“My mom loves roses.”
Lucy didn’t know how to answer that, so she hurried up the path to the front door of the tiny house.
“This is it.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Damn, she should have aired it out this afternoon. It still smelled of the last girl’s penchant for patchouli.
“Kitchen,” she pointed. “Gas appliances. Washer and dryer are just off there.”
“Fine.”
“It’s tiny,” she said. Why did she feel like she should apologize? “It was built to be the parsonage, but I think that was a fancy name for what’s more like a one-bedroom house. No study, no library, no servants’ quarters. Just the threadbare carpet and lots of candle sconces to earn its name.”
She flipped on the lights in the hallway and led him to the far door. “Also, there’s a parlor, with the original furniture. I don’t recommend the blue chair. There’s an unruly spring I haven’t been able to fix. But that settee is actually comfortable.”
He nodded. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and it made her nervous. And nerves made her chatty. “It was originally an Episcopalian church, and the parsonage was built at the turn of the last century. But the church went rogue in the twenties, with a pastor who bought the buildings and took the church in more of a fundamentalist direction. By the sixties, that same old pastor was caught hoarding guns for the Apocalypse and had lost all but three of his church members. When he died, his widow sold everything to my grandmother and moved to Florida to be with her grandchildren. My grandmother Ruby lived happily back here for the rest of her life.”
“How did you end up with this? And with the bookstore?”
Lucy turned her back to him, and then she pulled open a small door. “Extra storage here, next to the hot water heater. When she died, she left it all to me. I’m the book girl. My brothers are big readers, but they didn’t want the store.”
“It’s what you always wanted? To follow in her footsteps?” Owen sounded interested, and Lucy couldn’t remember the last time someone sounded that way.
She nodded. “I was always the reader in the family. And when I was little I wanted to be a writer, but then when I realized writers didn’t make any money, I wanted to sell books instead. And I’ve always been a knitter. It’s what I do. I know it must sound pretty boring to someone like you . . .” Lucy felt a small flame of embarrassment.
But he smiled at her instead. Laugh lines she didn’t remember folded at the corners of his eyes. “You never lived back here, though?”
“No, too small. So many memories, and I can’t get rid of one thing that’s in here. I don’t like to change it around from the way she had it. You know? The income from the store and the rental allowed me to buy a little house in town a few years ago. Better that way. God, these shelves are dusty. And oh, there’s a cemetery out there. Guess I should mention that. No one’s been buried in it for ages, though.” Lucy brushed off her hands and shut the small closet door.
Owen nodded. He touched the base of a silver candelabra still propped on a low table. “The ceilings are nice.” He looked up at the exposed wooden beams.
Lucy felt her stomach flip. “Yeah,” she said. “They’re my favorite part.”
Lucy’s cell phone rang, blaring “I Shot the Sheriff” from the pocket of her overalls. She hit the Ignore button on the side of it as fast as she could but the damage was done.
“Nice,” said Owen.
“My brother Jonas. He programmed it.” She was going to kill him.
“Not a fan of the boys in blue?”
“Just likes Marley, I guess. The bedroom is back here.”
It was the largest room of the small house. All open space, a queen-sized bed in one corner, a large desk in another. A green couch faced a bookcase, and one of her grandmother’s comfy old recliners sat next to the window. “See? Big closet. And lots of shelves, for your stuff. The girls ran in cable and internet—if you have a TV I’m sure it would hook right up.”
Her cell phone rang again.
Owen winced. “Do you need to get that?”
Lucy looked at it. “Jonas doesn’t usually call me, and he never calls twice in a row. It might be important. I’m sorry.” Owen nodded as she flipped open the phone. “Hello?”
Owen looked out the window that overlooked the old cemetery.
“I just heard some crap that you’re going to rent to Owen Bancroft.” Jonas didn’t bother saying hello.
Lucy took a deep breath. “I can look into ordering that for you, but it might take a while.”
“Dammit, Lucy, you know you can’t trust anyone in that family. I’m just looking out for you. Old Bill told me his father was in prison three times for assault with a deadly weapon.”
Lucy frowned. “That doesn’t sound like any of your business.” Then, glancing at Owen who was trying to open the window, she hastened to add, “To order a book like that, I mean.”
“We’re just looking out for you. There are a million people better than him. Why can’t you just . . .”
“Goddamn!” Owen jumped away from the window, cradling his hand.
Lucy jumped. “Jonas, I have to go.”
“What’s going on? What’s he doing? Are you safe there? Do I need to come over?”
“Don’t you dare! He cut his hand on that window latch I keep asking you or Silas to fix.” Lucy hung up without saying good-bye. “Owen, I’m so sorry. Let me see your hand.”
“You should get that fixed. It’s booby-trapped.” Owen came toward her, examining the blood dripping from his arm.
Lucy felt terrible, but at the same time, as she reached for his arm, she was conscious of the fact that she’d forgotten that a man could smell this good. It wasn’t cologne—he didn’t strike Lucy as a cologne kind of guy. It was a clean soap smell, not flowery, just brisk. Efficient. And something else, something richer. Nicer.
Lucy realized she was inhaling deeply. Too deeply. He was going to notice.
And then Owen looked at her.
She forgot to breathe. He really did have the most amazing eyes: deep blue shot with streaks of gold. She willed herself not to look at his lips but failed. She licked her own out of nervousness, and his eyes followed.
Then she remembered the important part—Owen was bleeding. Just what she needed. Would he sue? Could he sue? Did insurance cover that kind of thing?
Damn. The wound. She focused. It wasn’t deep, wouldn’t need stitches, but it did need to be covered.
“Stay right here,” Lucy said. “I’ll fix you up. Stay. I’m sorry.” She raced out of the room, leaving Owen staring at his hand.
She ran out of the parsonage and into the bookstore. In the bathroom, she grabbed a tube of Neosporin and a box of Band-Aids. She found a clean washcloth and ran back through the garden.
A nice quiet girl, a student, would be better anyway. School would be starting back up for the spring quarter. It was just easier that way. Not that she even wanted him to rent it. She didn’t know why she’d volunteered to let him see it in the first place—it just hadn’t seemed fair, the way they’d been going on about how he shouldn’t be allowed to.
Lucy prayed Owen wasn’t the lawsuit type.
When she entered the bedroom, Owen was using Kleenex from the box next to the bed to wipe away the blood.
“No, let me. It’s the least I can do. It’s my stupid broken window.” She sat next to him on the edge of the bed.
Lucy used the washcloth to clean up the blood that had trickled down his hand.
“I’m happy to bandage you up. I know how. Or I can take you to the hospital. I’ll pay, of course, for any treatment.” She tried not to think about what that would do to her slim bank account.
Still Owen said nothing. He was too quiet.
Was he furious with her? Wouldn’t she feel scared if that was so? And Lucy wasn’t scared. She felt nervous, yes, but none of her regular fears plagued her, sitting next to Owen.
She put the antibiotic ointment o
n her finger. “I washed my hands. So they’re clean. Um. You should know that . . .” This wasn’t the way they would ever do it on the ambulance. God, Captain Keller would be laughing at her right now. Why was she so flustered?
“I’m just going to put this on your hand. I mean, on the wound. Damn. But I don’t think it will hurt.”
She took a chance and stole a glance at him, looking up for a split second at his face. She needed to know whether she was going to need to run or not.
Was that a smile? Were the corners of his mouth really twitching?
Lucy dropped her head again to his hand. “Here I go. There. That wasn’t bad, was it?” She made sure the wound on the side of his hand was carefully covered with antibiotic ointment, and then turned his hand over to see if there were any other wounds that needed care. She ran her fingers over his skin.
His hand was huge. Strong. Warm. Completely, jarringly masculine.
And still bleeding.
“Okay. Good.” Lucy cleared her throat. She flipped open the top of the box. “Oh, crap.”
She looked up at him and then back into the box. Surely she had a normal Band-Aid. She flipped through the bandages, then she looked again. Oh, how embarrassing. She was an emergency medical technician, for the love of God.
“Um,” she said. “You have your choice between rainbows, dinosaurs, or cowboys. It looks like I only have novelty Band-Aids. There are some sushi ones, too, but . . . I’m kind of saving those ones.”
Owen started laughing. It was a deep, rolling laugh, sounding like it came from the middle of his chest. “Cowboys. Of course I want cowboys.”
It was the last reaction she would have expected from him. He went on laughing as she continued to bandage his hand. At least it was better than him yelling at her, or suing her. Which he could still do later.
“I’m sorry, it’s going to take more of these than I thought,” Lucy said as she struggled to open yet another bandage. These really were crappy, she thought. They didn’t seem to have any stick at all, and they were brittle. Good for nothing but putting on imaginary boo-boos, which Owen’s boo-boo, sadly, wasn’t.
“There. I think that’ll do it.” Lucy stood and looked at her handiwork.
The back and side of Owen’s hand was covered in little cowboys riding horses and wearing chaps. He held it out and nodded in what looked like satisfaction.
Lucy couldn’t help it. “Why aren’t you mad at me?” she asked.
“I just cut my hand on the window latch. It’s not like you bit me.”
“I wouldn’t bite you!” And she blushed.
She busied herself picking up the bits and pieces of the wrappers that seemed to be everywhere. He stood up but she didn’t look at him. “So, I can suggest a few more places, if you’d like. A friend has a cottage that I think is vacant, and another friend owns that little motel down on Pine Street. Then there’s that bed-and-breakfast that Greta mentioned.”
“Why?” Owen asked. The smile slipped from his face as if it had never been there. “Because I hurt myself? I’m too much of a liability?”
The way he said the last word turned something inside Lucy, made her ache for him. There was more to this than a cut on a window.
“No. I just assumed . . .”
“I’ve gone through worse.” Owen frowned.
Lucy tried to steer the conversation. “How long do you really think you’ll be here, anyway?”
“I have no idea. I know I’m not staying.”
Lucy twisted the cap of the antibiotic cream tighter and then loosened it.
Owen went on, “I’m trying to figure out what I’m doing when it comes to my mother. She’s just down the road, at Willow Rock.”
“Why is she there?”
“Alzheimer’s. Couldn’t live alone anymore.” Still seated on the bed, he ran his fingers along the Band-Aids. “I haven’t decided how I’m doing all this yet. I sold most of my stuff before I left and what little I kept is in storage in San Francisco. But I’d like to take this place while I work it all out. It’s perfect. Great location, just around the corner from my mom, and it’s furnished. I won’t ask you to make a decision right now. Will you just let me know after you think about it? You need my cell number, and here.” He pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to her, the paper warm from being so close to his skin. “A few references. They’re officers, sergeants, and lieutenants I used to work with. They all think I’m great. If you want the full story, I listed dispatch’s phone number. They may not all like me that much, but you’ll get honesty from them. My credit score is on there, and it’s okay if you confirm it.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Depends on what you mean. Smoke what?”
Was he serious? “Cigarettes?”
He half smiled, and she saw him, suddenly, in the hallway of the high school, his arm slung around yet another blond, that same teasing look in his eye. “I don’t smoke anything.”
Whew. “Do you, well . . . I’m not sure how to ask this.”
“Just ask.” His voice was gravelly. She liked it too much.
“Do you carry a gun?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Heck, yeah!”
“Then, yes, I do carry a gun. Is that a problem?”
Lucy thought for a moment. He studied her while she did. She made a conscious effort to still her hands. She wished for her knitting, wished she could feel the wool slipping through her fingers, but her bag was still inside the store.
“It makes me nervous. Didn’t you say you were retired? Ex-cops still carry guns?”
“It’s like carrying your driver’s license. Even if I’m not a cop anymore . . .” Owen’s voice trailed off. Then he went on. “After that many years, it gets to be a habit. I don’t feel clothed if I’m not wearing it.”
And just like that, Lucy pictured him with no clothes on. The image flashed in front of her eyes, superimposed against his actual clothing. Instead of the blue button-down shirt, she could see his bare, muscled chest. No clothes, no pants, no gun.
How long had it been for her? she wondered. Obviously, too damn long.
God. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her fade-out. “Guns scare me,” Lucy said. “But I think that’s probably a good thing.”
“You should go to the range sometime.”
“No way. Not me.”
“I’ll take you.”
“Not my thing. I’m the biggest chicken you’ll ever meet. Ask anyone.” Man, did she sound lame.
“You don’t seem like a chicken to me.”
Lucy nodded vehemently. “Scared of rats. And heights. Really scared of heights. Can’t even go up a ladder. Lightning. Don’t like that much either.” Why was she saying this?
“Chickens don’t drag pregnant women out of exploding cars.”
Lucy sucked in her breath. “That’s different.”
He stood, grimacing the slightest bit as he did. His hand moved to his hip in a seemingly unconscious gesture.
“Does your hip hurt a lot?” Lucy asked.
Owen frowned. “Not always.”
“Can I ask how you injured it?”
“You can ask.” But the tone of his voice told her that he wasn’t going to answer.
“Never mind,” she stammered. “I should probably get on my way . . .” She glanced at her watch. It was even later than she’d thought.
“Hot date?”
“Oh! No. I mean . . .”
Owen said, “It’s okay. You let me know what you decide. My cell’s at the bottom of the reference paper.”
She led him down the dim hallway and out the front door. Owen thanked her and then headed down the walkway toward where his Mustang was parked on the street.
Standing on the steps of the parsonage, Lucy paused and listened. She looked over the small white headstones flanked by overgrown roses, almost lost in the deepened dusk.
She couldn’t hear anything but the wild beating of her heart, and there w
as no stopping the grin that spread across her face.
Owen Bancroft was back. Hot damn.
Chapter Five
When your knitting makes you cry, at least you have something with which to mop up your tears.
—E. C.
Owen hated the sign in front of his mother’s residence: WILLOW ROCK, A HOME FOR ALL.
It wasn’t a home, it was a fucking capital-H Home, that’s what it was. It was what his mother had always lamented about. When I’m old, you’ll just put me in a home. No one will care about me. I’ll die alone if you put me in one of those.
Then he had done exactly that. His mother’s nightmare had come true, but it was the only thing he could do, the only avenue left open to him.
It still broke his heart, every time he thought about it. She hadn’t been here long before the shooting, and while he was recovering, he’d stared up at the ceiling from his hospital bed in San Francisco, two hundred miles away. The first thing he’d done as soon as the doctor cleared him to drive was to head straight for Cypress Hollow, the three-hour trip making his hip and knee burn like acid was being poured into the bones.
His mother hadn’t registered who he was that day, nor had she the next day, or the next. He’d had to go back north and leave her behind, but at least he finally knew she was in good hands.
This time he would stay a little longer. Not that she’d know it.
He should get out of the car. Drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, he tuned the radio dial, searching for a song on the radio, any song that he could cling to for another minute. He’d take just about anything. An eighties pop song, nineties grunge. Just one song. Couldn’t he find one on this wasteland of a radio dial in among all the commercials?
With a curse, he flipped the radio off and jerked the keys out of the ignition.
He supposed he could use those Windex wipes to work on the windows. . . . No. It was time. Every day he did this. Dammit. He could be a grown-up. For the love of God.
His fingers itched to restart the car and drive back to the Book Spire, to talk to Lucy Harrison some more. He never would have guessed that seeing her would have made him feel like a dumb eighteen-year-old again, but that’s how he’d felt. Like that kid he’d been that awful night, running away from home, getting the hell out of town, hitting the highway in his Mustang with no intention of ever coming back to Cypress Hollow, regretting that he’d never see Lucy Harrison again. That same blank ache that he’d almost forgotten about.
How to Knit a Heart Back Home Page 4
