The Lost Daughter of Pigeon Hollow

by Inglath Cooper

  He stood, stuck out his hand. “Owen Miller,” he said.

  “Willa.” She cleared her throat. “Addison.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Dinner? Ah, thank you, but I—” She waved a hand at the diner. “I’m here until pretty late.”

  “Late is okay.”

  She stood there, tapping a thumb against the coffeepot. “I take it you’re passing through?”

  “Can’t deny that.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “Conversation?”

  For a moment, Willa actually considered it. He was gorgeous, and she was tempted. But her life already had enough complications without pursuing something that would end up going nowhere. She’d already done nowhere. She shook her head. “Thank you for the invitation,” she said, “but no.”

  * * *

  NO.

  He hadn’t expected rejection. It was the first time in his life he’d ever been turned down by a woman. The thought was completed with no particular amazement; it just wasn’t something he was used to. And so, he wasn’t exactly sure how to react to it.

  Owen took the front porch steps to the bed-and-breakfast two at a time.

  Mrs. Ross smiled when he came through the door. “Morning, Mr. Miller.”

  “Good morning. Do you know what time the Top Shelf closes in the evening, Mrs. Ross?”

  The woman gave him a knowing look. “You must have taken a liking to Willa Addison’s food. They close at nine.”

  “Thank you.” He hesitated and then said, “What can you tell me about her?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Enough to figure out how to get her to go to dinner with me.”

  Mrs. Ross chuckled. “Don’t know that it’ll do any good. Got a load of responsibility with that young sister of hers.”

  The phone rang. Mrs. Ross reached for it. Owen thanked her and headed up the stairs.

  “Young man!” she called out.

  He dropped back down a few steps. “Yes?”

  “There is one thing I remember about her as a little girl.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She loved strawberries.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE WAS SITTING ON A BENCH outside the diner when Willa closed up that evening. One leg crossed over a thigh, an arm draped across the back of the bench. Beside him sat a basket of strawberries.

  He was the kind of man who made women stop and stare.

  Willa stopped and stared.

  “I was told you had a fondness for these,” he said, picking up the basket and holding it out in one hand.

  She started forward with a jolt, tripping on a raised edge in the sidewalk, the library books in her arms cascading to the ground.

  He stood instantly, retrieved the books, scanning the covers of each as he handed them to her. “Fitzgerald. Tolstoy. Alternative medicine. Interesting mix.”

  She eyed him carefully, taking the books from him. “Thanks.”

  “I asked Mrs. Ross at the B and B how I might talk you into going to dinner with me. She said strawberries would be worth a try.”

  Growing up, Willa had picked berries from the patch in Mrs. Ross’s backyard every spring. Buckets full, which Willa’s mama had put in the freezer for pies and ice cream. “That was nice of you.”

  “Was she right?”

  Willa hesitated. She really shouldn’t. She didn’t know him. He was passing through. He didn’t look like a criminal—quite the opposite, in fact—but then what did that mean? Ted Bundy had been the boy next door with a cast on his leg.

  “We can go somewhere public,” he added, his voice low and insistent enough to weaken her resistance. “I’ll meet you there if that’s better. You name the place.”

  Clearly, he knew his way around women. She shot a glance at the Range Rover parked at the curb. A man like this in Pigeon Hollow? There had to be a catch.

  “Are you married?” she asked, failing to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

  His eyes widened. “No.”

  “May I see your left hand?”

  He held it out. She looked at the ring finger, then turned his hand over and glanced at the other side. No telltale mark where a ring had been removed.

  “Trust issues?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first man to misplace his wedding band.”

  He smiled. “Hmm. It’s the bad guys that—”

  “Give the good guys a bad name.” Common sense told her she should go home. But Judy would never let her forget it. And besides, what did she have better to do than wait for Katie to bust her curfew again? Just a few moments ago, she’d felt weary to her heels, dreading the inevitable confrontation. Delaying it suddenly had enormous appeal.

  “Now?” she asked, surprising herself.

  He brightened. “Now would be great.”

  “There’s a place over off 260.”

  “I’ll follow you,” he said, looking just pleased enough to make her heart beat a little faster.

  * * *

  ON THE WAY, WILLA USED her cell phone to call Judy.

  Judy’s disbelieving shriek pierced her eardrum. “You’re meeting him for dinner? I can’t believe it.”

  “He brought me strawberries. I thought I’d better let someone know where I am in case he turns out to be an ax murderer.”

  Judy laughed. “Yeah, I read the story in yesterday’s paper. Well-to-do hunk terrorizing small-town diner owners with poison strawberries.”

  “It could happen.”

  “You read too many books. What are you wearing?”

  “Black pants and a white blouse. The same thing I wore to work.”

  “Unbutton a button.”

  “Judy!”

  “It’s called sex appeal, honey. You’re allowed.”

  “Thanks,” Willa said, laughing, “but I’ll keep my buttons buttoned.”

  “Odds preparation, that’s all. Like dropping another five for lottery tickets on the way out of the store.”

  “The lottery’s a scam.”

  “You’re hopeless. You’ll call me as soon as you get home?”

  “I will.” Willa clicked off, then hit the stored button for her home number and got the machine. She left Katie a message, told her she would be home later. They needed to talk.

  Maybe by then, Willa would figure out what to say.

  * * *

  THE HOOT ’N’ HOLLER DREW a crowd every Friday night for buy-one-get-one-free pitchers of Budweiser and waffle fries.

  Willa chose the place because it was one of the liveliest around and not the kind of spot for which she could be accused of harboring any romantic notions.

  Even from the parking lot, the noise level required a raised voice. Willa got out and stood beside the Wagoneer. Owen pulled in beside her, the Range Rover making her jalopy of a vehicle look like a third runner-up beauty contestant.

  He threw a glance at the front of the building, basically concrete blocks with a roof on it. A big neon sign blinked the name of the establishment in bold orange. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Not exactly an architectural wonder. But keep in mind the old book-by-its-cover adage.”

  “Now I’m really curious.” He ushered her forward with a wave. “After you.”

  At the entrance, he held the door for her, and yes, okay, she noticed. Her last few dates—few and far between as they were—had left her all but certain the pool of available men in this county had forgotten any courtesies their mothers had taught them where women were concerned.

  The place was nearly full. A country-and-western band took up the far right corner of the room, the lead singer a frosting-kit-era blonde in a mini-skirt that redefined mini. She crooned a familiar Reba hit. Smoke hung like a veil over the main room. Peanut shells littered the floor.

  The only available table sat a little too close to the band, making conversation next to impossible.

&
nbsp; Again, Owen held her chair, waited for her to sit. Again, Willa was impressed. Maybe Judy was right. Maybe she did need to get out more if all it took to wow her was a surface show of manners. Pretty soon, she’d be unbuttoning buttons.

  He sat down across from her. “Great place,” he said.

  “You think?” she shouted.

  The band hit the last note of the song and promised to be back in fifteen minutes. A jukebox started up at a volume that did not rattle the eardrums.

  “Did you think I’d run when I saw the monster trucks parked outside?”

  “I thought the local color might test your resolve.”

  He smiled. “Did I pass?”

  “So far.”

  “Good.”

  The waitress arrived with their beer and waffle fries. He poured her a glass from the icy pitcher, then handed her a plate, waited as she put some fries on it. He filled his own glass, loaded his plate and dug in.

  She stared.

  He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Is something wrong?”

  “I—no. You just don’t seem like the waffle-fries type.”

  He took a sip of his beer. “So what do you think my type is?”

  She shrugged, buying time.

  He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “No, really. Go ahead.”

  She wrapped both hands around her glass, giving it some consideration. “Let’s see. You play some sport like squash. Or maybe golf. You have a connection to the horse-racing industry. You drink port and smoke skinny cigars.”

  Owen laughed, a real laugh that came from somewhere deep inside him. “You got one of them right anyway. How’d you figure out the horse connection?”

  “We get a lot of that passing through here.” She smiled. “And you’ve got a decal on the back of your truck.”

  He grinned. “My turn.”

  Willa wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear the conclusions he’d drawn about her so far.

  “So noted you’re a reader,” he said. “You think TV is the drain through which all modern intelligence is leaking. NPR is secretly programmed on your FM dial. You normally frown on the kind of food sitting in front of us.” He hesitated, rubbed his chin, then added, “There’s some reason why you’re not married. Some obligation you’re meeting because a woman like you should have been snatched up long ago. And you’ve already assigned me a spot in your Okay, so I was right about him file. How did I do?”

  She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Did Judy put you up to this?”

  He laughed again, one elbow on the table. “Fairly well, I take it.”

  The band started up with a sudden blast.

  Owen leaned over close to her ear. “Since talking is out of the question, how about a dance?”

  No was the obvious answer. Again, passing through. Clearly, a one-night thing. And she wasn’t a one-night kind of girl.

  Intrigued, though? That, she had to admit.

  One dance. What could it hurt?

  There was a crowd on the parquet floor, making closeness essential. He was a good dancer; she noticed as much right away. Not like he’d had lessons or anything. He just moved with the kind of fluid ease that said the rhythm came naturally.

  The frosted-blond singer belted out another Top 40 hit with a lively beat, her gaze set on Owen. Laser set.

  Willa didn’t think it was her imagination that the woman’s hips gyrated with more deliberation every time Owen glanced at the stage.

  She couldn’t resist. She leaned in and with a straight face, said, “I can duck out. Leave her a clear playing field.”

  “Do, and I’ll stage a food-poisoning picket outside your diner.”

  “Low.”

  He smiled. And it hit Willa then that they were flirting with each other. Or maybe she had flirted with him, and he had flirted back. Whatever the sequence of it, she was enjoying herself. Imagine that.

  * * *

  THEY FINISHED THAT SET, and while the band took another break, Willa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Owen watched her disappear around the corner. What was he doing? He was supposed to give her the letter. That was all.

  He’d asked her to dinner for that purpose alone, and somewhere between the parking lot and that last dance, he’d gotten off track. Way off.

  The cell phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out, hit Send. “Hello.”

  “Owen.”

  He looked up at the ceiling. “Pamela.”

  “Cline said you were going to be out of town for a couple of days,” she said, a clear note of dissatisfaction lining her voice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of unexpected.”

  “Is everything all right?” The question tentative, as if she were afraid to ask too much.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “When will you be home?”

  “A day or so.”

  There was a long pause, and then she said, “I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’ll just out with it. I haven’t made any secret of my hopes for our relationship, Owen. I’m not naive. I realize that if you wanted to marry me, you would already have asked me. So let’s just bring this to vote, okay? Propose when you get back, or I’ll fade out of the picture. Fair enough?”

  “Pamela—”

  “You don’t need to explain anything. But I can’t sit on the fence any longer. That’s all.” And she hung up.

  He sat for a moment, then popped the phone back into his pocket, acknowledging a wash of guilt for the way he had treated her. She didn’t deserve it. And she was right. He’d kept her hanging on.

  He had come here to do an old friend a favor. Maybe clear his head in the process. And yet he couldn’t deny he saw Willa Addison in a light that did nothing to promote either of those agendas.

  * * *

  SHE FELT THE CHANGE as soon as she arrived back at the table. Saw it in the set of his ridiculously well-cut jaw.

  Second thoughts.

  That was fast.

  She glanced down at the top button she’d undone in front of the restroom mirror, her face flushing with instant embarrassment. Initial gut feeling. Always trust it. She’d known this had nowhere to go.

  She pasted on a smile, one hand at the neck of her blouse. “It’s late. I have to get going.”

  He stood, threw some bills on the table and said, “Let’s go.”

  She decided to wait until they were outside to clarify that she would be leaving alone.

  But as soon as they hit the parking lot, he said, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  She gave him a smile that had to look as forced as it felt. “Look, Owen. It was fun to this point. But we both know anything more would just be an exercise in why bother. So—”

  He leaned in and kissed her, quick and thorough.

  At first, Willa was too stunned to respond. But he softened his approach, and anything that might have rallied as outrage collapsed like so much false bravado.

  And she responded.

  The man knew how to kiss.

  She had a moment to catalogue impressions. The very faint scent of expensive cologne. The rough stubble on his chin in direct contrast to his mouth, lips smooth and full. The hand cupping her jaw insistent, but somehow letting her know at the same time, he would stop whenever she wanted.

  Never would be just fine.

  She finally latched on to enough will to pull back and hope she looked offended. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you’re so sure you’re right about me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

  “Not about the obvious, no. Can we sit in your car?”

  She dropped her head back, studied the night sky. She finally let her gaze meet his and said, “Why don’t we just end this here when we can both still say it was fun?”

  “Willa. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  The seriousness in his voice brought her up short. “What?”

  “Not here. This would be better in private
.”

  “Why can’t you say it here?”

  A man and woman in twin Stetsons walked by, singing an off-key George Strait tune, slightly drunk smiles on their faces. They both eyed Willa and Owen with curiosity.

  “All right,” she said and headed for the Wagoneer. She got in the driver’s side, the door squeaking in protest. He went around and opened the passenger door, sliding into the seat, making the vehicle seem much smaller. She rolled down her window, feeling a sudden need for air.

  “I came here to see you,” he said.

  The words hung there between them, something in his voice making her stomach drop. “What do you mean?”

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out a sealed envelope, handed it to her. “This is for you.”

  She turned it over. Her name was written in neat cursive on one side. “What is it?”

  “A letter. From your father.”

  She dropped the envelope as if it had suddenly ignited. “What are you talking about?”

  “He asked me to come and see you. He’s a very old friend of my family.”

  She slowly shook her head back and forth. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Owen said nothing for a moment. “It’s also true.”

  Impossible. She had a father who wanted to see her? Her father had died years ago. And if her mother had been accurate in her portrayal of him, it had been no great loss to the world. “I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else. My father is dead.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told,” he said. “But there’s no confusion.”

  “This has to be a mistake.” Her brain tried to process the information, sorted through the bits and pieces her mother had meted out during Willa’s childhood about the man who had been her father. Which wasn’t much. The one subject Tanya Addison had chosen not to discuss except for the times when Willa’s need to know something, anything about her father, pressed her to dole out just enough to stop the questions.

  “No mistake,” he said.

  “If I have a father, why didn’t he come himself?” she asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  Owen’s gaze cut to the parking lot. He rubbed a thumb across the back of his hand, his voice somber when he said, “Because he’s sick.”