She slipped into her favorite blue dress and savored the feeling of the soft cotton against her skin. Her simple clothes represented the freedom she’d fought for, the life she’d carved out for herself.
She had to stand back to see her image in the three-paneled mirror of her consignment-store vanity. The little wooden table and antique mirror had been a find she was proud of. But her dress had seen better days; the hem had come loose and needed mending. She wasn’t handy with a needle and thread, much to the consternation of the Albion Bay women’s quilting circle. Even Ryan had showed greater prowess with a needle. Her stomach tightened as she remembered the tender way he’d stitched up Belva. And the way he...
No, she wasn’t going to start rolling thoughts about Ryan through her mind, not again.
She fumbled with a needle and was poised to attempt her first stitch when her phone rang.
“For goodness’ sake, Cara, don’t you ever check your messages?”
Her mother had entered the realm of instant messaging and texting. An unreturned phone call was nearly as great a travesty as wearing white after Labor Day.
“I got home late,” Cara said, wishing she didn’t feel she needed to apologize.
“We’re making Thanksgiving plans. Since your father wants to go to Rome for Christmas, I thought we’d just have a simple family affair here for Thanksgiving.”
Her mother’s idea of a simple family affair at Barrington Manor, the family estate overlooking the Hudson River, involved hordes of houseguests, miles of food and oceans of drink. And endless imported entertainment. Last year she’d hired the Beaux Arts Trio to play for the morning-after brunch.
“I only have four days off for Thanksgiving this year,” Cara said. “I have to drive the bus on the following Monday.”
“Don’t tell me there’s no one else in that town who could drive for a couple of days. They do drive out there, don’t they?”
That her mother hadn’t gotten her head around Cara’s choice to live in Albion Bay didn’t surprise her. But after three years, Cara thought she’d warm to the idea or at least accept her choice. Her father was a different story. He’d never get it.
“I really can’t,” Cara said. “I volunteered to help with the Thanksgiving bird count this year.”
“We have birds here. Loads of them.”
“Mom.”
“Okay, okay. But if you’re not coming for a visit, I’m coming out there. It’s time that I see this place that has so transfixed you. And to make sure you haven’t been inhabited by an alien.”
A visit from her mother was exactly what she did not need. There was no way to keep her mother in check for the duration of a visit.
Her mother had been a socialite for most of her life, but in her midforties she surprised everyone and decided to get a degree and start a career as a psychotherapist. She was full of the wisdom of the recently converted and shared it freely. But that wisdom hadn’t yet stretched to comprehending the life choices of her children. She still saw Cara’s move to Albion Bay as a back-to-the-land phase that she’d grow out of. Cara hadn’t told her mother that before she’d fled New York, she’d nearly had a nervous breakdown or about the month of intensive therapy she’d slogged through after her best friend, Laci, had committed suicide. Maybe she should have. But at the time all she could think of was escaping, fleeing the world she’d watched take Laci down. The world that might’ve taken her down too if she hadn’t fled.
She had tried, more than once, to explain to her mother that she’d fought a bottomless emptiness that scared the hell out of her. That the life that so suited her parents held no meaning. That moving to Albion Bay was no whim. It was her desperate attempt to restart her life.
Having her mother interacting with the people of the town would blow her cover in a heartbeat. Her mother knew it and was at that very moment leveraging Cara’s life for purposes of her own. Cara considered pointing out that her mother was using emotional blackmail, but thought better of it. She wasn’t in the mood to be analyzed.
“Look, I’ll think about coming back East for a visit, okay?”
“Darling, I’d like to visit you,” her mother said in a softer tone. “Bring you some of your things.”
“The rains are coming,” Cara said. “You know how you hate the rain.”
“I might make an exception for you.” Her mother paused. “Alston called with the news,” she said in a lowered voice. “That’s a lot of money, Cara. You can talk to me about it, you know.”
Cara heard her father’s voice in the background. He sounded impatient. He always was.
“I have to run. But think about Thanksgiving, darling. I could pay for a driver to take your shift. It’d be easy.”
“It’s not about the money, Mom.”
How could she explain to her mother that driving the bus on the days following a holiday break were her favorite times? The kids were all lit up with their taste of freedom and energized by being back around their buddies and friends.
She didn’t try to explain.
After she hung up she couldn’t concentrate well enough to stitch up her dress. She pulled a soft white one from the back of her closet. To hell with the fact that it was well after Labor Day. She really didn’t have another choice.
But as she turned to leave her bedroom, she took one last look in the mirror and frowned. She dragged the dress off and threw it across the bed, then fumbled in the drawer of her vanity and came up with a roll of transparent tape she’d stuffed in the back with some wrapping paper. Without measuring, she tore off a long piece and taped the hem of her blue dress. She slipped it on. Then she sat at her vanity and stared at the tubes of makeup she hadn’t worn in weeks. A stroke of mascara and some blush-pink lipstick looked okay. As did the tiny gold earrings she added. She looked into the mirror again.
What the hell was she doing primping for a hoedown being held in Grady’s old feed barn?
Maybe she had been inhabited by an alien.
Chapter Six
The sound of fiddles and clapping met Ryan as he walked the potholed street that led to the feed barn. Just inside the huge open doors, long strings of Christmas lights hung above stacks of hay bales and lit the dust stirred up by dancing couples. Tables lined the perimeter, and men and women clustered around them, chatting and eating. Ryan scanned the barn, but didn’t see Cara.
He nodded a greeting to Sam, who sat in a corner with a group of boys from the middle school team. The boys eyed the girls on the other side of the barn, laughing and chatting and shooting glances at them.
The music stopped, and a man walked to the mike in the middle of the plywood platform that served as a stage.
“Now I know you all can do better than that,” he said with a laugh. “This next one’s the Grapevine Twist. I’ll call the figures, but Grady, get out here and show these sprouts how it’s done.”
A few more couples made their way to the dancing area, and the fiddlers started in on an upbeat tune. Ryan had never seen a barn dance. In Texas dances were more formal affairs that he and the other boys avoided. As soon as he was old enough, he’d joined his friends and gone off to nearby towns for concerts in arenas. He’d grown up watching other people play music. This was local people making and enjoying music of their own. No massive sound systems or towers of speakers or commercial hype, just a few townies and a whole lot of energy.
“Decided to slum it with the locals, did you?” Belva said as she sauntered up and took his arm with her unbandaged hand.
“I heard there was free food,” Ryan teased back. At least he hoped she was teasing. He didn’t want people in town thinking he was too good for their company. His roots were poorer than most of theirs.
“Better get at it before those boys do,” Belva said. “Or before Cain gets here. The man can eat his share and that of three other men.”
She looked up and smiled at something behind him. He turned and saw Cara. If a woman could look confident and awkward at the same time, she
did. But it was her simple beauty that shone through and reached out to him.
She smiled at Belva, maybe at him too; he wasn’t sure. His pulse picked up its pace as she walked toward them. An odd image formed in his mind as he watched her approach. It was as though the feed barn faded into a muted focus on either side of her, as if she were walking through a film set or one of those Internet videos. As if she wasn’t really moved or touched by anything around her, as if she stood apart from everything happening in the barn. She smiled and nodded as she passed people, like a queen might as she moved through a crowd of her subjects.
There was no arrogance to her movements or gestures, and her smiles seemed genuine. But Ryan had the oddest sense of a woman out of place, like a tropical tree planted in a forest or a thoroughbred running in a herd of wild ponies.
She stopped to exchange a few words with a tall man wearing work clothes. The guy said something that made her laugh. Ryan felt jealousy flare, but bit it down.
“I was just telling Ryan here that he’d better get to the food before the boys do,” Belva said as Cara reached them. Belva’s voice brought him back to reality, and he shook off the vision.
“It’s squash soup,” Cara said, her eyes lighting with a mischievous smile.
Ryan groaned. “It’ll be a long while before I can face another squash—pureed, on the vine or in any other form.”
Belva laughed. “She’s pulling your leg. I made the lasagna myself. Good thing I made it yesterday.” She held out her arm. “Your doctoring beats that boy’s in the hospital any day. The shot he gave to numb me hurt more than your stitches.”
“Yes, but his instruments are sterile, as are his bandages.”
“Yours were fine. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on taking me through all that all over again.”
Ryan was glad the doctor had been thorough; the risk of infection was nothing to toy with.
A man about Belva’s age walked up behind her and winked at Ryan.
“I’m borrowing this lady for a while,” he said as he tugged her away. “She’s the only one who can get me through this dance.”
Belva sputtered and said something about her injury, but Ryan noticed she went along with the man rather easily.
“That’s Grady,” Cara said as she watched them walk into the crowd of dancers. “He’s loved Belva since he was ten. She’s still mourning Roy, though. But Grady’s patient.”
“Patience is underrated,” Ryan said, trying to sound casual and ignore the keyed-up feeling in his chest. Two days ago he’d gone three for three against the strongest arm in the division; standing in a barn dance talking to a school bus driver shouldn’t make him nervous. But the couple of hours he’d spent away from her since the canning session hadn’t diminished his hankering to know her better. Way better. He’d even driven the Bugatti to the party and now felt real silly about it. What had he expected, that she’d agree to take a spin through the night with him? But he had hoped. Or else he wouldn’t have done it.
“Patience isn’t one of my virtues,” Cara said.
“I won’t be much help to you in that category. I’m still working on patience myself.” He liked the smile his words brought to her face. “But I find that admitting what’s true makes a difference, gives a person a place to start.”
Her face went still, like a pitcher refusing a sign. Then she nodded and looked down at her feet.
What he’d said hadn’t had the effect he’d intended. The party was swirling around them, chatter and laughter and music, and yet he felt like he stood in a vortex, one he’d just chilled down by about ten degrees.
“The sign on that table says hard cider,” he said. “Want a mug?”
She laughed then, and the sound gave him hope for the evening.
“Watch out for Grady’s cider. That is if you value having a clear head in the morning.” She shook her head and looked up at the twinkling lights. “I’m starting to sound like a bus driver.”
“You are a bus driver,” Ryan said. “No crime there.” He put his hands over his heart. “I’ll take your advice about the cider.”
“In that case, I’d love some.”
Maybe it was Grady’s home brew, maybe it was just the spirit of the party, but she seemed to let her guard down a bit. And he was feeling pretty damn good. He shouldn’t have had a second tall mug of the cider, but it had a crisp bite and tasted like apples and autumn. And he liked the buzz. It made him bold enough to ask Cara to dance.
To Ryan’s relief, the caller and fiddler started in on the Texas Star. He’d danced the Star when he was a boy, when his parents had dragged him and his sister out with them for the evening. Though he’d complained, he’d always had fun. But with Cara as a partner it didn’t feel like the same old dance. Every time he swung her and then spun her off to a new partner, he felt the sizzle of wanting more. More of the town, more of the music, more of her.
When the caller announced the Watermelon Crawl, even the boys joined the action. Cara got confused with the grapevine and the kicking and clapping, but he guided her through it and by the time they’d come full around, she was laughing and whooping and clapping right along with the crowd.
The musicians ended the line dance and started in on a slow tune, and couples began pairing off. He couldn’t help but laugh at the collective groan from the boys fleeing the dance floor and retreating to their corner. Evidently raucous line dances held more appeal than finding a girl and holding her close. He remembered those days. Back then, hitting tennis balls off the wall of the garage to practice his swing held a stronger appeal than parties and girls. Back in the days when the gap between him and the fairer sex was an unfathomable abyss. Hell, maybe it still was.
“Water,” Cara said as she let go of Ryan’s hand and edged away.
“Dance,” Ryan answered as he took hold of her and swung her deeper into the throng of couples.
She tilted her head, and the light of challenge sparked in her eyes. “You’re rather used to getting your way, aren’t you?”
One minute she seemed fragile and gentle and the next she was defiant and strong. Maybe the knife-edge tension provoked by her contrasting qualities was what whipped his desire beyond any he’d experienced.
“Only when it matters,” he said, pulling her closer.
Some of the locals had stepped up to play with the musicians onstage. Ryan envied their talent. To master an instrument was on his bucket list.
And so was kissing Cara West.
She’d shot to the top, and he wasn’t feeling patient, not patient at all.
He knew there was a God when the musicians started in on a country rendition of “Unforgettable.”
He stroked his thumb at the small of her back and felt her tremble under his hand. As he raised his arm and turned her under it, she smiled up at him from beneath her dark lashes. When he pulled her back close, it was all he could do not to bend down and taste. But he wouldn’t. Not in front of all the town. But maybe later in the shadows of the night he would taste her.
The song ended too soon. She pulled away, and they walked toward the table where ale was being sold. He bought one for her and one for himself.
“You dance like a prince,” Cara said from behind the rim of her mug.
“Have you danced with princes?”
He’d meant to be teasing. She lifted the mug to her lips, and he saw the cool guardedness slip into her eyes before she averted her gaze to the foamy liquid.
“Mind if I take this lovely lady for a spin?” asked the guy she’d been talking with earlier.
There was no question in his voice, and the way he looked at Cara made Ryan want to deck him. Ryan did mind, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Of course every guy in town would be after her.
Cara turned to Ryan. “This is Adam Mitchell. He’s doing my decks.”
Ryan wanted to say that’d better be all the guy was doing, but that too was ridiculous. The guy didn’t wait for introductions; h
e slid his arm to the small of Cara’s back and drew her away.
As Ryan watched the guy move her onto the dance floor, he knew he had to win her. Around her, life had zing; he felt lit up in a way he rarely felt except in the ballpark. He wanted more of that feeling, and Cara was its source. He sipped and turned away. Maybe it was his imagination, but the stacks of squashes and pumpkins lined against the back wall seemed to be grinning at him, as if to say he’d just let the fox run away with the hen.
Just then Cain Bryant walked into the barn with a woman on his arm, and an idea fired in Ryan’s mind. He had a pretty good idea just how to court one Cara West.
Chapter Seven
Ryan braced himself against the deck railing as Cain’s boat slammed into the face of an oncoming wave. An early morning of deep-sea salmon fishing wasn’t Ryan’s idea of a perfect first date. When he’d asked Cain to set something up as a double date, at first Cain had razzed him. But by their second cup of coffee, Cain had agreed to cook something up. Between Ryan’s game schedule and Cara’s work driving the bus, opportunities to hook up were limited, but he figured Cain could help him get something going.
Ryan kicked himself. He should’ve been more specific about what constituted a good date activity. Evidently early morning outings on raging seas were Cain’s idea of bliss.
“If this is your idea of an initiation ritual,” Cara shouted back to Cain from the bow of the boat, “it’s working. I’m gonna want to do this again.”
Although Cain’s date, Laurel, had gone quiet and pale as they’d motored out of sight of land, Cara seemed thrilled with the splashing water and rolling waves of the open sea.
“This is my idea of real living,” Cain shouted up to Cara with a broad grin.
Love on the Line Page 6