Sweet Surprises

by Shirlee McCoy

  River pulled up in front of the house and turned off the ignition. Silent. The same way he’d been for the entire ride.

  He was angry, and she couldn’t blame him. There’d been a lot of drama over nothing, and it had upset Belinda. She expected him to get out of the truck, march to the house to search for Mack without uttering one word. Instead, he speared her with a look that made her breath catch.

  For a moment, she was just kind of sitting there, staring into a face that was handsome and interesting—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, dark gray eyes that had specks of silver and blue in them—and she was wondering what in the world she’d been thinking, getting in the truck with River.

  “What are you going to tell the sheriff when he gets here?” River asked, the words breaking the tense silence.

  “I wasn’t planning on telling him anything. I answered his questions before you got to Chocolate Haven.”

  “So, you weren’t withholding information for Belinda’s sake?”

  “What good would that have accomplished? Belinda may be in a wheelchair and she may have lost some of her physical abilities, but she’s a strong woman. She can handle a lot more than people give her credit for.” She reached for the door handle, ready to escape the truck and River. He was a little too intense, a little too good-looking, a little too much of everything she needed to avoid.

  He touched her shoulder, his fingers skimming down her arm and resting on her knuckles. He wasn’t holding her in place, but she didn’t open the door.

  Probably because she was an idiot when it came to men.

  Obviously, because she was.

  How many years had she wasted with Dan?

  How many years of her life would she never, ever get back? All for the sake of a guy who hadn’t wasted one moment of his precious time on her?

  “The sheriff is going to ask if you want to press charges. You know that, right?” River asked, his voice smooth and deep and just a little cajoling.

  She’d heard the tone before. Plenty of times from Dan and other men who’d wanted one thing or another from her. She might be an idiot when it came to men, but she wasn’t going to be manipulated. “If you want to ask if I’m going to press charges, just do it. I don’t need to be petted and stroked into doing the right thing.”

  She opened the door and hopped out of the truck, the scent of late-summer sun and dry earth filling her nose. She’d always loved it out here, just a little set apart from town and all the gossip and minidramas. There’d been days when she’d sat in the town library, a musty old book in her hands, her mind wandering to all the things she could do with her life.

  It had often wandered here, to this old farm and its pretty little house on its pretty little piece of land.

  The perfect place to make dreams come true.

  That’s what she’d thought then. Looking at it now, she was just reminded of how quickly dreams could turn into nightmares.

  “You’re angry,” River said as he fell into step beside her.

  “No.” But she sure sounded like she was. Even she could hear the curtness in her voice.

  “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you, if that’s what you think.”

  “Does it matter what I think?” She stepped onto a wide porch that wrapped around both sides of the house. Someone had replaced several floorboards, but the swing hung from one chain, a corner of it resting on the floor.

  “Yes. It matters. I didn’t come to town to cause problems. I came to help Belinda. I’m not going to be able to do that if I make enemies everywhere I go.”

  “Enemy is a strong word, River.”

  “So is friend. I’d rather be one than the other.”

  That made her smile, some of the tension she’d been feeling melting away. This wasn’t her previous life; he wasn’t Dan, always trying to make things work the way he wanted, always trying to convince her to give him what he thought he deserved. This was the beginning of her new start, her fresh beginning, an opportunity just waiting for her to take it.

  She couldn’t afford to screw that up by carrying baggage under each arm.

  “Fine. We’ll be friends, and for the record, I had no intention of pressing charges. Mack freaked out when he saw the knife I was holding. As soon as he realized I wasn’t any danger to Belinda, he ran off. The guy must have PTSD. He needs help, not jail time.”

  “For Belinda’s sake, I hope you’re right. She doesn’t need any more trouble than she’s already got.” He opened the front door, stepping back so she could cross the threshold.

  The place smelled like must and age mixed with just a hint of furniture polish. The once shiny floor was scuffed and dingy from too many shoes and too many years of not being tended to. Pictures lined the walls of the large foyer, each one of a different foster child. Most of them were teen boys, the pictures spanning years from middle school through high school graduation. Some went beyond that: to college, families, children.

  Brenna touched the closest one, running her finger along the dust-coated frame and wiping a smudge from the glass. It really was a shame, the mess the place had become.

  “It needs a good cleaning,” River said unapologetically. “I’m working one room at a time, trying to dig out from under it. There was a hole in the roof, and that had to be the first priority. I think one of the kids tried to clean yesterday, but when a place gets this far gone, it takes a lot more than a touch-up to get the job done properly.”

  “Kids? You mean Angel and Huckleberry?”

  “Yeah. They may be adults, but they’re kids to me.”

  She touched a piece of old, peeling wallpaper. Flowers from the eighties, it looked like. Had it been that long since the house had been updated? “There’s the two of them, and Mack. You said she had four guests, right?”

  “You’ve got a good memory. Joe stays on the weekends. He’s thirty-one. He lives in some kind of group home during the week and stays here Friday and Saturday nights and all day Sunday.”

  “Doesn’t he have family? People who would like him to be with them?”

  “Belinda says he doesn’t. She met him while she was teaching a painting class at the group home. One thing led to another, and now he spends every weekend here.”

  “Belinda is probably the best thing that has happened to him in a long time,” Brenna said.

  “Yeah, but he’s not the best thing to happen to her. She’s in her eighties and she deserves time to just chill out and enjoy life.”

  “Who says she’s not doing that? Belinda was always happiest when she had lots of people here. Remember the big parties for Halloween and Christmas? The Easter egg hunts on the front lawn? The corn maze?”

  He smiled. “She really did love having this house filled with people.”

  “Maybe she still does. And maybe having it empty just reminds her of all the things she used to have and doesn’t anymore.” She followed him into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was spotlessly clean. Not a dish in the sink, the floor scrubbed to a high shine, the counters empty except for one plate. Two pieces of fudge lay in the middle of it, a tiny rose blossom someone must have plucked from overgrown bushes in the backyard lying right next to them.

  “Huckleberry?” she asked, touching the soft petals of the rose. Once upon a time Dan had bought her roses. Beautiful, extravagant arrangements he’d have delivered to photo shoots or to the boutique. It hadn’t taken her long to realize they were a show meant not for her but for others. This, though? It was lovely and simple and sweet.

  “Probably,” River said with a sigh. “That kid drives me batty. Leaving messes one day and doing something like this the next. Makes it really hard to dislike him.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t,” she said.

  “Stop being reasonable, red. I’m not in the mood.” He winked and stepped outside. “Mack is probably in the barn. Why don’t you wait for the sheriff while I go find him?”

  “I’ll come with you,” she said, stepping outside, her cheeks
warm from that one wink and that one word: red.

  It had been years and years since anyone had called her that. Before modeling and runways and everyone in Benevolence suddenly thinking she was more than what she was, back when she’d just been a weird little kid with her nose stuck in a book, hiding away from all the sadness at home, she’d had friends who’d called her red. She’d felt like one of a group then, like someone who mattered to somebody else, and she’d loved it.

  Funny how she’d forgotten that.

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do or not, but we can’t count on Mack acting reasonably.” River stepped through grass that had grown wild, tall blades of it twining together to make walking difficult.

  Brenna picked her way through, skirting around beautiful pear and apple trees that lined the edges of the yard. A ladder leaned against one of them, a wicker basket abandoned beside it.

  Someone had been picking fruit. For canning? Brenna had always wanted to learn the skill. Then again, she’d always imagined herself in a place like this, living a simple life: no glitter, no makeup, no fancy clothes and too-high shoes. No people pretending to be something they weren’t to impress people who really didn’t matter.

  “River!” someone called, and Brenna nearly bumped into his back as he stopped short, glanced over his shoulder. She looked, too, and saw a kid with coppery hair and freckles, his skinny frame drowning in an oversized T-shirt and too-long jeans.

  “Shit,” River muttered, no heat in the word or in his eyes. “Huckleberry, go in the house and stay there until I tell you different.”

  “Who died and made you the boss?” the kid challenged, all arms and legs and petulant expression. “I heard something happened to Belinda. I came home to check on her.” His gaze skirted past Brenna, landed full out on River.

  Obviously, the two didn’t get along.

  And, obviously, River was exasperated.

  He looked like he wanted to pick Huckleberry up and chuck him back into the house.

  “Belinda is with a friend. I need to talk to Mack. You need to give us some space.” He said it kindly enough, his words clearly enunciated.

  “I will repeat my question,” the kid said, something oddly refined about his speech. “Who died—”

  “How about you don’t repeat the question?” River cut him off. “The sheriff is on the way and I need to make sure Mack isn’t going to make an ass of himself when he arrives. The last thing Belinda needs is one of you tossed into jail.”

  That seemed to seal Huckleberry’s lips. He nodded, a curt, tight gesture that didn’t go with his young face and gangly body. River might be right. The kid might be young, but he’d lived through enough for it to show in his eyes.

  “What are you staring at?” Huckleberry asked, his attention suddenly on Brenna, his glare filled with fury and helplessness. Maybe he needed someone to take his frustration out on, but it wasn’t going to be her.

  “You. I was thinking that if you want to make yourself useful to Belinda,” she responded, “you should clean the foyer and the hallway.”

  She turned away before he could respond, rushing after River. Who seemed hell-bent on getting to the barn and getting the meeting with Mack over with.

  She wasn’t sure what he thought he’d accomplish, but anything was better than having the guy tossed in jail.

  She jogged through a wide gate that had once separated lush lawns from beautiful cornfields and pastures. Nothing remained but wilted cornstalks baked brown from the sun. The barn was just ahead, double-wide doors opening into a cavernous interior. There were horse stalls on one side, farm equipment on the other. Twenty years ago, the ranch had been bustling, every outbuilding humming with life; teenagers helping with the harvest or the planting. Now it seemed lonely, the empty stalls a reminder of the horses Dillard had once owned, the ponies he used to bring to parties and festivals.

  They reached the threshold of the door, the scent of hay and dust filling Brenna’s nose. River grabbed her hand when she would have walked farther into the building. “Wait here. Just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “I was wrong.”

  He walked deeper into the barn, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. “Mack?” he called. “You in here? The sheriff wants to talk to you. Nothing serious. Just a chat.”

  Something rustled in the loft, bits of hay raining down around River and falling onto his dark hair.

  He glanced up. “Do you want me to come up there or are you coming down?”

  “Coming down” was the gruff reply.

  The wooden beams above Brenna’s head groaned as Mack made his way across the loft. Seconds later, he appeared, climbing down a rickety ladder, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  He turned as he took the last step, his gaze settling on Brenna. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  He nodded, the scars on his neck and cheek deep purple and painful looking. “I’d better get on my way, then.”

  “On your way where?” River asked, grabbing Brenna’s wrist as she tried to walk past. She didn’t know what she’d planned to do. Follow Mack? Tell him it was okay, that he didn’t have to leave?

  “To a place I can’t cause any trouble. Tell Belinda—”

  “No way,” River cut him off, his voice sharp. “You’re not getting off that easy. You want to go, you can look her in the eyes and tell her.”

  “I’d like to see you make me,” Mack responded, hiking the duffel higher on his shoulder and heading toward the back of the barn.

  There was an open door there, and Brenna expected he’d walk through it, head across the acres of fields to some little road that led to nowhere.

  “You need to stop him,” she said loudly enough that she knew Mack would hear.

  He didn’t even hesitate, just kept moving toward the door and whatever place he thought he’d be better off.

  “Mack!” she called, trying to pull away from River.

  He dragged her in a little closer.

  “Don’t,” he whispered, the word just a breath against her ear. “He’ll be happier if he stops himself.”

  What if he doesn’t? she wanted to ask, but she met his eyes, found herself caught in his gaze. Again. Caught in that beautiful face with all its angles and sharpness. She wanted to look and keep looking. She wanted to spend an hour, a day, a week, studying him.

  Surprised, she looked away, focused on Mack, who’d stopped at the threshold of the door and was standing there as if some invisible force kept him from walking through.

  Finally, he turned, his shoulders slumped, his head down. “Fine. I’ll talk to the damn sheriff,” he muttered. “But I won’t go to jail. I’m not going to jail. And I’m not staying around here causing more trouble than I already have.”

  He dropped his duffel and walked past them, heading back toward the house. Broad-shouldered, lean to the point of emaciation, he looked exactly like what he was: a soldier tired of the fight.

  Brenna tried to dart after him, wanting to offer something—words of reassurance, promises that she wasn’t going to press charges, apologies for her part in the fiasco.

  “Don’t,” River said quietly, not holding her back this time. Except for that word and all the meaning she heard in it.

  “I just want him to—”

  “Know that you pity him?”

  “I don’t.” She swung around, saw that he hadn’t moved.

  “You do, and he doesn’t want it any more than you or I would.”

  “I just want to make sure everything is okay with him and the sheriff.”

  “You think he can’t handle that himself?” He moved closer, his eyes glowing oddly in the muted light.

  “I don’t know what he can handle. I’ve barely spoken to him.”

  “Then don’t presume to fight his battles, okay? You’ve got your own to worry about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded as he cupped her elbow, urging her out of the barn.

&nb
sp; “Just a statement, red. A woman like you doesn’t just end up in her old hometown because she’s having a great life.”

  “I’m here to help my grandfather. I already told you that,” she retorted, her cheeks blazing hot. Was she that obvious? Did she look that desperate? God, she hoped not!

  “Maybe you’re here to help your grandfather,” he said, his hand still on her elbow, his fingers warm and callused against her skin. “But maybe you’re also here because you need to be. For you.”

  “Look, River, you know nothing about me or my situation—”

  “I know you like books,” he replied, a smile hovering at the edges of his mouth and dancing in the depth of his gray eyes. “And that you used to hide in the corner of the library with your book hoard, reading until they kicked you out.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long. You’re the same person you were then. Except that your hair is shorter.” He touched the shorn strands. “Looks like the sheriff is here.” He gestured to the house and the sheriff standing on the back porch with Mack. “Let’s go see how this all plays out.”

  * * *

  The day had gone to hell in a handbasket, but at least Mack hadn’t run off. No matter how much River wanted Belinda’s house empty and free of trouble, he couldn’t stomach the idea of breaking her heart. He walked across the dried-out yard, Brenna beside him.

  Chocolate and strawberries; that’s what she made him think of. Probably because the scent of both clung to her, drifting through the air every time she moved.

  Soft hair. Soft skin. The sweet scent of strawberries and the darker scent of chocolate? Not an easy combination to resist, but he would because he had more than his fair share of trouble to deal with, and Brenna? She looked like more.

  Sheriff Rainier nodded as they approached, just a quick acknowledgment, his gaze on Mack. Neither seemed angry or defensive. That was good. What was better was that Huckleberry was still in the house, minding his own business and staying out of the way.

  “Everything okay?” River asked as he walked up the porch stairs. Two of them needed to be replaced, the warped boards rotted from rain and exposure.