Reclaimed (24 page)

“Nope. I haven’t inspected that “big tub for the horse” in a while.” He moved toward the barn. “I think we should go make sure it still holds water.”

Suzanna kicked with both legs. “Don’t you dare drop me in that tank.”

Paul laughed, his stride set on a mission.

“Andrea!” Suzanna called, still squirming. “Help!”

He could hear his sister laugh, though she sounded as though she were moving away. “He’s ticklish, Suz. That’s all I’ve got. Good luck with it.”

A car door slammed, followed by another, and then her pickup rumbled to a start. Dre was leaving. How intuitive of her. He always did love that girl. Okay, not always, but he’d keep her for sure.

Suzanna traced a line from his hip up to his arm, brushing over his sensitive ribs. Maybe he’d been overly generous with his affection toward his sister. The snitch. He jerked away from Suzanna’s evil touch.

“No.” He reached around his back with one hand and caught her torturous fingers. “No tickling.”

Suzanna’s sinister laugh set his skin tingling as she went for his other side. He danced away again and shifted her around his shoulders. Though she was more intelligent and agile than a calf, he had her secured and defenseless before he made it to the corral.

“Please, Paul.” Suzanna still wiggled, her breathless voice brushing his neck. “I had to break ice in that tank this morning. Please don’t throw me in.”

Paul stopped at the gate. “How much is it worth to you?”

A kiss. A long, deep kiss that redefines what I am to you.

He stared into her eyes, her face resting on his shoulder so near he could feel the warmth of her sweet breath against his jaw. Laughter sifted away, and he felt her heart kick against his shoulder.

Maybe the redefining moment was now.

The chain around her neck slipped, and the gold of whatever was on the end peeked from her collar. Her gaze darted to the ground, but he caught the alarm before she could hide it.

Maybe not now. Not ever? Heaven help him.

Paul lowered her to the ground. Setting her securely upright, he forced his hands away. Difficult command to master. He craved the warmth of her breath against his skin, the rhythmic beat of her heart near his own, and the fulfilling comfort of her frame filling his arms.

Fanciful wishes. Hand to her throat, she took a subtle, but telling step backward.

A dull pain gripped his insides. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Pickle.”

No freezing water tanks. No stolen kisses. Hopefully, she understood both.

TWENTY-THREE

“I can’t come Thanksgiving.” Suzanna sighed as she slumped against Andrea’s kitchen bar stool.

She’d wanted to taste the holiday with the Kents. To experience a full stomach alongside a spirit of joy, rather than indigestion born of resentment.

“What do you mean?” Andrea poured two mugs of coffee and brought them to the island.

“Something came up…” Suzanna fingered the ring hidden against her skin.

Andrea looked at her with an unvoiced question.

“It has nothing to do with the rumor.”

Nearly a month gone by, and the thing was still as hot as a potato out of an oven. No doubt Shelby kept it fresh in everyone’s mind with her gift of gab and stores of misinformation.

How on earth did the woman know how often Paul stopped for coffee? And that he was often at her house sometime before eight in the morning? Where was she getting that stuff?

The truth didn’t look good, innocent though it may be. Suzanna wondered when Paul would change his habits, though it made her sad to think that it was inevitable.

“Really?” Andrea sounded less than convinced.

“Really.” Suzanna settled her mind on the conversation at hand. “My mother called. She’ll be out Thursday and plans to stay the weekend.”

Andrea sat up, her eyes round. “That’s wonderful. How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

Wonderful? Not really. Suzanna’s stomach had been queasy since she’d gotten the call two days ago. She hadn’t spent a holiday with her mother in years.

“My father’s funeral.”

Half-truth. No, not really. She’d
seen
Mother there. It shocked her, but there she sat, back left corner, her giant ice rink of a rock contrasting just so against her proper black suit. Had she married her wealthy lover yet? For a woman who preached propriety since before Suzanna could understand what the word meant, she sure lived scandalously.

There was that indigestion. A full two days early. Ugh.

“Will it be nice to get together again?” Andrea grinned, certainly thinking of her own mother-daughter relationship. The one where her mama still called her Bumpkin, held her hand when they talked heart-to-heart, and embraced who Andrea was with admiration and cheer.

Add envy to white lies for the day’s sin count. How did God work that, anyway? Certainly by now, His list marked “the hopelessly stained Suzanna Wilton Cumberland” had run out of room. Who could stand before a God who kept track?

Her stomach burned.

“I’m not sure why she decided to come.” Suzanna carefully removed the edge from her voice. “She has a busy schedule, so it is a surprise.”

“How nice.” Andrea punctuated her approval with a nod. “Will we get to meet her?”

Good land of grain, she hoped not. Mother could find something wrong with Pollyanna Whittier. Suzanna would do her utmost to keep her beloved friends from Mother’s scrupulous evaluation.

Suzanna couldn’t put that nicely. She shrugged and searched for a new topic.

“My brother didn’t really throw you in the horse tank, did he?”

Thank goodness. How did Andrea always know when to switch gears?

“No, he didn’t. Made me promise cinnamon rolls in exchange for dry warmth and dignity.” Suzanna smiled, trying to block the heat moving toward her face. “Ruthless, isn’t he?”

Andrea held a silent stare, locking eye contact with Suzanna. A hint of a smile lurked on her lips, matching the suggestion of laughter in her eyes. “Little boys never do grow up.”

What did that mean? Suzanna tried to stop the question as it formed in her head, as well as the answers that tagged along with it. Paul hadn’t pursued anything with her as the week had passed. He still came, still teased, still drank her coffee, but since he set her down next to the corral fence, he hadn’t touched her. At all. Not a brush of their fingers when she passed a mug to him. Not a squeeze of her shoulder when he thanked her and set out for the day. He’d been noticeably careful, in fact, with any physical contact—which was to say there was none.

Her heart sank into her upset stomach. She should have listened to her more sensible self. Indifference doesn’t hurt. Hope is brutally disappointing. When had she cultivated that cruel sapling of misery?

And here Andrea was, trying to add sunshine to that weed of destruction that needed—Cut. Pulled. Buried. Better yet, burned.

“What is Kelsey working on these days?” Avoidance was a much easier solution.

Andrea cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. She and Dad were hard at it Sunday afternoon.” Her smile resurfaced, genuine and pretty. “Thank you so much for taking an interest in her. She has bloomed under your attention the past few weeks. I can’t tell you how often I’ve prayed for a friend for her.” She laughed. “God certainly does surprise me with His answers. He’s so good.”

Apparently a comfortable conversation was simply not in the cards this afternoon.

“I enjoy Kelsey very much.”

There. That should steer things in a clear direction. Simple. True. And it left out Mother, Paul, and God.

Paul took his chair between Kiera and Keegan, his regular seating arrangement for any given holiday. In years gone by, he didn’t dwell on it, even as other couples in the room paired off and inevitably shared how thankful they were for their partner as the corncob passed from hand to hand. This year, however, he’d recklessly nourished a far-off hope that Suzanna would take the seat by his side, and he’d be able to, at the very least, state how happy he was she’d become his neighbor. And if things had gone more to his preference, he’d have been allowed to squeeze her hand, to whisper later how happy he was she’d become so much more.

Fruitless daydreams. Kiera and Keegan were certainly worthy dinner companions, and he was most definitely thankful for them.

Kelsey dropped onto the chair across from him. “I wish Suzanna could’ve come today.”

She looked him dead on, her eyes communicating knowledge that went beyond her twelve years.

“Me too, Kels.” Paul leaned on the table with both arms.

She leaned in too. “Do you think she’s having fun with her mom?”

Doubt it. He recounted her reaction every time the woman came up in conversation: stiff spine, tight mouth, cold stare. No, Suzanna’s Thanksgiving was most likely miserable.

“Hope so.” He couldn’t manage a smile.

Kelsey looked at her place setting. She pressed two fingers along the fold of her orange cloth napkin and drew in a long breath. “I painted something for her.” She tipped her face back to him. “Do you think we could go over later so I could give it to her?”

Sunshine parted the dreary fog in his mind. “I think that’s an awesome plan, Kels. She’ll love it. We’ll go after dinner.”

Kelsey smiled, and Paul felt gratitude light his heart. He’d worked for years to gain the same kind of closeness with Kelsey that he had with Kiera and Keegan. She loved him, he knew that, but their bond wasn’t as tight. Now, with Suzanna in the mix, he shared something unique with Kelsey.

They were alike, Suzanna and Kelsey. A striking epiphany. Kelsey retreated into herself, and she was guarded, especially when it came to something painful. Like Dad’s stroke. Kiera had cried openly. She’d crawled into his lap and sobbed for her grandpa. Keegan had held his hand with tears running freely. Kelsey had sat alone in the hospital chair—stiff, staring at nothing. She’d come across as detached, but it was hurt, not indifference, that kept her from the others.

Suddenly he knew them both. Understood them both. Kelsey handled her broken heart with distance. Suzanna’s sharp edge kept guard over a whole lot of pain.

Paul reached across the table, brushing Kelsey’s knuckles. She hesitated but then lifted her fingers to curl around his. Through the innocence of her open gaze, he caught a glimpse of her heart. Precious and lovely.

A tiny smile settled on her lips as if she understood what had just happened. Certainly she did. It wasn’t everyone she’d let in like that. The privilege made his heart swell.

“We should go out for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Of course we should, Mother.

Suzanna ground her teeth as she pushed her mitted hands into the hot oven. Never mind I put this bird in at five this morning. Never mind I spent a small fortune on a ridiculously extravagant dinner because you called to say you were coming.

How could she be surprised? Nothing ever suited Mother. The woman could rave about the color purple, and Suzanna would wear a lavender sweater, only to hear how the weave was too thick—it made Suzanna’s wide shoulders look masculine. And food? Why had she bothered?

Did you use real butter on the potatoes, Suzanna?

Option A: Yes.

That was foolish, my dear. You’ll never get down to a 4 with those kinds of eating habits.

Option B: No.

Sparing expense should only be done on the side. One must use the best when it comes to something front and center.

“We can’t go out, Mother.” Suzanna slid the roaster onto the hot pad waiting on the island. “This is a small town, and nothing is open for the holiday.”

She peeled the foil back, and a curl of turkey-infused steam rolled up to her face. Juice bubbled around the golden-brown bird. Perfect.

“Such a large bird for only the two of us.” Mother tsked. “I’ve taken to Cornish hens, dear. They’re a much more reasonable size for a woman without a family.”

Two jabs in one sentence. Awesome.

“I can freeze the meat in smaller portions. Jason and I used to do it often.”

Mother frowned. “Certainly, Jason’s dietitian told you fresh food is always better.”

Good heavens. Why was she here?

“I’ve fresh green beans.” Suzanna tried to keep her voice a cheerful tone. “We’ll steam them. And I picked the apples myself the last of October.”

“Did you ask the farmer if he grows organically?”

No, that would be rude
. “They came from a friend’s house. She lives down the road, and her family is the picture of health. I’m sure it’s fine.”             

“Well”—Mother slipped onto a chair—“I suppose asking would have been awkward, but really, you should grow your own produce out here. These farmers’ wives are always dumping some sort of chemical on their plants to win a silly ribbon at the fair. You simply must be careful.”