by Kay Stockham
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she murmured, her voice thicker than she wanted. “I—I’m going to go now.”
“Do you need something before you leave? A drink to take with you? Perhaps you’d like to take the plant? I don’t mind.”
Marley retreated the way she always did, too afraid to risk upsetting her mother’s fragile mental state. Terrified of being the cause of another breakdown. “No, Ma, nothing. Thanks. And you keep the plant. I—if you forget to water it, it’s okay. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” An awkward silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of the grandfather clock chiming in the hall. “Your father says you’re staying busy. You go back to work and have a good day.”
Smiling weakly, Marley put her feet into motion. “I am…I will. I’ll just…go.”
Her mother sighed in obvious relief, seeming old despite having the bone structure and figure of a much younger woman.
“That’s probably best. I’m feeling a bit tired now. I think I’ll call Roberta and tell her to come another day.”
“But you have lots to talk about, you said so.” Surely she wasn’t such a chore to be around that her mother would cancel her plans after five minutes?
Marley paused. Did her mother look a bit dazed? She’d only just taken the medicine and no pill worked that quickly. Had she taken something earlier?
“I know what I said, Marley, but I’m not up to company now.”
“Would you like me to—”
“No. I’ll be fine. You just go do what you have to do. I like the quiet of the house. It soothes me.”
Hurt even though she knew she should be used to getting the brush-off from her mother, Marley left the kitchen via the back door because it was the closest. She stomped her way down the steps. “So much for hoping the flower would cheer her up. She likes the quiet. Do I talk too much? Get on her nerves?” The image of her mother popping that pill came to mind, and she shook her head again. There was her answer.
The walk around the large brick house should have been a beautiful one, but the once-immaculate flower beds were filled with overgrown weeds, the award-winning herb garden long gone. The fruit trees needed trimming and her childhood playhouse turned potting shed needed a new coat of paint.
At one time she and her mother would’ve done all of those things together, spending too many hours to count side by side on their knees in the dirt. But not now. Maybe never again since her mother treated her like one of those family members—the kind who wasn’t discussed in front of friends.
Five years was a long time to hold a grudge. And yet her mother did.
Marley followed the stone path to the garden gate and left, every step she took angrier than the last because her mom wouldn’t return her hug and had barely acknowledged the sunflower she’d paid way too much for.
Why had she bothered? She couldn’t change the past or the hurt she’d caused, and sometimes she was sick of trying when her mother never gave an inch. She relied on others for her self-worth. How could anyone fight that?
Yanking open the door to her truck, Marley climbed in and sat in the September sun before starting the engine.
Time to trudge on and pretend she didn’t care.
TWO WEEKS AFTER waking up in the hospital, Beau Buchanan squinted against the noonday sun scorching the housing development going up outside South Ridge, Kentucky, and eyed the woman talking to the development’s manager.
The woman’s hands lifted and lowered in expressive gestures, a frown deeply etched on her face. The sun made her red hair shine all red and gold and molten at once. The thick mass was scraped into a ponytail two inches thick, which hung down her back in corkscrew spirals that bounced and danced with every gesture she made. He smiled, dumbstruck by her glorious hair. Would it feel as soft as it looked?
Whoa, boy, you’re not up for that yet.
Maybe not, but the thought brought a curiosity all its own. Beau shook his head and limped over to the truck like a three-legged dog. It would be a long time before he was ready for a hookup. Some things took priority and getting his memory back was top of the list. Besides, no woman in her right mind would want to deal with his in the state it was in.
He glanced over at the woman again, noticing the heat and humidity had her red curls fighting for freedom around her face. It looked as though they were winning the battle, too. She kept raising a hand to brush away the strands sticking to her forehead and temples in straggly ringlets, attempting to tuck them into the confining band. Doing so only seemed to free more.
He smothered a laugh when he spied the dark smudges left by her grimy hands. She was filthy. And adorable. About five and a half feet and a pretty sight, dirt and all. She wore faded jeans that cradled her slim hips to perfection, and a hot pink T-shirt with a big tree on the front.
“Not bad, huh?”
The rank smell of unwashed teenager reached him seconds before the boy. The kid was young, raw, and his shirt had the same logo as the woman’s, which he now saw said, Marley’s Treehouse, Landscaping & Garden Center. Instead of pink, however, the kid’s once-blue shirt was now a sweat-and-grime-smeared brown.
Beau nodded in the woman’s direction. “Not bad at all. She your boss?”
“Yeah. But you might as well stop staring. The only thing she’s interested in is getting the first two houses planted before the fall and Christmas rush hits.”
“It’s a long time till Christmas.”
“Not when you’ve got other contracts to get done, and people are screwing up here. No offense, you’re part of the electrical team, right?”
Beau nodded. “What happened?”
The kid flicked a glob of mud off his chest. “The painters tossed their crap outside to pick up later.”
“But they didn’t do it,” he murmured, having watched the woman and kid cleaning up the debris for the last hour or so.
“Nope. And it’s put us behind. She’s ticked about it because it’s the second time it’s happened. Said she was going to talk to the site manager to make sure it’s not held against her.”
It shouldn’t be. Some of the subcontractors were worse than others about cleanup, and he could certainly see where she’d be upset since she couldn’t work until the area was clear. “She the only female sub here?”
The kid smirked. “Yeah. Some of the guys are pissed, too, because the developer chose her over one of the big dogs in town. I think they’re hoping she’ll quit.”
Beau winced. She was in a tight spot. If she let any of them get by with leaving their trash, she’d be cleaning it up the entire length of the contract, but if she complained too much, she could come across as incompetent and bitchy.
“Hey, think I could have a bottle of water?” The kid indicated the cooler with a grubby hand.
Beau opened the lid, willing to part with the precious commodity in exchange for information on the first thing to take his mind off his amnesia since he woke up in the hospital. “Sure…enjoy.”
“Thanks. Hey, I’m Eli.”
“Beau.”
“Hey,” the kid said again, lifting the bottle in greeting. “So what happened to you?”
Beau glanced down at the sling on his right arm and the thick bandage wrapped around his left thigh above the knee. “Shrapnel.”
“No kidding? You were shot?”
He shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Cool. You a cop or something?”
“Ex-Marine,” he murmured, really wanting a change of subject. Cool?
The boy took a long draw from the bottle then wiped his mouth, leaving a muddy streak behind. He focused on what was taking place across the street, and Beau followed the kid’s gaze. The man she’d been talking to now nodded in agreement to whatever she was saying.
“Gotta give it to her, man, she’s good. She gets her way every time.”
“He gets his way every time just because he’s smaller!”
CHAPTER THREE
> THE WORDS SLAMMED into Beau’s brain accompanied by a jagged pain and an image. A bedroom, a cluttered desk, a model airplane lying broken on the floor.
It was no more than a quick flash, but his already aching head felt as if it would explode as a result.
He braced his hand on the truck for balance, unable to believe that after his visits to the shrink in Germany and then the introductory one here with no success, he’d finally remembered something and all because of what the kid had said.
“Hey, dude, you okay?”
He nodded carefully, searching his mind to try to identify the voice. Was it his? Someone else’s? It had belonged to someone young, boyish.
“Maybe you should drink some water.”
“No, I’m okay. I’m good.”
The teen snorted. “If you say so. Look, take it easy. I’ve gotta get back to work ’cause I’m only here half a day, but yell if you need help, okay?”
“Yeah. See you later.” Beau lifted his hand in a weak wave as the kid walked away with a confident strut.
Maybe Pop was right. Maybe it was too soon to come to work, but the walls had been closing in on him at the rental house Pop had found for them. The job site was a good hundred fifty miles from their Cincinnati home, and Pop hadn’t wanted to leave him behind to recover with him working so far away.
Shaking his head, Beau turned his attention to the wire he’d come to retrieve from the rear of the truck. He leaned his weight against the frame and pretended the gravel beneath his feet wasn’t moving. Ignoring the sensation as best he could, he lifted the large roll with his uninjured arm and tensed when the few remaining stitches pulled. The sling would be off by the end of the week, but Pop would throw a fit if he saw him carrying anything heavier than a gallon of milk.
Back under the shaded eave, he squinted over his shoulder to see the woman back at work in the yard opposite the house where Buchanan & Son Specialty Electric worked. She was on her knees, digging in the dirt beneath the window of the first home listed for sale by the housing developer.
Straightening, she put her hands at the base of her back and pressed as though to stretch out a kink. Once again an image flashed through his mind, that of another woman kneeling over something. Laughter and paper and red. Lots of red…paint?
“Come on, sweetheart. We’ve got to get these signs painted before the Pee Wee game starts. You don’t want to be late, do you?”
“You okay, son?”
Pop’s question jerked him out of his daze and the image skittered away like the leaves in the wind. “Just a headache.” He didn’t want to get his father’s hopes up that his memory was coming back when there was so much he didn’t know or recognize. Who was the kid? The woman?
“How long have you had this one?”
He looked over at Pop and smiled wearily. “I’m fine, quit worrying. You know her?” He nodded toward the woman and hoped the change in subject would get Pop to lay off.
His dad pulled the ball cap from his head and scratched what was left of his hair. “She’s the landscaper. Heard some of the men have been giving her a hard time. Why? She say something to you?”
“No.” He relayed what the kid had said. “I saw her talking to the site manager a minute ago.”
“I’ll talk to the boys about it. Dean’s usually the worst about leaving his trash behind, but I won’t put up with any nonsense. Shame people just can’t get along.” His gaze narrowed. “You know, you can’t hide the pain on your face.”
“It’s fine. But I think I’m about ready to go home if you or one of the guys are going to make a run for lunch.”
“That bad, huh? Come on, I’ll give the boys their orders and we’ll get out of here. You get too hot? You’ve been puttering around here all morning. You might have heatstroke. It’s muggy for September.”
“It’s just a headache,” he repeated. “Besides, it’s cooler out here than it is cooped up in there.”
Pop looked skeptical, but nodded anyway. “True enough. Still, maybe it’s time to set up another appointment to have that hard head of yours looked at. Maybe go talk to the shrink again? Doc Abrams said some patients go to sessions three times a week.”
Once a week was more than enough for him. After the appointments overseas, Pop had been fine with his decision to take things as they came because the sessions frustrated him so much, but he knew why Pop now pushed to up his visits. After his behavior this morning, all the guys were sending him leery looks.
Rationally, he knew it was wise of them to keep a close watch on him given his military training, but it didn’t make being the object of such scrutiny any more tolerable. Who wanted to be thought of as a few too many puzzle pieces short?
“I just didn’t want to go inside.” He hated that Pop saw him acting so strange, much less the crew.
His father had bid on the large housing project over a year ago and started work a month or so before getting the call that he’d been injured. Pop had checked in daily while he was away, but they were running behind.
The last thing his father needed now was to be distracted by his behavior on top of the memory thing.
“Any particular reason why? Did you remember something?”
Jaw tight, Beau shook his head in response to the question. He couldn’t explain it. The tightness in his chest, the way every nerve in his body felt on edge the moment he stepped through the doorway into the unfinished interior. The guys laughing, joking, the radio blaring. There was a familiarity to it, a sense of doom, too. If only he could remember why.
“Well, don’t worry about it. Given the choice, I’d much rather be outside, too.”
Maybe, but if that was the case why was Pop giving him the look of concern that had been constant during his hospital vigil? “I’m fine,” he insisted again. “Besides, being jumpy doesn’t count as a breakthrough. I don’t need to visit the shrink, what I need is to get back to work.”
“Soon as you have an okay from your PT doc, you can.”
Uh-huh. What would Pop’s excuse be then? His father had been babying him ever since he’d woken up, trying to take care of him and work a business, too. Had Pop struggled to keep things running with him overseas and not lending a hand?
“Why’d I join up? Why did I leave you to do it all?” He indicated the truck door and the sign painted on the side. “It isn’t Buchanan & Son for nothing, right?”
His father stared into his eyes for a long moment. Startled by the question? “No, it’s not. But it was something you needed to do.”
Beau narrowed his gaze. “What aren’t you saying?”
After a deep breath, Pop made eye contact again. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you how things came about.” He pulled his cap off and scratched his head again. “Beau…your joining up was ordered by the court. You had to choose between jail or the military.”
“I’ve got a record?”
Pop nodded. “You’ve been in trouble a few times, vandalism, petty stuff. You made a nuisance of yourself and irritated the judge, and he had this thing about giving his cases a choice when they didn’t straighten up. When the order came down, you chose the military, but when your time was up and you could’ve come home, you chose to stay.”
“Court-ordered?” That was a lot to take in. He couldn’t imagine being that person. “How long ago was this?”
“You went before the judge about five years ago. You were in trouble off and on for three or four years before that.”
Beau rubbed his forehead, trying to work through the new information. “Okay so…why did I stay in the military?”
“I can’t answer that other than to say that after a while you liked it. You had some growing up to do and the military helped. Eventually you became something other than the numb-nut always getting into trouble for the heck of it.”
Smiling at Pop’s description, his gaze landed on the truck door and the Buchanan & Son sign, questions filling his head. If he asked too many, his father would clam up because the d
ocs and shrink said it was better if he remembered on his own, but if he stuck to the general…
“Give me that wire and stop gabbing like an old woman so we can go get us some food.”
“I can take it in.” He planned to, too, except he got to the door and the sick feeling swept over him again, making him light-headed.
Pop squeezed his good arm. “Take it slow, and don’t argue. You know you shouldn’t be carrying that anyway. I’ll take it to the guys while you go grab my cell out of the truck. I need to call about some equipment before we go.”
Since he didn’t think he could force himself through the entry, he released the wire. His father hefted the roll onto his shoulder while Beau retraced his steps to the truck to look for the phone. He pretty much collapsed into the grit-covered seat before beginning his search beneath the papers and empty coffee cups. What was the deal? What was it about going into the unfinished house that brought on the cold sweats? Something about the bomb? About what he’d been doing before the explosion?
“Awww, come on back, sweetie, I said I was sorry. I like watching you bend over to pick it up, but I’ll get it.”
Beau raised his head at Dean’s words. The man held long wire scraps in his hands and faced the landscaper with an insincere leer Beau wanted to wipe off his face. Dean had been mouthing off all morning about this or that, and Beau was tired of the disrespect. He should probably keep his mouth shut and let his father handle the crew, but enough was enough. “Is there a problem?” he called from inside the truck.
His question drew the woman’s attention. Their gazes locked, and like an idiot he smiled at her, hoping to smooth the waters. It didn’t. In fact, she stumbled to a stop, her eyes widening in a mixture of shock and something else he couldn’t identity. Through the windshield he watched as she paled, and for a minute he was afraid she’d actually pass out. Swooning at the sight of him?
In his dreams.
He frowned at her reaction, getting out as quickly as possible and trying not to favor his bum leg too much as he made his way to her. The sling was bad enough, his face a mess of scabs. Figures their first meeting would be one where she’d probably think he couldn’t take care of himself.
