Waiting Out the Storm

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “Did she?” Pulling a grass stem free, Craig chewed it, picturing Sarah working a soda bar, her braid unmussed, her small, capable hands blending treats. He smiled. “Floats, huh?”

  “Yeah. She buys us one at Sam’s Club when we go. As long as we don’t hassle her. They’re huge.”

  “Like everything at Sam’s,” Craig noted. “Hey. Check that line.”

  “I see it.” The timbre of the boy’s voice rose and squeaked. Craig winced in remembrance. Puberty. Brett didn’t appear to notice, intent on his pole.

  He forgot to set the reel. Line poured out, sending everything slack. He muttered under his breath, frowned, then carefully wound the whole mess in and checked his hook. “Didn’t get him.”

  Craig nodded. “No. Plenty of worm there for another try. Give it a go.”

  The first cast was clean but too short. Once again the boy reeled in, his face a study in patience. The next sweep launched a higher arc and a good drop.

  “Nice. Does Aunt Sarah like root beer floats, too?”

  “You like her.”

  Craig stopped chewing while he reconfigured this conversational twist. “Sure I do. She takes good care of her animals.”

  “Right.” Brett started to add something else but his bobber jiggled, sending tiny concentric ripples in motion. “I think…”

  “Clean jerk,” Craig instructed, rising.

  Brett snapped his arm, then started reeling. As the struggling fish cleared the water, the boy’s excitement went to fever pitch. “He’s bigger than yours.”

  Craig laughed. “You’re right. Good job.” He reached forward and stilled the fish, keeping sharp-edged fins tucked. As Craig released the hook, he nodded approval. “Biggest of the day.”

  “Seriously? Cool.” Brett’s rapt expression erased the earlier shadows. He watched as Craig strung the fish, then baited the hook once more. “Can I try again?”

  “Go for it.”

  Not too long later the fish quit biting. Brett sent Craig a puzzled look. “What happened?”

  Craig shrugged. “Maybe they’re done feeding. Or they might have moved on. In any case—” he stood, unwrapping himself from the ground with a stretch and a yawn “—we can’t eat them unless we go to step two. Want to learn how to clean fish?”

  “With a knife?” Brett’s eyes gleamed.

  “A sharp one,” cautioned Craig, tugging the stringer free. “We’ll clean them at my place, then I can bury the remains.”

  “A fish funeral?” Brett looked puzzled.

  Craig laughed and cuffed Brett’s shoulder. “Yeah. A fish funeral. Call the choir.” Seeing Brett’s embarrassment, Craig nudged him again. “Fertilizer. We zip off the skin, cut out the part we eat, then bury the skeleton and the innards to enrich the soil. Nothing’s wasted.”

  “Aunt Sarah says the soil around here is good,” offered the boy as he walked alongside, carrying the pebbled-finish tackle box. “She says this is perfect sheep country.”

  “She should know. She’s got a hand with them, that’s for sure.” Craig pictured her as he’d seen her in the moonlight, a small, dark form amongst the ghost-toned sheep. Small hands, strong and sturdy, fixing wire, straightening posts, not a hint of polish in sight. Her affinity with the dogs, so important to good shepherding.

  “We’re selling the Maremma pups.”

  Craig interpreted Brett’s statement. “Rough, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Brett hunched his shoulders. “Molly’s babies will be around awhile, but the big pups have to go.”

  “Many takers?”

  “Aunt Sarah won’t sell them to just anybody.” Brett explained. “Some people wanted to buy one for a pet and she said no. Eight hundred dollars they were going to pay her.” Brett ended the sentence with another squeak. Craig raised a brow of interest. “For a dog.” The upswing of Brett’s tone reflected his surprise. “And she said no.”

  Indignation mixed with surprise. Brett didn’t want the pups to go, but couldn’t understand refusing such a vast sum of money. Craig chose his words with care. “Sarah knows the dogs. Knows the breed. A Maremma without a job can get into trouble. They’re bred to protect. Without a flock they can get too aggressive.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “So?”

  They neared the SUV. Craig hit the remote to open the door. Together they stowed the fishing gear. Brett’s face turned pensive. “Eight hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

  “It is.” Craig stowed Brett’s bike, then closed up the back before they climbed in. “But is it worth compromising your principles? Selling an animal into a situation that isn’t right when you know it might cause problems later?”

  “I guess not.” Intent, the boy studied the road.

  “Money’s tight, huh?”

  Brett’s glance underscored his answer. “Yeah.”

  “It’ll improve. My grandma says the tight times make the good times that much better.” Grams had no idea how prophetic her words would be. And after decades of belt tightening, the sweet old gal ought to be able to relax without worrying where her next meal was coming from.

  Oh, she knew her family would look after her. That wasn’t an issue. But lack of independence for a stalwart old woman who’d earned every dollar she ever had? That was the problem. Not that she complained. Not her. No way, no how.

  A sudden thought struck Craig as they pulled away. “You should call the house. Tell them you’re with me and we’ve got some fish to clean. See if it’s all right.” From the look on the boy’s face, Craig knew Sarah probably had no clue where he’d gone off to.

  Brett hit the numbers with practiced ease. “Aunt Sarah? It’s Brett. Yeah. I know.”

  Craig did his best to appear disinterested.

  “I’m with Craig. We went fishing. He’s going to teach me how to clean the fish now. If that’s all right,” he added, clutching the phone. Then, his voice tightening, he asked, “Did those people come? They took two?” His voice squeaked up again in surprise. “Did you give them a discount? Wow.” He nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I’ll come across once we’re done over here.” He said it as Craig’s SUV made the climb to the new homestead. “’Bye.”

  “She sold two dogs?” Craig angled his head, regarding the boy.

  “Yeah.”

  “Discount?”

  “No way. She sold the girl for nine hundred so they gave her seventeen hundred all together.”

  “She’s rich.” In a grown-up world, Craig knew how quickly money disappeared. But the boy’s mix of excitement at the money and displeasure at losing the dogs was palpable.

  “She said we could get ice cream tonight to celebrate. And not just a cone, either. Whatever we want. A sundae, banana split…”

  “Root beer float.” Craig smiled at him. “Haul that stuff out of there, buddy, and let’s get to work. Then I’ve got to grab a shower when we’re done. I’m pretty fishy.”

  “You can come with us.” Brett’s invitation was sincere. Heartfelt.

  His words made Craig hesitate.

  He could go. It would be fun to head into town, buy an ice cream and share an evening with the kids. But what message would that send? People would be out in typical Sunday night fashion—couples strolling, kids skating. The custard stand stood in the middle of town, a popular meeting spot during the short months of summer.

  Sarah had brushed him off pretty thoroughly. Not that he was a sensitive type of guy. His mother would roll her eyes at the very notion, then recount every clueless thing he’d done to prove her point.

  But a man had to have standards. Principles. Something to stand firm on. When a woman waves you aside, a smart guy turns and runs, right?

  Or stands his ground, making her see him. Notice him.

  But the pressure of being seen together on “couples night” went too far. A Macklin keeping company with a Slocum? Oh, yeah, that would feed the North Country gossip mills. Fodder for a month, minimum. Then they’d watch for sightings
of the two of them together, affirming the suspicion.

  No. At this point he was fairly certain Sarah wouldn’t welcome loose talk any more than he would. With Rita’s problems, three kids to care for and two encompassing jobs, the woman was run ragged. It showed in her face, the shadowed circles beneath her pretty eyes.

  More than pretty, actually. Deep. Dark. Warm eyes that said more than words ever could. He had a sudden memory of Sarah cradling Gino as he removed the invasive porcupine quills, her face nuzzling the dog’s ruff, her voice crooning senseless words of love. Remembering, he wondered what it would be like to have her say those things to him? Hold him? Nuzzle his neck, her arms drawing him close?

  He drew a really deep breath, shutting down his thoughts. Dangerous territory. Volatile. Explosive. Where had that come from?

  He knew. He might not like it much, but he knew. Something in the young woman called to him. Sought him. In return, he longed to offer her shelter and warmth. His arms. His protection. His allegiance.

  But it would never do. Craig couldn’t stir up the hornets’ nest by seeing Sarah Slocum. Could he?

  He motioned to Brett. “Can’t do it tonight. Gotta work on the house.” That, at least, was true. He angled his head to the crate Brett held. “Bring the box over here. We’ll clean these guys out back and talk guy talk. Burp whenever we want and not say excuse me. Manly stuff.”

  Brett laughed. “Forget about girls.”

  “Exactly.” With an almost physical nudge, Craig pushed thoughts of Sarah and ice cream firmly out of mind. Working on the house was definitely a safer alternative.

  “I hear you’re rich.” Craig lounged in Sarah’s barn door a couple of hours later, wondering what he was doing there. Hadn’t he just waged a mental battle about this very thing? Oops.

  He grasped one side of the blocking board and helped slide it into place, then leaned in, admiring the five remaining Maremma pups. “Brett thinks seventeen hundred is a king’s ransom.”

  Sarah’s eyes softened in understanding. “At twelve, it is.”

  Craig nodded, his gaze on the little dogs. Two wrestled in the corner, evenly matched. Puppy growls and yips crescendoed and ebbed as first one, then the other gained advantage. Sarah shook her head. “Boys.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Craig’s smile went to a grin. “My mother has stories.” He held out a plastic bag. “I brought some fish. Figured you could fry them for supper. If you’ve already eaten tonight, they’ll be fine on ice until tomorrow.”

  “I—” She took the bag, her gaze turned out. After long seconds she looked back, then swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  Those eyes. His throat thickened before he brought to mind his earlier list of objections. With effort, he broke the connection. “You’re welcome. Brett found me at the Flow. We sat. Did some guy stuff. I hope that’s all right. I was wondering if he could work with me now and again. Interior stuff on the house. Maybe some yard work. With your permission.”

  She moved to the far end of the barn, weighing his offer, then pursed her lips. “Brett needs a man around. One he can look up to.”

  “Yes.”

  “But…” she paused, hesitant. It didn’t take much for Craig to read her mind. Given his past behavior, allowing him extended time with an impressionable adolescent heightened her defenses. Narrowing his eyes, Craig followed her.

  She advanced to the Border collie box. Murmuring words of affection she sat in the straw, lifting first one, then the other, talking to each baby dog.

  Craig tried to stay aloof but a flop-eared female, blanketed in black, nuzzled his boots. Pretending resignation, Craig scooped the puppy up and talked to her. The pup preened, delighted. Craig eyed the little lady, then gave her Eskimo kisses.

  “You’re rubbing noses with a dog,” Sarah pointed out.

  “Best opportunity I’m anticipating for a while.” Craig met her gaze and laughed.

  Sarah looked dubious. “Strawberry-blond hair, flashy silver car, perfect nails and teeth, great shoes and short skirts. I don’t think your prospects are as scarce as you make out.”

  “For a quiet woman, you take notice.”

  “The People have a saying,” she replied, eyes down. “‘One who talks a lot may hear nothing.’ Quiet equates wisdom.”

  “I can’t disagree.” She squirmed under his gaze. Shifting his attention, he told the pup, “But I would think your Auntie Sarah might have noticed that the flashy silver car doesn’t come around any more. Haven’t seen the car or its owner in a long, long while.”

  She hesitated, her eyes on the pups. “It would be wrong to study my neighbor’s home. Privacy is important.”

  Craig settled onto a nearby hay bale. “It is. But I’ve got a great view of your place from my front windows. The fields, the barn. Some of the house.”

  “Really?” She sounded annoyed. He hid the grin that inspired.

  “Good views all around, actually.” He set the pup in the straw, watching it work unsteady legs back to its mother. Unfolding himself from the hay bale, he stood. “Come see the house, Sarah. When you’re not busy.”

  “I see from here.” Calm and stoic, she stated the obvious.

  “Not all of it.” He let the pause grow, then added, “Walk over sometime. I’ll give you a tour.”

  She didn’t rise with him. Didn’t agree. After long moments he started for the door. “Craig.”

  She used his first name. Why did that make him feel so good? He turned. She brought her gaze to his. For just a moment her expression was young, trusting. Unguarded.

  “Thank you for spending time with Brett. Offering him a job.” She raised one shoulder, acquiescing. “I’m sure he’d love to help you. And it’ll keep him out of Liv’s way.” She nodded to the plastic bag on the shelf. “I appreciate the fish. I’ll tuck them into the fridge when I’m done with these guys.”

  He lifted the bag. “I’ll do it. Then you don’t have to hurry.”

  Mouth closed, she inhaled through her nose. Her chest rose and fell with the action, a soft cushion beneath the ribbed shirt, total woman. Her eyelashes fluttered. She nodded, then chewed the corner of her lower lip before pausing, regaining control. “Thank you.”

  Craig couldn’t help himself. He reached down and smoothed a strand of thick, dark hair, allowing his hand to rest there, the feel of her hair, her skin, a summons. She stiffened, but he took his own sweet time to withdraw the hand, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Hold her. Talk with her beneath the stars of things that had nothing to do with sheep. “Glad to do it.”

  He chastised himself all the way home. He should have sent the fish with Brett. He’d spent the afternoon pushing thoughts of her away, unwilling to deal with the complexities of the situation. Forging a bond would arouse hurtful memories best left buried, and Rita had enough on her plate. That poor woman got way more than she bargained for in Tom Slocum, that’s for sure. And after what he’d done to Grams, how could Craig rationalize dredging everything up by seeing Sarah?

  Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t.

  Despite all that, he’d walked the fish over himself. Petted her dog. Touched her hair.

  That memory stopped him. Her hair, thick and heavy, bound and plaited but for one strand that escaped the braid. What would it be like to loosen that braid? Watch the dark waves tumble free?

  He was treading dangerous ground and had no idea how to level the field. Maybe building here was a mistake. The proximity to Sarah made it difficult to keep thoughts of her at bay.

  Or downright impossible.

  What would You have me do, Father? What position am I in? On one hand is this woman who draws me like a moth to flame. It feels good to be drawn like that.

  Craig worked his jaw, recalling his reactions.

  Real good.

  Why was he bothering God with this? Oh, he believed in the power of prayer. But God was too caught up with world affairs to straighten out the woes and worries of a North Country veterinarian attracted to the wrong girl
.

  And Rita? She’d been through enough. Her tenuous hold on sobriety shouldn’t be challenged unnecessarily. And Craig didn’t need constant reminders of his own foolishness, encouraging Gramps to invest.

  The ramifications of his youthful shortsightedness had affected his entire family. Gramps was gone and Grams was living her older years shifting from house to house, a few months here, a few months there, an itinerant life when she should have been tucked safe and warm in a cozy home of her own.

  Therein lay the answer. Not one he liked or welcomed, but a response nonetheless. Climbing the last yards to his half-finished home, he pushed thoughts of Sarah away.

  But that hair…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cream, brown and gold floral crepe swished past Sarah’s hips, ending in a mid-calf swirl. Ivory heels gave her added height. Gold and cream earrings, fashioned from seeds and pearls, lent a Native American touch. She left her hair down, a choice she rarely made, letting the dark mass ripple across her back.

  Plaited, her hair offered a definitive posture. Loose, it was open and free. Clipping the top with a bronzed barrette, she hoped Craig would be at church, then caught herself. Was it wrong to pray no one’s animal got sick this particular Sunday, while she looked like something other than a farmer? She hoped not.

  But why would she care if he was there or not?

  Other than the obvious. Good-looking, funny, nice, caring and wore a great pair of jeans. Not to mention those roughed-up T-shirts.

  The fact that he’d been less than friendly in the past should be a stern warning, although lately…

  She shut down that train of thought as foolish and fairly stupid.

  But that smile. Those eyes, amused and crinkled.

  Enough, Sarah.

  Rita opted not to go. Her first week home had been quiet but constrained. Skeeter behaved naturally when her mother was around, but Brett and Liv walked on eggshells, too nice. Too compliant. “I’ll catch the evening service,” Rita explained, tension darkening her features. On the plus side, she was clean and unmuddled, her blond hair soft and lustrous once more. “There’s a morning AA meeting in Potsdam. I want to talk with…”