Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “Damn. Allie must have invited half the… well. Isn’t that interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Looks like you’ve got trouble.”

  Sarah followed the direction of Will’s sharp gaze. Tucker Pettigrew stood, glowering at the cars parked on his property.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TUCKER stared through the windshield of a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle, failing to be charmed by the fresh daisy in its little glass container.

  He’d been working. Despite the fact that he’d really just used it as a convenient excuse to avoid the neighbor’s shindig, he’d sat at his computer, and actually gotten in the groove. It had been… hell, months since he’d been able to maintain that kind of focus. Ever since his mom died, his thoughts bounced around like a pinball in a machine.

  It had scared him. He hadn’t been willing to admit that before. The fear, niggling but undeniably there, that he’d somehow lost that part of himself along with his mom.

  But for the past – hour? Two? Dusk had fallen, he realized, so it had to have been at least that. Anyway, for the past little while, he’d been cruising. Until he’d made the mistake of glancing out the window. And noticed that he must have forgotten to put up his LOT FULL sign.

  He frowned at the Beetle again. He couldn’t have cars – daisy-bearing or otherwise – parked on his lawn. On his… pine straw, he corrected, nudging the covering of reddish brown needles with the toe of his boot. He didn’t actually have much of a lawn to speak of.

  “Um, hi.”

  Tucker looked up. The now familiar little snap in his blood didn’t do anything to lighten his mood.

  She’d piled her hair up, he noticed immediately, into one of those arrangements women did that managed to look both stylish and messy. It showed off her neck. A long neck, Tucker noted, to go with the rest of her, which, given those insanely high heels, put her nearly eyeball-to-eyeball with him. He’d always gone for the petite types, but all those extra inches sure didn’t detract from her femininity. Not with that pale green dress flowing like water over her very generous curves.

  And Mason had been right, damn him. The woman had legs up to her ears.

  She smiled at him politely.

  “Seriously?” he said, shelving the unwanted attraction, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Okay.” Still with the smile. “I know some people parked here without your permission. But the party will be over in another hour or two. So even if you’re not planning on coming by yourself, maybe you could –”

  “No.”

  “– overlook it just this… did you say no?”

  “I did.”

  “No you’re not planning on coming by, or no you won’t overlook the cars.”

  “Either. Both.”

  The polite thing crumbled like a dry cracker as she fisted a hand on her hip. “Is this some sort of payback because I asked you not to park your dumpster here?”

  He hadn’t even considered that. “No.” He looked around. “Though without the dumpster here, this does make handy overflow parking, doesn’t it.”

  “That wasn’t my intention. I would never suggest that our customers park outside our lot.”

  “Good, because they can’t park here.”

  She took a deep breath, straining the seams of her dress. She was all swelling curves and fluid motion, like a wave rolling, cresting.

  “… in the future. But as I said, if you could overlook it just this once –”

  Tucker shook his head, realizing he’d lost the thread of the conversation. “Look,” he said, annoyed with himself, the situation. He couldn’t afford either distraction right now. “I need you to get these cars off my property.”

  A second fist joined the first. “Are you always so difficult?”

  Probably. Though he had a damn good reason this time. “To borrow your phrase from a few days ago, I’m not trying to be unreasonable.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey. I moved the damn dumpster, didn’t I?”

  She threw up one of her hands. “So what’s the big deal about letting these cars stay here for another hour? It’s not like they’re killing the grass or –”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  “What?” The look she gave him was blank.

  “Your arm.” All that gesticulating had caused her sleeve to slide up, revealing a nasty bruise.

  Without thinking, he reached out to grasp her arm so he could examine it.

  The bruise was roughly the size and shape of a man’s hand.

  A large man.

  “It’s nothing.” She jerked her arm back. And when Tucker glanced up, the flush of the battle had drained from her face.

  The eyes that had been snapping green fire at him looked away.

  “Problem?”

  Tucker looked past her, toward the cop – Hawbaker – who was heading their way.

  “Mr. Pettigrew would like these cars moved.” She surreptitiously pushed the sleeve back down.

  Hawbaker’s gaze swept the Beetle, the other cars, and – Tucker wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it – settled briefly on Sarah’s arm. His eyes, cool and appraising, flicked up to clash briefly with Tucker’s.

  “Well, that is his right, seein’ as how they’re parked on his property.”

  The easygoing tone no longer fooled Tucker. “I can’t have them here.” He almost added “I’m sorry,” but he wasn’t going to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault. And he’d be damned if he discussed his legal issues, or the terms of that stupid trust. Tucker wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the overflow parking was a violation, but considering it was his grandfather with whom he was dealing, he wasn’t about to take the chance.

  “Alright, then. Sarah, if you’d like me to talk to… let’s see. Mrs. Burgess, Dr. Hicks and Rainey, I’d be happy to ask them to move their cars.”

  “No.” Some of her fire rekindled, Sarah scowled at Tucker. “I’ll do it.”

  She stalked off, head held high, one long, lonely curl trailing like a lick of flame down her back. The back, Tucker noted with an indrawn breath, that was bare except for thin strips of green fabric crossing over it.

  When he managed to drag his gaze away, it clashed again with Hawbaker’s.

  “Took a hard line there, son.”

  “My property. My line. And I’m damn sure not your son.”

  The corner of Hawbaker’s mouth quirked, as if he found Tucker’s attitude vaguely amusing. “Tough guy, aren’t you.”

  That really didn’t warrant a response. “Thanks for enforcing the law.” Asshole. “Have a nice night.”

  But when Tucker turned to go back into the house, Hawbaker’s low murmur stopped him. “You had a pop. Assault and battery.”

  No, he hadn’t. “Those charges were dropped,” Tucker said softly, though his eyes were cold steel.

  Hawbaker shrugged. “Amazing what you can turn up, if you know the right places to look.”

  That the cop had been digging around in his past put Tucker’s back straight up. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

  “I noticed the mark on Sarah’s arm.”

  Insult raged. “And you think I put it there?”

  “Well,” he tugged his ear. “Given that it seemed to be a fully developed bruise that was already edging into yellow, we’d have to be caught in some kind of weird time warp for that to be the case.”

  Tucker’s temper pulled back enough that it was no longer straining at the leash. And because the cop had brought it up, felt compelled to comment. “Looked like somebody grabbed her pretty hard.”

  The other man nodded. Jingled his keys.

  Tucker reminded himself that it wasn’t any of his business. Really not any of his business. He’d already stuck his nose in once, and nearly gotten it punched for his trouble. Besides, Sarah didn’t seem like the type who needed looking out for. More the kind to serve a guy’s balls up on a platter if he stepped out of line.r />
  Hadn’t she said it was nothing? Maybe she’d stepped into the street when a truck was coming, and somebody yanked her back. Maybe she’d been playing a really vicious game of Red Rover. Maybe she and her boyfriend had been swinging from the damn chandelier.

  Maybe some asshole needed his hand broken.

  Screw it. “So?”

  “So what?”

  The temper he’d just throttled back gave another sharp tug. “Gee, Barney, I don’t know. I thought the fact that a woman you’re supposedly friends with looks like she’s been manhandled recently might elicit some kind of response other than so what, but then I’m not a cop. Maybe I missed some evidence.”

  “Was that a Deputy Fife joke?” The man rocked back on his heels. “I haven’t had one of those in at least a week. Though to be accurate, since I’m acting Chief of Police, you probably should have called me Andy. Of course, Andy was a sheriff, which makes the whole analogy a little shaky. Easy.” The man’s jovial tone turned to one of warning when Tucker nearly snarled. Then he shook his head. “I see Jessa was right about you.”

  Jessa?

  “The waitress down at McGruder’s,” he clarified, recognizing Tucker’s confusion. “She said you came in the other day, made a beeline for Allie. Dodged Harlan’s fist – thank you for that by the way – and overpaid for a beer you didn’t drink.”

  Tucker could only stare. “Don’t people in this town have anything better to do than gossip?”

  “Well, there’s always sex. ‘Course, given some folks’ tendency to do that with someone other than their spouse, that usually just leads to more gossip.”

  Damned if Tucker didn’t find himself almost liking the cop.

  “The way I see it, you didn’t go in to that bar for a drink. Just like you didn’t go into that alley eight years ago simply because you were taking a shortcut home. No, I read the report,” he said when Tucker started to protest. “The charges might have been dropped, but there’s still paperwork that gets done. Believe me, there’s always paperwork.”

  The bitterness in his tone nearly had Tucker’s lips quirking. Until he thought back to that night. He’d been leaving the construction site late. They had a deadline to meet, and the contractor wasn’t what you’d call flexible. As he’d been walking down the stairs he saw the woman through the window. Pretty. Dressed for a show. Looking rushed and distracted with it, she’d cut down an alley. Another flight of stairs, another window, and Tucker had seen the man – not so nicely dressed – following her.

  He sighed. “So I don’t like to see women getting hassled. You got me.”

  “You thought Allie was going to get hassled in McGruder’s?”

  “Pretty woman pulls up in a fancy car, walks into a redneck dive. Seemed like a possibility.”

  “Sounds like the plot for a Patrick Swayze movie.”

  Tucker gave up and laughed.

  “Are you interested in my sister, Tucker? Romantically speaking.”

  The laugh died a quick death. “What? No. Not that she isn’t lovely,” he added, and saw Hawbaker’s lips twitch.

  “Didn’t think so. But just so that we’re clear.”

  “Clear that you wouldn’t want her involved with me?” Annoyance made his words clipped.

  “Clear that I wouldn’t want you to play my baby sister against her best friend. Hello, Mrs. Burgess.”

  Before Tucker could disabuse him of that notion, an older woman dressed in a linen pantsuit and pearls came toward them, car keys in her hand. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize that this wasn’t part of Allison’s property.”

  Hawbaker turned to speak to her, an easy smile on his face. “It’s no problem,” he said, patting her wrinkled hand. “Just a little misunderstanding.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE voices outside his open window woke Tucker up.

  He’d been up until well after three a.m., trying to find the groove he’d been bumped out of after wrangling over the cars parked on his lawn, and whatever o’clock in the damn morning was entirely too early to have to deal with this crap.

  Ironic, considering he’d lived with – and slept through – sirens, traffic noises, and the general audio chaos of the city from the time he was four years old.

  Not to mention that there’d been millions of people in New York, and some of them had lived a hell of a lot closer to him than Sarah did now. But none of them – not one – had gotten under his skin in such a consistent manner.

  “This coffee sure’s good.” An older male voice served up the words with what Tucker thought of as an extra slice of yokel. “What’s this dark stuff sprinkled on the whipped cream?”

  “Those are chocolate shavings.” Then there was Sarah’s voice, dripping with a warm, smooth honey that somehow scratched at his nerves like nails.

  Tucker grabbed an extra pillow to put over his head.

  “I really appreciate you coming out this morning, Bodie. What would it take to move this cottage? You think it can be done?”

  The pillow stalled midair.

  “Well, it ain’t brick-clad, which makes it easier. Wood siding’ll transport without taking it apart. Plus, Talbot Hawbaker built this here structure himself. It’s rock solid.” There came a sound like a fist rapping on wood. “And the whole thing’s small enough to fit on a flatbed truck.”

  “What about the porches?” The redhead sounded concerned, and Tucker shoved the pillow under his head instead. The conversation was getting interesting.

  “Noah just put these on for me. I hate to think how he’s going to react if I tell him he did all that work and I’m just going to turn around and rip them off.”

  “And fine work it is, too. You can tell him I said so. Don’t you worry. Each piece’ll get labeled so we can reassemble the porches on the new site. Then we’ll get the main part of the structure up on the cribs, put the hydraulics under the framework and –”

  As the old man rambled on about unified jacking systems and other technical terminology, Tucker chewed over the fact that it sounded like Sarah was moving. Or her house was, at any rate.

  Part of him – the part that liked, and had made a living, working with his hands – wanted to casually stroll on down there, strike up a discussion with the contractor. For clearly, despite the yokel in his voice, the man knew his business. And relocating a whole structure was something Tucker had heard of, but never seen done.

  The logistics of it fascinated him.

  Part of him – the part that had been so annoyed with being awakened – wanted to celebrate his impending good fortune.

  And part – a part he was trying very hard to dismiss – wondered who the hell this Noah was. And if he was the asshole who’d put that bruise on Sarah’s arm.

  “Gonna have to take out that big pine there to make the move,” the man named Bodie was saying. “A tree that size is going to cost ya. Seems a shame you have to go to all this trouble and expense just for some extra parking.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it won’t come to that. But if it does, I don’t see that we’ll have much of a choice. We can’t expect to be packed like we were last night on a regular basis, but if we don’t have enough parking, we’ll lose business. Lose business, you lose money. Sometimes you have to spend it to make it.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Ran into Sally Fremont at the post office this morning. You know she’s kin to Eileen Burgess’s husband. Said the Pettigrew boy had young Hawbaker make Eileen move her car last night.”

  “That’s one of the main reasons I called you,” she agreed. “I’d hoped to put this off for a while, but after last night, I can see that the problem’s a little more immediate than I thought. It’s hardly conducive to business to have our customers hassled by the police.”

  Hassled? Tucker thought, annoyed. The only police hassling that had gone on last night had been directed toward himself.

  “Maybe he’d sell or lease you girls that little piece of his land, seein’ as how it butts right up to your space th
ere.”

  She laughed. “He’s a Pettigrew, Bodie. As much as I’d like to have that land, I’d rather keep my arm and my leg.”

  Something like outrage began to swell in Tucker’s chest. Sarah had to know his window was open, and that he could probably hear every word they said.

  The fact that she was painting him with the brush of his grandfather’s greed struck him as particularly unfair. Tucker might be a Pettigrew, and he might be a bastard, but he’d busted his ass to get to where he was. He could have taken the easy way out, if he’d only sold his soul. But he’d managed to drum up enough integrity to tell the old man to shove it.

  It was time he and his neighbor had a little come-to-Jesus talk.

  Tucker’d flung off the sheet and was halfway to the door before he realized he was naked.

  “Bet she’d enjoy that,” he muttered as he scooped up pants from the wood floor.

  He stalked past Mason’s room to see his friend sprawled face down on the iron bed, and amused himself by banging on the door.

  “Christ!” Mason shot up, eyes wild and Tucker said “My bad” before stomping down the stairs. On his way through the kitchen – which was the heart of any home, and therefore justified his attention, no matter what Mason had to say – Tucker noticed that the damn Brit had come home with another plate of goodies last night. He glowered at the leftover crumbs, at the cold coffee pot sitting on the piece of plywood currently serving as counter. Damn kitchen was ugly as hell, and that coffee pot may as well have been a flower pot, considering every cup he’d brewed tasted like dirt.

  Tucker hit the back porch just as Sarah was opening her front door. The old man had disappeared.

  “Hey!”

  That got her attention. He was grimly pleased when she spilled a little of her coffee. Why should he be the only one who was caffeine deprived? Her hand tightened on the doorknob, but she didn’t have the sense to go inside and lock the door. No, she raised her pointy chin instead.

  “Nice outfit.”

  Tucker didn’t even glance at his bare chest. It wasn’t like she hadn’t already seen it. “I can’t sell it.”

  “Well, I can understand why. Your body’s good, but your personality probably scares the hell out of potential customers.”