His curiosity, as he liked to say, was insatiable.
Very little of this seemed to have a thing to do with writing a novel.
Today they were on their way to pick up Brody for Dad’s birthday cookout. Hayden wanted to meet Clint Thomson.
Carrie didn’t look forward to another unpleasant encounter with the man. Call her wimpy, but having Hayden along for backup felt...safe.
He’d listened so patiently while she worried about Valery, a confidence she hadn’t expected to share with anyone. But she’d felt such relief in the telling.
Then at the mill when she’d fallen. Oh, my. Those moments cradled in his arms had set her head spinning in crazy circles.
When they’d headed back to the inn, Hayden had treated her like a fragile bird with a broken wing, even offering to carry her. Though her leg smarted and she’d laughed at him, the offer seemed incredibly romantic and protective. A man caring for his woman.
For that quivering, glimmering moment, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Had wished they were more than friends. If she wasn’t such a ninny, she would have thrown caution to the wind and done the kissing.
But what if he didn’t want that? What if he rebuffed her? What if he mocked her in public and ruined her reputation?
The timid sparrow retreated to her safe nest of friendship.
She studied Hayden’s strong, manly profile as he drove through town, two fingers lifting from the steering wheel as they passed the Golf Café and two of the good ol’ boys, Poker and Mr. B., standing outside in the sunshine.
Hayden Winters was a mystery. But she knew enough about who he was, just as she knew who she wasn’t. She knew what falling for the wrong man could do. She would never be delusional again. Handsome, successful men didn’t fall for small-town women who were as ordinary as a Savannah sparrow.
But looking and enjoying didn’t cost a penny.
Outside the Thomson house, they parked and walked to the porch with Hayden a protective strength at her side. Before they could knock, Brody bolted out the door.
“I’m ready.” The boy had shined up, and the cute cowlick was slicked down with water, his freckles scrubbed pink.
“I’ll let your dad know we’re leaving.” Hayden strode to the door and knocked. “Will you introduce me, Carrie?”
Brody shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting around, making no contact with the adults. Carrie’s chest squeezed. The child was a nervous wreck.
Clint Thomson came to the door, clear-eyed and tidy, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Carrie made the introduction, and the two men exchanged head nods. She could tell Hayden was making an assessment of the other man. That inquisitive brain of his missed very little.
“Brody’s excited about this cookout,” Thomson said, his gaze landing on Carrie. “I appreciate you taking him, Miss Riley.”
“My pleasure. Thanks for letting him go.”
“Well, now, that’s all right. Kid don’t have much else to do around here with only his old man for company, if you know what I mean.”
She had no idea.
“We’ll bring him back when the cookout is over, but it may be close to bedtime. When my family starts playing games, we can go on half the night.”
Thomson scratched at his ear. “He can walk. His legs ain’t broke.”
Hayden’s jaw twitched. “We’ll drop him off after the cookout. No problem.”
“Nice of you.” He pointed a finger at Brody. “You be good, boy. You hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Brody scuffed the porch with his tennis shoe. “I will.”
The trio turned and headed across the small patchy lawn to the Chrysler. Brody quickly slid inside and slammed the door as if he was afraid his father would change his mind.
When they arrived at the Riley home, Brody spotted her nephew Landon and hopped out of the car. Carrie started to follow suit, but Hayden put a hand on her arm.
“Hold on a minute, okay?”
The yard was already filled with cars and pickup trucks. Everyone was there.
“Are you nervous about meeting my crazy family?” she asked, though she couldn’t imagine him being uncomfortable anywhere.
“Should I be?”
She made a face. “Look out for my sisters. They think you’re hot.”
His eyes sparkled. “Yeah?”
“And given the fact that you have a Y chromosome, they also think you are fair game. Whatever you do, don’t listen to them if they start in on the innuendos. They’ll have us paired up like Romeo and Juliet.”
His laugh lines crinkled. “I can handle it.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Ready?”
“I want to talk about Thomson first. He was cordial, gracious, even grateful. Not what I expected.”
“Trust me—he wasn’t that nice on the day I took the boxes, but maybe I insulted him. That’s what Mama said.”
“A man’s pride can get the better of him.” He shifted, grasping the door handle with a soft huff. “I don’t like him.”
Gratified that his intuitive nature had seen what she saw, Carrie nodded. “Me, either. But I like Brody.”
“Yeah, he’s a good kid. Rough around the edges, but he has potential.”
“You’re the mentor he needed, Hayden.”
“I’m only here for a while. What then?”
“I don’t know. He’s attached to you.”
“I noticed.”
He looked too serious for a second, almost troubled, before pushing the door with his shoulder.
They exited the car and walked, side by side, past the other vehicles, through the little latch-gate leading into her parents’ yard, tidied up for this occasion. A pair of potted mums colored the front porch with splashes of yellow, and a porch swing rocked back and forth as if someone had this moment leaped out and run inside.
Carrie heard Nikki’s laughter and nonstop chatter through the front door. Her sister was there with her boyfriend, the easygoing Rick, whom Nikki refused to marry, though he’d proposed a dozen times. Still, he hung on, besotted of the butterfly sister.
Bailey, the oldest Riley sibling, and her husband, Chad, Mom and Dad and the two grandsons were here, along with Trey. She wondered if her single brother had brought a date. Sometimes he did. Sometimes not.
Carrie tried again to warn Hayden. “Everyone is a couple, so please don’t be offended if they assume too much.”
“Why would that offend me?”
She refused to get fluttery. “You came for Brody’s sake.”
Ugh. That sounded pathetic.
He took hold of her hand. “Don’t kid yourself.”
The flutters started even if she didn’t want them. He was being kind, and she was one of the few people he’d gotten well acquainted with in Honey Ridge. Naturally he’d say something nice.
Nevertheless, she experienced a rush of relief and pleasure. For once, thanks to Hayden’s kindness, she’d get through a family gathering without snide remarks about her manless existence. Maybe this time no one would bring up the incident and tell her to get over it.
She squeezed his fingers. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”
He lifted her hand and kissed it with a teasing smack. “Just call me Braveheart.”
* * *
HAYDEN WAS IN the presence of good people, a warm, solid, down-home family whose affection for one another was obvious. Normality.
Surrounded by the average American lifestyle he’d once craved, the friendly, chattering Rileys sucked him in as if he was a friend they’d known forever. The Southern tradition of gracious hospitality was alive and well in Honey Ridge.
He was still examining his gut, trying to determine what kind of relationship he could allow himself to have with Carrie. If she was in
terested, and he was reasonably confident she was.
Sweet, wholesome Carrie with a dark, jaded soul like him? A man who could give her nothing but the present?
There lay the dilemma he had yet to resolve.
As they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Riley looked up from swirling white frosting onto a chocolate cake. “You must be Carrie’s friend Hayden.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to the sisters, whom he’d met at the inn. Both were busy preparing the birthday meal.
“Make yourself at home. We’re always happy to have our children and their friends.”
He smiled at the idea of any of these dynamic women being children.
“Carrie,” Mrs. Riley went on, scratching her cheek with her shoulder, “get the corn ready to grill. Mr. Jacobs had a late crop, and I was lucky to get this fresh from his fall garden.”
“Mom, you want me to open these chips?” This from Bailey, her dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, sunglasses perched on top of her head.
“Go ahead and put them on the outside table to munch on. The veggie tray, too. Nikki made her cucumber dip.”
“Yum,” Carrie said to him. “You have to try her dip. It’s awesome.”
Unlike the industrial kitchen at Peach Orchard Inn, this room was small so that bodies bumped against each other on trips between the sink and a refrigerator decorated with photos and magnets.
Pathetic that a grown man could wish for a refrigerator loaded with childish drawings and cheerful family snapshots.
When Carrie opened a paper sack of corn, he said, “Tell me what to do, and I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Your mama said to make myself at home.”
In a yellow sundress, Carrie looked as pretty and fresh as a sunflower. She flashed a smile. “Mama’s the boss.”
“All right, then.” He reached for an ear of corn. “Instructions, please.”
“Wash it, cut the tops off, rub it with a little oil and Dad sticks it on the grill, shucks and all.”
“Got it.” Their elbows bumped, and the memory stirred of holding Carrie in his arms. “You still have a scratch on your leg.”
They were shoulder to shoulder, her lemony fragrance as light and pleasing as a tall glass of lemonade on a hot day.
With her hair tucked behind one ear, the pearl earring visible and the side of her face looking clear and soft, Hayden was tempted to stroke a knuckle over her skin and watch her pupils dilate with the same desire spreading through him.
She turned her head slightly, bringing them even closer, and words lodged in his throat.
“It’s nothing, Hayden. Never was. But thank you for taking care of me.”
He cleared his throat. “Happy to.”
Their gazes held for long seconds while Hayden wished they were alone. Carrie broke the spell first and, with a self-conscious laugh, turned to the sink.
Glad for something to do with his hands, he reached for another ear of corn.
“Look out for Carrie and corn,” a voice behind them said. “She gets mixed up.”
Carrie groaned. “Bailey! Do you have to tell that story?”
“If we didn’t embarrass you in front of your date, we wouldn’t love you.”
Carrie glanced at him and mouthed, “I warned you,” as Bailey launched into a funny retelling of a six-year-old Carrie trying to spell everything on the table.
“When she came to corn, she proudly spelled, ‘H-a-y, corn!’”
Carrie rolled her eyes. Bailey laughed. Mrs. Riley, a spatula full of icing suspended in midair, looked on in amusement and Hayden smiled.
He loved hearing about growing up in a happy family, but family, at least his own, wasn’t a bag he wanted to open. He’d felt vulnerable since the moment Carrie had slid into the seat of his Chrysler. Even before that.
His attraction to her conflicted him, called into question every motivation, every erected barrier and the neatly plotted path of his life. To veer from the plot would change the story outcome, a frightening, unconscionable act on his part.
“Don’t feel bad,” he said, smoothly, easily, hiding his true feelings. “I couldn’t spell cat when I was six.”
He couldn’t swim, either.
The intruding memory ached, like a poorly set broken bone. He suffered a momentary flash of gleaming water. Of Blackie Boy.
Carrie bumped him with her side, effectively wiping away the vision. “You’re sweet to say that.”
“Carrie was a word nerd from the beginning,” Nikki said, “even if her spelling was off.”
Feeling a kinship, Hayden twitched an eyebrow. “I like that. Word nerd.”
“You, too?”
“Always.” Words had cost him something, particularly when Dora Lee discovered he read too well to qualify for a disability check, but words had also been his way out. “I read the dictionary for fun.”
“Me, too!”
They laughed into each other’s eyes. Nikki groaned. “Oh, Lord, two of them.”
Trey came inside for the steaks and invited Hayden out to the grill with the men. “Dad’s grilling.”
“Poor man has to grill his own birthday steak?” Hayden said to Carrie, not really desiring to leave the kitchen and her company.
“The grill is Dad’s pride and joy.” Carrie glanced toward the backyard, her smile affectionate. “He insisted he wanted a decent steak, and the only way to get one was to grill it himself.”
“They’ve been marinating all day,” Mrs. Riley added. “Dad does the steak. We’ve got the rest.”
“But he likes moral support and lots of man talk,” Trey said, plate balanced on one hand, “Come on out, Hayden—have a Coke and talk guy stuff. These women will make you wimpy.”
“Hey,” Carrie said, pretending offense.
Trey patted his shorter sister on the head. “I’m speaking from painful experience, sis. Let the man go.”
“Never argue with an officer of the law.” Hayden wiped the corn silks from his hands before accompanying the friendly brother outside to a small fenced backyard.
Like Carrie and her sisters, Trey had dark hair and eyes. Athletically muscled and of average height, the good-looking cop probably had women following him around like cats after a stringer of fish. But he’d come stag to the party.
Trey introduced Hayden to the others—his father, Nikki’s boyfriend and Chad, a robust man with a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes. Bailey’s husband was an anomaly in the sea of dark hair and eyes.
“Grab a drink from the ice chest and pull up a lawn chair.” The birthday dad wore a white chef’s apron bearing the words, “Last time I cooked, hardly anyone got sick. How do you like your steak?”
A Jack Russell terrier streaked by in pursuit of a rubber ball. A small, giggling boy, maybe seven or eight, who shared Chad’s fair looks, scrambled after him.
Hayden slid his hands into his back pockets. “I’m not particular, but medium rare would be my choice.”
“You got it.” Sam Riley tossed the well-seasoned T-bones onto the grates. Smoke and a delicious meaty scent circled upward. “Though Carrie won’t watch you eat it.”
Hayden chuckled, grabbed a Coke from the cooler and joined Trey in the shade of a yellow-leafed maple.
He and Trey discussed mundane things, sports, small-town life, dogs and the art of backyard grilling, which Hayden knew nothing about other than the time his villain blew up the hero’s house with propane stolen from the man’s own grill.
Hayden always found the sinister in the ordinary. Conditioned response, he supposed.
Brody and his pal Landon streaked past, shooting water guns at each other, squeals high-pitched and energetic.
“Another of Carrie’s projects,” Trey mused, lifting his soda towar
d the boys. “Brody, I mean.”
“Her projects?”
The stocky brown-and-white terrier lost interest in the rubber ball and yipped after the water guns, leaping to catch each squirt.
“Haven’t you noticed? She drives books to shut-ins. Reads to nursing home residents. Buys kibble for the cat lady. Volunteers at the food pantry.” He swigged from the can.
“She buys cat food?”
“Huge bags. And she doesn’t own a cat.” Trey pointed his drink. “She collects the needy. Brody is the latest.”
“A shame he doesn’t have a mother to look after him. It bothers him. Do you know anything about her?”
He hadn’t forgotten the Sweat twins’ accusation, though no one else gave it credence. The Thomson woman had to be somewhere.
Trey trained his gaze on the playing boys. “After Carrie brought him to my attention, I asked around. The Thomsons split up when the boy was around three or four.”
“That’s what Brody told me. He thinks he might remember her, but the memory is so vague, he’s not sure.” Hayden shifted in his chair to look at Trey. He understood vague memories of a loving parent. “She doesn’t call or visit.”
“Sad deal. Everyone assumes that Penny Thomson had enough of Clint’s drinking and left him. It happens. Clint’s not a bad sort, but he drinks too much. After Carrie asked me about the wife, I ran her through the computer.”
“Find anything?”
“Nothing. No social media, nothing on Google search. No DMV records. It’s as if she keeps a very low profile or disappeared into thin air.”
The hair on the back of Hayden’s neck tingled. “Any hint of foul play?”
“Nothing to indicate it. Thomson lives in a small, nosy town. He has neighbors. Someone would have reported if violence went down next door.”
“If it happened there.”
Trey shot him a sideways glance. “Real life is usually not as interesting as fiction. At least not in Honey Ridge.”
The Rain Sparrow Page 33
