by Liz Talley
HIS BROWN-EYED GIRL
Copyright © 2020 Liz Talley
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The use of locations and products throughout this book is done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way been seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
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Edited and formatted by Victory Editing.
Other Titles by Liz Talley
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
About the Author
A Down Home Christmas
Come Home to Me
Room to Breathe
The Wedding War
Morning Glory:
Charmingly Yours
Perfectly Charming
All That Charm
Prince Not Quite Charming (novella)
Third Time’s the Charm
A Morning Glory Wedding (short)
Home in Magnolia Bend:
The Sweetest September
Sweet Talking Man
Sweet Southern Nights
New Orleans Ladies:
The Spirit of Christmas
His Uptown Girl
His Brown-Eyed Girl
His Forever Girl
Bayou Bridge:
Waters Run Deep
Under the Autumn Sky
The Road to Bayou Bridge
Oak Stand:
Vegas Two-Step
The Way to Texas
A Little Texas
A Taste of Texas
A Touch of Scarlet
Novellas and Anthologies:
The Nerd Who Loved Me
“Hotter in Atlanta” (a short story)
Cowboys for Christmas with Kim Law and Terri Osburn
A Wrong Bed Christmas with Kimberly Van Meter
This book was previously published by Harlequin Superromance. It has been updated with a new cover.
Addy Toussant studied the fading bloom of the Pauwela Cloud orchid. Such a shame to snuff out the white ruffled beauty, but the withered edges of the petal bore the tale. The bloom was off the orchid.
Snip.
The irony didn’t escape her as she tucked the petals into the waste bag she wore hooked on her gardening utility belt.
Not that Addy was old. Or unhappy about having her bloom fade. She rather liked the emerging lines around her eyes. Gave her character and all that.
Besides thirty-four wasn’t “old.” It was practically the new twenty-four. Or so a magazine she’d read yesterday in the optometrist waiting room had declared. But, still, the last of her friend group in high school had gotten married and most had started families, and though Addy didn’t feel empty, something about being so behind the curve made her feel, well, old.
But she shouldn’t feel that way. After all, not everyone wanted to be a wife and mother. Some women liked being exactly who they were. She’d always embraced that notion, a lifestyle her aunt Flora had modeled for her.
Addy stood and ignored the pop in her knee, stretching her back, and looking up at the plastic skylight in the top of the new greenhouse she’d built in her side yard. Afternoon was giving over to evening. She could just see the moon peeking out from beneath the pink clouds. Another Tuesday nearing conclusion, but at least it had been filled with sunshine and a warmer breeze.
Then her peace shattered.
A blur of motion rocketed into the structure, rending the heavy plastic sheeting. A scream caught in her throat as she pitched herself to the side, away from the roar. A corner of the greenhouse collapsed as Addy rolled away. A black rubber tire missed her nose by inches, and the reverberation of an engine thundered in her ear. Gasoline fumes assaulted her nostrils, making her cough as she lifted herself on an elbow amidst broken shards of pottery. The spinning back wheel of the motorbike snagged her sleeve.
“Oh, my sweet Lord,” Addy breathed out, tugging her loose-sleeved yoga shirt from the grip of the tire. Pushing herself upward, she caught sight of a Converse sneaker and jean-clad leg draped over the seat of the still rumbling bike.
Addy leaned over and turned the switch on the handle to the Off position. How she knew exactly where to find the switch stymied her, but the engine died.
A groan emerged from beneath the wooden shelf that had collapsed onto whoever had just driven the small motorcycle into her newly constructed greenhouse.
Addy shoved the splintered wood away to find a boy. The same boy who’d run through her daylilies on the same motorbike a month ago. The boy who happened to be the middle child of her raucous neighbors. The boy whose name was Chris. Or maybe Michael.
She got them mixed up.
Her New Orleans neighborhood was typical in that it contained vibrant, friendly families who swapped recipes and brought by sacks of tomatoes and peppers. Addy knew all her neighbors, but she didn’t know her newest ones all that well. Other than the fact the couple often seemed overwhelmed, kids and pets running amuck with their bicycles, footballs, and the occasional tantrum in the front yard.
“Chris?”
“What?” he mumbled into the yellowed grass floor of the structure.
“Are you okay?”
The child moved, pulling his leg to him and lifting himself from the floor. He blinked and his face crumbled as he realized what had occurred. “Oh, no. My bike.”
His bike?
Addy took in the torn plastic, bent frame, busted shelves and pottery shards of her greenhouse. Precious, no valuable, orchids lay scattered on the ground, roots dangling, stems crushed, petals bruised. But the stupid bike. Yeah, that was the concern here.
Dirt smeared the boy’s cheek, and if Addy hadn’t been so troubled by the fact the accident-prone child had nearly decapitated himself and destroyed her orchid collection she might have thought it endearing. But she was upset.
And mad.
And scared the boy had nearly broken his fool neck… or arm.
“My arm hurts,” the boy said, cupping his shoulder. “And my handlebars are all bent up.”
Addy rose, carefully lifting the bike off the boy and pushing so it lay on the broken pots. “Let me see.”
The boy scooted back, wincing as he cradled his right arm. “Owww.”
Addy knelt beside the boy and gently placed her hand
on his forearm. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”
Big tears hovered on the boy’s thick brown lashes. He dashed them away with his other hand. “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
He looked down at the arm he held tight against his torso. The grubby little fingers moved. Slowly, he uncurled his fist and wiggled his fingers.
“Good.”
He smiled slightly, obviously happy he’d not lost use of his fingers. Carefully, he extended his arm, moving it so his elbow resembled a hinge. “It still hurts a little.”
“Well, yeah, you fell on it. Can you stand up?”
He nodded and scrabbled to his feet, wincing as he moved his arm. Addy rose and gently touched his shoulder. “Maybe we should—”
The door to the greenhouse flew open. A huge man stood against the blinding sunlight.
Addy closed her mouth and scrambled back, knocking another shelf to the hard ground. More pottery broke. Irrational fear erupted within her. Unable to gain traction, she hit the heavy metal pole supporting the greenhouse and nearly tripped over the discarded bike.
“What in the hell?” the mountain asked, voice strong as the shoulders filling the space where solid plastic sheeting had once stretched tight to the ground.
Fear rose in Addy’s throat even as her body prepared to fight. Instinctively, her mind cleared, and she noted in mere nanoseconds the exits and the tools around her. She’d been preparing for this day for a long time.
But then reason clawed its way into her head.
This wasn’t Robbie.
This wasn’t a stranger.
She’d seen this man before—he’d been in and out of the Finlay house the past few days, obviously minding the neighbor’s kids. He wasn’t there for her. He was here for the kid.
She steadied her breathing but remained aware.
Chris had started crying. “I’m sorry, Uncle Lucas. I forgot she put this dumb house on my bike path.” The tears streamed, and snot may have followed. The kid looked pathetic… and blaming her for the crash.
Little turkey.
Imagine building a greenhouse on her own property. Or technically Aunt Flora’s property. The nerve!
Addy stared at the kid, wondering if she should say something… wondering how he’d managed to turn into a sobbing mess in the matter of seconds.
The large man jabbed a finger at the boy. “No excuse. I told you to stay off that bike when I wasn’t there to supervise. I had to wipe your sister.”
The kid ducked his head, sniffling, tears falling on his New Orleans Saints jersey. “I want my momma.”
“Okay, maybe stop yelling at him.” Addy unglued herself from the now sagging heavy plastic. Remain assertive. Protect the victim. “It’s obvious the child’s hurt. And scared.”
The man flicked dark eyes toward the boy. “Are you hurt, Chris?”
“Mm-hmm,” the boy mumbled, wiping his face on his sleeve, using the uninjured arm. “I hurt my shoulder.”
The man stepped inside crowding the area, making Addy’s heart race… and not in a good way. More in the way large male strangers had been doing for the past eighteen years. The fear never went away. She’d merely learned to outwardly control it.
Breathing deeply, she stretched out a hand, shifting some of the power. “I’m Addy Toussant.”
The man the kid had called Lucas didn’t tear his eyes from the boy as he stooped and placed a humongous hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And I’m Lucas. I’m taking care of my nephews and niece for a while.”
“Charlotte. And Michael,” Chris clarified, his brown eyes meeting hers as his uncle examined his arm.
“Yeah, Charlotte and Michael,” the man muttered, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he poked and prodded the boy. Addy watched for signs of pain in the boy’s face but didn’t see anything alarming. Lucas stood. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”
The boy hobbled a little. “My ankle hurts, too.”
Lucas stepped back, and his shoulder brushed hers. Addy scooted back, ignoring the piece of splintered shelf jabbing into her thigh. “Are you surprised? You drove your bike through this nice lady’s, um, house thing.”
Chris peered over at her. “Sorry, Miss Abby. Really. I forgot you put this on my trail.”
Addy didn’t say anything. She probably should say something inane like “It’s okay” or “My name’s Miss Addy” but she didn’t. Mostly because the child had destroyed part of her newly built greenhouse… and plenty of poor, helpless orchids.
“I’m glad you’re sorry because you’re going to help her rebuild it.” This from tall, dark and somewhat handsome.
“What? No.” Addy turned to the giant glowering at the boy. “That’s really not necessary.”
“The hell it isn’t. I told him to stay off that damn bike while I went in to help his sister. He disobeyed, nearly killed himself, and destroyed property in the process. He’s helping fix this.”
“You’re using cussing,” the kid whined making a god-awful face. “And I don’t know nothin’ about fixin’ stuff.”
“Well, that’s the way you learn.” The man leaned over and picked up the motorbike as if it were a small toy and rolled it toward the split in the plastic just as the older brother arrived on scene.
“Holy shit, Chris, what did you do? Mom’s going to freak.”
“Watch your mouth,” Lucas said, shooting the older boy a stern look, blatantly ignoring his own naughty words moments before.
Michael crossed his arms and gave his uncle a go-to-hell look. “Whatever. Like you don’t cuss.”
Lucas shoved the bike toward Michael. “Take this to the garage.”
Michael caught the bike, looking none too happy. “Why do I have to clean up his messes? I always have to-”
“Do what I said,” Lucas said, his tone brooking no further argument. “Where’s your sister? I left her in the bathroom.”
And that’s when Charlotte showed up sans pants.
“I’m through, Uncle Wucas,” she trilled with a smile, thrusting a wad of toilet paper toward Lucas.
For a moment, all were stunned silent.
“Where are your pants?” Lucas asked as the two older boys started laughing.
“I couldn’t put them on. You hadda wipe me,” said the girl who looked about three or four years old. Old enough to know better than to go outside with a bare behind. Young enough not to care.
The man grunted, lifted his eyes heavenward and took in a deep breath. Addy wasn’t sure if he were praying or trying his best not to bolt toward the huge truck he’d parked in the narrow drive days before. She didn’t know how he’d gotten saddled with the Finlay’s three kids, dog, cat and whatever else they sustained in the rambling shotgun house next door, but he was more of a champ than she.
Or was that chump?
“You’re not supposed to leave the bathroom without clothes on, Lottie. And you can wipe yourself. You know it and I know it,” Chris said looking like a small parent, propping his thankfully uninjured hands on hips. “Wipe yourself.”
“But not when I go poop,” Charlotte said, twisting cherub lips beneath bright blue eyes, corkscrew blond curls and a bow askew on the top of her snarled ponytail. Tears filled her eyes and that bottom lip trembled.
The man’s mouth moved.
Addy was almost certain he was praying.
“Uh, hi, Charlotte. Remember me? I’m Miss Addy,” she said, darting a look toward Chris so he got the message about what her name actually was. “Why don’t you go with Michael back to your house and let him help you find your pants.”
She heard Michael’s bark of protest and shot him a look that said “shut it” before turning back to the darling pantless girl. “When you’re done, you can come back, and I’ll give you a homemade chocolate chip cookie Aunt Flora made for her bridge club.”
Charlotte made a little “o” with her mouth which was adorable enough to melt the sternest of hearts.
Lucas sighed. “Please, Charlot
te, go with your brother?”
The little girl looked up, up, up at the big man lurking above her and her little body literally shook. “Mmm’kay.”
Michael rolled his eyes, shifted the dirt bike to Chris and took his sister’s hand—but not before carefully inspecting it—and tugged her out the hole in the greenhouse. Toilet paper trailed behind the barefoot child.
Lucas gave Addy his full attention for the first time. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Think I’ll just go, too,” Chris said slinking past his uncle, rolling his bike toward the back of his house.
“Wait,” Lucas said.
The boy stopped and looked at his uncle with frightened eyes. Addy watched as the man forced himself to relax.
“You need to help Miss or Missus—” He struggled for her name.
“Toussant.”
“Yeah. You need to help her clean up. And then we will arrange a time for you to help repair the damage you’ve done here.”
“A boy can’t fix this,” Addy said, her eyes roving over the rubble. “I’m going to have to replace some beams and most of the sheeting. Plus several of the shelves are broken. And pots. And several plants will need replacing…” Her voice faded as the enormity of the task set in.
Lucas’s dark eyes swept her from foot to crown, but not in a skeevy way. No hair raised on her neck. The look was appreciative, not harmful. There was something else—a tingly awareness that made her swallow the misery of the situation and avert her eyes from the broad shoulders and hard jaw. Her thoughts needed to stay away from the overt maleness of Uncle Lucas. “I can handle those repairs, but Chris will assist me.”
“I’m sure you don’t have the time what with taking care of the children.”
“I need to help make this right. Happened under my watch, and it will be good for Chris to learn some new skills.” His dark eyes reflected something in the depths. Maybe it was desperation. Taking care of the Finlay bunch had to be a challenge. “In fact, Michael can help, too. With the three of us, we’ll have you up and running in no time.”
“Michael’s not going to like it,” Chris muttered, rolling his brown eyes. “He doesn’t like helping with anything. He’s lazy.”
