Renegade. Kaitlyn Rice
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progress had stunted its growth. The dusty rural route in front of the houses had been bisected by a highway curving lazily toward the lake, leaving room for only two.
A bigger factor was the loud and constant criticism he’d received here. Now that his father was gone, the place seemed peaceful. For the first time, it actually seemed like a haven. Maybe he would stay.
He entered the back bedroom, reopened the pail of creamy yellow paint and climbed the ladder to grab his paintbrush. After loosening its bristles against the cleanup rag, he dipped the brush into the pail.
And grinned out the window at the swing. Seeing Tracy there had erased a whole mess of years and as many bad decisions. It returned Riley to days when he’d come flying out of the house, angry at his father for some cruel taunt, and Tracy would chatter innocently from her perch on that same swing. She’d always manage to cheer him up.
The sexual pull that had been new and mysterious that last winter was still there, but it was different now. He was seeing her through the eyes of an experienced man, and she was just as intriguing.
More intriguing.
Coltish legs had become longer and more shapely, budding breasts had bloomed and she’d become a provocative woman. She’d noticed him today, too, in that way. He’d watched her green eyes trail down his body. He’d felt their heat.
Rough-and-tumble tomboy had grown into sizzlinghot babe. Hot enough to make him forget his good intentions and get into trouble. And new trouble would stack on top of the old, sending the town into towering spirals of gossip.
Hurting Tracy again.
Maybe he should fix up the house and move on.
He applied the paintbrush to the edge of the freshly sanded wood of the windowsill. As he was reaching up to tackle the narrow sliver at the top of the sill, a knock sounded at the front door. Sighing, he balanced the brush across the rim of the can, wondering if he’d ever get his painting chore finished.
But on his way down the ladder, he decided Tracy must have returned. No one else would know to knock, would they? He started a mad dash toward the door, then forced himself to slow. Maybe he could drop the defensive attitude and make a more mature impression.
By the time he reached the living room, the door was opening and his grandmother was backing her way in with a brown paper bag under one arm and a plump text under the other. “It’s Gran!” she called in a voice loud enough to carry through the house. “Don’t bother coming to the door.”
“I’m already here,” Riley said from behind her. “If you didn’t want me to answer the door, why did you knock?”
She turned around and set the bag in the middle of the floor. “Even if you are my grandson, you’re a single adult male with a private life,” she said. “I couldn’t barge in.”
“You did barge in,” Riley pointed out as he watched his grandmother pitch the book beside the bag. It was hard to get used to the idea that she was enrolled in college classes, even though he knew she tended to disregard convention.
“My dear grandson, I knocked before I barged,” she said primly. “There’s a fine but distinct difference.”
“Thanks for clarifying that,” Riley said. “Next time I’m doing anything adult or private, I’ll barricade the door.”
“Just like old times,” she said with a nod. “Except I’m glad you aren’t sucking on those cancer sticks anymore.”
Riley grinned. “Same to you, Gran.”
“And we thought we had each other fooled,” she said, returning his smile. “Want some help today?”
Riley shot a glance at the astronomy text on the floor. “You planning to study while you paint?”
“Nope,” she said, lifting her palms. “I figured if I helped you paint and brought you lunch, you might help me cram this afternoon.”
Riley chuckled as he imagined his grandmother’s silvery locks amongst the hundred assorted freshman styles in the astronomy classroom at the university. “I might remember something,” he said. “That class was more interesting than most. I figured I could astound women with my knowledge.”
When his grandmother put her hands on her hips and started tapping a foot, Riley chuckled. “Help me paint. We can talk about the stars after lunch.”
Two hours and six windowsills later, Riley’s grandmother took her bag to the kitchen to pull together lunch. Riley cleaned paintbrushes and hammered lids on cans, then wandered back to check things out.
An open can of pork and beans was waiting on the counter with a plastic spoon stuck inside. Beside it lay several thick slices of bologna, a package of cream-filled cupcakes and two rather shriveled-looking plums. “This is the promised lunch?” Riley asked as he watched his grandmother eat a spoonful of beans from the can.
She nodded. “One of my favorites.”
Riley picked up a round of bologna and used it to point toward the can of beans. “Do I just use the same spoon?”
“No.” Lydia nudged the brown paper bag a few inches closer. “There’s a whole can in here with your name on it.”
“How generous.” Riley opened the bag and pulled out the beans. When he located the can opener his grandmother had left near the sink, he realized she was drinking coffee out of the cup he’d left there a while ago. “Isn’t that mine?”
Lydia scrutinized it. “Possibly.”
Riley snorted and opened the cupboard to search for a glass.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I wiped the rim first.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind about which person in the family I take after,” Riley said with a grin as he grabbed a wineglass and swooped across to fill it at the sink.
“You could do worse,” his grandmother said.
Riley lifted his water, and two of the town’s biggest misfits silently toasted the truth: even if no one else recognized their rare form of character, they did.
Honor and propriety were vastly different things.
“The convict my daughter chose for a husband didn’t do you any favors,” Lydia said. “I can almost hear him bellowing some drivel about women belonging in the kitchen and not out shooting hoops.”
She raised her chin and said proudly, “Your grandfather didn’t care if I ever set foot in our kitchen. He loved to cook for me.”
Riley only grunted. He’d scrounged another spoon from the back of a drawer and was chewing a mouthful of the cold, nearly tasteless beans. Leaning against the counter beside the adult who’d likely saved his sanity, he finished eating lunch with her, grateful for her company. When he’d left town to save his self-respect, he’d lost the opportunity to spend time with Lydia. Well, he was here now. The next few months should be a blast.
“Think I can make it?” his grandmother asked. She was perching her bean can on her open palm and nodding toward the trash can.
Riley laughed. “Those scrawny arms won’t lob it halfway.”
She held the can in two hands, then gave a cheeky little hop, threw the can and gloated.
“Lucky shot.” Riley scooped out his last spoonful and chewed while he wiggled his own can out in front of Lydia’s face. Turning his back to the trash can, he tossed it over his shoulder. When he heard the clank of the two cans colliding, he crowed.
And for the next little while, Riley and his sixty-seven-year-old grandmother grabbed cans, plums, spoons and wrappers and performed acrobatic tosses across the room. Most of the time, they each made it. Any misses were met with loud and vigorous hoots from the other. By the time the supply of trash was gone, Riley was ahead by a napkin. Although he didn’t say anything, he made sure his