Redemption Road: Jackson Falls Book 5 (Jackson Falls Series)

by Breton, Laurie

  “Three months, give or take. That should work out well for all of us.” He studied her through soft green eyes. “I don’t really have you pegged as a long-timer. You’ll be gone by spring.”

  Why did his words make her feel defensive, when they were true? “Didn’t we already have this conversation?” she said. “There’s not much here for me.”

  He leaned back, swiveled his chair. “I guess that depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “A roof over my head, three square meals a day, and a paycheck big enough to allow me to put some money away.” She raised her chin and met his eyes. “So I can move on in the spring.”

  He nodded, crossed one bony knee over the other. Leaned to fiddle with a sneaker string. “It’s a shame,” he said, untying and retying the string, “that you can’t see how much she loves you.” He glanced back at her, his eyes shuttered and unreadable. Planting his foot back on the floor, he said, “The job is pretty much a jack-of-all-trades kind of thing. I’m not the most organized guy on the planet. It’ll take you about five seconds to figure that out. I’m looking for somebody who’s part executive secretary, part sounding board, part Rottweiler, and part Wonder Woman. My wife says you’re smart and quick and efficient. That sounds good enough to me. You can start Monday morning.”

  She blinked a couple of times. “That’s it?”

  “The other thing you’ll learn about me is that I don’t stand on ceremony. I’m a loosey-goosey kind of guy. What can I say? I’m a musician. It comes with the territory.”

  She let out a hard breath. It was the oddest and briefest job interview she’d ever had. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me until you see how much work it is trying to keep track of me.”

  “Right. Got it.”

  He leaned back and clasped his hands over his midsection, his long, slender fingers threaded together. “There’s one more thing I have to say before we seal the deal, and I’m only saying it once, so pay attention. There’s a lot of tension between you and Casey. She was all wound up when the two of you came back from shopping. I don’t really know what your deal is, or why you have so much trouble getting along, because my wife usually gets along with everyone. But that’s not the point. The point is, I don’t want to see you fighting with her. I don’t want her upset. If the two of you can’t get along…if I catch you winding her up…I’ll toss you out on your ass. As long as you don’t step over that line, we’ll be just fine.”

  She should have been insulted. Should have told him to take the job—and the apartment—and shove it. Instead, she said, “Why are you so protective of her?”

  “My house, my rules. That woman is my life. I don’t think I could breathe without her. She takes care of everybody but herself. Somebody has to take care of her. I elected myself Somebody.”

  There was something in his eyes, something he wasn’t saying. Suddenly frightened, she said, “Casey’s not sick, is she? I thought she looked pale this afternoon, but she brushed me off and said it was nothing.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”

  Colleen clutched the arms of her chair. “Tell me what?”

  “She’ll probably kill me for blabbing. We were planning to wait a little longer before we spread the word. But if you’ll be living here and working with us, you should know. She’s pregnant.”

  Relief, sudden and shockingly welcome, arrowed through her, leaving a tremor in her voice. “Is that all? You had me scared for a minute.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. She’s exhausted and cranky. That’s how she was during her first trimester with Emma. She’s having bouts of morning sickness at all hours of the day and night, and she’s trying to wean Emma because in a few months, there’ll be a new baby to be breastfed. And her blood pressure’s running too high. The doctor’s not worried, but she is monitoring it pretty closely. This whole thing has me nervous. I think it’s too soon for another baby. Emma’s only eight months old. But my vote didn’t count. Casey was determined not to wait, and I’m sure you know how stubborn she can be. This is why I don’t want her upset, angry, agitated, you name it. I don’t want to see anything that’ll send her blood pressure spiking. Capisce?”

  She let out a hard breath. Nodded, and said, “Capisce.”

  He stood then, reached across the desk, and shook her hand. And said, “Welcome to Two Dreamers Records.”

  Harley

  Above his head, soft flakes of snow drifted, feather-light, from the sky. Damned if the Widow hadn’t gotten it right. Was it some sixth sense? Or was she like his Granddaddy Atkins, who always swore his right knee told him whenever it was about to rain?

  He tapped his shoes against the edge of the steps to shake the snow off. Behind him, Annabel did the same. Together they crossed the porch to the front door. Harley rang the bell and waited, shifting from foot to foot like some high school kid on a first date. Beside him, Annabel crouched down to ruffle Ginger’s fur. He’d intended to leave the dog home, but Annabel wouldn’t hear of it, had insisted on bringing the damned critter with them. He hoped Casey wouldn’t mind. She was a dog lover, after all. And Ginger could play with Paige’s little mutt, Leroy.

  The door swung open, and he found himself face to face with the ice princess. She glanced past his shoulder at the snow that was falling steadily, and he could have sworn he saw a smirk of satisfaction cross her face. “Come in,” she said coolly. “Looks like I’m the welcoming committee.”

  He fumbled with the bottle of Merlot he’d brought, finally managed to transfer it into her hands without smashing it on the hardwood floor. “I thought I should bring something.”

  She took the bottle from him, held it gingerly, frowned as she studied the label. Then said, “This should go to Casey, in the kitchen. I can—”

  “I’ll take it to her,” Annabel said. “Then I’m going upstairs to find Paige.”

  “Shoes off!” he said. Annabel kicked off her shoes, and dog and girl trotted contentedly in the direction of the kitchen. He and the Widow stood in the entryway for a minute, staring at each other, before she seemed to realize she was still holding the door wide open. She closed it quietly, then leaned against it, crossed her arms, and said, “You clean up pretty good, Atkins.”

  He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “Pardon me?”

  “I said you clean up pretty good. The dog, the mud…”

  Ah. “The misunderstanding…”

  She turned the color of a ripe peach, and for a flicker of an instant, he was sorry he’d embarrassed her. “That was quite a surprise,” he said, “walking into my kitchen and finding you standing at the sink, performing a household chore I find highly distasteful.” He studied her face, those blue eyes that gazed at him impassively. “Maybe I should hire you to do that on a regular basis.”

  Dryly, she said, “You’re about four hours too late.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “My brother-in-law just hired me to fill in for Ali until she comes back from maternity leave.”

  “Well, then. Congratulations on the new job. If, indeed, congratulations are in order.”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Check back with me in a couple of weeks. I should have a better idea by then whether or not I’ve made a colossal mistake.”

  “It’s a damn shame. While I’m sure you’ll be a crackerjack assistant, you would’ve been outstanding as household help.”

  “Why do I not find that amusing?”

  In spite of himself, he grinned, unable to avoid the picture that popped into his head of her wearing one of those skimpy little French maid uniforms. He needed to be careful. If he said what he was thinking, he’d be skirting dangerously close to the edges of sexual harassment. And he didn’t doubt for an instant that this one would take full advantage of that kind of lapse. He’d seen her type before, in court, back in the days before he became a corporate talking head. A woman like that, no matter how tempting, no matter how beautiful, w
as out for just one thing: to take care of Number One.

  The grin faded as Annabel rushed into the entry hall. “Five minutes to dinner!” she shouted, and clattered up the stairs in search of Rob’s teenage daughter, followed by a long-legged, loping canine. Paige was seventeen, and therefore a big deal to his twelve-year-old daughter. A mentor, an older woman who knew everything that Annabel herself was so eager to learn. Paige seemed like a good kid, but God only knew what kind of stuff she was teaching Annabel.

  “We might as well go into the living room,” the ice princess said.

  He left his shoes in the front hall. In the living room, a roaring fire crackled on the hearth. Harley stood in front of it, rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to warm up some portion of his frigid anatomy. No matter how many years he spent in the Northeast, his pathetic Georgia ass would never adjust to winter weather. “You were right,” he said.

  Perched primly on the arm of a chair, her legs crossed, some kind of frou-frou, expensive, girly shoe dangling loose from her bare foot—bare, in Maine, in January—she said, “About what?”

  He forced his attention from the curved arch of her foot back to her face. “About the weather. It’s snowing like a son of a gun out there.”

  “I rest my case, Counselor.”

  He’d thought she lacked a sense of humor, but maybe he’d been wrong. He opened his mouth to speak, and Casey appeared in the doorway, her face flushed, her hair a little mussed. Quite possibly there’d been more than cooking going on in the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” she announced.

  As if by telepathy, the girls seemed to get the message. They came clomping down the stairs like a herd of antelope, and the six of them, plus baby and two dogs, gathered in the formal dining room. Looking around, he surmised that the room wasn’t used often. Casey and Rob MacKenzie weren’t formal people. But their kitchen table was too small for company, where the dining room could hold up to twelve people without anyone rubbing elbows.

  The smell of meatloaf, loaded with ketchup and onions, almost brought tears to his eyes. As a bachelor, his cooking left a lot to be desired. Anything he could take from the freezer, spread out on a baking sheet, and toss in the oven was good enough. But Casey MacKenzie was a world-class cook, the meals she made hearty and delicious. Good, old-fashioned home cooking. Comfort food. He’d forgotten how much he liked coming here. Good food, good company, good conversation.

  Rob opened the bottle of Merlot and offered it around, but Harley was the only one to partake. While he and Rob filled their wine glasses, the women poured iced tea from a tall glass pitcher clinking with ice cubes.

  Everything about these people was warm, welcoming, and a little unconventional. Instead of sitting at opposite ends of the long dining table, Rob sat at the head with his wife at his left elbow, baby in her lap, close enough to touch. Or, Harley thought, close enough to play footsie under the table. The group busied themselves scooping up mashed potatoes and meatloaf and green beans from Casey’s garden. They buttered rolls, filled glasses, forked homemade bread-and-butter pickles onto their plates. While at their end of the table, the girls dissected the latest teen movie, he glanced across at the ice queen. Those blue eyes met and held his for what seemed an eternity before she picked up her napkin, shook it open, and dismissed him.

  At her end of the table, Casey scooped a tiny amount of mashed potato onto the tip of her spoon and fed it to the baby. “You probably remember,” she said, addressing Harley, “that I had an ulterior motive for inviting you here tonight.”

  “I do seem to recall you saying something about wanting to talk to me.”

  She smiled at him, fed the baby another bite of potato. “You told me once that your parents raised sheep.”

  If it wasn’t the dead-last thing he’d expected her to say, it ran a close second. “I did. And they did.”

  “I’d like to pick your brain. I’m thinking of buying a few, and I’d really like your input.”

  “Buying a few,” he said blankly, and met Rob’s startled eyes. “A few sheep.”

  “Sheep?” Rob said, as if he’d never heard the word before.

  “Sheep,” Casey clarified. “As in baa-baa.”

  “I know what sheep are,” her husband said. “I’m just a little…ah…surprised. Just when were you planning on telling me?”

  Harley hazarded a glance at the ice princess, who was watching this little exchange with a rapt expression. She glanced at him, raised her eyebrows, and returned her attention to the drama that was going down at the end of the table.

  “I’m telling you now,” Casey said. “We have acres and acres. I was raised on a dairy farm; I know animals. And I was in 4-H. I raised my own prize heifer. We won a blue ribbon. I bet I never told you that.”

  “You didn’t.” The expression on Rob’s face was priceless, alternating between pride and horror. “Knowing you, it doesn’t surprise me. But why sheep?”

  “You should be grateful that I don’t want cows. They’re huge, and messy, and they have to be milked twice a day. Sheep are much more manageable, and you can make lovely things from their wool.”

  She turned back to Harley. “I’ve been thinking about trying my hand at dyeing and spinning yarn. I’d like to use my own wool. But I don’t know a thing about raising sheep, or even if it’s within the realm of possibility. I thought you might be able to fill me in.”

  “Well, ah—” He tried to ignore the way Rob was looking at him, nostrils flared, as if daring him to take a misstep. Harley cleared his throat. “You have to realize that it’s been a while. But as far as I can recollect, my experience with sheep was that they’re dirty, mean-tempered, and quite incapable of any form of critical thinking.”

  “Oh, but those sweet little faces,” she said. “I just want to shower kisses all over them.”

  “That may be, but they’re a bit intellectually challenged. You know their reputation. There’s a reason why clichés become clichés. If one damn-fool sheep grazed too close to the edge of a cliff and fell off into the sea, the rest of the herd would just jump off right behind him.”

  Colleen made a funny little sound. He shot her a quick glance, but she lowered her eyes and demurely lifted her iced tea.

  “As a matter of fact,” Casey went on, “I’ve read that sheep aren’t nearly as stupid as they’re reputed to be. Yes, they play follow-the-leader, but that’s because of their herding instinct. Did you know that they can recognize human faces? That might not involve critical thinking, but I’d have to categorize it as a form of discriminatory thinking. Certainly more than simple instinct.”

  “In that case,” he said, picking up a buttered yeast roll, “they’re probably higher on the intellectual scale than a few folks I’ve run into who just graduated from Harvard Law.”

  Rob coughed into his hand and said, “Babe? I’m thinking this is something we need to talk over. Later. In private.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him, and her sister let out a little shriek. Harley turned in her direction just in time to see Ginger, one huge paw braced on the table top, scarfing down what was left of Colleen’s meatloaf.

  “Ginger!” Annabel scolded. “Bad dog!”

  Harley closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again, raised his empty wine glass, and said to Colleen, “Would you mind passing that bottle down the table? I’m definitely overdue for a refill.”

  Colleen

  Her Ferragamos tucked under her arm and her feet tucked into warm boots, Colleen stood with Harley Atkins on her sister’s front steps as the snow fell, silent and lovely, around them. There was something magical about this kind of snow, with the world all soft and dark and muffled. Living in Florida, she’d forgotten about that magic, but tonight brought it rushing back to her.

  He tucked his hands into his pockets and teetered on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About the meatloaf.”

  She shrugged. Said, “Kids and dogs. They have no filters, but they certainly have mi
nds of their own. What can you do?”

  He had a nice smile, this annoying man who’d stolen her childhood right out from under her. Beneath the porch light, crystalline flakes swirled around his head, sending flashes of fire through his thick mop of brown hair. “Glad you can look at it that way,” he said.

  There was something about him. That face that could have been chiseled out of New Hampshire granite, dusted with the faint shadow of dark beard. The soft Georgia drawl, and those blue eyes that seemed to see right through her. She didn’t want to like him, but somehow, during the course of the evening, he’d grown on her. Not in a romantic way, of course. She wasn’t at that place in her life, might never be again. It was way too soon. Irv had been dead for just six months, and she was nowhere near done grieving. She didn’t want to mislead him, didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. Didn’t want to forge any connections that would make leaving difficult when the time came to go.

  But right now, she could really use a friend.

  It was still early, not yet ten, and she had another long, lonely night ahead of her. He was childless tonight, thanks to an impromptu sleepover for Annabel and that thieving canine of hers. Colleen was dreading spending the next hour or two in her apartment alone, with nothing but a clock radio for company. Being alone like that gave her too much time to think, too much time to ponder what might have been, too much time to fall back into old habits that were best forgotten.

  “I imagine,” she said, “that you have to be up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I don’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “Billy does the milking on weekends. I get to sleep in until six.”

  Surprised, she said, “My nephew Billy?”

  “One and the same. I guess you could say I inherited him when I bought the farm from your daddy. Billy’s been working there since he was a kid. Without him, I’d be clueless. I grew up on a farm, but it was nothin’ like this one. We had twelve cows. Meadowbrook has a herd of almost a hundred.”