by Melissa Tagg
Miranda felt Blaze’s perusal. “You’re falling for him.” Ridiculous. Just because the mop-top surfer had lived in her house for over a week, he thought he could read her.
“After the photo, let’s eat,” Brad added. “I’m starving. And my feet hurt.”
“I told you not to wear brand-new shoes,” Miranda said while she slid Blaze’s backpack from his shoulder and marched him into place on the overhang. He snaked an arm around her waist.
“Bothers you, doesn’t it?” he whispered.
“What?” she hissed to Blaze as Matthew held out his phone to frame the shot.
“Your friend flirting it up with Knox. But don’t feel bad, she’s doing the same with Brad.” He nudged his head toward where Liv now sat next to Brad.
“She’s not flirting, she’s just naturally . . . bubbly.” And beautiful. A woman with purpose, who knew who she was. Loved God, loved life, her kids at Open Arms.
All right, so maybe a whisper of envy did echo through Miranda. But she couldn’t allow it. Not when Liv was one of the few people who knew the whole truth about Miranda’s life. Other than Brad, Liv had done more than anyone to help Miranda pick up the pieces after Robbie’s rejection.
“Stand a little closer,” Matthew requested, stepping back and pointing his camera.
Blaze tucked her nearer to his side. “You could tell him the truth.”
“And risk him spilling it in one of his blog posts? I don’t think so.”
“All right, smile like you’re on a second honeymoon.” Matthew chuckled as he issued the command.
“Wonder what he’d say if he knew we never had a first,” Blaze whispered through his grin.
Miranda gritted her teeth.
“Perfect.” Matthew lowered the camera. “Now I think it’d be cool to do a side shot. You can both be looking out into the distance, real thoughtful-like. I’ll get a close-up of your faces with the scenery around you.”
Miranda moved into position. “I had no idea you were such a photographer, Knox.” That’s right, stick with his last name. Less personal, just in case what Blaze thought he saw in her—some kind of attraction to or connection with Matthew—had a spark of reality to it.
No, not a chance. If she was going to fake a marriage, she’d fake faithfulness, as well.
A breeze swept Blaze’s disheveled waves of hair over his face, her own tresses whipping over her shoulder. Blaze stood at an angle beside her, one arm wrapping around her front. For once, she didn’t fight his barging into her space.
Because playacting had suddenly become way more comfortable than sorting out her messy heart.
“Okay, now gaze out at the landscape like you’re thinking about something you really love,” Matthew suggested.
“Tacos,” Blaze murmured.
“My workshop.” And these piney mountains. Her friends. Grandma and Grandpa Woodruff.
Matthew snapped the photo and flashed a thumbs-up. And when Blaze released her, she heard her own sharp intake of breath.
Robbie. She hadn’t thought his name when scrolling through her mental list.
Lord, am I . . . over him? But how could it happen just like that? Why, less than two weeks ago she’d faced their would-be wedding anniversary with the emotional stability of a soap opera character.
But now . . .
A few feet away, Liv laughed over something Brad said, and Matthew showed Blaze the photos on his phone. The sudden urge to shout out in joy over the uncoiling of her heart, her freedom, tumbling over her like the sunlight warming her skin.
“Rand, what’s with the goofy smile?” Brad was standing now, moving toward her.
She wanted to hug him. And Livvy. Even Blaze.
And Matthew? Her gaze shifted to meet his questioning study.
“Just happy to be up here. To be with friends. To know you’re all in my corner.” To know at least one room in her heart had tidied.
Brad slung an arm around her shoulder and guided her to Matthew and Blaze. “I want to see the pictures, too.”
Matthew held out the camera, and Brad clicked through the photos. “Not bad, Knox.”
“No kidding. I actually look . . .” She couldn’t find the word. Even though the pictures showed her in flannel and denim, something in the angle or the lighting highlighted her eyes, her thick curls, the soft slant of her cheeks.
“You look like a magazine cover model,” Brad finished.
She snickered. “Yeah, if you’re talking about ToolTime or Carpentry Expert.”
Now Liv peered over their shoulders. “Nuh-uh, girlfriend. Try Glamour or Vanity Fair.”
“You got some photography skills, bro. That’s for sure,” Blaze said.
Matthew’s demeanor spoke embarrassment. “My brother’s the real photographer in our family.” He sighed. “And if I’m honest, my father, too. He was a businessman by trade, but photography was a mega hobby of his.”
The group fanned in a circle, Brad and Liv back on the hollowed log, and Miranda on the ground between Blaze and Matthew. Brad unzipped his backpack and tossed granola bars and string cheese to everyone.
“You say was,” Liv prodded. “Is your father . . . gone?”
Even from a couple feet away, Miranda could feel Matthew’s stiffening posture. “He and my mom divorced. So, I have no idea whether he’s still doing the photography thing.”
“That’s sad,” Liv said in a gentle tone, the same voice Miranda had heard her use with the kids at Open Arms. “Has it been a long time since you’ve seen him?”
Leave him be, Livvy. He doesn’t like to talk about this. But Matthew’s answering voice surprised her. “Five years. He moved south.”
“That’s about how long it’s been since you’ve seen your parents, isn’t it, Rand?” Liv asked.
Livvy, I love you, but could you just stop already? “Yes.”
Wise, discerning Brad piped in. “Well, my parents recently decided to take up a new hobby themselves. Beekeeping. I should be thankful because a few months ago it was belly dancing. I came back from our Fourth of July gathering scarred for life.”
Blaze and Miranda laughed, but Liv still studied Matthew. “Where is your father now?” she asked Matthew.
Matthew cleared his throat before answering. “I just found out he’s living in Knoxville. Running for office, actually.”
Liv clapped her hands. “But that’s so close. You should go see him. Oh, Matthew, what if you could reconcile?”
Couldn’t Liv see the stony set to Matthew’s jaw, the darkening of his eyes? Did she have any idea what it was like, the punching feeling of childhood hopes and hurts hardened into adult bruises?
“What if he’s been waiting all these years to reconnect with you? And now you’re only a few hours away from each other.”
“Liv—” Miranda began, but Matthew’s shuffling to his feet beside her stopped her.
“I think I’ll go take a few more photos. I promised my niece . . .” His voice faded as he clomped away.
“What did I say?” Liv turned to Brad, but Brad only shook his head.
A scraping cool descended as clouds passed over the sun. She met Blaze’s eyes, caught his subtle nod. Go.
Fine, so he could read her.
Matthew heard the crunch of rock underfoot before he saw Miranda rounding the same clump of trees he’d passed through moments ago. He sat, back against a boulder the size of a small car, his Twins baseball cap shielding his eyes.
“Hand me your phone.” Miranda’s soft voice accompanied her shadow, now looming over him.
He tipped his head. Shrugged. “Okay.” He pulled the device from the pocket of his fleece pullover, then watched as Miranda strode to where the landing ended in a dip. She clicked one shot, then another, moving the phone to capture the scenery in a series of views.
She returned. “Now Cee won’t be disappointed.”
He accepted the camera from Miranda, smile teasing his lips. Miranda lowered beside him. He’d been childish to walk aw
ay. After all, he’d been the one to bring up his father.
But lately he couldn’t get Jase’s phone call out of his head. “He’d really like to hear from you.”
And Matthew would like to oblige about as much as he’d like to step off the side of the mountain, flail his way to a broken neck. But what if his father was sick? Had an emergency? Needed him?
Yeah, well, Gordon Knox’s family had needed him, too. Mom’s original cancer diagnosis had come just one month after Dad left. Matthew had been so sure the news would prompt Dad’s return. But no.
Still, he probably looked like a moody kid, stalking off from the group like he had. He’d felt invaded by Liv’s questions. From beside him, Miranda gave a contented sigh now. Maybe that’s what she’d felt this past week, as his questions steered closer and closer to memories she’d obviously walled in.
He chose a photo to send Cee, typed in a message. “She’s dying to meet you—Cee, I mean.”
“You’re a good uncle,” Miranda said. “Not all uncles would text their nieces every day.”
“Not all nieces are like Cee.” He pocketed his phone. “I used to think fatherhood wasn’t for me. After the way my own dad was, I figured I’d rather not gamble with someone else’s life on the off chance I’d turn out like him. But Cee? She makes me think maybe I could be a good dad.”
“I think you’d be more than a good dad, Matthew. I saw the way you were with Anya, Peter, and Claire.” No hint of flattery, only sincerity in Miranda’s voice.
“It’s just I have this tendency to screw up. It’s one thing when it’s my own life, but a child’s?” He tasted the vulnerability in his own words. Overhead, an eagle soared through drifting clouds.
He turned his head to the side, Miranda’s profile coming into view—head leaning against the boulder, tipped to the sky, sun kissing her skin.
“Matthew, I’m sorry Liv pushed you. She comes from the perfect family. Her parents are like Ward and June Cleaver on happy pills and she has tight bonds with her siblings. She thinks familial perfection is possible for everyone.”
Miranda lifted her hand to brush stray wisps of hair away from her face. “I’ve, um, been getting letters from my parents in the past few months. E-mails, too. Way more than normal. I made the mistake of telling Liv about it the other day, and she immediately launched into this hopeful outburst about how maybe they’re reaching out and our relationship can be rekindled.”
Her pinched forehead was proof of how she felt about that. “You disagree?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I keep waiting for something more than a chatty update about their lives. I know I should write back, but . . .” She shook her head before continuing. “We were supposed to be talking about you. And Liv. And how it must be the social worker in her that feels a need to fix hurting sons and daughters—whether they’re five or thirty-five.”
“I’m thirty.”
A grin spread over her face and she nudged him with her elbow. “That’s not the point.”
“But it is. I’m thirty, and I’m still sometimes so angry at my dad. The kind of angry that makes you feel claustrophobic, trapped. Why am I not over this?”
He studied Miranda’s profile, the emotions playing over her face. Empathy, compassion, understanding. Their pasts weren’t anything alike, but the lingering effects were strikingly similar.
“Anyway, Jase wants me to go see Dad, thinks it’d be helpful if I get everything out in the open. All I can think is, it’d only be a repeat of the last time we saw each other.”
Gordon Knox’s face came into view, hair greased back and maverick sneer fuming in his eyes that day five years ago. “This is garbage, son. Straight-up garbage.” His father had held a copy of the Star Tribune in his hand, Delia’s article screaming from the front page. And Matthew hadn’t realized what he was doing until his fist connected with his father’s jaw.
Miranda slid her hand over the dusty ground beneath them, fingers brushing over the top of his own before closing over it. What was she doing? She’s married. The annoying voice of his conscience, or maybe just common sense, hadn’t stopped repeating the reminder in days now.
But he didn’t move his hand from under her hold. “You know what upsets me the most?” he murmured.
“Hmm?” Her eyes grazed over the blazing hues of the landscape.
“I’m turning out just like him.”
“Your father? Why do you say that?”
He rotated his hand so his palm faced hers. “I mess everything up. I hurt people who care about me.” He thought of Jase, angry at the zoo. His former co-workers at the Tribune. Even Miranda and the article Dooley wanted him to write. If he wrote it, he’d hurt her. If he didn’t, he’d anger Dooley and mess up the plan to help with Cee’s surgery. “I’m a screw-up.”
She released his hands and shifted to a kneeling position as her eyes took hold of his. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say, Matthew Knox. Let me tell you something. You keep forcing me to tell you my story. You ask me questions that annoy the socks off me, but once you get me talking, I can’t stop. And it’s pouring out of me, the past I’ve avoided for years.”
She spoke with energy, enthusiasm, cheeks reddening. Her knees dug into the dirt. So breathtakingly beautiful . . .
“I’ve had these hurts clawing at me for so long, but now that I’m finally facing them, I’m finding a new freedom.”
Hurts? She’d only told him about her parents. And that Robbie guy . . . But the intensity in her voice now confirmed what he’d reckoned all along: there was more. And he warred between asking or . . . pulling her into his lap.
She’s married.
His conscience heightened to a scream.
She placed a palm on his shoulder, warmth he had no business feeling spreading through him. “You did that. You helped me. You and your irritating, nosy questions.”
He’d also searched her house. Did she remember that? He’d goaded Blaze behind her back. He’d noted every averted glance, verbal slip, and fidgety movement. Tucked away every sign of surreptitious behavior for later study.
I’m not what you think, Miranda. He should tell her. Then maybe she’d pull her hand from his chest and lose that glimmer in her eyes. Save him from losing his last grip on his purpose here.
“And Celine, look at what you’re doing for her. Anyone can see this isn’t exactly the kind of reporting you relish. But you made the sacrifice, came down here to interview a B-list celebrity and make some quick money, all for her.”
Her hand glided to his heart. And he couldn’t stop his own from reaching up to cover hers. “Miranda—”
“You’re not a screw-up. Not to me.”
Her face was so close he could feel her breath. His chest pumped as her lips parted.
“Miranda,” he gasped at the last second. “You’re married.”
She froze, face hovering in front of his for a millisecond before shock sparked her into movement. Her hand flew from his chest as if burning and she fell backward, backside thudding into the dirt, dust and pebbles spilling around her. Her arms jerked to the ground to steady her and she scrambled to her feet, horror mixed with humiliation creasing her forehead.
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” Her hands covered her cheeks, and instead of blushing, she’d paled to white.
He jumped up. “It’s okay. We were just . . . having a moment. It was natural instinct, that’s all, and—”
Back to him, she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He skirted around her, arms popping out to hold her in place before she could whirl away. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Her hands dropped from her face. “But I do. Matthew, I . . .” Her eyes pressed closed, and then opened, lashes fluttering until her gaze focused. “I’m not . . .” She bit her lip as vulnerability welled in her gray irises.
“You’re not what? Sorry after all?” His lips hinted at a smile.
She took a long breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m not—”
/>
A scream gashed into the stillness of the forest, followed by a crash of branches and yelling. Miranda’s mouth dropped open. “Livvy?”
“Come on.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her into the grove. But even as he quickened his pace, his heart raced. Not because of whatever lay ahead . . .
But what remained behind. An almost-kiss. Miranda’s unspoken words. And in her eyes, the mixture of mystery and fear and . . . confession.
“Brad, can’t you drive any faster?” Miranda heard the high-pitched whine of her voice but didn’t care. Blaze’s moan from the back seat of Brad’s Camry conjured the picture of him on the ground, arm at an angle that could only mean serious pain.
“We’re not going to get to the hospital any faster if we get in an accident, Rand—so just calm down.”
“Calm down? The man fell out of a tree!”
She glanced out the passenger-side rearview mirror. Matthew still followed in his Jeep with Liv.
Her voice lowered to a hiss. “Poor Blaze. I feel awful.”
Especially since he’d had to walk a good mile after the fall. None of their cell phones had enough signal up on the trail to call 9-1-1, so Brad had jogged back to the car, driven it as far up the trail as he could, and they’d met in the middle, Blaze assuring everyone he could make it.
“It’s not like I haven’t broken an arm before,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “This is the third time. No, fourth. No, wait, third. That other time was a dislocated shoulder.”
He’d talked all the way to the car. His way of dealing with the pain? Or a side effect of all the meds Liv had stuffed down his throat.
“I still can’t believe Liv gave him all that Sudafed. He has a broken arm, not a head cold.”
“She thought he’d be better off drowsy.” Brad passed a station wagon.
He was drowsy, all right. Mumbling something about Michigan and his brother and pancakes.
She twisted in her seat. “It’s going to be all right, Blaze. We’ll get you to the ER and the doctor will fix your arm and—”
“Can’t fix it now.” Blaze lay on his back, broken arm cradled against his torso, the other flopped over his forehead. Dirt streaked across his face, sullied his zipped-up jacket. “Too late. He’s gone.”