Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

“Lunch?”

  “I have a busy schedule.”

  “I can stop by your place tomorrow. We can have a picnic near the river.”

  “I’m not interested,” she said bluntly.

  “I own the newspaper.” He tossed the words out like they would change things. “And five properties in town.”

  “And I’m still not interested,” she responded.

  “You’re afraid of having a rebound relationship, right?” he asked, his mustache twinkling as he struggled to breathe and talk and jog.

  “I don’t want a relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

  “We don’t have to have a relationship to have fun,” he panted.

  “She said no, Randall,” Porter said quietly, tossing the words over his shoulder as he jogged up Main Street. He was a few steps ahead, his pace slow, easy. Almost lazy.

  But there was nothing lazy about his tone.

  Randall noticed. His steps faltered, his cocky attitude slipping. “If you’re interested, Porter, all you have to do is say so, and I’ll back off.”

  “Back off anyway,” Porter responded.

  “Now, hold on a minute—”

  Porter swung around. “Women don’t like to be stalked, Randall, and I don’t like stalkers.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re pissing me off,” Clementine cut in. She didn’t need Porter to fight battles for her. Especially ones being waged by a guy with a glittered mustache.

  “Because I asked you out? Most women around here would be thrilled.”

  “Then how about you go and make their days?” she suggested.

  He shrugged. “Whatever, doll. Your loss.” He turned back toward the diner.

  Thank God.

  She was not in the mood.

  At all.

  “Still want to go for a run?” Porter asked, his expression unreadable. Whatever he thought about Randall and his invitation, he wasn’t letting it show.

  “Are the mountains ready for spring thaw?” she responded, taking off before he answered.

  She halfway hoped he’d head in the opposite direction, turn left when she went right, go off on his own and take his muscular body and silvery eyes with him.

  But, of course, he didn’t.

  He fell into place beside her, matching his longer stride to hers. It was an easy run, their feet pounding on cement and grass as they passed the dry cleaners, the tackle shop, and then the chocolate shop where baby Miracle had been found.

  It was crowded. Like always. She could see customers through the shop windows, see a red-haired woman behind the counter, holding a baby.

  Clementine’s foot hit a crack in the sidewalk, and she flew forward, would have taken a header off the curb, if Porter hadn’t grabbed her arm.

  “Careful,” he said.

  “Sorry,” she replied, glancing at the store again. They’d passed the windows and doors, and she couldn’t see anything except the brick facade. That was probably for the best. She knew Phoebe’s daughter had been adopted by Willow Lamont. She knew that Willow had moved to town and taken over Chocolate Haven. She knew they had been living in the apartment above the store.

  She didn’t need to know any more than that.

  She sure as hell didn’t need anyone in town thinking she was trying to get a glimpse of the baby.

  “You’re tense,” Porter commented.

  “And?”

  “That makes running more difficult.”

  “Running is always difficult.”

  “You don’t really think that,” he responded.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve got an even stride and a natural rhythm. Running is something you do a lot. Which means it’s not difficult. Even on the tough days.”

  “Lately, every day is tough.”

  “Because you’re tense,” he repeated. “You need to loosen up. Let your muscles relax into the rhythm of the run.”

  “That is a lot easier said than done,” she muttered.

  “It wouldn’t be if you’d stop thinking about things you can’t change.” They’d reached the end of the commercial area of Main Street, brownstone buildings giving way to large lots and old houses.

  “Who says I’m doing that?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she replied, and he smiled.

  “So, maybe you should stop.”

  “If only it were that easy.”

  “It’s as easy as you make it,” he replied, picking up his pace as they reached a quiet crossroad and ran past a wrought iron fence.

  She glanced at the tangled yard beyond it, the huge house almost hidden by overgrown bushes and trees. Realized where they were as they raced by a cracked driveway and turned the corner onto Evergreen.

  “The Lee Harris house,” she said, letting the name settle on her tongue. It tasted bitter and hard, and she wasn’t surprised when Porter didn’t respond.

  “You and your brothers own it,” she continued.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Randall. Is he wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Is this a subject not up for discussion?”

  “Why would you want to discuss it?” he asked as they reached the end of the fenced lot.

  “The town council wants to have a silent auction here. To benefit your nieces and nephews. That’s what Randall was talking to me about.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to ask why not?”

  “I figure you have your reasons.”

  He was silent again, running up a hill that led to the high school. There was a park nearby with a running trail that wound through trees and out onto a country road.

  She’d been there before and knew it would lead them on a five-mile circuit back to the diner. She was fine with that. Just like she was fine with Porter’s silence.

  He had a right to his secrets, and she had no right to ask him to share them.

  She was curious, though.

  About his family and the huge house they’d lived in.

  About the reason why the windows had been boarded up, the yard left untended. About his father—a man who’d come from nothing and made himself something. About the story of Porter’s life, and how he’d gone from being small-town royalty to working private security far away from the town he’d grown up in.

  Curiosity was a dangerous thing.

  It made people ask questions, dig for answers, open jars that were meant to stay closed.

  “If Pandora didn’t teach us that, we’ll never learn it,” she muttered as Porter led the way into the park.

  “Pandora?” he asked, his voice so calm and even, she’d have thought he was standing still if she hadn’t been running beside him.

  “According to Greek mythology, she was the first woman on earth. She had every gift imaginable but still couldn’t stop herself from opening a jar and releasing heartache into the world.”

  “I’m familiar with the story. I was wondering why you were mentioning her.”

  “Ah, well, that’s another thing altogether,” she replied, her lungs burning as she struggled to keep pace with Porter.

  “Does your silence mean you don’t want to explain?”

  “It means my legs aren’t as long as yours, and I’m not nearly as fast,” she panted.

  He chuckled, slowing to a jog as they reached the old country road. “Better?”

  “Sure,” she lied, and he laughed again.

  “Sorry. The past was nipping at my heels, and I was trying to get away from it.”

  “Bad memories, huh?”

  “Enough to fill Pandora’s jar,” he replied.

  “And destroy the peace and happiness of all the people in the world?”

  “Just the people in my little corner of it,” he responded.

  “And that’s why you won’t let the town council use the house?”

  “The place is a mess, Clementine. Getting
it ready for an event like that would take time and money. I don’t have any of the first, and I’m not willing to give any of the second to the cause.”

  “If I wanted to get involved, I’d mention that the town would probably be willing to spend the time and money needed to get the place ready.”

  “But you don’t want to get involved, so you’re not going to mention it?” he asked wryly.

  “I definitely don’t want to get involved,” she agreed, her cheeks stinging from the chilly air, her heart pounding with the effort of the run.

  She didn’t want to get involved. She wouldn’t get involved. She’d keep her curiosity in check, keep the jar closed, because she had a feeling opening it would be dangerous to her plans, to her heart, to her ability to go back to Seattle with a clear mind and clear vision.

  And that was something she wouldn’t allow.

  She’d changed her life for someone once.

  She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  Ever.

  No matter how tempting the thought might be.

  * * *

  It took four hours to get all the kids settled down for the night.

  Four hours, six minutes, and twenty-nine seconds, if Porter wanted to be exact.

  He did.

  Because Flynn needed to know what he’d missed out on.

  Every excruciating detail of it.

  “From what I’ve gathered during the weekends I’ve spent there,” Flynn said, his voice staticky and distant, the phone connection tenuous, “that’s not too bad. As a matter of fact, it might be a record of kid-wrangling quickness.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re camping under the stars with nothing but the coyotes and cattle to interrupt your thoughts.”

  “The ranch doesn’t run itself, Porter. We had ten cows drop calves yesterday. You know I’d be there otherwise.”

  “I know neither of us would be here if we didn’t feel obligated to Matt’s kids,” he responded, lowering his voice even though he was out in the middle of the damn orchard in the middle of the damn night. “We’re going to have to talk about options, Flynn. If Sunday doesn’t improve, we’ve got to make decisions about how to move forward.”

  “We agreed after the funeral that the kids should stay on the farm.”

  “At what cost? Your ranch? My career? We sure as hell can’t expect Sullivan to give up everything he’s worked for while we live our lives like we always have.” He sounded angry. He felt angry.

  It was seeing the house, looking at the overgrown yard and the boarded-up windows and the rusting fence. Remembering things he’d rather forget. Like his father’s rages. His mother’s tears. Her illness, and the feeling he’d always had that she’d died from a broken heart.

  “What’s going on, Porter?” Flynn asked, cutting to the chase and trying to get straight to the truth of the matter.

  “The town council wants to host a silent auction to benefit the kids.”

  “And that bothers you because . . . ?”

  “They’re interested in using the house.”

  “I still don’t see the problem.”

  “Our house.”

  “The one in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I see the problem,” Flynn responded, and Porter could picture him pacing his campsite, dusty boots leaving tracks in the dry earth. Cowboy hat in his free hand. Frown-line between his brows. He looked more like their father than any of them, but had their mother’s personality. Thoughtful. Slow to speak. Diplomatic.

  “I ran by the place today. It’s a train wreck. Clementine thinks the town will be willing to step in and clean it out, but I think the job is going to take a little more than a few extra hands.”

  “I don’t know, Porter. A few extra hands can accomplish a lot,” Flynn responded. “Why do they want to host the auction there?”

  “I haven’t bothered asking.”

  “Maybe you should. If there’s a good reason, it might be worth it to get the help cleaning the place out.”

  “I didn’t know cleaning it out was on our agenda.”

  “We’ve been talking about selling the property for years. This might be the right time to do it,” Flynn said.

  “I hope you’re kidding.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because we have enough to deal with. We don’t need to add anything else to the mix.”

  “If Sunday doesn’t improve, we’re going to need money for her long-term care. The insurance payout will help, but it’s not going to be enough for twenty or thirty years’ worth of medical intervention.”

  “The proceeds from selling the house won’t be, either,” Porter pointed out.

  “It’ll be something. Which is a hell of a lot better than the nothing we’re currently getting from that place.”

  He had a point.

  Which only added to Porter’s pissed-off mood.

  He took a deep breath, shoved aside the rage, because he wasn’t ever going to be his father’s son. He’d decided that the day he’d walked into the kitchen and seen the bruises on his mother’s arms. He’d been seven. Just old enough to understand that he was seeing the reason why she wore long pants and long-sleeved shirts all summer long, but still too young to question her when she’d told him she’d bumped into the doorknob.

  Doorknobs didn’t leave fingerprints.

  And good men didn’t let their rage hurt the people around them. He kept a lid on his.

  “So you want me to talk to the town council?” Porter asked, keeping his voice calm and the words neutral. “See what they have to say about the silent auction?”

  “If you’d rather not, I can. Either way, it needs to be done.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said, because he was there, and they were talking about family. And, always, always family was the most important thing.

  “Thanks, Porter. I’ll be there next weekend.”

  “Unless the cows drop more calves?” he joked.

  “Even if they do. See you then.”

  “Right.” He disconnected and slipped the phone into his pocket. The moon had risen an hour ago, low in the sky and nearly full. Thanks to the work Clementine had done, he could see it through the orchard canopy. She’d trimmed back the trees, pulled up weeds and undergrowth, and revealed straight rows, carefully planted decades ago. Soon, leaves would sprout on the barren branches. Flowers would bud and bloom. In the fall, there’d be glossy apples peeking out from between green leaves.

  And, God willing, Sunday would be better.

  He frowned, moving through the orchard and into the field beyond. The tractor was a hundred yards away, abandoned in the middle of the half-plowed acreage, a toolbox sitting beside it.

  He opened the lid, eyeing the mismatched, rusted contents.

  “Not very pretty, are they?” Clementine called from the fence line.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked, closing the lid and watching as she walked toward him. Glided toward him?

  He supposed it was a trick of the moonlight and the flowy light-colored sweater she wore, but she seemed to float above the rich, dark soil.

  “I was working on the tractor. Then I heard you talking to your brother and decided I had some pressing business to attend far away from your conversation.”

  “In other words, you were trying not to eavesdrop?”

  “Exactly.” She opened the toolbox and took out a screwdriver. “Now, I’m going to get back to work.”

  “You do realize it’s after midnight, right?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and the tractor was riding rough this afternoon. I figured this was as good a time as any to take a look.”

  She pulled a flashlight from the pocket of her sweater and trained it on the tractor’s engine. “I think I know what the problem is. It’s just a matter of fixing it.”

  “Here. Let me.” He slipped the light from her hand, training it on the engine as she worked.

  “You know,” she said, pokin
g at something with the screwdriver, “sound travels far on nights like this. When the air is dry and cool with winter, whispers can carry on the breath of a night breeze and land in the ear of a sleeping man.”

  “Is that your way of telling me you heard my conversation?” he asked, amused by the wording. Intrigued by her.

  Surprised by both.

  “How’d you guess?” She grinned, the beam of the flashlight illuminating her smooth skin and dark hair, softening the angle of her jaw and her cheekbones, turning her interesting features into something so beautiful his breath caught and his heart stopped.

  She was a woman dressed in flannel pajamas, knee-high waders, and a calf-length white sweater, for God’s sake. No makeup. No fancy hairstyle. Just curls caught up in a twist near her nape and dark lashes long enough to cast shadows on her cheeks.

  “Just that intuitive, I guess,” he responded, and maybe she heard something in his voice, a hint of the sudden hot desire pulsing through his blood.

  She straightened, pulling her sweater closed around green and red flannel.

  “This probably isn’t the right time to be doing this,” she said, setting the screwdriver in the toolbox.

  “Are we still talking about fixing the tractor?” he asked, dropping the beam of light so it was aimed at the ground.

  “What else is there?”

  “Two people standing in the moonlight,” he said. “Trying to fix themselves.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say, Porter.” She laughed, the sound hollow and humorless.

  “Maybe, but it’s also the truth, right? You’re trying to fix whatever broke inside you when your marriage ended. I’m trying to make amends for a past I had no control over.”

  “Nothing broke when my marriage ended,” she responded, her voice even and controlled, every word carefully enunciated.

  “Not even your heart?”

  She snorted. “God! No! My heart wasn’t nearly as involved as it probably should have been.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say, Clementine.”

  She smiled. “Touché. Come on. It’s cold out here. If we’re going to chat, we may as well do it on the way to my place. Unless you think one of the kids is going to make a grand escape while you’re away. If you do, feel free to head back inside.”

  “I’ve alarmed all the doors and windows. If one of them tries to leave, I’ll know it.”