That Touch of Pink (7 page)

“So you protected Nora?” When he nodded, she said, “Then I don't understand how that adds up to trouble.”

“His folks were prominent in the community and they threatened legal action. After arbitration and negotiation, it seemed best for me to leave town and join the army.”

“Oh, Riley, that seems so unfair,” she said.

He shrugged. “It worked out for the best. I liked the military.”

“But your education,” she said, her expression showing her distress for him.

No, not him. An educator's concern for a student's lost opportunity. “I went to college in the army. There are programs. I got a master's in business.”

“I'm glad. But it still seems unfair. Essentially, they punished you for doing the right thing.”

It had been his first lesson in how going above and beyond the call of duty could blow up in your face. But once hadn't been enough. He'd gotten a refresher course with Barb.

They finally reached the park, and he stopped by the picnic benches under the trees. “Didn't your mother ever tell you life isn't always fair?”

“Yes.” She set the picnic basket down, then flexed her fingers. “But—”

“We're going to walk around the track and work on endurance,” he interrupted, not wanting to rehash the past.

“I better intercept Kimmie. If she gets to the swings, you can forget about doing laps.”

After she caught up with her daughter, Riley picked a starting point and set a slow but steady pace. Kimmie made it halfway around the track before her attention wandered and she slowed to pick up rocks, leaves and twigs. On the second lap, she decided to walk backward, do cartwheels and skip.

When they started a third, she said, “I'm tired.”

He decided to explain pacing herself another time. “If you push yourself a little bit farther now,” he said, “next time you won't get tired as soon.”

“Maybe we should take a rest,” Abby suggested.

“If your survival depended on it, would you take a rest?”

“Under certain circumstances. Isn't it advantageous to preserve one's strength?” she asked.

“Sometimes. But here's the thing. There have been stories on the news lately about accidents in remote areas. Cars going off the road in desolate places. It can happen, and survival depends on skill and knowledge.”

“I've heard.” She looked at her daughter, who was dragging herself along as if she were on her last legs. “So you're saying The Bluebonnets is more than the social lark I thought when she joined?”

“I hadn't thought about it that way. But, yeah. Kimmie might have done it because of her friend. But now that she's involved, there are practical reasons for learning these skills. Knowledge builds self-confidence.”

“You have enough to build a skyscraper with nothing but toothpicks and chewing gum,” Abby said, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked up at him.

He couldn't help it. He laughed. Out loud. “Very funny.”

Instead of agreeing, she looked startled. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I'm not sure I've seen you do that before.”

“What?” he asked again.

“Laugh.” She studied him. “There have been a few smiles and a couple of grins, but no laughter. You should do it more often. Looks good on you.”

Was laughter so rare for him? Maybe. Riley wasn't sure. But he realized that being around Abby made the impulse natural. She was quick-witted, funny and pretty
as a picture with her pink cheeks and strands of brown silky hair fluttering around her face. And always those dimples lying in wait to ambush him.

“I'm too tired,” Kimmie said, stopping in front of him.

Riley was grateful for the interruption. That particular train of thought was like walking through a minefield. “We just have a little bit more to go.”

“I can't walk any more.” The little girl bent at the waist and let her upper body go limp, then swung her arms from side to side.

He looked down at her. “What have we here? Rebellion in the ranks?”

“Sounds more like whining to me,” Abby commented.

He glanced at her, then down at her daughter. “Listen up. There's no whining in basic training.”

“But—”

He held up a finger, and the child huffed out a breath before turning away. “We're going to finish a mile.”

She stomped ahead, proving she still had some juice left. When she got close to the starting point that marked a mile around the track, she started to run. One minute she was fine, the next she'd gone down in the dirt.

“Kimmie,” Abby said, running toward the little girl.

Riley kicked it into high gear, too, and with his long stride, he reached the little girl just moments before her mother. “You okay, kiddo?” he asked.

She nodded even as she cradled her leg. “Mommy, I hurt myself.”

“Yeah, sweetie, I see that.”

He could see, too. It was a pretty good scrape. Blood started oozing, then mixed with dirt and pebbles. It must
sting like a son of a gun. Surprisingly, the child, so dramatic about being tired just moments before, was doing her darnedest not to let go of the tears that were gathered in her eyes.

“I think basic training is over for today,” he said.

“But I didn't go over the finish line,” she pointed out, sniffling. “And I'm not cryin'.”

Close, he thought. But there were no actual tears, and he knew it hurt.

He was proud of her. “How about we go back to the house and have a lesson in wound care. If The Bluebonnets don't have a first aid badge, they should. It's important to know how to properly take care of scrapes so they don't get infected. Nothing can derail a mission faster than infections.”

“Riley's right, Kim. Taking care of your injury doesn't mean you're a quitter.”

He lifted the child in his arms. “Definitely not.”

One of the reasons he'd decided to complete the mission was because he didn't want this little girl to embrace her father's example of giving up and walking away. Watching her stoic effort to hold herself together showed him she was a miniature Abby—gutsy and strong. Like mother, like daughter.

He wasn't a quitter, but you couldn't quit what you never started. And that was his goal. To not start something he had no intention of finishing with Abby Walsh. He'd committed to this assignment and he would go the distance. But even he had to admit, in all his years as a soldier, he'd never undertaken a mission quite like Operation Backpack Barbie and her single mom.

If he was going to complete this one without an emotional ambush, he needed to focus on the finish line and keep his guard up.

“B
ring her in here,” Abby said, leading the way to the family room. “Just put her on the sofa. I'll get stuff to clean and disinfect her knee.”

“Can I have a Band-Aid?” Kimmie asked as Riley followed directions and gently set her down.

The words stopped Abby on her way out of the room and she smiled. Kimmie loved Band-Aids and frequently her request was vetoed when she wanted one for a boo-boo invisible to the naked eye. “Of course you can have a Band-Aid.”

Riley met her gaze and, surprisingly, there was a twinkle in his eyes. Imagine that. “In the army,” he said, “it's regulation to cover a wound to keep out dirt.”

Smiling, Abby went into the downstairs bathroom where she kept the supplies, but she could hear muffled voices from the other room. Apparently his monosyllabic tendencies didn't extend to children. The man was
a complete enigma. First, he categorically had refused to do what he had volunteered to do; then he had done a complete about-face and taken them camping. It wasn't his fault the trip had been a dismal failure. He was in the clear. But instead of retreating, he had had another change of heart and decided to put in more time than originally donated so Kimmie could earn her badges. Abby just didn't get him.

She hurried back to the family room. When Riley moved and gave her the space to do the honors, Kimmie pulled her knee back. “I want Riley to fix my boo-boo. I want him to show me how he did it in the army.”

“You don't have to,” Abby said to him.

“I don't mind.” He rubbed his neck and met her gaze. “I'm lying. I do mind. Don't get me wrong. I've done my share of first aid, but usually the limb in question was a lot bigger and—”

“The patients were soldiers?”

“Well, yeah. But it has to be done and if she wants me to…”

“Please, Riley,” Kimmie pleaded.

“Okay.” He looked around. “It would help if we prop her leg over the sink. I want to pour the hydrogen peroxide over it, and you probably don't want that on the carpet.”

“It wouldn't be my first choice,” she agreed.

He scooped Kimmie up again, carried her into the kitchen and set her on the counter. Then he gently stretched out her leg, bracing the back of her knee on the separator between the two sinks.

He picked up the bottle of disinfectant and studied
the little girl whose dramatic facial expression suggested she was expecting amputation without anesthesia.

“Keep in mind,” Abby told him, “that Kimmie has a flair for the dramatic.”

After a moment of assessment, he unscrewed the bottle's top and said, “Why don't you pour it on, Kimmie? If it stings too much, you can stop.”

Kimmie looked deep in thought, then nodded solemnly. Riley held out the large, economy-sized bottle and helped her hold it. If there was stinging, Abby couldn't tell. Her daughter concentrated on pouring the liquid, completely distracted from any discomfort. Stroke of genius letting her help. They watched the disinfectant bubble and make clean tracks through the dirt on her leg. He took the gauze Abby held out and gently washed up the area, then checked to make sure there weren't any pebbles left in the scrape.

“Here's the antibiotic ointment,” she said, handing him the tube.

“I wanna do it.”

Riley nodded and handed it to Kimmie. She centered her attention on dabbing the goo over the scrape like Picasso spreading paint on a masterpiece. And he let her take all the time she needed.

Finally the little girl held out the tube. “I'm done. Ready for my Band-Aid.”

Abby held up several. “Ariel? Belle? Or Aurora?”

“Belle,” Kimmie said, tapping her lip with her finger. “No. I mean Ariel.”

“You name your Band-Aids?” Looking confused, Riley glanced from her to Kimmie.

Abby couldn't help laughing. This had to be so sur
real for him. “These are cartoon characters—the princess collection.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding with comprehension. “I should have known. Very appropriate.”

“Ariel, it is,” she said to the child.

“If it falls off,” Kimmie said, “then I'll use Belle.”

Abby handed the oblong package to Riley and watched as he performed the final step of first aid with the same gentle care he'd used from the start. He had large hands, very competent. Who knew such a big man could be so tender? So gentle? Did he take as much care when he made love to a woman? Was he as tender when stroking her body after kissing her senseless?

Her pulse spiked and she shook her head to clear it of the sudden unwelcome erotic images. If he'd been the same jerk/flake/slacker she'd met in his office that first day, she could easily have resisted him. But he wasn't. There were layers to him she'd never suspected. Yes, he was a gung-ho, gorgeous guy, but he was also conscientious and, she suspected, soft-hearted. All of this added up to the fact that she was in a whole lot of trouble.

“You're very good with kids,” Abby blurted out, adding to her trouble quotient.

“Do you have any kids?” Kimmie asked him.

“No.” The single word was clipped, and his mouth hardened into a straight line.

Interesting reaction from Mr. Cool, Abby thought. There was something he wasn't saying. But she didn't feel it was right to pry. She already knew he wasn't married. That left separated, divorced or already involved with someone. But she could almost see the wheels in Kimmie's head turning. And her daughter
hadn't yet developed the filter between her brain and her mouth that screened out inappropriate questions. Abby braced herself.

Kimmie stared up at him. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” This time the corners of his mouth softened and just barely curved up.

Abby wanted to smile, too. Because he wasn't involved with anyone. It was stupid to be pleased that he was available, because he wasn't available to her. She wouldn't let him be. But, like her daughter, she was filter challenged. The one between her brain and her heart didn't do a great job screening out inappropriate attraction. She'd have to work harder at protecting herself.

Riley inspected Kimmie's knee. “I think you're going to live. But there might be a little scar.”

Then he lifted her and started to set her on the kitchen floor. Kimmie wrapped her arms around his neck. “I don't know if I can walk.”

“See?” Abby said. “A well-developed dramatic flair.”

“I'll give you a ride to the sofa,” he said, carrying her easily.

With her in his arms, he walked into the family room and settled her in a semi-reclining position on the sofa. At her direction, he slid a throw pillow under her knee. “She gives orders like a general,” he commented.

“Tell me about it,” Abby said.

He studied the little girl, then seemed satisfied that she was comfortable. Meeting Abby's gaze he said, “I guess I should go.”

“No,” Kimmie protested. “I don't want you to leave.”

Neither did Abby. Although, unlike her child who put
into words whatever thought popped into her head, Chinese water torture couldn't drag the admission out of Abby.

“We're finished for today,” he said, nodding toward her injured knee. “We should probably wait a few days to train again. When your knee doesn't hurt.”

“But we haven't had lunch yet,” the child protested. “Mommy made a picnic and we didn't eat it. There's a sandwich for you.”

“Don't feel like you're on the spot,” Abby told him. “However, I feel compelled to point out that she was a brave little soldier and such behavior should be rewarded. If you could possibly postpone whatever it is you have to do, there's a sandwich with your name on it.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “To be honest, there's nothing waiting for me but an empty apartment.”

“Does that mean you can stay?” Kim asked.

“It does. And thanks,” he said to Abby.

“My pleasure.”

It scared Abby how very true those words were. She was way too pleased that he was sticking around, which meant she needed to get a handle on this—whatever it was—real soon. To do that she needed more information on him. More than the fact that he wasn't married and didn't have kids or a girlfriend. After making Kimmie comfortable on the couch with a movie in the DVD player, she went into the kitchen and Riley followed.

She unpacked the picnic basket and set out paper plates and napkins. “So you don't have a girlfriend,” she said as casually as possible, continuing her six-year-old's interrogation. “Were you ever married?”

He stared thoughtfully at her. “I'm not exactly sure how that first statement leads into the question. But, yes.”

So he was married once upon a time. “You're divorced?”

“Yes.”

“And you never had children?”

“I believe that was asked and answered.”

“So it was. It's just that you're so good with Kim. I can't help wondering how you got that way. Instinct? On-the-job training? Experience?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I'm a natural.”

She tipped her head to the side and studied him. “You don't give out much information.”

“Military training, I guess.”

“So you can take the man out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the man?”

“So it seems.” But his expression had turned dark, intense. Painful?

She didn't know him well enough to make a judgment about that. But she figured she'd inadvertently stepped into a verbal minefield. And it bothered her that she might have brought up memories that somehow hurt him. In spite of all her unanswered questions, she needed to put a lid on her curiosity and change the subject.

“I don't think I thanked you for carrying Kimmie home.”

“My pleasure,” he said, echoing her words.

“It wasn't a major trauma, and she could have made it under her own steam. But having your support made the whole situation less traumatic.”

“Do you miss it, since the divorce? The support, I mean?”

Abby thought about the question. Her ex-husband had stuck with her until after she was settled in her job,
but he'd never really been there. “You can't miss what you never had.” She rested her back against the counter. “Fred was always off tilting at windmills and chasing dreams that never panned out. For all I know, he's still doing it.”

She turned away so he wouldn't see anything in her eyes that she didn't want him to. Opening the cupboard, she reached for the tall iced tea glasses on the second shelf. They were just beyond her grasp and suddenly Riley was beside her.

“Let me,” he said.

She stepped back, but not quite soon enough or far enough to avoid feeling the heat of his body. The way he filled out jeans and a T-shirt should be declared illegal. Before she could finish processing the thought and get over it, he pulled the glasses down and half turned so that their bodies brushed. Abby was sure that if it had been dark, she'd have seen sparks dancing between them.

Worse, the way his gaze narrowed told her he'd noticed the contact, too. His eyes locked onto her mouth and his chest rose and fell a little faster. He set the glasses on the counter and stared at her for a heartbeat. Then his head lowered toward her, just a fraction. She held her breath, wondering if he planned to touch his lips to hers.

“Mommy?”

The single word snapped him to attention. They jumped apart as if her father had suddenly appeared with a shotgun to defend her honor. Abby blew out a breath. “What, Kim?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Lunch is ready.”

As she hustled into the family room to take her daughter a plate, Abby wondered what had just happened. Had Riley been about to kiss her? She desperately wanted to believe the answer to that question was no because of how much she wanted it to be yes. She'd
wanted
to feel the touch of his lips to hers. Her profound disappointment at the interruption told her how wrong it would be to let this—whatever it was—between them get out of control.

Their relationship was task-based. When they'd reached their goal, all contact between them would cease and desist. She needed to remember that.

 

“Mommy says I can't play with matches,” Kimmie said, brushing her brunette bangs out of her eyes.

Riley met her serious gaze. “These aren't matches. They're sticks. And if you rub them together hard and fast you get sparks. If the sparks are close enough to dry kindling, fire happens.”

The little girl blinked up at him. “Mommy says you shouldn't play with fire.”

The warning was too late, Riley thought, looking at Abby. He'd known she fell into the “playing with fire” category the moment he'd seen her. And nothing that had happened since had changed his mind. Especially the fact that the last time he'd seen her, he'd come close to kissing her. He hadn't planned to. But it set off a slew of warning bells that had reverberated through his system, followed by a solemn vow to never let it happen again.

“I already explained to Kimmie that fire isn't dangerous if you know what you're doing and you're careful. Want to help me out here?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off Abby's mouth.

“Nope. It's fun watching you try to reason with a six-year-old. Welcome to my world.” Her wicked grin sent a shaft of heat straight through him. “Sorry. I couldn't resist.”

That was tough for him, too. Especially when every time he glanced at her mouth, he wanted to take his solemn vow and shove it. But that thinking was counterproductive to today's operation. Kimmie's scraped knee had healed for several days and now he'd brought them back to the park for a lesson in the fine art and techniques of building a campfire.

Abby looked into the steel barbecue pit provided for public use by the park service. He'd assembled rocks and placed them in a circle with dry leaves and kindling in the center. The configuration was waiting for sparks, and there were plenty arcing between him and Abby.