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He wasn’t sure what she meant until L. T. LaRue’s hearty voice carried through the door. “Yessirree, got the steel on its way and the ’dozers headed out there tomorrow morning. I’m getting this show on the road.”
The doorbell jingled and several people walked in. Seated with his back to the door, Adam didn’t turn around. With any luck, LaRue and his friends would sit over on the far side of the diner, and he could ignore the fact they’d ever been here.
LaRue, however, was not a man to leave well enough alone. While the rest of the group sat down, L.T. appeared beside Adam’s table. “Well, well, if it isn’t our fledgling candidate. Eating by yourself, DeVries? That’s no way to win an election.”
Adam relaxed his right hand. “I-I’m n-not p-planning to f-feed the whole t-town t-to get e-e-elected.”
LaRue crossed his arms and propped his hip against the same place Abby had. “That so? And just how are you planning to get elected?”
“B-by g-giving the v-v-voters an h-honest candidate and the opportunity to ch-choose a m-mayor who w-won’t use his office to m-make m-money. I’ll offer them a m-mayor who d-doesn’t take kickbacks for st-steering city b-business to his f-f-friends.”
“You think that’s what they want?”
“I-I do.”
The other man shook his head. “I think what the voters want is a mayor who can deliver—deliver goods, deliver services, deliver the kind of life they expect to live in this town.” He slapped his hand against Adam’s table as he straightened up. “Not to mention deliver a speech they have half a prayer of understanding. Enjoy your dinner, DeVries.”
Whoever had come in with L.T. enjoyed the joke. They were still laughing when Charlie Brannon rounded the counter at the front of the diner with Adam’s plate in one beefy hand. The ex-marine set the meal on the table and gave Adam’s shoulder a squeeze. He stopped for a second at the door, then made his way with his habitual limp to the table on the other side of the room. The group quieted down in preparation for placing their orders.
“I’ll have—” L.T. started.
“Sorry, folks. We’re closed.” Charlie’s tone was polite, even casual.
“What do you mean? It’s barely six o’clock. You can’t be closed.” Adam didn’t turn to watch, but he heard L.T.’s indignation.
“It’s my place, I can close any damn time I want to.”
“What’s the problem, Charlie?” L.T.’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “We came in for some of your good home-style cooking. Just like DeVries over there.”
“If you had half the brains or the manners of the man over there, I’d be serving you dinner. But you don’t, and I’m not. We’re closed until further notice. You want something to eat tonight, you’ll get it someplace else.”
Adam could hear the group shuffle to their feet, hear them muttering as they headed out the door. Just behind him, L.T. made his last stand. “You’ll regret this, Brannon. I’ve got friends in the inspection department. I’m gonna bring them down on you like a plague of locusts.”
Charlie let loose with his booming laugh. “You think you’re the only guy with friends in this town? The only one with influence? You try putting me out of business, LaRue, and I’ll have your butt on hot bricks so fast you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth. Now get out. We’re closed.”
LaRue slammed the door behind him. Charlie caught the bell to stop the noise and drew the blinds against the Closed sign. Then he returned to Adam’s table. “You better eat before it gets cold.”
“Th-thanks, Ch-Charlie. B-but I h-hate you t-t-to l-lose business b-b-because of me.”
“I won’t.” He grinned. “We’ll open up again in a little while. I just wanted LaRue off the property. He’s always been scum and I put up with it for Kate’s sake. She’s doing good now, so I’m thinking I don’t have to tolerate that jerk anymore.” Turning, he headed back toward the kitchen. “Abby baked coconut cream pie last night. I’ll bring you a piece.”
Adam didn’t protest. Instead, he finished the plate of chicken and vegetables, asked for seconds on rolls and enjoyed every bite of his pie. Once he announced his campaign, he’d have to get used to being accosted in public places, by supporters and opponents alike. He’d always kept a low profile, stayed in the background even when his family received attention for some charity event of his mother’s or a hospital function concerning his dad. Now he’d called down the spotlight on himself. His stuttering had better improve, and fast. Or he would, as his mother predicted, look like a fool.
Heading out to Phoebe’s, he wondered—as he had since it happened—whether he should apologize for that almost-kiss or just ignore the incident altogether. The impulse had felt right at the time, but almost immediately he knew he’d been out of line. She was his therapist. He needed her expertise to make his run for mayor a success. His impulse to take refuge at Swallowtail Farm had been a mistake, one he would have to avoid in the future. Neither of them could afford to complicate their relationship with emotions. Or even just simple physical desire.
Easier said than done, though, when she came out of her house barefoot, wearing a light linen dress that skimmed her curves—very nice curves—and left her well-shaped arms bare. Her hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, with curls escaping at her temples and behind her ears. Adam had a sudden vision of a darkened room and himself slowly unlacing that braid, running his fingers through her loosened hair, over the soft skin underneath…
But this was not that kind of therapy.
As he got out of the truck, he noticed the dogs were stationed under the apple tree again, watching his arrival but not coming any closer. Somehow, Phoebe had trained them to stay out of his way. He hated the idea of himself as a person who didn’t like dogs or small children. And that wasn’t the case, anyway—he did like dogs, as a species, and he wasn’t afraid of them. He just didn’t have room for them in his life.
“Good evening,” Phoebe called. “Come on in.”
As he got close, he noticed that her gray eyes were wary, a little distant. Her smile said “professional.” Regret slapped him, then relief. They really did need to keep their interaction strictly business.
The session quickly turned into a disaster. He was too aware of Phoebe’s caution, too aware of his own body language, and so his stutter became impossible to manage. Containing his frustration wound the tension to the breaking point.
“Read this one,” she said, handing over another card of paragraphs specifically composed to twist his tongue.
Adam looked at the words, assessed the preponderance of Bs and flipped the card across the kitchen table. “I d-don’t think s-s-so, thanks.” His chair scraped the wooden floor as he pushed back from the table. “I’m c-calling it a n-night.”
SAM HADN’T INTENDED to put Adam DeVries under surveillance. The situation arose simply by accident. In a town the size of New Skye, you couldn’t get through a day without seeing people you knew—at the grocery store, at the dentist’s office, or at a stoplight somewhere on the streets.
So she wasn’t surprised, late Tuesday afternoon, to find herself sitting behind Adam’s truck as they waited for the light to change. She wasn’t surprised to find herself going in the same direction—he had a building site on the south side of the city and she liked to get fruits and vegetables at a roadside stand nearby.
But Adam drove straight past his project without so much as slowing down. While puzzling over that, Sam missed the turn for the vegetable market. She shrugged and, out of curiosity, followed the truck at a safe distance. The evening ahead promised her a solitary dinner in front of the TV and, if she got really energetic, hours of research on the Internet. A country drive couldn’t hurt.
She might have thought twice if she’d realized how far into the country he was going. The four-lane highway narrowed to two lanes, and still Adam drove on. Just past the new low-income housing project, though, he finally put on his turn signal. Bower Lane. Had he started a new project out here in the boonies?
A mile or so down the narrow little road, the white truck flashed another turn signal. This time he turned onto a private gravel drive, which left Sam grinding her teeth in frustration. Swallowtail Farm, the sign read. What was that? She couldn’t follow him onto someone’s property without a really good excuse. Simple nosiness wouldn’t cut it.
She parked on the shoulder of the road, deciding what her next move should be. Just as she cut the engine, her cell phone rang. Her editor kept Sam on the phone for almost twenty minutes, going over changes for a story scheduled to run in the Saturday paper. All the while, Sam never moved her eyes from that driveway.
After hanging up, she gave in to her curiosity and decided to investigate. Dirt and gravel sifted into her sandals as she slipped down the lane, staying behind the trees that lined it as much as possible. The drive was much longer than she’d imagined it would be, and she hadn’t come dressed for exercise. But a good story would more than pay for dry-cleaning the sweat stains out of her silk blouse.
She came up yet another rise and saw—finally—a house in the distance. Four horses grazed in the pasture in front of the house, watched by a man and a woman standing close together at the fence. Three big dogs lay under a tree nearby.
Dogs. Sam went cold. If they caught her scent, she’d be lucky to get out alive, let alone unseen.
Hesitating a moment longer, she looked back to the couple by the fence…and found them holding hands, staring intently into each other’s eyes. The next moment, she was sure, would bring a kiss. And whether from sheer jealousy or an aversion to voyeurism, Sam wasn’t about to watch.
This could be a real scoop, though. Adam DeVries had a girlfriend out of town. Who was she?
Thinking of sources for that information, Sam turned to go back the way she’d come and promptly turned her ankle over a rock hidden by the grass. She kept her balance, didn’t fall, didn’t say more than “Ow.”
In that instant, all hell broke loose as the three dogs cried out the hunt. Sam heard them come after her, barking, whining, roaring, it seemed, as they streaked down the drive. She ran. They ran faster. She wasn’t sure whether they had a greater distance to go to reach her than she had to reach the gate, but she had a feeling they would all find out.
The front fence came into sight as the dogs rounded the curve just behind her. Sam sprinted, grabbed hold of the heavy steel gate and pulled it closed just as the three hounds arrived within biting distance. Though the dogs could have slipped through the widely spaced bars, they were so excited they didn’t think about it. They circled at the gate, still barking, panting and jumping on one another, while Sam put the chain through the bars and around the wooden post, linking the ends with the open padlock. Throwing a quick glance in each direction to check for oncoming traffic, she dashed across the road and slammed herself into the car. Only then did she dare to breathe.
And only when she’d driven farther along Bower Lane, with no real clue as to where she would end up, did she start thinking about the possibilities for her story. Summer was a slow time for news. A budding romance involving a mayoral candidate was sure to spark some interest.
She thought about Tommy Crawford and his insistence that nothing needed to be said until Labor Day and the official announcement.
“Sorry, Tommy.” Sam drove through the country twilight, grinning at the prospect of a good story. “You’ve got your job to do.
“And—come hell, high water or everlasting love— I’ve got mine.”
ADAM HAD ALMOST REACHED his truck when Phoebe caught up with him and grabbed his arm. He let her stop him, though he could have jerked free easily enough.
“You’re confused about who’s in charge here,” she said. “I’m the therapist. I say when the session ends.”
“Ph-Phoeb-be.” He dropped his chin to his chest for a second. “I c-can’t even s-say your n-name. L-l-let it g-g-go f-f-for to-night.”
She softened her grip. “You c-can’t leave d-def-feated.”
Brows drawn together, he glared at her. “You w-wouldn’t t-t-taunt me. You s-stutter?”
Phoebe nodded, gazing into his face, waiting.
“H-how d-did you st-stop?”
“I d-didn’t, as you c-can hear.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve l-learned ways to minimize the problem.”
He took her free hand in his. “T-tell me.”
“Breathing, as you’ve practiced. Soft consonants.”
“Th-that’s it?”
“No.” She looked past him to the pasture where the horses swished their tails at flies and bent graceful necks to nip at sprigs of new grass. “I live the life I want, with as little stress as I can arrange. I make my own decisions, regardless of other people’s expectations. I stay calm and happy.”
“C-calm and h-h-happy.”
“Pretty much.” His expression was skeptical. “Stuttering is a response, Adam, a way to deal with some person or event in your life. You used it long enough to form a habit you haven’t been able to break. My job is to help you find ways to break that habit. Those are the ways I found to break mine.”
He tensed, and she waited, hoping he would volunteer the details of when and why he had started stuttering. But the silence stretched, and she accepted that he wasn’t prepared to share his secret.
“So.” Phoebe realized that she still held his arm, as he held her hand. She backed up, letting go with reluctance, feeling his fingers holding on to hers.
And then the dogs went wild. They leapt to their feet and filled the night air with noise—Gally’s frantic barks, Lance’s excited yelps, Gawain’s deep bay. Like hounds of hell, they dashed down the drive.
Adam stared after them. “Will they g-go out th-the g-g-gate?”
“I don’t think s-so.” She crouched to go through the pasture fence, no mean feat in a long narrow skirt. “They never have.”
Adam followed her. “Where are you g-going?”
“This is a shortcut.” The horses had lifted their heads as the dogs went past, then went back to grazing as Phoebe walked by.
“You’re barefoot. And the pasture is…”
She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Grassy. Just watch where you step.”
They reached the front gate to find it closed, the ends of the chain drawn together with the unfastened lock and the dogs barking wildly as they jumped up and down at the barrier.
“None of them seems to have the brains to realize they could go through,” Phoebe said, in between pants.
“S-Somebody has b-b-been h-here.” Adam stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the gate. “I left this open b-b-behind me.”
“They must have closed it between them and the dogs.”
“Why were they h-here? Why not c-c-come in? Or why c-come in at all?”
“This is the country, Adam. I don’t think they meant any harm.”
He didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look too happy, either, as they walked back up the drive with Gawain and Gally and Lance gamboling around them, chasing sticks Phoebe threw.
She really wished he liked her dogs.
Back at the house, Adam took his keys out of his pocket, preparing to leave.
Phoebe tried again. “Do one thing for me before you go.”
“What do you n-need?”
Touching him was a bad idea, so she clasped her hands together. “Come around the truck. That’s right, to the fence.” They stood side by side once again, staring at the horses. “Now, tell me what you see. Slowly, gently, calmly. Describe the scene.”
He opened his mouth.
She held up a finger. “Deep breath, first.”
“Okay.” His shoulders lifted, and he blew out softly. “T-twilight above the trees, p-pink, p-purple, g-gold. P-pines, d-dark green and b-brown, stretching b-between grass and sk-sky. Horses white and b-brown and b-black, colors b-blurring in the gray light, b-beautiful and p-peacef-ful and s-safe.” He looked over at Phoebe. “Are you s-sure you will b-be?”
She had to draw her mind back from his poetic description. “I’ll be fine. You’ll lock the gate again, the dogs and I will go into the house, and everything will be good until morning.” Again, she had to stop herself from touching him. “I promise.”
“Okay.” Adam started toward his truck.
“That was lovely,” she told him as she followed slowly. “You did a good job with your consonants. And the description. That’s what I see when I’m here.”
He looked around again, and then smiled at her for the first time all evening. “Yeah. I’m b-beginning to understand j-just how that therapy of yours w-works.”
“I THINK WE’VE COVERED the agenda. Does anyone have questions or comments?” Cynthia DeVries glanced at each member of the fundraising committee, now assembled in her living room. “If not, then we’ll close. Be sure to have another cup of punch and some more dessert before you leave.”
A collective sigh preceded the polite bustle as most of her listeners returned to the dining room. Cynthia gathered her papers together, rose from her chair and turned to find Kellie Tate, the mayor’s wife, approaching.
“I knew you must be dying for something to drink. I thought I’d bring you some of that delicious punch.” Kellie offered one of the cut-crystal cups she carried and sipped at the other. “Where did this recipe come from?”
“Thank you so much, dear.” As the fruit drink soothed her dry throat, Cynthia felt the tension that had been holding her up through the meeting begin to drain. She hoped everyone would leave soon. “My mother got it from one of her bridesmaids. We served it at my wedding to Preston.”
“Heirloom recipes are the best, aren’t they?”
“That’s quite often true.” Moving nearer the front door, to be on hand when the ladies began to leave, she waited for Kellie to come to her point.
Most of the guests were gone, however, before she stated her business. “You know, Mrs. DeVries, quite a few people were surprised to hear that your son has decided to run for mayor.”
Herself among them. Cynthia called up a thin smile. “I imagine they were.”
“Curtis feels like he’s done his very best for the citizens of New Skye. After running unopposed for four terms, he’s…well, he’s hurt, if you want to know the truth, that Adam wants to challenge his fitness to be mayor.”
