Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “We do?” Skeeter’s voice rang with doubt, making Sarah realize Skeets hadn’t experienced normal things like viewing old pictures. She’d been a toddler when her father died. Since then…

  “Let’s finish eating, then we’ll look at pictures. After that, back to work.”

  “Awww…” Brett looked as dismayed as he sounded.

  “Tough it out, kid. We’ve got a timeline.” Sarah pointed to the wall calendar. “The Bristol boys are tending the flock today, but we have church in the morning right after farm chores.”

  Sarah ignored Liv’s groan. “And your Mom is due home tomorrow afternoon. We want things shipshape, right?”

  Their agreement was halfhearted this late in the day, but Sarah didn’t care. She pushed back from the table. “Skeets, you hungry?”

  Skeeter eyed the white containers, suspicious. “Do we have apple pancakes?”

  “Not tonight. If you have some of this chicken or beef, I’ll make you apple pancakes in the morning.” Mental note: set alarm early. Great.

  “I don’t like this stuff. It’s yucky.”

  “Then no apple pancakes tomorrow.”

  Brett gaped. Liv almost smiled. It had been a long time since Rita set boundaries for Skeeter. The little girl’s lower lip popped out beneath a really exaggerated frown.

  “But I don’t like it.”

  Sarah kept her face noncommittal. “I heard you, sweetheart. You won’t starve, I promise.”

  “We can always have oatmeal in the morning,” Liv offered, driving home Sarah’s point. “With walnuts.”

  Sarah fought a smile as she stood. “I’ll leave the food out in case you change your mind.”

  “But—”

  Brett headed upstairs to retrieve the pictures, then turned. “Can we finish up first, then do pictures? There’s not that much left to do.”

  Sarah turned Liv’s way. “What do you think?”

  “Works for me.”

  “All right.” Sarah headed to the kitchen for a basin. Liv took a bucket of suds to the front porch, her face determined.

  As Sarah scrubbed the downstairs bathroom, she joined Kenny Chesney in a duet about how forever feels. Scrubbing cleanser across the sink’s surface, the words brought to mind thoughts of commitment. Love. Marriage.

  Craig Macklin’s image appeared and refused to be shoved away. Scowling, she mounted a second attack on the shower stall, scrubbing to beat the band. When her mind refused to be cleared of jumbled pictures of Kenny and Craig, romance and Craig, forever and Craig, she marched to the living room, changed the CD, noted that Skeets was taking mini bites of sweet and sour chicken, then squared her shoulders as the background tones of Michael W. Smith lent a more spiritual air to the cleaning spree.

  Right until he launched into his beautiful rendition of “Do You Dream of Me?”

  She drew a breath. A really deep one, then gave the toilet the best scouring it had known in some time, working hard to erase thoughts of Craig Macklin’s easy humor and strong hands from her mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Come on, old man.” Craig tried to coax Rocket from the backseat of the SUV, figuring a warm evening romp would do the old boy good. Nope.

  He held out a hand of appeal. “Let’s take a walk. I’ll show you around the place. Start getting you acclimated.”

  Rocket lay along the back seat, head tucked, obviously way too comfortable and tired for Craig to tempt him off the soft seat. Years back, Rocket would have leapt at the chance to get into a car, take a road trip. He bounded through fields, sniffing out this and that, studying terrain, ears cocked, chest out, legs braced, gaze locked. A hunter’s stance.

  No more. Despite Craig’s best efforts and medical intervention, Rocket showed his age. Leaving him to nap on the plush seat, Craig headed down the drive, then walked the road’s edge, drinking in the pastoral setting. Grazing sheep bordered his right, fresh hay lots lay to his left. The scent of sun-warmed country pervaded, the rustic situation balanced by songbirds garnering a last feeding.

  Laughter drew his attention right. He saw nothing but grazing sheep, peaceful and calm. Jaws moved, rhythmic, underscoring the contentment of a well-kept flock. They made a pretty picture, their creamy forms a complement to the deciduous woods, making him wonder how something could be that nice-looking and yet so dim-witted. He knew from forensics class that sheep were actually born with a brain, but no amount of research proved they actually used it. Craig shook his head and walked until another aberrant sound interrupted the halcyon setting.

  He turned, scanning the pasture with more diligence, tracking the noise.

  A cackle rose from a grassy knoll, then a figure appeared, followed by another. The pitch of the field had hidden them until now. The child spun with glee, twisting and twirling in the summer sun.

  The second figure did likewise, trim jeans suiting her petite frame, the coral knit top showcasing really nice curves, her tawny skin offsetting the color to perfection. He watched, drawn to the camaraderie, the shared joy of child and woman as they moved up the field. Their laughter, bright and free, provided a perfect balance to the placid sheep, the singing birds. It was a summer sound and he stood silent, appreciative.

  “Craig!” Skeeter barreled his way, pigtails flying. Sarah followed in quieter fashion, a familiar rise of gold tingeing her color.

  “The fence is hot,” he warned as Skeeter drew close.

  She nodded. “I won’t touch it. Can you walk with us?”

  His glance to Sarah noted her discomfort. All the more reason to agree, he supposed. “I’d love to, but you’re in there and I’m out here.”

  “Can’t you just walk right there?” Skeeter pointed to the grassland running above the drainage ditch. “Just don’t fall in.”

  “I could,” he answered, catching Sarah’s eye. She glanced down, then away. “You girls sounded like you were having fun.”

  “Oh, we were,” caroled Skeeter, laughing up at Sarah. “We’re princesses who escaped from a fire-breathing dragon. Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhh.” She emitted an impressive pseudo-reptilian noise.

  “How did you get trapped by the dragon?” Craig asked, appraising Sarah. “I would think your aunt’s defensive skills would render most dragons powerless.”

  Her chin rose. Her shoulders straightened. Her gaze remained steady. Definitely not as amused as he’d hoped.

  “The wicked prince,” explained Skeeter, oblivious to the adult interchange. “There were two brothers. One was very, very good.” Her eyes widened in the telling, her voice serious. “He made sure everyone followed the rules and obeyed the law. He was kind and gentle. Everyone loved him.”

  Craig nodded. “Sounds like a good guy. What happened next?”

  Skeeter shook her head, eyes wide and sad. “His evil brother built a house close to the princesses’ castle.”

  “He did, huh?” Craig chanced a glance at Sarah. Eyes down, she studied something of great import on the ground.

  “Yes.” Skeeter bit her lip at the injustice of it all. “Then he took us prisoner when the good brother wasn’t looking. It was very scary.”

  “I’m sure.” Glancing Sarah’s way again, Craig smiled when she lifted her gaze. Cocking his head, he moved closer to the electric fence. “Are these mythical brothers familiar, my lady?”

  “The author claims this to be a work of fiction and any similarities to peoples living or dead is purely coincidental,” Sarah replied, her tone careful.

  Craig faced her. Saw her lips twitch. At that moment he wanted to inspire her smile. Hear the laughter she’d shared with the child short moments before. Drawing conclusion from what he’d seen so far, Sarah Slocum didn’t laugh often enough.

  “It is, I’m sure, a fictional tale.” Noting Skeeter’s confusion, Craig clarified, “That means it’s pretend. Made up. Of course—” he encompassed Sarah with his look, then played along “—I don’t know any brothers like that around here.”

  “Do you know a lot of brothers?�
� Skeeter asked.

  “Oh, yes.” He gave a wise nod. “I know old brothers, young brothers, ugly brothers…”

  She giggled.

  “And some handsome ones as well,” he assured her, keeping his tone refined. “Maybe some who’ve made mistakes. Been somewhat stupid.” He hesitated and brought his look to Sarah. “But not evil, surely.”

  They reached the gate. Craig watched as Sarah maneuvered the hooked handle to allow their exit, then affixed the closures to reconnect the circuit. Free of the fence, Skeeter launched herself at him. He swept her up and planted a kiss on her soft cheek. “You smell good.”

  “Aunt Sarah let me use her special lotion. We smell just the same,” the child bragged.

  Craig leaned forward until his face brushed Sarah’s hair. He drew a long, slow breath. Stepping back, he smiled at her nonplussed expression. “You both smell wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” The child dimpled and squirmed at the compliment. Sarah didn’t, but she didn’t look combative, either. An improvement, perhaps?

  “It has a pretty name, too,” Skeeter prattled on. “What was it, Aunt Sarah?” Turning, the child offered her question with no trace of guile.

  Sarah blushed. He smiled to see it, watching deeper tones canvass her tawny cheeks once more. Her discomfort made her seem younger. Less secure. Watching her, he decided it wasn’t a feeling she’d had much experience with. “Spill it, Sarah. What’s it called?”

  She bit her lip and glanced away, then drew an exasperated breath. Turning back, she met his gaze, reluctant. “Meadow Romance.”

  He grinned and softened his expression. “Really?” Surveying her, he stayed silent, allowing the seconds to mount. Her hands tugged the side seams of her jeans as he bent, inhaling deeply. “Perfect.”

  “Well.” She stepped back, clasping her hands. “I’ve got work.”

  He nodded, still holding Skeeter. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “It’s right there.” Her look indicated the short distance between them and the house. Her tone said she wanted to be rid of him.

  “We can’t let it be said that the prince left the princesses unprotected with dragons about, can we?”

  “Oh, no.” Skeeter’s pigtails danced. “The ground could be—” she paused, searching for words “—fraught with danger. Hidden traps, destined to foil the bravest knight.”

  “Arthurian?” He hiked a brow to Sarah, indicating he was pretty certain the first grader hadn’t come up with that line on her own. “I would have expected Three Sisters. Brother Eagle.”

  “Legends and fairy tales cross cultural boundaries,” Sarah informed him, her gaze flicking up to his. When it did, he felt a surge of warmth. Delicious. Delightful. Wonderfully surprising.

  “Tell me more.”

  She made it up the first step, putting her almost at eye level. Looking startled by his sudden proximity, she advanced another stair, lengthening the distance. “I have to go.”

  “Of course.” Still smiling, he set Skeeter down. “Thanks for walking with me, girls.”

  “We didn’t,” Sarah protested, her brow knit. “We—”

  “Yes?” He angled his head, holding her gaze, keeping his look aimed at her.

  She was bothered, that was plain enough. Frustrated, maybe? Aggravated, annoyed, perturbed? Absolutely. Interested?

  A good possibility. But wishing she weren’t. Stepping back, he knew he’d hit the nail on the head but hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Slocums and Macklins were fire and water, oil and vinegar. Not a good mix.

  And try as he might, Craig couldn’t move beyond his behind-the-scenes actions in the whole mess. How he’d encouraged Gramps to go big or stay at home. Brave words from a brash young man with little to lose.

  He sighed inwardly, wishing he could go back. Change things. Knowing he couldn’t and that his actions had helped spur a chain of events that left his grandfather dead and his grandmother dependent.

  But the depths of Sarah’s deep brown eyes drew him. The intelligence and character intrinsic to this woman. Why on earth did she have to be a Slocum?

  He doffed a nonexistent cap. “Ladies. My pleasure.”

  “Thanks, Craig.” Skeeter giggled, pressing two dimpled hands to her mouth. “It was nice of you to rescue us.”

  “Oh, I think Princess Sarah had things well under control,” he confessed, smiling. “You’d already escaped the cruel tyranny of the evil brother, remember. I just offered my cloak of protection for the end of your journey.”

  Another giggle. “You talk funny.”

  “Thank you.” He raised his gaze to Sarah, now on the top step, one hand on the door. “A fine, good night to you, Princess Sarah.”

  She graced him with a regal tilt to her chin. Turning, she stepped inside. “And you, Sir Macklin.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hey.”

  Surprised, Craig looked up from the hook he’d just baited. “Hey, yourself. How’s it going, Brett?”

  The youth lingered on the upper edge of the slope leading to the Higley Water Flow. A bike bearing scars of love lay tipped along the bank. Craig nodded to the water as he cast. “You fish?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Ever try it?”

  Again the shoulders lifted. Craig thought back to their pancake conversation. From the look on the boy’s face, Craig figured Livvie must be on his case again. Noting a slight dance of the bobber, Craig jerked the line and twisted the reel.

  The pole bent, its arc testifying the fish’s presence.

  “You got one?”

  “A nice one.” Grinning, Craig pulled up the yellow perch, pausing the swing of the line with one hand. “Some good eating here.”

  “You eat them?” Brett eyed Craig, curious. “How?”

  “Clean ’em. Fillet ’em. Fry ’em.”

  “You cut out their guts?” That picture hiked the boy’s interest.

  “All of them.” Craig stressed the qualifier while keeping his eye on the fish. He nodded to a stringer in the water. “There’s more.”

  The boy gaped. “Wow.”

  “Want to give it a try?”

  Brett’s masked look disappeared. “Can I? Really?”

  “Sure.” Craig pulled a worm from the bait bucket and worked to forget this was Tom’s son. The kid’s resemblance to his mother made it easier. “First, bait the hook. Like this.” He showed Brett the technique, then handed him the worm. “Go for it.”

  Lips compressed, Brett finagled the writhing night crawler onto the barbed hook. It took a few attempts, and a grimace with the initial piercing, but he soon held it up for Craig’s inspection. “Got it.”

  “Now, we cast it.”

  “I’ve seen that on TV.”

  “Great. This is a lightweight pole so you need to hang on to the rod when you snap your wrist. Don’t throw the pole into the water. Like this.” Illustrating the technique, he showed Brett the quick movement as the line flung free. The sound of the casting reel made a quiet tick, tick, tick in the air.

  Brett watched, studying the look of the pole, the arc of the line. Craig reeled it in, then handed it off. “You try it.”

  The first cast bounced off the ground. The second flung the line onto the grassy embankment. The third dropped the line into the water directly below them. Craig nudged the boy’s shoulder. “Getting closer.”

  Brett laughed, then scowled. “I’ll get it.”

  “Sure you will. It’s early, yet.”

  The line made a more accurate curve next time, landing near the deep water. Craig nodded approval before advising, “Watch your bobber. This has been a hot spot all afternoon. They like this corner in June. Come warmer weather, they move closer to the middle. Then I have to drop the boat in. Row out.”

  “Cool.”

  The bobber dipped. Brett leaned forward, studying the red and white sphere. “I think—”

  “Yup. Your line locked?” Craig’s look went to the reel.

  “Yes, sir.”<
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  “Give it a clean jerk.”

  Brett did, but the line slackened. Craig shrugged. “Happens all the time. Sometimes you hook ’em. Sometimes you don’t. Bring it in. Cast it out.”

  The nearly empty hook surprised Brett. “He ate my worm.”

  “That’s a good sign. Means they’re hungry. Bait it again, Brett. I expect he and his friends are still partying.”

  “You don’t mind?” The boy looked up as though realizing his participation might impinge on Craig’s afternoon. Craig shook his head.

  “Not at all. It’s good to have company.” Saying the words, he realized it was true.

  The boy’s face went reflective, then cleared. “Me, too.”

  Craig read between the lines. Male company. Brett had been surrounded by women for years. That was okay, but with his mother’s problems, it probably wasn’t the best situation for an adolescent boy whose family ran scarce on good male role models.

  Not too many weeks back, Craig would have laughed at the idea of nurturing the boy. The notion of befriending Tom Slocum’s kid would have seemed absurd.

  Not anymore. Brett’s companionship revived a host of boyhood memories. Craig raised an eyebrow to the boy. “You run like Livvie does, Brett?”

  Brett shook his head. “Naw. Never liked it. I used to play soccer. I liked that a lot.” His voice deepened. Craig read regret in the tone. He nodded as Brett threaded another worm on the hook.

  “Nice job. Let’s see if our friends’ appetites have been appeased.”

  Brett’s second cast was a clean sweep of the arm and flick of the wrist. Craig complimented him. “Well done. Want a beer?”

  Brett’s mouth dropped open. His eyes went wide, then he chuckled when Craig handed him a cold can of birch beer from the six-pack cooler. Craig popped the top on his soft drink, took a long pull, then sighed his appreciation. “Man, I love this stuff. Birch beer. Root beer. Ever have ’em with vanilla ice cream?” Angling his head to the younger boy, he gave him a knowing look. “Best soda around.”

  “Aunt Sarah calls them floats.” Brett found a comfortable spot on the grassy incline, sat and watched his line. “You make sodas with syrup and club soda and ice cream. She used to do that in college.”