by Lia Riley
He blinked. “Don’t have any.”
“Never fear. I do.” She walked to her bag, grabbed a small bandage from the box, and passed it over. “No point carrying around a purse as big as my head if I don’t keep it well stocked for anything from a zombie apocalypse to a small kitchen accident.”
Sawyer’s phone rang. “Sorry, this is work, got to take it. I’ll step outside.” He walked away, taking away the ease of the conversation with him.
Wilder glanced at her and then away. Wordlessly, he undid the wrapper and wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger.
She wanted to tell him she didn’t have to go to Thanksgiving. That she didn’t mean to barge into his whatever-this-was life he had going on in a haunted gulch at the end of town. But that would mean letting him know that he had gotten under her skin, was circulating through her system, the confusing feelings multiplying at an alarming rate.
She wished he’d just say no. Or yes. Anything but ignore her. Every silent second was a form of intense but addictive torture.
He wasn’t carving, rather poking the wood with his knife, these useless little stabbing motions, and it dawned on her.
He doesn’t know what to do about this thing between them either.
This thing.
What else was there to call it?
“Any requests?” she asked, shifting her weight, wincing at the telltale creak.
That drew his gaze back.
“For dinner,” she clarified. “What are you bringing?”
He shrugged. “Napkins.”
“What? Really.”
“Yeah,” he ruefully admitted. “They left me in charge of the important stuff.”
“Do you have any favorite recipes?”
He set down his knife. “You cook?” He sounded surprised.
Better to get the truth out there as fast as possible. “No actually. I’m terrible.”
“Well, Archer is doing the turkey with Grandma, Edie will bake bread and probably five different cakes, Annie is doing her Tofurky and probably other granola stuff that no one will touch but Sawyer because he’s under obligation.”
“Okay. So . . .”
“Rice Krispies Treats,” he said suddenly.
“What about them?”
“My mom used to make them for every holiday.” His gaze turned wistful. “She let me lick the spoon. You’d have liked her. She had a laugh sort of like yours, loud but in a good way that made everyone feel good.”
She hugged herself, as if it would be possible to hang on to the warm feelings he’d given. “Hot dogs,” she said. “That’s the taste of my childhood. I used to spend summers out here with my dad as a kid. Every Fourth of July we’d go to the rodeo grounds and he’d buy me a hot dog. I can’t see one without thinking of him.” She scrubbed her face, willing away the tightening in her throat. “But no point moping. If he ever saw me sad he’d say ‘No use crying over baked beans.’ Which doesn’t even make sense come to think of it.”
Wilder raised his head, blinking as his leg slammed against a table leg.
He turned away, but without even seeing his face she knew. Something had shifted—but what?
He drew a harsh, rattling breath. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so.” She swallowed. The comfortable exchange had taken a sharp turn. She tried to think but her brain didn’t work right, not when she was locked in that forceful gaze. “But maybe? I mostly spent my time here with Dad, going camping, riding his four-wheeler, hiking, and stuff like that. Sometimes I played with other kids during town events though. But I’m twenty-five and you’re . . .” He was older than her, hard to say by how much.
“Thirty-one.”
“Sorry to get us going, but we got to get going.” Sawyer came back in, face grim. “I got you a tow organized but I’m going to have to head in to work. I’ll be back for you around lunch,” he told Wilder.
“What’s up?” Wilder asked.
“Fire.” Sawyer shook his head. “On one of the new properties. No one was home, thank God. The owner lives somewhere out on the east coast, but the damage is extensive.”
Quinn didn’t miss the long look the brothers exchanged before both cleared their throats and went back about their business. She went to get Dad up and going, trying to ignore the unnerving feeling Wilder induced. Just when she had him pegged as gruff and bad tempered, he surprised her with some sort of awkwardly endearing interaction. And it scared her.
It scared her how much she liked it.
Chapter Seven
WILDER HUNCHED IN the big leather chair as the cheerful sounds of Thanksgiving preparations hummed throughout Sawyer’s cabin. Quinn hadn’t arrived and already his stomach muscles clenched. It wasn’t just her gorgeous face or that infectious laugh that set him on edge. No, it was when she said, “No use crying over baked beans.” As soon as those words left her mouth, that one bad memory, long shoved into the “never think about again” mental file sprang front and center.
A dimly lit stall. The earthy, rich smell of hay. A small hand settling on the small of his back. “Why are you crying?”
No. Impossible. That couldn’t have been her.
He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Maybe she reconsidered coming. Then again, Archer had just mentioned that Kit, a second cousin and his youngest brother’s best friend, was giving her a ride out to the ranch.
Good for Kit and his two long strong legs and the SUV he could drive without any problem. What did Wilder care? He took another swig of beer. He didn’t.
Why are you crying?
He cleared his throat. Across the coffee table, Annie’s son, Atticus, making engine sounds with his mouth, drove Matchbox cars between the stacks of Astronomy Today and Vegan Life magazines. The kid kept sneaking a not-so-subtle stare at his legs.
Finally Wilder couldn’t bear it.
He didn’t feel like playing patty-cake at the moment. “Got something to say, pal?” He growled, leveling his best junkyard dog expression. “Spit it out why don’t you?”
But Atticus didn’t scamper off; instead he took the question as an invitation and crawled over. “Is it true?” The kid’s eyes were wide. “That you’re a pirate?”
Wilder snorted. “What would make you say that?”
Atticus glanced around, making sure the coast was clear before leaning in and whispering, “Mama said you had a fake leg. I thought only pirates have wooden legs but you don’t have a patch.”
“Or a ship.”
The kid grinned. “Or a parrot.”
“Guess I’m not a pirate then.”
Atticus looked crestfallen for half a second before perking back up. “Can I see it?”
“My leg?”
“Yeah.”
Everyone was busy bustling around in the kitchen. Outside came the rhythmic thud of an axe as Sawyer chopped kindling. He’d just gotten in a few minutes ago but looked strained. Something must have happened with the fire.
Atticus waited patiently. He had the look of his mother about him, sweet, kind, and a little wild with all that natural trust. The two of them were so open, always hugging, saying “I love you.”
That wasn’t Grandma Kane’s way. She held court in the kitchen like a dowager queen bee, perched in a chair beside the oven, apparently willing to let Archer take over cooking the turkey but not without her eagle eye supervision, as if her mere presence would keep the meat from getting too dry.
“Time to baste again,” she announced.
Archer had been sneaking up on his fiancée, Edie, who was halfway through frosting a very large, very delicious-looking chocolate cake. “Grandma.” His youngest brother turned with a mock exasperated sigh. “I did that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that.”
“I don’t want a dried-out bird,” she barked.
Archer advanced on her slowly, arms outstretched like a zombie, groaning in the back of his throat.
“What are you doing, boy?” Unwilling amusement creeping into her voice.
“This. Is. My. Turkey.” He did a deep monster voice. “I. Hunted. The. Turkey. I. Am. Cooking. This. Turkey.”
“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Grandma yelped, warding him off with two hands.
He broke from zombie mode to duck and present his cheek before her puckered expression. “I am waaaaaaiting.”
“For what?”
“Don’t you have a kiss for the cook?”
Grandma laughed, once, short, and sharp before swallowing it back down. But she did give him a quick, frosty peck. “Good lord, I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it a hundred times. Archer James, you could charm the habit off a nun.”
He gave a little bow. “Pity there’s no convent for hundreds of miles.”
“Yeah,” Edie said, giving him a mock-stern expression over one shoulder. “A national tragedy.”
“And what about you, Freckles?” Archer sprang toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Surely that pretty mouth has got a kiss for the cook too?”
“Cook?” Edie stuck her finger in the frosting and swiped a dab on the tip of his nose. “Who’s a cook? You fussed over that bird all morning. Annie and I were the ones who made the salad—”
“Mashed the potatoes,” Annie said, stirring gravy on the stove. “Candied the yams. Cranned the berries.”
“Put together the icky cream-of-mushroom green bean casserole you insisted on.” Edie crinkled her nose. “Fried onions smell gross.”
“Now hold up, ladies. That dish is the best part of Thanksgiving.” Archer hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and puffed out his chest. “Except for my damn fine turkey.”
Edie wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a short but enthusiastic kiss. “You are a damn fine turkey.”
Everyone burst out laughing as he wiped his nose clean.
Grandma caught Wilder’s watchful gaze and allowed a tight-lipped smile.
Something had happened to his family. These antics weren’t what he had known. Somehow while he was gone, laughter and lightness crept in. Even Grandma wasn’t as ornery.
It was as if everyone had moved toward a brighter future. Everyone except for him.
“So can I?” Atticus repeated. “See your leg?”
Shit, he’d forgotten the rug rat was lurking down there.
“It’s not all that interesting but sure.” He reached over and hiked up his 501s to reveal the prosthetic’s smooth plastic.
“Whoa! That’s so cool,” Atticus murmured in admiration. “You’re like half robot.”
More than half, junior. A tin man without a heart.
The door banged open as Kit barreled in with two six-packs of beer. “Happy Turkey Day,” he boomed.
And there she was, Quinn, looking a little shy and clutching a glass pan. She turned in his direction as if by instinct and another shudder of recognition ran through him.
Those big brown eyes, full of kindness and humor. She couldn’t be that long-ago girl—the one who saved him when he was on the brink.
And there he was, sitting in a chair like an invalid, with his fake leg out for the world to see.
The room fell silent except for the Bing Crosby CD warbling from the stereo, the one Annie had insisted on for holiday atmosphere.
“Hey, guys, did you know Uncle Wilder is half robot?” Atticus said, completely missing the awkwardness. “He’s like a super cool superhero.”
Everyone broke into uncertain laughter.
“Yeah, a regular Iron Man,” Archer said, suddenly fiddling with the oven setting.
Sawyer entered the room with his arms loaded with wood. “Figure this should last the night.”
“Good lord,” Annie said, wiping her hands on her calico apron, “that should keep us warm for a week.”
“What can I say, I like my fire hot.” He gave her an eyebrow waggle as she giggled and blushed.
Jesus. Wilder rocked his head against the chair. Somewhere hell was freezing over and Satan was figure skating. Even stoic, sensible Sawyer had guzzled the contentment Kool-Aid. He’d finished rolling down his jeans when a pair of green leather ankle boots came to rest on the edge of his field of vision, boots that capped off a long pair, a hell of a long and lovely pair, of legs.
That connected to a most interesting set of hips.
An hourglass waist.
Leading to . . .
Shit, he stared like an idiot.
Quinn peered over the top of her glasses. The modern frames suited her, bold and colorful. “So I brought your favorite.”
His mouth dried. Her jacket was unzipped and the t-shirt inside said, “Reading Is Awesome.” He couldn’t disagree, but even more awesome was the way the fitted cotton hugged her—
“I’m referring to the Rice Krispies . . .” Her lip quirked in one corner as he went red. “Jeez, you should really see your expression right now.”
He couldn’t believe it, but a damn blush had crept up the back of his neck, marched toward his ears. He scratched the scruff on his jaw, painfully aware his hand had a slight tremble.
“You made these?”
“Just for you. I didn’t bring a spoon for you to lick but hopefully it passes muster.” She waved the pan under his nose. “It was supposed to be easy, recipe.com said. A foolproof recipe. Except apparently I am a fool with a talent for burning butter and scalding marshmallows. But I got there in the end. Barely.”
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. He didn’t know how else to convey how much this simple gesture meant to him. “I haven’t had one of these since . . . well . . . in a long time.”
“I’ll go set them in the kitchen,” she said gently, as if sensing he was fraying down to some sort of invisible breaking point. “Oh, hey, I also forgot my purse at your cabin. I realized when I got home. Can I swing by after dinner? I feel naked without it.”
He gave a nod, watching her walk away. Don’t think about her naked.
Something, or someone, tugged his jeans. The rug rat again.
“She likes you,” Atticus said.
“No one likes me,” he replied. “I’m scary.”
Atticus blinked before shaking his head. “Nah. You’re not scary. Just sad.”
“I WON’T BE able to eat another bite for the rest of the year,” Annie said, nudging the yams toward Quinn. “Can you finish off this last little bit?”
Quinn shook her head with a rueful laugh. “My mouth says yes, but my stomach says, ‘Hey, what about all those pies and cakes over there?’ ” She pushed back her seat. “Let me give you a hand washing up.” The table groaned under the weight of the biggest Thanksgiving meal she’d ever seen.
“No way.” Annie held up a hand, looking surprisingly intimidating for a tiny, blond-haired woman. “Kit Kane is the dish dog. He lost a bet and this is his punishment.”
“Woof,” Kit said good-humoredly, rising to collect the dirty plates.
“You’re gambling? Looks like we Kanes are rubbing off on you yet, Annie Carson,” Archer said, sliding his arm over the back of Edie’s chair and giving his flat stomach a contented pat.
“If Kit is so foolish as to stake dozens of dirty dishes on a taste test and lose, far be it from me to stop him.” Annie shot back.
“What’s this all about?” Edie asked with a giggle.
“You’ll read about it next week. It’s part of an article I wrote for the Brightwater Bugle comparing vegetarian meat products to the real thing. Kit volunteered as my tough-talking taste tester. He assured me he’d pick the “real” meat dish every time. Bet Thanksgiving-dinner dishes on the outcome. Let’s just say he failed. Miserably.”
Kit threw up his hands. “Turns out I like Fakin’ Bacon.”
Archer mock gagged as Annie smugly set her hands on her hips. “Looks like Carson won this round, Cowboy.”
Good-natured banter flew around the table except in one corner, down at the end where Grandma (Quinn tried to call her Mrs. Kane but that went down like a lead balloon. The older woman frostily claimed that she’d earned the title along with her grey hair.) and Wilder watched in silence. Quinn’s heart gave a little pang. They both had the air of people who wanted to join in, to laugh and joke around, but didn’t quite know how to start. And what was going on between them?
Quinn dabbed her mouth and resmoothed Annie’s sweet hand-embroidered napkin back across her lap. This was a far cry from her earlier meal. The one at Mountain View Village where Dad barely touched his plate. He had been less responsive than usual, probably tired and out of sorts from yesterday’s misadventure. She’d had a few lukewarm invites to go around to dinner at different Higsby homes tonight, but this was better, even with the strangeness that existed between her and Wilder.
Her relatives would be full of questions about Dad, about his prognosis and whether or not she’d take that test.
Somehow it leaked that Dad’s condition was genetic, traced from his mother’s side. Grandma married into the Higsby clan but had died too young, in her early fifties. People muttered that she’d been acting strangely before she had the car accident. Testing had confirmed the genetic Alzheimer’s.
Now Quinn had a choice—to test or not. The trouble was, she didn’t know which was worse . . . confirming that a terrible fate awaited you, or not knowing and hoping for the best.
It was a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe the gene was heads and she was tails.
But she didn’t want to think about it. Not now.
Annie and Edie couldn’t convince her to stay seated when it came time to serve dessert. Annie had baked a pumpkin pie from an heirloom Sugar Pie variety that grew in her garden, plus oatmeal cookies. Edie made pecan pie, the chocolate cherry cake, and a snickerdoodle cobbler that made Quinn’s eyes bug out of her head. Her own Rice Krispies Treats looked elementary in comparison.
