One Summer’s Knight

buildin’ before it gets too hot.” Jimmy Joe pushed back his chair and held out his arms. “Here, let me take her-you go on and get your coffee. Come on, sweetie pie, give your ol’ Daddy some sugar.”

Amy Jo lunged for him and happily babbled, “Daddy-Daddy-Daddy,” as she wrapped her arms around his neck and about half strangled him. He got her strapped into her high chair and poured some Cheerios onto the tray to keep her occupied. He waited until Mirabella had poured herself some coffee and settled into the chair across the table from him before he tried again. “Hon, something botherin’ you?”

She heaved a testy sigh. “Oh, I can’t get ahold of Summer, that’s all. Something seems to be wrong with her phone.”

“That what’s been keepin’ you awake nights?” Jimmy Joe reached across the table and gently touched the bluish smudge under one of Mirabella’s eyes. She swiped angrily at his hand, which he drew back and held up in mock surrender, and she threw him what he’d come to call her “F amp; F” look-furious and frustrated.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. “I don’t know why I’m so…I’m just a little bit tired, I guess.”

Keeping it real casual, Jimmy Joe sipped coffee and said, “Think maybe you ought to see a doctor?”

“No!”

The denial came so quickly and so vehemently, Jimmy Joe’s heart about stopped. He felt himself turn cold. He opened his mouth to ask…Lord only knew what-and damned if the phone didn’t pick that moment to go and ring. So then he had to sit there and wait, with his heart booming inside his chest, while Mirabella-since she was closer and quicker-got up and went into the office just off the kitchen to answer it

She was gone quite a while; Amy Jo had run out of Cheer-10S and he was up getting her some more when she finally came back. She had a funny look on her face-it seemed to Jimmy Joe she was less worried now and more stirred up, if that made sense.

“That was Summer. I knew something was wrong. I knew it,” she said, breathlessly exultant; there wasn’t anything Mirabella loved more than being right And Jimmy Joe knew his part well; he waited in expectant silence while his beloved drew breath for the dramatic denouement: “They had a fire at their place!”

“Oh, Lord.” He set down the Cheerios box and prepared for the worst “How bad?”

A frown made a little watermark in Mirabella’s forehead. “I guess the damage was pretty bad. She says they’re staying with friends. But everybody’s okay-the kids and the animals-that’s the important thing.” But she sounded distracted.

“You need to go?” Jimmy Joe asked quietly. She gave him a startled look and quickly shook her head. “Well, then,” he said, “she and the kids need a place to stay? Maybe what she ought to do is come on over here. We’ve got plenty of room.”

Mirabella was still shaking her head. “I asked her, but she says no, the kids have day camp, and of course she’s got her job. She says they’re fine and not to worry…”

“But you’re goin’ to, anyway, aren’t you?” He went up behind her and put his arms around her and pulled her back against him, resting his chin on her silky red hair as he drew a long breath, just inhaling the sweet Mirabella smell of her.

She seemed to want to go along with it for a moment, but then shook her head and muttered in kind of a thick, husky voice, “I knew something was wrong. You know, I’ve been dreaming about her. Evie, too. I just wish I’d hear from her. Dammit, why doesn’t she ever call?”

It came to Jimmy Joe suddenly that his beloved was dangerously close to crying. And because that didn’t happen often, and because like most men he tended to panic whenever he thought it might, he tried to hold it off with some snuggling and sweet talk.

“You missing your sisters, is that it?” he murmured against her ear, gently rocking her. “Feelin’ a little broody?” His hand skimmed downward over her breast, on down to her belly. It was when he did that, and the woman he adored suddenly froze up on him-just went rigid as a post-that somewhere way in the back of his mind a light came on.

“Marybell?” he said in a wondering tone as his fingers fanned slowly over her barely rounded stomach. “You’re not….are you?”

So it was that when Jimmy Joe’s beloved abruptly burst into tears on that particular occasion, it wasn’t consternation he felt but a tremendous wave of joy.

Chapter 7

Riley’s home was his castle. There had been a time, just after he’d bought the place, when he’d gotten an almost baronial satisfaction out of driving up to his front gates, punching in his security code, delivering the password and watching the gates-the drawbridge-swing back to admit him to his castle keep. There’d been a purely visceral kickback then-call it pride, call it power-from all he’d achieved against so many odds. Power to insulate himself from the world’s dangers, pride in the zone of beauty he’d built around himself as a buffer against its ugliness. It had been a long time, though, since he’d felt that kick or, with the exception of April when the azaleas were in bloom, paid much attention to the beauty.

He was bemused, therefore, to discern a quickening of his heartbeat as he stopped the Mercedes beside the security box that evening, after a long-and curiously entertaining-afternoon spent in a suburban Charleston Wal- Mart. He wasn’t quite sure what was responsible for the phenomenon-apprehension, perhaps, but a touch of excitement, too, and even anticipation. He felt much like an explorer setting foot on an uncharted island possibly inhabited by headhunters.

But the most bemusing aspect of it was that he didn’t really mind-not the way he normally would have such an anomaly-such a huge glitch in his carefully orchestrated life. He didn’t care to ask himself why that was so, or what it was exactly that was responsible for his unanticipated lightness of heart. Or why, as he proceeded along the brick-paved drive shaded by old magnolias and live oaks festooned with Spanish moss, he was whistling under his breath, not Mozart or Bach but some popular ditty he didn’t know the name of that he’d heard over the loudspeaker at Wal-Mart.

What he did mind was being barked at by someone else’s dog when he attempted to enter his own house.

“I live here, you canine dimwit,” he growled, only to be answered in much the same tone, albeit nonverbally.

Choosing prudence over dominion, Riley halted and glared over his armload of shopping bags at the minuscule sentry standing stiff-legged and resolute in the kitchen doorway, bared white fangs and raised hackles steadfastly denying him entry. “Hey,” he growled back, “I’ve got shoes bigger than you. So back off.” About then the absurdity of the situation struck him, though he didn’t let the amusement he felt creep into his voice. “What do you think you are, a damned rottweiler?”

“I’m afraid she probably does,” Summer said with a sigh, coming from the kitchen to scoop the Chihuahua into her arms. “Yes…yes…what a good girl you are…my brave champion…” She paused to wipe her face. “I really believe dogs lack a sense of size. Oh, my goodness.” She broke off to stare openmouthed at the packages in Riley’s arms. “What is all that?”

For the first time, possibly because the kitchen light was behind her and as a consequence that distracting mouth of hers was hidden in shadow, it occurred to Riley that she had a very nice speaking voice-a California voice, devoid of any accent, but rather low-pitched and with a musical quality he found pleasant. The kind of voice that was probably calming to small children and animals-a useful asset for a vet.

She was laughing as she stepped aside to let him through the doorway. “No wonder Beatle didn’t recognize you.”

“There’s more,” he said as he deposited his load on the island countertop. “If you want to, you can give me a hand.”

“Oh-yes, sure.”

He paused, then, to watch her set the dog on the floor, noting that she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on when she’d come to see him at his office the day before-tan slacks and a pale green sleeveless shell-but that they looked clean and freshly pressed. As she bent over he noted, too, the slender lines of her back and arms,