Chance of Rain

by Lin, Amber

  Well, he had plenty of work to distract him. He’d shown up prepared to nail in a few slats in the fence. The reality had been much worse. The house needed quite a bit of repairs, both structural and cosmetic. Not only that, it was full of his father’s stuff. Sawyer’s stuff now.

  His first thought had been to blow the whole thing to the ground. His second, to throw away everything inside. But that would be wasteful. He might not have what it took to run this farm, but he would dismantle it properly.

  That meant sorting through the belongings, picking out what was useful. Then he’d rip out the carpets, repaint and finally be rid of this place. This house, this town, this perpetual hard-on for a woman he had no business using it on. He wasn’t averse to meaningless sex on principle, but he wouldn’t like himself very much if he left Natalie that way. He also wasn’t sure sex with her would be meaningless.

  Every day he had gone into town for dinner to admire the view. Every day his hard-on hurt a little more on the bumpy ride back. Much more of this and he was going to get stuck this way. The petrified boner of Sawyer Nolan could be the new town attraction.

  Beneath the yellowed kitchen phone, he found a Dearling County phone book, frosted with dust. He dialed the number of a moving and trash removal service, wondering if they would even be around anymore.

  “Lonestar Junk,” came the nasal voice on the other end of the line. “You call us, we haul it.”

  “Right. I need to clear out a house. Some of it will be going to whatever’s the closest charity, the rest in the trash. When is your next opening?”

  “We’ve got a big construction job going on right now, sir. The earliest we can get there is two weeks.”

  Damn. “I’ll take it.” He gave her the details.

  “Thank you, sir. If our schedule opens up sooner, we’ll slot you in.”

  After hanging up, he stretched and stepped onto the front porch for some air. On that point, he grudgingly admitted that Dearling held a certain appeal. The air was crisp, a gust of wind as refreshing as a sip of lemonade. Even though part of the railing had rotted away and the overhang bent at an odd angle, there was a certain timeless peace here.

  The front door pointed straight toward town, but the squat buildings were obscured by gently sloping hills. He couldn’t see anyone or anything, as if there weren’t any pressures, any demands, any compulsion to get the hell out. But he knew better. This wasn’t a retreat. It was a sinkhole. The house was in a bad state but nothing compared to the swampy mess of the farmlands. No, it wasn’t even farmland anymore without those water rights. The land had once been orderly, productive and beautiful in its own utilitarian way. Now it was useless—he was useless as long as he was stuck here.

  Just then he heard sounds coming from beneath him—rustling and then...a quack? Sure enough, two sleek green ducks waddled out from a hole in the porch. They ambled away, unconcerned with him or each other. The walk of shame, Sawyer thought dryly, existed in every species. A few feet away from the porch, they took flight. Soon they were out of sight.

  He added the porch lining to his mental to-do list and turned to go inside when he heard a small squeak. No, a chirp.

  Shit.

  He stood, one foot over the threshold, the other still outside, split in indecision. It really wasn’t his business whether there was a duckling or not. It could probably find its way out. Maybe its parents would return. But probably not. He had grown up around here, and he knew they wouldn’t, after being disturbed from their nest by a human.

  Sawyer had seen enough bad things happen to people, committed enough violence that he didn’t overly concern himself with the animal kingdom. His father certainly hadn’t. He would have sprinkled a little rat poison around the opening and then made Sawyer dispose of the dead bodies.

  In the end, that decided him. He’d spent a career, a lifetime, proving he wasn’t the same as the old man. If he could convey a caravan of missionaries through Kosovo with no one being the wiser, then he could tow an abandoned duckling or two to safety.

  Retrieving a flashlight from the kitchen, he hunkered down beside the opening and peered in. At first he saw nothing, but after holding the light steady, two small yellow bodies popped up along the perimeter on the other side.

  He knew from experience—the experience of a young boy growing up in the countryside—that ducklings were wiry and skittish as all hell. Getting them out would be a huge pain in the ass, especially with all the debris piled underneath the rotted porch. He briefly wished the fresh air had not been quite so alluring, so as not to find himself in this dilemma.

  Alas.

  Armed with an empty cardboard box, a handful of towels and a broom, Sawyer spent the better part of an hour collecting the two peeping ducklings.

  “Come on, pipsqueaks,” he muttered. “Work with me.”

  He nudged them with the broom, slowly herded them into the corner. They followed along—until they hopped over it. Yeah, it was a regular flea circus under the Nolan tent. He was sure they were fucking with him when one grabbed onto the bristles to go for a ride.

  When he finally had them safely corralled into the box, he paused to stretch out the knot in his shoulders. Between the packing and the repairs he’d made on the fence early this morning, there was an uncomfortable tension rippling through him. Now that he had two helpless ducklings, what the hell was he going to do with them?

  * * *

  Natalie sneezed as the chalk particles assailed her nose. She wiped at the chalkboard with the fuzzy eraser, revealing the milky black base.

  “Time to plan next week’s specials. What are we thinking?” Raising a pink piece of chalk, she looked up at her cook.

  Barry had shown up at her back door three years ago, scaring her half to death before he quickly assured her he meant no harm. All he wanted was something to eat, leftovers from someone’s plate, he’d said, and he was willing to clean up in payment. She had hired him almost immediately, grateful for the extra pair of hands and for the chance to do something useful in the world other than waitress. As it turned out, he could not only cook to order, but he had a special talent for creating thematic menus.

  He glanced up from the pot he was scrubbing and frowned, forming deep furrows in his forehead. “Can’t think of anything special happening. Did you look up holidays online like you usually do?”

  “It’s Bicycle Week,” she said, her voice flat. “That’s all I could find, but it doesn’t seem very festive.”

  “I could make a Black Top dip. Wait, I’ve got it. Pig in a Spoke.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I wonder if we should do something more local, specific to folks around here. Recent events.” She paused, then gave voice to the concern that had been gnawing at her. Honest to God, she loved this town, but how long until still water turned stagnant? “Are there any recent events around here?”

  A bushy eyebrow slowly raised. “Well, I heard tell that a certain someone was in town. And a certain someone else didn’t tell me anything. So maybe we can serve Keep Barry in the Dark Chocolate Brownies.”

  “Lucy. That girl is a gossip.”

  Her guess was confirmed when Barry shrugged. “She worries about you.”

  “I didn’t tell you anything because there’s nothing to tell. He comes in for dinner.” Ever since the first day he was punctual during regular dinner hours—never arriving after she’d closed again. As polite and untouchable as a stranger. “What do you think that means?”

  “Does it have to mean something?”

  “No.” She sighed, frustrated and a bit embarrassed with the way her gaze had continually flit over the diner in search of a pair of broad shoulders. “I guess I wish it did. Being avoided would be better than being forgotten.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it. I heard he knew who you were as soon as look at you, and he liked wha
t he saw.”

  “Damn. She’s thorough.”

  “It wasn’t just Lucy. The whole town is talking about it. Because it’s true, what you said. Not much happens around here. That didn’t used to bother you.”

  “It didn’t. It doesn’t,” she corrected. “Dearling is my home, you know that. It’s more than that. I’m connected to it. It’s a part of me.”

  “Yeah, and maybe that’s the problem,” he mused. “You’re tied up so tight in it all that you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  She didn’t think it was possible to be too much part of the town. They had supported her when she needed them. The community was her safety net—why would she give that up? Still she said, “Okay then. Show me the forest.”

  He set down the pot and the metal scrub and braced himself against the counter. “I don’t know this man from Sunday, so I really can’t say what he’s thinking or isn’t thinking. But I can tell you this. I served in Desert Storm.” His eyes took on a faraway glazed look. “Any man who enlists can tell you it’s never how you think it’ll be, going to war. But it’s an even bigger shock coming back. You don’t realize how much you changed while you were gone, or how everyone moved on without you. I came home to a different man in my job and a different man in my wife’s bed. Like I said, I don’t know anything about your man or what he’s going through. Adjusting to regular life is a hell of a lot harder than fighting.”

  “You’re saying give him time.”

  “Hell no.” He looked affronted. “Just the opposite. Make sure he knows he’s welcome here. As more than just a paying customer, as a friend.”

  She sobered, understanding that was what Barry had needed and hadn’t found.

  Normally she would hang back, let the man make the first move. It was the way things usually worked in Dearling, and she was content to oblige. But the normal rules of friendship and dating didn’t apply to them, not with their history.

  Despite this, Sawyer’s impending departure left him so far removed, he might as well be fixing up the moon instead of his family’s old farmhouse. They were within sight of each other but out of orbit, and he might pass her by if she didn’t do something to catch his attention.

  “Soul food,” she said. At Barry’s questioning look, she explained. “Let’s do a soul food week. We can do fried catfish, coleslaw, mac and cheese. And cherry pie for dessert.” That last one wasn’t particularly soul food. Neither were cherries in season yet. But she had some preserves stored away and a memory of a teenage boy coming into the diner and ordering cherry pie.

  “You aren’t going to serve Mr. Winterman fried catfish.”

  “Baked,” she conceded.

  “We can call it I Can’t Believe It’s Not Fried Catfish.”

  She grinned. “Perfect.”

  After closing, she let them out the front. Deep night blanketed the town. She and Barry were always the last to find their way home. She stood in the front stoop of the diner, watching him lope down the street toward Mrs. Cole’s house where he rented a room. Rumor had it the two of them shared more than the water bill, but she tried not to listen to gossip since he was technically her employee. Although their professional relationship hadn’t stopped him from gossiping about her.

  She wasn’t really annoyed. Dearling didn’t have a movie theater and it sure as hell didn’t have a strip club. Other people’s business was the entertainment, the raunchier the better. Like Barry said, she’d never minded before. But for the past few days she had seen it through another’s eyes, finding it lacking. Well, enough of that. She loved this town exactly the way it was. If Sawyer Nolan thought he was too good to associate with them, to do anything more than purchase food from her, as if that was the point of the diner, it was his loss.

  “Hi, Natalie.”

  She jumped, a small, undignified sound escaping from her. “Good lord.”

  Sawyer’s silhouette blended into the shadow of the diner. How had he managed to be so silent? And how long had he been waiting? It was unexpected, surprising...and admittedly exciting.

  She recovered. “You scared me.” Then she realized the squeak hadn’t come from her. Soft, high-pitched sounds emanated from a large cardboard box under his arm. “What have you got there?”

  “Ducklings. Although they look more like small bundles of feathers and shit.” A sheepish look crossed his face. “Sorry about the language. They were under my porch. The parents saw me and split. I didn’t know where else to bring them.”

  “You did the right thing,” she assured him. “Here, let me see them.”

  He glanced down, hesitated, then nodded toward the diner. “Maybe we should take these inside before I open it up. They can’t fly yet, but they can hop like a motherfu—they hop a lot.”

  “We can take them to my apartment. That’s where I was going. There’s a woman outside town who will take them in, but they can spend the night at my place.” She waved him to follow her up the stairs. The box was a nice distraction from the fact that she hadn’t straightened up in anticipation of guests. She shut the door behind them.

  “Wow,” he said. “It looks different.”

  “You’ve never been here.”

  “Different from how I thought it would look. When you lived here before.”

  She cocked her head at the mocha-colored couch and scraped wood coffee table. She had repainted the walls a pale cream, with a copper faux finish accent wall at the far end. There was minimal clutter, always a welcome relief from the business of the diner. Although she maintained the diner with strict adherence to her Gram’s vision, she had allowed herself to change the upstairs apartment to suit her.

  “Is it a bad thing?” she asked, more to herself. She had always wondered and felt a little guilty.

  “It’s a good thing,” he said. “It looks great. In fact, now I feel bad about bringing these little guys up here. It’s crazy how much of a mess they make.”

  He sounded so much like an aggrieved parent that she had to hide her smile. “Come into the kitchen.”

  They opened the lids to reveal two fluffy yellow ducklings sitting in a bowl. The bowl was empty, but the towel underneath it was drenched with water and, yes, shit.

  “My goodness,” she reprimanded, then set about drying them. They peeped their indignation when Sawyer held them while she cleaned out the box. She pulled out a Tupperware box of biscuits from the fridge, softened one with water and set it down for them alongside an upturned lid of water.

  She washed her hands, blowing tendrils of limp hair from her face. She was a mess, but she felt exhilarated and generally pleased to have tended to two small animals, and to have been trusted by Sawyer to do so. When she looked up, she found him munching on a biscuit from the counter.

  He froze. “Sorry,” he said, his mouth full.

  Reluctant amusement tugged at her lips. “Hungry, are you?”

  He swallowed. “These are really good.”

  “Sit down at the table, and I’ll fix you a proper meal.”

  She didn’t have to ask him twice. Since she hadn’t eaten either, she prepared two plates and popped them in the microwave. He dug into the steaming plate of chicken as soon as it was served.

  Natalie munched on a piece of broccoli, watching him, wondering at the warmth inside her. Partly it was sexual—he was hot even while scarfing down leftovers—but it was more than that. She always felt some satisfaction to think of nourishing people with the food she served. Their company was an added bonus. With Sawyer those feelings ran deeper—cut a little too close, actually. Briefly she wondered if she should guard herself against him, protect herself, but she remembered Barry’s advice. Sawyer didn’t look like a man struggling to adjust. In fact, settled in at her kitchen table, he looked right at home.

  “You’re always welcome at the diner.”

 
His answer was delayed by a drink of water. “I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

  “The idea that you eat food?”

  He slanted her a dire look that did nothing to dampen her spirits, just her panties. “That I’m going to join the club. The small town club where we get in each other’s business.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to accidentally make any friends.”

  He paused, his fork midair. “Sometimes I think you’re all sweet and innocent. Then times like this I wonder if you don’t know exactly what you do to me.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t think I do anything to you.”

  His eyes were dark with questions. It was all too easy for her lust-addled mind to interpret it in carnal challenge. Do you want to?

  God, yes, everything.

  But instead she would do nothing, say nothing, because he needed her neighborly support, not her tongue on his ruddy skin. And even if that was sexual attraction simmering in his eyes, he wasn’t going to stick around. No point starting something that would lead to heartache.

  So when he quietly finished his meal and thanked her, when he stood to leave and she walked him out, when he leaned in close enough that she could see light brown flecks in his dark brown eyes, feel the kiss of his breath on her lips and drown in the heat of his body, she turned away.

  “Natalie.”

  “Have a good night,” she murmured, even as her body strained for him.

  “Natalie,” he repeated. “Invite me in.”

  “You’re already inside,” she said, but she knew that wasn’t what he meant. He meant inside her bedroom, inside her body. Inside her heart again, which still remembered the bruises from all those years ago.

  “Let me in,” he said, and time rewound to a decade earlier when she’d asked for the same thing. Different circumstances but ultimately the same. And been soundly turned away.