Beneath a Southern Sky

by Deborah Raney

  “Mom, Mom, slow down. It’s not like he’s asked me out or anything.”

  The wind went out of her mother’s sails a bit. “I think it would be wonderful if he did. And I don’t want to hear any more of this guilt business. You know Nate would have wanted you to go on with your life. Especially for Nattie’s sake.”

  Daria pushed the pencil and paper away and scooted her stool back from the counter. She cleared her throat. “Speaking of Nattie, if I don’t wake her up now, I’ll never get her down tonight.”

  She looked at her mother, who seemed deep in thought. Reaching out, she put a hand on Margo’s arm. “Thanks, Mom. For everything.”

  That night she lay in bed and thought about what her mother had said, that it would be wonderful if Cole asked her out. Part of her was relieved to have talked to her mother. A larger part of her was sorry that she’d revealed her secret desire to anyone. Especially since the revelation of his dark past left her unsure of who Colson Hunter really was.

  Nine

  Cole drove his pickup along the dusty country road toward home.

  He’d congratulated himself too quickly for shaking off the depression that the anniversary of Bridgette’s death always seemed to bring. A busy day at the clinic, with a harrowing but successful emergency surgery thrown in for good measure, had helped keep his mind off the dark memories that begged his attention. But now, with the day behind him, the dusk taking over the sky, and an empty house to go home to, the blanket of oppression settled over him again.

  This was the fifth bleak anniversary he’d marked, and though none had been as bad as the first, he wondered how many years would pass before he could look at this day as any other. Ten years? Fifteen? What was the magic number?

  He wondered if Daria Camfield celebrated such an anniversary. Celebrate was hardly the right word. But no, he remembered her telling him that she didn’t even know for sure when her husband had died. It was a blessing, Cole thought, not to have that number etched on her brain to torment her every time it turned up on the calendar. If she was anything like him, she wouldn’t want to be reminded, wouldn’t want to talk about the heartache of losing the love of her life. But then her husband’s death didn’t carry with it the stigma that Bridgette’s death always would.

  He had come to Kansas, in part, to get away from the entire population of Sierra Lake, Colorado, who thought they knew all the ugly facts of his wife’s death. But it seemed Kansas wasn’t far enough, and the story had followed him here. He seethed with anger when he thought of the transformation the tale had undergone. Sometimes he thought it would be better just to come out and tell every detail himself so they would get it right. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure he knew the truth himself. Besides, he wouldn’t give the gossips the satisfaction. Let them talk. They would anyway. It was part of the “charm” of living in a small town. He’d lived in the big city, and he had to admit that most days the real charm of small-town life—the deep friendships, the community loyalty, the active compassion for the guy who was down-and-out—far outweighed the inconvenience of a little gossip here or a false rumor there.

  He sensed that Daria would understand his feelings if only he could get up the courage to share them with her. He knew that a large part of his attraction to her was the shared tragedy in their lives. Not that she wasn’t the kind of woman who would have caught his eye anyway. She was sweet and kind—and beautiful, in a natural, down-to-earth way that appealed to him deeply. But it was something more profound that drew him to her, that caused her face to appear in a significant percentage of his dreams, both waking and sleeping. Common sense told him that mutual sorrow was not a good thing on which to base a relationship. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from asking her out a thousand times in his mind.

  He wasn’t sure what was stopping him in real life. He had certainly done his share of flirting with her. Flirting. Man, he hated that word. He had never liked all the games men seemed to have to play with women. That was one of the things that had attracted him to Bridgette. He hadn’t had to flirt with her to get her attention. She was beautiful, and she didn’t know it. She was studious and intelligent. They’d first met at Colorado State in a philosophy class.

  He’d liked her seriousness at first. He had just become a Christian, and, though she was a believer herself, she was loath to accept anything on faith alone. She constantly challenged him to defend his faith against her questions, and he was never one to turn down a challenge. Those solve-the-problems-of-the-world conversations had set the tone for their growing relationship. He hadn’t seen the dark side of her analytical nature until after they married. The depressions would come on her like a Seattle fog. He didn’t know who she was during those grey times, and she couldn’t tell him why they came or what he could do to make it better. They’d mostly just waited it out. And eventually time would lift the shroud of fog, and he’d have his wife back. Until that awful summer. Then time had lost its magic and by the time he realized it, it was too late.

  Driving down the rutted back roads, buried in memories, Cole had become oblivious to his surroundings. Suddenly his driveway loomed in front of him, and he almost overshot the entrance to the shady lane that led to his old farmhouse.

  He pulled up beside the mailbox and, as was his evening ritual, stopped for a moment and peered over the steering wheel, surveying the sixteen acres that spread out before him. Even on this day it heartened him to turn down this lane and realize that he owned a piece of God’s green earth. A small piece, to be sure, and one that could use some TLC, but in a couple years it would be his, free and clear, and that never failed to fill him with a quiet joy.

  Sighing, he rolled down the window and opened the mailbox. Extracting a bundle of junk mail and a depressing number of bills, he slammed the metal door shut and roared on up the long drive toward the house, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

  Rufus, his yellow Labrador retriever, met him and ran alongside the pickup for the last hundred yards, barking an enthusiastic greeting.

  Cole parked the truck in the unattached garage and walked to the back door, talking to the panting dog as he went, “Hey, boy. How’s it goin’? Did you miss me? Huh, did you miss me, boy? How’s my big ol’ Rufus-boy?” He would have been embarrassed for anyone to overhear the affection in his voice for this dumb, slobbering dog. But Rufus was one of the best friends he had. Nobody listened like Rufus.

  On the back porch, Cole pried off his work boots and unlocked the door, letting the dog in ahead of him.

  He threw the mail on the kitchen table and went back to the mud room to fill Rufus’s dish from the forty-pound bag of dog food that sat in the corner by the back door. The dog nudged his jean-clad leg, panting impatiently, almost knocking him over.

  “Hey, fella, give me a break. I’m working on it.”

  Rufus moved in for the feast, crunching noisily.

  Cole went back into the kitchen and searched the refrigerator until he found some bologna that hadn’t yet turned green.

  He built a thick sandwich and threw it on a plate along with some corn chips. Then, pouring a glass of cold milk, he took his supper into the living room. The large L-shaped room wouldn’t win any interior design awards, but it was warm and inviting—and surprisingly clean for a house sans a woman, if he did say so himself.

  Cole had remodeled the entire downstairs over the two years he’d lived there, and he was proud of the place. He had painted the walls throughout the house in various shades of tan and beige. The effect was masculine, and rather rustic, though anything but dark and dreary since the new oak-framed windows were left bare to take advantage of the sweeping prairie vistas that surrounded the farmhouse.

  He switched on the television and plopped into the leather recliner positioned in front of it. He watched too much TV, especially since there was seldom anything on worth watching. But he liked the noise. It kept him company. And tonight he could use some company.

  Ten

  Everyone else had gone home f
or the day, the animals had been fed and watered, and the office was unusually quiet for a change. Daria had made arrangements for her mother to keep Natalie for an extra hour so she could catch up on printing out some billing statements.

  The last appointment for the day had been cancelled, and she locked the office doors and hung the closed sign in the front window. Cole and Travis were in the barn repairing some cattle chutes, but Daria didn’t expect either of them back in the office.

  She flipped the switch to warm up the printer and began to sort through a list of addresses on her computer screen. She had just sent the first batch of files to the printer when a knock on the back door made her jump.

  She got up and cautiously peered down the hallway that led to the rear entryway. Through the small high window in the door, she could see Cole waiting for her to let him in. She hurried down the hallway and turned the lock.

  “Sorry, Cole, I thought you were done in here for the night.”

  “No problem,” he said, tipping his Stetson at her but not taking it off. He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands to warm them. “Is the coffeepot still on?”

  “It is, but it’ll be stale as all get out. I can make another pot…” She stood in front of him, twisting the rings on her fingers, hoping her offer hadn’t sounded too—well, too obvious.

  But he just grinned. “Would you mind? I’d make it myself, but I’d like to be able to actually drink the stuff.”

  Daria laughed, but she was surprised that he hadn’t waved off her offer. She had fully expected him to tell her that he’d just stop by Nellie’s Café on the way home, as she knew he often did. “I’ll make it,” she told him. “It won’t take but a minute.”

  She went to the counter in the reception room, emptied the old coffee grounds into the wastebasket, rinsed out the pot, and filled it with fresh, cold water from the tap.

  Cole leaned on a high stool behind the reception counter. She felt his eyes on her.

  “What are you doing here so late?” he wondered.

  “Oh, I wanted to finish up this billing,” she said over her shoulder. “Natalie had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, so I took the afternoon off and that put me a little behind.”

  “I wondered where you were. Is she sick?”

  “Natalie? Oh, no. They put off her vaccinations at her last checkup because she was still getting over a bad cold, so she got a whole bunch of shots yesterday. She was none too happy about that.”

  “I bet. Poor baby.”

  She wondered why Cole was hanging around the office, yet she felt excited—and nervous—at the chance to be alone with him. As comfortable as they’d become working together, she didn’t think she was imagining the undercurrent between them. With the coffee brewing, she went back to her desk and tried to work on the billing. It wasn’t easy with him perched up there looking over her shoulder.

  Cole got up and wandered through the office, and Daria watched him surreptitiously as he straightened papers on desks and read notices on the bulletin board that she knew he’d posted himself. Something was bothering him.

  After a few uncomfortable minutes, he cleared his throat. “I’m glad I caught you here, Daria. I wanted to talk to you about something. A couple of things, actually.”

  She sent one more file to the printer and wheeled her chair to face him, unable to hide her curiosity.

  An odd smile crossed his lips, and she could have sworn that he was feeling nervous too, though it was a side of him she’d certainly never seen before.

  She waited.

  He laughed softly, lifted his hat, and ran a hand through his hair before putting the Stetson back on his head. “ To tell you the truth, I can’t decide whether to give you a promotion or fire you.”

  She swallowed hard and felt her face grow warm. She could hear the printer churning out an invoice behind them, and a dying fluorescent light flickered overhead. “Have I done something wrong, Cole?”

  He waved the thought away. “No, no. In fact, Travis and I have been talking. We need to hire another technician. Since he came on staff full time, we’ve been able to take on more work, and well, shoot, you’ve practically been doing a tech’s job anyway. We wanted to officially offer the position to you before we advertise it…if you’re interested?”

  She’d known they were understaffed, but she honestly hadn’t seen this coming. “Oh, Cole, I’d like that. I’d like it a lot. But, well, wouldn’t I have to go to school or something?”

  “Not unless you want to get licensed. You could always do that down the road, but for now it would just be on-the-job training. Like I said, you’re practically doing a tech’s job now. The only drawback I can see is that you wouldn’t be able to take your work home as much with this position.” He waited for her to respond.

  “I think I could handle it now that Natalie’s a little older. But—” She swallowed hard. “What did you mean about firing me?”

  He grinned and cleared his throat, dipped his head slightly. “I’ve always made it a point not to date my employees,” he started, then grinned sheepishly. Daria’s heart started to race. “Actually, I’ve made it a point not to date anyone. But, to tell you the truth, Daria, you’ve got me rethinking both those points. Would you…” He lifted his Stetson, raked a hand through his hair again, then put the hat back on, suddenly looking like a little boy.

  “Are you trying to ask me out, Dr. Hunter?”

  “That was the general idea—”

  “Yes,” she cut him off, then put a hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  He burst out laughing—that unfettered, cut-loose laugh of his that she’d grown to love so much.

  “We’re talking about the date, right?” he said warily, teasing. “Not the promotion?”

  “Well both, actually. Yes to both.” She grinned impishly. “But the enthusiasm was for the date.”

  He laughed again, this time with relief, she thought.

  “Saturday night? Wichita? Dinner… maybe a movie?”

  “Sounds good to me,” she said. “What time?”

  He stood and took his hat off, revealing an appealingly matted head of sand-colored “hat” hair. He pointed the Stetson at her and winked. “I’ll pick you up at seven sharp.”

  Whistling a lively rendition of “Yankee Doodle,” he headed down the hall, then came back abruptly. “Oh,” he said, sticking his head back around the corner into the office, “and don’t worry about a baby-sitter. I’ve got it covered.”

  He was out the door, his truck kicking up gravel in the back drive before Daria could say a word.

  Ten minutes later as she gathered up her things to head home, she realized that a fresh pot of coffee—full and untouched—sat on the counter emitting a delicious aroma into the room.

  Friday morning, as Daria rushed around trying to get ready for work, the phone rang. She picked it up to find Vera Camfield on the other end.

  “Hello, Vera,” she said, trying to put more enthusiasm in her voice than she felt.

  “Hello, Daria. How are you?”

  “Oh, we’re fine. But I’m kind of having one of those mornings,” she hinted. “Seems like everything that can go wrong has.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you then, but I just wanted to see what you were doing this weekend.”

  Daria’s mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse to the request she knew was coming. She had kept in close contact with Nate’s parents, especially right after Natalie’s birth, but as the months passed and her job tied her down more, the visits had become fewer and further between. Lately, however, Vera Camfield had become more and more demanding, calling nearly every weekend either wanting her to bring Natalie to Kansas City, or inviting herself and Jack to Bristol. It seemed to Daria that they expected her to reserve every spare moment for them.

  “Let me tell you what we were thinking,” Vera said, not waiting for Daria’s reply. “We thought we’d come and take you and Natalie out to dinner tonight, and then we’d lik
e to bring Natalie back here to spend the weekend. Will that work?”

  “ To Kansas City? By herself?”

  “Well, of course you’re always welcome here, Daria. But now that Natalie is weaned, we just thought you might enjoy some time to yourself.”

  It was a generous offer. So why did she feel resentful? She loved Nathan’s parents, and naturally she wanted Natalie to be close to them. She knew that the little girl was as much an antidote to their grief as to her own. Still, Daria wasn’t prepared for what they were asking. The thought of having Natalie three hours away in a strange house, a strange city, unsettled her. She’d never been away from her daughter for more than a few hours. The little girl always seemed to enjoy her time with the Camfields, and there was no question that they adored her. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them. It was just that Nattie was still a baby. And, at almost eight months, she still wasn’t sleeping through the night. What if she woke up in a strange bed and became scared? What if she got sick? Would they know what to do?

  Vera’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “We’ll bring her back Sunday, right after lunch. It shouldn’t be past four-thirty, five at the very latest. Please, Daria. We need to spend time with her. She’s just growing up so fast. Every time we see her, she’s changed so much.”

  How could she tell them no now, when she was going to be out with Cole all evening Saturday anyway? She couldn’t very well tell them that she was denying them their granddaughter so Natalie could spend the time with a baby-sitter. Guilt washed over her, and she debated whether she dared tell Vera that she had a date. This was turning out to be so much more complicated than she’d anticipated.

  Cole had arranged for Jennifer Daly to baby-sit Natalie at Daria’s apartment. “That way, she can be all tucked in for the night when you get home, and I’ll drop Jennifer off on my way home,” he told her.