Love Will Find a Way

by Barbara Freethy

  "Hot and hearty and plenty of it."

  "Then we'll go to Shenanigans. Uncle Harry serves up a mean Irish stew."

  "Uncle Harry? Is everyone in this town related to you?"

  "Just about."

  "How did Uncle Harry escape the apple-farm tour of duty?"

  "He married my Aunt Shannon, whose father used to run Shenanigans before she married my Uncle Harry. They contributed most of my cousins, by the way. They had nine children and now have a bunch of grandchildren, too."

  "Sounds like a lot of shenanigans were going on in their house."

  "Very funny. By the way, I did what you asked. I went through all the boxes and closets in the house."

  "And?"

  "The Goodwill people are going to love me and the garbage man is going to kill me. But I didn't find anything, Dylan, not even in the boxes from Gary's apartment. What do you think we should do next?"

  "I think we should have dinner."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "I know, but for the moment, it's all I can handle. Your kid wore me out."

  "Poor baby. I thought you said real men loved to camp."

  "Real men don't have to take seven different eight-year-olds to the outhouse seven different times during the middle of the night."

  "What about the other dads?"

  "They seemed to be dead asleep. Nothing could rouse them."

  "The old possum trick," she said with a nod. "Gary said they did it to him the first time he went on the camp-out, too. Some of those dads have older boys."

  Dylan laughed. "The old possum trick? I should have figured that one out. I'm an idiot."

  "No, you're not an idiot." She reached out and touched his shoulder. "You're a nice guy. A really nice guy."

  * * *

  Nice guy -- the kiss of death, Dylan thought, still thinking about Rachel's comment as he dipped his overly large spoon into a huge bowl of Irish stew at Shenanigans. No self-respecting guy ever aspired to be nice. Successful, charming, good-looking, maybe even a little bad, but nice -- she might as well have told him she thought of him as a brother.

  "How's the stew?" Rachel asked.

  "Huh?"

  "The stew. You were scowling at it like something tasted really awful."

  "It's fine. I was thinking about something else."

  "Want to share?"

  "Not really. How about some more bread?"

  She pushed the basket of warm rolls across the table and watched while he slathered a piece with some particularly fine-tasting garlic butter.

  "This is great," he mumbled, his mouth still full.

  "I'm glad you like it. So was the camping trip a pain?"

  "No, it was fun. I had a good time."

  "Really? Or are you just being nice again?"

  "I am not nice," he grumbled. "Stop saying that."

  "It's a compliment."

  "Not to a guy it's not."

  She rolled her eyes. "I will never understand men if I live to be a hundred."

  "We're not the mysterious ones. That's you and your female cohorts."

  "Is that something you men came up with at the campfire after the boys were in bed? Gary used to say that the dads gossiped like a bunch of hens at the campfire."

  "Men don't gossip. We share information."

  "Good. Then how about sharing some of that information with me?" She leaned forward, and he felt a catch in his chest as her blond hair caught the light and her blue eyes sparkled. She really was a beautiful woman, not the pretty young girl he remembered but a woman with life and love sharpening her features, adding wisdom to her eyes and tenderness to her smile.

  "Dylan, I asked you a question," she said.

  "Sorry. I got distracted."

  "By what?"

  "You."

  "Oh."

  He smiled at the familiar flush that crept up her cheeks. "There it goes again, like a red flag saying stay back."

  She put her glass of water to her cheeks. "It's warm in here, don't you think?"

  "It's always warm when we're together."

  "I think you're trying to distract me from my question. What happened at the campfire? Did the other dads wonder who you were and why you were there?"

  "Let's see... there were the usual questions, nothing too intense. I did have a private chat with Lance, the pharmacist."

  "He's a good guy. Gary liked him a lot."

  "Lance liked Gary, too." Dylan paused. "He did say something, Rachel. It's probably completely irrelevant, but it made me wonder."

  "What?"

  "He said Gary told him he'd been under a lot of stress and had had some chest pain."

  "Chest pain? You mean like a heart attack?"

  "Just some pain, tightness. I think it was probably stress. Lance told Gary to see a doctor. Do you know if he did?"

  Rachel thought about that for a moment. "Yes, I think so. He had a doctor in the city, a woman. Her last name was Flanders. I could check the bills again, see when he last went in. He didn't have regular checkups, but I know he mentioned seeing her a couple of times."

  "It's something to look into."

  "Why? I don't see the connection. Oh …"

  He saw the light come on in her eyes. "If he wasn't feeling well as he came down the mountain –"

  "He could have swerved across the divider or lost control of the car," she finished. "Maybe that's it, Dylan. Maybe we've been going down the wrong road."

  "It's possible. It doesn't explain the rest, but..."

  "You mean Laura."

  "Yes. We still have to figure out her place in all this. Hey, you better eat; you still have a full bowl."

  "I'm not that hungry," she said.

  "Sorry. We should have saved this conversation for later."

  "It's fine. I'm saving too many things for later as it is."

  "Like what?"

  "Wesley."

  "What's wrong with Wesley?"

  "Nothing's wrong. Everything is right, too right." She folded her hands on the table. "Okay, here's the deal. I met with Wesley's teacher on Monday and she told me that Wesley is a genius."

  He relaxed at her words. "I told you he was a smart kid."

  "He's not just a smart kid. He's reading at a high school level and doing math problems that no one has taught him how to do. And his writing is way up there, too."

  "Wow, that's amazing. Great, though."

  "It would be great, but Mrs. Harrington says Wesley needs a special school for gifted children so he can be truly challenged and still be in an environment appropriate for his age and emotional development. Needless to say, there aren't any such schools around here."

  "Where are they? San Francisco?"

  "And other big cities. But I can't move Wesley. I can't uproot him. This is where he feels safe and loved."

  Now he saw her problem, and saw it more clearly than she had probably intended. "This is where you feel safe and loved," he said quietly "Isn't that the real problem?"

  "I'm a horrible person," she whispered, "always putting myself before everyone else. I've got to stop doing that."

  "You're not a horrible person. You've made a good life for yourself here, and you don't want to leave."

  "But by staying I might be denying Wesley the education he deserves."

  "You know what?"

  "What?"

  "You need some time to think about what you want to do. It's been a rough year. Give yourself a break. You don't have to do anything about Wesley's schooling right this second, do you?"

  "Not this second, but probably sooner than I want, which would be when Wesley is eighteen years old. I'm not even sure I'll be able to let him go then. Carly seems to think my hold on people is the same as a death grip."

  He gave her a grin. "What do younger sisters know?"

  "More than you wish they knew."

  "True."

  "Are you close to any of your stepsisters?"

  "Grace and I keep in touch. She's the baby of the family. She
never knew a life without me in it, so she accepted me as her brother. The other two always felt like I was an interloper."

  "Where is Grace now?"

  "San Diego. She's a mom, has a two-year-old of her own. Married a great guy. And they'll live happily ever after."

  "You could have the same."

  He laughed. "Not tonight I couldn't."

  "I wasn't talking about tonight."

  "Well, that's all I want to think about right now. In fact, I have another idea."

  "Another one," she groaned. "I don't think I can handle any more of your ideas."

  "This one is easy. Darts."

  "Darts?"

  "Gary said you were pretty good, but I have my doubts." He tipped his head toward the dartboard in the corner of the bar area. "What do you say?"

  "I'd say I'd have to know if the stakes were worth playing for."

  "Stakes, huh? Five dollars?"

  "I don't think so."

  "A hundred bucks."

  "Jeez, how about something in between?"

  "What do you want, then?"

  She leaned forward slightly. He could see the swell of her breasts as her low-cut blouse shifted slightly. His body immediately tightened. He didn't know what the hell she wanted, but he knew what he wanted.

  "A dance," she said.

  "I don't dance."

  "To my choice on the jukebox."

  "And if I win?"

  "Well, if you really want to waste time thinking about that possibility..."

  "You go flying with me," he said with a snap of his fingers. "One hour over your apple farm and your beautiful valley."

  She tensed. "I don't think so."

  "Hey, I thought you were confident," he challenged.

  "I am, but I don't want to fly."

  "Why not? Are you afraid of crashing? Because I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

  "I like my feet on the ground."

  "You won't know you love flying until you try it. Hey, you're not going to lose anyway, right?"

  "That's right. Fine. You're on." She got up from the table and pointed to the opposite wall. "By the way, see that board over there?"

  Dylan turned his head to see a list of names on a plaque, one name repeated over and over again, Rachel's name.

  "Five years running. Annual Darts Champion," she said with a confident smile of her own. "I'll get the darts from Uncle Harry. You better warm up. Make sure you have a steady hand."

  He wanted to tell her that he was already warm. He took another drink, finishing the beer in his glass. So much for a steady hand. Hell, who was he kidding? His hands hadn't been steady since Rachel had come back into his life.

  Rachel handed him the darts a few minutes later. "What do you want to play? Three-zero-one, Cricket?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "I assume those are games."

  "Yes, they're games. Three-zero-one begins by hitting a double. Then the score is determined by subtracting from three-zero-one the score of each dart thrown. You have to reduce your score to exactly zero to win."

  "That sounds complicated."

  "You can go first. I'll explain as we go."

  "Maybe I don't want to go first," he said warily. "I sense you have a strategy."

  "And I sense you're chicken," she said with a little laugh.

  "Okay, now I'm mad."

  "So get even. Beat me."

  "Maybe I will."

  "I doubt it."

  "Awfully cocky, aren't you? How about we do just three darts, high score wins?"

  "Fine. Throw your first dart. Show me up."

  He rotated his arm a few times in an exaggerated warm-up. "The center dot is what I want, right?" he asked.

  "It's called a bull's-eye, remember?"

  "It's coming back to me." He drew his arm back and threw. He hit the bull's-eye dead center and heard Rachel gasp at the same time the dart stuck in the board. He turned his head to see her jaw drop.

  "What was that?" she demanded.

  "I think it was a bull's-eye. Actually, I think it was a double bull's-eye."

  "And I think you've been hustling me."

  "Me?" he asked innocently. "Hustling the five-time world champion?"

  "Hardly world," she said, annoyed with herself for having believed his innocent routine. The man had already demonstrated his prowess with a paper airplane. She should have figured he'd be just as good at darts. "Go on, let's see what else you've got. Maybe you were just lucky."

  He quirked an eyebrow at that. "Luck had nothing to do with it. It's all skill."

  "We'll see." But as Rachel watched him pull back his arm and take aim, she began to worry. If he did somehow beat her, she'd have to go up in an airplane with him. She didn't want to do that. She couldn't. So she cleared her throat just as he threw. It startled him enough to hit the outer ring, worth only eighteen points.

  "You did that on purpose," he accused.

  "I had something stuck in my throat."

  "Yeah, it was your pride. But I've still got one dart left." He twirled it in his fingers. "Want me to try it with my eyes closed this time?"

  What she wanted was to find his arrogant smile irritating, but in truth she was enjoying this relaxed side of Dylan. He was clearly having a good time. Of course, it was at her expense, she reminded herself. And if he didn't mess up this last shot, she had a terrible feeling she'd be soaring over the valley as early as tomorrow. She simply could not let him win. Drastic measures were called for. But what?

  He was looking at her, waiting for her to make some remark about his dare. "Actually, I don't want you to close your eyes at all," she said, her fingers rolling around the top button of her shirt. In one quick movement, she undid it, impulsively revealing the top of her lacy white bra. It was the most audacious thing she could do. But it had the desired effect. Dylan's eyes fixed on her fingers as they played with the next button on her shirt. "Go ahead, take your last shot."

  He started, as if he'd suddenly remembered where they were. When he drew his arm back, it was nowhere near as steady as it had been. The last dart went wide of the board altogether.

  "Oh, too bad," she said. "But still a good score." She walked over to the board and removed the darts.

  "That wasn't fair. You distracted me. And I must say I'm shocked."

  She laughed at his outrage. "All's fair."

  "In love and war. Which is this?"

  She ignored that question. "My turn." She threw her first dart before he could do anything to distract her. "Bull's-eye."

  "Not bad," he said grudgingly. "But you've got to hit at least two more to beat me."

  "How about this one?" she said, landing her second shot with unerring accuracy. Of course, Dylan didn't know how many hours she'd spent playing darts while growing up.

  "You know I can't dance," he told her. "I'll probably step all over your feet. Unless, of course, you hold me real close."

  "I don't think so."

  "What do you think about this, then?" His hand dropped to his belt buckle. "Tit for tat?"

  She swallowed hard as her gaze traveled to the very male bulge just below his fingers. "You wouldn't dare." She looked around, ready to point out all the people watching them. Unfortunately, no one was. The nearby pool table was empty, same with the dance floor, and the other dinner customers were seated across the room. Still, she felt compelled to utter another protest. "You could be arrested for indecent exposure."

  "And you could be arrested for looking," he said, reminding her that she was now indeed fixating on a very personal part of his anatomy.

  She immediately turned away. She took a deep breath. Focus, concentrate. Hit your mark. The commands ran through her brain, and she drew her hand back and threw, a perfect shot to the center.

  "Well," Dylan drawled. "I guess your concentration is better than mine."

  "Well," she echoed. "I guess it is. I believe this is my dance." She walked over to the jukebox and studied the songs listed. Something fast and upbeat. That's
what she wanted, nothing slow, nothing where they'd have to hold each other.

  Dylan joined her a moment later. "You know, flying is really incredible."

  "A bet's a bet. Are you a sore loser?"

  "I wouldn't know. I don't usually lose," he grumbled.

  "I believe that," she said. "But you lost this time."

  "And you cheated by giving me a peep show."

  She laughed at the disgruntled look on his face. "Men are so easy. One little glance at a bra strap and you completely lose your concentration."

  "I didn't lose it. It just went somewhere else," he replied, dropping his gaze to her breasts, which unexpectedly began to tingle. "I could show you some real concentration if you'd give me a chance."

  "Are you flirting with me?"

  "Hey, I'm not the one showing my underwear."

  For a split second, she wondered whether he wore boxers or briefs.

  "Boxers," he said.

  "I was not thinking that," she lied.

  "Red polka dots."

  "No way."

  "What about you? Sexy thong or practical cotton?"

  "I am not discussing my underwear with you."

  "Then you shouldn't have brought it up."

  "I need a quarter," she said.

  "What?" he asked mockingly. "You need a quarter to show me your underwear?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. That would cost a lot more. I need a quarter to play a song so we can dance. Don't think by distracting me that I've forgotten our bet."

  "The bet was for a dance, not a quarter. If you don't have a coin, that's not my problem."

  "Fine, I'll get one myself." She walked over to their table and dug into the bottom of her purse. Sure enough, a loose quarter. She held it up triumphantly. "I found one."

  "Great," he said with a dismal sigh.

  She popped the quarter into the machine and selected the funniest, most amusing song she could find. " 'Saturday Night Fever' okay?" she asked. "Do you have your best John Travolta moves ready to go?"

  He groaned. "You did not pick that."

  "Oh, but I did." She stopped abruptly as a song began to play, but not the one she'd requested. This one was slow and romantic and sensuous.

  "A love song?" Dylan asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "This isn't the right one."

  "Well, it's the one that's playing, and this is our dance. Come here," he said softly, holding out his hands.

  "I picked a fast one."