Yeah. Maybe he’d only been caught up in something never meant for him. Vegetables from the garden bursting with flavor, homemade raspberry jam, swaybacked, kind-eyed horse and plump, gentle pony, white-painted fences and deep front porch and a woman who presided over it all with warmth and a firm hand.
He liked that hand a lot, especially when it was on his body. Conall felt himself shiver at a flash of memory.
“You ever find out whether those kids were illegals?” his brother asked idly.
Without hesitation, Conall answered, “No. I had no reason to pursue it.” He shrugged. “The kids are gone.”
“Makes sense,” Duncan said with a trace of amusement. “Like I told you, it wasn’t the kind of rumor I pay any attention to.”
Appreciating the assurance, Conall insisted on helping clean up and left a few minutes later feeling…disconcerted. Strangely, it wasn’t his brother’s voice he heard, but Lia’s.
I think there’s more to you than you believe.
Maybe she was right.
* * *
LIA WAS ASHAMED of how quickly she came to regret her decision. All she had to do was lurk by the window that afternoon watching Conall playing baseball with the boys after he got back from town.
He was catcher right now, coaching Walker on his batting and Brendan on his pitching. Every so often he’d rise from his crouch and gently wrap his arms around Walker to adjust his grip on the bat, or he’d walk out to the mound he’d created with a couple of shovelfuls of dirt and talk to Brendan, sometimes demonstrating a better way to hold the ball or something about his shoulder rotation. She didn’t have to see his smile to know he was smiling, or hear his voice to know it was that low, sexy rumble that held amazing kindness.
Who was he, really? Baffled, she found herself drawn to the window again and again even though all she was doing was torturing herself.
She’d accused him of spending time with the boys as nothing but a way to fill in his time, yet she’d known even when she said it that he was out there coaching Walker and Brendan and teaching them to use tools and answering their questions with sensitivity and honesty because he’d seen that they needed someone. He’d given of himself for them, not because he was bored.
The truth was, she had been afraid for herself, not really for the boys at all. And…she still didn’t know whether she’d been right or wrong.
You have to know that you’ve got me feeling things I didn’t know I could feel.
Had she been an incredible fool, closing a door she should have left open?
Guys said things like that, she told herself with would-be derision. He’d cleverly implied he cared without actually saying he did. In fact, he wouldn’t answer at all when she prodded.
Depression settled on her. What difference did it make anyway? He’d be gone before she knew it.
But I could have had a few more weeks if I was lucky.
She could say she was sorry. She could leave her door open tonight.
Yes, she could. And then feel cheap tomorrow.
Moving slowly, Lia went to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for the flour canister. She’d make bread, take out some of her turmoil by pummeling dough.
Just think how light your cooking duties will seem when you’re not having to feed two men along with the kids.
That was more like it. Nothing like looking at the bright side.
* * *
LIA KEPT DARTING looks at Sorrel during the half-hour drive to Mt. Vernon, where the counseling appointment was to be held. She’d closed down after learning she’d be seeing her parents tonight. She hadn’t said a word during dinner, and sat silent with her face averted during the drive.
“You okay, honey?” Lia finally asked.
“Uh-huh.”
She considered and discarded half a dozen things she could say, eventually settling for a quick squeeze of Sorrel’s hand. The teenager gave one small sniff.
Lia had met the parents once. Sorrel had gotten her looks from her mother, who wasn’t much older than Lia—mid- to late-thirties, maybe. She’d kept talking about how difficult Sorrel was and how brave Lia must be to take her on.
“You know this all started with her telling a terrible lie, just to get herself out of trouble,” she’d said, her agitation revealing itself in jerky movements and flared nostrils and a voice sharp as broken glass.