by Cindy Kirk
“Better.” She exhaled, glancing up at him, shining the flashlight between them. “Thanks for coming with me.”
He curled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to wipe the rain from her cheek. “Wouldn’t have missed it.” This was ten times better than sitting around with a bunch of guys, wondering if she was all right.
“Well . . .” She turned toward the small light beaming through the rain. “I say the last one there is a monkey’s uncle.” With a rebel yell, Ginger launched into a full-on sprint, the beam of the light bouncing about the darkness.
“What? Wait—” Dang, the girl had wheels. He caught her in a few strides and was about to swoop her into his arms when Ginger disappeared, face first, into a slop of mud, the flashlight sinking with her hand while her purse and duffle floated beside her like useless life preservers.
“Ginger?” He bent for her, swallowing his laugh. It really wasn’t funny. No . . . it was hilarious. “Are you all right?” He looped her bags over his head, settling the straps on his shoulder. What was another ounce of mud or two sinking into his shirt? “Here, let me help you.” He offered his hand but she refused.
“Mud. I hate mud.” Ginger pushed to her feet, bringing up the flashlight, letting loose a blended laugh-cry. She shook her fist at the storm. “You can’t beat me.”
“Come on, Scarlett O’Hara, let’s get to the house. We can argue with the storm from the other side of warm, dry walls.” He took her left hand, striding forward. But a dozen steps in, Ginger went down again.
“That’s it. Sorry, Ginger, but—” Tom swung her duffle bag to one side as he ducked down and hoisted her over his shoulder in one swift move.
“Whoa, wait a minute, what are you doing?” She hammered her fist against his back, kicking.
“Simmer down.” He picked up his pace, his feet chomping through the water and thick, sucking mud. “I want to get to the house without you falling into the mud every five feet. Hey, can you pass me the flashlight?”
She was light, an easy load. One he wouldn’t mind shouldering for, well, the rest of his life. But the history . . . Not between them, but their parents. Did she even know?
“Nothing doing. I hand you the light and you drop me, leaving me out here all night.”
Tom jogged on, double-timing it. “I just picked you up. Do you seriously think I’d leave you out here?”
“Well, you do have a reputation for leaving a girl without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-grits. Now, really, put me down.” She kicked, pushing on his shoulders, trying to get free. “I don’t need to be rescued.”
“Really?” Without a by-your-leave, kiss-my-grits? So, she did remember the night they were supposed to eat pizza and watch a movie. Tom had wanted to call her that night but he’d spent the time battling with his dad, refusing to pack his suitcase until his baby sister came out of her room, hysterical with tears. Stop it! Stop fighting.
“Tom, put . . . me . . . down.”
“Seems to me you were losing that battle with the mud.” She struggled against him but he hung on. “If you keep squirming, I’m going to drop you.”
“Good, do it. Better than being carted around like a sack of seed.”
He should’ve let second-thoughts surface before releasing her but she seemed so intent on her demand. So . . . he let go, sending Ginger to the ground. She plopped into a soggy puddle and bobbled for balance while Tom continued on, plowing through the rain and muck.
“Hey!” Her call bounced through the raindrops. “What’s the big idea?”
He turned, walking backward, seeing nothing but the white glow of her flashlight. “You said, ‘Put me down.’ ”
“And you believed me?” Her sloshing and complaining trailed after him, the white light bobbing, until she finally caught up, whapping him on the back of his head.
He laughed, feigning a yelp, and caught her around the waist, spinning her around. “My mama taught me to respect women’s wishes.”
“You think she intended you to dump a girl to the cold, muddy ground?”
“Yes, if that’s what she demanded.” Slowly he set her down, her lean frame against him, shivering and soaked. Her breath mingled with his, their heartbeats in sync. Even with the flashing light aimed behind him, he could see every inch of her face. “Ginger—”
“Tom, I-I’m—” She gently freed herself from his embrace, from whatever his heart was about to confess. “Freezing. We’d better get to the house.” Ginger aimed the light ahead, spotlighting the old ranch homestead.
“About another thirty meters.” Tom took her hand and the flashlight, not caring if she protested, and led the way, holding her steady, instructing her around the ruts and puddles.
The yellow dot fifteen minutes ago was now a full-blown porch light. Tom jumped the veranda steps, the cold starting to sink in, bringing Ginger along with him.
She tried the door handle. “Locked,” she said, shaking. “She sent me to a locked house? What happened to ‘Daddy never locks the house’?”
“Hold on.” Tom tried the windows by the door. Also locked.
“So, when were you a Marine?” Ginger said, following him.
“Between semesters.” All of the front windows were bolted. “Stay here, let me scout out the place.”
“Between semesters? Like on your school breaks? You ran down to Paris Island and said, ‘Hey, I’m here.’ ”
He smiled back at her. “Something like that.” Tom hurdled the veranda rail and jogged to the back of the house. He didn’t care about Ginger’s wagging finger; Bridgett was going to hear about this. It was one thing to be the caught-up bride but another to be so self-focused she disregarded her guest’s well-being.
On the back deck, Tom tried the knob on the French doors, grateful when they gave way to his gentle push.
Stepping inside, he found a switch and with one click, a set of recessed lights over the fireplace beamed on. Excellent. The power was on. He started to step forward but the slosh of his shoes drew him back. With a sweeping glance Tom checked out the place. The work of Mr. Maynard was evident. He kicked off his shoes. Can’t track mud across the hardwood.
Crossing the spacious room with its vaulted ceilings and crown molding, he flicked on the end-table lamps.
At the front door, he opened up and stood aside for Ginger to enter, dropping her bags from his shoulder to the floor. “Please, enter your humble abode.”
“So, like, the power was on?” She huddled by the door, a muddy mess as she glanced around. “Wow. This is the old homestead?”
“Well, consider the source. Bridgett Maynard.”
“It’s beautiful.” Ginger slipped from her shoes and wandered toward the kitchen, then back to the great room. “I think I got the better deal coming out here.”
“But everyone else is at the house with food and maids. Does this place have anything to eat? Is the water on?” Tom stepped around to the kitchen, trying the faucet. Water flowed freely. “Looks like you’re set then.” Tom locked the French doors and picked up his shoes. “Keep the doors locked. There’s homeless camps in those woods. Even in this cold.”
“Thank you. For everything.” She motioned to the doors unaware that the dark scarf she wore swung loose, exposing the neck she worked hard to hide.
He fought the urge to touch her, to tell her the wounds would be all right. She didn’t have to hide. But that would definitely cross all of her boundaries. Real or imagined.
“Well, then, I guess I should get back.” He made a face as he set down his shoes and slipped in his feet.
“Oh, Tom.” She whirled toward him. “See, I knew you shouldn’t have come. Now you have to go back in the rain. By yourself.”
“Like I said, I’ve been in worse.”
“It’s freezing out there. You’ll catch a cold or something. I don’t think Bridgett and Eric will like you hacking and sneezing through their big society wedding tomorrow.”
“Can’t stay here, though, can I?” His gaze met
hers and for a moment, he was back in high school, watching her in math class, wondering how he could work up the nerve to ask her out. She was so walled and guarded. Then and now.
“I guess not.” She stepped toward him. “See you tomorrow then.”
“See you tomorrow.” In that moment, it felt like something passed between them. But he couldn’t quite grab onto it.
“Hey, why don’t you try Eric again? He did say he needed his best man tonight. He could come get you.”
Tom slipped out his phone, none the worse for the muddy wear, and rang Eric. Again, no answer. He tried Edward to no avail.
He offered up his silent phone to Ginger. “Guess I’m trekking.” Tom gestured to the fireplace. “I noticed firewood out back. Do you want—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m an electric-heat-and-blankets girl all the way.”
“Right, sorry.” He reached for her hand, the one she didn’t hide under the sleeve of her sweater, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “If I had to be out on a cold, rainy night, I’m glad it was with you.” He stepped toward the door. “Good night.”
“Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you call me? That night? To tell me you were leaving?”
With her questions, time peeled back, and he saw her waiting at her apartment for him to come. But he never did. “I didn’t know I was moving until I went home. Dad announced he’d resigned from the church and we were going to Atlanta. No debate, no questions, no argument. I was seventeen years old and my father had just destroyed my world.”
“Why didn’t you stay with your Granddaddy? Or one of your friends?”
“Dad refused. Insisted we move as a family. The night we packed up to go, Dad and I argued so much we almost threw punches. Then my sister came out of her room, hysterical, begging us to stop.” Ginger listened with her arms wrapped about her waist, the warm light of the homestead haloing her. “It scared me, humbled me, when I saw her pain. Then I saw the angst on my father’s face and I gave up my fight. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, or why we were heading out of town like bandits, but it had my dad, and mom, in knots. I’d never heard them so much as raise their voices to each other, but that night, they weren’t even speaking. Nevertheless, I still managed to be a major pain-in-the-backside. I barely spoke to him for two months after we moved. Though he tried really hard to make things right between us.” Tom winced at his confession. “Now I realize at the worst time in his life, his family was all he had and all he wanted.”
“Trust me, if you have family, you have everything.” She shivered but he wasn’t sure it was because of the cold, muddy water clinging to her jeans.
“I’m sorry I never called you, Ginger. Or e-mailed. You were my friend and deserved better. I thought maybe we’d become more than friends. But when we moved, I put Rosebud and everything about it behind me.”
“More than friends?” Her eyes glistened. “Even if you’d stayed in Rosebud, we’d never have been anything. We were barely friends. Your friends would’ve never allowed it.”
“Allowed what? For us to be friends? Or more than? My friends had no say in my relationships.” He took a watery step toward her.
“Are you sure? Seemed to me they had everything to say about your relationships. Who you hung out with, when and where. Every time we had study hall together, they pestered you to skip out. They barely spoke to me when we were together, forget when we weren’t.”
“Ginger, I could make up my own mind. Even then. They had no say. I asked you to the movies, didn’t I?”
She furrowed her brow, shrugging. “As a payback for math help.” She smoothed her sandy colored hair over her shoulder, and shoved her scarf into place. “We would’ve never been anything more.”
“If I wanted there to be more—”
A bold knock startled away the intimacy of their conversation and Tom opened to find Edward on the veranda, Scott and his four-wheel drive idling by the steps.
“We’ve come to rescue you.” Edward barged inside. “Passed the VW on our way . . .” He gave Tom the once over. “Man, what happened to you?”
“We tried to push the car out.” Tom followed Edward’s glance across the room where Ginger stood on the other side of the reading chairs.
“Ginger,” Edward said.
“Edward.”
“You know our boy here is starting a church?” Edward clapped Tom on the shoulder.
“So he said.”
“No offense, but considering all that happened with Tom’s dad, we can’t be too careful. Especially around you.”
“Around me?” She fiddled with her scarf, smoothing it higher up on her neck. “What are you talking about?”
“Edward, let’s go.” Tom tugged on his arm, reaching for the door knob.
But Edward remained planted, his smile neither warm nor pleasant. “You know what I’m talking about, Ginger. I realize time has passed and with Tom not being married the rules are different, but nevertheless, there are expectations. We have to protect him from scandal and gossip all the same. He needs a good start in Rosebud if the church is going to make it.”
“Edward, that’s enough.” Tom jerked him toward the door. “Ginger, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Edward, what are you talking about? ‘Protect him from scandal’?” Ginger gazed at Tom, her lips pressed in defiance. See? Your friends won’t let you.
“She doesn’t know?” Edward glanced at Tom, incredulous.
“Ginger, you’re freezing and muddy. We’ll get out of your hair,” Tom said. Ed and his big mouth. He never did have any tact. “Say . . . I’ll come get you in the morning. What time?”
“Don’t dismiss me, Tom Wells. What don’t I know?”
“Nothing, Edward is just talking. You know, how it’s probably not good for Rosebud’s newest, young, single pastor to be alone on a dark and rainy night with a beautiful woman.”
She snapped back, her expression sober, the sheen in her eyes a blend of confusion and what-did-you-just-say? But she stayed on task. “Edward, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know, Ginger?” Edward stepped around the wingback chair toward her. His voice was smooth, his movements calculating.
“Edward, enough.” Tom came around the other side, pressing his hand into the man’s chest. “Let’s just go.”
“Your mom was the reason Tom’s dad had to leave town. Or at least she was the final blow.”
Tom dropped his head with a heavy exhale. Edward had been wanting to do this since Tom agreed to start the church. He thought Tom should, “Get it out in the open.”
“We don’t need any gossip or scandal cropping up.”
Ginger glanced between them. “Excuse me? My mom? The woman who hates church? Who . . . wouldn’t . . . even . . . take me?” Her words slowed as some sort of revelation dawned. But only for a moment. “No, no, not my mama. Preachers were definitely not her type.”
“Say what you will, but Shana Winters was in love with Tom Wells Sr.”
“Edward!” Tom shoved him out the door. What was wrong with him? “Ginger,” Tom paused inside the threshold. “I’ll come for you in the morning.”
“What are you talking about? She never even knew Tom Sr., let alone fell in love with him. My mother and your father? It’s laughable.” She turned away from them, disbelief tainting her expression. “My mother? She’s a lot of things, but not a home wrecker.”
“You’re right. She wasn’t a home wrecker,” Tom said. He could deck Edward. Seriously. “We can talk about this later.”
“No. Edward brought it up, so let’s talk about it now. My mother is responsible for your family leaving town, for your father losing his church? For you never calling me again?”
“Okay, here’s the truth. My father is responsible for losing his church, for us leaving town, and I’m responsible for never calling you.”
“So my mother wasn’t involved? Edward is lying?”
; “Not exactly lying. Your mother and my father were friends—”
“He said something about love.”
“Ed,” Tom said. “Can you give us a moment?”
He started to protest, then turned for the door. “Hurry, it’s late. Eric’s waiting for us.”
As the door clicked closed, Tom reached for Ginger but she stepped away. “Edward doesn’t know the whole story.”
Ginger exhaled, the light in her golden eyes dimming as she closed the small window she’d opened to him.
“Then what is the whole story?”
From beyond the door, the truck horn sounded. Tom grumbled low. Wait until he was alone with Ed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll pick you up and we can talk about it in the morning.” He smiled, coaxing her agreement. “Go, shower, get warm. I’ll see you at . . .”
“Eight. But is there any truth to what he said?” she said after a moment.
“Some.” He peered at her, gaze holding gaze.
She sighed, sinking down to the chair, then standing back up, remembering she was wet and muddy. “Even more reason now.”
“Reason for what?”
“That we can’t be more than friends. I told you your friends won’t let you.”
“And I told you, my friends have no say. See you in the morning, Ginger. And please, do not worry about this. Trust me.” The door clicked closed behind him and he jogged toward the waiting truck. Climbing in, he thumped Edward in the head. “Nice going.”
“She needed to know.” The man showed no remorse. “But really, Tom, her? Of all the women in southern Alabama?”
Tom mulled over the challenge as Scott revved the truck toward the big house, the powerful beast undaunted by the muddy, rutted terrain.
Why not Ginger Winters? She was kind and considerate, more than the man next to him who claimed to be a Christian. Every time Tom saw her in the past few days, she caught a piece of his heart.
But could he be more than friends with the daughter of the woman who played a role in his father’s demise?
Yeah, Tom had some praying to do. A conversation with God was about to go down. He’d be open, listening. But in the moment, the answer to Edward’s question was a resounding, Yeah, her. Really.