by Kait Nolan
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come on in,” Miranda called. “We’re finished.”
Lily Mae Pollard, the founder and head of Monarch House, stuck her head in the door. “Brie, if you’re done here, Whitney could use a hand in the kitchen.”
“Yes ma’am.” She rose from the sofa. “Thanks again, Dr. Campbell.”
“I’ll see you next month.” Miranda waited until she’d made it down the hall. “That girl is a marvel. Such a positive attitude after everything she’s been through.”
Lily Mae came into the room. “She’s a success story for sure. Some you don’t know how they’re gonna make it outside these walls. Some choose not to stay. But Brianna—she’s focused on making a good life for that baby. It helps her to have something else to focus on. Sometimes it’s easier to do stuff for somebody else than it is for yourself.”
Miranda thought about Rene and Johnny Forbes and wondered if the boy had been younger, if she’d have gotten up the gumption to leave Harley. “Any advice on how to nudge somebody who’s reluctant to make a move?”
“People don’t move until they’re ready. Or until circumstances force them to. You have somebody particular in mind?”
“Rene Forbes. Harley’s escalating. She’s stopped denying he’s behind it, but she’s very stuck on the idea that she brought this on herself. I don’t know what it will take to motivate her to leave him.”
“It’s a hard thing, seeing somebody go through that, knowing you can’t do anything about it.”
Truth. And Miranda didn’t know how to channel that sense of impotence. “I keep thinking if we could get Harley locked up for a few days at least, I could convince her. Ethan’s going to see what he can find.”
Lily Mae arched her steel gray brows. “Oh, Ethan is it? I heard you were seen stepping out with the new police chief.”
“We had one date.” A date she still couldn’t stop replaying in her head, wondering what went wrong. Because he hadn’t called her.
“Are you gonna see him again?”
Miranda shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I don’t know. We’ve both been pretty busy the past week.” That was her excuse anyway. What was his?
Lily Mae hummed a noncommittal note. “You want a tour of the new expansion?”
“I’d love one.” Anything to change the subject from the first date that had apparently been their last.
Two stories, the new wing extended off the east end of the house, facing the woods on one side and the gorgeous expanse of Hope Springs on the other. It was a peaceful spot, a healing spot. Lily Mae had chosen well when she’d picked this site.
“You’ve got good timing. They just did the punch out work a couple weeks ago.” She opened the door to one of the empty bedrooms. Everything had that clean, fresh scent of new construction—wood and paint and a lingering odor of varnish from the hardwood floors.
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was finished! How soon will you be able to move people in?”
They continued down the hall. “Well, we’ve already moved some folks in. Sadly, our services are always in demand, as you know.”
“It’s fantastic that you have the space now. I know y’all were bursting at the seams.”
“We’ve got plenty of space, yes, but it’s not ideal. It’s not furnished yet, and I don’t know when it’s going to get furnished. We used the full budget on the expansion. So many of my girls and their children come here with next to nothing. Not having properly furnished rooms to give them just highlights that. Right now folks are sleeping on air mattresses and grateful to have them and a safe place with a roof over their heads. But I want to offer them more than that.”
“Of course, you do. I’m sure we’ll come up with something.” The beginning of an idea was already percolating at the back of Miranda’s brain.
“The community has already been so generous with donations, I hate to ask for more. We aren’t the only good cause in town.”
“Maybe not, but you’re one of the best.” Miranda gave Lily Mae a squeeze. “Thanks for the tour. I need to be getting on back. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
Once she got in her car, Miranda wove her way further down the springs instead of turning back toward town. This close to Norah and Cam’s place, she might as well stop by instead of call.
Norah answered the door in yoga pants and the same Ole Miss sweatshirt she’d had since they’d roomed together in college. “Hey! Come on in.”
Miranda stepped into the wide foyer and hung her coat on a peg by the door. “I’m not interrupting your dinner, am I?”
“Nah. Cam’s got a City Council meeting tonight, so he’ll be home late. I’d love a little company. I was just sitting down with a glass of wine. Want some?”
“Love some.”
A few minutes later, they settled in the living room. Norah tucked her bare feet beneath her on the sofa, and Hush, their enormous white dog, curled beside her, laying her massive head in the crook of her mistress’s knees. “What brings you out this way?”
Miranda sank down in one of the leather chairs flanking the fireplace and sipped at a very nice petite Syrah. “My monthly volunteer work at Monarch House. Did you know the expansion was finished?”
“I heard! I haven’t made it over to see yet, though.”
“It’s beautiful. A great space. But the whole of what you managed to raise through Dancing With Wishful ended up going to the building. There was nothing left to furnish all the new rooms. People are sleeping on air mattresses, Norah.”
“That’s awful! What can we do?”
This was why she’d come here. Because Norah would always be the first in line to help.
“Remember how we used the cover for the Valentine’s Dance a couple years ago as a fundraiser for the citizen’s coalition? Couldn’t we do the same thing this year and put the proceeds toward furnishing the new rooms? I mean, it might not get everything, but it would be a big help toward at least getting some proper beds. Unless it’s already earmarked for something else.”
“That’s a great idea! We were keeping things kinda low key, but I can absolutely put together a campaign to bring in some more people for the dance, see if I can’t drum up some more bodies to pay the cover.” She grabbed one of the notepads and pens that were always in reach.
“Maybe you can get Clay to play. He always packs them in.”
Norah grinned. “You’d have better luck convincing him of that. He’s still got a soft spot for you.”
“High school was a long time ago.”
“You could ask your new beau.” She waggled her eyebrows. “He seems to have special sway with Clay.”
Miranda scowled. “Ethan’s not my beau. He’s not my anything, apparently.”
Norah sobered. “I thought you said your date went really well.”
“I thought it did. But I haven’t heard boo from him since he dropped me off at home.” Furious at the knot in her throat, she took a healthy swig of wine. “It figures that the first guy I’m interested enough to put myself out there for up and decides I’m—well I have no idea what he’s decided. And it doesn’t matter because I really don’t have time for a guy anyway.” She absolutely hated the expression of sympathy on Norah’s face.
“That doesn’t make not hearing from him suck any less. But I saw the way he looked at you that night at the Mudcat. I’m sure there’s some kind of explanation.”
“There probably is. He’s not that long divorced. Maybe he’s just not ready to get back out there.” Although, if that were the case, the least he could’ve done was let her know so she didn’t waste all this time trying to figure out what she’d done wrong.
“You could always call him,” Norah suggested. “Maybe he’s not sure of how you felt.”
“That wasn’t an issue.” She’d practically climbed him like a tree. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe Ethan didn’t like his women that forward. If that were the case, better this happened now
instead of weeks or months down the road. Miranda was no shrinking violet, and she didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t like her exactly as she was.
She drained her wine. “It doesn’t matter. We had one date. It was fun, and now it’s over. I need to be getting home. If you want me to talk to Clay, I’ll do it at the bonfire tomorrow night.”
“You’re still going?”
“Of course I’m going. It was one date. I’m not broken-hearted. I’m insulted. What better way to prove it doesn’t matter than going on out and having fun?”
Chapter 9
A low-key, informal sort of gig. That’s what Clay had said. No frills, no pressure.
The cluster of parked cars big enough to occupy half a football field didn’t quite fit with Ethan’s expectations. People milled around the big blaze in the distance. Fifty or sixty of them, at a guess, and that was just what he could see from the ambient light of the bonfire.
Was Miranda here?
He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter if she was. He was man enough to face her and explain. The truth was, he’d behaved badly. Manners and his own conscience dictated he apologize. But he didn’t have the first clue what to say.
It’s not you, it’s me. Right. Because that always went over so well. He’d just have to trust that the right thing would occur to him.
Ethan parked and pulled his guitar case out of the backseat of the truck. The sky stretched out above, a cloudless blanket of stars. He picked out Orion, the dippers, and Cassiopeia as he made his way to the crowd. Picnic tables sat in a horseshoe just back from the blaze, and camp chairs were clustered along the perimeter. Conversation and laughter carried on the chilly night air. With temperatures hovering in the upper forties, it wasn’t at all a bad night for a bonfire. Somebody had music playing from somewhere, and a knot of people were dancing.
Ethan scanned the throng, looking for Clay, automatically registering familiar faces, assessing everybody’s level of sobriety. He saw Cam Crawford chatting with Miranda’s brother Mitch. Tucker McGee was there, beside the nurse who’d tended to Ethan in the ER. He recognized one of his other students from the hunter safety class. Damn if he could remember his name just now. He’d been somewhat distracted by having been shot in the ass. Delaney hung a little back from the group, people-watching. Catching his eye, she gave a shy wave. Ethan nodded in acknowledgment. The attention had her dropping her gaze. Was she really that shy? He wasn’t here to find out, so he kept moving.
Where the hell was Clay?
A familiar peal of laughter pulled Ethan’s attention to the dancers. And there was Miranda, smiling and laughing as she danced with some other guy. Who was that?
“Are you growling?”
Maybe.
Ethan loosened the fingers he’d clenched around the handle of his guitar case and turned to Clay. “Wondered where you were.”
“Not dancing with Miranda.”
Ethan grunted as he recognized her partner. Ben Rawlings was the head of the Wishful Volunteer Fire Department. He was a good guy, a good firefighter. One Ethan presently wanted to punch.
“Come on and eat something before you go do something stupid,” Clay urged.
Ethan followed him over to the food tables and threaded some kielbasa on a skewer. Clay was smart enough not to remark on the fact that he set himself up to roast it where he could keep watching Miranda and Ben. They didn’t stop after the one dance. All he could think was that it should’ve been him.
He knew what it was to dance with her. He’d had her in his arms, had her looking up at him, smiling at him and making him feel about ten feet tall. He’d loved every minute he’d spent with her. Too much. So much that he’d stupidly walked away, and now here she was dancing with another guy.
Dumbass, she was interested in you, but you blew her off.
He’d done this to himself and faced with the consequences of his own fears, he regretted it.
But maybe…maybe he could still have this. Just this. The fun and the laughter. It didn’t have to be serious and forever. She hadn’t actually offered that, hadn’t asked for it. It could just be fun and good. That’s what normal people did, right?
Maybe he hadn’t blown it completely. He just needed to apologize.
“You’re gonna do something stupid, aren’t you?” Clay asked.
“I’m gonna risk looking stupid and hopefully do something smart.”
Clay rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Oh boy, this should be fun.”
As soon as he’d finished his dinner—which he’d burned—Ethan pulled out his guitar. Somebody took that as a sign to cut the music that had been playing. Thank God. He and Clay set up on one of the picnic tables, and folks scrambled to rearrange camp chairs to better hear their performance.
“How you wanna do this?” Clay asked.
“Old school. It’s been about a million years since we did an unplugged show.”
“All right then. Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He began to strum.
As soon as Ethan recognized Brooks and Dunn’s “Neon Moon”, he jumped in and found a little piece of home he hadn’t even realized he’d missed.
They rolled from one to the next. Alan Jackson. Kentucky Headhunters. Diamond Rio. Garth Brooks. George Straight. They kept it fast and light, fun, in keeping with the tone of the gathering, and as they played, Ethan felt something of his younger, lighter-hearted self come back to life. Several people got up to dance. Miranda wasn’t one of them, he noted. Others sang along. As they finished their first set, Ethan grinned and offered his fist to Clay for a bump.
Clay returned the gesture. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back.”
Miranda appeared at his elbow, bottles of water in her hands. Now that she was here, Ethan couldn’t seem to say anything but “Thanks,” as she handed over the water. She looked flushed and beautiful, but there was a layer of reserve he wasn’t used to seeing. That was his fault, no doubt. At the very least, he’d pissed her off, and at worst, he’d hurt her with his silence.
His mouth seemed unreasonably dry, so he opened his bottle and tipped it back, buying time to think of something brilliant to say.
“So do you ever sing about anything other than outlaws, drinking, breakups, or exes?” she asked.
Clay laughed and answered for him. “Ethan stopped that a long time ago as a matter of self preservation.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because everything else tended to result in either marriage proposals or excessive casseroles.” Clay gave a wistful sigh. “Those were the days.”
Miranda snorted, some of the unnatural reserve cracking. “Seriously?”
She had no idea. Why should she? She hadn’t been in Austin during their heyday. Ethan angled his head to study her. “Is that a challenge?”
“Sure. Why not? Show me what you’ve got, Chief.”
Chief, not Cowboy. Yeah, if he’d needed a clear sign that he’d screwed up, there it was.
He’d wanted to apologize. What better way to do it than this? Strumming his fingers lightly over the strings, he fixed his eyes on hers. “I’ve been hanging on to this one just for you.”
Miranda wasn’t sure what she’d expected. He’d said he was the balladeer, so something soulful, maybe. Something blatantly sexy. But as he fixed his eyes on her and her alone and began to play, he sang a prayer. His rich baritone wrapped around her, creating a cocoon from everybody and everything else as he sang of a man who’d hit bottom and lost everything that mattered—including the woman he loved. It was a song of apology, one that seduced her, not only in the simplicity of the plea for a second chance, but in the sincerity of his performance. His gaze never wavered from hers, and the vulnerability he put on display broke through the wall she’d determinedly erected against him.
By the time the last notes died away, Miranda understood that Clay had spoken nothing more than the truth about Ethan’s effect on women. That had been a panty-melting perform
ance, as evidenced by the wild cheering from the other women present. Ethan was still watching her, the gray of his eyes almost swallowed up by black. Miranda knew she had to say something, and it had to be something other than, “Come home with me, right now.” She needed to lighten the mood somehow and get a hold on her rioting libido.
Taking a firmer grip on the beer bottle she’d nearly dropped, she worked up a casual expression. Or at least one that didn’t involve her mouth hanging open. “Well damn. And here I thought Clay gave good smolder.”
He remained totally serious, but for the glint in his eyes. “With great power comes great responsibility.” One corner of that sinfully sexy mouth kicked up. “So how bout it, Legs? You feeling the urge to bake a chicken pot pie?”
She was feeling the urge to do a lot of things. Most of them naked. Not a one involved a chicken pot pie. “Not a bit.”
“Just as well. I need to watch my figure.” He set the guitar aside and patted the flat stomach she felt sure sported a six-pack beneath that shirt.
Miranda just shook her head. “I’ve seen your ass. It’d take more than a few casseroles to make it anything less than a work of art. Medically speaking.” She took a sip of her beer to wet her parched throat and managed a real smile this time. “How are your stitches?”
He threw back his head and laughed, a big booming roll of sound. “I’ll refrain from making the obvious double-entendre about house calls so you can check.”
She tipped her beer in his direction for a toast. “Your heroic restraint is noted and appreciated.”
Delaney materialized behind him and mimed fanning herself on the way to the s’mores table. Hot, hot, hot indeed. Miranda dragged her chair a little further from the fire for the next set. By the end of the third, she thought she’d cooled off enough that she could be trusted not to proposition him on the way to her car.
“Give me a second to pack up, and I’ll walk you out.”
