“I am not—” she muttered without opening her eyes.
“How often do homeless people ride through these parts, Dusty?” Feet crunched on grass and the air beside Apricot stirred. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she mumbled against her dress.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She raised her head, looked into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. They weren’t gray green like Hubert’s. They weren’t ocean green like her brother Sage’s. They were the deep, dark green of the Pennsylvania forest she’d grown up in.
“So,” he said with a smile, “you’re Rosa’s niece?”
“It’s Rose, and yes. I’m Anna Miller.” She scrambled to her feet, brushing pieces of grass from her dress. As if that were going to help. “How did you know?”
“Rumor spreads fast in Apple Valley.” He offered a hand. “Rose called the electric company to make sure everything was turned on when you arrived. Said something to Agnes Anderson about a pretty brunette in an ugly pink dress.”
“This dress is not ugly.” She swiped at a smudge of grease that must have been from the bike spokes. “Not much, anyway.”
He laughed. “Well, it was probably pretty enough before you rolled around in the dirt. Is the electricity on in the house?”
“Yes,” she responded, relieved that he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to cart her off to jail. The past twenty-four hours had been sucky enough without adding that into it.
“Good. Hopefully the old boiler is working too. It’s going to be cold tonight, and I don’t think the fireplaces have been cleaned out since old man Shaffer passed away.”
“Old man Shaffer?” Dusty frowned. “Is that anyway to refer to the deceased?”
“I guess that depends on how the deceased was referred to in life. Seeing as how everyone in town calls him old man Shaffer, I just assumed that’s what he went by.” The officer kept his tone light and friendly, but his gaze dropped to Dusty’s shotgun. “I’m not too happy that you brought that over here, Dusty. How about you keep it at home next time? Otherwise, I might have to run you in.”
“Run me in for what?” Dusty demanded. “It’s not even loaded.”
“This isn’t your property, and you haven’t been given the task of overseeing it. Until you have, you don’t have the legal right to—”
“Bah!” Dusty spat. “I’m doing my civic duty protecting my neighbor’s property. There’s no crime against that.”
He stomped to his tractor and drove away, heading toward the distant cornfield.
Deputy Sheriff Simon Baylor watched him go, calculating in his head just how long he had before his boss called. Five minutes? Ten? It shouldn’t take longer than that for Dusty to call the sheriff.
“Well, thanks for helping me clear that up,” the woman said with a smile that didn’t make it to her eyes. She was, as his twin daughters would have been quick to point out, a mess. Mascara smeared under both eyes, hair hanging limp from some sparkly doodad, pink dress a tattered mess of shredded fabric, she looked like she’d been thrown from a horse and dragged through a field.
Since Simon was at the end of his shift, and he had to get home before his sister-in-law left for work, he would have been happy to let the woman head right on into Rose Devereux’s house.
Unfortunately, Rose had been very specific when she’d called the electric company. Agnes Anderson took the call, and she’d been thorough when she’d clued Simon’s sister-in-law in on what had been said. Daisy, of course, had spent most of the evening speculating about Apricot Miller’s reasons for leaving LA dressed in an ugly pink wedding gown.
Apricot.
Not Anna.
The truck that had been abandoned on the side of the road, the one with the silver Airstream hooked to the back, had been registered to Apricot S. Miller. Simon wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t make sure Anna and Apricot were one and the same.
He followed her into the kitchen, ignoring the frown she shot over her shoulder.
“The lights really are on,” she said, flipping the switch on and off to prove it. “I’ll check out the boiler later.”
“Sounds good.” He leaned his hip against the butcher-block counter, waiting for her to ask why he wasn’t leaving.
She opened the fridge, then a few of the cupboards. The way she was going, she’d search the entire kitchen before she said another word to him.
Eight years ago, he could have waited all day and probably would have.
Now he had the girls and a life that wasn’t completely caught up in work.
“So, Anna,” he spoke into the silence, “I’m curious.”
“About?” She turned to face him, her gaze direct. If she were hiding anything, she wasn’t showing it.
“Rose Devereux didn’t mention anything about a woman named Anna coming for a visit.”
She sighed. “She wouldn’t. Anna isn’t my given name. It’s my professional name. If I can find my wallet, I’ve got some business cards.”
She started digging through the purse, but the thing was so small, he thought she’d have found the wallet by now if it were there.
He took it from her hand, set it on the counter. “I think we both know this little tiny bag doesn’t have a wallet in it. So, how about you just explain what kind of work you do that you need a professional name?”
She blinked, a smile slowly curving the edges of her mouth. A real smile this time, it made her eyes sparkle and showed off a dimple in her right cheek. “Good grief! You don’t think I’m a . . .” She snorted and shook her head. “I own a nursery in LA. I got tired of explaining my given name to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who met me, so I decided to go by Anna.”
“And your given name is?”
“Apricot. Just like Aunt Rose said. If you want the whole legal mess, it’s Apricot Sunshine Devereux-Miller.”
He did not laugh, but God! He wanted to.
“Apricot Sunshine, huh? Your parents—”
“Were hippies, are hippies, will always be hippies. I lived in a commune for the first sixteen years of my life.” She smiled again. “And having to give that explanation thousands of times is exactly why I go by Anna. Now, if I could just find my wallet, I could prove my identity, and you could be on your way, Officer . . . ?”
“Deputy Simon Baylor.” He offered his hand, and she gave it a firm, quick shake. No nonsense. That was the impression she was giving off.
Her big pink dress was giving off another impression altogether. It was saying froufrou and fluffy, a little flighty and scattered.
“Right. Deputy Baylor. I do have an ID and I do have business cards. They’re probably in my truck. I’d volunteer to go get them, but I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than wait for me to do that.”
He did have things to do. Daisy worked at the library, and if he knew one thing about his sister-in-law, it was that she liked to be the first in every morning. When he worked graveyard, she spent the night with the twins so he wouldn’t have to hire a babysitter, but she was always dressed and ready for work when he arrived home. He tried to be respectful of her time, leave work as soon as the shift was over, get home well before she actually needed to be at work, but right then, he really was curious about Apricot Sunshine Devereux-Miller, and he wasn’t in all that much of a hurry to leave. “I’ve got time.”
“Perfect,” she responded. “I’ll just hop back on my bike—”
“The Schwinn that’s sitting on the porch?” The one that looks like it should be ridden by Dorothy or by the Wicked Witch of the West?
“That would be the one,” she responded. “Unless you want to offer me a ride. In which case, I could avoid the humiliation of pedaling a 1940s Schwinn in this 1980s monstrosity of a dress.”
“I’ll drive you to your truck.” The girls wouldn’t be awake for another twenty minutes, and Daisy didn’t have to be at the library until eight thirty. He could give Apricot a ride, check her ID, make sure everything she said was
kosher. Give himself a little more to smile about, because he was smiling. The pink dress, the tumbling-over hair, the image of Apricot pedaling along the dirt road was probably the most amusement he’d had in a good long while.
The fact was, life had been one long day of routine after another for so many years that he’d forgotten what it was like to live any other way. Breakfast with the girls, walks to the bus stop, drives to the school and the doctor and dance. He didn’t mind it, but there were moments lately when he’d felt an itch to go back to what life had been before Megan. Back to his job with Houston PD. Back to city living.
Of course, then he’d look at the girls scrambling to get off the bus at the end of the day and he’d realize exactly what he’d gotten in exchange for what he’d given up.
It was a good trade. Just not the one that he’d expected to make.
That was the thing about life, though. It was never what was expected or planned. Never what was imagined during the teenage years when every possibility seemed there for the taking. It had taken Simon a heck of a long time to accept that. He finally had, and he wasn’t going to screw it all up by heading back to Houston with the twins.
But, man! Sometimes he wanted to.
“A ride would be great. If you’re sure that I’m not putting you out,” Anna, aka Apricot Sunshine, murmured, but she’d already grabbed her little blue purse and was bustling toward the door, her torn-up skirt brushing along the floor, her dark brown hair flopping halfway down her back.
She’d probably looked cute in the dress a dozen hours and a thousand miles ago. She looked pretty damn cute now.
The fact that he was noticing meant that she was trouble, and Simon had had just about enough of that to last him a lifetime. Megan had been a great lady—funny, smart, even a little intoxicating. He’d fallen hard and fast for her, and he didn’t regret it. What he regretted was that he hadn’t seen the truth, hadn’t realized that there’d been a boatload of crap hidden under her easy smiles. Maybe if he’d taken the time to look, he’d have realized that, before it was too late. Maybe if he’d paid more attention to the always-filled prescription bottle on the windowsill, he could have saved her from herself.
He lived with that guilt every day.
He didn’t need more of it.
So, he did his job, he took care of the girls, avoided any relationship that might lead him deeper than he wanted to go.
Yeah. Apricot Sunshine was trouble, and the best thing a guy like him could do with trouble was walk away.
That’s exactly what he planned to do. He’d give her a ride to the truck, give her a ride back, and be on his way.
Assuming she really was Apricot Miller.
If she wasn’t, all bets were off. He’d cart her butt to jail and let the sheriff deal with the rest.
Chapter Two
Apricot found the wallet under Henry’s bucket seat.
Her ID wasn’t in it. Of course.
Because she’d shoved it in the carry-on case she’d planned to take to Aruba. The pretty flowered one that her mother had lent her because she hadn’t thought Apricot’s plain black one was fancy enough for a honeymoon.
Poor Lilac. She’d been devastated when Apricot had finally walked out of the church. Two hours and fifteen minutes after the ceremony was supposed to begin, five minutes after Lionel arrived, his hair mussed, a dozen excuses on his lips, Lilac had followed Apricot out the side door of the church, begging her to reconsider.
Men cheat, she’d said. Every last one of them, so why let that be the reason to end a beautiful relationship?
Because it wasn’t really all that beautiful.
That’s what Apricot had wanted to say, because her relationship with Lionel hadn’t been beautiful or even all that compelling.
It had been nice, easy. Convenient.
A lot like the comforter Grandma Sapphire had made for Apricot’s fifth birthday. Nothing fancy. Nothing that people would ooh and aah over, but it had kept her warm in the winter, and she’d always reached for it on chilly nights.
She didn’t suppose that was the best way to describe a relationship, but it was what it was, and she was sure Lionel had felt the same way. If he hadn’t, he’d have been at the church instead of lying in bed with Apricot’s personal assistant.
Lilac might have been able to forgive that, but Apricot couldn’t. She didn’t want to be with a man who didn’t want to be with her more than he wanted to be with someone else.
She wasn’t her mother, her aunt, her sister Plum. She was herself, and she liked rules and order. She liked commitment, constancy, and, yes, she liked monogamy. Was that a crime? Was it too much to ask of a relationship?
She backed out of Henry, nearly bumping the good-looking deputy who’d been watching her like a hawk. “It’s in my carry-on case. In the trailer.”
“Is that so?” he asked, a hint of a Southern drawl in his voice. He hadn’t grown up in Apple Valley. She’d have been willing to lay odds on that.
“Yes,” she responded, grabbing fistfuls of organza and marching to the back of the Airstream. Sixty years old, it looked brand-new. Hubert took a lot of pride in keeping his vehicles that way. He wasn’t quite as good at keeping up on the house. Good thing he’d married Jasmine. His third wife was young, energetic, and willing to take on the jobs Hubert wouldn’t. She’d told Apricot all about it at the rehearsal dinner Friday night. Lionel had managed to be there. He’d managed to make nice with her family, act interested in her. He’d told her how beautiful she looked in the candlelight. Only the candlelight had been as fake as his affection, the tiny little electric lights his mother’s idea of ambience.
Apricot would have preferred the real deal. Candle-and relationship-wise.
“Taking a plane trip somewhere?” Deputy Baylor stood beside her as she dragged the carry-on case from the trailer. He smelled like the outdoors. Clean and fresh with just a hint of something darkly masculine. She might have been intrigued if she weren’t completely done with men.
“Was going to take a plane trip.” She unzipped the front compartment.
“To?”
“Aruba.” She pulled out her passport and driver’s license. Thank God. She really didn’t want to spend time in the local jail. She especially didn’t want to have to call her family to come bail her out. She loved every one of them, but they were bigger than life.
At least, bigger than her life.
She might own a multimillion-dollar business, but she enjoyed peace and quiet. She liked fireplaces and good books, hot chocolate and strolls at midnight.
She did not like chaos and noise and . . . well . . . everything her family stood for—free love, self-expression above personal responsibility, pursuit of happiness rather than financial stability.
“Is that your license?” Deputy Baylor prodded, and she realized she’d been standing there in that blasted dress, staring at her driver’s license like it could reveal the secret to self-actualization.
“Yes. Here you are.” She held it out to him, blinking as she looked into those forest-green eyes. He had long, black lashes that any woman would have coveted, but somehow they didn’t add any femininity to his craggy face.
No. Not craggy.
Lived-in. Fine lines near the corners of his eyes. Deep creases on either side of his mouth. He didn’t look much older than her. Maybe thirty-five, but he looked like he’d lived through some tough times.
Deputy Baylor glanced at her license. He didn’t mention that she’d been a bleached blonde when the photo was taken. Lionel’s stupid idea. Now that she was thinking about it, he’d had a lot of stupid ideas.
“No-good, two-timing son of a chimney sweep,” she muttered under her breath.
The deputy looked up, a puzzled smile easing the hard lines of his face. “Did you just call me a two-timing son of a chimney sweep?”
“Not you. My ex. He arrived at the wedding late. Not a good beginning to forever.”
“You were married?”
&nbs
p; “Almost.” She lifted the poufy skirt of her dress. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“I’m not much in the know about women’s wedding fashion,” he responded, that hint of the Deep South even more pronounced. “I’m not much in the know about women’s fashion in general.”
“You’re not from around here,” she said. It sounded like a pickup line, and she wanted to pull the dang words right back into her mouth as soon as she said them.
“Neither are you,” he replied, without even a hint of flirtation in his voice. That was exactly how she wanted it, but for some reason her cheeks were hot and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes as he handed the license back. “You’re all set, Apricot. You’ve got a tow truck coming for this beast?” He patted the side of the Airstream.
“It should be here any minute.”
“Who’d you call?”
“Apple Valley Towing.”
“Willie is pretty quick, but if Stanley got sent on the call, it might be a while.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” She had nowhere to go, nothing to do. She’d planned for a two-week honeymoon. The nursery managers were taking care of things in LA. Her online business was run by a couple dozen employees. She wasn’t needed, and that should have felt good.
It seemed a little sad, though. Like maybe it would have been nice to be needed, to know that she had to stick around town to keep things going the way they were supposed to. She’d spent twelve years building A Thyme to Heal into what it was. Her hands-on approach to the business had changed as the company had grown. Now she spent more time going over accounts than she did creating new products. The whole thing just kind of floated on its own, the products as good today as they’d been over a decade ago. Probably even better, because the market for holistic health products had expanded.
Yep. She was free and clear of obligations and responsibilities for the next fourteen days. That gave her plenty of time to think about the direction she wanted the business to take. The direction she wanted her life to take.
Sans Lionel.
The Orchard at the Edge of Town Page 2
