At Wild Rose Cottage. Callie Endicott
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HEAD THROBBED and he lay in the dark, staring at the moonlight leaking through the broken blind on the window. For two days Emily had tenaciously stuck close to her house, but surely she couldn’t stay away from her new business much longer.
He got up and turned on his bedside lamp. The mattress was high quality—he believed in a good night’s rest—but aside from a shabby dresser and the lamp sitting on an old wood chair, there wasn’t much else in the room.
The floor creaked as he went into the living room where he kept his weight machine. The Balderdash ranch house was old, but it wasn’t an architectural treasure... It was barely habitable. He could renovate it or build a new one, but he didn’t care what sort of place he used for sleeping. Mostly he kept an eye on whether any part of it was in danger of collapsing.
The family assumed he was just waiting until he found the right woman so he could build a home to suit them both. At least that’s how they’d talked since Jackson had married Kayla. Trent smiled grimly. It had been an unholy mess when his cousin-brother had discovered he had a teenaged son with his old high school girlfriend. Now that the truth was out they’d done the practical thing by getting married, and luckily, Kayla was a better sort than Jackson’s first wife.
Mom—Aunt Sarah—practically melted whenever the subject of Jackson’s wife was raised. She adored Kayla and was more anxious than ever for all her children to find spouses and have kids. How could he tell her that the thought of marriage left him cold? All he wanted was occasional good sex, with a willing woman who had no fantasies about happily-ever-after. Love and family? He’d leave that to people who still had a few illusions.
A lengthy session of weight lifting didn’t help and Trent sat in his easy chair staring at an inane television program. Anything was better than revisiting the memories evoked by working on 320 Meadowlark Lane. Actually...he needed to think of it as Emily’s house. Yet his gut clenched as he thought about her name for the place. Hell, his mom had called it Wild Rose Cottage. Wasn’t that a kick in the gut?
Fiona Hawkins had optimistically hoped that things would change in her marriage, and it had killed her. How unrealistic could a woman be? She’d been afraid to go with her husband the night of the accident, knowing how drunk and angry he was, but more afraid to refuse. The only right thing she’d done was leave her son and daughter at home—otherwise they’d all be dead.
Trent dropped his head back with a groan.
He didn’t know if Emily had idealistic ideas about relationships, but she was obviously another optimist. A shudder went through him; he didn’t care if she meant well—the cliché was right, the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t go near her.
Trent clicked off the television and padded out to the barn. The animals stirred restlessly until they recognized him. Miranda, his mare that had recently foaled, peered over her stall door and nickered for attention.
“Hello, girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck with one hand and feeding her an apple with the other.
Trent liked horses because there were no pretenses with them—they dispensed service and affection in exchange for food and care. It was basically a barter system, and if he held up his end of the arrangement, they responded in kind. The only horse he’d ever had trouble with had been abused before coming to him.
Thinking of which... He approached Speakeasy’s box stall, deliberately making his footsteps heavy so the stallion wouldn’t be startled. Speakeasy stood in the back, regarding him warily. Trent had bought him at an auction a few months before, furious at the sight of his thin body and half-healed wounds.
“Come here, boy,” he said, holding out an apple.
Speakeasy pawed the hay, clearly wanting the treat, but unwilling to come forward for it.
With a sigh, Trent left the apple on a post and stepped away. He could work with the stallion, but it wasn’t easy. It would take time and patience before Speakeasy trusted humans again.
After several hours Trent realized it was time to get moving. Perhaps today would go better and Emily would spend the morning or afternoon at her store. That way he could send the crew onto the roof, leaving him to tackle the wall between the living and dining rooms. She wanted it cut down into a low divider to open up the space. If things went well he might even be able to retrieve his father’s gun upstairs.
But as the morning began, Emily showed no sign of leaving. Instead, she now wore sturdy new running shoes, an unfortunate sign she might be planning to stick close to home for yet another day. Vince noticed them immediately and grinned.
“They won’t stop a determined nail, Em,” he informed her in a familiar tone.
“They’re safer than bare skin,” she returned.
“Boots would be best.”
“Gotta get more Southern California out of this girl before I’ll be ready for boots. My toes like to breathe.”
Eduardo chuckled. “You’re too late for the flower child generation, kiddo.”
“Better late than never.”
They all smiled, even Mike, whose sense of humor had suffered since his accident.
It was disgusting. His crew was rapidly becoming fond of Emily, helped along by boxes of doughnuts and the coffeemaker she now kept filled on the card table in the living room.
The prior morning the crew had quickly served themselves and left. Today they’d arrived earlier than usual, apparently so they could stand around chatting with her. Without coming off as a surly badger, he couldn’t refuse joining them for a cup, though he ignored the pastry. And...damn, it was really good coffee.
Of course, Trent encouraged his crews to get mentally together before launching into the day’s task. It also fostered friendly relations, which reduced slowdowns from personality clashes. So it was annoying that the coffee klatch bothered him, when it wouldn’t bother him anywhere else. The problem had to be because he wasn’t sure of Emily’s motives in being so accommodating.
“Thanks, that’s mighty tasty,” Vince said, leaving his cup on the table. “Em, do you want to help me remove that light fixture in the dining room?”
“I’d love to,” Emily agreed enthusiastically. “Do you think it can be salvaged?”
“Converted, maybe. They never removed the old gaslight fixture, just cut off the gas.”
“Wow.”
“Wait,” Trent interrupted, then turned to Eduardo. “When you were inspecting the water pipes did you get a chance to evaluate the gas lines?”
Eduardo nodded. “Yep, but I want to double-check everything.”
“Good. We can’t take anything for granted about this house.”
“Absolutely, boss.”
The men departed to their various areas and Trent closed his eyes, drawing several deep, calming breaths. When his temper had flared as a teenager, he’d been tempted to hit walls, the way his father had done so often. Trent had also engaged in a number of monumental fights—generally with bullies, figuring they deserved it anyway. It wasn’t comforting to remember that he’d deliberately sought them out, wanting to punch and be punched.
Over time he’d learned to control the urge, knowing a man who couldn’t manage himself couldn’t be trusted to boss anyone else. But he also hadn’t wanted to be the least bit like Gavin Hawkins. Spending so much time on Meadowlark Lane—Emily’s house—was going to test the man he’d tried to become.
Opening his eyes again, he found Emily watching him, her head cocked, as if trying to guess what he was thinking and feeling.
Fat chance.
No one in thirty-six years had managed it, and he was confident this flaky woman didn’t have a prayer.
*