A Weaver Vow. Allison Leigh
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He was tall. Taller even than Jimmy had been, and he’d been six-three. This man was also broader in the shoulders, which—along with his chin or anything else about him—wasn’t anything she ought to be noticing. Jimmy had only been gone for nine months. “You know her?”
“You could say that. She’s my cousin.”
“Oh.” She dropped her arms and pushed her hair away from her face. Knowing that he was related to Lucy made her feel some hope that the situation could be redeemed. Not only had she and Lucy worked together in New York, they’d also been roommates for a time.
But that had all happened before Jimmy Bartholomew blew into Isabella’s life.
“Here.” Erik handed her the dirt-smudged baseball. It was clearly Murphy’s. She recognized his scrawled signature on it that he’d added when Jimmy had given it to him. Pretending to be a big-league player, or just marking his own territory among his hoodlum friends. Whatever his reasons had been, there was no way Murphy could deny it was his ball.
She took it, rubbing her thumb over the stitching. She remembered the day Jimmy had given it to Murphy as if it had been yesterday.
Despair threatened to roll over her.
For her, Jimmy had been a whirlwind. Sweeping her off her feet one minute with buckets of flowers and outrageous displays, and proposing the next in front of his entire firehouse. But they’d never made it to a wedding.
It wasn’t even three months from the moment they’d met until she and Jimmy’s son were standing beside his grave.
She looked over at Murphy. When his father died, Murphy lost everyone he had.
Now he only had her because of the tenuous approval she’d received from a family court judge that placed him provisionally under her guardianship.
“Thank you,” she whispered huskily. She held up the baseball between her fingers. “The ball means a lot to Murphy.”
She could see Erik’s jaw tighten again. “Then he shouldn’t be tossing it at passing vehicles.”
Another thing she could blame herself for. She’d been the one to send Murphy outside in the first place, thinking she could finish closing up the diner more quickly without him inside and underfoot, constantly complaining that he wanted to go home.
She wanted to believe that Murphy hadn’t done it on purpose. But experience had taught her to be wary.
She looked along the street. There were plenty of cars slanted into the curb up and down Main, parked in front of the various businesses there. Not a single vehicle had driven by during their argument, though.
She’d wanted a place different than the city. She’d definitely gotten it. No Starbucks on every other corner in Weaver. No Starbucks at all, in fact. Just homey cafés like Ruby’s that served up coffee the old-fashioned way, and no other.
She gestured toward the front door. “Do you want to go inside? We can work out the details.” She wished she could see past his sunglasses. Get a better gauge on how merciful he might be inclined to be. “The least I can do is offer you some coffee.” She managed a hopeful smile, even though all she wanted to do was put her head down on her arms and cry.
“Throw in a piece of pie if you’ve got it,” he suggested as he headed around the truck for the driver’s side. “And we’ll talk. Meantime, I’ll get this out of the middle of the road.”
Murphy came off the bench when the truck engine started with a low growl. “What about my bat?”
Isabella shushed him. “Don’t worry about your bat.” She tucked the ball in her pocket and closed her hands over his thin shoulders, steering him toward the open door. “You’re lucky he’s not calling the police,” she hissed. Inside, she pointed at the corner booth where his schoolbooks were still stacked. “Go sit over there and do some homework.” His sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Rasmussen, was a big believer in homework. Murphy had hours of it every day.
“I’m done with my homework, remember?” Murphy rolled his eyes and slunk over to the corner.
How could she forget? It was because he’d been done with his homework that he’d wanted to go home. But she wasn’t finished at the café yet, and she couldn’t trust him to be alone yet. With no other option left for after-school care for him—she couldn’t afford it—he had to come to Ruby’s, where she could provide some supervision.
“Then redo it,” she suggested wearily. She didn’t think she’d ever been so tired in her life. “Just sit over there and be quiet while I try to get us out of this mess.”
“I wasn’t doing nothing wrong.”
“Really?” She gave him a look. “Like you weren’t doing anything wrong when you were caught red-handed vandalizing a brownstone in our own neighborhood?”
He slid down into the booth, ignoring her.
She sighed and went behind the counter to put a pot of coffee on to brew. Then she went to the refrigerator case and pulled out an apple pie. She cut off a large wedge and popped it in the microwave to warm. If she was going to try bribery with coffee and pie, she might as well go all the way.
She was placing a large scoop of creamy vanilla ice cream on top of the pie when Erik appeared in the doorway. He was so large that he seemed to block out the afternoon sun for a moment. When he stepped inside, he pulled off his cap and rubbed his hand over his hair.
Dark blond. Lighter than the whiskers on his angular jaw. Cut short, it was thick and full even with the dent in it from his ball cap. Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed a little, looking down at what she was doing.
“Can I have a piece of that?” Murphy asked when she set the plate on top of the lunch counter.
Isabella nodded and started to turn toward the refrigerator case again.
“Please.” At Erik’s deep voice, she paused, looking back. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Murphy, over in the red vinyl corner booth. “Please,” he prompted again.
Murphy’s lips twisted. “You’re not my dad,” he muttered, not quite low enough to go unheard.
“Damn skippy,” Erik returned flatly. “If I were, you’d have enough manners to use please when you should, and you wouldn’t curse around a lady.”
The two males stared each other down for a moment. Isabella, who’d given the whole please-and-thank-you-and-no-cursing speech to Murphy countless times, was ready to break in when Murphy grunted, “Please may I have a piece of pie?” His tone was sarcastic.
Isabella quickly nudged the plate she’d already prepared closer to Erik. “Ice cream is melting.” She set up a folded paper napkin with a knife, fork and spoon next to the plate and filled a coffee mug. “Sugar or cream?”
“No thanks.” With a last glance toward Murphy, he lifted one jean-clad leg over the padded red stool. “Looks great. Thanks.” He slid the flatware aside and shook out the napkin, tossing it over his lap.
His ball cap was stained with God knew what; she was pretty sure it was mud caking the bottom of his jeans; his plaid short-sleeved shirt was damp with sweat and he smelled of hay. At least, she was guessing it was hay. But he used a paper napkin on his lap.
Shaking off her strange bemusement, she cut a slice of pie for Murphy, heated it for a few seconds and added ice cream to his, as well. She didn’t even consider telling him to come get it. She wanted to keep as much distance between Murphy and Erik as possible.
She took it with a glass of milk over to the booth and set it in front of him. “You’ll still have to eat your dinner,” she warned.
He didn’t answer. But his gaze flicked past her, then back down to his pie. “Thanks,” he muttered a moment before he shoveled a forkful into his mouth.
Isabella pushed her hand into the