Rocky And The Senator's Daughter. Dixie Browning
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herself. At least she could have hired someone.
But she hadn’t. Too wrapped up in her own woes. And now everything needed fixing. Whether she sold the house, which would break her heart, and moved back to the city to find work, or turned the place into a bed and breakfast catering to people looking for a place in the slow lane—in this case, the very slow lane—things needed doing. She tackled them one after another.
Yesterday it had been the grapevines, which she still hadn’t finished. Today it was the board she stubbed her toe on every time she walked down to this end of the porch. Clutching the hammer just behind the head, she glanced up at the sound of a car out on the road. It was so quiet she could hear for miles…not that there was much to hear. Crows. Farm equipment. Now and then a barking dog.
Between cornfields that had been leased out to the same farmer for years, the overgrown shrubbery and the tall, longleaf pines that shed all over the roof, clogging the gutters, she couldn’t see as far as the dirt road, much less the blacktop. Later on, during hunting season, she might see half a dozen hunters, even though her land was posted.
The man jogging toward her house didn’t look like a hunter. Nor did he look lost. In fact, she thought uneasily as she sat back on her heels, scowling against the sun’s glare, with that big camera thing he was carrying, he looked suspiciously like one of the flock of vultures that had once made her life such a living hell.
What on earth could have happened to bring the press down on her head this time? Surely the Poughs hadn’t gone public, not after all this time. That would be killing the golden goose. She hadn’t missed a single payment, and while it wasn’t much, it was the best she could do.
It occurred to her that it had been weeks since she’d spoken to her father. If something had happened to him, surely someone would have called her. She didn’t like the man, certainly didn’t trust him and wouldn’t particularly care if she didn’t have to see him for the next few years, but she supposed she still loved him. Daughters were supposed to love their fathers, and if nothing else, she’d been trained to be a dutiful daughter.
By now she had a pretty clear view of her visitor. He was no one she’d ever seen before, of that she was certain. He certainly didn’t look like anyone her father would have sent after her.
Still on her hands and knees, Sarah tried to make up her mind what to do. She had learned the hard way to avoid confrontation whenever possible, but to stand her ground when escape was not an option. She was still trying to make up her mind when a shrill whistle split the air.
A whistle? What in God’s name was going on?
And then a second man came into sight around the curve in her rutted, overgrown lane. Clutching the hammer, she almost forgot to breathe. Something must have happened—something awful. Maybe someone was in trouble. Maybe there’d been an accident out on the highway. Maybe someone needed her help—or at least, her telephone.
“Miz Sullivan?” The first man was panting, clearly out of shape. At closer range, he appeared younger than the man following him. The second man, taller, darker, slightly older, sprinted forward, grabbed his arm and swung him around.
Sarah scrambled to her feet. “Just what is going on?” she demanded at the same time the older man began to speak.
“Didn’t you see the signs? This is private property,” she heard him say. Well built, he was wearing jeans and a khaki shirt—standard wear for the locals. Did she know him? Was he a neighbor she hadn’t yet met?
“Both of you, stop right there!” She lifted the hammer as a warning. “My land is posted and you’re trespassing.”
“You heard what the lady said.” The dark-haired stranger was still holding on to the younger man’s camera arm. At closer range, he didn’t look particularly dangerous. All the same, she’d learned to be wary.
Oddly enough, it was his eyes she noticed most as the two men came closer. They reminded her of the icy fjords she had seen on her one and only trip to Scandinavia.
“Hey, get off my back, man, I was here first! Miz Sullivan, what do you think about the book—”
“The lady has no comment.” By that time both men had reached the gate at the foot of her front walk.
The younger man wore a headband and a ponytail. Attempting to elbow his pursuer away, he whined, “Hey, butt out, old man, this is my story.”
“There’s no story here. The lady says you’re trespassing. You want a story? Try the county courthouse. Oldest one in the state. Fascinating history.”
By now they were halfway up the walk, almost at her front steps. Sarah Mariah had had enough. “I’m calling the sheriff,” she warned, and turned to go inside. That’s when her foot caught the board she’d been repairing. She flung out her hands to catch herself, and the hammer flew across the porch and landed at the feet of the man with the ponytail.
“Jeeze, lady, you don’t have to get physical, I can take a hint.” He backed away, muttering under his breath.
Sarah was hurting too much to care what was being said. She hadn’t actually seen stars, but close enough. Rubbing her forehead where she’d struck the edge of the screen door, she tried to assess the damage. The very last thing she needed when she was in klutz mode was a pair of witnesses.
The younger man was halfway down the lane. He was shaking his head. The older man came up onto the porch. “Are you all right? That was a pretty serious crack you took.”
Up close, he was even better looking. She had learned the hard way not to trust men who were too good-looking. This one wore the shadow of a beard, which might or might not be a fashion statement. There was a certain watchful quality about him, as if he weren’t quite sure of his welcome.
Smart man. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“You’ve forgotten already? It’s only been, what—twenty years?”
“Have we met?” She tried to ignore the pain, but both her eyes were beginning to water. Even so, if she had ever met this man before, she would have remembered. His was not the kind of face a woman could ever forget.
Although on closer examination, there was something about him. Something about his eyes…pale gray, set off by thick black lashes and eyebrows. Where had she seen such eyes before?
He seemed almost to be waiting for her to recognize him, but at the moment her head hurt too much to think. “Twenty years?” she repeated. “I’m sorry, but—”
“More like twenty-two, I guess. Rocky Waters, Mrs. Sullivan. And you were Miss Anonymous Jones. The king was having a bad hair day, remember?”
Rocky Waters, Rocky Waters, Rocky…
Oh, blast and tarnation. “The tea and cream cheese.”
“Managed to salvage my shoes, but you know what? You’re going to have a beauty of a shiner. Maybe if you put something on it before the swelling starts?”
“The swelling,” she repeated, sounding almost as dazed as she felt. It was partly the crack on her forehead, partly the fault of the man standing before her.
To think of all the hours she’d wasted after that one brief meeting thinking about him. Daydreaming. Creating wild, adolescent fantasies about someone she’d met only once, and then in the most embarrassing circumstances. Seeing him now, years later and out of context, it had taken a few minutes to connect. He looked more than ever like one of those dark, dangerous Black Ops heroes in her favorite romantic suspense novels.
God knows what she must look like after a day of wrestling grapevines—with one eye rapidly swelling shut.
No point in hoping he hadn’t noticed. Taking her by the arm, he said, “You took a real whack there. Let’s go inside—you’d better sit while I get a towel and some ice. Don’t suppose you have an ice bag, do you?”
“An ice bag?”
“Thought