overtaken by a child’s laughter, and the image of a boy…a bright, beautiful little boy with golden curls…
She stumbled, and Troy’s hand was instantly there, a band of support around her arm.
“
“Or a judge’s…” She muttered it under her breath, and instantly wished she hadn’t. She could feel his head turn toward her like a sonar beam, and imagine the curiosity and speculation in his eyes.
God, there was so much he didn’t know about her. So much she hadn’t told him. And after the night they’d just spent together… God only knew what he must be thinking. It surprised her to realize she actually cared about that, cared what this man thought of her. She wasn’t in the habit of explaining herself, not to anyone, and she’d never told anyone the whole story about her past, not even Mirabella. But she found herself thinking about telling Troy. And wondering what she would say if he were to ask.
But he didn’t ask. All he said was, “Yeah, I guess you probably know what it’s like…” And he paused to let Bubba give a nearby tree his undivided attention, watching the dog now, his eyes in a thoughtful squint that fanned the creases at their corners. “Growin’ up in a small town like this, where everybody knows you, and your folks and everybody else’s business besides.”
“Somehow I don’t think my growing up was very much like yours,” Charly drawled, kicking at a gnarled tree root while she waited for him. Her chest felt tight, stifled.
“No? Why’s that?”
She found his voice soft but compelling, like gentle fingers tugging the strings of a guitar. Primed as she was, she could no more not respond than a plucked guitar string can refuse to vibrate. “For one thing I was an only child.”
“That right?”
His eyes were on her again, bright as searchlights. Meeting them was suddenly too intense, the light in their depths calling up memories even his touch had not. She caught a quick gulp of air, and with a toss of her head, broke the contact.
“And I never knew my mother. She died a few days after I was born.”
“Aw, hell. That’s tough.”
She shrugged away his sympathy, finding it an irritant, like a reminder of an itch she couldn’t scratch. “Not really. I never knew my mother. How can you miss someone you’ve never had?”
Oh, Lord, she hadn’t meant to say that, at least not that way. But somehow her voice had gotten away from her, had risen too fast and too sharply, so that when she broke it off it was with a ragged sound, like something tearing.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think you can.” It was an easy drawl, his manner gentle but with a core of firmness that, like the hand that had held her when she stumbled, would neither let her fall nor escape.
And oh, Lord, the temptation was strong to give in to that firmness, yield to the strength she could sense in him, lean against him and share her burden. He was giving her the openings she needed; the hand was there, and all she had to do was take it.
But she had never yielded to, leaned on or shared her burdens with anyone in her life. Not since Colin. It was too late to change now.
Face it, Charly, you’re alone. You always have been and always will be.
She shook herself, fighting free of the thoughts. “Anyway, I had…someone.”
“Your dad?”
Her chest tightened. She gave a bark of laughter, and after a moment cleared her throat and said in a carefully neutral voice, “Housekeeper. Her name is Dobrina Ralston. I called her Aunt Dobie. She’s the one who raised me.” She walked a few paces, keeping step with him, conscious of the heat, of the day and of his body. Wishing, suddenly, that he would put his arm around her and hold her close to him in spite of it Traitorous notion.
She took a breath and murmured, “I think… she loved me.”
Troy couldn’t answer. He was thinking of the home he’d grown up in, where the love was noisy, confident, taken for granted, a given-never, ever “I think…”
As he angled a look at the woman walking so silently beside him. he tried to think what it would be like to live in a house filled with that silence, instead of with the thud of footsteps, slamming of doors, yells and shouts and arguments and the occasional knock-down-drag-out fight, with laughter and singing, piano lessons and
That was a surprise. He told himself, Hold on, there, man, what in the hell are you thinking of? She’s not some orphan stray, like that little spotted pup you dragged home when you were ten. She’s a grown-up woman with issues that need settling, and whatever they are, they’re for her to settle, not you.
The only problem with that was, last night he’d made the mistake of letting himself get sidetracked. And what that had done was make it hard for him to remember what his mission was supposed to be in the first place.
Yesterday he’d come to the town of Mourning Spring, Alabama, as his brother’s best man with the sole purpose of rescuing one miscreant maid of honor and delivering her to his brother’s house in Georgia in time for a wedding. End of story. Right?
Wrong. Today he knew it wasn’t anywhere near the end of the story, or the beginning of it, either. He’d pretty much figured out that Charly’s story must have begun a long time ago, right here in this town, and that maybe it was about to end where it had started. And maybe that was what it was supposed to do, all along-like completing a circle. He didn’t know yet what the woman’s story was, or what it was going to take for her to complete that circle, or why it was important to him that she not have to do it alone. He just knew that all of a sudden it was.
Yesterday Charly Phelps had been a name, a general description, somebody he’d heard about. Today she was a woman he’d slept with. Which, oddly enough, had nothing to do with the fact that she was also becoming somebody he cared about.
That thought was unsettling enough to demand some sort of action, so he gave Bubba’s leash a tug and said, “What do you think, ol’ man? Checked out all the local action?”
Bubba gave the tree he was investigating one last snuffle, lifted his leg, then ambled on over and wallowed in between Troy and Charly as proudly as if he owned them both, thumping them each a couple of times with his tail.
Troy said, “Heel, Bubba,” without much hope, then turned to Charly. “How ’bout you? What’s next on your agenda?”
She lifted one arm and combed her hair back from her face with her fingers, closed her eyes and breathed, “My suitcases. Please.”
They’d started back toward the car, Bubba “heeling” so well Troy tripped over him. While he was untangling himself, he looked over at Charly and said, “You sure? I’d thought you’d be wantin’ your purse first thing.”
She gave one of her little signature snorts, and he saw the corner of her mouth go up in that way she had that wasn’t really a smile. “Oh, I do. I just think I’d like to look a little more presentable, is all.”
“Whaddaya mean, presentable?” He nudged her and grinned. “Woman, are you malignin’ my wardrobe? You look fine to me.” He thought she looked more than fine-damn cute, in fact-in one of his V-necked T-shirts, which she was wearing tucked into her own gray slacks and without any evidence of a bra that he could see. She’d looked even cuter earlier this morning, wearing the shirt with just his boxers, but he’d had to concede that the outfit probably wasn’t appropriate for running errands in a small Southern town.
He also didn’t see anything wrong with her hair, which she’d washed in the shower, she’d told him, using one of those little bars of soap for shampoo. She’d been complaining about it ever since, something about it not having “body,” which he’d heard women moan and groan about before and still didn’t get. It looked great to him, sleek and shiny as a crow’s wing, with a slippery look that made him want to touch it. And not just with his fingers. She had great hair, thick and mostly straight but cleverly cut in a way that made it bend and curve and lie just right around her face and neck. Probably cost her a pretty penny, too, if he knew anything at all about women’s upkeep. But worth it. Definitely.
As for makeup, well…like most men, he wasn’t real observant about things like that. He supposed, if she looked close enough, she could probably find all those flaws women worry about and like to fix, cover up or improve on. But
