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“Okay,” he said reluctantly.
“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”
He grinned, so eager to please. So thrilled to be praised. Even when it was obvious he was only doing it to make someone else happy.
Just like she did.
“Can I put the dirt in?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak, her throat was too tight, so she nodded. Worried now that she’d made a mistake in speaking the truth. That she’d somehow tainted him with her fears.
“But not too full, right?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot, either in excitement or because he had to pee. “’Cuz there has to be room for the flowers’ roots. Right?”
“Right.” But the word came out a whisper, so she cleared her throat. Tried again. “That’s right.”
He dived at the bag of potting soil, using his hands to scoop some out. Most of it drifted to the ground before it reached the pot, and even more clung to his pants and shirt, covered his arms.
She was surprised he didn’t climb into the bag and just dig it out like a dog.
He stopped jiggling, which meant his little dance had been excitement. Best of all, he was smiling, talking cheerfully, a running commentary about what he was doing. He was, in this moment, happy.
Maybe she wasn’t ruining him after all.
Still, she only had so many bags of potting soil, and at this rate, more than half of it was going to feed the yard.
“Wow, great job. If you want,” she said, as if just coming up with the idea, offering to do him a huge favor, “I could finish filling it. Then you can dig the holes for the flowers.”
She held out a small garden shovel. His eyebrows drew together into an adorable frown, as if he wasn’t sure whether this new development was to his advantage. She could almost see him weighing his options: play in the dirt or get to use the potentially lethal tool.
He grabbed the shovel. Lethal it was.
Using an empty flower container, she scooped the soil into the pot. “There you go.”
“Three holes, right?” he asked, his pudgy hand gripping the shovel tight. His tongue sticking out, he stabbed the pointed edge of the shovel into the pot then flung it up in an explosion of dirt that showered his hair and clothes.
“Yes. But maybe not quite so hard?”
He nodded. And showered himself with even more dirt.
Oh, well. No harm in getting dirty. Clothes—and little boys—were washable. Though she might have to hose him off before getting him into the tub.
“Look! I did it,” he said. “I made a hole.”
“Yes, you did. Good job. Two more to go.”
She thought she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Covered it with her hand, holding her breath. Yes, that was a vibration. Wasn’t it? She pulled it out and exhaled heavily at the blank screen. She quickly unlocked it just to double-check. But there were no texts, no emails, no missed calls.
Where was Shane? Why hadn’t he called her? Or better yet, stopped by?
She’d practiced her apology to him in the shower, had it memorized and perfected only to have her call—all five of them—go straight to voice mail. Which was understandable. She was sure he’d been busy preparing for his interview, showering and shaving and getting dressed. So she’d texted him, had poured her heart out to him, told him how sorry she was, let him know how much last night had meant to her. How excited she was for the future.
That had been hours ago. It was now past two and she hadn’t heard from him yet. She just didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. If he’d tell her, she could fix it. She could change.
“Mama, are you sad?”
She looked down to find Mitch frowning up at her. He was so like her—from his coloring to his blue eyes to the shape of his mouth. They both hated peas, burned easily in the sun and hummed constantly. He’d inherited her sensitivity, too. Was always wondering how others were feeling. Worried if they were sad or upset or angry with him. Needed to be told constantly that the people in his life would always be there. That they loved him—would always love him.
She didn’t know whether to hug him tight and reassure him that everything was fine or demand that he snap out of it. That he not be like her.
She wanted him to be stronger than she was. More confident, capable of facing challenges. Able to live without constantly worrying.
All good life skills. She wished someone would teach them to her someday.
Crouching, she smiled at him. “I’m very happy. It’s a beautiful day, I’m planting flowers with my best helper and after we pick up your brother from school, we’re going to stop at City Creamery.”
Eyes wide, he started doing his happy dance again. “We’re getting ice cream? Can I get two scoops?”
City Creamery was known not only for its homemade ice cream but also its huge portions. “You can have whatever you want, baby.”
So what if he’d be full before he finished one scoop? There was no harm in making sure he was happy.
He pumped his fist—a move he’d picked up from Elijah—then gave her a hug. “I love you, Mama.”
She squeezed him carefully, knowing she had a tendency to hold on too tight. “Love you, too, baby.”
When he let go to finish digging his holes, she straightened. Brushed at the dirt on her shirt. She hadn’t lied. Not really. She was happy. It was just that she’d be happier if Shane was there.
She was sure of it.
What if he stopped by while she and the boys were out? She hadn’t planned on going to City Creamery after getting Elijah, but she’d wanted to do something for Mitch, to prove to him that she was fine.
She’d better call Shane. So he wouldn’t come over and be disappointed they weren’t here.
It went directly to voice mail. Again. “Hi. It’s me. I hope the interview went well. I mean... I’m sure it did. I’m sure you were great.” She stopped. Inhaled deeply then blew it out as quietly as possible, strolling to the other side of the yard. “I wasn’t sure what time you planned on coming over, but the boys and I are going to City Creamery after school. Why don’t you meet us there? The boys would love to see you. You can call me back if you get time or just meet us. Whichever is easier. Okay? ’Bye.”
She clicked off before realizing he might not know what time Elijah got out of school. Ugh. She lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged, holding her head in both hands. Should she call him back? Send him a text?
No. She’d bothered him enough. He hated it when she was too persistent. When she didn’t give him enough space. He’d call her back or show up here. So she’d wait.
She’d waited for him for three years. She could wait a few more hours.
This time she and Shane were going to work. They’d both made mistakes, yes, but they’d also grown and learned from those mistakes.
After making sure Mitch was still occupied, she shifted around to kneel on the grass. The sun warmed her face and arms, and she shut her eyes. Focused on that warmth, that light. Imagined absorbing it into her skin, her body glowing as the rays shot out of her fingers and toes.
She smiled at the fanciful thought. Pressed her palms against her jeans, her body relaxing. Her mind quiet, if only for a moment.
A shadow briefly blocked the sun. Her scalp prickled with apprehension. She was being watched.
Guess that moment was up.
She turned her head to the side as she opened her eyes but Mitchell was still happily occupied, his back to her. She caught movement to her right and noticed a man walking up the sidewalk, the sun behind him, his features undistinguishable from her vantage point.
Scrambling to her feet, she ducked her head to hide her blush, pretending great interest in slapping at the soil on her clothes.
Though they weren’t expecting any guests today, they did, at times, get a walk-in, so she lifted her head and smiled as he approached, then felt that smile slipping.
Dark. That was her first impression. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, a wide chest. Dark hair that reached his collar, the ends lifting in the breeze. A dark, full beard, just beyond the point of trimmed and heading into scraggly. Dark eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, the lids heavy.
Eyes she couldn’t look away from. Eyes that seemed to assess—and dismiss—her before he even blinked.
She shivered. Hugged herself.
Dangerous.
Not exactly the most reassuring—or kind—assessment, but there it was, born of some inner knowledge she hadn’t even realized she possessed.
Which was ridiculous. She could hardly claim to know whether he was dangerous or not based on being in his company for a few seconds. Just because he had a hard expression, hooded eyes and was in serious need of some professional grooming didn’t mean he wasn’t a perfectly nice man.
And no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, some primitive, maternal instinct had her glancing at her son to make sure he was safe. Had her edging to the side, putting her body between Mitchell and the stranger coming toward her.
The man turned, too, his hard gaze flicking behind her to see who she was protecting. Beneath the beard his face was lean, almost gaunt, his complexion sallow, as if he’d recently been sick. It was then she noticed the scars, pink and angry looking, along his temple and high on his cheek.
It was then that she noticed the empty sleeve on his right side.
She jerked her gaze back up to his face as he reached her. Cursed the fairness of her skin, knowing her blush was not only visible but probably neon bright.
“Hello,” she said, trying that smile again. He nodded. She waited a moment, but that gesture seemed to be his response, so she forged ahead. “May I help you?”
“Is this Bradford House?” he asked.
“It is.”
“I’m looking for a room.” He paused, his expression tightening. “One that’s accessible.”
She stared at him blankly, trying to figure out why his deep voice tugged at her subconscious, the cadence and the way he said Brad-ferd instead of Brad-ford strangely familiar. “They’re all accessible.”
How else would people get in and out of them?
He looked at her sharply, as if she was a few petals short of a full bloom. But it wasn’t until he set a large duffel bag on the sidewalk, the movement causing him to wince and fight to remain balanced, that realization dawned.
She really was as dim as everyone thought.
He hadn’t just lost an arm and suffered injuries to his face, he’d hurt his leg, as well.
“You mean handicap accessible?” she blurted out.
Another nod, this one short and sharp. “Do you have one available?”
His words were clipped. A challenge. As if she’d refuse him.
She wanted to. She wanted to tell him they were fully booked, recommend King’s Crossing or the Holiday Inn.
The thought shook her. Shamed her. Refusing to rent him a room was illegal. Not to mention immoral and hateful.
But her wanting to turn him away had nothing to do with his physical disabilities and everything to do with her instincts. They were shouting at her, begging her to please, for once, listen to them. To trust them. To believe them when they said that while the man before her might not be a con artist, thief or murderer, she still had to protect herself from him.
Dangerous.
Thank goodness she always followed her heart and not her gut. Or her head.
The breeze picked up, blew her hair into her face. A strand stuck to the gloss on her lips and she hooked it with her pinkie, pulled it aside. “We have a room on the first floor that should work for you.”
It had been her idea, she thought with no little amount of pride, to add a handicapped-accessible room off the library. And just in time, it seemed, as the addition had been completed only a few weeks ago.
“Mama!” Mitchell called, racing over to her, his hands black with dirt, his clothes covered in it. He grabbed her hand, started tugging. “Mama, come look. I’m done!”
She stumbled, caught herself. How someone so small could be so strong was beyond her. “Just a minute, honey. Mama’s talking to someone right now.”
Mitch sidled closer and wrapped his arm around her leg above her knee. Then he lifted his head to take in the stranger.
And burst into tears.
* * *
HE’D FLOWN HALFWAY across the country, almost fell on his ass in front of a bar full of people, humiliated himself by begging for a job and made a kid cry.
Yeah. He’d say his day was now complete.
Zach scratched the underside of his jaw. The beard itched like hell, but at least it hid the scars scattered across the side of his neck and jaw. Not that he’d grown it for vanity. He just hadn’t mastered using a razor with his left hand, and as much as his life might suck, he wasn’t so bad off that the idea of slicing his own neck held any appeal.
The kid sent up a high-pitched wail that probably had every dog in the neighborhood cowering. He pressed his face against the woman’s leg, his little body shaking.
Christ.
The woman knelt, said something to the kid—her son, if the resemblance was anything to go by—who quieted for a moment. Until he glanced at Zach again and cried louder than before. Kid had some pipes, Zach would give him that.
“Maybe I should go,” Zach said.
Color washed up the woman’s neck into her face, the red contrasting with her strawberry blond hair. “No, no. Please. I’m really sorry for this. Just...give me a moment.” She picked up the boy. Zach was surprised she could lift him when it looked like a stiff breeze would knock her over.
“It’s okay,” the blonde murmured, and he could have sworn she was talking to him as well as the kid. “Everything will be all right.”
The thought irritated him. He didn’t need her reassurance, didn’t need anyone spouting off about how he should look on the bright side and be hopeful for the future. He needed a damn room.
And she wasn’t doing her kid any favors, either, lying to him. How did she know everything would be all right?
She pressed a kiss against the side of the boy’s head and jiggled him the same way he’d seen his aunts, cousins, mom and grandmother do with the countless babies and kids in his family. As if bouncing the hell out of them would impart some comfort or maybe shake some sense into someone who couldn’t even tie their own shoes.
