by Mae Nunn
“So you researched all that information?”
“I already knew most of it.” She swept her arm, palm up, toward the waters before them. “This is my neck of the woods. Daddy and I love it up here and he taught me the history of the lake while we sat in a boat together for hours on end.”
“You must miss it.”
“Mostly I miss Daddy the way he used to be,” her voice dropped, so low he barely heard the next. “But I miss a lot of things.”
She was quiet for a long while, her gaze fixed on the sparkling surface of the lake, probably remembering better days before the insidious disease had claimed Shorty’s mobility. More than likely thinking about those other things she missed.
Her husband. Phillip.
Guy felt a twinge of jealousy. He dropped his left elbow to the open window ledge, squeezed the wheel with his right hand, feeling like pond scum at the thought. What kind of jerk would be even the least bit envious of a woman’s late husband? Especially since that jerk had no interest in the woman, even if she did seem more appealing each time he was with her.
“But all of that was a long time ago.” She sounded resigned. “Life goes on whether we want it to or not.” She turned her face his way and offered him a small smile that did little to disguise the sadness in her eyes.
His chest tightened. They needed something to lift the somber mood threatening to settle between them like a stone dropping through the crystal waters. As much as the women in his life complained about the calorie consumption afterward, food was always a good distraction. He slowed as the road drew to a fork. There was a gas station to the right where they could get bottled water and maybe some fruit.
“I could use a snack, how about you?”
She studied the road ahead as she nodded agreement, then pointed to the left. “There’s a little mobile unit not too far up that way. I haven’t been there for a couple of years but it’s always been a favorite spot on this side of the lake so I’m sure it’s still there. You game for a most excellent corn dog? You might even have heard of the owner. He did a little track and field back in his day.”
Guy’s interest was piqued, but it also happened that as a kid he’d choked on a bite of corn dog and hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of the deep fried excuse for meat on a stick in years. But if the lady wanted one…
“Sure,” he agreed.
Mobile unit was a fancy way of saying vintage, no, make that decrepit, Airstream trailer surrounded by a gosh-awful multicolored picket fence. The menu, painted in sprawling red letters on a sheet of white plywood boasted Curbo’s Fine Dining! The Fastest Food South of the Mason-Dixon! Since everything about Texas was purported to be the biggest and grandest, it was often difficult for an outsider to know what was the real deal and what was tongue-in-cheek. As Guy cut the engine of the truck, he suspected the latter description was about to be applied to this roadside dining experience.
Abby jumped to the ground and slammed the passenger door as a wave of déjà vu crashed over her senses. How many times had she stood in this same spot, felt the afternoon sun on her face, the constant lake breeze stirring her curls? Her stomach growled for a greasy corn dog or a paper cup overflowing with chili cheese fries. She tucked her fingers into the hip pockets of her tight Levi’s and strode toward the window.
“Patrick, are you in there?” She called.
A physically fit fifty-something man with close-cropped gray hair appeared at the opening. A wide smile spread across a ruddy face as he angled his head back and squinted through the rimless glasses balanced low on the bridge of his nose.
“Well, as I live and struggle for breath. Sport, would you look at what the tide washed up?” He reached to open the trailer’s small door and a long-legged, Italian greyhound bounded down the three wooden steps. Abby knelt, one knee pressed to the crushed-shale surface of the parking lot, as the aging pet smothered her cheek with wet greetings.
“Abby Reagan, is that really you?”
“It’s me, Patrick. But it’s been Abby Cramer for a while now.”
“Don’t tell me that shy Cramer boy actually worked up the nerve to talk you into marrying him,” Patrick teased as he took the steps in a single stride and moved toward her, arms outstretched.
She continued to smile as she stepped into his gentle hug, knowing what was coming next but not wanting to dampen the mood of their reunion. “Yes, he did but Phillip and I were only married for a few months before his active reserves unit was deployed to Iraq. He was killed in an insurgent attack outside of Baqouba almost two years ago.”
The older man stilled, folded her tight and she felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss, little girl.”
“Thanks,” she murmured against his chest, aware of how long it had been since her own father had been able to hug her with such comfort. “But we have a beautiful son to show for our short marriage so Phillip will always be part of my life.”
Boots crunched on the road nearby and Abby remembered Guy. She gave Patrick a quick squeeze before stepping away to make introductions.
“Guy, this is Patrick Curry, known to the locals as Curbo.”
“And the reason for that is duly noted,” Guy said with an easy grin as he extended his hand. “Sir, I’d know Curbo the Turbo anywhere!”
“You’re too kind. That was a lot of years ago.” Patrick dipped his chin modestly.
“Not long enough to forget the Texas Turbo that was on my Wheaties box in seventy-six.”
The running phenomenon was the pride of the U.S.A. team at the Montreal Olympics with his three gold medals and world record-setting time in the eight-hundred-meter event.
“It’s an honor to meet you. Guy Hardy of Hearth and Home.”
“You must be Keith Hardy’s son. You’re a long way from Iowa.”
“Ahh, you’re familiar with us.” Guy nodded, the crinkle of a smile at the corners of his eyes indicating he was clearly pleased by the name recognition, especially in this company.
“I’ve had H&H in my stock portfolio since you went public,” Patrick confirmed. “Glad to see you expanding into the South.”
“We’ve just opened our first Texas super center, near Barton Springs and South Lamar.”
“Nice piece of real estate.” Patrick’s eyes widened. “You should do well there. I need to get into town soon to check it out. I could use some new patio furniture.” He gestured beyond the trailer. Guy followed the direction Patrick pointed and sucked in a breath at the sight of an enormous home built of limestone block, set well back off the road. Miles of white fence surrounded the lakefront acreage, a well-appointed boat dock visible from their vantage point.
“I see corn dogs are a booming business!”
Abby grinned behind her hand, enjoying Guy’s response to the humble front Patrick placed on his thriving entrepreneurial business and his senior partnership in the Emerald Point Marina.
“I can’t complain.” He turned to her. “Tell me the latest on your folks. You and your dad used to be weekend regulars and we haven’t seen you up here in a coon’s age.”
“That’s because Dad’s confined to a wheelchair, now.”
“The MS?”
“Yep.” She nodded. “The bad days began to outweigh the good ones and he couldn’t trust his legs anymore, so he had to accept full-time use of the chair. He’s adjusted about as well as you’d expect.”
Patrick snorted. “That old coot, adjust to life in a wheelchair? Bet that went over like a rock in the butter beans.”
“Exactly!” She laughed at the native Texan who was also known for his command of Southern colloquialisms. “But we’ve made some minor alterations to the house so he gets around pretty well.”
“I’m guessing if you’re not fishing then you don’t get to rodeo much these days either.”
Guy’s attention shifted from the sight of the incredible lakefront property before him back to Abby.
Rodeo?
What
was that all about? He watched her soft curls bob as her chin dropped and she shook her head.
“There hasn’t been time or money for barrel racing in years.” She tilted her head back to see into the taller man’s eyes; a wistful smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “But it’s nice that you remember.”
“It’s not likely I’d forget after all the bragging your dad used to do about your rankings. He thought you could have gone pro. And I always suspected you were an urban cowgirl at heart. Matter of fact, I thought maybe this hardware-store cowboy was your beau.” He angled his head downward and cocked an eyebrow, obviously a reference to Guy’s boots. Boots in Texas seemed to be a functional thing. Guy was starting to feel guilty that his were only about fashion and comfort.
“Oh, no.” Abby shook her head vigorously, a little too much so for Guy’s ego. Was it that bad having somebody think she might actually be with him voluntarily?
Chapter Six
“Mr. Hardy and I are only acquainted because Mama fell and broke her hip in his store and he’s been helping Dad around the house while she recovers.” Abby turned wide brown eyes on Guy.
“Is that a fact?” Patrick narrowed his dark gaze and shifted his weight toward the subject of his examination. “So you’re just staying close out of professional duty?”
The two waited for a response from Guy.
He felt like a stink bug trapped under a jelly jar. Scrutiny was one thing, but the look on the Texas Turbo’s face was bordering something akin to suspicion. Guy’s polo-style shirt began to feel uncomfortably snug and warm. He was definitely not accustomed to experiencing heat for that purpose. Especially since it was being ignited by Abby herself.
First she’d been emphatic that there was nothing personal between them, then she’d called him Mister for crying out loud, and now she’d gotten this man who was infamous for his aggressively competitive nature on high alert. Was there even a slim chance he was losing his ability to charm a female? Guy really needed a gaggle check. He could hear Casey cackling already, especially when she learned it was Curbo the Turbo impatiently jangling keys at her brother.
“Quite honestly, sir, it started as professional concern, but the Reagans are a wonderful family. It’s a pleasure to be around them.”
Patrick straightened. The furrows between his eyes relaxed.
“In that case…” He pulled the set from the front right pocket of his well-worn jeans. Without notice he tossed the keys skyward. Guy scooped them from the air, grasping the fish-shaped foam object that would keep the set afloat if dropped overboard.
Patrick continued, “…Take this little lady for a boat ride. I have a feeling it’s something she needs, whether she’ll admit it or not.” He beamed affectionately at Abby and the smile of gratitude she returned made Guy’s heart ache. This girl really wasn’t used to people doing nice things for her, something the women in his life had long taken for granted.
“That really isn’t necessary.” She tried to sound convincing, but the adorable flush of anticipation that rushed into her cheeks said otherwise.
“It’s not only necessary, it’s an order. Take the woody.” He pointed toward the dock. “She’s got a full tank and you’ll find bait and everything else you need in the boathouse.” He nodded at Guy. “I won’t take no for an answer so get her out of here before she makes the effort.”
Patrick turned and with the greyhound at his heels walked twenty paces to a wide entrance in the white fence, removed the padlock and swung the gate open.
“What about our corn dogs?” Abby asked, her bottom lip protruding in a fake pout.
“Help yourself.” He motioned toward the trailer.
Abby bounded up the short row of steps and disappeared inside the ancient trailer. She emerged moments later carrying a brown paper sack bearing several slowly spreading grease spots. Guy reached for the passenger’s door of the SUV as he imagined the havoc the days-old cooking oil would play with his digestive system.
But the look of pure pleasure on Abby’s face when she climbed inside clutching the sack made him feel like a heel for his selfish thoughts. She just wanted a little fun away from her life being sandwiched between two demanding generations of family. He returned her grin before he closed the door, feeling the excitement of the moment.
He gave the man rightly dubbed the Texas Turbo a friendly wave as the H&H truck headed down the blacktop road that threaded through acres of Bermuda grass and ended in a small parking area behind the private waterfront home. Guy was impressed to find a thirty-eight-foot tournament fishing boat powered by triple Mercury 275s. Burnt-orange script across the stern declared the vessel christened The Jean Horn.
A Chris-Craft Woody Speedster waited in the next slip. The classic teak pleasure craft should have been preserved in a showroom, not floating serenely in the waters of Lake Travis. Guy hesitated, wondering if he should remove his boots before climbing onboard.
Abby didn’t appear too concerned as she tossed the sack of food on the leather bench seat and then headed for the boathouse where she seemed to know her way around.
“You’ve done this before, I see,” he called as she ducked into the structure large enough to completely enclose several well-appointed boats, plenty of equipment and sported a deck on top with patio furniture and a professional-grade outdoor grill.
Looking for all the world like a female version of Tom Sawyer, she fairly skipped across the wooden planks with one fist clutching a couple of rods, the other swinging a bait well and dip net.
“Yeah, Daddy and Patrick used to get on like a barn ablaze. We’d drag our little bass boat up here and stop for a bite to eat and before you knew it he’d have us fishing off the dock, visiting with his family or taking the Jet Skis out for a run. He’s quite a business success in these parts but believes in a lot of playtime, too.”
“And his primary business these days is fine fast food?” Guy crooked an eyebrow in skeptical question.
Abby’s laugh was a charming melody that carried across the slick surface of the water. “That’s just what he does to stay plugged in to casual visitors. Patrick is the major shareholder of the largest marina on the lake.”
Guy whistled appreciation. “Nice to see a great Olympic athlete parlay his fame into a substantial living.” Glancing at the name of the larger boat again, he snapped his fingers. “Hey!” He made a mental connection. “Did he have anything to do with that plastic gadget that broke all the eBay records?”
“Yep, still does thanks to those late-night infomercials.” She made a quick search of her shoulder bag and produced a key ring sporting a longhorn-shaped object. “See?” She tossed it to him.
He shook his head over the unique invention. “The man was always destined for greatness, and he certainly is creative.”
They settled into the beautifully restored boat; Guy cranked the powerful well-tuned engine and eased out into open water. He glanced to his left where Abby hugged her side of the craft as she’d done in the truck. Again he got the sense she was putting as much physical distance as possible between them.
“Where to?” He looked to her for directions.
Her skin warmed beneath the focus of his gaze and she pressed closer to her side of the woody, torn between the excitement of accepting Patrick’s generosity and the silly nervousness of being alone on the lake with a man. Not a boy. A man. One who seemed more appealing every day. The prickle of gooseflesh shimmied up her spine. She was twenty-four for goodness sake. Hardly a schoolgirl who needed a chaperone in public during broad daylight. So why did she feel so hesitant, still edgy about Guy’s intentions?
“Head toward that big rock for about ten minutes.” She pointed in the distance to a landmark her dad had taught her to use for navigation. “There’s a little cove off to the left. It used to be a perfect spot for white crappy. They’re powerful little fighters, fun to catch and release.”
He throttled forward and the craft planed out, skimming across the glassy surface that w
as made to order, reflecting the brilliant blue Texas sky. She slumped down, leaned her head back against the leather seat and offered up a prayer of thanks, lightly tinged with guilt. There was so much that needed to be done for Dillon and her school kids, so many things to worry about where her parents were concerned. And here she was taking the afternoon off like she hadn’t a care in the world.
A favorite Bible verse crept into her mind. In the Gospel of Matthew, Christ personally admonished that worry wouldn’t add a single hour to life, and that tomorrow would worry about itself. So, for the moment she’d relax and let her cares be blown by the wind that had her hair flapping like the wings of a hummingbird. She reached up to clutch her curls into submission.
A warm hand closed around her fingers. She jerked free from the unexpected touch and instantly regretted her reaction. It was the first personal contact she’d felt from a man since the morning at the base when she’d held Phillip for the final time.
“Sorry I startled you,” Guy apologized, his eyes conveying the same message. “But don’t do that. Casey is forever trying to squash her hair into a clip or a ponytail. The truth is curls like you two have are meant to be free so they can be admired.”
A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes as she dropped her hands to her lap.
“May I?” He hesitantly reached toward her, indicating he wanted to smooth her hair.
He’d been nothing but a gentleman for weeks. Always supportive, willing to help, never asking for anything in return. In good conscience, how could she still be suspicious? Wouldn’t it be wrong to continue to hold his financial and personal status against him, basically what she’d been doing since she’d discovered his identity?
“Sure,” she agreed. With his right hand he reduced the speed to a safe cruise in open water then with his left he sifted curls through his fingers. Once, then twice. The second time he lightly brushed her scalp. She tingled from the outside in.
It took half a nanosecond to realize that letting him touch her was a big mistake.