Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  Ten days.

  Chelsea knew HCI had been struggling, but so much so that people had floated the idea of moving the factory? She needed to get into Mum’s office and look at the numbers, see what they were seeing. She should have done it already, despite the attempts on her life. The longer she put it off, the more daunting it seemed.

  What would she find? Was the business she’d been groomed to run as long as she could remember going to survive?

  Did she want it to?

  Of course she did, but Dylan’s question from earlier came back. Did she want the future her parents had laid out for her? Did she want to run HCI?

  She’d never asked herself that, and as she did now, her heartbeat fluttered. Was it anticipation or frustration or both?

  Not that it mattered. She believed what she’d said earlier to Dylan—that she had to walk the path she was on. If she could have gone a different direction, would she?

  She turned onto her side and adjusted the pillow. What she needed to do right now was sleep, not contemplate hypothetical questions.

  She forced her eyes closed.

  The memory of Dylan as he’d stood in front of her on the shore of the lake was clear in her mind, his face cast in shadow but his gaze piercing, studying her. What she saw in his eyes… Maybe her imagination was trying to convince her. Because she was sure she’d seen desire there. The same desire she’d seen in his expression when they’d sat at the other lake earlier in the day, just moments before he’d kissed her.

  She’d wanted more than anything to step into his arms, to feel them around her, to take in the comfort, the peace she was sure she’d find there.

  But he’d stepped back, cleared his throat. Stuck his hands in his pockets. “I have a couple more calls to make. I’d better…” He nodded toward the house.

  And she’d followed like the dutiful girl she was. Never one to make waves or insert herself where she wasn’t wanted. Never one to throw herself into a man’s arms.

  Not that there’d been many men over the years. She’d had a few schoolgirl crushes, but nothing serious. She’d dated a guy in college, but after nearly a year together, she hadn’t felt much beyond deep friendship for him. He’d tried to convince her that every good marriage was built on friendship. True, but there was supposed to be more to love than enjoying the same activities and laughing at the same jokes.

  Her parents had had the more. They hadn’t always agreed on everything. Their arguments could get loud, passionate. But no matter how bad the argument, eventually they’d be back to laughing, joking, kissing. They had loved each other desperately.

  She thought of them now, reunited in heaven. They were probably holding hands and telling private jokes the other saints up there rolled their eyes at.

  Chelsea chuckled, though tears dripped into her hair and onto the soft pillowcase.

  She tossed the thin blanket off. This was ridiculous. She was wide awake. Not only that, but her stomach was growling because that one chicken wing she’d had for supper hadn’t been enough.

  The house was quiet as she stepped from her room. Dylan’s door was closed, and no light shone beneath it. A nightlight illuminated the hallway. The chandelier in the foyer downstairs had been dimmed but offered enough light to guide her into the living area in the back, where a lamp in the corner cast a soft glow. She stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light.

  She pulled the platter of cold cuts Angel had left for them from the refrigerator, found the bread, and made a sandwich. She was just slicing it in two when she heard a soft knock.

  She spun to find Dylan standing in the doorway. “Oh!” Her hand flew up to cover her beating heart.

  “I was trying not to startle you.”

  She appreciated the effort, anyway. Here she stood in flimsy pajama pants and a V-neck T-shirt. No shoes, just a flip-flop on one foot, the walking cast on the other. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

  “I was sitting in the sunroom.”

  “In the dark?”

  He shrugged. He wore the same thing he’d worn by the lake—denim shorts and a UNH T-shirt. “Watching the night.”

  She dropped her sandwich on a plate and slid onto a barstool.

  He settled on the one beside her. “Been churning all the information we learned today.”

  “Make any butter?”

  He chuckled. “Not yet.”

  She bit her sandwich. The homemade bread had a touch of sweetness, which contrasted perfectly with the ham and cheddar and thin layer of mustard. She slipped off her barstool. “You want some water?”

  He jumped up. “Let me. You eat.” He was around the bar before she’d taken a step. Stupid broken foot. He fixed two glasses of ice water and set one in front of her. She sipped it, nibbled her sandwich.

  He nodded to the platter. “You done with this?”

  “I’ll clean up.”

  But he covered the meat and cheese with plastic wrap and slid it and the mustard back into the fridge, then wrapped the bread and returned it to the drawer.

  “Thank you.”

  He sat beside her with a slice of cheese he’d liberated from the platter.

  “I’ve been thinking about your question.”

  His eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing as he tore the cheddar slice in two.

  “If I hadn’t been born to parents who owned a company, if I hadn’t known all my life I would someday inherit that company… Mum and Daddy always told me it would be mine, and I could do with it as I chose. There was no explicit expectation that I would run it. But was it implicit? Yes, I suppose it was. And if that hadn’t been there, if I’d had all the choices ordinary American kids have, or perhaps I should say, privileged American kids, what would I have done? I can’t know that. I can only know the past I’ve lived.”

  He was nodding with her words. “Like I can’t know what kind of man I’d be, or what I’d have done with my life, apart from my sister’s death.”

  “Precisely.” She took another bite of her sandwich. After a sip of water, she said, “But am I excited about it? Do I want it?” She turned to face him, realizing too late just how close he was. A sudden rise of shyness had her looking down, but she forced her gaze back up. Got her mind on track. “I do want it. I want to run HCI, to bring it back to its former glory. To employ the people of Coventry and be a part of the community like Mum was, and Daddy, before he died. The way I’m coming into it… It’s not how I’d planned it. I would much rather Mum be here to teach me. But… this is where I am, and I have to believe that the Lord will equip me for the job He’s given me to do.”

  “He will.” Dylan’s words were confident. “I have no doubt you’ll do well, if you continue to lean on Him, to trust Him to lead you, one step at a time.”

  Yes. The Lord would lead her. As alone as she felt in the world, she wasn’t. She had a God who would always be at her side.

  She wouldn’t mind having a human companion as well, one with flesh and blood, and perhaps dark red hair and striking green eyes.

  She ate a few more bites of her sandwich, then pushed it away.

  “You finished?”

  She smiled at the eagerness in his expression and slid the plate toward him. He gobbled what was left in two bites.

  It was after midnight, and morning would come too soon. But, though she’d spent almost every moment with Dylan in the last two days, she wasn’t ready to leave his side. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to her. Maybe there was nothing there on her side, either, except a desire to feel a connection to another human being. To be not quite so apart.

  Maybe, but she didn’t think so. Where grief had muddled her thinking, fear had sharpened it—fear for her life, fear for her business and her future. Grief and fear combined and helped her discern things normally hidden beneath the mundane—that nothing was certain, nothing was permanent. Life was a series of seemingly insignificant decisions that, one by one, shaped one’s destiny. Like the small decision to seek food at a food bank,
which led to meeting Dylan, which had saved her life.

  And brought this man into her world, this man she’d have never met otherwise. Perhaps only so he could protect her. But… perhaps God had more in mind for them than that. In this moment, in a brightly lit kitchen, the backdrop of darkness beyond the windows behind her, with this redheaded hero beside her, she saw clearly that Dylan was in her life for a reason. He fit into a space she hadn’t known was there. It remained to be seen if that space had been carved out for a friend or something more, but he belonged there.

  What she should do about it, she couldn’t imagine. But she did know that life was short and uncertain, that people could be good, could be bad, were usually fickle, and could rarely be trusted, and that, through all the grief and fear and pain and love and joy, God was good.

  And Dylan was here.

  And she liked him.

  He was watching her now, head tilted to the side as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.

  The tenor shifted when she met his gaze.

  All her philosophical thoughts about friendship and God’s sovereignty meant nothing as Dylan’s gaze flicked to her lips. Any moment, he’d back away, make some excuse, rush off to bed, and she’d be left wishing for more.

  She didn’t want to be left again, though.

  Tomorrow wasn’t promised. Right now… right now was all they had.

  She swiveled on her barstool to face him, lifted her hand, rested it on his cheek—stubbly against her palm.

  He tipped his head toward her, and she leaned forward and closed the distance. Brushed her lips across his.

  A second, no more, and he deepened the kiss.

  She slid off her stool and stood in front of him. His hands, pressed against the thin fabric between her shoulder blades, pulled her closer.

  Her fingers slid into the hair at the base of his scalp. Every nerve caught fire at the feeling of his lips against hers, his hands caressing her back.

  She would have stayed there, right there, forever.

  But Dylan ended the kiss. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid she’d see regret there. Had she really just done that? Initiated a kiss? Thrown herself at him? He hadn’t pushed her away, but that didn’t mean he cared for her. Didn’t mean anything.

  She lowered her head, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. And maybe all the other things that were still burning beneath her skin.

  One of his hands left her back, and she expected the other would follow, and he’d urge her away.

  She opened her eyes, stared at his bent knees, the legs of the barstool, the tile beneath them.

  His finger touched her chin, urged it up. His eyes were wide, bright. Crinkled at the corners, as if in a smile.

  His hand cupped her cheek. He started to speak, stopped. Chuckled. “Technically, I promised not to kiss you again”—his eyebrows rose—“so I’m off the hook for that one.”

  She giggled, the sound silly and schoolgirlish. She clamped her mouth shut. Maybe she should apologize, but she didn’t feel sorry. Not if he wasn’t pushing her away. Not if, maybe, there could be something between them.

  And all the reasons why kissing him was a bad idea, she chose to ignore those. That she’d just lost her mother, that her life was in danger, that her world was in transition and she couldn’t be clear about any feelings right now, much less romantic feelings… All that stuff she could worry about tomorrow.

  Dylan pulled her close, wrapped her in a hug, and whispered in her ear, “I’m not sorry. I hope you’re not either.”

  Her cheek settled against the soft cotton T-shirt. Maybe she would be tomorrow. Right now, she would bask in the comfort of his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sleep was deep and sweet, and when Dylan woke the next morning, the dream he could barely remember floated away in the morning breeze. No images, but the feeling of a beautiful blond heiress in his arms lingered as he showered and dressed for the day.

  Chelsea was already in the kitchen when he entered, as were Donovan and Angel, so he and Chelsea shared nothing more than casual good-mornings and how’d-you-sleeps. But the pink in her cheeks told him her mind was on the kiss, same as his.

  Thirty-two years old, and he’d never had a woman affect him like this one did. He’d never experienced a kiss like that, a kiss that made him want to hold on and never let go.

  A kiss that lingered in sleep and interrupted thought patterns as friends asked him questions.

  Like Donovan must have just done, because the man was giving him one of those squinty-eyed what’s going on looks.

  “Sorry. Mind’s on the case.” Not a total lie. The case was about Chelsea, and his mind had definitely been on Chelsea.

  Donovan chuckled and dug into the breakfast casserole Angel had whipped up.

  Chelsea nibbled a piece of toast.

  Dylan caught her gaze across the table and nearly forgot what he was about to say. “I’ve got some things I need to take care of. I figured you could hang around here, rest that foot for the day. I’m sure it needs it.”

  Chelsea’s phone dinged with a message. She read it, then said, “I must go to the office.”

  Dylan’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “Uh… I need to—”

  “I can hire a car,” she said. “That’s not a problem.”

  Hire a car?

  Angel said, “I’m staying home. You can borrow—”

  “No.” Dylan looked at Angel. “Sorry to cut you off, but”—he turned to Chelsea—“you’re not going anywhere by yourself.”

  “I have to go to work, Dylan. It can’t wait another day. If you can’t—”

  “I’ll figure it out.” He lifted his coffee, going for relaxed, and took a sip.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, but the expression did nothing to dissipate his irritation.

  A little notice would’ve been nice. And didn’t she remember someone was trying to kill her?

  “By the way,” she said, “I have to be there by ten. I called the local TV station last night. The reporter just texted. They’re sending a camera crew at eleven. I need to get in there and warn Mum’s assistant.”

  He set the coffee down too hard. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced at her watch. “It was your idea, Dylan. And anyway, it’s only seven-thirty. Plenty of time.”

  He pushed away from the table and snatched his dishes.

  “I’ll get those,” Angel said. “You go on and do”—she waved toward the open doorway—“whatever it is you need to do.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded to his friends, gave Chelsea a look he hoped communicated his frustration, and stalked out.

  One thing to go into the office. She needed to do that. But today? Today was too soon. He didn’t have security set up, and he couldn’t stay with her. But he would, despite the things he needed to take care of. And if a news crew came, then everyone in town would know where she was. Was she trying to get herself killed?

  He headed through the TV room and down the hallway, searching the internet as he walked. Found the number he needed and dialed it.

  He stepped into the library just inside the front door, inhaled the scent of old books, and stared out the window.

  A woman came on the line. “Appleton Security.”

  Five minutes later, he’d arranged for two bodyguards to meet them in Coventry at eight-thirty.

  Footsteps on the hardwood floors of the hallway warned him someone was coming. If it was Chelsea wanting to apologize…

  He turned toward the door. Not Chelsea. Donovan.

  “What’s up?” Donovan asked.

  “Just working on her security.”

  Donovan closed the French doors and turned to face him, hands in his pocket. “Get it worked out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still mad?”

  “Yeah. No. Not really. She should’ve…” What? Told him sooner? It wasn’t even eight o’clock. Not called the media? She’d done exactly what he’d told he
r to do. Asked him first? She was a grown woman who could make her own decisions.

  Donovan said nothing, just stood there, watching him with those dark eyes.

  “Nothing. She should’ve done nothing differently. She’s fine. I just need to keep her safe. And I thought she’d be tucked away here while I went to figure out who’s trying to kill her, and…” He huffed a breath.

  “It’s frustrating, that tug-of-war between trying to protect them and trying to respect their boundaries.”

  Donovan got it. He’d lived it when he and Angel had first met. In fact, if not for Donovan’s dogged determination to keep Angel safe, even at the risk of his own safety—and freedom—she’d likely have been killed.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  Dylan blew out a long breath. “Nothing. Just… I hired two bodyguards to watch over her while she’s there. And I’ll be there.”

  “Didn’t you say you had stuff to do?”

  “Nothing more important than protecting her.”

  “Right, but… two bodyguards. Isn’t the building pretty secure?”

  It was. And there’d be people around all day. She should be fine. “I’ll feel better if I’m at her side.”

  Donovan clamped a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “You could trust the guys you’ve hired to protect her, and trust God to take care of her. And then you could do your part, which is figuring out who’s trying to kill her.”

  Donovan was right. Little though he wanted to, he’d have to leave her in someone else’s hands today.

  Fifteen minutes later, they left the safety of Donovan and Angel’s place, tension thick in the truck’s cab. Once they’d pulled onto the main road, he said, “I’m sorry I got mad. Just felt blindsided.”

  “I apologize for blindsiding you. It wasn’t my intention.”

  The formality of her response hung in stark contrast to the kiss they’d shared the night before. He didn’t like it or the distance between them. He laid his hand palm-up on the armrest.

  A moment later, she slipped hers into it.

  “We’re good?” he asked.

  He barely caught her nod beside him. She wasn’t good, apparently. After a moment, she said, “Why were you upset?”