Small-Town Hearts. Ruth Herne Logan

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      “Meggie, he doesn’t know where the store is,” Ben exclaimed, excited and alarmed. “How will he f-find us if he doesn’t know where we are?”

      “He makes a good point.” Danny stepped forward, a part of him wondering why her untrusting expression didn’t match the spritely voice.

      She leveled him a look that offered warning and resignation, then seemed to rethink her choices. Without a sound she reached into the old-world basket, withdrew a card, handed it to him and touched Ben’s arm again. Ben went along this time, but he paused a store-width away, turned back and hollered, “See you later, Mister!”

      “I’ll be there, Ben.”

      Megan Russo heard the words and bit back a retort. First, the guy seemed sincere, but experience had taught her that sincerity and good-looking men were not exactly synonymous, even guys with magnetizing gray eyes, wonderfully sculpted square chins and short, dark, almost military hair. If she was judging on a “yum-factor,” which she most assuredly was not, this guy topped the meter.

      Luckily, she’d chucked her meter into the trash last fall when her former fiancé left her waiting at the church, calling off their wedding by text message.

      Second, she refused to carry things any further in Ben’s hearing. Once Ben’s heart was set on something, nothing short of a good night’s sleep could shake it loose. The simplicity of that sounded endearing, until Ben latched on to something the family didn’t control and couldn’t deliver. Heartbreak came easy to her younger brother.

      “Ben, I’m working on fudge this morning. Would you like to help?”

      “Can I ch-chop the nuts?”

      “Absolutely. Save my tired arms.”

      He grinned, the thought of being helpful lighting the curved planes of his face, the downward tilt of excited eyes. “Thanks, Meggie.”

      She gave him a shoulder nudge that made him laugh. “Don’t mention it, big guy. And stay away from Mr. Dennehy’s tables. From now on we’re walking on the opposite side of the street. Got it?”

      Ben’s flash of guilt confirmed what she’d suspected. He loved the sight and sound of the tumbling fruit, an impetuous five-year-old tucked in the body of a man. But naughty escapades like this weren’t cute or funny. And Ben knew better.

      Meg bit her lip and swallowed a sigh. Disciplining Ben was a fine line between the errant child within and the husky man beside her. But he’d made one decision quite easy for her. If they had to walk through Jamison again, she’d take him down the opposite boardwalk, along the array of shops facing Dennehy’s Mercantile. He’d have a harder time wreaking havoc in front of the quilt shop, or the antique store; calico yard-lengths were not nearly as fun as tumbling fruit.

      “Wh-when do you think he’ll come, Meggie?”

      Megan swallowed a bitter retort, scolded herself inwardly for being a crab and pushed the guy’s crisp, clean image out of mind. “We’ll know when he gets here, Ben.” She touched Ben’s arm as they rounded the corner to her two-and-a-half-story gingerbread-style house, the pink, green and ivory fairy-tale look in keeping with Meg’s old-fashioned business. “Hey, looks like the finches are throwing a party in their condo.” She’d deliberately put up a multilevel finch house for Ben’s enjoyment. Watching the tiny birds nest successfully in the backyard of her corner lot was more beneficial than endless TV, and it kept Ben’s imagination brewing.

      “I love the little birds.”

      “I know you do.” Hoping Mother Nature would help keep Ben’s mind off the clock, Meg did her best to tuck the morning’s events aside, including the guy’s teasing glint, his questioning appraisal of her attire and a look that said he might have just landed in an alternative universe.

      Welcome to Jamison.

      Chapter Two

      COLONIAL CANDY KITCHEN

      Purveyors of Handcrafted Sugared Delights & Fine Chocolates.

      Megan Russo, proprietor

      Danny read the business card she’d handed him and felt his heart downslide to somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. He sighed, a feeling of inevitable doom descending.

      He turned and offered the grocer a hand along with a partial introduction, knowing that prices spiraled up when people knew he was scouting for real estate. Better to fly under the radar at this point. “Danny Graham. Pleased to meet you.”

      “John Dennehy. Likewise.” The irritated man shrugged one shoulder west as Meggie and Ben proceeded down the tree-lined street. “They need to keep better control of Ben these days. He’s not a little kid anymore.”

      “Accidents happen. Is there a hotel or motel nearby?” Danny refused to get into a discussion of how the mentally challenged should be kept on a short leash. He understood their limitations better than most, and knew that community involvement was in everybody’s best interests.

      “In Wellsville.” The grocer jutted his chin south. “And there’s the B and B up the road. Nice place.”

      Danny had noted the classic colonial bed-and-breakfast on the way in, but he was looking for something more long-term. He shook his head. “Wellsville, huh?”

      John Dennehy nodded. “Closest thing, ’cept for the campgrounds on the other side of Baldwin’s Crossing.”

      He’d seen the campground sign as well, but that wouldn’t do, either. He shrugged. “Wellsville it is. I’m surprised with how pretty your village is that no one’s built anything closer to service the seasonal tourists.” Wellsville was a good fifteen minutes south of Jamison.

      “Oh, they’ve tried, especially with the interstate so close,” John admitted, his lips thinned. “There’s development, then there’s development, if you know what I mean. These days it’s best knowing just what kind of life you’re after before sayin’ yes to every character that barrels through, wantin’ to build somethin’.”

      The store owner’s manner insinuated that Jamison might be an unlikely spot to approve his storefront development, but he wasn’t in town looking for a fight. He was here to make his grandmother’s dream come true, to open a store dedicated to her mother, his great-grandmother, the original Grandma Mary.

      He gave John a direct and polite smile, determined to take his time, learn the lay of the land and not step on toes.

      As John began wheeling the cart of damaged fruit inside, Danny held up a hand to stop him. “I’d like to buy this fruit.”

      The grocer scowled, thinking he was kidding.

      Danny jerked his head toward the emblems on the mercantile door that said despite its historic appearance, the store accepted plastic in multiple forms. “And can you tell me where the nearest ATM is?”

      John sized him up, shrugged and pressed his lips into a line. “You don’t have to buy the fruit. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. He can’t help that he’s—”

      Danny cut off the possible insult smoothly. “Challenged. Exactly. But I know a place that can СКАЧАТЬ