Country Bride

by Debbie Macomber

  He had died of a massive heart attack when she was a teenager, probably in part because he’d also been one of those serious, solemn people who didn’t take nearly enough time to laugh at the inevitable craziness of life.

  “Is that what you think Taryn will respond to?” she asked him.

  “I’m guessing you don’t think I should hire the woman.”

  “I can’t make that decision for you, Brodie. You’re Taryn’s father. You have to do what you think is best for her.”

  “What if I think the best thing in the world for Taryn would be for you to continue working with her until she no longer needs help?” As soon as he said the words, he looked as if he regretted them.

  Her mouth firmed into a tight line. She’d already told him she couldn’t do it. He knew why this was hard for her. Every day she spent with Taryn—and Brodie—was another gouge in her heart.

  “Two weeks. That’s what I told you. I can’t give more than that.”

  She hated that disappointment in his eyes but she couldn’t bend on this. If she caved, before she knew it, she would be wrapped so tightly around their lives she wouldn’t be able to pry herself loose.

  “I’ll keep looking then. But if I can’t find anyone we both deem suitable, I may end up having to hire Ms. Martin anyway.”

  “Understood. Let me know if you would like me to sit in on any other interviews.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  They lapsed into silence and she was again aware of him with that almost painful intensity. Though they were standing a few feet apart, she could smell him above the late-summer scents of sunshine and flowers. She’d noticed his aftershave before, something masculine and undoubtedly expensive that called to mind long walks in a mountain forest after a rain shower.

  That silly schoolgirl wanted to just stand here for a few minutes and inhale. She swallowed and met his gaze and found it resting on her mouth again. Her insides tumbled, tumbled, tumbled.

  Oh, drat the man. Just when she’d convinced herself she could keep things on a casual, professional level with him, he had to go staring at her mouth again, conjuring up all sorts of crazy, wholly inappropriate impulses—like stepping forward, grasping him by the front of that crisp, sexy shirt and indulging in another of those incredible kisses.

  * * *

  He had to stop this. Right now. He was spending entirely too much time fantasizing about Evie, all that luscious blond hair and her soft mouth and those soft, thick-lashed exotically shaped blue eyes. It was ridiculous, especially when he planned to do absolutely nothing about this attraction except take more cold swims in the pool out back and fight to keep his hands to himself.

  “It looks like Taryn’s still sleeping. I guess I should wake her up,” Evie said after a pause, looking at the van and not at him, and he wondered if he’d imagined that tiny flare of heat he’d seen in her eyes.

  No. Probably not. He was almost sure he wasn’t imagining the sudden sexual tension seething and tugging between them.

  “Do you need me to help you take her inside the house?”

  “No. I think I can handle it.” She brushed an errant strand of hair away from her face and he ached to reach out and feel it.

  She swallowed, still avoiding his gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot. I needed to talk to you about something. I want to incorporate more social interaction with Taryn’s therapy as motivation, but also to help her work on regaining those skills. She seemed to really respond to the interaction with her peers at the bead store.”

  He didn’t want to talk about this. What he really wanted to do was press her up against the nearest sun-warmed tree trunk and kiss her again until both of them dissolved into the grass.

  “Would her friends actually help with the therapy?”

  “A little, maybe. We could invite a few over to play around in the pool or maybe come over to do hair or something. Or more beading. That always works.”

  “You and my mother both think beads can solve the world’s problems.”

  “It’s a start, anyway.”

  He shook his head. “I suppose incorporating friends into her therapy makes sense. As long as you’re not talking wild parties long into the night every weekend.”

  Her smile was lovelier than the native wildflowers his gardening service so carefully cultivated. “Not yet. We build to that. I thought maybe we could start out with having Hannah and some other friends help with her therapy. She might be more motivated to work if someone is here making it more fun.”

  How was he supposed to focus on these important questions when his stupid one-track male brain was thinking about that smile and the little sound of surprised desire she made when he kissed her? He forced himself to do his best to pay attention.

  “Friends. Uh, that makes sense. She’s been a social butterfly all her life. I believe she first started gabbing to her neighbor while she was still in the incubator in the hospital nursery.”

  “Oh. And one more thing.” Evie’s tone was suddenly rueful. “She and my dog hit it off. Would you have any objection to me bringing Jacques with me tomorrow? He’s very well behaved and certainly housebroken, I promise.”

  “Give you an inch.” He shook his head.

  “I know. I take a mile. But if you give me lemons, I make lemonade. I’m what you call multitalented.”

  He laughed, thinking how perfect it was to be standing outside in the afternoon sunshine with the hum of bees in the flowers and the air sweet and clear and a beautiful woman beside him who, despite all his common sense, somehow made him laugh.

  “Speaking of lemonade,” she said, “I’m dying for some of that peach lemonade Mrs. O. makes. And lunch, of course. Guess it’s time to wake up Taryn.”

  She opened the sliding door of the van at the same moment he heard the sound of a vehicle turning into the driveway. Probably his mother coming home for lunch. Brodie turned to look but instead of his mother’s vehicle, he saw a delivery truck pulling in.

  Weird. He wasn’t expecting anything and he typically had most deliveries sent to his office for his assistant to handle. Maybe Katherine had ordered something.

  “Is this the Thorne residence?” the driver asked after he climbed out with alacrity.

  Brodie stepped forward. “Yes. I’m Brodie Thorne.”

  “I need your signature for this one, please.”

  Brodie quickly signed the electronic pad and took the bed-pillow-size package from the man, who then hurried away in that quick way delivery drivers had that made you feel they had less than a microsecond to spare for you.

  “Looks like Taryn is waking up,” Evie observed. Brodie supposed that wasn’t a big surprise, with the big truck rumbling behind her.

  “Let me set this inside and I’ll help you take her into the house.” He took a look at the label. “Hey, it’s for her!”

  “For Taryn? Are you expecting medical supplies for her?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Those usually come through our home-health company anyway. This doesn’t have a return address so I can’t tell who sent it.”

  “Now I’m curious. Since she’s awake anyway, I say we let her open it.”

  Evie hit the remote on the keychain that extended the automatic ramp on the passenger side of the vehicle. She reached in to release the tie-downs, speaking quietly to Taryn as she did. He couldn’t hear what they said but he saw Taryn’s sleepy smile in response, saw Evie rest a hand on his daughter’s hair, and something tender and fragile shivered in his chest.

  “Hi...Dad.” Taryn smiled at him, still half-asleep, reminding him of long-ago snowboard trips when they would wake up early to drive to one of the other ski resorts in Colorado for the day.

  “Hi, bug.” He had let too much distance come between them over the years, had allowed himself to become too immersed in building his busin
ess and too focused on his own expectations for Taryn. Shame on him that it had taken his daughter nearly dying before he finally realized it.

  “Look,” she said, holding out her arm, just as Evie had predicted she would. He saw a bracelet of pretty, colorful pink-and-green beads.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “Made it with Char...”

  “Let’s get you inside,” Evie said quickly, pushing Taryn toward the house and making him curious about her haste.

  “You’ve got a package,” he said. “Want to open it?”

  “Really? For...me?”

  She had always loved opening presents on Christmas, he remembered—until the last few years, anyway, when she had started asking for money to buy her own gifts.

  “Why don’t I tell Mrs. O. to bring lunch out back by the pool? You can open your package there.”

  “Okay. Bathroom...first.”

  “I’m on it.” Evie helped Taryn to her room and the en suite bathroom while he went in search of his housekeeper to ask if she would mind serving lunch outside. He didn’t really have time to stop for lunch since he had only come home for a moment to take care of some loose ends, but he supposed he could find a few minutes to spare for his daughter, especially when he’d nearly lost everything with her.

  Ten minutes later, the three of them converged outside at the covered table near the pool. The waterfall built into the landscape gurgled, reflecting flashes of afternoon sunlight.

  “Mrs. O. made chicken-salad sandwiches. My favorite,” Brodie said.

  “She...loves...you,” Taryn said with a teasing grin.

  His eyes met Evie’s and he was embarrassed to feel himself blush. Mrs. O. was nearly sixty years old, for heaven’s sake.

  “She appreciates that I pay her a decent wage and that I don’t make her work on weekends.”

  “That’s...not all.”

  “Why don’t you open your package?” he said quickly. “I’m dying to know who’s sending you things and what it might be.”

  “I brought some scissors out to help us,” Evie said. For all her free-spirited ways, she was hyperorganized about things like that, he was discovering. Because of his ADD, he had trouble focusing beyond right this moment and had always greatly admired others who could think ahead three or four steps beyond the now.

  With help from Evie and the scissors, Taryn laboriously worked to open the package. Where he wanted to jump in and take care of the situation, Evie helped a little but mostly made his daughter do the work herself. He let her, appreciating her wisdom. Taryn would let everyone fuss and fret over her as long as she could. Evie instinctively seemed to understand that.

  Finally it was open and Taryn and Evie both stared inside.

  “What is it?” he asked, since the flaps of the box prevented him from seeing the contents.

  “It’s a game system,” Evie said. “The kind where you don’t need a remote, just your own motion.”

  “And some games,” Taryn said, looking baffled at the gift. He didn’t blame her. She’d never been much of a gamer.

  “This is fantastic,” Evie exclaimed. “Think of how much fun we can have with this.”

  “Really?” Taryn asked.

  “Yeah! We’ll figure out some ways to incorporate beach volleyball or soccer or the dancing one into your therapies. And you won’t even have to hold a remote!”

  “Okay.” Taryn didn’t look convinced.

  “Who sent it?” he asked. He assumed maybe his mother had ordered the game system and just forgotten to let him know.

  “There’s a card,” Evie said, pulling it out of the box and handing it to him. As he reached for it, his skin just brushed hers. A spark leaped between them and she quickly drew her hand away.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  He decided not to mention that, whatever she might think of him, he was as susceptible as the next guy to sparks flying at him from a beautiful woman.

  “Welcome home,” he read. At the bottom of the note was a stylized line drawing of a little angel.

  Evie looked over his shoulder to read the note and he was fascinated to watch her expressive face light up with excitement.

  “Wow, Taryn. You received a gift from the Angel of Hope!” Evie said.

  “I did?”

  “Looks like it,” Brodie said. “There’s an angel on here.”

  “Like...my...flowers.”

  “Flowers?” Evie asked.

  “While she was in the hospital after the accident, Taryn received fresh flowers once a week, with no name on them—only a little angel on the card,” he answered. “The whole time, without fail.”

  He had wanted to seek out the florist and find out who the hell was sending the flowers but Katherine had talked him out of it. She thought the mystery identity of the town’s Angel of Hope added to the fun of the gift.

  “Very cool,” Evie exclaimed. “I’ve never had something from the Angel. Claire got a care package after the accident but that’s as close as I’ve come.”

  He didn’t understand the whole Angel of Hope phenomenon that had swept through Hope’s Crossing for the last year. Someone had been going around town anonymously doing good deeds for people. An envelope full of money on a doorstep, paying outstanding medical bills, a basket of goodies just when someone was in the middle of a crisis.

  Speculation was still running rampant around town about who might be instigating the acts of kindness—and the Angel had even been the inspiration for the town sponsoring an entire day of service, organized by Claire Bradford, his mother and the other women who hung out at String Fever.

  To him, it all seemed an exercise in futility. People either helped themselves or they tended to wallow in their misery. “I would have thought the Angel would have given up by now. He—or she—can’t help everyone.”

  Evie made a face at his cynicism. “Probably not. But sometimes a single kind gesture can be exactly the handhold someone needs to climb out of a dark hole.”

  “That sounds like the voice of experience,” he said, even though it was none of his business.

  “Your mom was my angel,” she said simply. “She invited me to visit Hope’s Crossing at exactly the perfect time, when I most needed a lift. I think the Angel is like your mom. I’ve often thought it might be your mom. Whoever it is has an uncanny knack for knowing just the perfect thing to help someone when he or she is in need. Frankly, I don’t know how one person could possibly know all that. Claire believes the Angel might be a group of people, working in unison. If that’s true, I think your mother is at least in on it.”

  “My mother? Really?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It might have escaped your notice but my mother has been a little distracted the last few months, helping me with Taryn. She really hasn’t had a lot of time to go around throwing out good deeds hither and yon.”

  “Well, whoever it is, I think the Angel is wonderful.”

  “This...could be fun,” Taryn declared, inclining her head to the game system, still in the box. “Maybe...my...friends could play.”

  Evie touched her hand to Taryn’s fingers, which lay mostly useless on the table. “That’s a great idea. We’ll invite some over first thing, okay?”

  Taryn smiled at her and as he watched the two of them together, something soft and terrifying bloomed inside him. He didn’t want this. He had enough to worry about right now without having to wonder if he was falling for someone as completely unsuitable as Evaline Blanchard.

  Disconcerted, he pushed his chair away from the table just as Mrs. O. came bustling out with the tray of sandwiches.

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, “but I hadn’t realized the time. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon and I told my assistant I’d be back shortly to sign some pa
pers at the office first. Mrs. O., do you mind wrapping my sandwich up? I’ll eat on my way.”

  “Of course,” his housekeeper said.

  “Do you...have to?” Taryn’s mouth drooped with disappointment.

  “I’d better. Practice hard on your new game system and maybe when I come home I’ll let you whip my butt at something.”

  “Dancing,” Taryn said firmly and he groaned, even as it warmed him that she was willing to try.

  Maybe the Angel was onto something after all.

  Eight

  Oh, she was tired.

  After a full day with Taryn, all Evie wanted to do was head up to her apartment and soak in the big claw-foot tub, the one she had always suspected was original to the building when it had been a brothel.

  Downtown Hope’s Crossing was hopping, for a Thursday night. As she drove down Main Street, she could see crowds in the few stores that stayed open later and a line of tourists waiting outside Sugar Rush, probably for some of the sweetshop’s ice cream flavors or famous blackberry fudge.

  Why did people on vacation always glom onto fudge and pulled taffy? she wondered idly. They didn’t touch the stuff three-hundred-sixty-four days out of the year, but suddenly on vacation people couldn’t seem to get enough. Go figure.

  Though Hope’s Crossing catered mostly to winter recreationists with its immaculate slopes and après skiing, the town had been making a push the last few years to draw visitors for the summer months to enjoy mountain biking, fishing, hiking and ATV riding.

  The town needed the tourists to survive. She understood that. Without any other major industries, Hope’s Crossing would die without those who came to appreciate the town’s charm and spectacular surroundings. Without a doubt, though, the influx of visitors sometimes complicated life for year-round residents—like the endless quest for a decent parking place and having to pay jacked-up tourist prices at the supermarket for a gallon of milk.

  Unfortunately, such was the price the year-rounders had agreed to pay in exchange for the chance to live surrounded by gorgeous mountains and endless recreational opportunities.