by Jessica Kate
She fingered the frayed edge of the tea towel. “You never answered me properly. What’s your so-crazy-you-never-say-it-aloud thing?”
“Caribbean island.”
“You’d preach to the coconuts. Yesterday I heard you exhorting Rocket the bull on the power of the Holy Spirit.”
He smirked. “Meg’s received a lot of sermons on discipleship.”
She studied his face. “Would you pastor a church? Go on mission?” No reaction. “Attend Bible college?” There it was. Hard to define—a blink, a twitch, a slight shift in demeanor? She wiped the pot he handed her. “I think you’d enjoy it.”
The smile he gave had a slight twist to it as he washed a large frying pan. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
She frowned. Not the reaction she’d anticipated. “Why would you say that?”
He handed her the dripping pan. “You’ve proofread my emails often enough. Don’t think that Bible college would appreciate my unique spelling style.”
Oh yeah. Dyslexia. She rubbed the frying pan dry. Surprising to see him balk at this, after watching him thrive at Wildfire for so long. “It would be a challenge. But I’ve seen you tackle challenges before.”
His brow creased, like the thought pained him. His voice came out with a tinge of bitterness. “Kimberly, when I was in Year 8 they put me in the special-ed class.” His voice caught, just the slightest bit, and he cleared his throat.
Kimberly jerked her gaze up to his face, but he kept his eyes on the suds. “Seriously? Why? Just because reading’s more difficult?” She placed the pan in its drawer with a clunk.
A long moment ticked by before he answered. “My teacher forced me to read in front of the class and realized I could barely do it. She said I had the skills of an eight-year-old.” His ears reddened, and she winced. In front of the class? How humiliating.
A part of her heart warmed—he’d trusted her enough to confide in her. But her indignation at his situation bubbled to the top. “How did you get so far without them realizing? This sounds more like a problem with your teachers than you. How on earth did they think special-ed classes would help?” She folded her arms. Did this teacher still live in town? Still teach? She shuddered at the thought.
“I was great at covering it up, and they still didn’t understand the cause. Mum pulled me out and homeschooled me. Eventually a student teacher at the homeschooling place suggested I might have dyslexia. When Mum realized that I did, she was so furious at the Burradoo High principal, they had a shouting match in the school car park.” His smile turned rueful.
A pang hit Kimberly’s chest, both for Sam and herself. If she guessed correctly, before that diagnosis he’d believed that the problem was with his intelligence or a lack of trying. Both false.
And for herself—what would it be like, having such a lioness for a mother? She couldn’t wait to meet this woman.
Sam shrugged and handed her the next pot. “The point is the only reason I barely got my Year 10 certificate was because Mum figured out the absolute minimum of what I needed to pass and coached me through it. No one even considered that I could go all the way through to Year 12.” He tried to end the sentence on a chuckle, but the pain leaked through his tone.
Kimberly resumed her drying, mind whirring. She’d known about his dyslexia for years—he often mentioned it when speaking to students—but she’d never understood how severe it was, nor the depth of the hurt it caused. He honestly didn’t believe he could do this—Bible college or Wildfire. This certainly helped explain his risk-averse outlook.
Relief brought a tiny smile to her lips, which in light of Sam’s hooded expression, she tried to smother. All this time, and she’d thought their fights had somehow been her fault. But this was his private battle—one he shouldn’t have to fight alone.
She searched for the right response to Sam’s revelation. “You’ve come up with out-of-the-box ways to adapt. You have a phenomenal memory. You memorize every sermon by heart, and I’ve never seen someone retain information from an audiobook the way you do without taking notes.” Her words reflected every bit of the awe she’d felt watching him work harder than those around him to give himself an informal education.
He looked at her like he was surprised. “I guess. Thanks. I’ve never thought about it that way before.”
She studied him as he scrubbed at invisible marks on the sink. Every inch of her Samuel Payton intuition shouted that she’d struck a deep, swollen nerve. But in his midtwenties, with no formal experience, this man had preached the love of God to teenagers and thousands had responded. He’d motivated and managed a large team of volunteers. He had such a knack for speaking with people and making them feel heard. It was enough to make a girl wanna spin him around, stand on her tippy-toes, and give him a thank-you kiss hot enough to start a kitchen fire. And yet he seemed to believe it had all happened by some inconceivable stroke of luck.
But words were his thing, not hers. How could she ever express that thought to him? The temperature of her cheeks increased just thinking about it. She took a breath and tried. “I think God’s given you talents that the world desperately needs.”
His scrubbing stopped.
“If He wants you to go to Bible college, and if you want to go, there will be a way to make it happen. Some colleges might specialize in this, or there’s part-time, audiobooks, I can proof your writing, whatever. You said the other day that we’re a team.” Her lips tugged into a hesitant smile. “So, we’re a team.”
Sam set the scrubber brush down, his movement slow and deliberate.
Kimberly bit her lip. Had she offended him? She edged away, her back bumping up against the kitchen bench behind her. Her brain scrambled to predict his response and formulated half a dozen snappy comebacks to fire his way.
Confidence, Kim. If Sam’s mad, that’s his issue, but don’t you hide. She took a deep breath and smiled at him.
Sam faced her, expression unreadable. His gaze held hers, then dropped to her lips. She stopped breathing. He met her eyes again, pupils wide and black in the dim kitchen light. Her pulse danced the samba in her throat.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After a long moment during which empires rose and fell, he shrugged and said, “Thanks.” He turned back to the sink and pulled out the drain plug.
She released the breath she’d been holding. “No problem.” She scooted around him to get to the bathroom, mind buzzing. What had Sam been going to say before he thought better of it? And why had she ever thought that he might kiss her?
She shook her head. It had taken them three years to move from nemesis to friend in a crisis. It’d take another thirty for him to actually move toward anything resembling admiration.
And there probably weren’t enough years left before the Second Coming for that to turn into love.
* * *
Sam stepped back and surveyed the wall he’d just painted. The uneven coat of white betrayed the moldy-yellow shade beneath, with drips down the wall accentuating the effect. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to watch Kimberly from the corner of his eye while he painted.
He sighed, dunked his roller in paint, and started again. The morning sun shone through the dirty window beside him, appearing somewhat like the light in an oven. Except today’s muggy temperatures meant he was in the oven, looking out. In more ways than one.
“Yeeep!” A short squeal came from Kimberly’s side of the room where she’d been painting her own wall. He spun in her direction. A big blob of paint covered her right eye.
“Are you alright?” He snagged a rag from the pile of painting supplies as he crossed over to her.
Her face scrunched up with the effort of keeping that eye shut tight. “I closed my eye in time. I just need to get it off before it leaks in.” She grabbed at the collar of her tank top, but that would just smear the paint all over . . . areas he shouldn’t be looking at stuff smeared on.
He caught her hand and held up the rag. “Let me.” Cradling her jaw with hi
s left hand, he swiped away the worst of the paint with the rag in his right. Her pulse beat beneath her soft skin and his fingertips. The scent—and remembered taste—of her raspberry lip balm taunted him.
Only four inches stood between him and her pink lips. That and his conscience.
He’d wanted to kiss her last night too. But what then? Would they date if he went back to work with Wildfire? Would they date if he didn’t? Did she even feel the same way about him? What if he moved to go to Bible college?
Bible college. When she’d named his most far-fetched dream, he’d almost laughed. But then she’d listened to his story, voiced both empathy and outrage, and challenged his faith on the topic. When she offered her support, he’d almost dropped the dishcloth on the kitchen floor and kissed her senseless.
No one had believed that something as crazy as him and Bible college was possible. But Kimberly had stood in his childhood kitchen—at the bench where he’d struggled over homework for ten unending years—and not only believed he could do it but seemed shocked that anyone would suggest he couldn’t.
In that moment he’d felt ten inches taller. Her faith, both in God and in him, had always surprised him with its ferocity. But last night it had struck his core like lightning.
Snap out of it, man. You two haven’t gone a whole week yet without fighting.
He lowered the rag. “Keep your eye shut. I’ll just wet this and clean it off better.”
She followed him to the sink, and when he turned around he almost bumped into her. Was it the paint fumes making him this heady or just her nearness?
He dabbed her eye clean as gently as he could and stepped back. “All done. Stick your head under the tap and flush your eye out with water, just to check.”
“Okay.” She bent over the kitchen sink and did so.
Sam scuffed his boot against the drop sheet on the ground. What else could he say to keep her talking to him? “I, um . . . I wanted to thank you. For what you said last night about Bible college. I’m going to pray about it.”
Kimberly pulled her head out from under the tap, and he handed her a fresh rag to dry her face. She scrubbed herself dry and beamed at him. “Really? That’s awesome.”
His breath caught in his throat. Say something. Anything. “I mean, I never really thought seriously about it. Like, I really wanted to, but I barely made it out of school, so I didn’t think—” He snapped his mouth shut before anything else stupid came out. Deep breath. “I just wanted to let you know I appreciated what you said.”
Kimberly’s fingers came up to rest on her collarbone. “Oh my goodness. What I said changed your mind? Seriously?” The concept appeared to be totally foreign to her.
Another indication that his track record of listening to her wasn’t so crash hot. “I know I haven’t been great at showing it, but I really respect your opinion.”
Her eyes brightened. “Right back atcha.” She surveyed their work. “Once we’re done here, do you want to hear my opinion on chickens?”
He blinked. “Chickens?”
“Jules’s white silkies.”
He nodded. The eight birds were fluffy, white and laid eggs so tiny you needed a whole dozen for a decent omelet. And Jules loved each one of them.
“I was considering giving them a bath . . . in food dye.” She pulled out her phone and showed him a picture of pink, blue, and yellow adult chooks. “I won’t say anything to her, just let her notice when she comes back. She’ll get a kick out of it.”
Sam grinned. Jules would laugh for a week. “Just let me finish this wall, and I’m in.”
Kimberly beamed at him and returned to her own paint roller. Sam watched for a moment, heart rate galloping.
God, please give me some direction soon, because I need to kiss this girl.
Chapter 25
“You’re doing it wrong.” Jules leaned on her crutch and admired Mick’s torso and legs poking out from under the ute. Three crazy days, seven hundred kilometers, and ten hours of drive time—and they’d gotten a flat tire only forty-five minutes from home.
Not that she was complaining. Now she had a valid excuse to watch him get greased up under that vehicle, and a perfect view of four inches of skin between his T-shirt and board shorts as he reached up under the ute.
Not that this means anything.
Nope, it surely did not. The man had a girlfriend, and Jules had a farm to save. No matter how many times this weekend he’d sent her pulse dancing.
She shooed a fly and nudged him with her moon-booted foot. “You’ll put the jack through the floor pan if you position it there. Get it under the chassis.”
Mick shifted the jack to an equally terrible spot.
Jules rolled her eyes and used her crutch to balance as she lowered herself to the road’s edge beside him. “I don’t understand how you can be genius enough to become a vet, but give you a screwdriver and you’re as useful as a stud bull on a vow of celibacy.” She ducked under the ute, warm gravel digging into her back.
Mick cut her a look from the other side of the jack. “You just quoted my online dating profile.”
She tried not to smile, but her face had other ideas. Mick grinned back, and their eyes held for a moment.
Even if she hadn’t had more fun in the last seventy-two hours than in all the hours of the previous year combined, this trip had been worth it for one reason: she had her friend back. At some point between squealing while patting stingrays at SeaWorld and laughing themselves silly trying to sand-proof her moon boot with duct tape and garbage bags, something magical had occurred that Jules hadn’t experienced in years: she’d forgotten about her problems on the farm. And it was all thanks to Mick.
For three brief days there’d been nothing but her, him, the beach, and all the novelties the Gold Coast had to offer. They’d even taken the scenic route home and lunched in a cute town called Cockatoo Creek, which she noted with some interest had an outdoor camp for school students. And it had all been amazing.
But now it was time to go home.
Jules shifted the jack to the right spot. “See?”
“My hero.” His blue eyes twinkled at her, and his scent—ocean salt and something citrusy—drifted into her space.
“Was your girlfriend disappointed that she missed you this weekend?” She blurted it out before her mouth consulted with her brain, then ducked out from under the ute and tried not to overanalyze why she’d mentioned his girlfriend at the same moment she was tempted to lick some of that salt from his lips.
She clambered to her feet.
“It . . . wasn’t a problem.”
Why had Mick hesitated in answering? Jules narrowed her eyes. Did that girl appreciate what she had in Mick? If Jules was dating him and he’d been away for weeks, no way would she let him hang out with some old girlfriend for the one weekend he was home.
Let alone not see him at all.
Mick jacked up the ute and set to work loosening the wheel nuts, all without a word.
Hmmm. Something fishy here. She’d sensed it all weekend.
She pushed the thought away. Best not to think about it too deeply. At least he had a girlfriend—otherwise this weekend wouldn’t have been possible. She couldn’t afford to give him the wrong idea, nor let herself get carried away with a fantasy that would never happen.
Well, not too carried away.
This weekend had been great, but three days of traffic, a zillion people everywhere, and no cows in sight had also proved something else: she was not cut out to live in the city. While Mick, with his social personality and obsession with his surfboard, seemed completely at home there.
And in two weeks, once his parents’ farm was ready for auction, he’d be going back for good.
She pulled out her phone to distract herself from that depressing thought. “Do you think everything’s okay at the farm? Sam hasn’t texted me any questions for more than a day.”
Mick spun off the final nut and dropped it in the dirt. “Butch is there. They’
ll be fine.”
She bit her lip. The vat better not have broken down again. It had a habit of happening every time she went away, tinging each vacation with anxiety. She couldn’t afford to dump any more milk. Then there was her biggest boom irrigator. It had been finicky lately, and—
Her hand rubbed the back of her neck.
“Stop worrying.” Mick spoke with his back to her.
How had he seen her worried face?
“I can tell without looking you’ve got your worried face on.”
She folded her arms. “Okay, that’s just freaky.”
“Not when you have a clear pattern of behavior.” He pulled the flat tire free and rolled it toward her, swapping it for the spare. “The reason they’ve been quiet is they’re busy working on a surprise for you.”
She straightened. “A surprise? A bad surprise, like something broke and they’re fixing it?”
Mick stood up and gave her a see-what-I-mean-about-you-worrying look.
“I mean, yay, I wonder what good surprise they’re working on.” She injected a dose of cheesy enthusiasm into her voice as her mind raced.
He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to mounting the spare tire. “You’ll see when we get there.”
Fifteen minutes later they were back on the road, and within an hour they’d rolled into Yarra Plains. But instead of stopping by the house, Mick continued down the track that led to the back paddocks. Jules scanned the landscape.
“What surprise could they have out here?”
They rounded a small clump of trees, and the old cottage came into view.
Jules blinked.
The once overgrown yard had been mowed into submission. But the old weatherboards were still peeling worse than her sunburned nose, and she couldn’t detect any further changes.
Okay. Kinda weird surprise, but at least nothing was drastically wrong.
Mick pulled up in front of the structure, shut off the ute, and turned to her. “Close your eyes.”
She leaned back. Why did her pulse race at that playful look on his face? “No.”