“Thanks. Thanks a lot for everything.” Peyton clutched the pajamas to her chest.
“You’re very welcome. I’m going to get out of your hair so you can rest.”
“You don’t have to,” Peyton protested.
“I’m afraid I do.”
If nothing else, she thought it was probably good for Spence and Peyton to spend this time together without her in the way.
“I’ll see you later.” She leaned in again and kissed the girl and then turned to go.
“I can walk you out,” Spence offered.
“Not necessary. It’s not a very big hospital. I don’t think I’ll get lost. Anyway, you should stay here with Peyton. She needs her dad right now.”
“I can at least walk you off the unit,” he said.
When she couldn’t come up with a good argument to that, she merely shrugged and walked out of the room.
Back in the small waiting area, she wasn’t prepared at all when Spence pulled her into another hug. She wrapped her arms around his waist, sensing it was as much for his own benefit as anything.
“I don’t even know how to thank you for everything you did today,” he murmured. “I would have been completely lost without you.”
She mustered a smile. “It was nothing I wouldn’t do for any friend,” she said, placing just a tiny pointed emphasis on the last word.
Hazel eyes studied her intently and she thought she saw something there, a soft light that, quite ridiculously, made her want to cry. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you still consider me that, after everything.”
He leaned in and kissed her forehead, and at that moment, she knew it was too late. She was already in love with him, and her heart ached for the pain she knew was in store.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SO MUCH FOR good intentions.
The next afternoon, Charlotte left work early to change her clothes after an accident with one of the copper pots she used to mix her fudge. A big chocolate smear dripped down the front of her Sugar Rush T-shirt, dried now, since she had ended up taking a call from a distributor that lasted another forty-five minutes.
Her plan was to slip into something clean before running over to the hospital to check on Peyton.
She pulled up to her house and walked back down the driveway to check the mailbox. Just as she pulled out what looked like a stack of bills and the latest Eating Light magazine, an SUV approached.
When she recognized Spence’s Range Rover, she grew extremely cognizant of the smear of dried chocolate dripping across her right breast, blocking the s and u of Sugar Rush.
She subtly blocked it with the magazine and approached the passenger side, where she was pleased to see Peyton.
“Hello!” she said through the window Peyton opened. “I was just on my way to change my clothes so I could come to the hospital to see you. Looks like I would have been too late.”
“Looks like,” Peyton said, the words clipped and tight.
Charlotte frowned at the transitory mood and glanced through the vehicle’s interior at Spence, who shrugged.
“How are you feeling today?” Charlotte asked.
“I don’t think I have a stupid eating disorder,” she burst out. Charlotte had the distinct impression that wasn’t the first time the girl had uttered those words in the past twenty-four hours.
“The doctors say otherwise,” Spence said mildly. “You’re not eating and you’ve been making yourself throw up. You’re severely anemic and in danger of being malnourished because of it. But we’re going to work on it, aren’t we?”
Peyton shrugged. “I guess.”
To Charlotte’s surprise, Spence turned off the engine and climbed out of the vehicle. Peyton put on earbuds as soon as he left, as if she had only been waiting for an excuse.
“So things aren’t going that well?” Charlotte guessed.
“The eating disorders specialist spent almost two hours with her this morning. She’s quite confident from the medical tests and her time with Peyton that she has anorexia. It’s in its early stages, apparently stemming from a variety of things but especially the trauma of losing her mother suddenly and under such traumatic circumstances. I didn’t help things, apparently, by uprooting her from everything comfortable and moving her here.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, saddened by the guilt ringing in his voice.
“We’re starting an intensive therapy program. I say ‘we’ because apparently family therapy is part of the equation. So that should be fun.”
He didn’t look happy about it but she was confident he would do whatever was necessary for his daughter. “You’ll get through this,” she said. “Just remember you’re getting your daughter the help she needs to have a healthy, happy life.”
“I know. But the process isn’t necessarily pretty. Your care package was a lifesaver last night, for both of us.”
“Good. I’m glad it helped.”
He seemed to hesitate. “I hate to ask this, after you’ve already gone out of your way to help, but I could use another favor.”
She would really have preferred to have this conversation in a clean shirt. “Of course. How can I help?”
His warm smile threatened to turn her insides as gooey as melted chocolate. “You might want to hear me out before you instantly agree.”
“I figure I can always say no later,” she said.
“True. Okay, I got a call today from Lisa, my assistant at the recreation center. I didn’t have a chance to tell you in all the craziness yesterday but we’re trying to arrange a media event in two weeks to introduce A Warrior’s Hope project and break ground for the cabins.”
She stared. “Already? Harry just agreed to donate the land a few days ago.”
“He moves fast when he finds a cause he likes, apparently. If we want to finish by Christmas, we have to fast-track everything. I’ve managed to call in some favors with various old teammates to help generate a little more publicity. They’ve got one free Friday before the season ends, which is two weeks from today, so that’s when we’re going to do the ribbon-cutting.”
She had no idea how he had moved so quickly but she couldn’t deny she was impressed. “It sounds as if you’ve got everything under control. Why would you need me?”
Something flashed in his eyes for just a moment before he banked it.
“What do you think are the chances I could convince Dylan to show up at the ribbon-cutting?” he asked after a moment.
She let out a rough laugh. “About as likely as me winning the Boston Marathon. Actually, my odds are probably slightly better right now.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
“I’m sorry, but he thinks the whole thing is a big waste of time. I really thought he would be excited to have it here but I don’t think he’s in a place right now to see the possibilities in anything.”
“I believe you. But I have to try, don’t I? Having him there would be a very effective way to illustrate the need for A Warrior’s Hope.” He paused. “I was hoping that if the two of us teamed up to try convincing him, he might have a tougher time saying no.”
“I doubt that would matter to him. He’s very good at saying no to whomever he wants right now.”
“How do we know if we don’t ask, though? That’s the advice I’m always giving Peyton. The only sure way to fail is not to try at all.”
“Sounds like a locker room motivational poster to me.”
“Little Miss Smarty Pants.” His tired smile took away any sting from the words. “I’m going to ask him anyway, fully expecting him to say no. I would love to have you with me. You never know. He might surprise us both.”
She sighed, absolutely certain Dylan would never agree to come be on display at some fund-raiser for a vet
erans program he thought was a waste of time in the first place. How could she refuse to help Spence, who was going to so much trouble for A Warrior’s Hope, in large part because her brother’s situation moved him?
The bigger question was, how could she possibly hope to protect her fragile heart from him? Every time she decided to extricate herself from his life, he tangled her right back up again.
“Yes. I’ll go with you. When were you planning to speak with him?”
“As soon as we can. Time is ticking away here, obviously. I would have said tonight but I don’t feel right about leaving Peyton with Gretel when she’s only just been released from the hospital.”
“Tomorrow?”
He hesitated. “I doubt I’ll feel any better about leaving her tomorrow. Hell, I’m probably not going to want her out of my sight for months.”
“Why don’t you bring her along, then? Dylan won’t bite and the drive up Snowflake Canyon is beautiful this time of year. The high-mountain wildflowers are finally blooming.”
“That works. Let’s plan on tomorrow night, depending on how Peyton’s doing, naturally. I’ll pick you up about six. Will you be done with work by then?”
“Yes. That should be fine.”
With any luck, she thought as he climbed back in his SUV and headed for home, she wouldn’t have a chocolate-covered chest.
* * *
“I STILL DON’T know why I have to go to therapy, but I guess Dr. Low is nice enough,” Peyton said.
Spence shifted his gaze briefly from the mountainous road to Charlotte, leaning into the space between the two front seats in order to better hear Peyton from the backseat.
She smelled delicious, that flowery, spicy vanilla scent he found so intoxicating. He had a wild urge to reach across the space that divided them and press his mouth to that warm hollow at the base of her throat.
Her gaze shifted to him and he had to wonder what she could see in his expression that made her breath catch.
She quickly turned her attention back to Peyton but not before a tide of color soaked her cheekbones.
He couldn’t remember ever finding himself this drawn to a woman.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, you have to give them a chance to help you.”
“I guess. I definitely don’t want to go into an inpatient program. My friend Misha’s cousin had to and she stayed forever. That would totally suck.”
Spence still wasn’t convinced that inpatient wasn’t the best route to go but the eating disorders specialist in Hope’s Crossing seemed to think their current course of action was sufficient. He would trust her for now but keep all their options open.
“You’ll have to tell me where I’m going,” he said after a minute.
Charlotte gazed out the windshield. “Oh. Right. It’s not far now. Shortly after you head around the next bend, there should be a turnoff on the left with a red mailbox.”
He had forgotten how beautiful Snowflake Canyon could be. This high up, the wildflower season came late. Early August was apparently the perfect time to see their brilliant display. He recognized a few—Indian paintbrush, purple lupine, the multicolor hue of columbine.
He had come up here on fishing trips with Dermot and his sons, he remembered. That seemed another lifetime ago.
“Thank you again for coming with us.”
Charlotte sent him a sidelong glance. “I really hope you’re not expecting much. Dylan barely wants to show his face at the grocery store in town. I just can’t see him wanting to go on display for the cameras at a media event. Even before he was wounded, that probably wouldn’t have been his scene.”
Spence fully expected to fail but stubbornly refused to give up.
“It’s worth a shot, right? What have we got to lose, besides a few minutes spent enjoying a beautiful drive?”
She didn’t answer, just pointed to the turnoff, where a dirt road wound through the trees. He turned off, grateful for the high suspension of the SUV on the bumpy track. The road was actually quite well maintained but a few good-size rocks gave them a solid jostle.
“What is he going to do up here in the winter?” he asked Charlotte.
She made a face. “Good question. The main road is plowed year-round these days because of all the new vacation homes up this way, and Dylan bought an old tractor to clear his own driveway. He seems to think that’s adequate but I’m not sure he remembers how much more snow they get up here than we have down in the valley. I have visions of him being socked in for weeks.”
“I’m sure your father and brothers would come dig him out if need be.”
“True.”
On impulse, Spence rolled down the windows and the brisk mountain air blowing in was filled with hauntingly familiar scents from his childhood—sage and pine and the sweetness of the wildflowers.
“The house is just up there,” Charlotte said. They turned around a cluster of bushy pine trees and he saw a sprawling log house with a couple outbuildings, but no neighbors that he could see in any direction.
He could imagine the stars up here at night would be incredible. There was something to be said for the isolation. At least a guy had room to stretch, to think. To heal.
Through the open window, they suddenly heard a loud, mournful baying.
“What is that?” Peyton exclaimed.
Charlotte smiled a little. “That’s Tucker, my brother’s dog. He’s a great guy. I think you’ll like him.”
“He sounds like his heart is broken or something,” Peyton said.
“He’s a black and tan coonhound. They’re known for their musical bark. Sometimes they actually sound like they’re singing.”
“You call that singing?”
“That’s his way of saying hello,” Charlotte said. “He’s just happy to see me.”
Spence noticed the hound’s owner didn’t look as thrilled. Dylan sat on the porch, his feet propped up on an overturned feed bucket and a beer can in his hand.
His repose was deceptively casual. On closer scrutiny, Spence noticed a wary alertness that only eased slightly when Charlotte climbed out of the passenger side of his SUV.
Dylan had been an Army Ranger. Spence imagined that wariness was second nature to him.
A couple chickens pecking at the dirt squawked at them and fluttered out of their way when Spence and Peyton climbed out of the SUV after Charlotte.
Dylan looked resigned as he watched the three of them approach the porch. Spence wondered briefly if he should have left Peyton home. She was still fragile, trying to come to terms with her condition and the new reality. She really didn’t need the stress of a confrontation with Dylan if Charlotte’s brother was in the mood to be recalcitrant.
“Well, hey. If it isn’t our resident baseball star,” he said, his voice only slightly slurred. Spence probably wouldn’t even have noticed it if he hadn’t had so much experience interpreting his mother’s level of intoxication.
“Hey, Dylan. Nice place you’ve got here.”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. Despite its tumbledown appearance, the house had a certain rustic appeal.
“I like it.” He sipped at his beer, looking menacing behind his eye patch, and Spence noticed several empty bottles piled up on the edge of the porch. Again, he wished he hadn’t brought Pey.
“You remember my daughter, Peyton. I think you met her a few weeks ago at the café.”
Peyton seemed to be having one of those shy moments. She stood close to him, which wasn’t such a bad thing from a daughter who usually preferred to pretend he didn’t exist.
To his relief, Dylan seemed to pull in a few of his prickly quills. “Hi, again, Peyton. Did I tell you I played ball with your dad, once upon a time? Never could get a hit off him in practice, even though I batted over .400 against everybody else.”
He held up his empty sleeve and gestured to the eye patch with what was left of his arm. “I sure couldn’t get a hit off him now.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t throw worth sh—er, beans—anymore so you never know,” Spence said.
For some reason, Dylan offered up a rusty laugh at that. Charlotte, petting the grateful dog, looked startled.
“Have you had dinner?” she asked, holding up the bag she had carried on her lap all the way up the canyon. “Dad sent along lasagna tonight and some of the café’s garlic bread sticks. Shall I put it in the refrigerator for you?”
He scratched just above his ear. “Sure.”
When she went inside, the three of them seemed locked in that awkward tableau, with Dylan on the porch and Peyton and Spence standing just at the bottom of the stairs. Spence decided not to wait for an invitation to sit down. He walked up and pulled apart a couple stacking plastic chairs, positioning them near Dylan’s spot.
The chairs were dirty but Peyton didn’t seem to notice. She seemed fascinated by Dylan again and hadn’t taken her gaze off him since they had climbed out of the car.
Jade hadn’t tolerated imperfection so Peyton had been surrounded by physically ideal people all her life. It was good for her to see the gritty reality, Spence figured.
Dylan seemed aware of Pey’s interest. To Spence’s relief, he didn’t take another swig of his beer, setting it down on the table beside him instead.
The dog came over to investigate the strangers. Pey seemed nervous at first but then relaxed a bit, petting the dog’s long, droopy ears.
“What’s his name again?” she asked Dylan.
“Tucker,” he answered gruffly.
“Charlotte said he was a coonhound. Does that mean he hunts raccoons?”
“He’ll tree any who dare come around, but I don’t hunt. Not anymore.”
Charlotte came out of the house before Peyton could ask another question. Since Dylan had three guests and two guest chairs, Spence rose to let her take his and leaned instead against the porch railing.
Willowleaf Lane Page 24
