“The favor,” she said. Over time, she’d become the person who drove Amos to his appointments instead of sharing the responsibility with Mac, so that couldn’t be what he wanted.
“I need some help at the store—just until I find someone to stock shelves and handle the cash register. I figure if you’ve been a waitress, you’ve had some experience as a cashier.”
A spurt of panic hit her, and suddenly her mind filled with the image she’d just purged from the computer screen—the face of pretty ex-cheerleader Trisha Giles who would never cheer for anything again. Here on Amos’s land, she and Christie were reasonably safe; at the store they would be more visible, more at risk—and for a longer period of time than they were at the hospital in Flagstaff.
She shook her head. She couldn’t do it. Charles had funds upon funds. His mother had left him well-off, and his keen business savvy had increased his holdings tenfold. He had the means to find them, and if Millie’s fears were justified, he could even now be narrowing the field. “I…I can’t. Who would take care of your granddad?’
“I phoned his friend Sophie. I told you about her. She said she’d be happy to sit with him.”
“But he’d hate that,” she blurted. “He’s embarrassed by the cane. I’m sure that’s why he wouldn’t go into the store the other day when you saw us sitting in the van. He doesn’t want his customers to see him struggling, let alone a woman he—”
“He’ll just have to accept it. Jeff was only able to work until noon today because he had plans, and he can’t come in tomorrow or Saturday. It’ll just be me and Martin, and I spend most of my time at the feed shed. Will you do it?”
“You can’t find another teenager to fill in?”
“I probably can in a day or two, but High Hawk’s a small town. It’s not as though we keep applications on file. Terri, I need someone right now.”
She scrambled for another excuse. “What about your granddad’s PT?”
“Tomorrow’s only Thursday. I’ll probably have someone by Friday. One day. That’s all I’m asking.”
Her heart pounded, and she felt torn. How could she deny him after all he and Amos done for her and Christie? He’d even given up his home. That had to be worth one day. “All right,” she finally answered reluctantly. “But Christie comes with me.”
“That’s no problem.” Mac pulled his hat back on, tugged it low. “I’ll clear enough room for her to play and color close to the register. She’ll be fine.”
Would she? Would either of them ever be fine again?
Mac’s gaze shifted from her to his bedroom again, then cooled. If she were a betting woman, she’d wager that he was waiting for an explanation for that suitcase. There wouldn’t be one.
He brought his attention back to her. “I’ll pick you up a little before eight-thirty.”
“All right,” she replied because she had no choice. “We’ll be ready.”
As she followed him to the door, she found herself remembering the heat of his hands in the pantry this morning and missing them. But his touch hadn’t been the intentional touch of a man who wanted a woman. It had simply been a way of keeping her there while he probed again for more answers she couldn’t give him.
A different time and place, and things might be different, a small voice whispered, and Erin thought that might be true. But what good did that do either of them today?
“See you in the morning,” he said briskly.
“Good night.”
Sighing, relocking both doors, Erin returned to the computer. In a minute, the Gazette Web page was back up on the monitor, and she was staring again at the sickening headline hovering over last year’s high school graduation photo of Trisha Giles.
A lump formed in Erin’s throat as she quickly scanned the text below the photo, looking for additional news. But this telling added little to what Millie had shared. Trisha’s death had been tentatively ruled accidental, but a full investigation was ongoing—which made Erin think they weren’t sure it was an accident at all. Why would she swim alone at night, particularly in cold waters? And if she hadn’t been alone, why hadn’t her companion called for help when he or she lost sight of Trisha?
Shutting down the computer, she sank against the chair’s backrest, tears stinging her eyes. Sweet, giggly, nineteen-year-old Trisha had lived life joyfully and unafraid, the product of a sleepy Maine town unaccustomed to violence.
But the world was a frightening place, Erin knew. If further investigation pointed to foul play, she had to believe Trisha’s death and Charles’s manic crusade to get Christie back were connected. They would have to run again, despite her promise to Amos. Figuratively speaking, it would be more difficult to hit a moving target.
Two gold-banded front teeth gleamed from Martin Trumbull’s smile as he showed Erin and Christie around the store the next morning. He pointed out the various grocery items they stocked “…for folks who can’t abide that drive into Flagstaff.” He was a Norman Rockwell painting with his white, wispy hair, pale-blue eyes, rimless bifocals and perennially stooped posture. A long white butcher’s apron wrapped his thin frame, with shiny brown pants and wingtips sticking out of the bottom, and a white shirt and blue bow tie poking out the top.
“Now I don’t have to work, mind you,” he said, his voice cracking with age. “I got a nice pension. I do it because I love people. Always have. I’d also never leave Amos and Mac high and dry.”
Erin smiled despite the nervous butterflies in her stomach. “You’re a good friend, Mr. Trumbull.”
“I try to be,” he said, preening a little. “And of course working for Amos has its rewards.” He expelled a raspy chuckle and pointed to the two chairs drawn up against a black potbellied stove, topped by a checkerboard. “I whump Amos nearly every time we play.” He then led her to the cash register at the front of the store, explained that it was the new kind that told a body how much change to give back, and flipped the sign on the door to Open. Customers began drifting inside in less than a minute.
She was busy, mostly in spurts, and managed to smile through the curious looks and questions several locals threw at her—mainly, who was she and what was she doing behind Amos’s counter?
All the while, though, she kept a tense eye on Christie, who ran back and forth among the aisles, taking in everything from the penny candy case, to the pickle and olive barrels sitting near the wooden cashier’s counter, to the doilies crocheted by a local widow, to the soft drink coolers, nacho bin, and rotisserie with slowly rotating hot dogs.
For the most part, Perkins’ General Store exuded the innocence of decades past. But Erin still looked closely at each customer she checked out, fearing she’d see a man in his thirties with dyed brown hair and sunglasses.
A tall, ruggedly handsome man with similar coloring reappeared just after 2 p.m., but his hair was not dyed, and he was not wearing sunshades. Looking at Mac started a familiar quickening in Erin’s pulse. She hadn’t seen him since 8:45 this morning when he’d left them in Martin’s capable hands and replaced the small Temporary Help Wanted sign in the window with a larger one.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Pretty well. It’s been busy, but fun.”
“Good. How about lunch? Did you and Christie eat?”
“We had hot dogs, orange soda and potato chips—” she nodded toward the back of the store “—in your lunch room.”
Mac glanced around. “Where is she? And where’s Martin?”
He did like to ask questions. “Martin’s ticketing merchandise, and Christie and Raggedy Ann are napping on the cot in the back room.” There was no way in or out of that room besides the painted white door, and Erin made sure she had a clear view of it from the cash register. She caught the tired look in his eyes. “You look like you could use a nap, too.”
As Mac brushed off her concern, two gray-haired ladies came inside, chattering about a friend’s medical problem. The taller one stopped abruptly, said something Erin couldn’t hear, then
marched directly to the check-out counter and plunked her purse on top of it.
Both women were dressed in gaily printed short sets and baseball caps. The woman in the red cap—the taller one, who’d commandeered the counter—pulled a small booklet from her purse.
Motioning her blue-capped friend closer, she spoke to Mac, though her interest was clearly on the booklet she was opening. “Good afternoon, Mackenzie. How’s Amos doing?”
“Coming right along, Mabel.”
“Good, good. This place isn’t the same without him.” Her eyeglasses hung from a pearl-studded gold chain around her neck; now she slid the stems through her curls and settled the bifocals on her nose. “I hear Sophie’s back in the picture.”
Erin hid a smile at Mac’s dumbfounded look. She’d only been here five hours and she already knew Everett Hodge was seeing his chiropractor this afternoon, and Mayor Bradshaw’s new lady friend was a retired Phoenix stripper. Small-town gossip traveled faster than e-mail.
Mac nodded at the booklet, ignoring the comment about his granddad and Sophie. “What do you have there, Mabel?”
“Reflexology. It’s new. Well, new to me, anyway.” Chin elevated, she peered through the bottoms of her lenses, flipped through the pages and found what she was looking for. “Ever heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Slouching against the counter, he cocked his head to study the drawing of a hand on the page. Erin did the same. It was divided into tiny sections, each one a different color.
“It’s sort of like acupressure, but isn’t really. You massage points on the hand—or most times, the feet—that lead to troublesome organs. The stimulation gets things working right again.” Turning to her friend, she pointed to a white square on the palm. “See, Essie, it’s right here.”
“It’s an awfully small area,” Essie fretted.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find it.” Letting her glasses fall to her chest again, Mabel looked up at Mac. “Essie and I are off for a round of golf, then we’re going over to fix Clarice Adderly’s gall bladder.”
“Sounds like witchcraft,” he replied with a grin.
Mabel harrumphed and stuffed the book back in her purse. “Don’t sell it short. This could be the next great boon to mankind. Might even put Doc Hastings out of business. You got any golf balls left?”
“Third aisle over, near the back of the store.”
Erin smiled as the ladies marched off in their Reeboks, charmed by the conversation—but even more charmed by the broad-shouldered man in the chambray shirt who related so easily to everyone. “You stock golf balls?”
“Golf balls, radiator hoses, a pressure cooker or two. General stores sell general merchandise.” His dark eyes danced, and Erin was so delighted by his shift in mood she put her forearms on the counter and eased closer when he lowered his voice. “Though, now that I think about it,” he continued, “maybe we should be stocking books on reflexology.”
“Not a bad idea,” she murmured conspiratorially. “It would be a shame to miss the boat on the next great boon to mankind.”
Heat flared in her cheeks as Mac tugged her hand from the counter and turned it palm up.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Just a little experiment,” he replied indifferently. “Before we sink a lot of money into it, we need to be sure it works.”
“Mac—”
“Relax. If this is the next great boon to mankind, it shouldn’t take long to test.”
Erin’s nerve endings tingled, and a shivery warmth suffused her as he began to massage her palm, moving his callused index finger over her skin in slow, sensual circles…constantly moving to new areas and repeating the process.
“You can’t possibly know what you’re doing,” she said nervously, glancing around for customers. “You don’t have the book.”
“That’s what you’re here for.” He caught her gaze and held it. “You tell me which parts of your body are being stimulated. Your chin? Your earlobes? Your…knees?”
Mabel’s strident voice carried to them from half an aisle away. “Stop getting that young woman all flustered, Mackenzie. Essie and I have a three-o’clock tee-off time and we need to check out.”
Erin jerked her hand away, feeling the flush on her face deepen as Mabel thumped her golf balls on the counter. Hers was the knowing look of a grapevine regular who’d stumbled on a major scoop. “The price is on the bottom, Terri.”
Terri. So much for keeping a low profile. Every detail that could be gleaned about her had probably circulated the second she answered Amos’s ad, missing only those few locals who’d questioned her this morning.
“See you in a while,” Mac said, straightening and pushing away from the counter. “I need to get back to the feed shed. If you need anything, give a holler for Martin.”
The teasing light was gone from his brown eyes, but the obvious tension seemed less now, though not altogether gone.
“Thanks, I will,” she said, accepting the correct amount from Mabel. “See you later.” Hopefully, when she saw him again, the effects of his reflexology treatment would be gone. Then again, she wouldn’t put money on it. She slipped Mabel’s golf balls in a bag.
“He’s a handful that one,” Mabel said, studying Erin as the door closed behind Mac. “Drags his feet with all the women, and there are plenty around who’d like to put a ring through his nose. You know, he had a wife once. Pretty young thing, but she wasn’t the type to stay home and darn socks, if you know what I—”
Disturbed by the woman’s willingness to gossip about Mac, Erin placed Mabel’s bag in her hands and cut off her statement. “Thanks so much. You two have a great afternoon. Oh—and my best wishes to your sick friend.”
Mabel stared, startled. Then she colored, said, “Thank you, dear,” and left, with Essie trailing behind her.
It was a relief when Mac returned a half hour later and introduced her to a redheaded, freckle-faced, sixteen-year-old named Dennis McCallin.
“Denny’ll be filling in for Jeff until he’s well enough to come back to work,” Mac told her.
“Great,” Erin replied, smiling at the boy and offering up a thankful prayer. Except for Amos’s PT in Flagstaff, she and Christie could now stay safely sequestered at the ranch.
Erin was surprised late Saturday afternoon when Mac tapped at the log home’s screen door and poked his head inside.
The kitchen was a straight shot from the door, and crossing her arms over her pink knit top, Erin ambled barefooted from the kitchen where she and Christie had just added the pudding to a cream puff cake. She knew that Mac had left the store an hour earlier than their regular three-o’clock closing today, allowing Martin and Denny to lock up. The ferrier was coming to trim the horses’ hooves and shoe them, and according to Amos, for some reason known only to God and horse, Gypsy went wild-eyed at the sight of the man. Mac needed to be nearby to calm her.
“Hi,” she said, wondering if this was another visit to check for packed suitcases.
“Hi. Have you started dinner yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Good. I’d like to borrow your daughter. There’s a surprise down in the barn that she should see.”
“What kind of surprise?” She didn’t want Christie around the horses. Charles had insisted that Erin learn to ride a little, but Pike, Gypsy and Jett were unknown entities, and were at least two hands taller than any animal she’d ever ridden. Their size intimidated her.
“Three baby kittens—a pretty small litter, actually. I promised to show them to her when they arrived.” He met Erin’s eyes. “Maybe you’d like to see them, too. I thought afterward—since you haven’t started dinner—that the two of you might like to join me for a meal at the diner.”
Still apprehensive about leaving the ranch, Erin declined. From time to time at the store on Thursday, she’d been stressed, half expecting a stranger to show up and try to take Christie away. She wouldn’t return to town without a good reason.
“Thank
s, but I have chicken breasts thawing. Actually, I’m surprised you’re leaving Amos alone.”
Mac stepped inside. “He won’t be alone. Sophie showed up a few minutes ago. I figured I’d give them some time together, and kill three birds with one stone.”
“Three?” He’d mentioned showing Christie the kittens and giving Amos and Sophie some space. “What’s the third bird?”
“You,” he said quietly. “Things have been tense between us for days. I was hoping we could get past the blowup over that piece of luggage.”
Erin felt herself soften. She wanted to put things back on an even keel, too. This not knowing how to act around him was wearing her out. Well, that and the dicey attraction for him that she couldn’t seem to curb, no matter what else was going on in her life. Getting rid of some tension had to help a little.
She summoned a smile. “Christie will love seeing the kittens. Just give me a minute to slip on some shoes.”
The kittens were tiny bumps of fluff snuggled against their mother’s tummy, one a misty gray like its mother, one black, and one tawny colored.
As she and Mac hunkered down to Christie’s level and peered through the slatted door of an empty stall, the earthy smell of leather and hay mingled with Mac’s scent—a combination of musk and unmistakable male interest. Erin stilled as that familiar heat swirled between them and their gazes locked for an instant. Then she looked away again to murmur to Christie to keep her voice down because she kept insisting she needed to go inside.
It only took a few minutes for the mother cat to tire of their company and drag her little ones to a darker, straw-covered corner.
Christie teared up when Erin concluded the visit, but Mac came up with a distraction.
“We need some good names for the kitties,” he said taking Christie’s free hand and leading her out into the sunshine and greenery. “What do you think we should call them?”
She thought a minute. “Bobbie?”
Mac chuckled. “Sure. Barbie’s a good name. Now we need two more.”
Erin loved the way he dealt with Christie, talking with her in a way that Charles never had. Granted, Christie had been more than a year younger then, but the warmth and fun in Mac’s interactions with her were poles apart from the constant teaching diatribes from Charles. He’d wanted a prodigy, not a daughter. Perfection, not a work in progress.
Run to Me Page 11
