A Summer to Remember

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Now tell me about the woman.” Emily’s tone was cheerful again, and he could tell even with nearly seven hundred miles between them that she was grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, bubba, don’t deny it. There’s always a woman.”

  Mouse brought him a stick, dropped it on his boot, and waited impassively. Bending to pick it up, Elliot threw it across the clearing, expecting the dog to chase after it. Instead, she crawled into the shade of the truck and curled up. Nudging her gently with his boot, he shook his head.

  “Her name is Fia. I met her about two minutes after I got to town. She’s…”

  When he didn’t go on, Emily laughed. “Man, when you’re at a loss for words, things get interesting. What does she do?”

  “She used to be a personal trainer. Now…” A knot formed in his throat, part sympathy, part dread about what he was up against. “She’s a widow. Her husband died in Afghanistan.”

  “Oh.” The word came out on a soft rush of sympathy. “That sucks. You won’t break her heart, will you?”

  “I don’t break hearts, Em.” At least, he didn’t like to think so. Most of the women attracted to him just seemed to understand the temporary nature of their relationships. They had fun and good times and sometimes considered more, but it usually ended on a pretty even keel for both of them.

  “No, you’re right. You either stay friends with ’em or piss ’em off eternally. Remember that girl you dated when you were home on leave? The one who took a tire iron to the windows of that old pickup truck you borrowed from Aunt Amy?”

  Oh, he remembered. Beautiful and sweet as an angel until things didn’t go her way. Then she turned flat scary. “She tried to take that tire iron to me, too,” he reminded her with a wince, recalling how the wooden fence post blocking him had shuddered from the blow.

  “Lucky for you, I was there before she did any significant damage, little brother.”

  “I was.” Not just that time, when she’d snatched the tire iron away from the crazy woman, gripped it like a baseball bat, and warned, He won’t hit you because that’s the way he was raised, but if you don’t get in your car and drive away, I’m gonna beat the crap out of you. He was lucky for all the times Emily had been there, usually at his side, behind him when he needed it, in front of him when he needed that. Looking out for him, she’d claimed, had been practice for when she had kids of her own.

  “Listen, El, I’ve got to get the kids together for the late service at church. If I talk to Mom and Dad before you do, I’ll tell them where you are. Good luck with the whole job-home-Fia stuff.” Deviltry returning to her voice, she offered their childhood good-bye. “I hate you.”

  “Hate you more.” He ended the call, his grin slowly fading. He was with her a hundred percent in her wish that home could have stayed home for the family. He’d never imagined anything other than the Army that could pull him away and had never imagined anything that could drag Mom and Dad away. They’d lived their whole lives within twenty-five miles of where they were born. West Texas ranching had been in the blood pumping through their veins and the oxygen keeping them alive.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The whole experience had taught him the truth of the wooden plaque that had hung over Grandma’s front door: Home is where the heart is. He’d learned for a fact that it wasn’t a place, roots dug deep in the soil, but a feeling. A satisfaction. A spiritual connection.

  And thank God his cell phone rang again before he got any farther down that sappy road.

  A glance at caller ID made his grin return, and he settled comfortably on his back in the truck bed, hat tilted over his eyes, as he answered. “You’ve reached Elliot.”

  Fia laughed. “And his lovely dog, Mouse?”

  “Lazy is more like it. We’re surrounded by birds to bark at and fields to run through and water to swim in, and she’s asleep under the truck.”

  “Sometimes lazy is the best way to be.”

  Lazy and comfortable and feeling everything was right in his world. Exactly the way he was feeling. “Aw, I bet you’ve never been lazy a day in your life. I bet you run and go biking and hiking and even ride a motorcycle from time to time.”

  “How’d you guess that?”

  He considered teasing her a moment longer, then admitted, “When I got the trash bag out of the laundry room last night, I saw running shoes, hiking boots, and helmets.”

  “You get points for being observant.”

  “How many points? And what can I redeem them for?” he asked, but he was thinking that he was observant, and something was off in her voice. It wasn’t distress or regret or about-to-give-the-brush-off, just a little something: unsteadiness, weariness.

  “However many points you want.”

  “Can I redeem them for anything I want?”

  She laughed again. Did she know how incredibly sexy she was when she laughed? And when she smiled. When she was serious. “We’ll have to talk about that.”

  “Oh, honey, talking is not at all what I’m after.” From beneath the truck, Mouse rose and stretched, then with one graceful leap, landed on Elliot’s stomach, making him grunt. “I swear, that pup is doubling her weight every day. Next time she jumps on me, it’ll probably crush me.”

  “Big man complaining about such a delicate baby.”

  He switched the phone to his other hand so he could rub Mouse’s belly, finding the spot that made her leg twitch. “Any chance you’re going to join us out here at the lake?”

  Fia’s sigh was soft and wistful and echoed deep inside him. “Not today, I’m afraid. I’ve got this thing…”

  What thing? he wanted to ask, but it was none of his business. He’d known her less than forty-eight hours. Her Sunday plans could have been made weeks ago. He should consider himself lucky that she’d spared time for him Friday and Saturday evenings, and he did. But disappointment still twinged in his gut.

  “Not a problem,” he said, adding extra cheeriness to cover the letdown. “Maybe tomorrow night? We could make a real picnic of it. You bring a blanket, and I’ll bring fried chicken, potato salad, and brownies.”

  The silence on the line grew heavier as it stretched out. Finally it was broken by another sigh. “I really can’t say for sure. Could I call you tomorrow afternoon and let you know?”

  You won’t break her heart, will you? Emily had asked.

  His disappointment was childish in its proportions, and his smile was phony to keep it from creeping into his voice. “Yeah, that would be great.”

  His sister should worry about Fia breaking his heart. It had never happened before, but one lesson he’d learned damn well…

  There was a first time for everything.

  * * *

  It had been a long time since Dillon had felt comfortable around people. Being in prison, never alone twenty-four hours a day for five hundred sixty-seven days, had a way of making a man value his privacy. But when Jessy Smith said, You’re going, a wise man shut his mouth and went. So here he was, in the backyard of a nice middle-class house surrounded by nice middle-class people, a cold bottle of water in hand, smoke from a couple of grills perfuming the air, and a niggling feeling working up his spine that he couldn’t shake. Though he’d met everyone there, he felt alone in a bunch of strangers.

  Damn, he’d always been the center of attention at any party, not the odd one out. Now he was so odd, he didn’t want to even be there.

  “Are you new here, too?”

  The question came from his right, from a girl who’d sidled into the shade of the patio, standing very still as if doing so would keep anyone from noticing her. He wasn’t good at guessing kids’ ages, and once they hit about twelve, all bets were off, but she seemed very young. Very alone.

  “Not exactly. I came with my brother and his wife. They’re over there.” He gestured in Dalton and Jessy’s general direction, and the girl looked at them, then back at him. Her mouth quirked a little, but she didn’t state the obvious: Oh, you’re twins. Like he and Dalton hadn’t kn
own that their whole lives.

  “I’m with my aunt Marti. She’s the dark-haired one in the white dress.”

  She pointed, too, and he looked, though he didn’t need to. He knew Marti Levin by sight—tall, cool, always in control. Too pretty, too elegant, too sophisticated for a man like him, if he was looking.

  He wasn’t sure he would ever look again.

  “I’m Cadence. I’m staying with Aunt Marti for a year while my dad’s working in Dubai. I just got here Friday.” The girl extended her hand, as composed and elegant as her aunt.

  “Dillon Smith.” He tried to remember the last time he’d shaken hands with a kid. It wasn’t coming to mind. Her hand was delicate in his, her palm damp, her handshake less than steady. Underneath all that composure, she was feeling out of place much like him. Poor kid was at a bad age for being uprooted and sent off to live with strangers, though he wasn’t sure what was a good age for that. At least leaving Tallgrass and his family had been his own choice.

  “These the first people you’ve met here?”

  She nodded. “They’re Aunt Marti’s best friends. Jacob”—she pointed out their hosts’ son—“is nice. Into sports and all. Abby, his sister, is my age. She went inside to recharge her cell. She’s nice, too. We’ll have classes together at school.” Her smile quavered. “Tomorrow’s my first day.”

  Dillon thought of all the things a responsible adult would say: You’ll be fine. The kids will like you. It’ll be fun. He shrugged instead, and said, “That sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Apparently, she’d heard enough bland reassurances that she’d expected another from him, so his response earned a choked laugh. “Well, it’s better—by this much—than being the new kid at boarding school at the end of the school year. That was Mom and Dad’s option if Aunt Marti said no.”

  He wondered why Mom didn’t stay home with her daughter rather than ship her off to an aunt or to school. If Dad was old enough to take a job in Dubai, he was old enough to go by himself. But it wasn’t really Dillon’s business, was it? “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “I’m an only child. I’ve spent my entire life in private schools or with grown-ups. Are you a cowboy?”

  He glanced at his clothes—faded jeans, blue button-down, scuffed boots, and leather belt. “What gave it away?”

  “I’m from Connecticut. I don’t see many cowboys there. Where’s your Stetson?”

  “In the truck. And it’s an O’Farrell.”

  She smiled, and the faint scared look disappeared. “What kind of horse do you have?”

  “My brother raises palominos.” He added, “I work for him.” For him. If he hadn’t run off when he was a kid, he’d be part owner of the ranch now. He’d been raised to do that. Hell, he’d been named to do it. The Double D Ranch had always been run by Smiths whose first names started with D. “Do you ride?”

  “Since I was seven. I rode dressage for a while, but it was more work than fun. Is riding a horse on the ranch fun?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Even when it seemed like his butt had gone stone-cold numb from too many hours in the saddle, he’d never been on a horse, even the ones that had tried to kill him, that he hadn’t found peace somewhere deep inside.

  Cadence started to speak, then stopped herself. After a moment, knowing what he would want if he were fourteen and in her situation, he asked, “If your aunt says it’s okay, you want to come out and ride sometime?”

  Her expression brightened, then dimmed again just as quickly. “I’d love to see the horses, if that’s okay.”

  Before he could respond, the door behind them opened, and a pretty little blonde burst out, followed by a pint-size version. “Sorry it took so long. I got a text from Monroe. He’s, like, the cutest boy in the whole school. You’ll meet him tomorrow. Come on.” She grabbed Cadence’s left arm, and the little girl took her right. “I’ve got pictures to show you.”

  As they pulled her away, Cadence glanced back over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Smith. I’ll ask Aunt Marti about the horses.”

  He responded with a nod as he watched them go. The older blonde chattered, the little one bobbed her head enthusiastically, and Cadence smiled through a very thin veil of anxiety.

  As they disappeared into the shade of a broad oak, he shifted his gaze across the yard until it reached Marti Levin. She was laughing with some of her friends, her posture as erect as any ballerina’s without being rigid. Her white dress was modest enough for church—sleeveless, curve-hugging, barely brushing the tops of her knees—and it made a pretty good contrast to the olive tone of her skin and her black hair.

  The resemblance between her and her niece was faint but there: Both were cool, controlled, pretty, and elegant. From their few interactions in the past, he’d never figured Marti the sort to do the kid thing, but Cadence was a teenager, and the situation was temporary, only for a year.

  But a year could fly by in the blink of an eye, leaving good memories and contentment, or it could crawl one damn hour at a time, taking a man’s strength, his courage, his self-respect, his dignity.

  Dillon knew that from experience.

  Chapter 4

  Elliot had job hunting down to an art. He started with the ads in the Sunday paper and found they were typically sparse for the kinds of jobs he was qualified for. He had better luck finding Help Wanted signs taped to store windows or asking everywhere he went who was hiring. It was, in general, a demoralizing process that he’d been through a few times too many. He’d occasionally considered using his Veterans Administration benefits to get a college degree, but the idea of sitting behind a desk, working more with computers and phones than with people, and wearing a coat and tie just didn’t set well with him.

  After making sure the shirt he’d taken from the clean pile in the backseat really was clean, he tugged it on and tucked it into a fresh pair of jeans. He fastened his belt, pulled his damp hair into a ponytail, and turned toward Mouse, watching from the passenger seat. “How do I look?”

  The pup yawned, unimpressed. Elliot rubbed her ears anyway.

  It had taken a long time for Sunday to pass after Fia had turned down his invitation. He and Mouse had walked, played, snoozed, caught enough fish for dinner over an open fire, and slept well. Now it was Monday; he’d showered and shaved at the campground’s facilities, and after breakfast somewhere, he was starting his job hunt.

  Job hunt. Sounded so easy. Employers needed employees. The problem was, just being available and willing to work hard didn’t always count for much. Some people looked at his list of jobs, scattered all over the country, and lost interest. Some saw his service in the Army and lost interest even quicker. The facts that he was single and had no ties to the town were a negative, too, since it made it awful easy to pick up and move on. And damn it, he hadn’t yet found a classified ad that said, Wanted: Sniper.

  He’d had enough of that job anyway.

  So he would look at the Help Wanted ads in the local paper over breakfast, then drive around town for the third time, make note of signs taped to the windows of businesses. He would be charming and pleasant and politely persistent and flexible—any job, any hours, pretty much any pay.

  On his other trips through town, he’d noticed a little bakery on North First named Prairie Harts that reminded him of a place back home—the only place to eat out back home: a squat cinder block building, large windows, a crowded parking lot on Saturday. Usually, nothing indicated good food like a full parking lot.

  He drove into town, bought a newspaper at QuikTrip, then traveled a few more blocks to Prairie Harts. There were only a handful of cars this morning, but given that the workday had started more than two hours ago for most folks, that was pretty good.

  He rolled down all four windows a few inches, then gave Mouse a pat. “I won’t be long. You behave, and I’ll bring you a treat.”

  Her nose quivered—he’d bet she smelled every good scent on the air—and though she remained sitt
ing, her tail wagged double-time.

  The aromas when he stepped inside the bakery just about stopped him in his tracks. Whoever ran Prairie Harts definitely knew his or her business. There were savory smells, too, but he focused on the sweet: sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, almond. Add strong rich coffee, and what more could a man ask for?

  A beautiful woman to share it with.

  And a Help Wanted sign in the window.

  Hallelujah, God had chosen to smile on him.

  The bakery had a happy, homey feel to it, if home happened to be somewhere near a beach. The tables and chairs would be a great place to settle and listen to the waves; the pastels and pops of hot pink and turquoise brightened the dining room and made it look bigger; and the iron flowers clustered around the room were cool. There was even a flamingo in the corner, complete with sunglasses, Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops.

  None of which would matter if the food in the display cases wasn’t worthy. He didn’t even need a taste to know it was. There was no way something that smelled and looked that good could possibly not taste good.

  A half-dozen customers sat around the room, each at their own table, each immersed in their laptop or cell phone. Remembering the hundreds of times he and Emily had met their friends at Rosey’s without a single electronic device in sight made him shake his head as he walked to the counter.

  “Welcome to Prairie Harts,” the woman behind it greeted him. “What can I do for you?”

  Breakfast or application first? The rumbling of his stomach made that decision easy. After scanning the rows of fresh-baked muffins, biscuits, cookies, turnovers, and more, he chose a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate, drizzled with cream cheese frosting, and a cup of coffee.

  “Is this your first time here?” the woman asked as she scooped the roll onto a plate. As soon as she set it on the display case in front of him, he drew a deep breath, causing his stomach to rumble again.