“Sorry, Aunt Charity,” Nick said. “Gotta go.”
The blare of the fire truck sounded about the time she was wiping the water from her eyes.
“Here.” Braden Martinez, in his full sheriff uniform, was offering her a bandanna. As usual, his expression revealed nothing.
She plucked her sopping wet shirt away from her stomach and wrung the fabric out. She glanced down at her T-shirt, relieved it was gray and not white. That, by Pecan Valley standards, would have been downright scandalous. “I don’t suppose you have a towel tucked into one of your pockets?” she asked, taking the bandanna.
“In my other pants,” he said.
She froze, stepping closer. Had he really said that? “Was that a joke, Sheriff Martinez?” she whispered.
The corner of his mouth cocked up for less than a second. It was progress. He still wasn’t big on making eye contact, but he’d smiled—sort of. What she didn’t understand was why? The Braden Martinez she’d hung around with was full of jokes and smiles, more easygoing than poker-faced. She understood the job required a certain amount of decorum, but this much?
“You used to smile more.” All the time. She’d always been able to make him smile. And laugh. He’d laughed, too, once upon a time. “And, if I recall correctly, you had a great smile.”
Where is your smile now, Sheriff?
He was staring down at the puddle she was standing in. “Your shoes are wet.”
“And squishing.” She wriggled her toes, studying him. He’d changed so much. As big and manly as he was, there was something restrained—almost stifled—about him. “But I’ll survive. The shoes, however—well, I might not be able to save them.” Her ancient pair of canvas tennis shoes had served her well.
His gaze darted to her face like he was on the verge of saying something.
Maybe she could draw him out? “How’s your dad?”
His gaze narrowed as he turned to assess the street. “Fine.”
Not the best topic. Fine. She tried again. “And your head? Glad to see that whole bleeding thing stopped,” she added. “Anything broken?”
“No.” His gaze returned. “My head isn’t broken.”
“That’s a relief.” Hands on hips, she smiled at him.
And, right there, she saw the beginning of what promised to be an honest-to-goodness smile—
“Charity Ann.” Her mother stopped in front of her booth, squashing any hope of smiles or conversation. “Why aren’t the ducks in the pool? Why is there water dripping off the canopy?” She sighed. “And, for goodness’ sake, why are you standing in a puddle?”
“I’ll lend a hand, Mrs. Otto.” Braden touched the brim of his hat, stooped to open the large clear plastic tub full of ducks, and started placing them in the water.
“Thank you, Sheriff Martinez.” Her mother was all smiles for Braden.
“It’s fine, Mom.” She waved, then joined Braden, plopping each rubber duck into the pool. Once it was crowded with multicolored ducks and the fishing rods were out and ready to go, she held a rod to Braden. “You want to go fishing, Sheriff Braden? You never know; you might win a prize.”
He stared at the rod, then her. “Never had much luck with that.” With a stiff nod, he walked on down the street, leaving Charity to ponder what, exactly, he’d meant.
…
Honor was finishing a full tiger face on a squirming five-year-old when Owen made an appearance. She knew the minute he arrived because Emily, the girl who was face painting with her, freaked out. Completely. Because that’s what girls did when the Owen Nelson was around. Something about his freakishly big muscles, dazzling smile, and all that sent girls into a tailspin.
She sighed, refusing to acknowledge his presence and focusing all of her attention on her work.
“There.” She held up the hand mirror. “Good?”
The little boy had no interest in looking at his reflection. He nodded, jumped out of his chair, and ran across the street to Aunt Charity’s booth. Not that Honor could blame the kid. Aunt Charity had cool prizes.
“I heard him say thank you.” Owen nodded. “And something about how talented you are. And that no one else can paint tiger faces like you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure you did.”