Marrying Dr. Maverick

by Karen Rose Smith

  There were five houses on his street. Some of the folks occupying the homes had snowblowers—ancient ones kept running by ingenuity and stubbornness, and new ones that cost as much as Sloan’s first motorcycle. He dealt with the annoying snow berm in front of his house the old-fashioned way—with a heavy-duty snow shovel and a lot of muscle.

  Not a problem for him.

  He’d been well used to being physically active, even before he’d signed on as a deputy sheriff here in Weaver. Pitching heavy snow out of his driveway was a welcome task.

  Kept the muscles working.

  Kept the mind occupied with the simple and mundane.

  Two good things, as far as he was concerned.

  He wasn’t sold on living in Weaver yet. His job was temporary; he had a one-year lease on the house. He needed to start thinking about what to do after the nine months he’d promised Max Scalise—the sheriff—were up. He should have been spending less time with the snow shovel and more time thinking about what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. But tackling that particular question was no more appealing than it ever was.

  Standing inside the warmth of his living room, Sloan eyed the snow blocking the driveways. The small blue car had been sitting on the street in front of the house next door for nearly an hour. Footsteps in the snow trailed back and forth from the car to the house.

  New neighbors. Moving in on the last day of the year.

  He’d been watching them for a while. The woman was young, with shining brown hair that bounced around the shoulders of her red coat with every step. The little kid with her had the same dark hair.

  He’d also noticed there wasn’t a man in the picture. Not to help them unpack, anyway. Nor to clear away the snow blocking the driveway, much less shovel a path to the door.

  He turned away from the window, grabbed his down vest and headed out the back of his house to the small shed where he stored his bike and tools.

  It was the last day of the year and he’d spent too much time thinking already.

  Time to start shoveling instead.

  * * *

  “Abby. Abby.”

  Balancing the heavy box in her hands, Abby Marcum glanced at her little brother. He was clutching the plastic bin containing his collection of video games against his chest, his wary gaze glued to the tall man striding toward them from the house next door. “Who’s that man?” Dillon was whispering, but his nervousness shouted loud and clear.

  “I don’t know,” she said calmly. “We’ll meet lots of new people here in Weaver.”

  “I don’t want new people.” His pale face was pinched. “I want our old people.”

  She hid a sigh behind a smile. Her seven-year-old brother wasn’t the only one with misgivings about moving to Weaver. But she wasn’t going to show hers to him when he already had more than enough for them both. “We still have our old people,” she assured him. “Braden’s not so far away that we won’t visit.” Just not every day. Not anymore.

  She hid another sigh at the thought.

  Noticing that the man angling across the deep snow had nearly reached them, she looked at Dillon. “Take your box inside. You can think about where to put the television.”

  He clutched the bin even closer as he retraced his path from the car to the house, not taking his wary attention away from the man for a second.

  Abby adjusted her grip on the packing box. She hoped that moving to Weaver hadn’t been a huge mistake. Dillon had already endured so much. For two years, she’d tried to follow her grandfather’s wishes. He was gone, but she was still trying. She just didn’t know if moving Dillon away from the only place of stability he’d ever known had been the right thing to do or not.

  The sound of crunching snow ceased when the man stopped a few yards away. “You’re the new nurse over at the elementary school.” His voice was deep. More matter-of-fact than welcoming.

  She tightened her grip on the heavy box, trying not to stare too hard at him. Lines radiated from his dark brown eyes. His overlong brown hair was liberally flecked with grays. What should have been pretty normal features for a man who looked to be in his late thirties, but the sum of the parts made him ruthlessly attractive.

  She’d grown up in Braden, which was the closest town of any size to Weaver. She knew how small-town grapevines worked, so she wasn’t particularly surprised that he knew about her before she so much as opened her mouth. “I am. But I’ll be splitting my time with the junior high.” The schools were next door to each other, sharing their facilities. “I’m Abby Marcum.” She smiled. “And you are...?”

  “From next door.” He stabbed the shovel into the snow.

  She’d assumed that, given that he’d come from the house next door. “So that answers where.” The muscles in her arms were starting to shake, so she started toward the house, her boots plowing fresh paths through the snow. “What about who?”

  “That looks too heavy for you.”

  “Does it?” She kept right on moving, passing him on her way toward the three steps that led up to the front door.

  “Would have been easier if you’d cleared the driveway before you started unpacking.”

  Her fingers dug into the cardboard. “Probably,” she agreed blithely and lifted her boot, cautiously feeling for the first porch step. She’d have needed a snow shovel for that, though, and that wasn’t something she’d bothered trying to cram into her small car along with everything else. Weaver had hardware stores, after all. And neighbors who had shovels to borrow, too.

  The man gave a mighty sigh, his bare hands brushing hers as he lifted the box out of her grasp. “The bottom’s about to give way,” he said and walked past her into the house.

  She hurried after him. “Um, thanks.” He was already setting the box on the narrow breakfast bar separating the small living room from the even smaller kitchen. One look at the cardboard told her he was right. The crystal inside could have crashed right through. She flipped open the box and pulled out a few of the glasses she’d wrapped so carefully in newspaper just to make certain they’d safely survived. “My grandmother’s crystal.”

  “Mmm.” He didn’t sound particularly interested as he looked around the living room. She’d bought the house furnished. And while the furniture that occupied the room was dated, it was clean and in good condition. With the half-dozen boxes that they’d already carried in stacked on the floor against the wall next to the brick fireplace, the small room was almost full. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “I know. Something’s wrong with the furnace. I’ll get a fire started, though, soon as I get the car emptied. And once the holiday is over, I’ll call someone in to get the furnace going.”

  She smiled across at Dillon, who was perched nervously on the edge of the couch, watching them with big eyes. He still wore his coat. She’d bought it at a clearance sale last year expecting that he would have grown into it by now. But he still looked dwarfed in it. “A fire will have us toasty warm in no time,” she told her little brother brightly.

  “And then we get popcorn like you promised?”

  Dillon loved popcorn like almost nothing else. “Absolutely.”

  “You’ve got wood?”

  At the deep-voiced question, she focused on the man and felt something jolt inside her. Lordy. He really was handsome. And vaguely familiar. “Um...no. No wood. But I’ll get some.” Along with that snow shovel. Having one of her own was better than borrowing.

  “Stores are closed today and tomorrow for New Year’s.” His voice was even. Unemotional. “I’ve got plenty, though. I’ll bring some over.” He turned on his boot heel and left the house.

  “Who is he?” Dillon whispered once he was gone.

  “The neighbor. You can put away your games in the television cabinet. Soon as I finish with everything, I’ll play a game o
f ‘White Hats 3’ with you.” She’d gotten the latest version of the video game for him for Christmas and it was already his favorite. “Okay?”

  He nodded and she went back outside.

  The man had left the snow shovel sticking out of the snow banked against the side of the porch. She looked from it to the house next door. It was two-storied and twice the size of hers.

  Definitely large enough to hold a wife and kids if Tall-Dark-and-Nameless had any.

  She trudged back to the car and pulled the box containing their new television from the backseat. Her girlfriends from Braden had pooled their money together to buy it as a going-away present. It was mercifully lightweight, and she was heading up the steps with it in her arms when the neighbor appeared again bearing a load of wood in his arms.

  She quickly got out of his way as he carried it inside. He crouched next to the brick hearth and started stacking the wood. As he worked, he looked over at her brother. “What’s your name?”

  Dillon shot Abby a nervous look. “Dillon.”

  The man’s face finally showed a little warmth. He smiled slightly. Gently. And even though it was directed at her little brother, Abby still felt the effect.

  She let out a careful breath and set the television on the floor. Her girlfriends had also given her a box of Godiva chocolates before she’d left, with instructions to indulge herself on New Year’s Eve—and share the chocolates with a male other than her little brother.

  The chocolates were in her suitcase. She could give the box to her no-name neighbor and technically live up to the promise she’d made. Of course, he’d probably take the chocolates home to his wife. Which wasn’t exactly what her girlfriends had in mind.

  She shook off the silly thoughts and tried to focus on the television, but her gaze kept slipping back to the man, who was still looking at her little brother.

  “You want to bring me some of that newspaper from your mom’s crystal?”

  “She’s not my mom,” Dillon said as he slid off the couch and retrieved the crumpled papers that Abby had tossed aside. He sidled over to the man, holding them out at arm’s length.

  She almost missed the speculative glance the man gave her before he took the paper from Dillon. He wadded it up and stuck it in the fireplace, between a couple of angled logs. “Got a match, bud?”

  “Here.” Abby quickly pulled a lighter out of her purse and carried it over.

  “You smoke?” His tone was smooth, yet she still felt the accusation.

  “You sound remarkably like my grandfather used to.”

  A full beat passed before his lips quirked. “My sister keeps telling me I’m getting old before my time,” he said. “Must be true if I strike you as grandfatherly.” He took the lighter and set the small flame to the newspaper. When he was sure it took, he straightened and left the lighter on the wood mantel.

  “Abby’s my sister,” Dillon said so suddenly that she shot him a surprised look.

  The man didn’t look surprised. And he wasn’t the least bit grandfatherly, though Abby didn’t figure it would be appropriate to tell him so. He simply nodded at this additional information, not knowing how unusual it was for Dillon to offer anything where a stranger was concerned. He set the fireplace screen back in place. “What grade are you in?”

  But her brother’s bravery only went so far. He ducked his chin into his puffy down collar. “Second,” he whispered and hurried back to the couch. He sat down on the edge of a cushion again and tucked his bare fingers under his legs.

  Abby knew the best thing for Dillon was to keep things as normal as possible. So she ignored the way he was carefully looking away from them and focused on the tall man as he straightened. She was wearing flat-heeled snow boots, and he had at least a foot on her five-one. Probably a good eighty pounds, too, judging by the breadth of his shoulders. “Do you have kids?” Maybe a second-grader who’d become friends with Dillon.

  “Nope.” Which didn’t really tell her whether there was a wife or not. “How much more do you need to unload?”

  She followed him onto the porch. “A few boxes and our suitcases.”

  He grabbed the shovel as he went down the steps and shoved it into the snow, pushing it ahead of him like a plow as he made his way to the car.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Abby said quickly, following in his wake.

  “Somebody needs to.”

  Her defenses prickled. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m perfectly capable of shoveling my own driveway.”

  His dark gaze roved over her. “But you didn’t. And I’m guessing if you’d had a shovel in that little car of yours, you’d have already used it so you could get the car into the driveway.”

  Since that was true, she didn’t really have a response. “My grandfather had a snowblower,” she said. “I didn’t really have a good way to move it here, so I sold it.” Along with most everything else that her grandparents had owned. Except the crystal. Ever since Abby had been a little girl, her grandmother had said that Abby would have it one day.

  And now she did.

  The reality of it all settled like a sad knot in her stomach.

  She’d followed her grandfather’s wishes. But that didn’t mean it had been easy.

  They’d lost him when he’d died of a heart attack two years earlier. But they’d been losing her grandmother by degrees for years before that. And in the past year, Minerva Marcum’s Alzheimer’s had become so advanced that she didn’t even recognize Abby anymore.

  Even though Abby was now a qualified RN, she’d had no choice but to do what her grandfather had made her promise to do when the time came—place her grandmother into full-time residential care.

  “So you’ll get another blower,” the man was saying. “Or a shovel. But for now—” he waggled the long handle “—this is it.” He set off again, pushing another long swath of snow clear from the driveway.

  She trailed after him. “Mr., uh—”

  “Sloan.”

  At last. A name. “Mr. Sloan, if you don’t mind lending me the shovel, I can do that myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to—”

  “—just Sloan. And, no, I don’t have better things to do. So go back inside, check the fire and unpack that crystal of yours. Soon as you can pull your car up in the driveway, I’ll leave you to it.”

  She flopped her hands. “I can’t stop you?”

  “Evidently not.” He reached the end of the driveway, pitched the snow to the side with enviable ease and turned to make another pass in the opposite direction. At the rate he was going, the driveway would be clear of the snow that reached halfway up her calves in a matter of minutes.

  She ought to be grateful. Instead, she just felt inadequate. And she hated feeling inadequate.

  Short of trying to wrestle the shovel out of his hands—which was a shockingly intriguing idea—she could either stand there watching or do something productive.

  Like checking the fire and unpacking.

  She went back inside. The fire had already started warming the room. Dillon had shed his coat and was sitting on the beige carpet, setting his video games neatly inside the cabinet. “When’re we gonna visit Grandma?”

  Abby stepped around his plastic crate and went to the fireplace. “I thought we’d go next weekend.” She moved the fire screen aside and took a piece of wood from the stack. She jabbed the end of it against the burning logs, sending up a blur of sparks before tossing it onto the top. Then she replaced the screen and straightened. “We can’t go every day like we used to.”

  “I know.” He pushed out his lower lip, studying the cover of his video game. “Would she ’member us if Grandpa hadn’t died?”

  Abby sat down on the floor next to him, pulled off her coat and put her arm around him. “No, honey. Losing Grandpa has nothing to do with it. But
we remember her.” She ignored the tightening in her throat. “And we’ll visit her every chance we can, just like I’ve told you. Okay?”

  She felt his nod against her cheek.

  “Okay.” She pressed her lips to his forehead before pushing to her feet. “Why don’t we leave the rest of our unpacking until later and get the television hooked up. I’m finally going to beat you at ‘White Hats.’”

  He snorted softly. “Yeah, right.”

  Which just eased the tightness in her throat and made her smile instead. She turned away from him only to stop short at the sight of Sloan standing inside the door. She hadn’t even heard him open it.

  “Driveway’s clear.”

  She pulled at the hem of her long sweater. “Thank you. I’ll have to figure out a way to return the favor.”

  His dark gaze seemed to sharpen. And maybe it was her imagination that his eyes flicked from her head to her toes, but then that would mean it was also her imagination that her stomach was swooping around. And she’d never been particularly prone to flights of imagination.

  “That might be interesting.” Then he smiled faintly and went out the door again, silently closing it after him.

  Abby blinked. Let out a long breath.

  If Mr. Just-Sloan did have a wife, he had no business making new neighbors feel breathless like that.

  “Come on, Abby,” Dillon said behind her. “I wanna play ‘White Hats.’”

  “I know. I know.”

  And if he doesn’t have a wife?

  She ignored the voice inside her head and pulled the television out of the box.

  Whether the man was married or not didn’t matter.

  All she wanted to do was start her new job at the elementary school and raise Dillon with as much love as her grandparents had raised her.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  So she carried the new television over to the cabinet and began hooking it up. In minutes, the distinctive music from Dillon’s video game was blasting through the speakers. He handed her a controller and she sat cross-legged on the carpet next to him as she set about trying not to be bested yet again by a seven-year-old.