“Your buggy was pretty pathetic,” she said.
He didn’t answer. His focus was on getting the contents of the bowl into his stomach. He grabbed a spoon and moved everything to the kitchen table. The first bite was warm, soothing, and delicious. He stifled a moan.
“Is it okay?” She leaned against the sink and chewed on a fingernail.
He swallowed. “Not bad.” Christ, it might be the best thing he’d ever eaten. Only after his initial hunger had been appeased did the fervent barking register.
“Do you mind letting Avery in?” He gestured to the door with his spoon between bites.
She practically tiptoed to the door. Avery burst into the kitchen and came to him for reassuring pats. Then, the begging commenced. Usually, Robbie didn’t mind sharing, but his dog wasn’t laying his one good front paw on Robbie’s dumplings.
“Your food is over there.” He pointed, and Avery retreated to his kibble with a whine.
Robbie finished the bowl in record time and attacked the piece of pie. It was demolished in less than a dozen bites. He stood, stacked the two dishes, and held them out to her.
She took them with a bemused smile. “Alrighty, then. I guess I’ll be on my way.”
“Avery and I will walk you back. It’s gotten dark.” He retrieved his gun, tucked it into his back waistband, and herded her out the door. With the problems they’d been having with wild pigs, he didn’t want to risk sending her home without protection.
“You don’t need to. I love to be outside on a clear night. The stars make me feel safe.”
He fell into step beside her despite her protestations and looked up at the stars, distant and cold. They had only ever made him feel lonely.
She didn’t seem bothered by his silence. Juggling the dishes, she pointed to the sky. “There’s the Big Dipper, the Great Bear. I asked Logan if he could see it in Afghanistan, but he never told me.”
He remembered the letter. And he remembered volunteering for the next night patrol so he could study the sky for her. “You told Logan the Great Bear would protect him as long as you both could see it.”
She didn’t stop walking, but her steps slowed. “I’d forgotten that. It was foolish, I suppose, but Logan and I used to lay in the field at night and stare up at the stars for hours. After he deployed, I made sure to send a prayer to the Great Bear every night.”
She shuffled to a stop with Miss Ada’s house in sight and lay a hand on his arm. Her touch sent a tingle to his hand, and he curled it into a fist.
“Don’t tell Preacher Higgs. He’d corner me Sunday morning on the whole false idol thing.” Her husky laugh made him happy and sad at the same time.
“I won’t tattle, I promise.” He paused and looked to the sky, waving vaguely toward the horizon. “I could see the Big Dipper in Afghanistan, but it was more in that direction.”
Her long, slow exhale had him turning toward her. “Isn’t it amazing to think of people long gone or halfway around the world staring up at the same stars? Maybe someone stood on your porch a hundred years ago and studied the stars. It connects you to the past somehow, don’t you think?”
Maybe it did. Maybe that’s why the pull to this place was so strong. He dropped his gaze from the sky. Her face was tipped up, and the darkness lent her a mysterious air. He wanted to kiss her again—desperately—but he didn’t have the vague excuse of a few people watching tonight. Tonight they were all alone, and a kiss would mean something different. It would be dangerous.
“You can make it from here.” His voice caught on the bullfrog in his throat.
“I could have made it fine from your house,” she said tartly, but he heard a smile in her voice. She squeezed his arm before tucking the empty dishes to her chest. “Thanks for the walk.”
“Thanks for dinner.”
He stood there until she disappeared through the front door.
10
Darcy paced the kitchen. It was lunchtime, but her stomach whirled so violently, she couldn’t imagine eating anything. Their second fake date was mere hours away. Evelyn and Ada were doing PT, and they waved her off when she popped her head in to let them know she was taking a walk.
Following the bank of the river downstream, past Robbie’s house, she came to the old bridge. The metal was red with rust. At one time, horse-drawn wagons and cars crossed over, but now wire mesh that gave with her every step instead of timbers covered the bed.
Holding onto one side of the truss, she shuffled along, her gaze on the rain-swollen river rushing under her feet. Her hands slipped along the oxidized metal. The water was only a few feet deep, and she wasn’t terribly high, but still, she welcomed the hard-packed dirt on the other side.
A trail of sorts led into the woods. All this land used to belong to the Wildes, but Ada had sold it two decades earlier to the state and applied the money toward college for her and Logan. The occasional hunter blundered across the river but better that than cleared trees and a hundred characterless houses.
Heat hovered close, but a cool breeze hinted at fall. The rustling leaves provided a backdrop to the call of birds. The red epaulets of a blackbird’s wing flashed, and the hammering of a woodpecker echoed through the treetops.
A rain storm during the night had washed the pollen-thickened air, leaving everything fresh and sweet-smelling, a balm to her nerves. Old pine needles, fallen branches, and the occasional dead tree littered the path. Each breath she took organized the clutter of her mind.
The report of four quick rifle shots echoed. Birds scattered out of the trees, and she dropped to a crouch. The pounding of her heart trampled the peace of a moment ago. The shots had sounded close, but nothing was in season. She was afraid to move in case the errant hunter mistook her for prey.
Twenty feet down the path, the brush rustled. She took a shallow breath, tension keeping her heart at a gallop. She dug her fingers into the closest pine, the tang of sap sharp in the air.
A man stepped from the dense undergrowth onto the path, a long-barreled gun hanging over his arm, aimed at the ground. He wore green cargo pants with a black T-shirt and ball cap turned backward. Dark face paint smudged under his eyes and trailed down his cheeks like a clown’s evil twin.
Robbie. She huffed and stood up, crackling leaves under her feet. His head whipped toward her. Before either of them spoke, another man materialized out of a bank of brush, wearing the olive green uniform of a Wildlife and Fisheries agent.
Robbie ignored him and walked in her direction. “What are you doing out here? It’s not safe.”
“I’m talking a walk. Nothing’s in season so what are you doing out here?” She pointed toward his gun.
“Wild pigs are always in season. We took out a sounder before they could do any more damage.”
The wildlife agent joined them. Several days of beard growth surrounded the man’s grin. “Jake Montgomery, ma’am. I’d offer to shake, but . . .” Dirty, yellow rubber gloves covered his hands. “Nice shots, Robbie. You make my job easy, man. I’m going to dispose of the carcasses.”
Robbie chucked his chin in acknowledgment, never taking his gaze off her. The man slipped away with the stealth of a wild animal. Robbie’s gaze swept down her body, and she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Without saying a word, he pulled brush off a green and black ATV on the other side of the path. She hadn’t even noticed it and moved closer to watch him.
His big hands moved with a familiarity and grace over the gun, emptying the chamber and making it as safe as it could be before strapping it to the cargo net on the back. Only then did he transfer his attention back to her.
He wiped across his blackened cheek with the heel of his hand, smearing the grease into his hairline, his voice gruff. “I’ll give you a ride. I doubt they’re any more pigs around, but I won’t take chances with you.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. At the very least, he didn’t want her eaten by wild pigs which signified an improvement in their relations. Three cockleburs clung to the cotton
of his shirt. She plucked them off and smoothed the tiny frays in the fabric, the muscle of his chest firm under her fingers.
With a quick intake of breath, she pulled her hand to her chest, and her gaze shot up to his. His face had relaxed, the uncomfortable tension dissipating into half-smile. He threw a leg over the ATV, and started it, the engine sputtering into a low growl. He sent her a “come-on” jerk of his head.
She hesitated. Fear of the ATV hadn’t mired her feet in mud. She’d driven them and ridden with Logan and his buddies a million times. She hesitated because the only thing to hang onto was Robbie. She would be pressed against the solid wall of his back. Her hands would clutch his waist or even circle to his chest. She grew tingly at the mere thought.
“I’ll walk. I can almost see the river.” She took two steps back and pointed.
His half-smile turned into a full on teasing grin. The unexpected charm in his face stopped her short. “What’s the matter? Too close for comfort?”
“Please, I’ve ridden with bigger studs than you, Coach Dalton.” Lies, all lies.
“Actually, I wanted to show you something if you’ve got the time.”
Evelyn and Ada had another half-hour of PT at least. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes.”
She mounted behind him. The curve of the seat slid her pelvis into his butt. She arranged her feet on the pegs behind his, and closed her thighs around his hips. Her lungs inflated with what should have been a steadying breath. Instead, her breasts pressed into the warmth of his back, and her nipples pebbled. Her body molded to his like warm putty.
He turned his head, his face in profile. “Hang on to me. It’ll be bumpy.”
She obeyed, trailing her hands to his abdomen and resting her chin on his right shoulder. The machine leapt forward. The gears changed with small jerks, and she tightened her legs around him. He steered them up the path, away from the river. A few of the smaller trees had started changing colors, a flash of color in the green and brown. Squirrels jumped branches overhead, and birds flew out of brush at their noisy approach.
The land rolled, and the ATV jumped at the apex of a small hill. Her stomach swooped. The next small jump incited giggles, and his answering rumble forced her hands flat. They wandered up his chest, settling along the lower ridge of his defined pectoral muscles. With every direction or gear change, his body flexed and moved against hers.
She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his shoulder blade. He smelled like . . . man. Not soap or cologne. Something much older, more primal, and infinitely arousing. Dear Lord, Ada was right. His pheromones were intoxicating.
The ATV slowed its headlong gallop through the woods, and she opened her eyes. An abandoned house sat in a clearing of tall grass. Her breath hitched, and she hopped off the ATV as soon as he rolled to a stop. Brambles and vines reaching up the sides of the house worked on dragging it back to earth, and trees sprouted out of the crumbling foundation.
The house had been a favorite haunt of her youth. As soon as Logan had discovered it, he’d dragged her out to see it. They’d spent hours exploring and making it their official clubhouse. In high school, she’d had her first beer ever with Logan, their legs swinging over the rotting edge of the porch.
Robbie joined her at the foot of the caved-in steps.
“I haven’t been out here for years,” she said absently, pulling at a vine that had wound up a square column to the portico. Crumbles of shingles sprinkled down. “This was our special place.”
“I know.”
“How do—?” Her gaze pinged from the house to him. “My letters,” she added in a whisper.
He shrugged and took a huge step up to the porch, bypassing the broken planks. He turned and offered her a hand. She slipped her hand in his, allowing him to pull her up beside him. She would have held on, but he dropped her hand to shoulder the door open. “Careful. There are some loose boards.”
The intervening years had not been kind. A few boards were gone, giving a view straight to the dark dirt ground underneath. The shaft of light from the window seemed to deepen the shadows in the corners. Remnants of animal nests were scattered throughout the room. The smell was earthy and musty. She shivered, feeling the presence of ghosts, but not sure if they were hers or belonged to long-dead residents.
“Who lived here? What happened to them? Why did they abandon it?” He whispered with a reverence that surprised her. He’d come here and asked himself the same questions many times. She was sure of it. He stepped to the fireplace and ran a hand over the simple mantle.
“The Golightly family built it. They rented the land from the Wildes, but were long gone before Logan and I stumbled over the house. I don’t know what happened after they left this place.”
She stood next to him, imagining the house as it must have looked in its prime. Pictures hanging on white-washed walls. Handmade quilts and rugs. Had there been children? She didn’t know.
“I can find out though. If you want.” She glanced his direction but his expression was unreadable.
He kicked at the crumbling bricks of the fireplace. Knowing was important to him for some reason. In all the time she and Logan had spent in the abandoned house, she’d never been afraid, but now an unfamiliar melancholy choked her.
In a quiet voice, he asked, “What if something terrible happened? Maybe it’s better not to know the truth. Maybe it’s better to imagine something happy.”
She didn’t have a good answer. Most people’s lives were riddled with tragedy. Instead, she squatted down and ran her hand down the wood-planked wall to the right of the fireplace. She found the grooves and smiled.
He joined her, their knees touching. His fingers followed hers, tracing the grooves like Braille. “Logan and Darcy.”
“I found my grandfather’s old pocketknife in the back of a junk drawer when I was around ten. It’s a miracle I didn’t contract tetanus, the number of times I nicked myself. I carved our names as proof we’d been here. Proof we existed.”
In contrast to her lightly said words, his voice rumbled deep. “Did you imagine some girl or boy finding your names a hundred years from now, wondering who you were, what you did with your lives?”
His words were straight from one of her letters. A burn of tears clamored up her throat. As Logan’s emails from Afghanistan had grown more despondent, Darcy had ramped up her efforts to soothe him. She’d filled pages with their shared memories, hoping her words transported Logan from whatever hell he faced, but never imagining a stranger would read them. Yet, Robbie wasn’t a stranger. Not anymore.
“Do you have a knife?” she asked.
He pulled a foldable knife out of a cargo pocket and handed it over. She flipped it open and screwed the point into the wood an inch below her name. The wood had softened with age and decay, making the work go faster than she remembered at ten.
“Not as deep as I’d like, but it’ll survive longer than the house will.” She blew across the cuts. A cloud of wood dust settled to the floor. “Proof you exist.”
His name carved below hers was barely visible in the dim light. Robbie. He traced the letters with his forefinger, his exhale long and slow. “I’m not sure I belong, but thanks.”
On her knees, she shifted toward him. Betrayed by her hand once more, she brushed fingers across his cheek. “Of course, you belong.”
He wrapped his hand around her wrist and leaned his cheek into her palm a moment before pulling her hand away. Grease from his face blackened her fingertips. He cleared his throat and stood, dropping her hand. “Jesus, I’m a mess. I’m going to wash off up at the spring.”
She followed him out and hopped off the porch, glad to be surrounded by the life of the woods. Dappled sunlight danced through the leaves, an antidote to the gloom shrouding the house. She took a deep breath and stretched her arms and face toward the sun.
Robbie had climbed a steep hill behind the house and disappeared over the slight ridge. A noise sounded deep in the woods in the opposite dire
ction. It was probably a tiny, harmless squirrel bounding through dry leaves, but the image of a drooling, rage-filled pig sent her up the hill. As soon as he came into view, she stopped and clung onto a birch tree, pressing her cheek against the smooth bark.
Sweet baby Jesus, he’d taken off his shirt.
The spring spurted out of a crack in the rocks and trickled down the hill, absorbed into the packed red-clay ground. He cleaned the black paint off his face with handfuls of water. More wet his hair, and he scrubbed his fingers over his scalp and nape. Finally, water sluiced down his arms, his movements emphasizing his shifting muscles. A military-grade tattoo decorated his unmarred shoulder blade, and dark blond hair sprinkled his chest, running into the waistband of his pants.
She squeezed her legs around the tree.
The full extent of his injury glared red. Scarring covered not only his upper arm but also extended to his shoulder and the top part of his chest. The pain must have been excruciating. If she were close enough, she’d kiss his boo-boo for real, and she couldn’t blame to many Long Island iced teas this time around.
He shook himself like a dog. Water flew, dazzling in the sun. His shirt was halfway on when he spotted her. He paused with one arm in and one out, leaving his taut stomach exposed.
No use in pretending she was invisible. She stood up straight and propped a hand on her hip in a show of nonchalance. Bobbing her head, she thumbed over her shoulder. “Heard a noise. You know, so . . . just checking on you.”
Slowly, he pulled his shirt the rest of the way on. Damp spots formed and molded the cotton to his torso. The man would win a wet T-shirt contest hands down. His gaze flicked from her hair to her feet and back again. His approach was a practiced stalk, and like any wild animal with decent instincts, she retreated breakneck down the hill.
His descent was less frantic. She waited at the ATV and pretended to examine the house.
“Were you spying on me?” he asked.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her, and her reply consisted of a series of half-words and harrumphs, before she managed to say, “Of course not.”
Slow and Steady Rush: Sweet Home Alabama Page 12