The kitchen clock echoed in the stillness. It ticked off the seconds. Many seconds.
Annie stirred. She raised her head, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“What—did you do? What—things did you do when you stopped playing baseball?” She said the words slowly, almost unwillingly.
“Oh.” Rachel smiled reassuringly. “I’m a gardener. I love to plant things and watch them grow. How about you? What does Annie Grayson do besides draw pictures?”
Rachel could almost see the child shrink before her. The little girl shook her head. “Daddy says I’m good at lots of things, but—he’s my daddy. You know?”
She did know. Sam would probably be proud of his daughter no matter what she did, and that was good. Wonderful. But right now Annie needed a big dose of self-confidence. And it had to come from within.
“I understand just how much your daddy loves you,” Rachel agreed. “But there must be things you like to do. What would you be doing if you weren’t drawing right now?”
Annie looked down at the picture on the table helplessly. Rachel prayed that the child would be able to come up with something.
“Do you like to build things? Or maybe you like to make things out of clay? Or maybe you’re a collector?” Rachel suggested. If it took all day she would come up with something that Annie could call her own talent, her own skill.
Sadly Annie shook her head. “I have dolls and stuffed animals, but I—mostly I like to read and tell stories to Janey and Zach,” she said hesitantly. “And they’re just babies.”
But Rachel felt an incredibly tiny glow bud within her heart. She smiled. “So you’re a storyteller, a writer, Annie Grayson. That’s a wonderful way to spend your time.”
Annie was shaking her head sadly. “I don’t write them down.”
“You don’t have to,” Rachel agreed. “There are many storytellers in the world who only say their stories out loud. We’ll go to the library and look some up. I’ll show you.”
Hanging on tightly to the now bending crayon, Annie looked up hopefully. “I’m a storyteller?”
“I’d bet my life on it, sweetheart, if that’s what you like to do.”
Annie clutched her crayon more fiercely. She sucked in her bottom lip so tightly that the fragile skin on her chin turned white.
“I—I think I should just keep drawing,” she said, lowering her head so that her hair suddenly swung down, concealing her face from Rachel. Slowly the child forced the crayon across her paper. Her hunched shoulders invited no more intervention.
With a sigh Rachel stood. She couldn’t bring herself to push any more. She respected the child’s rights too much for that. But it was hard to walk away from Annie, knowing she was beating up on herself for her mother’s desertion. So very hard.
Still, she did just that. She got up, forced herself to get busy doing things around the house. She took the begonia sitting on the window ledge and cleared it of dead foliage. Humming softly the way she always did, once she retreated into her favorite tasks, she found the pretty blue ceramic pot she’d brought from home, grabbed some newspapers and began to transplant the flower from the overcrowded, ugly green plastic number it had come in to the bigger, brighter one. Once the plant was seated in its new home, she filled a dipper of water and splashed some over the soil.
“There you go,” she said, setting it back on the ledge as she began to clean up the mess.
“Rachel?” Annie’s tiny voice came from behind Rachel, and she spun around to see the child still clutching the same crayon she had picked up earlier. The briefest of glances revealed that the little girl had not drawn a thing. She was gazing intently at the plant on the window ledge.
“It’s pretty,” she said simply. And then, “Do you really think I could be a storyteller?”
Something warm and melting released deep within Rachel, a bit of soft, spring snow sliding, dropping from a high, cold mountaintop onto the sun-soaked earth below.
“I think you can, Annie. I’m absolutely sure of it,” she said softly, unable and unwilling to keep from smiling. “You already are a storyteller. Just ask Janey and Zach.”
“I could write my stories down, couldn’t I?”
“Absolutely. If you wanted to,” Rachel agreed.
A small light began to creep into Annie’s eyes. Her lips curved ever so slightly. “Could you—do you think maybe you could help me with spelling? I still don’t spell too good.”
Her heart crying tears of relief, Rachel gave a small, tight nod. “I’ll get some paper.”
But as she started to leave, Annie pushed her chair back.
“Rachel?”
Rachel froze in mid-stride. “Yes, Annie?”
“Do you ever play baseball anymore?”
With a small sigh, Rachel nodded slowly. “Sometimes, at family picnics or on the Fourth of July. Just because I moved on to other things doesn’t mean I gave up that part of my life completely, Annie. Besides, I did it for so long that I did become rather good at it. It would be a shame to waste all those years of practice.”
Annie pursed her lips. She nodded. “Even if you really like to plant things the most?”
“Even then.”
Placing her crayons back in the box, Annie took a deep breath. “Maybe I would like to plant things, too.”
Rachel reached out and picked up a crayon that Annie had missed. She held it out to the child with a smile. “Then we’ll have to do that, won’t we? Definitely, Annie.”
And together they searched out paper and pens. They sat down on some soft pillows Annie arranged on the floor in front of the coffee table. Because the pillows were more like the twins’ bed where she was used to telling her stories, Annie explained as she scribbled and Rachel spelled out the harder words.
By the time Sam came home there was a story, complete with pictures, bound in brightly colored cardboard, hanging on the refrigerator by a ribbon.
Shyly Annie showed him her accomplishment. “Rachel says that I’m a storyteller, Daddy.”
Rachel could feel the heat of Sam’s gaze before she even looked up.
“That’s wonderful praise, indeed, then, pumpkin. Rachel is a very wise woman.”
Raising her head, Rachel stared into Sam’s face. His right hand was on his daughter’s hair, his left hand held the thin booklet which Annie had retrieved from its spot on the fridge. His stance, his gestures, spoke of his love for his child, but his expression was for her, for Rachel. Intense, fire bright, his eyes registered his thanks, the fact that she’d chipped a tiny hole in Annie’s melancholy.
Rachel wanted to step close, to look even closer into those eyes that washed her with feeling. She wanted to lean away, remembering how his appreciation had left her reeling only a few nights ago. Sam was a passionate man, given to physical expression of his emotions. And she was a woman who had learned the hard way that there were things she could never have.
But Sam was here, staring at her and—she swayed slightly, shut her eyes against the rush of need that rose within her.
When she opened them two seconds later, Sam was seated at the table with Annie on his lap, listening to her read her story to him.
Rachel quietly left the room. She checked in on the twins and made her way back downstairs. She was just getting ready to leave when the doorbell rang.
Annie sprang up from her seat. She opened the door.
“Daddy’s sent you flowers, Rachel,” she announced. “Rachel likes plants.” Her voice was quiet but triumphant as she turned to her father. She held the paper-wrapped creation out to Rachel.
Sam had never been there when his gifts arrived before. With shaking fingers Rachel took Annie’s offering from her. She turned her back, went to the kitchen counter and opened the package to reveal a beautiful collection of mixed blossoms. Blush pink petals, rose, white, with brilliant saffron centers, their fragrance filled her senses, beckoned to her.
Closing her eyes briefly, Rachel breathed in the delicate fragrance. S
he touched her nose to the feathery petals and spun, prepared to do the proper thing and thank Sam.
But Sam had moved up beside her. He had seen her silly reaction to the flowers, and suddenly Rachel felt foolish. She knew hot color was tingeing her cheeks, probably turning them as rosy as the blossoms.
“You’re a very thoughtful employer, Sam,” she said, her voice just a trace too weak.
Sam’s lips quirked up in a half smile. “I’m a very grateful employer,” he said. “I’m an extremely happy father,” he admitted.
“They’re lovely,” she whispered, holding up the flowers so that they were positioned squarely between his lips and hers.
“They’re nothing,” he answered, holding up Annie’s storybook, and Rachel knew if Annie hadn’t been standing right there he would have said so much more. He felt that his offering paled compared to hers.
“They’re beautiful,” she insisted. “Thank you.”
“Could I smell?” Annie asked suddenly.
Grateful for the chance to break away from Sam’s mesmerizing gaze, Rachel looked down at the little girl. “Of course you may, Annie. Would you like one?”
Annie looked at the flowers eagerly, then shook her head. “They’re yours,” she said quietly.
But Rachel pulled a fat, dusky, pink-and-white blossom from the bunch. “Flowers are for giving, for sharing,” she said as she tucked it behind the child’s ear and Annie ran off to see if Janey and Zach were awake so they could see her prize.
“Giving,” Sam said quietly as Rachel watched the child race away. “That’s what you are, Rachel. A beautiful, giving miracle worker.” And following Rachel’s example, he plucked one full-blown blossom from the bunch. He raised it to her mouth, stroked it slowly across her lips, across her cheek, down the line of her jaw. He stroked the sensitive skin of her throat with the soft petals, then gently eased the blossom into her hair, placing it behind her ear.
Rachel’s throat felt like it was closing, her skin was aflame where he’d trailed the blossom across it. Swallowing hard, trying to press her desire down deep within her, to shatter it, she dragged her teeth across her lips.
Sam’s eyes darkened to midnight blue. He stepped closer.
She reached for the knob behind her. She held out the package of flowers. “I think you can stop sending these now, Sam. I’m going to run out of vases soon,” she said, trying to make her voice light and teasing.
At her tone he stepped back and away. “I’ll buy you more vases, Rachel,” he whispered. “If you recall, you suggested that I confine my thanks to flowers. And I do need to thank you.”
His low, seductive voice made Rachel feel as if every nerve ending she possessed was sizzling. “I’m—I’m glad I could help,” she managed, edging around the door.
She just wished to heaven that she could help herself—from feeling too much. If Sam would just cooperate, if he’d stop sending her flowers, if he’d just stop—being Sam, everything would be all right.
~ ~ ~
Sam studied the deep lavender of the orchids inhabiting the lacy china pot Cynthia was showing him and slowly nodded his approval. They were a touch more exotic than the blossoms he’d sent to Rachel thus far, but the shivering beauty of the delicate petals reminded him of her, even as he conceded that this might be a mistake. Cynthia was already jumping to conclusions about him and Rachel—the wrong conclusions. He wasn’t courting the lady.
“She’s taking care of my children like they were her own, Cynthia. Money just doesn’t seem like enough,” he said, trying to justify what he was doing when he couldn’t really even explain it to himself.
“I’m not saying anything, Sam,” Cynthia said, raising both brows, “but I’m sure a lot of other people have noticed all the time you’ve been spending here and all the flowers that have been flowing out to Rachel. None of my business, of course.”
Or anyone else’s either, and he wasn’t courting the woman. Even if he was interested in getting involved again, which he wasn’t, he’d be a fool to try with Rachel, according to Uncle Hal. Apparently every man in ten counties had tried to win her in the years since he’d been gone. Rachel was simply unwinnable. She apparently hadn’t met the right man. And considering his own past history with the woman, well...he wasn’t even thinking about getting in the long line of men waiting for Rachel.
The only reason he kept sending her these flowers when it made him look like a stupid dolt in the eyes of the world was because she seemed to enjoy them so much. That was all. He’d caught her leaning forward to breathe in their scent, he’d seen her smile when those flowers had arrived yesterday. A few baskets of blossoms and he could call forth the sweet, spontaneous enthusiasm of a Rachel he’d thought he’d known years ago—before she’d decided he made her uncomfortable.
“Catch you later, Cynthia,” he said, not bothering to elaborate on his thoughts. He had enough trouble dealing with his own questions regarding his motives without taking heat from anyone else.
And when he got home a half hour later, Sam had even more questions. Such as why was everything so quiet? Why was the house all locked up with no sign of Rachel’s little red hatchback? And where were his children?
Other men might have panicked, but Sam knew his kids were in good hands. It was just that he was used to coming home to smiles and hugs, and he was getting far too used to the sound of a woman’s musical voice greeting him every night.
Grumbling at the wayward thought, Sam fumbled for the key he hadn’t had to use lately. Pushing into the kitchen, which seemed suddenly too big and empty, he had barely located the note which read “Bak in tin minits” in Annie’s childish scribble when the roar of a car pulling into the drive drew his attention. Stepping out onto the porch, Sam watched as Annie jumped out of the passenger seat, running to the hatch of the car, hopping up and down on one foot with a level of excitement he hadn’t seen in months.
“Hi, Daddy,” she called, waving. “We got seeds. And flowers. And—and—what’s that stuff, Rachel?”
“Peat moss, angel,” Rachel answered, levering the front seat forward and leaning back to unclasp the catch that held Janey in place in her child seat. From where he stood, Sam got a first-class view of Rachel’s bottom snugged tight against her jeans. He felt like the top of his head was going to blow off. Quickly he plunked his Stetson back on and tilted the brim forward to block most of the enticing sight.
“Yes, Daddy, we got peat moss,” Annie announced, holding one finger up in the air to make her point. “Peat moss is very ‘portant, you know, for growing things. It holds—it holds something in the dirt, doesn’t it, Rachel?”
Rachel tumbled Janey and her sadly battered bear, “Baby,” into her arms and placed the little girl on solid ground. Peeking over her shoulder to grin at Sam who was now lounging as casually as he could against a porch support, Rachel nodded. “You’ve got it exactly right, sweet stuff. We need peat moss to hold the moisture in the soil. Up and at ‘em, sport,” she said softly to Zach, who had fallen asleep with his head flopped over against the plastic edge of the child seat. Squatting down, she stroked the backs of her fingers lightly across his cheek until he stirred and sat forward, blinking hard. When she released him and held out her arms, he smiled sleepily and fell forward into her grasp.
Gazing down at the contented foursome on his lawn, Sam was amazed to find a lump forming in his throat. A casual onlooker would never suspect that Rachel hadn’t reared his babies since birth.
“Gotcha.” She laughed down at Zach, snuggling him close and smoothing his wayward hair down before carrying him to Sam.
“Dee,” Zach said, as though absolutely charmed to find his father there.
Sam’s heart tipped over the way it did every time he looked into his children’s faces. He reached down to remove his son from Rachel’s uplifted arms. “I missed you, too, tiger,” he told his child.
With both his hands and Rachel’s still on the boy, Sam stared into her long-lashed, gray eyes. “So you’
re planning a garden?” he said, using talk to cover up any awkwardness she might feel as his fingers brushed her own.
He’d been fighting himself all week, but he’d kept his hands off her. She’d been shooing men away like flies for years, and Sam didn’t want to be just another pest of a man in her life. But damn, every time he got within six feet of Rachel, a sharp spear of need rose within him. And Sam knew that he was headed for quicksand, because while he might not want to get emotionally involved with a woman again, while he’d learned that he didn’t know the first thing about what women wanted, he wanted Rachel in the worst way. And there was no way he was ever going to have her.
“Oh, not just any old garden, Sam.” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled up at him impishly. “Tell him, Annie,” she said as the little girl moved closer, holding her sister by the hand.
“We are going to have a monster garden, Daddy. The biggest. The best. With lots and lots and lots of flowers. Pansies and daisies and mary-golds and—” She frowned, then tried again. “And belly buttons,” she finished triumphantly.
Sam swallowed his laugh as he watched a smiling Rachel lean in close to whisper in Annie’s ear. For two whole seconds the bright hair of the woman and child flowed together, and then Annie turned to Rachel questioningly and Rachel smiled back, nodding encouragement.
“Bachelor buttons,” she said, correcting herself.
“Yes,” Rachel agreed. “And roses. You’re going to have such roses. There are already some on the side of the house but they’re practically choking, poor babies. We’ll fix them up, though. You’ll love it, Sam. Roses are perfect for this lovely old house.”
“Woses,” Janey said solemnly. “Woses, woses, woses.”
Babies and a Blue-eyed Man Page 8
