“That would be . . . nice.” It would be great, actually. Having some help around the house would give her aging father a break, and Lorenda could focus on the music program instead of the constant to-do list that plagued her as a single parent. “You’ll need a more practical vehicle than your motorcycle.” She gave the closed garage a thoughtful look, the nail of her forefinger tapping against the mug with a chink, chink, chink. “I never got rid of Cameron’s truck. I’ll give you the keys.”
“I’d . . .” Mitchell seemed a little choked up, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’d love to drive Cameron’s truck. Thanks.”
The dog yelped, and they both looked to the meadow where the boys played with Malarkey. “I can teach the boys how to take care of him while I’m here, because it doesn’t look like your cozy house is ready for a pet.” He gave her a cocky smile. “At least not a live one.”
She grimaced. “Yeah, cleaning up after two boys is enough for me. I didn’t think I could handle a dog, but I was in a tough spot yesterday at the park, so I caved.”
He laughed. “Getting caught red-handed trying to dispose of pet remains would do that to any parent.”
Her lips hovered above the rim of the mug. “Yeah, it’s all fun and games until there’s a dead guinea pig in the suitcase.”
His laugh faded to a gentle smile. “Maybe I can even take the boys fishing.”
She stilled because his suggestion was breaching the danger zone. Chopping her wood was one thing, but being so kind to her boys, well, that revved her pulse into overdrive, just like when he’d called her beautiful. “I . . . I’m sure they’d like that.” They’d freaking love it, but none of this was a good idea. “I don’t want to put you out, though. We’re fine on our own, Mitchell.” No, not really. A part of her would love to have a man take her boys fishing, go on the Wilderness Scouts campout, maybe even throw a ball around the yard with them. Just not someone hardened by war and too restless to stay in one place for very long. The other part of her wanted to protect the boys from the disappointment if it didn’t work out. “We’re not the people you need to make up with. You should focus . . . on other people instead of us.”
A crease formed between his eyes. “Okay. Sure, Sparky.”
Her gaze darted away, because sierra, she wasn’t sure she could keep looking at him while he used that gravelly tone that made her nether regions hum like a tuning fork. Her insides went all mushy when he called her that cute, familiar nickname he’d given her in junior high after her science experiment went terribly wrong and nearly blew up the science lab.
She stared down at the caramel-colored liquid, trying to shake away the old memories that set her sleep-deprived nerves even more on edge. She should’ve thrown in some whiskey instead of cream. She took another sip. “Mmm.” Her eyes drifted shut, and she let the liquid gold slide down her throat. “This is so good. Nice and strong.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and how about that? Mitchell’s stare dropped to her lips for several beats. Which made her self-conscious about putting on the lip gloss. And glad.
Gah!
Uncertain what to say next, she bit her bottom lip. And Mitchell’s eyes clouded over, his lips parting.
“Mom!”
Lorenda startled when Jaycee called out to her as he ran toward them.
“Mom, look what Malarkey can do!” The dog chased and hopped behind Jaycee. Her oldest threw a stick and Malarkey lit out like a ball of fire after it.
“You’ve done a good job with them, Sparky.” Mitchell’s voice was low. Almost tortured.
She took a deep breath. Gazed at her boys. “Yet they’ve never looked at me like they were just looking at you.”
That broke her heart, because their uncle Mitch would only be around long enough for the boys to grow attached and then be crushed when he left.
And she knew how much it hurt to be left behind by a Lawson.
Chapter Six
“Take a deep breath and blow across the top of the mouthpiece,” Lorenda said to Andrea, the tenth student she’d fitted for an instrument that day for the after-school music program. The third day of school had ended an hour ago with a ring of the bell and a din of backpack-wearing kids jacked up from the rush of seeing their friends again.
She scooted her chair closer to Andrea’s and took the old silver flute. Lorenda twisted the mouthpiece to make sure it was properly attached and handed it back to the little girl who had walked into the gym with a skip in her step and determination in her eyes.
Getting the music program started would also give Lorenda something to think about other than the sizzling-hot man who was sleeping a stone’s throw from her bed. She could throw the sealed condom in her purse at that smokin’-hot guy and hit the target if the door were open.
Precisely the reason she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since he’d moved in five days ago. Of course, the howling dog in the pantry hadn’t helped her fall asleep either. Mitchell finally offered to let Malarkey sleep in the garage apartment so she and the kids could get some rest. Didn’t help.
No, she couldn’t blame the dog for her sleepless nights. She could only blame her fantasies and the electrical current that buzzed through her every time she saw Mitchell. His brooding deep-brown eyes followed her as their paths crossed in the yard, in the driveway, at the table when he ate dinner with them every night.
She smiled as Andrea kept trying to make a sound.
Lorenda hadn’t missed Mitchell’s body going tense every time a car rumbled past her secluded place. The way he went still, listening until every noise was identified. Or the way his eyes never stopped scanning her property when he was outside.
Especially after the sheriff stopped by her house yesterday with news that the mugger had been moved to the county jail where he’d be charged but probably released on bail. The mugger also wasn’t talking. No ID on him, no hit on his fingerprints, and no form of transportation that could be found, which only deepened the strange mystery of why he would mug her in Red River of all places.
Lorenda adjusted the flute against Andrea’s little lips and nodded for her to try again.
“I told her to take piano lessons instead.” Andrea’s mother sat on the bleachers and crossed her arms over her middle section. The determination in her daughter’s hazel eyes faded.
Andrea wrinkled her freckled nose, and her light-brown pigtails swished around her shoulders when she shook her head. “I can’t do it.” Her face fell.
“Sure you can.” Lorenda gave Andrea a reassuring smile. “This is your first day. We’re not trying to be Mozart yet; we’re just trying to make a sound. If the flute doesn’t fit your embouchure, we’ll try a different instrument.” Of course even if Andrea did manage to blow a note, the wood floors, high ceilings, and school mascot banners on the walls instead of acoustical panels would probably make it sound more like a foghorn than a flute.
And that was the least of her problems. The rickety instruments and flimsy music stands she’d been collecting at garage sales and pawnshops every time she visited the city were just this side of pathetic. Kids didn’t need the best instruments. But it did help for them to have instruments that could be played in tune should the kids actually show some musical ability.
But the point was to get the students started. In the beginning they’d probably sound like a foghorn no matter where or what they played. The program would move to the new rec center as soon as it was finished in the spring, where Red River’s famous “green” architect was designing an acoustical room for programs like Lorenda’s.
Better instruments, on the other hand, seemed so far out of reach they might as well be on the moon. Which was why she needed a donor. A sponsor who saw the potential in teaching kids the love of music at a young age. A supporter who understood that, out of the hundreds or even thousands of kids that filtered through a music program, only a few would show long-term interest or the natural talent to stick with it, and those few would be worth the
investment of time and money.
Andrea’s mother tapped her foot. And sighed. A big, loud, heavy sigh that said she was running out of patience and Lorenda was running out of time.
“Let me show you.” Lorenda cleaned the mouthpiece and played a perfect B flat.
Andrea’s eyes widened, the determination reignited.
“Instead of blowing into the mouthpiece”—Lorenda cleaned the shiny silver again—“blow across it.” She grabbed an empty glass Coke bottle from under her folding chair. That’s how her private teacher had taught her when she was Andrea’s age. Lorenda’s parents had driven her all the way to Santa Fe once a week for lessons, since the Red River Independent School District didn’t have a music program. On top of the drive, music lessons were expensive. So providing an opportunity to learn music free of charge right here in Red River had been Lorenda’s dream since that first day when she was Andrea’s age and her teacher showed her how to blow a B flat with an empty soda bottle. “Like this.” Lorenda blew, and a hollow sound echoed through the gym. “Now you try.”
Andrea lifted the flute to her lips, copied Lorenda’s effort to a T, and bingo.
A shaky B flat honked out.
Andrea’s little freckled face lit with a smile brighter than the Northern Lights.
After Lorenda showed her a handful of basic notes and gave her a beginner’s songbook, Andrea asked, “Can you play something for me before I go? I want to see what I’ll sound like in a few years.”
Lorenda loved that spunk. That determination. That confidence that Andrea could be good at music. Would be someday.
So Lorenda raised the flute to her lips, lifted her elbow to the correct position, sat up straight so that her diaphragm could work to full capacity, and, by memory, played Mozart’s Flute Concerto no. 1 so beautifully that it would’ve made Wolfgang Amadeus himself weep. And really, she didn’t just play. She closed her eyes and let the music take her, creating the music instead of blowing a string of notes.
She followed the crescendos, flowed with the cadenzas, and felt the long vibrato notes to her soul, just the way Mozart’s musical genius intended. The way he must’ve felt it when he wrote it.
When she was done, she opened her eyes to find Andrea’s eyes wet and her mother’s posture no longer stiff and unconvinced. And that was why the music program was something Lorenda had to do. Music wasn’t just something she enjoyed. It was woven into her DNA. She’d given up her dream of becoming a music teacher for marriage and motherhood. Getting married at twenty years old and having kids right away had required a lot of sacrifices. Required Lorenda to put just about everything in her life on hold. Now, for once, she wanted this one thing for herself. Music filled a hole in her soul like nothing else could. She needed it as much as she needed food and water and oxygen.
As much as she needed ice cream when she had a sucky day. Because music and ice cream were steady and constant and never let her down. On those sucky days when she needed someone to lean on—someone over four feet tall who was her equal and didn’t sleep in superhero pajamas—she could climb into her comfy bed with a pint and a spoon and snuggle up with Ben, Jerry, and Beethoven. They were the only three men likely to enjoy the fortune she’d spent on eighteen-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Someone clapped behind Lorenda, and a dog let out a small yelp.
She whirled to find Mitchell standing there. Watching. Waiting. With Malarkey on a leash, and a look in his eyes that said he didn’t just appreciate the music. This look was dark and cloudy and filled with something she was afraid to put a name to.
He leaned against the painted cinder-block wall, legs crossed at the ankles, thumbs hooked into the pockets of another pair of worn-to-perfection jeans, that thorny tattoo drawing her gaze. And just as she had since first seeing Cameron’s identical tattoo six years ago, Lorenda couldn’t help but wonder if there was a meaning behind it. Malarkey’s leash dangled from one hand, and the dog sat obediently at Mitchell’s side.
“Um, Andrea.” Lorenda tore her gaze from the impossible mirage that lingered at the back of the gym. “Practice as much as you can this week.” She packed the old flute into its beaten-up case and handed it to Andrea.
Andrea threw her arms around Lorenda’s waist and hugged her. Then she ran to her mother who mouthed “thank you” with so much awe that Lorenda knew this was the start of something good. Something meaningful. Something so much more rewarding than selling vacation cabins to well-off out-of-towners, because Red River was such a wonderful place that the vacation properties practically sold themselves.
Lorenda looked over a shoulder. The sexy-as-hell man standing at the back of the gym, who happened to be living with her and was technically still her brother-in-law, now that was the start of something altogether different.
Lorenda just wasn’t sure what.
“Hey,” Mitchell said to Lorenda as she ambled toward him with a soft, almost shy smile that made her look like an angel.
He didn’t want that perfect, peaceful look that she obviously got from playing music to vanish. He had no choice, though. His dad had stopped by the cottage to deliver news. The perp who’d attacked Lorenda had made bail. So until this mystery was solved, Mitchell needed her to see that moving in with his parents was the safest solution for her and the boys.
Now that Mitchell had decided to leave town immediately.
His father hadn’t liked it one bit when he was greeted on Lorenda’s driveway by his rotten offspring. Mitchell had held his tongue so the old man wouldn’t keel over right there in Lorenda’s front yard, but he’d made up his mind. Time to abort the impossible mission to make up with his dad and report to the new job that was waiting for him. His mother would be mad as a hornet, but his presence here might actually make his dad’s heart problems worse.
Lorenda kept coming toward him. White jeans molded to every inch of her mile-long legs. Her painted toes peeked out of sparkly sandals. A feminine sleeveless top swayed around her waist with each step and drifted up to reveal creamy skin and a sweet-looking belly button when she reached to tuck a lock of blonde silk behind one ear. She was even more beautiful than the music she’d just played.
And that was pretty beautiful. He wasn’t an expert on classical music. He wasn’t even a musician, but he was moved by the sheer emotion in the way she played. Amazing, considering how he’d forced most of his emotions so deep to keep his edge and bury the pain of war and loss that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to bring them to the surface again.
His presence seemed like sandpaper against her soft, velvety world.
He forced his gaze to meet hers and knew the pink in her cheeks was probably from him ogling her. Because he had been. Every time he was around her. Which was why he’d spent time with the boys and helped train Malarkey outside when she was busy inside, and why he’d gotten out of her house as soon as dinner was over each night.
He didn’t do attachments. Or feelings. He didn’t do them very well, anyway. And he especially couldn’t do either with Lorenda, who had already been through so much, thanks to Cam.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.
She shook her head. “That was my last student.” Long, wavy hair flowed around her bare shoulders. A beautiful and sexy contrast to her sun-kissed skin.
Sun-kissed? Wouldn’t his SEAL team give him nine kinds of hell for using a word like sun-kissed. He shifted, trying to fight off the chain reaction that started in his brain, moved to his gut, and had now dropped below his belt.
She gave him a soft smile that revealed the tips of her pearly whites.
That smile ignited the chain reaction to nuclear fission capacity. He clasped his hands in front of his crotch in a cool, casual stance that said, I’m just getting comfortable and not at all trying to hide a hard-on.
“Before you left this morning, the boys told me you’d be here after school.” He left out the part about the kids asking him to come to their Wilderness Scouts meeting, since most of the other
kids’ dads had volunteered.
She came to a stop in front of him, and her brow crinkled. “Is everything okay?”
Malarkey didn’t whine for her attention the way he did with the boys. It was like the dog sensed that out of everyone Lorenda was the one who could take or leave him. Preferably leave.
“I was washing my clothes in your laundry room this morning, and the water heater isn’t working.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He didn’t want the news he was about to deliver to upset her. So he kept rambling about house maintenance like an idiot. “I relit the pilot, but I have a feeling you need a new unit.”
“I’ll call Al’s Plumbing on Main Street and have it replaced,” she said.
“No need just yet. I bought a few parts at McCall’s Hardware to see if I can fix it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Of course, Mr. McCall wasn’t all that happy to see me. He said something about me shooting out his storefront window with a high-powered pellet gun when I was in junior high.”
Lorenda’s brow rose.
Mitchell shrugged. “Cameron bet me I couldn’t outline every letter in McCall’s Hardware with a pellet. I had to prove him wrong.”
That’s the way it had always gone with him and Cameron. Cameron put him up to something, and Mitchell did it. It wasn’t until years later that Mitchell realized it was because Cameron never wanted to take the blame.
“I offered to clean his windows for free once a week while I’m in town to make up for it.” Mitchell smiled. “Something tells me he’ll make sure they’re plenty dirty before I get there each week.”
A soft laugh slipped between Lorenda’s lips. “Glad to see you’re trying to smooth things over. It’ll make your mom happy.”
“That’s me, winning friends and influencing people. Listen, there’s news—” Malarkey pulled free from Mitchell’s grasp and disappeared behind the portable risers that served as spectator stands.
It's In His Arms (A Red River Valley Novel Book 4) Page 6