“Suit yourself, Wren. She’s a sweet girl, and I have nothing against her staying here. I just don’t want you second-guessing yourself if you have to fudge a little when it comes time to do our taxes.”
“You know I obey the law to a T, but the government has no business telling me who I can or can’t have as a personal guest in my own home.”
Maggie could picture Wren, puffed up like a banty hen, hands on her hips, elbows flapping like wings.
“That may be,” Bart said, “but you may think otherwise if your suspicions are correct and this girl is on the run from the law. Or worse.”
Maggie stifled a gasp at that. Wren thought she was some kind of criminal . . . and still was defending her right to have Maggie as a guest in her home? It didn’t make sense.
Maggie slunk back to the door of her room, deeply troubled at the thought that poor Wren might be losing sleep worrying that she was harboring a fugitive.
Maggie stood with her hand on the doorknob, feeling guilty that she’d overheard, and now feeling the need to hide out for a while. She’d have to come out to breakfast and act as if she hadn’t heard words that weren’t meant for her ears. More pretending. She pushed the door open.
Jasper meowed behind her and zipped into her room before she could close the door. Meg started to shoo him out but instead lifted the big tabby into her arms and snuggled against the softness of his fur. A wave of longing for her own cat overwhelmed her. She wondered if Kevin had gotten rid of Buttons by now. Maybe she could find a way for Jenn to get the cat out of the apartment.
No. Of course not. She dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. She wasn’t thinking straight. If Jennifer came to get the cat from Kevin, it would be a dead giveaway that she knew where Maggie was. She couldn’t risk it no matter how much she missed Buttons. Besides, she didn’t have enough money for her next meal, let alone to transport a cat all the way to Kansas. And where would she put him if she got him here? Jasper had the run of the inn, and Maggie was already pressing her luck with Wren and Bart. Especially now.
She thought again of the conversation she’d overheard. A heavy realization washed over her. She had to tell Wren and Bart the truth—before she buried herself so deep in lies that she couldn’t find her way to the surface.
Whole hog? She was even starting to think like a hayseed!
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Fourth of July was just around the corner, but Maggie barely had time to notice the town gearing up for celebration as she and Wren worked tirelessly on the plans for the open house they’d dubbed Operation Wren’s Nest. Bart was apparently on board whole hog now.
Whole hog? Maggie gave a little laugh. She was even starting to think like a hayseed!
She sobered quickly, though, remembering she’d promised herself to find an opportunity to confess her situation to the elderly couple. But as busy as things were, it seemed more and more unlikely that this would happen before the open house.
Wheat harvest was in full swing around the countryside and, in the midst of all the planning, Wren’s Nest put up a crew of wheat harvesters—custom cutters, Bart called them—in the inn for three nights.
“Those guys are the salt of the earth,” Wren said of the harvest workers who came up from Texas. It was the crew’s second night to stay, and she and Maggie had just put two huge pans of cinnamon rolls in the oven for the next morning’s breakfast. “But I’m none too happy about all the dirt and stinky sweat they tracked in with them last night. Did you see them? They were filthy.”
Before Maggie could answer, Bart appeared in the arched doorway. “The dirt on those boys smells like money to me, Mrs. Johannsen, and you’d best not let the good Lord hear your griping.” He ducked away as quickly as he’d popped into the doorway.
Maggie laughed at his impromptu speech.
But Wren’s face fell, and she wiped her hands on her apron and went out to the lobby. Maggie heard her give Bart a kiss, and then their whiffling breaths as they embraced. “You are right as usual, Bart. And forgive me, Lord. I take back every word.”
From where she was cleaning up in the kitchen, Maggie couldn’t see the couple, but she knew from experience that Wren was looking up at the ceiling, as though God were perched in the rafters, waiting to hear from her.
Maggie was still getting used to Bart and Wren’s open affection for each other and their easy way with God. They didn’t talk to the Almighty as if it were some hocus-pocus superstitious thing, the way some of her friends in New York did. Bart and Wren treated God as if He were right there in the room with them. Sometimes she was almost convinced He was. It gave her pause.
Since the day she’d overheard Wren’s suspicions that “Meg” was running from the law, she’d determined that while she may be withholding the whole truth from them, she was not going to stack any new lies on top of her old ones. She’d had to use some creative diversion tactics to change the subject a few times, and she’d slipped up a time or two—old habits weren’t easy to break—but she was learning to be honest with these people who had been so kind to her. And to be honest with herself.
She’d done her best to extend her new honesty-is-the-best-policy motto to Trevor as well, but it proved a little more difficult with him. Maybe because, as the days went by, she found herself caring more and more what Trevor Ashlock thought.
Trevor had finally completed the remodeling job—about the same time she finished painting the border. Wren seemed pleased with both their efforts, and the newly finished dining room did look beautiful, especially as Wren and Maggie gave it the finishing touches.
She’d been sad to see Trevor’s work on the room—and thus, her excuse to spend time with him each night—come to an end. But she’d worried for no reason. Trevor continued to report to Wren for duty almost every evening after he got off work at the print shop, helping with whatever projects Maggie and Wren managed to come up with for him.
In the evenings, just before dark, she and Trevor took walks along the banks of the Smoky Hill River in the roadside park. He regaled her with stories of his boyhood growing up along the river, and through him, Maggie got to know the people of Clayburn.
Somewhere in the midst of all the hours they spent together, Maggie began to be convinced that Trevor Ashlock was exactly who he appeared to be. Unlike Kevin, Trevor seemed to have no need of controlling her or dictating her plans. Twinges of guilt overtook her when she realized how open and honest he always was with her.
Though she’d adopted the same policy of “no new lies” with Trevor that she had with the Johannsens, she had yet to tell him her whole story. She shared brief memories of her childhood, the happier times, testing the waters of Trevor’s acceptance. He hadn’t let her drown either. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what was holding her back. She suspected Trevor knew that she hadn’t been honest with him about who she was. Still, he was ever patient with her, never pushing her to tell more than she chose to reveal.
She felt certain Kevin had all but forgotten about her by now. And she longed for—and at the same time, dreaded—the day when she could knock on his apartment door, pick up her belongings (including Buttons), and sever all ties to that part of her life.
She had happily taken on the job of cleaning the inn’s guest rooms top to bottom. At Wren’s insistence, they did a spring cleaning that Wren said was long overdue. Despite the “filthy” custom cutting crew, Maggie couldn’t see that any of the rooms had a speck of dust in them. But she wasn’t about to argue. Bart and Wren insisted she was earning room, board, and a little spending money, and Maggie was in no position to dispute them.
Yesterday afternoon Bart had taken Wren and Maggie to Salina to shop for supplies, and today Wren was stitching new curtains for the dining-room windows on her little black Singer sewing machine. One set was finished and hanging inside the freshly trimmed window sills. The red-and-white-toweling fabric looked crisp and fresh against the golden walls. Maggie’s gaze panned the room, remembering
what it had looked like before.
Now, the room simply oozed charm. The twining border she’d painted over the archway and across each transom picked up the pattern in Wren’s antique transferware dishes. Newly framed hen and rooster prints on the walls completed the décor.
At Trevor’s suggestion, Jackson Linder had done the framing on the prints. Wren had been the one to talk to Jack, and by her jovial humming the morning she’d brought home the framed pieces, Maggie guessed Wren was pleased with the outcome of her visit with her son. But Wren hadn’t offered any details, and Maggie hadn’t felt right asking.
Maggie had called Jack after they’d begun planning Operation Wren’s Nest in earnest and told him she was working full-time at the inn for now. Not another word had been said about her going to work at the gallery. She was grateful, not wanting to interfere with the tentative peace that seemed to be under construction between Wren and her son.
The front doorbells clanked in a way that Maggie had come to recognize as Trevor’s. She smiled. The man never just opened a door. He made an entrance. And it always made her heart turn a funny little flutter.
“Where is everybody?” Trevor’s voice was followed by the sound of the ceramic cookie jar lid being lifted.
“Where do you think?” Wren hollered, giving Maggie a knowing wink. “I told you I shouldn’t have left those cookies out.”
Trevor appeared in the archway munching on a cookie. Maggie touched Wren’s arm, then pointed at Trevor. “I have dibs on him this afternoon, okay?”
Wren looked up from her sewing machine. “What do you have up your sleeve?”
“I want to get everything sketched out for the poster. If we don’t get those printed and distributed this weekend, it’s going to be too late for anyone to make plans.”
“You’re probably right about that.” Wren winked again. “Okay. He’s all yours.”
Trevor’s eyes bounced from Maggie to Wren and back. “Um . . . excuse me? Do I have nothing to say about my own fate?”
“Nope.” Wren and Maggie spoke in unison.
Trevor burst out laughing and made a show of skulking off to the lobby for another cookie, but Maggie saw the smile that quirked his mouth. It warmed her to her toes.
He was back in a few seconds, cookie crumbs sticking to his lower lip. Maggie wanted to reach up and brush them off but stopped herself before she embarrassed them both.
He gave her a smile that almost made her think he knew what she’d been thinking. He pulled a chair out from one of the tables and straddled it backward. “So what did you have in mind for this poster?”
Maggie ran to get her sketchpad and sat down across from him at the table. She showed him the design she had drawn up. “I couldn’t remember the names of a couple of fonts I was thinking about. It would look better if I could have done it on the computer.”
“Well, hey, we can go over to the print shop if you want to.”
“Really? That would be great.”
“Sure.” He rose and returned the chair to its rightful place in one smooth motion. “If we get it done tonight, I can put it on the press tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of jobs that have priority tomorrow, but we can get this on after lunch. It shouldn’t take long.”
A little thrill rose in her. She remembered what it had felt like back when she was working and had a fun project on the board.
She put a hand on Wren’s shoulder. “We’re going to abandon you. Is that okay?”
Wren looked up from her sewing and waved them off. “You go on. I’ve got my work cut out for me here.”
Maggie started for the door, but Wren swiveled her chair and abandoned the curtain on the sewing machine. “Now don’t forget to say that we’re serving dinner and breakfast.”
“I won’t.”
Wren held up a finger. “Oh, and be sure and put that it’s a candlelight dinner.”
Maggie tapped the sketchbook under her arm and hid a smile. “It’s all right here, Wren. Everything we talked about.”
“Don’t wait up,” Trevor called, opening the lobby door with a conspiratorial grin and steering Maggie out with a hand on her back.
“Now don’t you keep her out too late, Trevor. I’ve been working her too hard as it is.”
Trevor rolled his eyes and Maggie smiled up at him. She had never felt so much like she belonged. Like she had a place that was truly home.
If only this feeling could last forever.
Trevor realized that whatever news Meg had received might be the thing that took her away from Clayburn.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Trevor flipped the light switch in his office and fired up his computer. “You want something to drink?”
Meg stood by the door, arms folded around her sketchbook, hugging it to her as if it were a security blanket.
“Maybe later.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Knowing me, I’d probably spill it on the keyboard.”
“Oh, no.” He grinned. “That’s Mason’s job.”
“Mason?”
“The college kid who works for me. He’s a klutz with a capital K. No machine is safe if Mason Brunner is within fifty feet of it.” He pulled out his desk chair and patted the seat. “Here, have a seat. I’ll get you started.”
She slipped into the chair while he grabbed a stool and brought it over to perch beside her. He leaned across her and clicked to open the Photoshop program and set up a new document. “You’ve worked with this program before, right?”
She looked up at him over her shoulder with a little cringe. “It’s been a while.”
“It’ll come back to you.”
She spread her sketchbook out on the desk to her left and tentatively copied the first lines of information onto the computer file. “Let’s see . . . I choose fonts here?” Her finger hovered over the mouse.
He peered over her shoulder so he could see the screen. “Yep. And if you want to change the size, go here.” He pointed.
“Oh, yes. I remember.” She typed, glancing from her notes to the screen. After a few minutes, she glanced up at him, beaming, wonderment in her voice. “You’re right. It is all coming back.”
“All right if I go take care of a couple of things in the pressroom?”
“I think so.”
“Holler if you get stuck.”
She gave a distracted nod, and sat with head hunched over the keyboard, clicking, repositioning the cursor.
When he came back ten minutes later, he stared at the impressive graphic design on the computer screen. She’d somehow created a whimsical, geometrical likeness of Wren’s Nest, artfully arranging the lettering around it. Her choice of fonts was perfect, and the result was eye-catching and colorful. “Hey, that looks great!”
She rolled her chair back and squinted at her work. “It turned out pretty nice, didn’t it? I haven’t forgotten as much as I feared. It’s kind of like riding a bicycle.” She giggled. “Well, I guess it is. I haven’t done that for a long time either. This is kind of fun though.”
“Well, let me know when you have something ready to go to the printer. We’ll run a couple of tests on the printer in here before we fire up the big dog.”
“I’m just about finished. Let me tweak a couple of things, then would you take a look and see if I missed anything? Or if you want to change any of the colors?”
He held up both hands, palms out. “No way. You’re the artist. I’m just the grease monkey here.”
Forty-five minutes later, she slid back from the desk and moved aside so he could see the results of her labor.
“Incredible. Let’s print out a copy and see what we’ve got.”
She moved aside to let him into the desk chair. Once he was seated, she slid onto the stool beside him, watching him work. Her closeness disturbed him—in a very pleasant way. She smelled of paint, and Wren’s, and something wonderfully flowery and feminine. Her shampoo? He was struggling to resist the urge to get close enough to breathe in a whiff, when the printer clunked on and chugged thro
ugh its warmup.
She followed him to the printer in the corner, and they hovered above the machine, waiting to see the first poster roll out.
They stood, not speaking for several minutes. The printer churned and whirred, but the paper moved through at a frustratingly slow pace. “It takes awhile to print color,” he explained, moving away from the printer. “Hey, do you want to use the Internet? Check your e-mail or anything?”
Her face lit. “I can get online here?”
“Sure. I’ll show you.” He studied her for a moment. “Have you . . . heard back from your sister?”
Meg shook her head, the light dimming in her eyes.
He was instantly sorry he’d said anything. “Well, maybe there’ll be something there tonight?” He prayed he wasn’t offering her false hope.
He connected to the Internet and opened a browser, then offered Meg his chair. She sat down and typed something. He walked back to the printer to give her some privacy.
After a minute, he saw her eyebrows lift. She sucked in a short breath and a soft smile illumined her face.
“Did you get something?”
Her smile widened as she looked his way. “Yes. It’s from Jenn.”
“Great.”
He watched the expressions on her face change like a sunset—from expectant, rosy glow, to dim uncertainty, to something he couldn’t quite interpret. “Is everything okay?”
She looked up as though she’d forgotten he was in the room. “I-I think so.”
She didn’t offer more. He pointed toward the front of the shop. “I’m going to the other office for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He left his office door slightly ajar and let himself in the front of the shop. With the front office darkened, he could see Meg’s silhouette through the glass that separated the spaces. The blinds were down, but canted at an angle that made the interior of his office visible. He noticed that Meg’s shoulders had slumped a bit. She must have heard from the sister she obviously loved. Had the e-mail held bad news?
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