inside her.
He bent over farther.
She tilted her head, studied the flex of his butt muscles underneath his tight jeans. Her mouth watered. Yummy.
Lust dug into her. She raised a hand, splayed it against her throat, swallowed hard, completely forgetting where she was and what she was supposed to be doing.
A group of women passing by on his side of the street actually stopped, turned their heads, and caressed him with their eyes.
Jealousy blazed in her heart. Flynn’s first instincts were primal, a feminine urge to claim her man, to cross the street, plant a kiss on his lips, and let the world know he belonged to her.
Beside her, the ladder wobbled.
“Flynn?” Carrie called down.
It didn’t even register that her sister had called her name. Jesse had captivated her complete attention.
“Flynn!” Carrie’s voice was urgent this time, snapping her from her trance. “Hold the ladder, please, I’m off balance and I’m about to—”
The last part of her sentence broke off as the ladder collapsed, falling into the giant ball of papier-mâché yarn. It spun off across the courthouse lawn as her baby sister tumbled yelping to the ground.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Flynn, knit one, purl two, he-he, your dirty little secret is safe with me.
—Carrie MacGregor, yearbook entry, 1999
Flynn looked at Carrie’s hand dangling from her arm at a very unnatural angle, her wrist ballooning like a puff adder. Nausea crowded her throat. Her head spun and she feared her knees might crumple right out from underneath her.
Don’t panic. You can handle this. Carrie needs you.
“Let’s get you to the hospital.” She forced a smile, tried to look calm and cool, as she’d done many times in emergency situations. Flynn slipped an arm around Carrie’s waist and tried to lever her up off the ground.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Tears sprang to her sister’s eyes. “It hurts, dammit. Bad.”
“I’m sorry, how can I help? How can I make it better?”
“Just back off a minute and let me get my breath.” Carrie sat on the ground, chuffing in air, wincing against the pain.
Several onlookers had seen the accident and came running over. From the corner of her eye, Flynn saw someone retrieve the oversized yarn ball before it rolled into the Main Street traffic.
“You better get some ice on that wrist,” someone said.
“She needs a doctor.”
Yes, yes she did. But how could Flynn leave when there was so much to do?
Patsy Cross put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said, reading her mind. “I’ve got it under control. Get your sister to the doctor.”
“But I’m supposed to be handing out the packets and showing everyone where they’re supposed to set up and—”
“I’ll figure it all out,” Patsy said, “and recruit the rest of the Sweethearts to help, and if something gets left undone, well, then something gets left undone. You can’t be everything to everybody, Flynn. Your sister is most important.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Here’s your ride, now go.” Patsy nodded.
Flynn looked over and saw Jesse, helping Carrie up off the ground. “I can do that,” she said.
“I’ve got it.” Jesse guided Carrie toward Flynn’s Ford Ranger, idling at the curb. The passenger side door hung open.
Flynn fell into step beside him. “How’d you get my truck started? I’ve got the key.”
“Hot-wired it. I figured taking Carrie to the hospital on the Harley wasn’t an option.”
“Thanks, I think. You still remembered how to hot-wire a vehicle?”
“Hot-wiring a car’s like making love. Once you know how, you never forget.” His sexy tone made her heat up inside. “Remember when we—”
“Okay you two, I’m in pain here, save the trip down memory lane for later, huh?” Carrie grunted as Jesse helped her into the passenger seat.
“Thanks,” Flynn said again. “We appreciate your help.” She hustled around to the driver’s side, Jesse close at her heels. She slid behind the wheel.
He placed his hand on the door. “Scoot over.”
“What?”
“Scoot over, I’m driving.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Sure there is. You’re shaking like a pound puppy.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving my sister to the hospital.”
“Sure you are,” he said. “But wouldn’t it be nice if you just had a hand to hold on to?”
“I don’t need you.”
“I never said you did.”
“Listen, Jesse—”
“For godsake, Flynn,” Carrie snapped. “Just let the man drive us to the hospital. We get it, you’re independent, you don’t need anybody, you’re the savior of us all, now get me to some drugs pronto or I’m gonna start screaming.”
Flynn scooted over. Jesse got in and slammed the door. They took off, tooling past the throng of tourists that had already started lining the square.
Fifteen minutes later, Flynn paced the emergency department waiting room at Twilight General, arms crossed over her chest. “Why won’t they let me in the exam room with her?”
Jesse lounged in one of the vinyl plastic chairs, looking far too comfortable for the atrocious seating. How did he manage that smooth, sexy, slouch? “Because they’re examining her, that’s why it’s called an exam room.”
“But she needs me. I’m her big sister. Hell, I’m her surrogate mother—”
“Calm down.”
“I’m calm. I’m always calm in a crisis. I’m just frustrated. It’s my fault she’s there.” Flynn knotted her hands. “I wasn’t holding the ladder securely enough because I was—” She bit off the words before she said them.
“Was what?” Jesse prompted.
Staring at your butt. The man should be fined for having such a good-looking butt. “Umm, I was distracted.”
“You
have a lot on your plate.”
“I do.” No more than usual. I was just too busy staring at your butt. Carrie was hurt because I was staring at your damn butt.
“You must have walked ten miles in the last five minutes.” He patted the seat next to him. “Come here, sit down.”
“How can I sit down when my sister’s in pain?” She gnawed a thumbnail. “It’s all my fault.”
“The nurses were coming at her with a Demerol needle just before they threw us out. I’m sure Carrie’s floating pain-free right now.”
“What if she needs me? What if she’s calling for me?” Flynn stepped to the wooden double doors and pressed one eye against the crack between them.
“She’s not.”
Flynn turned and sent him a flinty-eyed stare. Him and his sexy butt. “How do you know?”
“If she was asking for you they’d come get you.”
“Clearly you have more confidence in medical professionals than I do.”
“I just know getting yourself worked up isn’t going to solve anything.”
Flynn eased the door open a crack, stuck her foot in.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to check, make sure she doesn’t need me for something. What if she’s thirsty and they’re too busy to get her a drink of water? She could be parched, and too dry to even call out water, water.”
“This isn’t Death Valley. See any sun-bleached cow skulls around? See any cactus? They’ll give her water.”
“You are such an optimist. How is it that you’re such an optimist?”
“Flynn, get your foot back across the line. Read the sign. It says medical personnel only.”
“Since when did you start paying attention to signs? Mr. Gone in Sixty Seconds lecturing me about following the rules? I’ve been in enough hospitals with my mother. I know the drill. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”
“Unless you’re obnoxiously squeaky and then you get tossed out. Carrie’s going to be fine. Now sit.”
“You’re sure? You promise?” She let out a huff of exasperation and reluctantly plunked down beside him.
“I promise.” He reached out and laid a hand on hers.
Instantly she calmed. “I’m sorry, I’m getting testy with you and it’s not your fault.” Your butt’s fault, maybe. “You hot-wired my truck for me and drove me over here and everything and I’m spouting off like you’re my sounding board.”
