Tennessee Rescue. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ could make an attempt to slide into the culture, but it would never work. She knew where she belonged, and it wasn’t in Williamston. And definitely not across the street from Seth Logan.

      * * *

      “WHOO-EE!” SONNY SAID. He hooked his thumbs into his tarpaulin-size overalls and grinned at Seth. “Yum, yum! She lives right across the street from you?”

      “Put your eyes back in your head, Mr. Mayor, before I blacken both of them for you.”

      “Now, Seth, I didn’t mean a thing by it. I’m a happily married man. Besides, Nadine would tear my head off at the shoulders if I so much as looked at another woman. And no way would I give up Nadine’s beaten biscuits for a roll in the hay with somebody else. But you—” he pointed at Seth “—are no longer a married man and that—” he pointed to Emma’s SUV as it pulled out of the parking lot “—is therefore fair game.”

      Seth didn’t feel like discussing Emma as though she were a side of beef with a man who looked as though he could eat one at a single sitting. “She’s in a committed relationship.” He very nearly bit his tongue. Committed relationship? Not if Emma stuck to her guns after that phone call last night, not to mention her response to that wholly inappropriate kiss he’d planted on her.

      Still, she’d been clear that living in Aunt Martha’s house was a stopgap measure for a woman who was intended for mansions and French wine. All he knew about French wine was that he couldn’t afford it. Mansions? Out of the question.

      “I’m late for work,” he said. “Thanks, Sonny.”

      “No thanks needed.” Sonny clapped Seth on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “You get that kennel up, and then you pay some attention to that young lady.”

      Seth decided to stop by the café and pick up a couple of egg sandwiches and a large coffee. When he was close to the turn for the parking lot, however, he saw Emma’s SUV already there with no one in it. Darn! If he went inside now, she really would think he was stalking her. He drove by and stopped at the drive-in. The food wasn’t half as good as at the café, but the coffee was hot and the sausage biscuits sufficiently greasy. He should’ve felt good about this morning. Instead, he felt as though he was in way over his head, and not just with the construction.

      * * *

      THE MINUTE EMMA walked into the café, conversation stopped and every eye swiveled to stare at her. Oh, great. Apparently a stranger was sufficiently rare to count as a treat. She put on her coolest expression, noted the sign at the cash register that said, “Y’all seat yourself,” looked around and spotted Barbara, the vet, waving at her. She pasted on a smile and walked over.

      “Join me, please,” Barbara said.

      Emma couldn’t very well refuse. Besides, not only did she like Barbara, but the vet was a conduit to Seth Logan. Emma needed somebody to clue her in on the man. She couldn’t figure him out at all. He obviously had the education and the cultural skills to move up whatever career ladder he chose. Yet here he was, catching poachers and checking fishing licenses—or she supposed that was what he did. He didn’t seem to be lazy, not if he planned to help her build the kennel.

      “The café’s about the only decent restaurant in Williamston,” Barbara said.

      The waitress laid a menu on the table and, without asking, set down a mug of coffee. “You want cream?” It came out like an accusation.

      Emma shook her head. “No, thanks. Just a couple of poached eggs, bacon and wheat toast, please.”

      “Huh. We don’t do much egg poaching. Hard or soft?”

      “Uh, medium?”

      “Grits or hash browns?”

      “No thank you.”

      “Velma,” Barbara said, “this is Emma French. She’s Miss Martha’s niece and has moved into her old house.”

      Emma felt her ears redden. She was certain everyone in the place had heard Barbara’s introduction. She might as well be wearing a sign on her back that said “outsider.”

      “Nice to see somebody fixing up that place,” a man in a business suit said from the next table. “Welcome to Williamston.” He swung his chair around and held out his hand. “Doug Eldridge.”

      “How do you do?”

      “He’s the local doctor,” Barbara said.

      “Yeah. Barbara heals the animals. I try to heal the humans. She’s better at her job than I am at mine. At least to hear her tell it. But if you need me, I’m in the book. And unless you want to drive to Memphis, I’m your best bet.”

      “More like your only bet,” Velma said and walked behind the counter to hang the order for Emma’s breakfast on one of the clips by the kitchen.

      “How are the you-know-whos?” Barbara asked Emma.

      “Fine, I guess. Lively, at any rate. Seth says I need an outside cage for them. We came into town to get stuff to build it. He says he’s going to help, but I don’t see how he has the time. What does he actually do at his job? I don’t know a thing about him.”

      Barbara held out her mug. Velma filled it on her way by the table.

      “The first thing you want to know is whether or not he’s married. He’s divorced, and just as well. No children. Married to his job. Great guy as long as you stay on his good side.”

      “And if you don’t?”

      “He’ll make you wish you had.”

      “How come it’s better that he’s divorced?”

      “Clare was a rip-snorting spoiled brat who absolutely hated living in the country, where she had to drive thirty miles for a mani-pedi up to her high standards.” Barbara glanced down at Emma’s disintegrating fingernails. “She used to drive into Memphis to get her hair cut.”

      Emma reddened. “I know my hands look awful. I need to at least take the polish off. I just haven’t had time what with the you-know-whos to find my polish remover. If Seth does build the cage, how do I pay him?”

      “Don’t you dare! Talk about getting on his bad side! Fix him a good dinner. That’s assuming you can cook. This is the first time since Clare divorced him, moved to Nashville and remarried that he’s shown any interest in doing anything other than his job. He’s developing a reputation as a real hardnose. His dog, Rambler, died six months ago and he still doesn’t have another. I haven’t found the perfect one for him yet, but I will. Anyway, he’ll probably ask Earl—that’s his partner—and maybe a couple of the other guys to help him. So you’re really interested in this fostering animals thing?”

      “I have no idea. I’m stuck with it now, but I don’t know how it works. Obviously I screwed up with my first attempt by picking the you-know-whos instead of a baby rabbit.”

      “You had the right instincts. We don’t judge on a cuteness quotient. I’ve fostered baby turkey buzzards. Cute they are not, except to a mother turkey buzzard. But we need them. We’d be up to our ears in roadkill otherwise. I call ’em СКАЧАТЬ