Thanksgiving Groom

by Brenda Minton

  “Or your own.”

  “You got it, Penny.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine. Penelope. Do people in Treasure Creek know who you are?”

  She shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. It isn’t like there’s a magazine, Heiress Quarterly, or some other ridiculous thing that tells about my life. No, I didn’t openly offer my life story to everyone in town. Some knew without me saying a word. A few didn’t have a clue and I didn’t give them one.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? Do you understand how wonderful it was to eat in a diner and not be recognized? I checked into the Inn and the clerk gave me a room with a view of the building next door. It was wonderful”

  “Great.” If an heiress wasn’t bad enough, make her an heiress wanting to be normal, the type who kicked off the glass slipper and refused to kiss the handsome prince.

  The handsome prince thought made him a little uncomfortable because just thinking about her as Cinderella made him envision himself as the prince she might kiss. That had to be proof that it was about time for him to head back for the real world. He was starting to think in terms of fairy tales, and that couldn’t be good for a man his age.

  So think of something else. He shifted his gaze away from the Shearling coat in front of him and shifted his mind back to the footprints he’d seen.

  She kept walking, and he let her get ahead of him. It gave him time to think in silence. It gave him a chance to study their surroundings, to look for anything out of place. Why would anyone want to follow Penelope Lear?

  Maybe it was someone who knew what she was worth. Or knew what her father was worth? Maybe someone bent on kidnapping an heiress for a hefty ransom?

  If she kept talking, kept getting under his skin, he might turn her over to whoever was after her. No, of course he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of man. He’d spent last night pacing the floor after having nightmares about a young woman who had lost her life too soon.

  He didn’t want to have nightmares about Penelope being kidnapped. She might be a thorn in his side and the last woman he wanted to be stuck with out here, but he would keep her safe.

  And the less talking they did, the better.

  “Why are you walking so slowly?” She paused on the trail and waited for him to catch up. “Thinking.”

  She nodded and didn’t push. Instead she trudged on in front of him and left him with his thoughts, which now turned to his dad.

  They hadn’t talked much in the last few years.

  His dad should have told him that a bone marrow transplant might save his life. No matter how stubborn the two of them had been, Tucker would have been there for his father. He would have given his marrow and then some to save his dad’s life.

  It had been the two of them for so long. The two of them against the world, until Tucker had decided to go to Seattle and find his mother. That’s when his dad had dug in his heels. He claimed that Tucker had picked money and possessions over family, just like his mother had when she’d run off and left them.

  There hadn’t been a way to convince the old fisherman otherwise.

  Tucker walked next to Penelope and she reached with her free hand to touch his, not holding it just letting her fingers drift over his. He glanced down and she smiled up at him, as if they were old friends.

  For a second, a rare second, he considered that.

  The moment didn’t last, though. If he said a word, she’d have more questions. She’d dig deeper. That’s the kind of female she was, the kind who wanted to explore all of the touchy-feely emotions she thought everyone was hiding.

  “When we get to the house, I’ll clean the fish and you should go sit down and put your foot up.”

  She nodded a little. “Probably a good idea.”

  “What? No arguing?”

  “No arguing.”

  She had slowed. He had been so busy thinking about his dad, about the young woman, Anna, he hadn’t noticed. Now that he did, he also saw the tight line of pain around her mouth.

  But she hadn’t complained.

  He was having a difficult time shoving her into the box he thought she should fit into. He’d had her pegged as another silly socialite. But maybe there was more to Penelope than he’d given her credit for.

  Not that he was interested. He’d had enough of her kind. He figured she’d probably had enough of his. In her world, his kind were a dime a dozen.

  Penelope paused at the bottom of the steps that led to the back door and into the kitchen. Her ankle throbbed and her arm was sore from the crutch. She leaned on it and looked up and she didn’t want to walk up the three steps that would get her to the door.

  “You going to make it?” Tucker held the stringer of fish and her pole. She tried to tell herself this was the lawyer whose picture she’d seen in town. Today he looked like one of the tour guides that had women flocking to Treasure Creek. He was denim, flannel and all male.

  “Of course.” She managed a smile because she didn’t need his help. He had that detached look in his eyes. She knew his kind. He had other things on his mind. He probably didn’t realize they were having a conversation.

  She knew because she’d seen that look in her father’s eyes. All of her life she’d had conversations with men who didn’t really listen.

  “I’m going inside.” She made it up the first step and paused. With her hand on the rail she pushed herself forward, getting to step number two.

  “Oh, good grief.” From behind her he scooped her up and held her close. “I’ll carry you inside, you stubborn female.”

  Penelope closed her eyes and nodded, not to hide from the pain, but to hide from those eyes of his. Because he looked impatient, but he also looked as if he cared. And he was strong.

  He carried her down the hall of the darkened cabin, toward the glowing light of the kitchen and the warmth of the wood stove. She leaned into him, her hands on his shoulders. He had left the fishing pole and stringer of fish, but he smelled of the outdoors.

  Wilma Johnson was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked up when they walked through the door. Penelope focused her attention on the older woman, who moved from her chair, pushing another chair out. Tucker sat Penelope down.

  “What happened?” Wilma slid another chair out and pointed for Penelope to rest her foot.

  “Nothing, just too much walking.” Tucker was backing toward the door. “I have fish to clean.”

  “I’ll take care of her for you.” Wilma bustled around the kitchen.

  “She isn’t mine.” He walked out the door.

  “Such a grouch,” Wilma mumbled as she bustled around the room. “I have tea. Would you like hot tea?”

  “That would be great. I’m freezing.” Penelope wanted to get up, to get her own tea. “I don’t want to be waited on.”

  How could she find a new life if this was always going to be her story: people waiting on her, treating her like the heiress, the woman who couldn’t take care of herself.

  “I know you don’t want to be waited on.” Wilma lifted the teapot from the top of the stove and poured amber liquid into a tiny, porcelain cup. “Honey, you’re hurt. When you’re able, I know you’ll help out around here. And the more you rest, the sooner that will be. You’ll let the men go fishing tomorrow.”

  “Do you plan to stay here long?” Penelope hadn’t meant to push or to pry. But the simple question made Wilma turn away, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I’m not sure yet. We’re still searching for…”

  Searching for what? The way back to Treasure Creek? No, she thought they all knew the way back. But she took Tucker’s advice and she didn’t push. Whatever the Johnsons were going through, it was obviously a difficult situation.

  It made Penelope’s situation look simple, easy. Her dad had picked a wealthy man as a suitable match for her. Most women would probably love to have her problems. It was hard for her to consider it a problem when she looked at what the people in Treasure Creek we
re going through. Amy had lost her husband. People’s businesses were struggling. Tucker hadn’t reached his father before he died. The Johnsons, she didn’t know their story, but she knew the wounded look in their eyes.

  Prayer was new to her life. It had happened back in Treasure Creek, at the back of the little community church, while the congregation sang a song of redemption. She had found faith, found God and found something that finally filled the emptiness that she had tried for years to fill in other ways.

  “Would you like to help me peel potatoes?” Wilma set the cup of tea in front of her. “I mean, after you drink your tea. I thought we might have potato soup for dinner tonight. Instead, we’ll fry potatoes to go with the fish.”

  “Of course I can help.” She’d never peeled a potato in her life, but she could do it.

  Wilma smiled. “That’s wonderful. I’ll get things ready and we’ll peel potatoes and talk.”

  Penelope sat back in her chair, the warm cup of tea held in her hands. She watched Wilma scurry around the kitchen, pulling things from drawers and cabinets, not at all upset by the lack of electricity or running water. Penelope tried to picture her own mother in this kitchen, doing these things. The image didn’t work.

  Penelope’s mother had never “roughed it.” The surprise would be that Penelope had. But her adventures were her business.

  “Here you go, a knife and potatoes.” Mrs. Johnson set a bowl on the table. “To put them in after they’re peeled.”

  Penelope picked up the knife and the first potato.

  Okay, not a problem. Peel the potato. She glanced across the table at Wilma, who had a potato in her hand and was circling it with the knife. Easy-peasy.

  The first potato disappeared with the peel. The five-inch spud turned into a three-inch dagger-looking thing. She’d do better on the next one.

  She chopped it up and tossed it in the bowl and then reached for the next potato.

  “Haven’t cooked much?” Wilma chopped her potato into the bowl.

  “Not much at all. I can make a mean cup of single-pod coffee.”

  “That’s a skill.” The male voice behind her was laced with sarcasm. She shifted and shot him a look that was also considered a skill.

  He didn’t wither.

  Instead, he laughed a little. The sound was as delicious, maybe more so, than the cup of coffee she’d been dreaming about a moment earlier. Smooth, a little sweet, and it could warm a person down to the middle. She turned back to the potato she held and he stepped closer.

  “Leave some of the potato behind and we’ll consider you a pro,” he teased with a smile that matched the laugh.

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

  Tucker crossed the kitchen with the bowl of fish. Penelope lifted her gaze to watch. She watched him pour water over the fish, and then he poured it over his hands. Without turning, he tended the stove. He shoved pieces of wood onto the embers, poked them, watched as they flamed and then closed the door.

  When he turned to face them his face was ruddy from the wind outside and the heat of the stove. His sandy brown hair distracted her, because it was a shade darker than the beginnings of a beard that covered his jawline.

  Why, oh why did a man’s mouth look like that when it was framed by whiskers?

  “Something on your mind?” He winked, then reached into a drawer, pulling out a paring knife.

  “Nope.” She anchored her attention back on the potato-peeling business and ignored the sigh from Wilma.

  Tucker pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. Sat down, his shoulder close to hers, his scent all masculine and outdoors sifting around her, blending with the wood smoke.

  “Why are we peeling potatoes? Didn’t you have faith in our ability to bring home fish?” He shot the question at Wilma.

  “Of course I had faith. But I also have the good sense to be prepared.” Wilma smiled sweetly and kept peeling. “And potatoes are always good. Rather than the soup I planned, I’ll fry them. Where’s that husband of mine?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Saw him out by the shed.”

  Noncommittal. Penelope wondered what he wasn’t saying. For a lawyer, he was a man of few words. Maybe that was for the best.

  But why did he need to be noncommittal about Clark being near the woodshed? There were too many secrets floating around here, and not just hers. She’d seen the two men earlier that morning walking around the side of the house, pointing at something. When she’d peeked out the front door they scuffed around in the snow and headed back to the wood they’d been chopping.

  Chapter Five

  Tucker watched the women peel a few potatoes and then made the excuse that he needed to do something outside. What he needed was a few minutes of not sharing space with people. More specifically with a person.

  He found Clark outside, looking off into the woods, his cap pulled low, with the flaps covering his ears. The older man turned, his eyes dark and troubled in a face that was weathered and worn. But he smiled more these days. Tucker wondered if it was about faith? The older couple had been bitter when he first showed up here at their hideaway.

  They’d welcomed him, of course, but they’d been hurting and looking for a way to get back to faith. Because they had trusted God and thought He had let them down.

  Tucker hadn’t really blamed his pain on God. He had blamed himself, thinking he should have been able to do something. He should have done what needed to be done—for his dad. For a young girl whose life was taken too soon. He should have done more to protect them, not done more for himself.

  He stood next to Clark, sighing and breathing in frigid air. Dusk was already falling and the gray sky was getting darker.

  “Who do you think is out there?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Not a clue, but it has something to do with her.”

  “Yeah, the two kind of showed up together.”

  Penelope and trouble seemed to go hand in hand.

  “I’ll give her ankle a few more days to heal and then I’ll have to walk her out of here. I guess I can’t run from my life forever.”

  Clark nodded, he flashed Tucker a quick look and then his gaze shot back to the woods. “I know. We’ve been out here for half of a year. Half a year of praying and trying to find peace. Our son was going to serve God, and instead God took him. I keep thinking about all of our prayers going unanswered. I know better, Tucker, I know God wasn’t ignoring us. And for years I’ve preached a good sermon about God’s will and finding peace in His will. But here I am…”

  “Human?”

  Clark smiled when he looked at Tucker and Tucker felt a lift in his own spirits. He gave God some credit for the plane engine failing at just the right minute for him to land in the lake close to this cabin. He didn’t know where he’d have gone if that hadn’t happened.

  “Tucker, I’ve been angry with God for a good long while. Or hurt. I guess I felt like a friend let me down. A friend I’ve always trusted.”

  “I get that.” Hadn’t he felt a little of the same when his mom left them?

  “Wilma and I keep praying, trying to decide what to do. It’s been hard, thinking about going back to the mission field.”

  “So you’re going back when I take her out of here?”

  “We’ll discuss it and let you know.”

  “I’m not crazy about leaving the two of you out here alone.” Tucker couldn’t look at Clark, but he knew Clark would smile.

  “We won’t be alone.”

  “I guess you won’t.” Tucker shoved his hands into his pockets and tried not to think about feeling alone. He’d never been more alone in his life than the day he realized his dad wouldn’t be calling him anymore. He would never have another chance to make amends.

  What a crazy way to leave things, with anger over his dad choosing to buy a home in Treasure Creek. Stubborn. They’d both had a hand in the rift. They’d both been stubborn and unwilling to yield.

  “Tucker, the pain doesn’t last forever.” Clark must have gue
ssed his thoughts. The older man was good at that, at reading Tucker’s expression. “Sure.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t believe me if I said that someday you’ll look back and see what God was doing with all of this mess.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t had my ‘aha’ moment yet, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “You could call it that.”

  Tucker pushed down a load of guilt and anger, mixed in with a reasonable amount of pain. Those were the moments he was having, and there was nothing ‘aha’ about it. Two people had died. One that he should have been there for. One that he hadn’t known.

  “Do you think we’ll be able to get Penelope back to Treasure Creek?” Clark asked as he turned back to the house with Tucker following.

  The two of them walked slow in the cool night air. “Does that mean you’re going?”

  “If we go, I should have said.”

  “We’ll have to go slow. The road should be less than three days’ walk. From there we can probably get a ride.”

  “We have the tent, plenty of food and warm sleeping bags. We’ll have to carry quite a bit of our supplies.”

  “I have a good pack. Hopefully, this weather will hold.”

  “We can pray.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fish for dinner?” Clark climbed the stairs, pausing on the porch to wait for Tucker.

  Tucker turned his attention back to his friend. “Yeah, fish and potatoes.”

  “I thought I smelled something good.” Clark opened the front door. “I don’t know if our guests are still around, but let’s keep the women inside unless we go out with them.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “I’ll be in shortly.”

  Clark stood in the doorway, letting out a small shaft of yellow light from one of the lanterns in the hall. “Wilma will put your plate on the stove.”

  “She doesn’t have to.”

  “But she will.”

  The door closed with a soft thud. Tucker stood on the porch, looking out into the darkened woods. Nothing but silence, the occasional screech of a bird or some other wild animal and emptiness. It should have made him feel alone. Instead he felt a presence that settled over his heart, pushing at him to acknowledge something long forgotten that had been buried so deep inside him that he’d stopping thinking about it—about faith.