Swept Away. Karen Templeton
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while her thoughts orbited around a single idea (and those demons), which was that this little sidebar to their trip went way beyond her original proposal to “go wherever the mood struck.”
Not that she was all that upset about the axle business. These things happen. And it wasn’t as if they were on any kind of set schedule or anything. Nor did she have a problem with whatever the accommodations turned out to be. God knows—although her father did not—she’d spent more than a few nights in some pretty seedy places over the years. Her ability to crash almost anywhere had not, she didn’t imagine, fallen into disuse simply because she’d been living more or less like an actual grown-up for some time. As long as she had a can opener and toilet paper (which she did), she was good.
However…turning back to the hellhole business for a minute: It was not exactly reassuring to discover that, at thirty-seven, her hormones were apparently every bit as out of control now as they had been at twenty. Or—her mouth pulled tight—fifteen. Now, Carly had long since accepted the fact that she clearly lacked whatever instincts steered other women to their life mates. And that, at this point, it was downright disingenuous to chalk up her inability to form a meaningful attachment to simply needing to mature a little more. So finding herself attracted to some farmer with a batch of kids—in all likelihood, a married farmer with a batch of kids, since that was one thing she did not do—was very depressing.
Wait. If Sam was married…
Carly cleared her throat and said, “Um…shouldn’t you have cleared our coming with your wife first?”
She saw the muscles in his hand tense as he shifted gears to climb a hill.
“Jeannie’s been gone for coming up on three years now,” he said softly, then twisted to give her what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. “Nobody to clear this with but me.”
Her first thought—a slightly panicked realization that the marriage thing had been her ace in the hole—collided with the most bizarre sensation of…wait, the word was there, somewhere…caring, that was it. Not that she never felt sympathy for anyone, because of course she did, it wasn’t as if she was cold-hearted. No, it was the intensity of the moment that knocked her off her pins, the overwhelming rush of compassion for this perfect stranger who was opening his home to them. The obvious love in Sam’s voice, the residual grief—something she understood all too well herself—somehow made her feel very, very humble. And shallow.
“I’m so sorry,” she finally said, even as her father put in about how hard it must be for Sam, raising all those kids on his own.
Indeed.
Sam wordlessly acknowledged their sympathy, then said, “That’s the farm up ahead. It’s just a small operation, but we call it home.”
But Carly barely registered the small grove of fruit trees, the corn-stalk-stubbled fields, the modest two-story farmhouse, white with blue shutters, proudly standing underneath a huge old oak tree, its leaves rust-tinged. Because she was too busy processing the newsflash that even though there was no Mrs. Sam in the picture, the six kids should work quite nicely as a libido suppressant. Because no way was she messing around with a man with six kids.
No. Damn. Way.
Sitting by herself on a patch of hot, prickly grass outside the school cafeteria, Libby glowered at her bologna sandwich, then took a bite, seeing as she was hungry and it wasn’t like it was gonna change, anyway. The “cool” girls—mostly juniors and seniors—sat in a cozy bunch under the massive cottonwood, their laughter drifting over on the breeze. Lunch—a trial on the best of days—really sucked when Blair wasn’t there. And Sean was no help, since he liked to spend every spare moment working on whatever car was up on the blocks in Auto. So it was just Libby and her bologna sandwich. Oh, and chips and an apple. Big whoop.
Actually, in some ways it wasn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be. Most of her classes were okay, although she could do without Mr. Solomon, her English teacher, trying so hard to act like he was everybody’s best friend. The homework was no big deal, and she’d already gotten a ninety-three on her first biology quiz, so she felt pretty good about that, but lunchtime—the girls giggled again—was the pits. Why most of the kids she’d gone all through school with had suddenly decided it wasn’t cool to hang out with their old friends anymore, she had no idea. Not that any of ’em had anything to be stuck-up about—for the most part, everybody here was a farmer’s or rancher’s kid, just like her. When she’d bitched to Dad, he’d told her to sit tight, reminding her how hard her first weeks had been in middle school and how well that had turned out.
Like Dad had a clue how she felt. He used to be pretty cool, too, until he’d gone on this overprotective tear. Like showing two inches of skin or wearing makeup was going to turn her into a slut, for crying out loud. She was in high school, for heaven’s sake! Why didn’t he get that?
Libby glanced down at her breasts—36C and still growing—and sighed, thinking maybe he got more than she wanted to admit. Then she noticed Blair striding across the grass from the parking lot, her red hair looking like it was on fire in the sunlight, and felt a little better.
“Where were you?” Libby asked, knowing she sounded short. But Blair only plopped down beside her on the grass, not taking offense.
“I told you, I had to go get my braces off this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, huh. I forgot. So let me see.”
Blair bared her teeth, like a dog.
“It looks weird,” Libby said. “I guess because I’ve only ever seen you with braces.”
Blair and her aunt Jenna—who’d brought Blair to Oklahoma from Washington, D.C., in search of Blair’s father, Hank Logan, only to fall in love with him and get married, which Libby thought truly one of the most romantic things she’d ever heard—had only been living in Haven for a little over a year. Blair and Libby had become best friends practically within minutes of meeting each other. Libby had sometimes thought maybe their instant friendship had something to do with Jenna being so much like Jeannie, Libby’s mom’s name, but this was not a theory she’d voiced aloud to anybody for fear of being thought silly.
“It feels weird,” Blair said, running her tongue over her naked teeth. “But I got used to having ’em, so I guess I’ll get used to not having ’em.”
“So, you ate before you came?”
“Yeah, Jenna took me to Ruby’s. Oh!” She sat up, her blue eyes all excited. “I almost forgot—there were these new people there, an old man and his daughter, she was so cool, like obviously not from around here—” Libby had found Blair’s previous big-city experience to be pretty reliable when it came to pegging somebody as cool or not “—and I think your father took them out to your place.”
Libby looked hard at Blair, because this information was not sinking in.
“What are you talking about? Why would Daddy be taking two strangers out to the farm? And how the heck do you know this?”
Blair snitched one of Libby’s potato chips—it wasn’t fair, since Blair could eat as many chips and candy bars as she wanted and never gain any weight, while all Libby had to do was think about the stuff and her jeans got tight—and said, “I saw your dad at Ruby’s, too, and he said something about being behind them when their truck went off the road and landed in a ditch outside town—”
“Ohmigosh! Was anybody hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I got the feeling their truck was going to be out of commission for a while. Anyway, then Jenna and I stopped by Darryl’s to get gas, and we saw them get into your father’s truck with their backpacks and stuff and take off.”
“Honestly, Blair, you’d make a rotten detective, you know that? Just because he was givin’ ’em a ride doesn’t mean Dad was takin’ ’em home—”
Blair plucked another chip from the bag. “And where else was he gonna take ’em? You know the Double Arrow’s