by Linda Style
Rhys grew still, and the sparkle of excitement in his eyes faded as his pupils dilated. His hands inched upward and her insides went all warm and liquid and Lord, she was glad the man who’d been in earlier had said he’d return.
In the past week her feelings about Rhys had been all over the place, and she wasn’t sure how she’d react if he ever made a move on her. She’d wondered more than once how it would feel to be wrapped in his strong capable arms.
But every time she wondered, anxiety would follow. And the most confusing thing of all was why she was drawn to him. Why was she fantasizing about a man like Rhys Gannon—a man she should despise. A man she needed to despise if she was to carry out her plan.
But right now it wasn’t hate on her mind.
As if he’d been reading her thoughts, Rhys stared at her mouth and gently stroked both thumbs down her arms. She stiffened, fearful she’d give herself away.
Rhys averted his gaze and dropped his hands. “Guess it’s your turn, huh?”
She blinked. “My turn?”
“For lunch. Why don’t you go and get a bite?” He stepped away, pulled out a file drawer, picked up one of the files and held it up to the light, squinting, as though it was hard to read. “And while you’re gone, I’ll see if I can handle things as well as you did.”
Smiling, she swung around and headed for the front door, her steps springy and light.
“If you’re lucky.”
CHAPTER TEN
MABEL, DRESSED IN JEANS and a sweatshirt with a hand-painted mountain scene on the front, yanked a blue gingham apron off a hook near the stove, stuck her head through the loop, then poured two cups of coffee.
Her eyes narrowed as she set one steaming mug on the counter in front of Whitney and shoved the sugar and creamer toward her.
“You’re a little late. Do you still want lunch, dear?”
“Sure. I’ll have the usual.”
Mabel removed the homemade bread from the oven and thumped out the loaves. She slipped a spatula under one and transferred it to a white marble slab, sparing Whitney a quick glance. “You eat breakfast?”
Whitney nodded. Mabel’s mother-hen instincts were right up there with Gretta’s. “I had a scone earlier at the inn. That’s more than I usually eat in the morning.”
“Gretta’s a good cook. She used to fill in for me when I needed a day off,” Mabel said. “But since she and Johnny opened the inn five years ago, she’s been too busy. Good thing, too.” Mabel paused and ducked her head into the fridge. A second later she emerged with a stick of butter along with Whitney’s sandwich. “Considering.”
“Considering?”
“Oh, you know.” Mabel smeared the butter across the crusty bread loaves. “All those family problems.”
Family problems? Was she talking about Rhys’s past? Although Whitney was eager for any new information, she held her questions. She peered into her cup. “Yes, it’s hard to imagine,” she said, pretending to know what Mabel was talking about. She’d already learned not to pry, because people in Estrade were fiercely loyal to one another.
Mabel tossed the sandwich in the pan, and just as she appeared ready to say more, the sleigh bells on the front door jangled. “Right on time,” she said, glancing at her watch. She winked at Whitney and flipped the cheese sandwich. “Afternoon, Charley.”
Dang! Whitney watched Charley make his way between the chairs and tables, straightening those that were out of place. Rats. Just when Mabel might have given her some information.
“Hello, young lady.” Charley patted Whitney’s shoulder. Mabel set a cup of coffee in front of him while he eased his body onto the stool next to Whitney.
“Hi, Charley. Any luck out there today?”
Breakfast and dinner were rituals for Mabel and Charley, and lunch, too, when things weren’t going well at the mine. In the past week, Whitney had learned that Charley usually made just enough money to keep the wolf at bay. But he was certain that one day he was “gonna hit a vein”—he’d known it for more than thirty years.
She suspected it really didn’t matter much if he did or not.
Mabel rolled her eyes at the question and harrumphed. “You think that’s why the old goat goes out there?”
Charley ignored the comment and sent Mabel an affectionate grin as he addressed Whitney. “Still workin’ on that picture book of yours? Hardly seems a gal like you would enjoy hangin’ around a motorcycle shop.”
Whitney suppressed a grin. It had surprised her, too. A couple of weeks ago, the last thing she’d have considered was photographing motorcycles—or helping customers in a bike shop.
“Yep, I’m still working on it, Charley. Just barely started, actually. But I’ve got an excellent teacher.”
Mabel put Whitney’s plate on the counter, raising a silvery brow as she did. “So just how long is this research gonna take?” Her tone suggested more than research was happening.
The question was one she’d wondered herself. More importantly, she wondered how long Rhys would allow her to stay before he’d question her presence. She couldn’t drag out the project forever.
In the week since she’d found SaraJane, she’d become close to her. She’d become close to them all. And the longer she spent, the more she regretted what she had to do. “I don’t know,” Whitney answered. “I wish I did.”
“Maybe you’ll wanna stay here,” Charley said. “Like me.”
Whitney had assumed Charley’d been there forever.
He nodded at Mabel. “Yep, I took a fancy to Ma—”
“Charley, mind your manners,” Mabel cut him off, and they bantered back and forth for the rest of Whitney’s lunch hour, at times drawing Whitney into the conversation. They were quite the eccentric pair, and Whitney laughed right along with them.
She loved her lunches with Mabel and Charley. Her relationship with them was totally unlike any she had back home. And the strangest part was that it felt so natural. She couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to live in such a place permanently.
“Uh-oh,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Gotta go.” She polished off the rest of her sandwich, paid, then slipped her camera over one shoulder as she prepared to return to the shop. As she turned to leave, Charley caught her sleeve.
“Be careful, Whitney.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Your boss has been known to steal more than one young lady’s heart.”
Whitney moved toward the door. “Thanks for the warning, Charley, but I’m here strictly for business.”
Walking back, she applauded herself on how perfectly things had worked out. She’d arranged to be at the shop from ten until four. That way, Rhys could count on her help during those hours, and she could devote the rest of each day to her own work…and spending time with her niece. She didn’t know if Rhys was aware of how much time she been spending with SaraJane, or if he’d object. So far, he hadn’t mentioned it.
Her spirits soared whenever she thought about her niece. She marveled at the tiny perfection of the child’s features, so much like Morgan’s it made Whitney’s chest hurt. She loved to hear the SaraJane laugh and giggle, loved to hear her talk. Whitney hadn’t had the opportunity to spend much time around children, except to photograph them, but if she was any judge at all, SaraJane seemed exceptionally bright for her age, and she certainly was vocal.
The overwhelming love and pleasure Whitney felt simply watching her niece was beyond anything she’d experienced, and she couldn’t imagine her feelings for SaraJane would be any more intense if she’d given birth to the child. She couldn’t help wondering if her parents had ever had such deep feelings for either her or Morgan.
She sighed. She couldn’t change the past, but from here on, she’d do anything and everything to ensure SaraJane never experienced that kind of hell.
Returning to the store, Whitney noticed the back end of a black motorcycle protruding from the side of the building. She recognized the motorcycle ridden by the man who’d been there earlier.
<
br /> She headed for the front door, then stopped. If she went in through the back she wouldn’t disturb them if they were in the store talking business.
Nearing the corner of Rhys’s workshop behind the store, she heard raised voices and then, through the window, saw Rhys inside. His back was to her and the other man stood on his right. The windows were slightly open, but she still couldn’t make out their words.
Inching closer, she saw the two men engaged in a rigid handshake. They both made some kind of sign, then hugged, first on one side, then the other. Whitney’s blood rushed.
She jerked back. The only time she’d seen that kind of behavior between men was in the movies.
It seemed out of place in a little town in the Arizona mountains. But Rhys was from Chicago, she remembered. Maybe his connections had followed him. Maybe, no matter where he went, they’d follow him and he’d never be able to make a new life for himself.
At that moment Whitney realized how much she wanted to believe in Rhys, how much she wanted to believe that what Gretta had said was true. But if it was, how would that affect what she needed to do?
Instinctively she raised her camera and clicked off a few frames of the men in conversation. Then, lo and behold, the outlaw handed Rhys a stack of money. She took another photograph.
Immediately after that, the door opened a crack. “Next week,” the outlaw rasped. “I’ll see you then.” A strange panic rioted within her. She had to get out of there…disappear before they saw her.
She backed away. She had a horrible feeling she’d just witnessed something illegal, and like it or not, she had it on film.
Her heart pounded excitedly. She stepped back and turned to run, but the heel of her boot sank into a crevice between the flagstones, trapping her. Shit. She yanked so hard her boot heel came off and was wedged between the stones.
She stared briefly at the broken heel, made a quick decision to forget it and dashed around the building to the front of the store, hoping if they saw her, they’d think she’d just come back from lunch. Breathless, she hit the steps two at a time, barreled inside and slammed the door behind her. Just as she did, she saw the outlaw fly around the building on his bike, a sleek black raven with the tails of his long leather duster floating behind like glossy pointed wings.
Hands pressed against the glass on the door, she watched his dramatic departure, her breathing ragged, absorbed in her thoughts.
“How was lunch?” Rhys’s voice sounded behind her.
She jumped, heart clanging inside. Slowly she turned, using every second to gather her composure. Straightening the lapels on her navy blazer, she moistened her lips.
“It was very nice,” she said curtly, her face stiff as plaster. Rhys’s eyes widened at her response.
“O-kay,” he drawled. “Anything I can do?”
“Nope. I’m fine.” Except for the fact that just when she’d decided he might be okay—that he really was trying to change his life—he did something to raise her suspicions.
“Fine and dandy!” she added, then turned and clomped away, one leg shorter than the other.
She felt Rhys’s eyes boring into her back. A second later he strode past her to enter his office, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “Women!”
***
When Whitney left for the day, Rhys hurried to the file cabinet to get out the loan application. No way around it—the money Luth had paid him, combined with what he’d saved over the past few months, still wasn’t enough.
He’d tapped every source he knew to pay for the trial; he’d even used all the money that had been slated to get the business off the ground.
As he stared blindly at the papers in front of him, allowing his thoughts to drift to more pleasant things…and to the woman who’d so recently swept into his life.
Her business acumen impressed him, his parents thought she was delightful, and SaraJane loved having her around. Hell, so did he. Whitney had been spending a lot of time with SaraJane, and he liked the way the two of them had hit it off.
Smiling, he reached for the photo. It wasn’t fair that a child so young should be robbed of a normal family life. Still, whatever they had now was better than what she would’ve had with her mother. Abandonment wasn’t exactly one of the criteria for Mother of the Year.
He returned the photo to its place on his desk.
Man, he was grateful he had his parents for support. If he could just get the business rolling, they could lead a nice quiet family life in Estrade, regardless of the past. He didn’t need lots of money to be happy; he only needed the security of knowing he’d done the right thing—this time.
His worst fear was that someday SaraJane’s mother would have a change of heart and come looking for her. He was well aware something needed to be done about permanent custody. But since no one was even aware he had SaraJane, and they still had to get through the appeal, the last thing he needed was to draw attention to that issue. He certainly didn’t want social services getting involved. They might put SaraJane in a foster home or, God forbid, return her to her mother.
Everything had to wait until the appeals were exhausted. Everything, including the wild notions that seeped unwanted into his brain. Thoughts that pitted desire against good sense.
He’d gone down that road before, and doing it again wasn’t even close to what he had planned for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“YOU BE THE MOMMY,” SaraJane said, directing Whitney to a spot at the small play table. “And I’ll be your little girl.”
An overwhelming surge of affection infused Whitney as she watched SaraJane place the tiny teacups on their equally tiny saucers. Her niece wore a pink corduroy jumper—a color that had always looked so pretty on Morgan—a white shirt and white tights.
Someday, she thought as she sat in the tot-size chair. Someday I’ll tell you all about your mommy.
SaraJane skipped to the play stove in the corner of the sunroom and Whitney cleared her throat. “Um…excuse me. Shouldn’t I be doing the cooking if I’m the mommy?”
SaraJane turned, and standing with one hand on her hip and a tiny spatula in the other, said proudly, “I can do it all by myself.” Then she held out the spatula. “But you can help.”
She looked like a little doll. Her eyes were large and her blond hair sprayed from a ponytail on the top of her head, golden tendrils spilling around her chubby pink cheeks.
Whitney tried to envision Rhys doing so delicate a task as brushing his daughter’s hair and decided he probably left those things to Gretta. Though, somehow, it wouldn’t surprise her if Rhys did do it himself.
SaraJane skipped to Whitney’s side and tugged her hand, urging her off the chair and toward the stove. “I can show you how to do it,” she said, enunciating each word crisply and clearly.
“Okay. What do I do?” Whitney asked, kneeling next to the little girl.
“First,” SaraJane said, pressing her lips together, “you gotta have these.” She pushed a square pot holder into each of Whitney’s hands, then concentrating heavily, arranged them to cover Whitney’s palms.
“Then you gotta open the oven door and take the cookies out.” Her expression grew serious. “But you gotta be very careful ’cause it’s hot.” She dimpled. “Put them right here.” She patted the tabletop next to the stove. “Then you take the spatula and scoop the cookies off an’ put them on the plate.”
SaraJane clapped her hands and giggled impishly. “And then—” she drew out the words “—we eat them.” Her bubbly laughter sparkled through the room.
Whitney peeked in the window of the miniature oven door before she opened it. “Hmmm, real cookies?”
SaraJane pursed her lips. A frown creased her smooth forehead in a way that sent a pang directly to Whitney’s heart. At times the little girl reminded Whitney so much of Morgan as a child it was utterly painful to watch.
“Well, Grammy helped, too,” SaraJane said, ducking her chin.
Wh
itney burst into laughter. Sweet innocence. So much like her mother before life and its adversities destroyed her. “That’s wonderful!” Whitney said, reaching to open the oven and remove the cookies. “We all helped. That’s called teamwork.”
When SaraJane grabbed another spatula and joined Whitney scooping the cookies off the sheet, Whitney added, “And I think we make a terrific team.”
Whitney brushed cookie crumbs from her black shirt and leggings and watched SaraJane carry the small plastic plate to the table, taking slow deliberate steps so she wouldn’t spill anything.
Just as carefully, SaraJane set the plate on the table, then, eyes wide, looked up at Whitney. “See, I told you I could do it all by myself.” As SaraJane spoke, her gaze lifted beyond Whitney to the doorway. Her face lit with recognition.
“Poppy, Poppy!” she squealed, completely forgetting the tea party. She flew toward Rhys, who leaned casually against the doorjamb, watching them.
He whisked the little girl into his arms and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “Are you two spoiling your appetites before dinner?” he asked sternly.
Whitney couldn’t help noticing the differences between them. SaraJane’s hair was soft and golden, her complexion the proverbial peaches-and-cream. Rhys’s hair was thick and black as midnight, his skin, olive, and while both had blue eyes, Rhys’s were much darker.
“I want to eat here at Grammy’s.”
Rhys drew back. “You mean you’re tired of my cooking?” He chuckled and tucked a finger under SaraJane’s chin.
“Grammy’s food is gooder. I want to eat at Grammy’s.” The child wriggled to get down and Rhys gently obliged, smiling as she skipped back to the tea-party table. His eyes caught Whitney’s.
“Can’t say I blame her. My cooking stinks and even I know it.” He shook his head. “But to be told by a three-year-old—now that really hurts.”
His playfulness threw Whitney off guard, and when SaraJane came back and ordered them both to sit at the table and eat cookies, Whitney obeyed. Rhys followed suit. As they did so, SaraJane ran out of the room calling, “Grammy, Grammy, we’re gonna eat here!”
