by Jillian Hart
“Paige is going to split a seam when she sees this. She just got back tonight—” She sounded lost, as if she didn’t have the first clue where to start. “What about breakfast? We won’t be able to open.”
“We’ll get it boarded up. Frank—” Heath glanced around, but the deputy was nowhere to be seen. His car idled along the curb where he’d left it. Maybe he was making the phone call to the hardware-store owner. “I’m here anyway. I might as well take care of it.”
“No, this isn’t your problem. That’s good of you, but, oh, I don’t think we’re insured for something like this. We only have basic liability.”
Solid. He hadn’t felt like this since the old days. Steady and calm and ready to handle what came. He saw the ghost of the man he used to know inside him as lightning flashed. In the brief illumination, he saw his reflection in the shattered window. Cracked and distorted, black in places, that was him. There was no way to repair damage like that. It wasn’t like a window a worker could remove from its frame and fit in a new one as good as new.
No, the human spirit wasn’t like that.
As swift as the lightning came, it vanished, the brilliant white light receding into the darkness. But the hole—the void inside him—remained. Which did he choose? The void or the light? The road rolled out behind him, gleaming darkly with streaming water, gurgling like a current toward the edge of town and beyond.
I want that path. He craved oblivion like an addiction. Desperately he’d take anything to stop the feelings flowing through him like the floodwater, fast and ruthless. His duffel bag was within reach, sitting in a puddle, and it would be nothing at all to grab it up and go. No, he’d fix her windows first, then go. He’d be safe, he’d never have to remember—
She sniffed, wiped at her eyes with the tip of her finger and let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know why, but he could feel the wave of her shock rolling through him like an ocean tide. Rolling higher until he was full of it. He did not want to be the one to comfort her. He didn’t want to be the man she turned to, because her need and her touch would make him real again, would make him alive again. All he wanted was the night and the darkness.
He deserved nothing more.
“There’s no sense in you standing in the rain.” He took one long look at his drenched duffel bag, knowing this would take him where he didn’t want to go. But he couldn’t walk away. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”
She fumbled in her pocket. “Oh, they’re in my car. The keys.”
Crestfallen. That’s how she looked, staring in disbelief. “Nobody’s hurt. That’s the important thing. It’s just glass. It can be fixed. I don’t know why I’m so shook up.”
“You and your sisters don’t deserve this, that’s why.” He hated leaving her, but it gave him time to let the cold settle across his face. Breathing deep, he let the night batter him and knock its way inside until he felt icy calm.
He killed the engine and took the keys, flicked off the headlights and shut the door. The street was flooded, and his splashing steps gave him something to think about other than the woman standing alone and the road whispering to take him away.
“What are you?” She studied him with fathomless eyes, shadowed and unreadable as he unlocked the front door, the bottom half shattered.
“What am I? Most people ask who.” He gave the rock on the carpet a shove with his foot and swept the big shards of glass out of a path with the side of his boot. With care, so he wouldn’t get cut. The big chunks scraped out of the way,
“Careful,” he told her as she inched by him, her shoulder warm and wet against his chest.
“Oh, look at this. What is wrong with people?” The first flush of a healthy fury spread across her cheeks. “I can’t thank you enough for being here. You probably stopped this from being a whole lot worse.”
“I don’t know about that.” Guilt kept him from saying the truth. The rain hammering the roof echoed and amplified the sound in the empty restaurant. “Right place at the right time, I guess.”
“You have a knack f-for it,” she said as her teeth chattered.
He cradled her small hands between his. “You’re ice. Sit. I’ll get you something hot.”
“Oh, n-no, you don’t have to wait on me. I can—”
“You didn’t even wear a warm jacket.” He released her hands and peeled off the thin coat, more like a windbreaker than anything. No wonder she was borderline hypothermic. “Sit.”
“But I—”
“Don’t argue.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended. Her eyes rounded and she dropped into the nearest booth.
He shouldn’t be taking his feelings out on her. This wasn’t her fault. He still wanted to leave. Maybe it was better if he did. He could talk to her some, tell her enough so she’d understand. Yeah, it sounded like a plan, but it didn’t set right in his stomach as he flipped on the light and went in search of the right ingredients.
“If a wild-eyed woman comes bursting through the door, don’t call Frank. It’s my sister Paige. She’s used to being in charge. I’m warning you before she shows up so you’re prepared.”
The pot clanked on the burner. “Why do I need to be prepared?”
“Because you look at me, Rachel and Jodi funny.”
“What do you mean by funny?”
“Like you’re wondering how fast you can make it to the door.”
“You mean, in case of a fire?”
Amy swiped the wet bangs plastered to her face. He was going to joke, was he? She couldn’t believe it. “Are you denying it?”
“Yep.” Clangs came from deep inside the shadowed kitchen. He’d turned on only the small light over the sink, and the rip of the refrigerator door opening had her wondering what he was fixing.
“Hot tea is fine. Maybe I should—”
“Stay.” His command was firm.
If she wasn’t still so shaky, she’d give him a piece of her mind. Amy Marie McKaslin did not take orders from any man.
Not ever again.
The diner phone rang. Her sisters knew she was here. She’d promised to call right away and report in, but she had yet to do it. She knew Paige would be rushing here, driving as fast as the storm would allow. So that left Rachel at home with Westin wondering what had happened. Talking to her sister sure sounded like a good idea. She’d feel a lot better just to hear Rachel’s voice.
But Heath beat her to the phone, turning his strong back toward her and cradling the receiver against his ear. His deep baritone rumbled low and the storm blowing inside made it impossible to hear his words.
What she needed to do was to get up and start cleaning up. The damage was ugly, but it could be made right so they could open tomorrow. That wasn’t what had hit her so hard.
It was the shock of seeing the destruction. It was as if the past had come back around. Seeing the black reflective shards on the carpet made her remember, when she didn’t want to ever think about that time in her life again.
Heath ambled toward her, as shadowed as the night surrounding him, and stood just shy of the fall of light through the door. He made a fine picture standing there like something out of a movie. Wet dark hair was plastered to his scalp, his face was damp, his jacket clung to his linebacker’s shoulders and his worn black jeans were snug against his long lean legs.
He swiped his fingers through his hair. “That was the deputy. The store owner told him where the spare key was hidden and said to help ourselves.”
“That would be John through and through. He’s one of the good guys.”
“The way you say that makes it sound like we’re far and few.”
“I didn’t know you were one of the good guys.” Her throat ached and she looked away. She’d meant to tease, but it had backfired on her. She’d long ago given up trying to figure out which were the genuine men and which were the ones in sheep’s clothing. She hardly knew Heath…did she even know his last name? Rachel had given him paperwork to fill out, not that Amy had had time
to look.
He said nothing more. His waterlogged boots squished as he left. Amy rubbed her face, but that didn’t help the pain building behind her forehead or the fact she had a long night ahead of her. What she ought to do is start cleaning up the glass. Get it out of the way so she could board up the windows.
It felt better to have a plan and it gave her something else to think about besides the man in the kitchen rescuing a cup from the microwave. She could see him at work at the counter—stirring something into the steaming cup, reaching up to search through the cupboard, standing at attention like a soldier as he contemplated his choices.
“I love any kind of tea,” she told him, pushing off the booth’s bench seat and finding out her legs were steady again. She hadn’t taken two steps when Heath shouldered through the doors with one of the huge latte mugs in hand.
“Where do you think you’re going? Sit down and drink this. No, it’s not tea.”
He meant business, she could see that. His gaze pinned hers with a no-nonsense look. His jaw drew tight. He looked about as easy to push over as a heavyweight boxing champion. “It’s hot chocolate?”
“With everything on it but a cherry, because I couldn’t find any in the pantry.”
“I can’t believe you did this.” She hardly looked at the rich cocoa heaped with whipped cream and dribbled with chocolate. “I thought you were nuking some tea water.”
“No, this is better.” He fumbled, self-conscious, as he slid the brimming cup before her.
“I’ll say. Thank you.”
“It’s what my mom always made me when I was down and out.” And my wife, he didn’t add. There was a lot he didn’t add. “I told Frank I’d come over and help him. We’ll get a couple of pieces of plywood in place, and that’ll keep out the rain and any skunks or creatures looking to get out of the rain.”
“I’m perfectly capable of helping, too. This is my family’s diner. I ought to—”
“No. The hot chocolate will warm you up. You’ve got a heavy load to carry, being a single mom. And I—” His chest hitched and he didn’t want to care. He didn’t. So he said nothing more and backed away toward the door, feeling the night and the endless road calling to him.
A tall, brown-haired woman with Amy’s big blue eyes and nearly the same delicate structure to her face climbed out of the storm, crunching across glass on heavy, tooled riding boots. “What is wrong with people? I leave for a week and this place falls apart. Who are you?”
“The cook.” He slipped past her, figuring this had to be the oldest sister everyone had talked about.
Paige McKaslin gave him one measuring glance, seemed to find him below par and dismissed him with an efficient shake of her head. “Amy? What’s going on here? I know our insurance isn’t going to cover this.”
Heath left the sisters alone and took refuge in the endless night. The rain was calming, but the storm had tossed broken tree branches into the road. The big round headlight of the oncoming train seemed to hover eerily in the dark gleaming night.
He rescued his duffel; everything inside had to be sopping wet. He hefted the strap and water gushed out from the bottom of the bag. He tossed it under the eaves at the apartment door and a motion caught his attention in the shadowed window.
Amy moved away, her arms wrapped around her middle.
He understood without knowing why that she’d seen the bag. She knew that he’d packed and would leave her high and dry without a cook, just as she’d feared he would. Her disappointment rolled like fog misting up from a river. It shamed him, but there were worse things.
She didn’t wake at night, locked in a nightmare without end and hearing the cries of her child dying, the way he did.
He prayed to God she never would.
Chapter Eight
Amy sat in her car, shivering in the chilly dampness. Paige’s black SUV blended with the dark world, the taillights floating pinpoints of light as smokelike fog rose from the sodden earth like thousands of souls to heaven.
Amy had felt much better after Heath’s cup of cocoa. The rich velvety brew had melted the shock from her system and warmed her up enough for her synapses to start firing again. She’d helped Heath and Frank hold and nail the sheets of plywood, while Paige swept up the glass, and, with a wet vac, dried up most of the rain damage.
Except for the two booths nearest the door, every table was fine. They’d be open for breakfast bright and early at 6:00 a.m. as usual, which, according to her battered sports watch, was two hours and five minutes away. She could snatch a little sleep—it wouldn’t be much, but some was better than none. It sounded like a good idea, but the dark windows above the diner kept drawing her attention.
She remembered how hard Heath had worked alongside Frank, competently driving nails with a hammer as if he’d been a carpenter somewhere along the line. She could picture it, him in a hard hat, a T-shirt and jeans, thick heavy boots and a carpenter’s belt at his hips. His face, neck and arms were sun-browned, as if he’d worked outside in his last job.
So, what was he doing working as a cook? He’d make so much more as a union tradesman. And why was his bag packed and dropped, as if he’d been on his way out for good without so much as a goodbye, just as she’d pegged him for.
Yeah, she could pick ’em. The only type of man she seemed to attract was the kind that left. Commitment-shy, free-and-easy, or simply wanting an entanglement-free life. That’s why she’d given up hoping she’d ever find a good man to marry. She had a son, she had a mortgage payment and she had responsibilities to her sisters that went beyond part ownership of the restaurant.
Responsibility was a concept few men grasped—maybe it was just the effect of testosterone on the brain. Whatever it was, she’d found out it was easier and safer to keep every single one of them at a reasonable distance. Tonight had been illuminating for very good reasons—every time she began to weaken God had a way of reminding her.
Deeply grateful, she shivered in the cool blow of the defroster, waiting for the engine to warm up. If she closed her eyes, she could still see it. The smashed window crisscrossed with fractures like a giant spider’s web. The dresser’s mounted mirror in the little bedroom she’d rented in an older neighborhood in Seattle’s university district. The tiny window in the front door. The windshield of her car. Glass shards cutting her bare feet as she hurried to sweep them up. From her favorite little juice glasses with the daisies on them. From a beer bottle thrown against the kitchen wall.
It was important to remember. Never to forget. She already had what she needed. Her son. Her family. There was no need to look for more. She had enough. More than she thought she deserved, and that made her grateful.
As for Heath—the image remained of his shadow moving across the darker background of the storm, rescuing his duffel bag from the wet ground and taking it back upstairs. Had he changed his mind about leaving? Or was he merely getting his pack out of the rain?
It was probably the latter. Men left. It’s what they did. He’d taken one look at her son and leaped to the wrong conclusion, thinking that she was on the hunt for a husband. Isn’t that what a working single mom wanted? A man to foot the bills so she wouldn’t have to?
If she had a nickel for every time someone advised her to start dating so she didn’t have to work so hard, she’d be able to buy her own four-star restaurant on the Seattle waterfront, like she’d always dreamed of.
The last thing she wanted or needed was another man to tell her what was wrong with her, to take over her life and destroy it and run off with every last cent she owned. Whether Heath was that sort of man or not, it didn’t make one bit of difference. She wasn’t interested.
But maybe he didn’t understand that. The way he’d avoided looking at her after he returned from the hardware store with Frank had said it all. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. She’d do better to take a deep breath, chill out and forget it. Let him leave. She’d get up in… She glanced at the clock, okay, less than
two hours’ time and man the grill. It was no big deal.
Then why was she so angry?
Because it was easier to feel anger than to face the truth, to pull up the memory of Heath standing at the grill after Westin had talked to him. She’d somehow seen inside him at that moment, to where his heart was as dark as the center of a black hole, a place that allowed no light, nothing but an endlessly collapsing void. What could cause that kind of pain?
She saw the flicker of a movement at the window. It had to be him. She imagined him gazing, not at her but in the opposite direction. Looking east where the road led. Did he regret staying long enough to help her and her sisters out—again?
A lot of men wouldn’t have bothered to get involved at all. But he had. He’d chosen to stay when he could have walked away. Was he up there alone in the utter darkness without the benefit of a single light on, wishing he’d made another choice? Making plans to leave with the dawn?
She didn’t know why, but if he left that way, she would have regrets. There would always be the feeling that she’d left something undone.
For all his good deeds to her, she’d done nothing in return. Everything within her felt at war. She didn’t want to get close to any man—and yet there was something in Heath that tugged at her as if a line ran from his soul to hers. Why else could she feel his pain? See the infinite void within his heart?
She ought to go home, and yet she knew if she did Heath would be gone by morning and she would never know—what, she wasn’t sure. She knew she already cared about Heath too much. More than was safe. More than was sensible for a woman with her luck. And yet, she would never rest easy if he were gone come sunrise. Show me what to do, Lord. Please, I need your guidance.
Then again, maybe He’d given her enough already. She was exhausted and thinking in circles. She had a son to get home to.