The Doctor's Family Reunion. Mindy Obenhaus
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She sent him a sideways glance. “Not The Alps?”
“Uh...” The muscles in his jaw tightened. The Alps had been his first inclination.
She nudged him with her elbow. “I’m teasing. The San Juan Inn is a wonderful choice.”
Relaxing, he eyed the planters of red, white and purple flowers that graced the front stoop of the Daniels’ home. The picket fence surrounding the tiny yard added an old-world charm to the beige two-story that also housed the motel’s office.
Rose held open the gate, and he followed her to the door, his desire for answers getting the best of him.
“Tell me about my son.”
The old woman looked bewildered for a moment before a proud smile erupted. “Austin is a good boy. Kind, friendly, active.” She chuckled on the last word. “And he looks just like his father.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.” He glanced down at a small patch of grass, emotion clogging his throat.
“You will.”
“I promise, Mrs. D, I never knew. If I had...”
She laid a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “Neither Bill nor I ever doubted you, Trent. We may not have understood, but we never stopped praying for you.”
He studied the woman in front of him, who, even now, after everything that had happened, made him feel loved. So confident. Wise. Caring.
Somehow, he had to make things right.
She reached for the doorknob, turned it, but the door refused to budge. “Oh, this silly thing.” She shoved one more time and it jerked open. “Bill had planned to put in a new one this winter.”
Only then did Trent notice the weather-worn wood on the bottom half of the door. “Well, I’m pretty handy. If you’re not in a big rush to get it fixed, I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”
“Only if you’ll let me pay you.”
“I won’t hear of it.” He handed her the bags. “However, you do make the best peanut butter cookies I’ve ever had.”
That earned him a grin.
“You can have all you want.”
“So is Blakely at Adventures in Pink?”
“Should be.”
He raised his coffee cup. “Wish me luck.”
“I’ll do you one better.” She winked. “I’ll pray.”
“Thank you. And I’ll be in touch about the door.”
He headed down the alley across the street then eased left at Seventh Avenue. Two bright pink four-wheel-drive pickups with three rows of bench seats were parked in front of the familiar blue building, just waiting to introduce visitors to all these mountains had to offer.
The long narrow bench where Trent had shared countless conversations with Blakely and her grandfather still stretched across the front of the building. Trent had lived in one of the upstairs apartments along with a couple of fellows he’d dubbed Chaos and Destruction. His escape from the madness had been this bench, taking in whatever bit of history or insight Bill chose to impart.
Now, his heart hammered against his ribs as he opened the door and stepped inside.
A mural of Twin Falls was the first to welcome him, followed by a tiny dog with a high-pitched bark.
“Jethro.”
The voice didn’t belong to Blakely, and Trent was surprised by the hint of disappointment that swept over him. He’d have expected relief.
Instead, a green-eyed brunette glared at the pup from behind the counter. “Don’t mind him. He’s all bark but no bite.”
“That’s okay.” Trent knelt, holding out his fist to allow the animal to sniff. “You were just saying hello, weren’t you?” He stroked the dog a couple of times then straightened, returning his focus to the painting. The attention to detail was so pronounced that he could almost hear the roaring waters and smell the Columbines and Indian Paintbrushes. And was that—he leaned closer—a marmot?
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
He faced the thirty-something woman. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Our owner did that.” She leaned back in her chair. “She’s quite a talented lady.”
“Blakely.” He’d recognize her work anywhere. Work that seemed to have improved with age.
“That’s her.” She cocked her head. “Are you a friend?”
“I’d like to think so.” Even though Blakely might disagree. He approached the counter. “Is she here?”
“She’s out in the shop. I’d be happy to get her—”
The telephone rang.
“Excuse me.”
While the receptionist took the call, he roamed the selection of T-shirts, bumper stickers and other souvenirs near the front windows. What a great addition, as was the snack bar in the corner that boasted sodas, coffee and water. They’d really ramped up the old Jeep company.
The telephone conversation grew lengthy, and impatience got the best of Trent. After catching the brunette’s eye, he let himself out the back door.
An acrid odor assailed his nostrils the moment he stepped into the garage. The place had more rubber than a tire store. Wheels were stacked five high throughout the space, with more lining the walls overhead.
The whir of an impact wrench cut the air. Blakely was out here, all right. But where?
Two pink Jeep Wranglers and a large red tool chest later, he found her.
Squatting beside a third Jeep, Blakely’s movements were as adept as any pit crew member at the Indy 500. No sponsor-littered coveralls for her, though. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, pink, of course, with the company’s logo in white lettering. Her hair had been gathered into a ponytail that trailed down her back.
His fingers twitched. He’d always loved her hair, the feel, the smell. Not to mention those cute freckles.
Something cold and wet touched his hand then, interrupting his reverie.
He looked down to find a golden retriever smiling up at him, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth.
Instinctively, Trent stroked the animal’s head before returning his gaze to Blakely.
The noise stopped.
She pushed to her feet and moved toward a stack of tires, never noticing him.
He knew he should say something, let her know he was there. Instead, he just stared, still rubbing the dog’s ears. The woman before him was prettier than the girl he remembered. But it was what was on the inside that had drawn him to Blakely. Strength. Passion. Loyalty. How could he have been fool enough to let something like that go?
Because you messed up big-time, buddy.
Wincing at the memory, he watched Blakely hoist another tire.
“Those things look heavy. You should ask for help.”
She flinched but quickly recovered. “I’m pretty good at doing things myself.”
Double meaning inferred, he was certain.
He perused the damaged tour truck in the next bay. Studying the wreckage, he shivered. Thank You for watching over her, Lord.
“You always did love being up here with your grandfather.” He shortened the distance between them. “I’m not surprised he passed it to you.”
Mounting the tire onto the axle, she all but ignored him, her shoulders rigid.
He