Trusting Will (The Camerons of Tide's Way #3)

by Skye Taylor

  Chapter 4

  WILL HUMMED along to a new Cody Joe Hodges CD he’d recently purchased as he mashed several lumps of butter into the mixture of flour, sugar, and baking power in his favorite blue bowl with the handle on the side that made mixing and pouring easier. Then he added milk and began stirring. He’d gotten up a little earlier than usual for a Sunday morning, which meant he’d have time for a shower and a leisurely perusal of the paper before church. What better way to celebrate his first Sunday in his new apartment than with a batch of his favorite scones? The kind his mother used to make for him when he was growing up.

  Yesterday, after dropping Sam back at his apartment, Will got a call that sent him out to spend the rest of what should have been his free Saturday afternoon following up on a report of a meth lab. A gentleman out walking his dog said he’d seen suspicious activity in the tumbledown ruins that were once the slave quarters at the old Jolee Plantation. There was debris that looked like leftovers from a meth cook, but no lab and no perps anywhere on the premises. He didn’t have the proper protective gear, so he’d had to call in the team that specialized in meth cleanup. Then he’d had to wait for them to show up. All in all, it had been a tiring day. Will looked forward to his Sunday off. And it didn’t get much better than enjoying fresh baked scones on his new deck.

  At a knock on his door, Will jerked his head up in surprise. Except for Ben, he hadn’t had a chance to let anyone know where his new digs were. Besides, whoever it was should have had to buzz him to get into the building. It couldn’t be his new landlord. That guy was four states away and getting ready to deploy to the Middle East.

  “Coming,” he called as he wiped his hands on a soggy towel.

  The knock came again, a little softer this time.

  “What can I do for—” Will adjusted his gaze downward to where Sam Reagan stood, barefoot and clad in pajamas decorated with cheery yellow Minions. “What’s up?”

  “Mom’s sick.”

  Will’s heart rate clicked up a notch. “Sick? Like really sick? Or just not feeling too good?”

  “Just not feeling too good.” Sam frowned.

  Okay. Not an emergency. “Well, that’s no fun. Is—there—something I can help with?”

  “I need you to take me to church. It’s Boy Scout Sunday.”

  “And your mom’s not feeling up to going, I guess.”

  Sam shook his head. “She didn’t even feel like ironing my uniform.”

  Concern rebooted itself in Will’s head. Just how sick was Bree? He didn’t know her well enough yet to just go downstairs and check on her. If she was still in bed, she’d be embarrassed. So would he, actually. But perhaps he should call down.

  “Come on in. I was just putting some scones in the oven for breakfast.” Will stepped back and gestured for Sam to come in, then led the way out to the kitchen.

  “So, what’s got your mom feeling not so hot?” Will asked as he scooped globs of scone batter onto a baking sheet.

  “She says her cold is making her head hurt, and her voice sounds kind of squeaky,” Sam explained as he watched Will. “What are scones? What’s the blue stuff in ’em?”

  “Scones are like biscuits. Scottish biscuits. And the blue stuff is blueberries. They’re my favorite kind. I’ll let you try one when they’re ready.”

  Sam hiked himself up onto a stool at Will’s kitchen table. “I didn’t know guys could cook.”

  “I’d get pretty hungry if I didn’t know how to cook.”

  Sam glanced around the kitchen, then back at Will. “You need a wife.”

  “That’s what my brother says.” Will chuckled.

  “Did you ever have one?” Sam propped his chin in his palms. His eyes were suddenly serious.

  “Almost,” Will admitted. “But—” This was definitely not the kind of conversation one should be having with an eight-year-old boy. The breakup of his engagement to Linda had stopped hurting a long time ago. It was old business.

  “Mom had a husband once,” Sam offered, his blue eyes clouding. “But he got killed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” The urge to pull the little boy into his arms and hug him slammed into Will’s gut with unexpected force.

  “He was a soldier,” Sam confirmed Will’s earlier guess. “He was a hero. I wanna be a soldier when I grow up, but Mom says I should go to college instead.”

  Losing a husband was hard enough. The pain of losing a son, too, would do in just about any woman. No wonder Bree was intent on sending Sam to college instead of into military service.

  “Well, you’ve got a lot of years left before you have to decide.” Will slipped the baking sheet into the oven and set the timer.

  “I guess.” Sam perked up. “Can I have breakfast with you?”

  “You haven’t eaten yet?”

  “I had cereal. But there’s still more room left.” Sam formed a circle with his thumbs and forefingers and pressed it against his stomach. “See?”

  What Will saw were two Minion eyes peering out between Sam’s fingers, but if Sam was anything like Will had been at that age, he could always find room for more. Especially blueberry and white chocolate scones.

  He grabbed his phone off the counter. It rang several times before Bree picked up. “Hello?” Sam was right about the squeaky voice.

  “Sam says you’re not feeling so hot.”

  What started out sounding like a chuckle turned into a cough. “A little too hot, actually. I’m sorry he bothered you. I told him not to call you.”

  “He didn’t call. He came up.” Will laughed at Sam’s solution to being told not to call. He hadn’t exactly disobeyed. “I was up anyway. Is there anything I can do besides take him to church? Missing Scout Sunday seems to be his main concern at the moment, and I really don’t mind. I’m going anyway.”

  “His uniform isn’t even pressed. If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll see to—” she broke off in another coughing fit.

  “Honestly, I don’t mind at all. I’ll send him down for his shirt. I haven’t ironed mine either, so I’ll do them both. You stay in bed and get some rest. Is there anything you need that I could bring down?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’m—I—thanks, Will. I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure.” He’d be more pleased if he could think of something he could do for her personally. Something to make her feel a little better than she sounded.

  The timer on the stove buzzed. Will hit end and set his phone back on the counter. “These will be too hot to eat right off,” he told Sam as he grabbed a potholder and removed the baking sheet from the oven. “So you run back downstairs and get dressed. Bring your Cub Scout shirt back with you, and I’ll iron it for you.”

  Sam bolted for the door. All was right with his world. Or almost all was right.

  “Don’t disturb your mom, either. Got that, sport?”

  “Roger that, Mr. Cameron,” Sam called back as he dashed out the door. His bare footsteps faded as he ran down the hall and then disappeared abruptly as he ducked into the stairwell.

  Will set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron. When he’d first joined the Highway Patrol, he’d had to learn how to iron. Not just passably but with creased perfection. One thing the North Carolina troopers were known for was their smart, impeccably pressed uniforms. He’d been living at home at the time but had never expected his mother to take on the chore, so he’d gotten her to teach him. His current salary allowed him to have his uniforms professionally pressed, but he still knew how, and there were times like this when that skill came in handy.

  He’d just finished his own scouting shirt when Sam dashed back into the apartment.

  “Here ya go.” Sam thrust his blue uniform top into Will’s hand. “Be careful of the beads,” he warned. “Mom usually takes them off when she irons it
.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will suppressed a smile and carefully removed the “Progress Toward Ranks” badge with its dangling cord of beads from the pocket flap button and laid the shirt across the ironing board.

  “You know how to do everything. Even iron,” Sam observed in awed tones as he watched Will move the hot iron over the collar of the shirt.

  “My mom taught me,” Will answered.

  “Can you teach me?” Sam looked up eagerly.

  Will hesitated. The iron wasn’t all that hot. It was probably okay for an eight-year-old to learn how to iron. “I’ll do half, and you watch, then you can come around this side, and I’ll help you do the other half. Sound good?”

  “Okay.”

  Sam watched intently as Will ironed creases out of the little sleeve, then began on the front of the shirt.

  “Your turn, sport.” Will stepped back to allow Sam to squeeze himself between Will and the ironing board. Sam grabbed the iron, but Will caught his hand and stopped him. “First you have to smooth the shirt out a little so you don’t end up ironing more creases into it.”

  Will demonstrated.

  Sam copied Will’s actions. “Now?” He glanced up at Will with a furrow of concentration on his brow.

  Not for the first time, Will took notice of how very blue Sam’s eyes were, almost as blue as his own; Bree’s were brown. What other traits had Sam inherited from his dad? What had Sam’s father been like? Had Bree fallen in love with the uniform, or had they been in love before he became a soldier?

  “Now?” Sam asked again, bringing Will’s thoughts back to the present.

  “That’s good,” Will agreed, then closed his hand over Sam’s and helped him finish the task of ironing his uniform.

  “I did good? Right?” Sam grinned in triumph as he removed the shirt from the ironing board and held it up.

  “You did especially good,” Will told him. “Now get it on, and I’ll serve us up some scones.”

  WHEN BREE WOKE again, she was relieved to find her headache gone. Her throat still hurt but not as bad as before. She sat up, and swung her feet over the side of the bed, then let out a murmur of surprise.

  A small tray with a beer logo on it sat on her bedside table. It held a glass of orange juice and a plate with two scones carefully covered with plastic wrap. The plastic had hints of moisture on the inside, and when she placed her fingers on the scones, they were still warm. An index card had been folded in half and set beside the plate with the words, Get Well Quick scrawled across it and what looked like a sketch of a rosebud.

  Except for Sam, Will was the only person who knew she’d been feeling lousy this morning, and that wasn’t Sam’s handwriting. Nor was her son capable of drawing a rose that was recognizable. Or baking scones.

  She touched the little sketch. What a thoughtful thing to do. Perhaps Will’s mother had dropped the scones off on her way to church, and he’d decided to share. Bree lifted the plastic and broke off a small piece. It crumbled, so she popped it into her mouth quickly.

  She closed her eyes as the sweet berry flavor hit her taste buds. Was that a hint of chocolate? Her eyes snapped open, and she inspected the scone more closely. It was indeed chocolate. White chocolate. And blueberries. She was definitely going to worm this recipe out of whoever had baked them.

  In the bathroom, she soaked a facecloth with cold water and held it to her eyes. After a few moments she checked again. They still looked a little pink, but they felt better. She washed her face, then brushed her teeth.

  Returning to the bedroom, she decided perhaps she should get dressed in case Will came in when he brought Sam home from church. It suddenly occurred to her that either Will had entrusted Sam with the delivery of her breakfast treat, or he’d been in her bedroom himself. Please God, let it be the former, because she was definitely looking her worst today. The thought of Will watching her sleep with swollen eyes and tangled hair made heat rush into her cheeks. She’d probably been snoring, too.

  With a groan, she pulled on a new pair of lounge pants her sister had given her for her birthday last August. She’d never worn them before now, but she still felt shivery, and they were warm. She dug out a clean sweatshirt and tugged it over her head. Shoving her feet into comfy slippers, she fetched the tray from beside the bed and carried it to the living room.

  Armed with a fresh box of tissues and a hot cup of tea to augment the juice and scones, she settled into her favorite chair and put her feet up on the ottoman. The Sunday paper was still down in the foyer, so she settled for a book Zoe had loaned her. Then, finally, she allowed herself to take another bite of the heavenly scones.

  They were gone way too soon. She felt like a pig for having devoured them so quickly but then decided it must be the hour. It was nearly noon, and she hadn’t eaten since supper last night. Hunger will do that.

  In fact, she was still hungry. But hungry enough to get up and find something else? She was still debating when the door flew open, and Sam rushed in, beaming. Clearly he’d had a great morning in spite of her absence. A momentary pang of loss hit her, but she shoved it aside when Will followed Sam in and closed the door behind him.

  “You’re up,” Will said. “Feeling better?” He crossed to the couch and lowered himself to sit on the edge.

  “I am. Thank you for the scones and the get well note. And thanks for taking Sam to church.”

  “He can attend church with me any time. You’ve got a really great boy, and I enjoy his company.”

  “Look, Mom!” Sam peeled off his jacket and turned slowly about in front of her. “Did I do good or what?”

  Bree looked at Will in puzzlement, but Will just looked at Sam.

  “I ironed my own shirt. Didn’t I, Mr. Cameron? I did really good, right?”

  Bree felt another pang of alarm. What was Sam doing with a hot iron all by himself? “It looks very nice.”

  “And I’ll get better with practice. Mr. Cameron said so.”

  “Better hang it up before it gets wrinkled, sport.”

  “Roger that.” Sam whirled and headed to his bedroom.

  “He didn’t actually do it all by himself, if that’s what you’re frowning about,” Will said as soon as Sam was out of earshot.

  “N-no. I just—what if he burned himself?”

  “It’s polyester. The iron wasn’t all that hot, and I had one hand on it all the time. Not to worry.”

  Worry came second nature to Bree these days. She hadn’t always been this way. Not before Ed died anyway. Will was frowning now, too. He still perched on the edge of the couch as if uncertain of his welcome, his big hands dangling between his knees. His blue eyes searched hers with a question in them.

  “I’m sorry. I try not to worry so much, but—he’s—he’s all I have.”

  Will tucked his cheek between his teeth, sharpening the dimple that already creased the tanned surface of his face. Bree had the strongest desire to reach out and touch the depression. She shook away the temptation and looked for something else to focus on.

  “Thank you for the scones and the juice. Did your mom make them? They were delicious.”

  He winked, and the puzzled look left his face. “Mom’s recipe, but I made them. I’m glad you liked them.”

  “Y-you made them?”

  “Why? You think guys can’t bake?”

  “Ed never did,” Bree blurted out, then wished she hadn’t. Will wasn’t Ed, and Ed was gone. Why was she comparing them?

  “My mom’s a great cook, and I learned from her.” Will got to his feet. “I guess I should be going. Unless there’s anything I can do. Anything I can get that maybe you need and don’t have on hand.”

  Bree started to scramble to her feet, but Will put his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her back into the chair.

  “I can see
myself out.”

  Sam reappeared in a T-shirt and jeans. “You’re leaving? Already?”

  “Sorry, sport. I’ve got to go grab my fishing gear and make sure I didn’t leave anything else behind at my old place.”

  “Can I go too?” Sam glanced from Will to his mother. “Can I go help Mr. Cameron?”

  “Maybe your mom would like you here to help out if she needs anything,” Will began at the same time Bree spoke up.

  “Mr. Cameron doesn’t need you tagging along bothering him.”

  “I’m not a bother. Am I, Mr. Cameron?” Then, before Will could answer, Sam turned to his mother again. “Do you really need me to stay? I will if you really, really need me to.”

  Bree looked at Will over Sam’s head and bit her lip. What she really wanted was another nap. She would have a busy day tomorrow, and if an afternoon nap brought about as much healing as the morning one had, she sorely needed it.

  “I don’t want him to be a bother.” Her protest wasn’t as strong as it had been the first time.

  “He’s not a bother at all.” Will winked at her again, and her heart jerked in reaction.

  Sam gave her a quick hug and followed Will to the door, almost bumping into him when he stopped and turned back. “I’ll send Sam back with a couple more scones and the recipe.” Then he opened the door and stepped out of sight.

  Just before the door shut again, Bree heard Sam say, “You like my mom a lot. Right?”

  Then the door closed, and Bree didn’t hear Will’s response.

  Chapter 5

  WITH SAM CHATTERING away in the back seat, Will pulled out of Carlisle Place and headed for his old apartment on the outskirts of Wilmington. He only half-listened to Sam as he delved into why exactly he was so attracted to the kid’s mother. Beyond her looks, anyway. A man would have to be blind not to appreciate the delectable package that was Brianna Reagan. But gut deep, it was more than just her looks, and yet he couldn’t explain it even to himself.