Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2)

by Barbara Raffin

  He met Dixie's gaze and saw in her eyes that she understood why he'd asked Ben what he had. Her empathy tore through his skin and knotted in his gut.

  The ringing of a phone cut between them.

  "It's Uncle Roman time," Ben squealed, scrambling off the couch and sprinting into the kitchen to the wall-mounted phone. The ringing ended abruptly with an excited, "Hiya Uncle Roman."

  He and Dixie continued to stare into each other's eyes, his pleading with hers not to probe. And she didn't. Good, kind Dixie kept the conversation back to her brothers.

  "Roman is the contractor who renovated the side parlor into a restaurant class kitchen," Dixie said. "He calls every Sunday night."

  "He calls?" Did that mean the contractor, like the Hollywood actor, Texas stunt-rider, and God-knows-where Seal didn't live nearby?

  "Calls at precisely the same time," Dixie elaborated just shy of babbling. "Promptness is Roman's middle name. Of course he also emails us on a regular basis. Heaven help us if I don't respond by day's end."

  Definitely did not live near. "What happens then?" Sam asked, relieved to keep the conversation going in the direction of her family.

  "An unscheduled phone call."

  "And if you aren't here to answer the call?"

  "He calls my cell."

  "And if you don't answer that?"

  "I always answer Roman on my cell. If not, he's likely to show up on my doorstep."

  "He lives close by, then."

  "A couple hours."

  Not quite close enough for daily infusions of testosterone, then. Sam let out a relieved breath, not that how far away her brothers were should matter.

  "Unless he's not in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan but in Chicago, his wife's hometown, Dixie added. "Then it's a much longer ride."

  How well he knew.

  Dixie flipped album pages until she came to one of a dark-haired woman and light-haired man gazing into each other's eyes. "This is Roman and Tess. He watches over us a little less intensely since they married."

  "She settled him down a bit, huh?"

  "More like distracts him, a lot." Dixie chuckled. "Roman's the staid one in the family. Has plotted out his life course for as long as I can remember. Then Tess contracted him to renovate a house she wanted to flip. I knew the night he called me, grousing about her pigheadedness, he was hooked. And when her house caught on fire—"

  "He set her house on fire?"

  "Actually, the fire turned out to be her fault."

  Sam shook his head. "That doesn't sound like a formula for love."

  "Haven't you ever heard opposites attract?"

  "Yeah, but these two sound pretty extreme in their differences."

  "Michael and I were opposites," she said.

  Not as opposite as you and me. Dixie was honesty personified while he was a…liar.

  He headed off a shudder with, "You two weren't that different."

  "And you know this how?" she asked, amused curiosity shaping her face.

  "His phone calls. He always sounded happy when he spoke to me. I could even see it in his emails. You brought a passion to his life that I'd never seen in him before."

  Her expression softened. "Thank you for telling me that, Sam. I often wondered what a man as handsome, educated, and cultured as Michael saw in a mouthy waitress like me."

  "You're not mouthy. You're open and honest. You're giving and full of optimism. You're…inspiring."

  "Careful there, Sam. Words like those could turn a girl's head."

  And he wasn't the kind of man who should be turning this woman's head. He shifted, breaking eye contact and shrugged. "I got those impressions from how Michael talked about you."

  "He always made me feel special," she said, her voice soft, wistful.

  "He had that talent," Sam said, remembering how good he felt when he was with Mickey.

  Out in the kitchen, Ben spoke excitedly into the phone. "Then the house fell on the Icky Witch."

  Dixie's smile widened. "Roman has the patience of a saint, at least with kids. He's going to make a great father someday."

  A great father.

  Like Mickey had been.

  Like Stuart had never been and he, Sam, would never be.

  "I better get out there and rescue my brother," Dixie said. "Ben'll recite the entire plot of a movie we've all seen dozens of times if we let him."

  Dixie crossed the room, leaned against the wall separating kitchen and living room, then waited patiently while Ben wrapped up his conversation with his Uncle Roman. Stuart would never have allowed him or Mickey to ramble on about any movie plot. He'd never have wasted the time listening.

  "And all Do'thy had to do to get home was click the groovy slippers together," Ben said.

  Groovy slippers. Sam thought of Dixie's cherry-hued boots and red high-tops. He eyed the crimson velvet slippers she now wore. He liked that she was secure enough in herself to wear red foot gear, hammed it up for a photo of her profile in her most voluminous pregnant state, and filled out a sweater, a t-shirt, and a frilly apron with equal pizzazz. He liked that she looked for the best in people—in him. He liked how kind and intuitive she was. A fine example for a growing kid. And he knew exactly where she'd learned all those good traits.

  He saw it in the photo album spread in his lap—in one prominent picture center page. Seven people bundled up in bright orange cold-weather gear in the midst of a bleak plain of snow looked out at him from the snapshot. It was hard to see their expressions what with the orange hoods cinched around their faces. But a wild array of strawberry-blond hair had escaped one hood and was frozen in a wind-whipped frenzy.

  Four young men were down on one knee, a youthful Dixie Rae on her side on their raised knees vamping it up for the camera. Behind them, heads tipped together and arm in arm, stood an older couple. He had to look close to see in the father the eyes Dixie had inherited and in the mother the flirtatious lips. He saw in all the faces of the family bundled together on that snow-blown plain merriment and zest for life.

  He saw a family not afraid to touch each other.

  The perfect family.

  A perfect legacy for a little boy who'd lost his father at too early an age.

  Ben scrambled up onto the couch beside Sam. Sam slung an arm loosely around the boy, oddly pleased that the kid came back to sit with him while his mother said her good-byes to the contractor brother who called them every Sunday night.

  "That's Uncle Roman," Ben said, leaning into Sam as he pointed out one of the faces framed by the hood of an orange parka. "And that's Uncle Dane and that's…"

  Sam listened as Mickey's boy identified his uncles, mother, and grandparents. Dixie's parents. The two people who had raised four sons who cared enough about their sister to keep weekly tabs on her—parents who had raised a daughter secure enough in herself that she dared to be unapologetically unconventional. No wonder Mickey had fallen in love with her.

  Dixie Rae in her close-fitting jeans and over-sized sweater that drooped off one shoulder stepped in front of Sam. She smiled down at him.

  "Checking out my family tree?"

  "Looks like you had fun together," he said.

  "We did. How many families do you know would pick an Icelandic glacier for a family portrait?" Her chin dipped at the photo in the album.

  Reluctantly, Sam shifted his attention from the cherubic chin beneath the angelic mouth and coquettish eyes to the family in the photo so unlike his.

  "What were you and your family doing in Iceland?" he asked.

  "Daddy wanted us kids to see the world. So, whenever a military transport had the spare space for us, he and Mom would pack us up and go."

  She leaned forward and tapped the picture in his lap of the orange-clad explorers. She smelled of strawberries, distracting him from the icy suggestion of the photo—from any question about her reference to military transports.

  "That particular trip we took when they were working at the Consulate in Germany," she said.

/>   Her pale shoulder made him think of whipped cream—made him want to lean forward and sample that slope of skin with his tongue. He was a lick away from exposing himself for the degenerate he was rather than the guy with stories of interest to a little boy—the man who wanted to save that boy from the austere world of his grandfather.

  "Consulate?" he asked, distracting himself…curious. "Germany?"

  "They worked for foreign service."

  "Foreign service? Impression," he said.

  "Don't get overly impressed. They were support staff."

  "Where are your parents now?" he asked. Now that you need them.

  "They retired to Japan…for the time being."

  "You need them closer," he said. Where they can protect you against a father-in-law bent on taking your son away from you and a black sheep of the family cousin-in-law who wants even more.

  "I'm more than fine here. We may be scattered around the world, but we're close where it counts," Dixie said, tapping her chest. "In our hearts."

  And here he was, a man without a heart. She and Ben needed better. They deserved better.

  Behind him, the windowpanes rattled with a gust of wind. Dixie ducked her head to see out the window and the fuzzy sweater slid further down her arm. He looked longingly at what the sweater exposed. He wanted her and all she represented. But his wants weren't a good enough reason to stay longer. He knew that. He accepted that.

  "Looks like an all-day rain," she said. "We might even get a storm out of this. Good thing you changed your mind about heading out tonight. Safer here."

  Staring at the perfect, naked shoulder within easy reach, he knew there was nothing safe about his being here. Not for him, and certainly not for Dixie Rae.

  Tree limbs scraped against the porch roof. He jumped and his foot bumped the side of hers. "Sorry."

  She smiled at him and her eyes twinkled. "No harm done."

  For the life of him, he couldn't remember a place or person he didn't leave untouched by the dark cloud that followed him. Mickey's was the last family he wanted touched by his penchant for failure.

  Thunder rolled across the house—across him and Dixie Rae, who stood too close for his comfort. Yet, at the same time, not close enough. An imperfect soul like him had no right to wish the touch of perfection like her, but he did. He wished it like he'd never wished for anything in his life.

  Lightning lit the small room, burning away the warm, yellow glow of the table lamp—burning its message into what passed as his soul. He was like the lightning; a momentary, blinding blaze. When the charm faded, she'd see him for the misfit he was. That's how it always went.

  Run, the thunder rumbled. Run, it echoed through the rooms.

  "Run," shrieked a banshee-like wail from the stairway.

  Dixie wheeled toward the wail, Bear popped to his feet barking, and Ben chirped, "Uho, Nana wake up too quick again."

  "Sweet Noah," howled the tiny, white-haired woman flying at them from the stairs on the far side of the room. "To the ark, children. Two by two."

  The little woman charged into the front room and ducked behind the television set, grabbed a fistful of electrical cords, and jerked on them, plunging the room into blackness. From the darkness lifted Dixie's sweet voice.

  "You haven't met my Nana yet, have you?"

  #

  Dixie listened through the darkness for the sound of fleeing footsteps and the slam of a door. Sam could have tucked tail and run and she wouldn't have faulted him. Not now. Not with Nana in one of her confused states. But the only sound coming from the couch behind her was the creak of the sofa springs—Sam poising for flight, no doubt. So much for convincing him that he needed them.

  Whatever the end result, her undoubtedly horror-stricken houseguest would have to fend for himself for the time being. She hadn't the time to explain the pitfalls of an aging mind to Sam, not right now when Nana demanded her immediate attention.

  Dixie felt her way to the table lamp between the over-stuffed chairs. In a click, warm light illuminated the room again. Joining Nana behind the television stand, Dixie slipped an arm around her grandmother's shoulders. "Come on, Nana. How about we sit down?"

  Nana crushed her tiny fist protectively to her chest, the electric cords to the television and lamp by the couch drooping from her hand like two, wilted poppies. "But the television, if we plug it back in while it's still storming, it'll blow!"

  Gently, Dixie stroked the back of her grandmother's frail hand. "We won't plug anything back in until the storm is over. You can drop the cords."

  Indecision knitted across Nana's brow. "I don't know."

  "How about if I hold them for you," a low, masculine voice offered.

  Dixie looked up. Wonder of wonders, Sam hadn't slipped out the side door but now stood on the far side of the television, hand extended in help.

  Sam saw the surprise in Dixie's eyes. Heck he'd surprised himself. He wasn't even sure if he helped or hindered. He knew only he hadn't liked the concern pulling Dixie's eyebrows together as she'd attempted to get her grandmother to give up the electrical cords. He didn't like that Dixie was alone coaxing her grandmother out from behind the TV set or that Ben had to witness his grandmother's dementia. Maybe it had been Mickey's spirit who'd pushed him to his feet and propelled him across the room where he offered Dixie's grandmother the palm of his hand.

  Nana eyed him narrowly as she tilted her head toward Dixie. "Do I know him?"

  "He's the Tin Man," Ben chirped from the couch where he bounced on his knees.

  Okay. The kid didn't seem the least traumatized by his great-grandmother's confusion. But what about Dixie?

  "This is Sam Ryan, Nana," she explained through a twitchy grin. "Michael's cousin. He's filling in for Carl. I told you about him this morning. Remember?"

  Clearly she wasn't as overwhelmed by her granny's state as he'd thought. Given that fact, he could just imagine what she'd told her grandmother. Michael's cousin, the loser who partied his way through a higher education, tramped around Europe while responsible people worked, and runs at the first hint of trouble.

  "Can we trust him?" Nana asked from the side of her mouth.

  The old dame wasn't as confused as she appeared, at least not where he was concerned. Did Dixie recognize that fact?

  "I don't know," Dixie drawled, a devilish glint in her eyes. Or was that a dubious glint? "Can we trust you, Sam Ryan—" Dixie flicked the drooping heads of the cords. "—not to plug these things in?"

  Devilish, Sam decided with relief. She was teasing him. Whether or not she should was another issue.

  With a flourish, he drew his finger across his heart in the figure of an X. "Cross my heart and hope to die if I'm not telling the truth." About the electrical cords.

  He added that last just in case someone almighty was listening. He wasn't ready to die over a slip of the tongue or a lie of omission.

  Dixie nudged her grandmother. "How about it, Nana? Think we should trust him?"

  Sam shifted his focus to the tiny woman with the mane of white hair. Behind him, Ben hopped from cushion to cushion, reciting in cadence, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my."

  Nana's watchful eyes narrowed further.

  "How about we lay the cords over the top of the TV set?" Sam suggested. "You can keep an eye on them from anywhere in the room."

  Something in the focus of the rheumy old eyes changed and Nana held up the cords to Sam. He drew them over the top of the set until their dark ends dangled against the blank screen.

  Dixie settled her grandmother in one of the over-stuffed chairs and squatted in front of her, still holding her hand. "How about I make you some chamomile tea?"

  Sam's eye strayed to where Dixie's jeans stretched across her delectable behind.

  "Let the chef do it," Nana said, her voice not nearly as tremulous as it had been seconds ago.

  He blinked up from Dixie's backside and found Nana eyeing him.

  "I'll make the tea," he said and ducked into the kitc
hen.

  "Thank you, Sam," Dixie called after him. "That would help."

  That would help. Golden words in his ears.

  He actually caught himself whistling as he filled the tea kettle and set it on the gas burner.

  "That can't be the tea pot whistling already," Nana said.

  Sam stuck his head around the corner into the living room. "No, it's me."

  "Happy fellow, isn't he?" Nana commented to Dixie who now perched on the arm of the chair holding Nana's hand.

  Not quite sure whether the old dame was criticizing him or just making an observation, Sam rummaged the cupboards for tea bags in silence.

  By the time he fixed a tray with cups and saucers, milk and honey, scones and jam, steam whistled from the teakettle.

  "Is that you whistling again Tin Man Sam?" Nana called.

  "Nope," he called back. "This time it's the kettle. Just as soon as the tea steeps—" He poured the boiling water from the mettle kettle into a ceramic pot. "—I'll serve it."

  "Did he say he'd serve?" Nana asked in an incredulous tone.

  "He sure did," Dixie said, a clear note of pride in her voice.

  Sam smiled and added napkins to the tray. A man had to love a woman who appreciated a man in the kitchen.

  Love? Oh yeah. Saucy, sexy, good-hearted Dixie Rae would be easy to fall in love with. No wonder Mickey had fallen fast and hard for her. Heck, who wouldn't love a woman like her?

  Stuart Carrington.

  Sam winced at the reminder of who'd sent him here and why. Would he do more harm sticking around, even a short time, than running the first chance he got?

  He carried the tray of tea and snacks into the living room and set it down on the table next to the chair Nana and Dixie shared. Nana gave the goody-laden tray a wide-eyed once over and declared, "He's a keeper."

  Then, as she spread jam on a scone, Nana hummed the wedding march. Dixie rolled her eyes and mouthed, "I'm sorry."

  He bet she was. Good thing he had no intention of sticking around long enough for Nana to do any serious matchmaking. Best for Dixie Rae if he went AWOL. But when he did, where would he hide from Stuart?

  He could high-tail it back to Europe. He had friends there.

  Friends who rode the shirttails of his trust fund…which Uncle Stuart would cut off a nanosecond after finding out he'd failed to nail the goods on Dixie.