Libby took Cash’s coffee cup and put it in with the dirty dishes. “I doubt that. He’s just hungry.”
“Every night? During closing time?”
“Wait, is that him, sitting outside the door with a six-shooter?” She cupped her hands above her eyes as if peering outside. “No, he’s looking in here with binoculars. Duck!”
“Stop.” Gideon didn’t look amused. “He doesn’t like me.”
“You got off on the wrong foot with him is all.”
He gave an incredulous huff. “I burned his house down, Lib.” He looked so wretched when he said it, his hair over his eyes, leaning against the doorframe.
Libby turned her tone soft. “Everyone knows it was an accident, Gideon. Really.”
He shrugged, then brushed past her to pick up the last tray of dishes. She stepped back to let him pass but reached out to touch his arm to stop him. He jumped as if she’d shocked him.
“You know, you don’t have to live as if the world hates you. You have a fresh start here in Phillips.”
An expression so raw came over his face, everything inside her stilled. Then he shook his head. “There are no fresh starts for me. Just . . . moving on.”
“So, you move on.”
He gave her the smallest smile. “Right. Moving on into the kitchen now.” He winked, and although the man voted one of America’s sexiest men had just done that without causing the slightest reaction from her, this from Gideon had her body suddenly alive, every nerve tingling. She swallowed as he disappeared into the kitchen.
She should lock up and go home.
Taking a spray bottle, she sanitized the counter, found a couple of dirty cups left behind, then switched off the front light, locked the front door, turned off the diner lights, and went to the back.
Gideon had just begun to spray down the dishes he’d placed on the tray in anticipation of loading them into the dishwasher.
Libby reached around him to put the cups on the tray and bumped his arm. Water sprayed down the front of him.
“Hey!” The strangest look came over his face.
And then, she didn’t know why, but she shrugged as if she didn’t care in the least that he was saturated. “Sorry.”
She saw her mistake a split second later as a smile, a dangerous one that she’d never seen before, crawled up his face.
He turned the hose on her and depressed the sprayer.
Warm water soaked her—her hair, her face, her pink T-shirt under the white apron, the black uniform pants, her white tennis shoes. She screeched and turned to protect herself, but he didn’t stop, just sprayed her down the back.
“Stop!” Libby accompanied her cry with a lunge for the sprayer and must have taken him by surprise because she not only got her hands on it but turned it back on him, drenching his face, his hair, his clothes.
Gideon wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her away, wrenching the sprayer from her grasp.
They were both breathing hard, laughing, dripping onto the floor. He had a nice laugh, deep and full, and she hadn’t really heard it, ever. It made everything inside her feel warm. He still had his arm around her waist, and as she wiped her face with her hands, she noticed how tall he was, nearly a half head taller than her. And strong—one-handed he’d muscled the sprayer from her without hurting her. But with his black T-shirt plastered to his body, she realized that he wasn’t nearly as skinny as he was fit.
He still wore the smile as he let her go and ran a hand down his face. He gave her a look, half disbelief, half mischief, shaking his head. “I should have known you were trouble.”
Her mouth gaped in mock indignation, but she never got a word out. Before she could blink, before she could catch her breath, before she could even think, he leaned down and kissed her.
It might have been a quick kiss, just for fun, but she leaned in and kissed him back. He tasted of water and something tangy, like soda. He moved right into the kiss, putting his arm around her waist again and pulling her to him.
Everything inside her simply exploded. She felt sensations she’d never experienced before—her heart racing, and fear, too, only with a sweetness that started in her toes and moved upward, toward her heart. She’d never been kissed before. Her arms went around his neck, and she lifted her face and loved the feelings that went through her. Not that she’d been dreaming of kissing Gideon—she’d tried not to think about it, actually. But now, everything that she felt about him, although new, she poured right into that kiss. And he kissed her back, as if he might be feeling exactly the same way.
Gideon pulled away. His smile had vanished. His hand came up and touched her face, as if he might be in shock, with his eyes wide. He swallowed, and a small smile began to curve his mouth. “I really like you, Libby. I really, really like you.”
Her breath caught, and for a second, although she knew he meant it in every good way, she felt sick, right in the pit of her stomach.
What was she doing? She forced a smile, stepping back from him, disentangling herself from his arms. She pressed her stomach, mostly to keep the churning inside. “Yeah. Okay. I . . . uh, I gotta go.”
He looked like he’d been slapped. “What . . . what did I do? What’s the matter?”
Libby turned, wiping a silly tear away. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t really expected words of undying love, had she?
No. But the reality of how far she’d let herself fall from her own standards rushed over her. She’d wanted to save her first kiss until she met the boy . . . and that wasn’t supposed to happen until after she had been a missionary for a good long time.
Not only that, but what was she doing kissing, of all boys, Gideon—who probably had a world of experience kissing girls?
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She felt his hand on her arm, but she couldn’t face him. He hadn’t done anything, not really. But she should have known better than to . . .
She was turning into one of those girls at school who hung around the boys’ locker room.
Some missionary she’d make. She would bet they didn’t teach this method of evangelism at Bible college.
Libby pulled away from him and shucked the tears off her cheeks. “It’s nothing. I’m just wet, and it’s late. . . .”
He stood there, quiet, beside her—so quiet that she thought he hadn’t heard her. She glanced up at him.
He looked as if he’d just run over her pet dog or maybe seen someone die. Horrified. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, his voice shaky. “I . . . you were . . .”
A wave of sympathy poured through her. She held up a hand. “No, it’s my fault. I gave you the wrong impression. I shouldn’t have . . .” She swallowed and looked at the floor. “I gotta go.”
“Libby—”
“Please, Gideon. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. Can you lock the back door when you leave?”
He nodded. But she felt his eyes on her as she got her coat, put it over her wet clothes, and closed the door behind her.
As she stood there in the cold, her heart still thundering in her chest, calling herself an idiot, swirling all the crazy feelings inside into a hard ball of shame, she noticed a truck parked in the street, a figure sitting inside.
It sped away just as she stepped into the alley.
All Lincoln had wanted to do was protect her. To keep Stefanie from making a mistake that could hurt her in more ways than she could ever imagine. And the fact that he’d tried to send Gideon off with a pocketful of cash should have been a good thing, should have counted for something.
But as Lincoln had watched his great plans disintegrate in the heat of Stefanie Noble’s anger, he’d actually been conjuring up old movie lines, trying to figure out which one might turn the moment from agonizing to charming.
“Frankly, my dear . . .” No, that wouldn’t work.
“As you wish . . .” Too over-the-top.
And then she’d zinged him with, “How do you know who the real Stefanie Nob
le is?” Her question hit way too close to his own issues and irked him, even a week later. No, he didn’t know her. Not really. He could correctly tag her as intelligent and strong and maybe a bit naive, the twin sister of his tough-as-grit friend Rafe, but beyond that . . . no. Lincoln didn’t know her.
But he wanted to. Before, she’d been a curiosity. Now Stefanie Noble had become a challenge. He hadn’t had someone so vehemently dislike him in years.
She’d actually called him a despot looking for a kingdom at the recent Phillips town meeting, where he’d floated his idea along with his grant program and his desire to help put Phillips on the map.
He’d never been a pariah before. Thankfully, Stefanie’s protests had fallen on deaf ears, but the icy look she’d given him two days ago as she entered the diner still made him want to grab a wool jacket and a scarf.
And to make matters worse, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to get back on her good side. Or at least convince her that he wasn’t evil incarnate. Sitting outside Lolly’s Diner watching Gideon leave, somehow he knew that kid held the key.
Lincoln had watched as the lights went off in the diner earlier—in fact, he’d been hanging around all week, somehow drawn here, a gut feeling inside compelling him to remind Gideon, if only by his presence, to toe the line.
Also, Lincoln simply couldn’t shake the mental snapshot of the little girl at the fire, looking at Gideon as if he might be her only hold on life. She reminded him so much of Alyssa that it had taken his breath away.
Hence the parking space outside Lolly’s.
He watched as Gideon locked the door and pulled his sweatshirt hood up over his head. He ran out to the ancient Impala and got in. Lincoln saw the taillights flicker on, heard the engine fight for life. As Gideon pulled away, Lincoln put his own truck into gear. He normally didn’t follow the kid home, but something inside him told him to trail Gideon, at least until he reached the Big K.
Lincoln didn’t know what else to call his new ranch. He’d thrown out character names of heroes he’d played—Redford had used up that option—and anything with the name Cash felt arrogant, especially after his go-round with Stefanie. At the time he’d picked it, the name had made him feel strong. Important. Now it seemed to mock him.
He kept far enough behind Gideon that the Impala’s taillights vanished behind dips and curves in the road. Overhead, a cloudy sky obscured the stars, making the night inky and dangerous.
Lincoln tested his hand. The feeling had returned slowly, and his gait held no limp—signs that this exacerbation might be healing. But he lived each day in a sort of what-if mode, not wanting to push too far, get his hopes up. Where would he be if he didn’t have the disease pushing against his dreams, hovering over his future?
He refused to let those thoughts dig into him.
He’d inadvertently caught up to Gideon. Or . . . no. The Impala wasn’t moving. On the side of the road, it looked as if it had simply died and coasted into the ditch.
Gideon stood over the car, the hood open, staring at the engine as if he might have night vision and be able to decipher the tangle of greasy hoses and wires.
Lincoln slowed, drove by, and stopped in front of the Impala. He dug a flashlight from the glove box and opened his door. “Hey there,” he said, keeping his voice friendly.
He didn’t exactly expect Gideon to break into cheers, but the look of mistrust that filled his eyes as he put his hand up to shield himself from the light speared Lincoln through the heart. Maybe Stefanie had been right in her abysmal opinion of him. He lowered the light but not before he noticed Gideon’s wet hair and the fact that he shivered. What, did he shower at the diner?
“What happened?”
Gideon regarded Lincoln as he came over to stand by the car. “What do you want?”
Lincoln wasn’t sure why he’d stopped, but he suddenly wanted to make amends for the way he’d treated the kid. According to his own observation of the teenager, he was a hard worker, kept his head down, and tried to be polite to the people around him. Lincoln had heard him treat Missy and Libby with respect and noted that the couple of nights Gideon had locked up with Libby, he’d waited on the street until she got into her car and drove away.
As if he might be watching over her.
It had nudged Lincoln’s stereotype of thug off its footing. Which was why he turned to Gideon now and injected kindness into his voice. “Nothing. I saw your car, and . . . well, I thought I could help.” Lincoln flashed his light over the engine. He didn’t know a distributor cap from a spark plug, but he gave a good show of it.
Gideon’s expression lost its hard edge, just for a moment. “I think it’s the carburetor, but I don’t know. It’s too dark. I have to look at it in the light.”
Lincoln nodded, as though it might be exactly that. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Kid, listen. I came down too hard on you last week. I’m sorry.”
Gideon didn’t meet Lincoln’s eyes, but Lincoln saw his defenses kick down a notch. “Uh, yeah . . . well . . . I’m sorry about your house, Mr. Cash.”
“Can I give you a lift home?”
Gideon gave one last forlorn look at the car before he reached up and closed the hood. “Better than walking, I guess.”
The Ford still bore the new truck smell, and Gideon noticed. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks. I just got it.”
Gideon ran his hand over the leather bench seat.
“I always wanted a pickup,” Lincoln added for some reason. Instead he’d driven sports cars all his life. Because that’s what Lincoln Cash did. He sat back, turning the heat up. “How’s work at the diner?”
Gideon gave him a quick look. “You’re there every day. You should know.”
“I like the pie.”
“I get the feeling you’re there to make sure I don’t snatch anything from the till.”
Lincoln cut him a look. “Should I be worried?”
“No. Missy’s been real nice to me. I wouldn’t steal from her.”
“And what about Libby? Seems to me you two are becoming friends.”
Gideon turned toward the window.
Lincoln had a strange feeling in his gut. He’d been eighteen once and knew how a pretty girl with a nice smile could get inside a guy’s head. “Gideon?”
“Yeah, she’s nice too. Real nice.”
Lincoln trilled his fingers on the steering wheel, wading through the layers of concern. They passed the Big K in silence. The bright lights of the construction project on the hill lit up the log home as if it might be the president’s digs. He’d hired a small army to construct his house, yet he could hardly believe how quickly they’d cleared a foundation and erected the walls, the roof. They’d also had to dig a septic system, run power and phone from the road, drill a new well, and install a propane tank. He’d learned so much about construction this past week, he could probably play the part of a disgruntled contractor who went after the town council and held them hostage for permits. Thankfully, his little pep talk at the school had impressed the powers that be, and according to his timetable and his contractor, he’d be in the house within the month.
“Nice house,” Gideon said quietly.
Lincoln looked at him. “Yeah, well, I didn’t start out like this. It took years of hard work.” He didn’t know why he said that or why he suddenly had the urge to tell Gideon more, that he’d been more like Gideon than he cared to admit—desperate and on the run.
“Someday I’m going to have a house,” Gideon said almost under his breath. “Me and Macey and Haley.”
Lincoln had made the same promise to himself and even to Alyssa long ago.
He’d kept only half that promise.
“My dad used to . . . well, that was a long time ago, but he built houses.” Gideon’s voice turned lean. “Got laid off in the winter, though. Not much building in snow.”
“You want to be a builder like your dad?” Lincoln asked.
Gideon’s posture remained set on slouch. Out
of Lincoln’s peripheral vision, he saw Gideon’s jaw tighten. “I don’t want to be anything like him. He was a drunk and a liar. He beat my mom and me, and the happiest day of my life was when they put him away.”
Lincoln blew out a breath, aware of how closely Gideon’s words echoed his own once upon a time. In fact, looking at him, Lincoln suddenly had a picture of himself, thin and desperate but driven. He didn’t have a sister, but he knew what it felt like to bear the burden of taking care of someone else.
He should help the kid. More than just by giving him a lift home. The thought jolted Lincoln but sunk in and made sense. Not only did Gideon deserve a chance, but maybe Stefanie would start to forgive him. He took a breath, dug deep, and kept his voice casual. “How would you like a job on my crew?”
Gideon glanced at him, that mistrust back in his eyes.
“I know you can’t be making much at the diner. And you work all the time. I’ve got a summer of big projects ahead of me, and I could use someone as hardworking as you. I’ll pay you the same money the standard carpenters are earning. What are you making at Lolly’s?”
Gideon mumbled something about minimum wage.
“I’ll triple that.”
He could hear Gideon breathe in, the sound of disbelief and hope. “Why? Why would you do that for me? A week ago you were throwing money at me to make me leave town. What are you trying to pull?”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But this is legit; I promise. It wasn’t right, what I did, and I’m trying to make up for it.”
Gideon had stopped shivering, and now he looked down at his hands, still wrinkled, probably from the dishwater. “Yeah, okay. I guess that’s a good idea.”
Attaboy, Gideon.
When they reached the Silver Buckle drive, Lincoln pulled in real slow. “You like staying here?”
Every time he saw the Nobles’ ranch, it reminded him of a movie set out of an old Western. The two-story homesteaded log home with the front porch and the assortment of outbuildings had found a way into Lincoln’s daydreams. He wondered what it might be like to carve out a life on the land with his bare hands, powered by sweat and character and determination. . . . The notion lodged deep inside and started to germinate.
Finding Stefanie Page 9