by Alison Kent
But he was back this morning for only one reason, and her name was Indiana Keller. Stupid, really, because he couldn’t imagine her visiting her property again today with the ground not yet broken and nothing going on. It had been pure luck he’d been at the school to approve outstanding invoices yesterday. Instead of hoping for another chance encounter, he should’ve asked for her number then.
He could get it from her brother, but after having the other man grill him earlier about why he was back for the second day in a row, that wasn’t going to happen. Oliver had a feeling any interest he showed in Ten’s sister would go over like the proverbial lead balloon. He didn’t like having to explain himself. The Gatlin name meant he rarely had to, and he was used to having his way.
He carried his coffee to the center’s main room, stopping in front of the big picture window. Stopping, too, with his mug halfway to his mouth. The very woman he’d been thinking about was standing in the very spot where he’d last seen her. He held his coffee still, the steam from the mug rising in front of his face.
Like yesterday, she had on worn cowboy boots and a sundress that hit just above her knees. Her hair was pulled back from her face in some kind of barrette or clip, and hung free between her shoulder blades like a coffee-colored cloud.
He wondered what she wore when she worked at her farm. If she got down in the dirt on her knees and dug in the ground. If she was the hands-on type, or if she delegated. If she was better with people than he was. If like him, she found it easier to stay buried in her work.
“Go on. Talk to her.”
Oliver huffed. He hadn’t heard Angelo Caffey come into the room, and gave him a quick glance before looking back. “She’s here about her property. Not to talk to me.”
“Yeah, I heard she bought Hiram’s place,” Angelo said, gesturing in that direction with his own coffee mug. “That man’s something else. And his wife was crazy about him. Just crazy.”
“That’s right,” Oliver said. “I keep forgetting this was your family’s home.”
“And we always had Hiram’s honey on the table at breakfast. Sometimes at supper, too.” Angelo paused as if reliving a memory, then added, “I wonder if she’s keeping the bees. Indiana.”
“I have no idea.”
“You could ask her, you know. When you go talk to her.” And then he gave a slap to Oliver’s shoulder and disappeared to wherever he’d come from.
Oliver considered the inevitable another ten seconds, then left his mug on the windowsill and headed out the front door. He stopped beside her where she stood on the driveway, much as he’d done when they’d been here before.
“I’m surprised to see you back here so soon,” he said, then realized he had no reason to be; it was her property she was looking at, after all. “In this driveway, anyway.”
She glanced over, then back at her place. “Good surprised, or bad surprised?”
He hadn’t really assigned an adjective to the emotion. “Just . . . surprised.”
“I’m rather surprised myself,” she admitted, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms as if cold.
He would’ve offered her his jacket if he’d been wearing one, but didn’t think the issue was temperature as much as hesitation. Or indecision. Or nervousness.
He didn’t like thinking he made her nervous. “You didn’t find what you came for yesterday?”
She screwed up her nose, shaking her head before answering. “It’s not that so much as I wanted to get another perspective after sleeping on all the input I did get.”
“From Will?” He hated bringing up the other man’s name. Not really knowing why he hated it. Lying to himself about that because he wasn’t a stupid man. He just wasn’t . . . ready for what that meant.
“Less Will. More Tennessee,” she said. “Brothers. You know how it is.”
“I used to,” he said, before he could stop himself from making the mistake.
It took her a moment to react, and the ten years of anger he’d only just begun to deal with turned over in his gut, a motor trying to catch, a storm brewing, a pain sharp and intense. Undeniable.
He fisted both hands, shoving them in his pockets, refusing to give in, pushing down the guilt and sadness that for a decade had manifested destructively. Cruelly. He had the truth he’d been looking for. And he had to accept the choice his brother had made when he’d gotten behind the wheel of his car.
“Oh, Oliver. Sheesh.” Indiana reached over and squeezed his biceps, lingering a moment before letting him go. “I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth. That was so thoughtless.”
“No, I shouldn’t have said anything.” And actually, he was touched by her response. She didn’t live in Hope Springs, though ten years was plenty of time for news of his brother’s accident to filter outward. And it was common knowledge that the second name on the Caffey-Gatlin Academy was not in deference to him.
“Of course you should have. I was being terribly self-centered. As if my sibling issues are of any comparison. Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” he said, adding, “but okay,” to keep her from insisting, and curious about the issues she had. He lived with what had happened to Oscar in the accident. It was his burden, and never far from his mind. But he didn’t expect others to consider his situation when they spoke. They would first have to stop and remember, while he would never forget.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a deep breath and pushing her hair from her face. He’d noticed her doing it before, a habit, he guessed, even though she’d pulled it back, getting things out of the way.
It had him wondering . . . “You’ve got more on your mind than the property.”
A smile broke at the corner of her mouth. “How did you know?”
“Because you’re standing here, looking across the street, but I don’t really think you’re seeing much of anything.”
Her sigh was weighty, proving him right. “I’m thinking of hiring a private investigator.”
Huh. That wasn’t what he’d expected. “Do you need a recommendation?”
“I got one from Kaylie.”
Another surprise. “Would you like me to vet him for you?”
She turned to face him, to consider him, a slight frown having replaced her smile. “Because, of course, you have all the connections.”
He supposed that had sounded presumptuous; she wasn’t a business associate, or a social contemporary, though now he just sounded like an ass. “Did he work out for Kaylie?”
She shrugged. “It’s no secret she’s trying to find her mother.”
It wasn’t, no. Neither was the fact that she’d yet to be successful, though that didn’t necessarily speak to the investigator’s efforts. “And you want to hire the man she’s been using.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Because Kaylie trusted him? Because Indiana didn’t have the resources Oliver did? “Do you mind if I ask why you need a PI?”
Another long moment passed before she answered. A moment during which she pushed her hair back again, warmed her arms with her palms again.
Her voice, when she made her decision, was soft. “To find my brother.”
Her brother. Hmm. As curious as he was, he remained silent. He liked Indiana Keller. He didn’t want to pry, and she’d rebuffed his offers to vet her man or recommend another. Was she waiting for him to repeat them? To ask for details? To tell her he’d be happy to find her brother for her? Because he would . . .
“Please don’t say anything to Tennessee,” she said suddenly, spinning to face him as if regretting the admission, her skirt twirling, her hair moving, too. “I haven’t told him yet, and he’s going to try to talk me out of it.”
A truck rumbled by on Three Wishes Road, washing them in the smell of diesel, the noise giving him time to gather his thoughts. “Wouldn’t this be his brother, too?”
“I imagine that’ll take time. Getting to know him again,” he said, the platitude sounding weak; what, other than its existence, did he know about the siblings’ previous estrangement?
“I imagine it will. But I’m not going to put off looking for Dakota until I’ve worked things out with Tennessee. I’ve wasted too much time already,” she said, shaking her head as she added, “I’ve wasted so much time.”
He understood the sentiment. “Dakota, huh? I might’ve thought, well, I guess Dakota would have to be it. For a sister, I’d have guessed Georgia. Or Carolina. Virginia, maybe. Not sure I would’ve ever picked Indiana.”
Her chuckle was cute. “I can’t even tell you all the Dr. Jones jokes I’ve been the brunt of.”
“It’s a good franchise. The first three, anyway.” So they’d moved from talking about Dakota Keller to Indiana Jones? “Your brother,” he began, diving in without thinking better of it, which wasn’t like him at all. “Is he missing? Or do you just not know where he is?”
She considered him curiously. “Aren’t those the same thing?”
“Not really. No. Though I suppose they can be.” Rambling. Very impressive. He shrugged before trying to explain. “It’s a viewpoint thing. But since I don’t know Dakota’s story . . .”
“Do you want to?”
One heartbeat, two, a third, and then he said, “Only if you want to share it.”
She turned to look at her property again, scraped back her hair again, causing him to wonder again what it was she was trying to get out of the way.
“Have you had breakfast?” was what she finally asked him, as if a clear line of sight had helped her make her decision.
He thought about the coffee he’d left inside. About the work he’d supposedly come to do. About the appointments he had before he could even think about lunch.
Then he thought about his brother, unresponsive in the same bed for ten years. “I haven’t, no. Would you like to grab a bite before Malina’s closes?”
“Do the Gatlins eat at Malina’s?” she asked him, her tone teasing and making him wonder what she’d think if he told her the truth.
He couldn’t remember having eaten there since high school. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his keys and gestured toward his car. “It’s Hope Springs. Doesn’t everyone?”
CHAPTER FOUR
On the ride to Malina’s, Indiana kept asking herself whether she’d returned to Three Wishes Road this morning not to consider the things Tennessee and Kaylie had said over dinner last night while viewing the place with fresh eyes, but hoping to see Oliver Gatlin again. She didn’t think so.
At least, she hadn’t consciously put the two together as any sort of plan. But there was something about the way he paid attention, really paid attention, that she liked. He’d suggested Malina’s, rather than waiting for her to do so. He’d offered his services in regards to her hiring a PI. He understood the challenges she faced with her brothers because of all he’d been through with Oscar.
On the shallow side of the spectrum, she also liked his car, a lot, and the way he drove, a whole lot. It wasn’t but a five-mile trip from the arts center to the diner, but while the same five miles didn’t allow for much in the way of deep conversation, she had no trouble using the time to appreciate his hands on the wheel, the cushy leather of the seats, his shifting gears.
Strange how much she enjoyed watching him when he was doing something so simple: clutching and braking, accelerating into a turn, steering the BMW effortlessly. He seemed to be one of those men for whom things just worked. She doubted he was often disappointed. Or stood up. Or put off. And it wasn’t just about his name, though she wondered if growing up Gatlin had instilled this level of confidence, or if he’d been born with the trait.
She wondered, too, if Oscar Gatlin had been equally sure of himself. Then she wondered what, besides her assault and the aftermath, she and her brothers might still have in common. They’d all three been athletic—volleyball, baseball—and they’d all been big fans of the food groups their parents abhorred: pizza, ice cream, sodas, burgers, and fries. They’d all been good students, her grades coming easier than Dakota’s, his easier than Tennessee’s. And they’d loved their pets. That was one thing she couldn’t fault her parents for; they’d had big hearts when it came to rescuing and fostering both dogs and cats.
“Still hungry?” Oliver asked, and she blinked, realizing he’d parked, and was waiting for her to respond before he got out.
“Oh, yes. Sorry,” she said, and stayed where she was while he exited the car and circled to open her door. She wasn’t used to chivalry, or gallantry, or being the passenger in a car, for that matter. She drove herself everywhere. But sitting and watching him, in his navy Dockers and a yellow crew-neck sweater she was certain was cashmere—she couldn’t imagine him wearing anything else—was a rather elegant sort of pleasure.
And when he reached her door and pulled it open, she wished she were wearing something a little less humdrum than her worn cowboy boots and faded dress and comfy cotton underwear that left her feeling anything but elegant. She, who had cared very little about her appearance for the whole of her adult life, was suddenly caring very much.
“Great,” she found herself mumbling, Oliver asking, “Excuse me?” in response. She shook her head. “Nothing. Talking to myself. Ignore me.”
He laughed at that, a deep husky sound she wasn’t certain she’d been meant to hear, but one that had her wishing again for silk and lace close to her skin. Skimpy pieces of both. Solely for her own benefit. She didn’t need Oliver to know, or to see, but if he laughed like that again, oh, she wouldn’t mind hearing that at all.
He held the diner’s door and waited for her to step inside, his hand finding its way to the small of her back, and she wanted to wiggle against it, to squirm as he settled it more heavily. But her inelegant underthings had her stepping away, and leading him through Malina’s long, rectangular dining room to a window booth. The high back offered more privacy than a table in the open, and even if that was an illusion, it was one Indiana seized.
Moments after they were seated, their waitress arrived bearing two glasses of water. “Morning, folks,” she said, placing the drinks on coasters and giving them both knives, forks, and spoons wrapped in double paper napkins. “Can I get you some coffee? Juice? Tea?”
“Do you have Earl Grey?” Oliver asked.
“Sure do, sweetie,” she said, turning to Indiana and smoothing the back of her upswept hair. “How ’bout you, sugar?”
Sweetie. Sugar. Indiana didn’t think she heard the words anywhere but Malina’s. “I’ll have the same, thanks.”
“Be right back with both cups. Menus are right there,” the woman said, nodding toward the laminated place mats tucked between the condiment caddy and napkin dispenser.
Oliver reached for two, handed one to Indiana. “I can’t decide if I’m in the mood for pancakes, or biscuits and gravy.”
That made her smile. “Somehow I can’t picture you eating biscuits and gravy.”
“Oh, well,” he said with a shrug. “I do it from a silver spoon.”
Touché. “I’m being a snob, aren’t I?” she asked, her smile as genuine as it was self-deprecating. Sometimes it really was better not to speak her mind.
“I don’t know,” he said, his gaze on the clip-art menu. “You tell me.”
“Okay. I am. Or I was, and I apologize. I just—” she said, and stopped, because what was she going to say? She didn’t know why he was here with someone like her. And wha
t did that even mean? That she didn’t think herself good enough for him? Really?
He waved off her apology, and thankfully didn’t press for her to finish what she’d been going to say. “It comes with the name. I get that. My mother uses it to her advantage. But I’m not my mother. Or my father. And there are times I’d just as soon not be a Gatlin.”
What an interesting thing for him to say. “You want to know how the other half lives?”
“Something like that,” he said, then went silent as their waitress delivered two cups of steaming water and two tea bags in paper packets before stepping away. Oliver tore his open, dropped the bag into the mug, and draped the string and tab over the edge.
Indiana did the same, breathing deeply of the fragrant bergamot as she smiled. “This is one of my favorite smells in the world. Bergamot. And mandarin and tangerine and, well, lemon meringue and key lime pie, and fresh-squeezed Ruby Red grapefruit.”
His smile was indulgent. And curious. “Do you have citrus trees? On your farm?”
She shook her head. “I can’t compete with the growers in the Rio Grande Valley. And my operation is fairly small. I stick to greens and gourds and peppers and corn. Tomatoes. Watermelon. Cantaloupe. Okra. Sometimes strawberries, but not often.”
“You sell at farmers markets?”
She nodded, stirring sugar into her tea. “I supply a few local grocers, too, and have contracts with a couple of larger chains for their stores in the area.”
“That doesn’t sound small,” he said, and she wanted to say he was right. It wasn’t small at all.
In fact, it was huge. Not the farm, but the fact that she’d made it herself. Her degree. The business loan. The equipment and the buildings and the people she employed, whose labor and advice she depended on.
But she was saved from bragging by the return of their waitress, and was glad. The success of IJK Gardens, the ups and the downs and the hard, hard work—all of it was worth bragging about, but not to this man. He’d been born into privilege; how could he possibly understand?
