Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  Beaming his pride, Jack brushed crumbs from the boy’s lips. “Yes, you may.”

  “C’mon, Buster.” Oliver scampered off, the dog at his heels. “Let’s go find a stick.”

  Oliver’s quest took him too close to the creek for Jack’s liking, judging from the way he tensed when the boy’s toes touched the water’s edge. Annabelle, too, kept her eyes fastened on him, her muscles ready to spring into action. But the creek was far calmer than the week before, and Oliver’s only interest in it was pulling out a small stick poking up from the muddy banks. The perfect size for throwing to his canine companion.

  Relief loosening her shoulders, Annabelle refilled Jack’s glass of lemonade. “It’s good he doesn’t fear the water.”

  “It’s also good he’s no closer to it than he is.” Something simmered beneath the surface of Jack’s words, and his face was shadowed by more than the brim of his Stetson. Oliver may have forgotten all about last Sunday’s misadventure, but his uncle still bore the scars.

  “It’s not your fault, Jack. These things can happen in half an instant.”

  “’Tis why the good Lord meant children to have two parents.” His gaze followed the boy, knee-deep in prairie grass, flinging the stick to the eager spaniel, his injured shoulder showing no ill effects. “I try—God knows I do—but there’s no escaping it. Oliver needs a mother.”

  A cloud passed overhead, and Annabelle’s heart poised at the precipice of free fall. So this was why Jack had so quickly sought permission to court her. Her fanciful imagination had led her to believe he’d asked because of tender affections toward her. Because he perhaps saw in her the same qualities he’d seen in his first wife. Because his impulsive kiss to her forehead had upended his world as surely as it had her own.

  A knot formed in her chest. What a foolish girl she was. Jack Brennan was a practical man, and the prairie was a practical place. Raising a five-year-old alone while trying to prove a claim? Well-nigh impossible. And in such a sparsely populated area, the number of eligible ladies was low. In fact, it likely stood at one.

  “Of course.” Her words came out remarkably calm, given the dust and noise of girlish dreams crashing down around her. The frontier was no place for those dreams. Jack was a good man. He’d work hard to provide for her. Take excellent care of her. She could do far worse, of that there was no doubt.

  But if she wanted to marry a man who sought her hand for practicality rather than love, she’d have done so already. Without leaving the comforts and conveniences of Indiana.

  “Something wrong?” Jack peered at her, a stalk of tall, fluffy-topped grass in one hand, his expression impossible to read.

  “So this is why you’ve asked to court me. To give Oliver a mother.”

  One broad shoulder lifted. “’Twould be a lie to say that wasn’t a reason.”

  Irritation burned white-hot. Your answer is the one that matters, Uncle Stephen had said. Balderdash. Though his offer appeared magnanimous, he was still trying to put her in a neat little box, as he’d done before they moved here. As Papa did when he left her behind all those years ago.

  Her uncle had probably planned this from the moment he met Jack. As obvious as her infatuation must have been, Uncle Stephen had predicted—if not expected—that she’d jump at the offer. That she’d see the necessity, the practicality, of the situation, and slide into this man’s home to cook his meals and raise his child. It’s for the best, Annabelle, she could hear him saying. Surely you see that.

  Or was it her father’s voice she heard?

  Annabelle yanked a late-blooming black-eyed Susan from the grass and plucked off a brilliant yellow petal. “I’ll not consent to being a mere pawn, Mr. Brennan.”

  “It’s Jack.”

  Ignoring his mild correction, she pulled off another petal. And another. And another. “All my life, people have charted my course. Stuffed me into whatever trunk best suited their fancy. Coming to Kansas was the first decision I ever made for myself, and I had to fight tooth and nail for it.” Two more petals fluttered to the quilt at her feet. “If Uncle Stephen and Aunt Katherine had their way, I’d be back in Indiana, married to William Barclay.”

  “And you found that arrangement unacceptable?”

  How could the man be so daft? “Of course I did.” She reached for another petal, but she’d already torn them all off. Annoyed, she tossed the barren stem to the side. “I didn’t love William, nor did he love me. Not the way I wanted to be loved.”

  “Ah.” Jack twirled the stalk of grass between work-roughened, infuriatingly casual fingertips. “So you’ll marry only for love then?”

  With a sigh, she hugged her knees and focused on the blue-and-white floral pattern of her skirt, on the neat black shoes peeping from beneath the fabric. It was embarrassing, letting this handsome still-a-stranger see so deep inside her.

  Sharing dreams she’d no idea she held so dear.

  Until she needed to let them go.

  “I’ve seen it, Jack. I was only eight when Mama passed, but I remember how she and Papa loved each other. No matter how long her day or how tired she felt, Mama lit up when Papa came into the room. And Papa …” The memory clutched at her heart. “Papa had a special smile just for her. Even when they disagreed, they did so knowing that however large the problem, their love was enough to overcome it.”

  She unclasped her hands. “When Mama died, a part of Papa died too. And while I wouldn’t wish that pain on myself, or anyone else, I couldn’t help but wonder, even as a child, how would it feel to be so loved that—if he lost me—a man would also lose part of himself?”

  Jack’s eyes darkened, and Annabelle bit her tongue. Had she really shared her ridiculous fantasy with a man who knew that pain all too well? His own Sarah, scarcely a year gone. He’d married for love, and look where it had gotten him. No wonder his reasons were more practical this time around.

  And no wonder he couldn’t feel for her what she sorely wished he would. His late wife had already laid claim to his heart.

  “I’m certain you now think me selfish and foolish and childish. And you’d be right.” A gust of wind tugged a lock of her hair loose. She shoved it back and looked him square in the eye. “But my mind is made up. I’ll spend my life a spinster schoolteacher before I marry someone who sees me only as a solution to a problem or a fulfillment of a need. Foolish and selfish and childish as I am, Jack Brennan, I’ll marry for love, or I won’t marry at all.”

  “I appreciate your honesty.” Jack’s words were slow. Measured. Directed more to the grass in his hand than to her. He was doubtless disappointed, and she hated being the cause.

  A shout and a bark rose from the meadow and wrenched her heart. Oliver, retrieving the stick from Buster’s jaws, his cheeks pink with joy and exertion. Bless him, he truly did need a mother. She prayed God would provide one. That he would lead Jack to a bride far less muleheaded than herself. One selfless enough to properly care for a young child. Surely she’d just now demonstrated how ill-suited she was for the task.

  That wrenched her heart too. Because, despite everything … she could love Jack Brennan. And Oliver. So easily, she could love them both.

  In fact, she was certain she already did.

  Jack shifted his weight, his sleeve brushing her wrist, and she braced for his inevitable departure. He’d flash a stilted version of his heart-stopping smile, spin out some polite yet patently false words thanking her for a wonderful afternoon, gather up Oliver and the dog, and retreat to his claim. Lick his wounded ego and start his search anew.

  But he didn’t leave. He sat there, twirling that infernal blade of grass and not looking at her. Why was he still here? Had her words not affected him in the slightest?

  Something had. The muscle at the corner of his jaw twitched in rapid rhythm beneath the neatly trimmed thatch of coal-black beard. Tension emanated from him, like the electricity of a gathering storm.

  “’Tis a good thing my mam taught me to be a gentleman, Miss Collins.”
The formal title weighted his half-growled brogue. “Because were I not so well taught, I would demonstrate—most emphatically—how wrong you are about my reasons for courting you.”

  Beneath the Stetson, his eyes glittered with a fire that left no mistaking the truth in his words. She opened her mouth to argue, to apologize, to—to do what exactly?

  Whatever words she might’ve uttered died in her throat, cut off by the intensity of Jack’s gaze. An intensity lightened by a satisfied glint, as though her response—or lack thereof—was exactly what he’d intended.

  “Reverend Little’s been through four times since Sarah passed, and if all I wanted was a mam for Oliver, I’d have already stood before him.” A corner of Jack’s mouth turned up. “Daniel Swanson over in Park Township has three unwed daughters. He’d be happy to see me take any one of them off his hands.”

  Oh, that the earth would swallow her whole. She’d misread the situation badly, and she deserved every bit of the chastisement to come. Marrying for pure practicality would’ve been bad enough, but this? Torching her chances with a man whose motivations she’d sorely misjudged? That loomed far worse.

  “But I’ve not pursued anyone, Annabelle. Not until you. Because I didn’t feel …”

  Her head snapped up. Her pulse pounded. “Feel what?”

  “The way I feel when I look at you.” He tossed the stalk of grass aside. “I feel as tongue-tied as a schoolboy, but somehow like I’ve known you all my life. Looking into your eyes—I’m lost. But at the same time, I’m found. Being with you feels like I’m on the cusp of a grand adventure, yet it feels like I’m coming home too. Like you see me for who I was always meant to be. I feel … so much for you, so strongly, in so short a time, that it terrifies me.” Jack stopped, his breathing fast.

  She couldn’t breathe at all.

  “Now, if you still think all I want is a mam for Oliver, then clearly I’m not a very persuasive speaker, and I’ll have to prove my point another way.” The weight of his gaze pressed her to the spot. “But remember, lass. I was raised a gentleman. And the way I’ve in mind to prove it isn’t the most gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Annabelle trembled under torrents of chaos and anticipation, fear and exhilaration, love and need, and want like she’d never felt before.

  Jack didn’t need to prove those words. Not with the way he was looking at her.

  But oh how she wanted him to.

  Mercy. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. Here they were in broad daylight, unwed, steps away from a five-year-old and a dog and meddling Aunt Katherine, who would burst out the back door any second with a well-deserved reprimand. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was Jack. His gorgeous words tumbling around inside her.

  His lips and how desperately she wanted to feel them on her own.

  She lifted her chin, heart hammering, throat desert dry.

  “Prove it, Jack.”

  A quiet challenge, but his mouth claimed hers even before she finished. His every movement was proof. The sudden tangle of one hand in her hair. The tight grip of the other on the back of her neck. And his lips—they seared her with proof. Branded her with it, even more than those words had, and—

  Jack broke away, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the tension in his hands as he released her spoke of how difficult it was for him to do so. Somehow his hat had fallen off, and he leaned in, pressing his damp forehead to hers, caressing her jaw with callused fingertips.

  “Annabelle.” Never had her name sounded so luscious as it did in Jack’s husky whisper. “The next time Reverend Little comes through, so help me, it’s my full intention to be standing before him, your hands in mine. For nothing short of love.”

  His smile was so delicious she couldn’t help but lean in for another kiss. A short one. Given how disheveled they both were already, and that they weren’t wed—not yet anyway—it was all she could allow. When she pulled away, a quiet groan slipped from him, one that resonated in her own heart.

  She caught his gaze and beamed. “Then I’ll pray he comes through soon.”

  Prove it, Jack.

  Goose bumps broke out on Sloane’s bare arms despite the warmth of the westward-leaning sun as she walked toward the colorful little downtown park where she’d agreed to meet Garrett. The normally fascinating mix of aged brick buildings and sleek modern art installations faded into the background this night. Because prove it Jack had. Most decisively.

  He and Annabelle seemed a perfect match, and they’d known it lightning fast. Granted, frontier courtships could move quickly. But many of those marriages were for more practical reasons. Reasons that weren’t quite enough for Annabelle Collins. It was admirable tenacity—or sheer stubbornness—to hold out for a love match in an era when such insistence was impractical at best and risky at worst.

  The walk signal lit, and Sloane crossed the street, skirt swishing around her legs, high heels clicking on the sidewalk, and a jealous twinge in her heart. She’d never experienced anything close to what Annabelle described. Her tendency to hold people at arm’s length no doubt had something to do with it, but even when she noticed a good-looking guy, there’d never been fireworks or wobbly knees or missed heartbeats. Like Garrett, who sat at a bright orange table, head bowed over his phone. Empirically, he was an attractive man, but—

  He looked up, and a slow smile spread over his face.

  Whoa.

  Were his eyes always that bright? That blue?

  He stood, stashed his phone, and started toward her. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Her heart gave a curious ker-thump, and her knees seemed a bit less sturdy.

  “You look …” The lines bracketing Garrett’s mouth deepened, and his eyes shone with the same intensity they had the other night at Marty’s. “That dress is … you look … nice.”

  “Thanks.” Never had the word nice rippled with the implication of words he could’ve chosen instead. And never had it instantly brought a spark to her heart and a smile to her lips.

  Hmm. Perhaps she should spend less time buried in the musings of lovestruck nineteen-year-olds.

  Garrett turned his attention to a color-splashed taco truck, and the two made their way toward the cluster of people waiting in line. He didn’t look half bad himself in that sun-dappled navy jacket and crisp plaid shirt. A pocket square poked out from the left side of the jacket, and he’d left the top buttons of the blue-and-white shirt undone just enough to make her mind go places it probably shouldn’t.

  Knock it off. This was Garrett. Her friend. Her fellow jazz aficionado. And the man who, if that real estate appointment this afternoon was any indication, could very well sell that beautiful house and not think twice about it.

  But he was also the first man to make her feel anything close to the attraction Annabelle had for Jack.

  Minutes later, they sat at a metal table beneath a bright blue umbrella, two steaming baskets of mouthwatering street tacos before them.

  “Would you mind if I said a blessing?” Garrett asked as Sloane spread a napkin on her lap.

  She smiled across at him. “Not at all.”

  It surprised her when he reached for her hand, but she wasn’t about to object. His fingers wrapped hers in a gentle embrace, yet they had strength to them too. Regardless of how long it had been since they danced across a piano, they’d doubtless remember how.

  When he finished praying, he released her hand but held her gaze. “Before we get too far, I want to apologize.”

  She paused in her reach for a taco. “What for?”

  “For the real estate agent this afternoon. I’m sorry if it was awkward. That … wasn’t the way I wanted you to find out.”

  His words started a slow leak in the balloon of her mood. “So you’re selling the house?”

  “It’s not definite. But my grandma’s not getting any better.” His gaze shimmered in the sunlight. “She’s happy at home, and for now she’s safe. But Alzheimer’s is so wildly unpredictable, we don’t know ho
w long that’ll be the case, so it seemed wise to start formulating some plans.”

  The shadows beneath his eyes and the tightness around his lips underscored his burden, and her heart went out to him. He bore up bravely, but the weight of the decisions he faced, of his grandmother’s future, had to be staggering.

  “The meeting with Kimberly was mostly a fact-finding mission. I wanted to know how much work the house needs, what we could reasonably expect from a sale. And she gave me a lot of options to think about.”

  Was selling to Warren Williams one of those options? Sloane bit back the question. Much as she loved the house, she had no claim on it. The decision was Garrett’s to make, and he had to do right by his grandmother. As his friend, Sloane needed to support him, not add to his already-obvious strain.

  But could she support his selling to Warren Williams or another of his ilk? Could she stand by while that beautiful piece of paradise was plowed under to make room for another interchangeable subdivision?

  She grabbed her taco and took a far larger bite than decorum dictated. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

  But the possibility loomed, and the bite went down with effort. Perhaps sheerly because of its size.

  Or the heaping helping of emotions that struggled down with it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Garrett strolled along the brick street outside Fitzy’s, Sloane by his side. She seemed to have a destination in mind, so he fell into contented step with her, awash in a pleasant buzz of great music, a gorgeous evening, and the nearness of someone he truly connected with.

  Connection—putting people at ease, letting them know he cared—was the soul of his job. But those connections were ultimately a means to an end. A vehicle to gain his clients’ trust. There was always an agenda.

  Connecting with Sloane, though, was simply the natural fusing of similar minds and hearts. There was no agenda driving it. No guessing games either. Not like most of the women he’d dated, where everything was stiff and stilted, all plastic smiles and best foot forward and no, please, I insist, let me get the check.