Whisper of Love (The Bradens at Peaceful Harbor, Book Five)

by Melissa Foster

  “It is, but she’s pretty good at nonverbal communication. Not as good as you and Phillip, of course,” she teased. “Their fiftieth wedding anniversary is in the spring, and last time I saw her she handed me a note when her husband left the room. She must have written left-handed, because it was barely legible, and it said, ‘I want to say my vows.’”

  “That’s sad and beautiful.”

  “I know. We’ll get there. We have to.” She exhaled loudly. “On a happier note, would you mind if I helped you and Phillip feed the animals tonight? I’ve never taken care of chickens or goats, and I’d love to learn. I think it would be fun.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. I love animals.”

  “It’s stinky and dirty, and the goats may try to eat your clothes.” He reached up and tucked that unruly lock of hair behind her ear, and it sprang free like a rebellious child.

  “I don’t care about dirt and smells.”

  “Then, absolutely.”

  “Thanks. But I call dibs on the bathtub after Phillip’s done taking his bath tonight.”

  He laughed to distract himself from thoughts of her naked. “You’ve got it.” He’d have to remember to take a look at her bathtub and see if he could fix it. Great, now he was thinking about her naked in the claw-foot tub, just a few feet from her bed, which brought more dirty thoughts.

  “Did you decide to work on these?” She pointed to the sculptures.

  “Uh…” He cleared his throat to try to shake those thoughts loose. “No, but you did get me thinking about them again.”

  She walked around the piece with the two boys in the baseball glove, and his chest tightened. Her fingers trailed over the polished wood of the glove, and her pretty skirt flitted around her ankles. She had no idea how many heartstrings she was pulling.

  “I think this is my favorite.” She tapped the wood. “You always wear that red baseball hat. I figured you’re a fan.”

  “Used to be,” he said honestly. He took off the hat, memories of the day PJ gave it to him rushing in.

  “Do you think you’ll ever finish them?”

  He looked at the piece for a long moment, the urge to tell her about PJ so strong he had trouble fighting it. “What do you see when you look at that piece?”

  She walked around it again, her hand at her chin as she assessed his work.

  “There’s a lot of emotion in this, even though it’s unfinished, with the two kids and the way they’re resting in the palm of the glove, like it’s their cozy nest. Their safe place. I like how this boy is sitting up higher, like he’s the older one, and the other one is looking up to him. It’s great symbolism. I have two older brothers and three younger siblings, and when I look at this I get the same feeling I do when I look up to Cole, my oldest brother, or Sam. And as the older sister, if I put myself in this boy’s place”—she touched the head of the boy sitting on the stump—“I feel that sense of responsibility and pride that comes from being looked up to. You’re an only child, so it probably seems weird when you hear me say that. But when my younger sister, Shannon, comes to me for advice, it makes me feel special in a way nothing else can.”

  She was so open with her feelings, it made him want to be open with his, which was exactly how he’d been brought up before PJ had died. But it went against everything his parents had inadvertently taught him during their two years at sea.

  “That piece is actually finished,” he managed.

  Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  He tugged his hat low on his head, fighting to draw air into his constricting lungs. “It’s called ‘An Unfinished Life.’”

  “Oh.” She seemed to mull that over. “That’s so sad. I’m obviously not the best art critic. I got the sense this was a happy piece. You know, two young boys who share the love of baseball.”

  “It is.” He thought he could tell her about PJ. He thought the words would come once he started, but they were trapped beneath the pain and bound by years of repression, stealing his ability to string words together. Memories of the night of the accident slammed into him. The policeman at the door. The disbelief. “Liar! Fucking liar!” His mother dropping to her knees. His father’s face draining of all color as he collapsed beside her. And the anger. The all-consuming, gut-fucking rage that sent Nash flying at the police officer, fists and curses landing with near-deadly impact. He could still feel the strength of the two men it took to pry him off the police officer.

  “But An Unfinished Life…?” she asked. “That doesn’t sound happy.”

  Because it’s not fucking happy. There was a time it was, but it’s not anymore. It fucking sucks. He turned away. “This was a mistake.” He stalked from the workshop. “Let’s go.”

  She hurried after him. “What was a mistake?”

  Trying to let you in. He ground his teeth together as he locked the door that never should have been reopened.

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER STORMING OUT of the workshop, Nash had gone back to the piece he was working on and Tempest had outlined more of the itinerary for her Girl Power meeting. She’d called Leesa, and they’d come up with a great idea for a team-building activity: a ropes course that the girls would have to help each other through in order to complete. Luckily, they were able to wrangle her brother Sam into constructing it at Rough Riders, the outdoor adventure company he owned. She’d tried to work on a goal chart to go along with it, but she’d had a heck of a time concentrating and had turned to writing songs instead.

  She sat on the back porch, but every tune sounded wrong. She hated leaving tomorrow with things so up in the air. Why couldn’t she have the type of job where she could take a mental health day when she needed it?

  When Nash had gone inside to get Phillip after his nap, he’d flashed a tight smile before disappearing into the house. Whatever had spurred his anger was clearly still hanging around. Tempest wanted to push. She wanted to pick apart what had happened, the way she analyzed everything else in her life—except what was happening between them. Despite this momentary clash, something was definitely happening between them. She brought her guitar and notebook up to her room and decided to take a walk and try to clear her head.

  She pushed open the front door and found Nash and Phillip sitting on the porch, a dozen wooden animals in the space between them. Nash looked incredibly broad and sexy sitting across from Phillip with one knee bent, the other leg acting as a barrier around the tiny animals.

  “Hey,” he said with an apologetic expression as she stepped outside.

  She agonized over the doleful look in his eyes. He needn’t apologize for battling whatever demons she’d unearthed. She just wished she knew what they were so she could help him deal with them, or at least keep from triggering them in the future.

  “Hi,” she said, a little uneasily. “You two have quite a menagerie out here.”

  Phillip lifted a toy lion and said, “We’re”—came out like weah—“playing zoo and teaching the animals to talk to each other.”

  Nash arched a brow, as if to say he was trying. He was using the animals to help Phillip learn about making friends? Oh dear Lord. How would she survive the cuteness?

  “Heading out?” he asked.

  “Just for a walk.”

  He nodded. “Joining us for dinner?”

  Her first instinct was to accept, but she worried that she might trigger whatever she had earlier, and she didn’t want to hinder his time with Phillip. “I’m still stuffed from lunch, but thanks anyway.”

  She took a step forward, and he reached out and touched her leg, gazing up at her with an apology lingering in his earnest eyes. She wanted to tell him it was okay, that they could talk about it later. She wanted to ask him what had happened back there. But in the burgeoning silence, those messages seemed to expand between them.

  Phillip moved a tiger across the porch and set it in front of a giraffe, where he hummed a conversation between the two instead of using words.


  Nash’s lips quirked up and he shrugged. When his hand slipped from her leg, she longed for it to return.

  “It’s a great start,” she said, and headed into the yard to try to regain control of—what? The situation? My emotions? My sudden inability to relay my feelings coherently? She didn’t have the answer, and two hours later, after a long walk around the pond and a slow meander through the vegetable garden, she was no closer to understanding what had gone wrong in the workshop. She nosed around the locked barn, but the windows had dark curtains over them, leaving her even more curious about it, and him, than ever.

  She returned to the house just as Nash and Phillip came out the front door with buckets in hand.

  “Perfect timing,” Nash said with a casualness that hadn’t been there earlier. “We’re going to feed the animals. Still want to come along?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He eyed her outfit with a look of uncertainty. “Do you have boots? You probably don’t want to ruin your sandals, or that pretty skirt.”

  “Sure. Give me a sec.” She hurried upstairs and put on jeans shorts, cowgirl boots, and her favorite pink hoodie, excited to get involved with the animals, and that Nash’s mood seemed to have lifted.

  When she walked outside, Nash raked his gaze over every inch of her, from her head to the tips of her boots. His lips curved up in a smile of pure, male appreciation as he took an equally slow leer north again, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

  Feeling empowered by his nonverbal compliment, she skipped ahead, flashing a smile over her shoulder. “Ready, boys?”

  Phillip toddled up to her with his father on his heels. She took Phillip’s hand as Nash fell into step beside her, leaning in close and speaking quietly.

  “You’re killing me with those boots. And those skimpy shorts.”

  “Thank you.” I might have to wear shorts more often.

  “Listen,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

  “It’s okay,” she said as they came to the bottom of the hill.

  “It’s definitely not okay,” he said under his breath.

  When they reached the chicken pen, Phillip reached his hands up and Nash lifted him into his arms.

  “The chickens get a little wild when we go in. Want me to carry you, too?” He waggled his brows.

  “I think I’m good, thanks.” She followed him through a wood-framed screen door, into the penned-in area outside the chicken coop. The chickens squawked and flapped their wings, scurrying away.

  Nash hooked an eyehole latch at the top of the door. “I always lock this in case Phillip decides he’s had enough. The chickens will escape faster than you can blink.”

  “I thought pet chickens roamed the yard.”

  “Some do, but catching a chicken is no easy feat. When we first moved in I let them have the run of the yard, but we lost quite a few to raccoons and foxes. It’s safer for them to be penned. At night we keep them in the coop just in case an animal finds a way in.”

  The coop stood about eight feet tall and ten or fifteen feet long, with a shingled roof and wood siding. Nash set Phillip down, and the little cutie reached for Tempest’s hand and tugged her toward the coop.

  “Phillip.” Nash set a hand on his son’s shoulder, slowing him down. “Why don’t you tell Tempe what you’d like to show her?”

  Phillip nodded, his dark eyes serious as he turned his attention to Tempest. “I want to show you how to collect the eggs.” He pulled her inside the coop and said, “I don’t shovel the poop. Dad does.”

  Tempest laughed. “That sounds like a daddy job to me.” She heard Nash chuckle.

  She’d expected the coop to stink, but it didn’t smell like much other than hay and wood. The floor was covered in fresh hay, and there were vents along the roof and two small, partially open windows. Eight cubbies with plastic nesting boxes lined the back wall. Nash obviously worked hard to keep the coop clean.

  Phillip grabbed an egg from a cubby and set it carefully inside the bucket. “Mm-hm.” He grabbed another, setting it beside the first. “Mm-hm.” He repeated this pattern for the first six eggs.

  “May I collect a few?” Tempest asked.

  He nodded, and she picked up an egg and pretended to inspect it. “One.” She set it in her bucket and picked up another, repeating the close inspection. “Two.” She picked up a third egg. “Three.”

  Phillip watched her every move.

  “Want to count yours with me?”

  He nodded eagerly and reached into his bucket. He held the egg carefully in both hands, looking it over as she had.

  “One,” Tempest said.

  “One.” Phillip set the egg in the bucket and picked up another.

  “Two.” She smiled as he cradled the egg and counted it off. When he put the egg in the bucket and picked up the third, she said, “Three.”

  Phillip began plucking eggs from the cubbies and counting them out as he placed them in his bucket. “One. Two. Thwee.” He picked up another egg. “Tempe, what now?”

  “Four,” she answered, pleased with his enthusiasm and wishing she could call Nash into the coop, but she was afraid it would interrupt Phillip’s momentum.

  “Four,” he repeated with a soft “r.”

  They counted the eggs together, and when they reached the last cubby, Phillip counted them by himself.

  “One.” He grinned at Tempest as he set it in his bucket. “Two,” he said louder. “Thwee!” He launched himself into Tempest’s arms.

  “Yay!” She was surprised when tears of joy welled in her eyes. Phillip wiggled out of her arms and ran around her. She turned just in time to see him leap into Nash’s arms. She covered her mouth in an effort to keep her emotions in check, but there was no stopping a happy tear from falling. She spun around, wiped it away, and reached for the buckets.

  “That was awesome, buddy.” Nash kissed Phillip’s cheek and set him outside the coop. He waited for Tempest. “You taught my boy to count?”

  “Sorry?” Had she overstepped her bounds? Did he want to teach Phillip himself?

  A slow grin spread across his handsome face, reaching all the way up to his eyes. “You’re showing me how bad a dad I am.”

  Her heart sank. “Oh no. That’s not—”

  “I’m kidding.” He placed his hands on her waist. “I have a lot to learn, but now that a certain gorgeous blonde has gotten my head out of my butt, I’m pretty sure I’ll be a quick study.”

  Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and she was certain it had just as much to do with Phillip’s counting as it did with the tension easing between them. “He was so proud of himself. Did you see?”

  “I saw it all, and I was jealous that my little buddy got a hell of a hug.”

  She moved to hug him, but he clutched her wrists, keeping a few inches between them.

  “Tempe, I am sorry for getting upset in the barn, and don’t tell me it’s okay, because it’s not. You don’t deserve the brunt of my baggage.”

  “It’s…”

  He cocked his head to the side, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.

  “I think you have a master’s degree in nonverbal communication. That was the best don’t-even-try-it look I’ve ever seen.” She laughed, earning another sexy grin. “Fine. You’re right. It’s not okay, and I accept your apology. But, Nash, I’m a really good listener if you ever want to talk about whatever it was that set you off.”

  “One!” Phillip’s high-pitched laughter interrupted them as a chicken scurried past and Phillip chased her yelling, “Two!”

  “I think you’ve created a monster.” He gave her a quick pat on her butt and stepped from the coop, scooping Phillip into the air and holding him over his head as his son tried to wiggle free, squealing with laughter. “What’s the rule about chasing chickens?”

  “I was counting them! Down, Dad. Put me down!” He kicked his feet, and Nash lowered him until they were eye to eye.

  �
��Are you going to chase the chickens?”

  Phillip nodded, bursting with giggles. Nash threw him over his shoulder, causing another round of laughter. “Come on, Tempe. Before my boy scares these chickens to death. I’ll come out later and get them in the coop.”

  As she watched Nash carry the wiggling, giggling little boy away from the coop, she no longer needed a mental health day. She wanted to stay right there tomorrow instead of going to Peaceful Harbor to enjoy a happy-heart day, and she wanted to spend it with them.

  NASH STOOD IN the doorway to his sculpting studio Sunday night clutching the baby monitor, his chest constricting like a vise. He couldn’t tell which part of his life was causing the constriction: Tempest’s absence, which he felt like a missing limb, the unfinished sculptures standing like ghosts before him, or the locked wooden chest pushed off to the side like a forgotten relic, though its contents were anything but forgotten.

  He stepped into the studio and another wave of guilt hit him, for how he had stormed out the other morning. Tempest’s voice played in his mind, as it had a million times since then. I’m a really good listener if you ever want to talk about whatever it was that set you off. Talk about it? He could barely think about it. And despite his asshole behavior, she remained sweet, caring Tempest. She deserved much more than a guy who might lose his shit over skeletons in his closet. In my studio.

  He paced, cursing his parents for forcing him to leave everything he had known and then pretending as if his brother had never existed. He couldn’t live like this anymore, perpetuating the cycle of repression his parents had unknowingly taught him. Not if he ever expected to have a stable life without continually losing his fucking mind. He needed to deal with this shit once and for all.

  His eyes fell to the chest that hadn’t been opened since his parents had packed it up when they’d sold their house in Oak Rivers. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he approached the heavy wooden tomb. He paced, like a lion stalking its prey, his heart hammering against his chest. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels, willing the oppressive sensation of the walls closing in on him to stop. How had he ended up here? Alone and angry on a cold barn floor surrounded by demons he loved and hated.