A Piece of Texas Trilogy

by Peggy Moreland

“Then how’s he going to do the work?”

  “He’s staying in the apartment over the garage.”

  Kate sat bolt upright. “A complete stranger? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I checked his references,” Leah said defensively.

  Scowling, Kate slouched back in the chair. “Which doesn’t mean squat. The references he gave could all be his friends.”

  Leah caught her lower lip between her teeth, having thought the same thing, then shook her head. “No. He seems like an honest guy. He even agreed to allow Craig to help with the restoration.”

  “He’s probably cleaning out your house as we speak.”

  “Would you stop?” Leah cried. “You haven’t even met the man.”

  Kate rose. “Then introduce me.”

  Leah looked up at her blankly. “Now?”

  Kate shrugged. “No time like the present. We can grab some lunch on the way back.”

  “And who would mind the shop while we’re gone?” Shaking her head, Leah plucked her purse from beneath her desk and headed out.

  “Where are you going?” Kate asked, following her.

  “I—I forgot something at home.”

  Kate bit back a smile. “Liar. You’re going to check on the mechanic.”

  Leah opened her mouth to deny the statement, then clamped it shut and marched out the door, her chin in the air.

  Settling into the apartment above Leah’s garage took Sam all of about five seconds. All he had with him was crammed into his duffel bag, which consisted of about four changes of clothes, his toiletries and an extra pair of boots—all civilian wear, since he was on a monthlong leave from the army.

  He’d just dumped his underwear and undershirts into a drawer when he heard a tap on the exterior door.

  “Come on in,” he called. “It’s open.”

  Just as he stepped from the bedroom and into the sitting room, Leah was bumping the front door closed with her hip. And a nice curvy set of hips at that, he noted.

  She lifted her arms, indicating a stack of towels and washcloths. “Thought you might need these. My cousin and her husband were my last guests, and I forgot to restock the linen closet after doing the laundry.”

  “Thanks.” He took the linens from her and set them on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table. “And speaking of laundry…do you mind if I use your washer and dryer? I’ll supply my own detergent.”

  “Help yourself. It’s off the kitchen. The controls are self-explanatory, but let me know if you have any problems.”

  “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

  When she didn’t make a move to leave, he looked at her curiously. “Was there something else?”

  Avoiding his gaze, she picked up a pillow from the sofa. “About your references…” she began uncertainly as she plucked at its corded edge.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. No problem. In fact, they were all glowing.” Huffing a breath, she tossed the pillow to the sofa and turned to face him. “Yes, there is a problem. Not a one of the men I spoke with mentioned anything about your past work history.”

  Though he knew he was treading on dangerous ground, Sam wasn’t worried. He’d gotten himself out of tighter spots in the past. “Probably because I’ve never worked directly for any of them.” He gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat,” he invited. “I’ll answer whatever questions you might have.”

  She hesitated a moment, then sat down at the far end of the sofa. “Just for a minute. I need to get back to the shop.”

  Dropping down on the opposite end, he draped his arm along the back of the sofa and opened his hand. “Fire away.”

  “You might start by explaining how you have a month available to devote to this project.”

  “That’s simple enough. I’m taking what might be called a sabbatical while I consider a career change.”

  She looked at him curiously. “You don’t like working as a mechanic?”

  “Oh, I enjoy working on cars well enough,” he replied, neatly avoiding a lie. “Always have. In fact, I think I was about fourteen when I rebuilt my first engine.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Fourteen? That’s not even the legal age to drive a car!”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “No, but it’s legal to work on one. My dad was a rancher, but his first love was cars. Especially vintage models. While most of the boys my age were playing with baseballs and bats, I was pulling engines and rebuilding carburetors.” Before she could ask another question about his past, he shifted the conversation to her. “Did you have any weird hobbies when you were a kid?”

  She blew out a breath. “I didn’t rebuild cars, that’s for sure. My only hobby—if you would call it that—was arranging flowers.”

  “Your mother was a florist?”

  She snorted a breath. “Hardly. Our neighbor was. She ran a floral business out of her home. I hung out there while growing up.”

  Hoping to take advantage of this opening to learn more about her, as well as her family, he angled a leg onto the sofa and faced her. “She let you help her make floral arrangements?”

  “Not at first. In the beginning I was more like a gofer. Fetching supplies, sweeping up the cuttings, that kind of thing. I eventually graduated to making my own designs, but that was years later.”

  “Do you remember your first?”

  Her face softened at the memory. “A baby gift for a new mother. The vase was a ceramic baby carriage. I filled it with pink carnations, baby’s breath and greenery.” She shot him a sideways glance, her expression sheepish. “Not very original, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Everybody has to start somewhere.”

  “Well, that was definitely my defining moment. I was hooked from then on and never looked back.”

  Although he knew about the business she currently owned, she wasn’t aware he did. “So you’re a florist?”

  “In a sense. I own my own company. Stylized Events. We handle all the details of a party, from invitation to cleanup and everything in between, including floral arrangements, depending on a client’s preferences.”

  He shuddered. “Sounds like a lot of work to me.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “But I love it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Or I do most of the time.”

  “Uh-oh. Contrary clients?”

  She laughed softly. “Only one, really. Mrs. Snodgrass—or Snotgrass, as my assistant refers to her.”

  He laughed. “Obviously your assistant believes in calling a spade a spade.”

  Grimacing, she grumbled, “Which is why I’m here.”

  He lifted a brow. “And why is that?”

  She dropped her gaze, obviously embarrassed that she’d let that slip. “Kate thinks I was a little…well, hasty in allowing you to move into the apartment.”

  “A cautious woman,” he commended with a nod of approval. “But in this case misguided.” He slid his hand from the sofa and laid it on her shoulder, drawing her gaze to his. “I assure you you’re safe with me.”

  “I doubt she’d consider that assurance comforting, coming from you.”

  Smiling, he drew his hand back to rest on the back of the sofa again. “Probably not, but in time I’ll prove I’m trustworthy.”

  “Speaking of time…” She glanced at her wristwatch and rose. “I better get back to the shop. I’ve been away too long as it is.”

  He stood and followed her to the door. “I hope you don’t mind, but I nosed around some in the garage this morning. Looks like you have all the tools I’ll need to get started on the car.”

  She paused in the open doorway. “They were my brother’s. When I had his car towed over here, I had them bring his tools, too.”

  With her back to him, he couldn’t see her expression, but he was sure he caught a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “The two of you…” he began hesitantly. “Were you close?”

  She stood there a long moment, then heaved a sigh and started down the stairs. “Yeah, we were.”

&
nbsp; Two

  Having lived in other areas of the world for the last several years, Sam had forgotten how hot Texas summers could get. In a matter of hours, the temperature in the garage rose from a slow simmer to a rolling boil, leaving him drenched in sweat and struggling for every breath.

  After two days of sweltering in the garage, he decided a change of venue was necessary if he hoped to make any progress on the car. He scoped out possible locations, then raised the garage door and pushed the Mustang out onto the driveway. With the sun beating down on him like a blowtorch, he pushed and strained some more until he’d maneuvered the car beneath the shade of the breezeway.

  Deciding that the new location was a bit more bearable, he fetched tools from the garage, then lay down on the creeper and pushed himself beneath the car to examine the underside.

  After a careful inspection, he decided, considering its age, the undercarriage wasn’t in too bad a shape. Not that it was going to be easy to repair the damage that thousands of miles and years of neglect had inflicted. He tapped a wrench against a brace and was rewarded with a shower of powdery rust. No, he thought, dragging a hand across his eyes to clear them, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  He used his boot heel to push the creeper along, following the line of the exhaust pipe to the rear of the car, and noted that rust corroded the entire system from the connection at the engine all the way to the rear bumper. Pulling a pencil stub and scrap of paper from his jeans pocket, he scribbled muffler and tailpipe on the growing list of parts he would need.

  He was wheeling himself from beneath the car when he heard the scrape of footsteps on the drive. Hauling himself to his feet, he glanced in that direction and saw Craig heading up the drive.

  Smiling a welcome, he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “Hey, Craig! How’s it going?”

  Craig shrugged but didn’t slow down. “All right, I guess.”

  Sam gestured toward the car. “You’re just in time to help remove the exhaust pipe.”

  “Got homework,” Craig mumbled and passed him by.

  Sam watched him in silence, surprised by the kid’s refusal, as he specifically remembered Leah telling him the kid wanted to help with the restoration.

  Shaking his head, he hunkered down in front of the rolling tool cart and selected a couple of wrenches from one of the drawers, then stretched out on the creeper again and wheeled himself beneath the car.

  He wasn’t going to push, he told himself. If the kid wanted to help, he’d let him.

  And if he didn’t…well, Sam would figure out a way to rope him into getting involved.

  Leah braked to a stop on the drive, her eyes widening in dismay at the mess that blocked the breezeway and her normal path to the garage. In the middle of the destruction sat the Mustang, its hood up and its doors propped wide, looking like a bird preparing for flight. Tools of every description were scattered over the drive and along the car’s fenders. A muffler and a twisted tailpipe lay in the flower bed that ran along the side of the house, crushing the blooms of her geraniums.

  Incensed, she leaped from her car and marched to the partially dismantled Mustang and the man whose head was hidden beneath the hood.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she demanded angrily.

  Sam drew his head from beneath the hood only far enough to look at her. “Working on the car. What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Destroying my yard, that’s what!” She flung out an arm. “Just look at this mess! You’ve turned my driveway into a junkyard!”

  “What the hell did you expect?” he asked impatiently. “A car has to be dismantled before it can be restored.”

  Pulling a rag from his hip pocket, he straightened, dragging it down his face and chest. Her jaw dropped when she saw that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Glancing quickly around to see if any of the neighbors were watching, she grabbed him by the elbow and hustled him into the backyard. “You can’t parade around half-dressed,” she whispered angrily. “What will my neighbors think?”

  He jerked his arm from her grasp. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what your neighbors think. It’s hot as hell out here. Wearing a shirt makes it that much hotter.”

  Flattening her lips, she folded her arms across her breasts. “I suppose I should be glad you didn’t take off your pants.”

  He reached for the first button on his jeans. “Now that you mention it—”

  She slapped his hand. “Don’t you dare!”

  In the blink of an eye she found her hand in his grasp and her body thrust up against his, his face inches from her own.

  “I’ve never struck a woman in my life,” he informed her coldly, “but slap at me again, and I might consider it.”

  She gulped. “I—I just wanted to stop you from taking off your jeans.”

  His scowl deepened. “Believe it or not, I have a few scruples, one of which is not bearing my ass in public. So there’s no need for you to worry that pretty little head of yours that I’ll strip naked and flash your snooty neighbors.

  “And as far as the mess on your driveway goes,” he continued, “it’s too damn hot to work in the garage. I pushed the car out here, where I could get some air. But if having all this junk, as you call it, scattered around upsets your anal-retentive personality, you didn’t have to jump me about it. All you had to do was ask and I’d have moved it to the back and out of sight.”

  He released her and took a step back. “Now,” he said, and used the rag to wipe his hands, “is there anything else bothering you?”

  She gulped again. Swallowed. “N-no.”

  “Good.” He stuffed the rag back into his hip pocket. “So? How was your day?”

  Thrown off balance by his quick mood change, it took her a moment to find her voice. “B-busy.”

  “Yeah, mine, too.” He picked up the wrench he’d set aside and returned it to the tool cart. “You ought to do something about that tension in your shoulders. It’s bad for your health.”

  She started to roll her shoulders, then squared them instead. “I had a stressful day.”

  “I take it Mrs. Snotgrass dropped by.”

  She blinked, surprised that he’d remembered her client’s name. “Snodgrass,” she corrected. “And yes, she was in the shop this afternoon.”

  He rolled the tool cart closer to the car. “I noticed there’s a spa attached to your pool. You ought to put it to use. Let it work out some of the kinks in your shoulders.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I might use it later.” He dropped a wrench into the drawer, then flexed his arm. “I used muscles today I haven’t used in a while.”

  She stared in fascination at the play of sinew beneath his sweat-slickened skin. “F-fine with me.”

  “Appreciate it.” He stooped and picked up a pair of pliers, tossed them into an open drawer. “Craig’s home.”

  At the mention of her nephew, she glanced toward the house, then back at Sam and frowned. “Why isn’t he helping you?”

  “Said he had homework.”

  Her scowl deepened. “He pulls that card when he doesn’t want to do something.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you said he wanted to help with the car?”

  “He does—did.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them helplessly to her sides. “I don’t know what he wants anymore. The last couple of weeks he’s withdrawn more and more into himself, refuses to talk me. I was hoping that restoring the car would pull him out of whatever funk he’s in. Breathe some life back into him.”

  “Where’s his mother? Why doesn’t she do something to help him?”

  She shook her head sadly at the mention of her sister-in-law. “Patrice is buried so deep in her own grief half the time she’s not even aware Craig’s around.”

  He frowned thoughtfully as he wiped the grease from a wrench. “I could have a go at him if you want. See if I can get him back on track.” He tossed the wrench
into a drawer, bumped it shut with his knee. “He might respond to a man quicker than he would a woman.”

  She looked at him in puzzlement, surprised by his offer. “Why would you want to do that? You don’t even know Craig. “

  He shrugged. “Losing a dad can screw with a kid’s head. Having a man to talk to, hang out with, might help him open up, share what’s on his mind.”

  She opened a hand in invitation. “If you think you can help him, be my guest.”

  “You may not like my methods. If you don’t, you have to promise not to interfere.”

  She’d done her own research on the subject of troubled teens and was familiar with some of the commonly used methods—tough love, wilderness survival training, behavior modification—and the names alone were enough to terrify her. “He won’t be in any danger, will he?” she asked uneasily.

  He gave her a droll look. “I wasn’t planning on torturing the kid.”

  She didn’t find his assurance all that comforting, considering his earlier rough treatment of her. But she feared if something wasn’t done soon, she was going to lose Craig, either to drugs…or, worse, to suicide. Chilled by the thought, she drew in a steadying breath. “Just the same, I don’t want him hurt.”

  He stripped off the pad he’d used to protect his stomach while working on the engine and turned away. “Too late. He’s already hurt.”

  The sunroom at the rear of Leah’s house was her favorite room in the house. Shortly after moving in, she’d painted the walls a soft buttery yellow and the ceiling with a mural of a cloud-filled sky. She’d chosen wicker to fill the space and positioned the chairs in front of the casement windows to capture the best views of her pool and landscaped backyard.

  In the daytime sunlight flooded the room, creating a sunny and cheery nook in which to relax. At night it was no less restful, with lamplight washing the room with a soft golden glow.

  But on this particular night the sunroom failed to work its magic charm for Leah.

  Seated in a wicker chair, her feet propped on the matching ottoman, her thoughts were anything but restful as she stared at the apartment over the garage, considering the man inside.