“A research paper about eighteenth-century women painters and their influence on romanticism.” He walked out of the pigpen, waited for her to follow, and closed the gate.
“Were there eighteenth-century women painters? Good ones, I mean. Ones who influenced art movements,” she asked, curious and a little surprised. He’d said he taught art history, but she’d imagined him to be the kind of guy who preferred modern to antique and masculine to feminine.
“Women are in every aspect of art history. Just like they are in the history of everything else: medicine, architecture, science, literature, music, design. We just don’t hear much about them, because their work was often overlooked or hidden away.”
“Or appropriated by a man who claimed it as his own.”
“Sometimes, but I’m not doing cultural or gender studies. I’m looking at the past and trying to see how esthetic movements changed and morphed into other things. Women haven’t been given enough credit for their part in that. I want to make sure they do.”
She ran that around in her head for a moment. The words. The purpose. The passion she heard behind them.
“See?” he said. “Boring.”
“If you’re taking my silence for boredom, don’t. I’m quiet when I’m interested in something.”
He smiled. “Nice save, Rumer Truehart.”
She’d heard her name a million times, but the way he said it—with warmth and humor and understanding—made every extra word and thought fly away. She was left with nothing but the truth. Plain and simple and straightforward. The way Lu had always encouraged her to be.
“I’ve never been much of a liar, Sullivan. Not even for good causes. My childhood was chaos. Loud and dirty and mean. I learned to talk fast and think faster, and my first nine years happened at warp speed. I still tend to talk fast, move fast, and act fast, but when something interests me, I slow down enough to take it in. Otherwise, I might miss the beauty of it.”
“You have an interesting perspective. One that a lot of people could benefit from.”
“Do any of them happen to be Bradshaw children?”
“Probably. As far as I can tell, the only one of them who ever stops is Twila,” he said.
“Heavenly is pretty quiet, too.”
“But, she doesn’t stop moving and doing. Haven’t you noticed? If she’s not picking at one of her siblings, she’s wiping a counter or taking out garbage or upstairs dancing or singing or writing.”
“I’ve noticed, and I’ve been trying to put that energy to good use. I’ll be taking the kids to Lu’s Saturday morning—”
“You have the weekends off,” he reminded her.
“And?”
“You might want some time away from the kids.”
“I told Heavenly and Maddox they could help at the stables. I never go back on my word. Not when it’s given to children. They’re going to help. The rest of the kids might as well do the same. Except for Oya, of course. You and your brothers will have bottle- and diaper-changing duty.”
“Three to one are good odds. I’m sure we can handle it.” He stopped at the old-fashioned water pump, moonlight glinting off his dark hair and a pair of glasses he only wore when he was working.
Reading glasses?
Maybe, but she hadn’t wanted to ask, because she had no business being curious about him.
“And, maybe you can get more research done. Are you close to finishing?”
“Not as close as I’d like to be. It’s not easy to find influential female painters from the time period, and what we know about them is limited. I’d planned on visiting a few libraries in DC and New York, maybe taking a trip up to Boston to speak with some colleagues, but this happened.”
“And suddenly you were parenting six kids instead of going on research trips?”
“Right. If I’d known I was going to be playing Dad to this bunch, I’d have chosen an easier research project.”
“I doubt it,” she said, and he set the bucket under the spout and met her eyes.
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who backs down from a challenge. I mean, look at all this.” She waved toward the dark fields that stretched out as far as she could see, then the farmhouse. “There are a lot of people who wouldn’t do what you and your brothers have. Some of them would have parceled the kids out to other people. Some would have let the state take the kids and place them in foster homes.”
“Truth?” He grabbed the pump handle, his biceps well defined beneath a flannel shirt that he’d layered over a black tee. “I’m one of those people. I wouldn’t do this. I don’t want to do it. I never planned on doing it but Matthias was my brother. These are his kids. I’m not going to turn my back on family.”
“Like I said, there are a lot of people who wouldn’t do what you’re doing. A research paper on women painters in the eighteenth century is tame in comparison.”
“Yeah. We’ll see how things look in a couple of weeks.”
“What do you mean?”
“The hospital called a few minutes ago. Sunday still hasn’t improved. They want to move her to a rehab facility.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s for long-term palliative care. The kind you give to people who aren’t going to get better.”
“Oh.” That was it. All she managed to say, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
The kids were counting on their mother getting better.
Right now, their entire lives were wrapped up in that hope.
Every night at dinner, one of them prayed for their mother’s return. Every night when Rumer tucked them into bed, she listened to each one ask for the same thing.
Except for Heavenly.
She didn’t pray. She didn’t ask to be tucked in. She didn’t talk about Sunday’s return or plan what they’d do to celebrate once she came home. Heavenly’s heart had been broken before. She wasn’t willing to let it be broken again.
Rumer could see that as clearly as she could see the moon rising over distant mountains.
“Poor kid,” she murmured, and she thought Sullivan must have known who she was talking about. He nodded, leaning over to pump water into the bucket and rinse it out.
She watched, because . . .
What else was she supposed to do?
Walk back into the house and leave him outside alone?
Stare out toward the river or toward the house?
When he finished, he straightened, turning to face her again. “I’m not sure what to tell them, Rumer. That’s the problem.”
“You don’t have to say anything, yet.”
“If nothing changes, the hospital plans to move her Monday. People in town are going to know at least some of the details. They’re going to come to conclusions and discuss them in front of children. Those children—”
“Are going to get tackled by Maddox when they say Sunday is going to die?”
“Something like that.” He ran a hand down his jaw and shook his head. “He only has one more shot after this last one.”
“The school made me very aware of that.”
“They’re great that way,” he said dryly. “Not so great at stopping the kid before he does something stupid.”
“Twenty-six kids. One teacher. The odds are always against her.”
He smiled. “You have a point. And, my point is that I’m going to have to tell the kids something. There’s no way to avoid it. I’m just not sure how much to say.”
“Have you called your brothers yet?” she asked.
“I planned to do it out here. Where Heavenly couldn’t hear. I don’t want her telling the younger kids that their mother will never get better.” He handed her the bucket, and took out his phone.
“You know,” she said, before he made the call, “the kids haven’t been to the hospital since her surgery.”
“Life has been hectic. You see how it is—school, homework, after-school activities. There aren’
t enough hours in the day to pack it all into, so I’ve only been bringing them on the weekends.”
“Maybe she’d like to see more of them.”
“Rumer, she doesn’t see or hear anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I guess I don’t, but the kids are always worse after they visit her. They cry more, they fight more, they hide in their rooms more. I want the best for Sunday, but I have to protect the kids, too.” He sounded . . . heartbroken.
“Damn,” he continued. “I wish my brothers were here making these choices with me.”
“They’re coming this weekend, right?”
“Friday night.”
“When does the hospital plan to move Sunday?”
“If she doesn’t respond to stimuli before then, Monday.”
“And, if she does?”
“They’ll send her to a different facility. One that specializes in brain injuries. Either way, the doctors have done all they can. The ball is in her court, and she’s either going to come out of this or she’s not.” He turned away. “I need to call Porter and Flynn and let them know. The drunk driver’s insurance is covering the hospital bill, and the trucking company he was working for has set up a trust fund for future expenses, but long-term palliative care might be outside the scope of that.”
“There are a lot of logistics involved in all of this, and I don’t want to downplay that, but I really think we should bring the kids to see her tomorrow and the next day and the next.”
“Rumer,” he sighed, but he hadn’t walked away.
“I know it sounds crazy, and I know it’s a long shot, but she responded to me when I was talking about the kids. I know she did.” She touched his arm. Just fingers on warm, soft flannel, but he met her eyes, and her palm settled right where it was. Against fabric and muscle and warmth. Whatever she meant to say was lost in that moment, in the weight of that touch and the quick heat of their connection.
“It doesn’t sound crazy,” he said, shifting his arm so that her hand slid away. But, they were still so close, she could feel the warmth of his body, the tension in his muscles.
“Then, let’s do it. We’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”
“Your mother should have named you Pollyanna,” he muttered, tucking a curl behind her ear, his finger lingering against her skin. There for a moment longer than they needed to be, and then gone.
“My mother didn’t name me. She was too stoned.”
“Someone named you,” he responded, and she could see the questions in his eyes.
She could have told him everything—the story she’d been told on her birthday every year for as long as she’d lived with her mother.
She didn’t, because she didn’t want to explore whatever was building between them. She wanted to walk away from it and from him, pretend he was just part of the bargain she’d made, a job requirement she had to meet to get the money she needed. “One of my mother’s suppliers.”
That was it.
All she would say.
“And?”
“And, some things are better left in the past. Should I tell the kids we’re going to the hospital after school tomorrow? They have a few activities scheduled, but we can cancel.”
She changed the subject, and he let her.
Why wouldn’t he?
They were employer and employee and there didn’t need to be anything personal between them.
“I’m willing to give it a shot. Anything is better than waiting around, hoping for the best.” He took a step away, and she could breathe again.
Which was funny, because she hadn’t realized how tight her chest had become, how little oxygen she was inhaling.
She waited as he walked away, watching as the moonlight cast his shadow across the wheatgrass. She thought he’d keep going. That’s what every other man in her life would have done. Walk away and move on to the next activity, the next conversation, the next more interesting thing on the horizon.
Instead, he glanced back. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I thought I’d take a walk and get some fresh air.” She hadn’t really been thinking that, but she was now, because going back into the house and up to her room suddenly seemed like the loneliest thing in the world.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, walking back and taking her arm, his fingers curved around the crease of her elbow.
“That’s not necessary, Sullivan.”
“I’m not going to leave you out here by yourself.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” she responded, telling herself to step away. But, of course, she didn’t.
There was something about him. . . .
Something that reminded her of childish dreams and girlhood crushes, of days when she’d thought that maybe she really could be the first Truehart woman to find true love.
“It’s dark,” he responded. “You’re a beautiful woman—”
She snorted.
“What?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, Sullivan. Beautiful isn’t one of them.”
“Then, you’ve been hanging around the wrong people.” He said it as if it were fact. As if there was no way on God’s green earth she could have been hanging around the right ones.
“Or, the honest ones,” she replied, and felt his fingers tighten on her arm. Just a quick twitch of tension where there’d been none, there and gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.
“You’re not the only one who strives for honesty,” he said as they reached the gate and stepped out of the field. “I don’t make it a habit of buttering people up to get what I want.”
“I didn’t realize you wanted anything.”
“Of course I do,” he replied, stopping near an old elm that stood in the middle of the yard. “I want you to stay.”
“And, I already said I would.”
“Exactly. So, how about we start the conversation again. Or, finish?”
“What conversation?” she said, backing up because they were so close she could see her reflection in the lenses of his glasses, so close she could have levered up on her toes and brushed her lips against his.
“The one where I say it’s dark and you’re a beautiful woman?” he reminded her, and she was certain his gaze had dropped to her lips and rested there for a moment before returning to her eyes.
“Right,” she muttered, taking another step back and bumping into a wooden swing that hung from a thick branch. “Go ahead. Continue.”
“You are a beautiful woman, and it’s dark. We’re out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but hay and cows for miles around.”
“Bessie’s around.”
“Bessie is too full of casserole to be of any help if some transient decides to see what’s going on here at the farm and finds you walking around alone and unarmed.”
“This is small-town America, Sullivan. The likelihood of that happening is slim to none.”
“The likelihood of a well-qualified job candidate showing up out of the blue to interview for a position I didn’t know I was offering is slim to none, too, but it happened.”
He had a point.
He also had firm lips and gorgeous eyes and the kind of rugged good looks that made her think of firefighters and military men, heroes and heartbreakers and knights in shining armor.
She took another step back and bumped into a swing that hung from a thick branch.
Not a tire swing.
No. That would have made things too easy.
This was a long plank of wood that hit at thigh level. She stumbled, fell backward, and probably would have done the least graceful flip in the history of mankind if Sullivan hadn’t grabbed her by the waist.
He pulled her upright, his hands resting just above her hip bones, his fingers splayed along her lower spine. Her heart did that thing again. The one where it just kind of stopped and then started beating so fast she thought it might jump right out of her chest.
&nbs
p; “Thanks,” she murmured, and he nodded, but he didn’t release her.
She didn’t want him to.
Which was stupid and dangerous and asking for trouble.
But, she couldn’t make herself move away, and she couldn’t make herself tell him to let her go.
“I think,” he said, looking into her eyes and her face, studying her like a painting that he wanted to memorize and re-create, “you should probably go inside.”
“I think you’re probably right,” she responded, but her hands had found their way to his arms, her fingers curling into the sleeves of his coat. She wanted to slide them along his biceps and shoulders, run her fingers through his thick hair.
For a moment, neither of them moved. She wasn’t even sure they breathed. Then his hands dropped away, and he stepped back, cold air rushing in where nothing but warmth had been.
“I’m going to call my brothers,” he said, his tone gruff, his voice gritty. Apparently, he wasn’t any more excited about this thing that was between them than she was. “I’ll be in after that. Unless you still want to get some air. If you do, I’ll walk with you and call my brothers afterward.”
She thought about that for all of two seconds. Thought about walking through fields of wheatgrass with Sullivan beside her, about moonlight in his hair and on his face, about the way it would feel and what it might be—the beginning of something they’d both regret.
“No. I’ve had enough air for one night,” she managed to say, and then she did what any turkey with a good sense of self-preservation would do on Thanksgiving Day: She ran.
* * *
Sullivan watched as she reached the house and ran into the mudroom. He continued watching as the kitchen light went off, imagining that he could hear her footsteps on the wooden stairs the same way he had for the past three nights. Moments later, the light in the attic bedroom went on, and she was a shadow at the window, pulling down the shades.
And Sullivan?
He was still standing there like some love-besotted fool, staring up at the window.
“Damn,” he muttered, dropping onto the swing that she’d almost fallen over. What the hell was wrong with him?
He had a million problems, and Rumer wasn’t going to be one of them. She was beautiful and tempting, and he’d come this close to kissing her under the elm tree.
Home with You Page 13
