Is this why Sam needed to stay? To protect Ben from Stuart?
"Bye, Tin Man," the kid said against the side of Sam's neck.
"Good-bye, Ben," Sam whispered into Ben's hair.
"Uh-oh," Ben said, straining back from Sam and looking up at the sky. "Rain drop hit me on the head."
Dixie lifted Ben from Sam's arms and set him on the ground. "You better put Checkers in his hutch."
The kid darted off. A second raindrop splatted against Sam's forehead. Dixie laughed and eyed the sky. "Those clouds don't look too good. You got rain gear?"
Dumbly, he nodded.
Tell me to stay!
She took his hands in hers, her fingers warm against his own. He wanted her to never let go.
Please.
"You visit us any time you want, Sam." She rose onto her toes, leaned in, and pressed her lips to his cheek.
Her kiss was like a summer breeze across his skin. Balmy. Gentle. All too fleeting. He wanted to turn his face and test her lips against his. He wanted to explore Dixie Rae mouth to mouth and body to body. He wanted to know her inside and out. That's why he couldn't stay—why he had to leave. She was Mickey's wife.
She stepped back, her lips lifting from his cheek, her fingers sliding from his hands. He felt the cool tracks of her departure—felt its sting on his cheek, his hand, his forehead where she'd earlier swiped the hair back from his brow.
Or was it the raindrops that fell in fat droplets that stung his skin and made him think there was more to her touch than there really was?
Dixie lifted her face and smiled into the rain, seemingly heedless of how it wet her cheeks, her hair, and her clothes. Sam knew there was nothing ordinary in the way Dixie Rae touched anyone.
Mickey, if this is your handiwork, I hope you know what you're doing.
Looking Dixie Rae in the eye, he said, "Maybe I should stay until it stops raining."
#
Dixie opened her mouth and laughed, letting the rain pelt her lips and splash against her tongue. She didn't care that it ruined her hair and drenched her clothes. Sam was staying. At least for a little while.
It'd been hard to leave the choice to him, and not because she could use his chef's talents. Good enough to knock the socks off Miss Weston or not, she didn't need another chef who had it in him to walk out on her. The reason it had been hard to leave the choice whether to stay or go to Sam was because she wanted him to stay…and not just for Ben's sake, either. She wanted Sam to stay because he needed to stay, even if he wasn't willing to admit it.
And because she wasn't ready to let him go. Though, what exactly that meant she wasn't ready to explore too deeply. That she hadn't figured out yet why he'd come to The Farmhouse in the first place was reason enough.
Dixie scooped up her squealing son as he dashed across the driveway, snagged Sam by the arm, and ran for the house. Bear slipped through the door ahead of them, trapping them in the narrow back hall as he shook himself off, showering them anew. Sam's laughter mingled with hers and her son's.
It was a hearty, from the belly laugh—the kind of laugh that chased the shadows from a man's soul and blew the cobwebs from his heart. A laugh free of self-doubt. She got the distinct impression he hadn't laughed that way much in his life.
Oh yeah. They were good for Sam Ryan. Now all she had to do was convince him of that before it quit raining.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam descended the stairs off the end of the kitchen, dry and warm in fresh jeans and black cotton turtleneck. Changing had given him just enough time to convince himself he could be useful to Dixie, and not for the money he represented. At the very least, he could tell Ben stories about his father just as she'd suggested the night he arrived. Having looked her menu over, he might even be able suggest some ways to streamline what she served—lighten the load on a one-chef kitchen. Maybe even add a recipe or two that would make The Farmhouse stand out even more. He had enough to offer Mickey's family to merit staying another day.
Dixie's and Ben's giggles drifted up from the living room and he felt even cozier. This definitely beat a wet ride on the back of a motorcycle.
He stepped into the opening between the narrow kitchen and boxy living room and stopped. Mother and son sat together on the loveseat-sized couch under the window on the far side of the room. Dixie had changed out of her t-shirt and into a pale blue, cowl-neck sweater that was all fuzzy invitation, especially the way it threatened to slip off one shoulder.
She and Ben had their heads together over a photo album cradled in their laps, Dixie's arm around Ben. Sam tried to remember a time when his mother had hugged him to her side with as much familiarity. But the Carringtons didn't do displays of affection, public or private.
They did, however, connect when they had issues with each other. He already had a half dozen missed calls from Stuart on his cell phone. He'd turned it off last night when he thought Dixie had invited him into her bed. No doubt the old man expected a report on what was happening.
Lingering with Mickey's family was still a mistake. Dixie and her son needed him like they needed a case of food poisoning. And, he'd already decided whatever it cost him, he no longer wanted to be part of Stuart breaking up this happy home.
If he backed up real quiet like, he could retreat to the second floor before they even noticed him. From there, he could escape down the front stairs and out the front door, slip on his rain gear in the garage and roll out of their lives forever.
He hadn't taken a single step backward when Dixie looked up, immobilizing him with her bright smile. "Hey there Sam, we've been waiting for you."
"We got the pictchoo al-album," Ben said, kicking his legs and making the book that covered his narrow lap buck up and down.
"How about that," Sam said through a forced grin, trying to figure out how he was going to rectify yet another of his mistakes—how he was going to escape and leave this family intact.
"I've been telling Ben how you knew his father when he was a little boy." Dixie tilted her head toward her son, the angle causing her to peer up at Sam through her thick lashes. Flirtatious?
He wished.
"Maybe you two could swap stories," she said in her throaty voice.
"Swap stories?" Sam scratched the back of his neck, a feeble attempt at breaking the spell of her look—her voice.
"Ben would love to know about his father when he was a little boy."
Trapped like a rat on a sinking ship, Sam jammed his hands into his pockets. Maybe if he looked relaxed where he stood, she'd have no reason to summon him closer. "Something about his father when he was a kid, huh?"
"Yeah." That voice turned even a single word into a sultry invitation.
He drew a deep breath. "Okay. Stuart—"
"Your grandfather," Dixie explained for Ben.
"—used to take us on tutorial visits to the corporate offices."
"Your Dad and Sam visited your grandfather's office," Dixie interpreted.
"Mickey always played the good soldier."
"Your daddy liked the office." She looked up at Sam. "How about you, Sam, did you like playing office?"
"I liked playing with the photocopier."
"The photocopier?" She raised an eyebrow as though she could guess what shenanigans he'd pulled. He couldn't resist a sheepish smile.
"It got a laugh out of your father," Sam said to Ben.
The boy grinned as though Sam had imparted some mystical story about his father.
"And Stuart?" Dixie asked.
Sam grimaced. "Unfortunately, it didn't amuse Stuart."
"Not corporate enough for his standards?" she quizzed.
He eyed Ben, who seemed absorbed in a photo in the album in his lap. "Suffice it to say, the Great Photocopier Incident involved a body part that many an employee would like to show his boss but seldom dares to do."
"And was that body part yours, Sam?"
Damn, but he loved the way she said his name. "Guilty as charged."
The
corners of Dixie's lips curled upward. He could spend a lifetime watching her mouth quirk into a smile and never tire of the view.
Dixie patted the couch cushion next to the one she and Ben sat on. "Come sit with us. Our turn to share a story about Michael with you."
He glanced at Dixie's fingers spread across the cushion where she expected him to sit. Too close for comfort. He glanced at the two over-stuffed chairs angled at the couch…in front of which a blissfully snoring Bear stretched.
Dixie cupped her hand over her son's shoulder as though she understood his hesitation. If he stayed, that womanly second sight would see him for the snake in the grass he'd been willing to become for his own selfish needs.
"Which picture do you think we should show Sam first?" she asked her son.
"The mommy with the baby in her belly," Ben said, bouncing beside his mother.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"It's not as gross as it sounds," Dixie said, peering up at him. "It's just a picture of me a week before Ben was born."
"See." Ben flattened the photo album across his little lap and pointed at a snapshot.
He was going to regret this. Stiffly, Sam strode across the living room and lowered himself onto the edge of the couch beside Ben. He took care not to bump the slender hand cupping the child's shoulder as he looked at the photo of Dixie and Michael in the album.
"That's the Mommy," Ben said, pressing a finger against the woman in the picture. "That's the Daddy." Ben next pointed out a grinning Mickey who framed Dixie's voluminous belly with his hands. Damned if Dixie didn't look as beautiful with that paunch as she did in a tightly cinched apron.
"And that's the baby in the Mommy's tummy." Ben poked a finger at Dixie's belly framed between Mickey's hands.
Family, the way it was meant to be.
"That's you inside me," Dixie exclaimed as though she were revealing a secret.
Ben threw his arms up and his head back and hooted with delight. "That's me inside the Mommy!"
Sam smiled at the kid's enthusiasm. He smiled at Dixie who encouraged that enthusiasm. He smiled at his own good fortune for being there to witness a happy family in action.
"It's a game we play every time we look at that picture," she explained over Ben's head, her face as radiant as an angel's.
He smiled softly at Dixie Rae, who created memories for the child of a father who'd died too young. Dixie Rae, who encouraged boisterousness and freely handed out hugs.
Dixie, whom Mickey had loved.
Sam blinked away from the cornflower-blue eyes he feared would see him for the fraud he was if he stayed too close too long. The photo of a happy moment frozen in time sharpened before his eyes. He wished he'd known them then—Mickey and his bride. He wished he'd been there to touch Dixie's belly, feel the baby move inside her. She'd have invited him to share the experience. He knew she would've.
Then again, he was glad he wasn't there, because the pain of being that close to that much happiness and knowing it could never be his would have been more than he could bear.
"Tell us more about Michael as a kid," she said, breaking into his commiserating.
"His favorite food was hot dogs," he replied readily, grateful for the change in topic.
"Mine, too," sang Ben, tipping his head back and peering up at Sam.
Sam gazed into the shining face of the boy with Mickey's eyes—the boy who'd dubbed him the Tin Man.
If I only had a heart.
"They're my favorite, too," Sam said. "But, while I like my hot dogs with the works, your dad wanted only ketchup on his."
"Just like you," Dixie said, tickling her son in his ribs.
Ben giggled and wiggled. Sam wanted to tickle Ben the way his mother did—the way his father would have were he here. But, he wasn't comfortable with kids—wasn't sure if Mickey's boy would welcome his teasing.
Sam nodded at the book in the kid's lap. "What else ya got there, buddy?"
Ben flipped album pages and squealed. "There's Uncle Renn on his horse!"
"It's a favorite picture of his," Dixie said, beaming.
Was that gleam in her eye for him or the man in the photo wearing a cowboy hat? And why did it matter? Why did it make him want to dislike the man in the picture?
"Who's Uncle Renn?" he asked.
"My baby brother," Dixie answered.
Sam's mood lightened appreciably. Ah yes. Upon closer evaluation, even in the shadow of the Stetson, the man's eyes shone a blue that hinted they were as bright as Dixie's.
"He rides horses at a theme restaurant," she said.
"Horses? Theme restaurant?" Sam looked up at Dixie, his gaze sliding over the bare expanse of skin exposed by the wide neckline of the over-sized sweater she wore.
"The restaurant features a jousting tournament while you dine…with your fingers…as befitting medieval times, naturally." She wagged her fingers in the air for emphasis.
"Naturally," he murmured, watching her fingers flex, imagining sucking chicken grease from those perfect appendages. Better yet, her pouty lips sliding from knuckle to fingertip—
"Did my daddy like horses?" Ben asked.
Sam blinked, slow to return to the subject he should be focused on. "He sure did. Your dad played polo as often as he could."
"That's a sport you play while riding horses," Dixie explained to her son. "When you were real little, you and he would watch matches on TV. Your dad even took us to a match once."
"Did I like it?" Ben asked.
She stroked the hair from his brow. "You liked the horses."
"And you?" Sam asked, studying Dixie.
She looked at Sam, hesitating ever so briefly before answering. "I found the whole thing interesting."
"Interesting, huh?"
"Ben," she said, lifting the album from her son's lap. "Get the postcard from Uncle Renn off the refrigerator and bring it here."
The kid slid off the couch and dashed for the family kitchen.
"I found the whole thing a little formal for my taste," she said.
Sam chuckled. "All that etiquette used to give me headaches."
Her mouth slanted a sad angle. "I think polo was the one thing Michael missed about his old life."
Sam sobered, the words escaping his mouth before he could edit them. "I can't imagine him missing anything as long as he had you and Ben."
A speculative look crossed Dixie's face a breath before Ben came bounding back onto the couch between them. His movement stirred the air between them, making it eddy and rise like a cold front butting up against two hot land masses.
Ben knelt between them, holding up a glossy postcard of two knights in medieval regalia astride horses. They were caught in mid charge toward one another, each man's lance leveled lethally at the shield the other man held over his heart. Such small shields. At least they had hearts to protect unlike him. Sam winced.
"This is the kind of stunt riding he does," Dixie explained, breaking into his thoughts.
"Looks like a lot more fun than polo." Sam said, forcing a grin. "Ben's lucky to have his Uncle Renn's influence in his life."
"Renn texts us nearly every day with exciting tidbits," she continued, "and sends postcards for Ben every month."
Ben dropped the postcard onto the album page and Sam noticed the Texas postmark on its back just before the kid turned the page. Okay, so the stunt-riding uncle wasn't readily available to his nephew for daily demonstrations of masculinity. Maybe Dixie's kid could use a man around the house after all.
And Dixie Rae?
He searched her face for a hint of any flirtatiousness that said she needed a little manly influence in her life.
"This is Uncle Dane," Ben said, pulling Sam from his thoughts.
The guy in the photo Ben now stubbed a finger against looked like a slightly older, more polished version of Knight Renn. "Is it just because he looks so much like his brother that he seems familiar to me or have I seen him somewhere else?"
Dixie unfolded a glossy poster fr
om the album pages. It depicted cars flipping through the air and fireballs exploding outward toward the viewer. It was a smaller version of the kind of movie poster plastered all over theaters and used in televised promotions. And the dashing actor dead center of the mayhem was…
"Dane St. John," Dixie said. "One of my older brothers."
One of my older brothers?
"Just how many brothers do you have?" he asked.
"Three older."
"One of which is an action-adventure star," Sam murmured, adding Dane St. John's machismo to that of the younger brother who stunt-rode horses. Sam felt his purpose as a male influence for Ben growing smaller by the brother. Then again, he hadn't planned to stick around long enough to make that kind of a difference anyway. He was just going to share some Mickey stories, offer a few restaurant tips, and be back on the road twenty-four hours or so from now.
"And that's Uncle Jake," Ben said, pointing out a photo on the opposite page of a dark haired man with serious eyes and a subdued smile.
"Doesn't look much like the rest of the St. Johns," Sam said.
"He's our half-brother," Dixie said. "From Mom's first marriage."
"Divorced?"
"Widowed. Jake's dad died while on a mission as a Navy Seal."
"Sorry."
"Th-that's why Uncle Jake became a Seal," Ben said. "Because his daddy was one."
Though he'd just been introduced to another testosterone laden brother, something other than his own diminishing importance to Ben…and Dixie…niggled at Sam.
He looked at Ben. "Are you going to follow in your daddy's footsteps when you grow up? Are you going to be what he was?"
"I'm going to a wizard," Ben hooted, all boyish enthusiasm and innocence.
Hardly realistic. Not at all what his father was. A choice of child who didn't yet realize how hard it was to follow in the footsteps of a father who'd left none.
But Mickey had left footprints in the hearts of his family. And Ben had people around him who could and would share with him the memories of what his father did in life—of what kind of man his father had been.
Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2) Page 7
