A Weaver Beginning. Allison Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ Along with that snow shovel. Having one of her own was better than borrowing.

      “Stores are closed today and tomorrow for New Year’s.” His voice was even. Unemotional. “I’ve got plenty, though. I’ll bring some over.” He turned on his boot heel and left the house.

      “Who is he?” Dillon whispered once he was gone.

      “The neighbor. You can put away your games in the television cabinet. Soon as I finish with everything, I’ll play a game of ‘White Hats 3’ with you.” She’d gotten the latest version of the video game for him for Christmas and it was already his favorite. “Okay?”

      He nodded and she went back outside.

      The man had left the snow shovel sticking out of the snow banked against the side of the porch. She looked from it to the house next door. It was two-storied and twice the size of hers.

      Definitely large enough to hold a wife and kids if Tall-Dark-and-Nameless had any.

      She trudged back to the car and pulled the box containing their new television from the backseat. Her girlfriends from Braden had pooled their money together to buy it as a going-away present. It was mercifully lightweight, and she was heading up the steps with it in her arms when the neighbor appeared again bearing a load of wood in his arms.

      She quickly got out of his way as he carried it inside. He crouched next to the brick hearth and started stacking the wood. As he worked, he looked over at her brother. “What’s your name?”

      Dillon shot Abby a nervous look. “Dillon.”

      The man’s face finally showed a little warmth. He smiled slightly. Gently. And even though it was directed at her little brother, Abby still felt the effect.

      She let out a careful breath and set the television on the floor. Her girlfriends had also given her a box of Godiva chocolates before she’d left, with instructions to indulge herself on New Year’s Eve—and share the chocolates with a male other than her little brother.

      The chocolates were in her suitcase. She could give the box to her no-name neighbor and technically live up to the promise she’d made. Of course, he’d probably take the chocolates home to his wife. Which wasn’t exactly what her girlfriends had in mind.

      She shook off the silly thoughts and tried to focus on the television, but her gaze kept slipping back to the man, who was still looking at her little brother.

      “You want to bring me some of that newspaper from your mom’s crystal?”

      “She’s not my mom,” Dillon said as he slid off the couch and retrieved the crumpled papers that Abby had tossed aside. He sidled over to the man, holding them out at arm’s length.

      She almost missed the speculative glance the man gave her before he took the paper from Dillon. He wadded it up and stuck it in the fireplace, between a couple of angled logs. “Got a match, bud?”

      “Here.” Abby quickly pulled a lighter out of her purse and carried it over.

      “You smoke?” His tone was smooth, yet she still felt the accusation.

      “You sound remarkably like my grandfather used to.”

      A full beat passed before his lips quirked. “My sister keeps telling me I’m getting old before my time,” he said. “Must be true if I strike you as grandfatherly.” He took the lighter and set the small flame to the newspaper. When he was sure it took, he straightened and left the lighter on the wood mantel.

      “Abby’s my sister,” Dillon said so suddenly that she shot him a surprised look.

      The man didn’t look surprised. And he wasn’t the least bit grandfatherly, though Abby didn’t figure it would be appropriate to tell him so. He simply nodded at this additional information, not knowing how unusual it was for Dillon to offer anything where a stranger was concerned. He set the fireplace screen back in place. “What grade are you in?”

      But her brother’s bravery only went so far. He ducked his chin into his puffy down collar. “Second,” he whispered and hurried back to the couch. He sat down on the edge of a cushion again and tucked his bare fingers under his legs.

      Abby knew the best thing for Dillon was to keep things as normal as possible. So she ignored the way he was carefully looking away from them and focused on the tall man as he straightened. She was wearing flat-heeled snow boots, and he had at least a foot on her five-one. Probably a good eighty pounds, too, judging by the breadth of his shoulders. “Do you have kids?” Maybe a second-grader who’d become friends with Dillon.

      “Nope.” Which didn’t really tell her whether there was a wife or not. “How much more do you need to unload?”

      She followed him onto the porch. “A few boxes and our suitcases.”

      He grabbed the shovel as he went down the steps and shoved it into the snow, pushing it ahead of him like a plow as he made his way to the car.

      “You don’t have to do that,” Abby said quickly, following in his wake.

      “Somebody needs to.”

      Her defenses prickled. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m perfectly capable of shoveling my own driveway.”

      His dark gaze roved over her. “But you didn’t. And I’m guessing if you’d had a shovel in that little car of yours, you’d have already used it so you could get the car into the driveway.”

      Since that was true, she didn’t really have a response. “My grandfather had a snowblower,” she said. “I didn’t really have a good way to move it here, so I sold it.” Along with most everything else that her grandparents had owned. Except the crystal. Ever since Abby had been a little girl, her grandmother had said that Abby would have it one day.

      And now she did.

      The reality of it all settled like a sad knot in her stomach.

      She’d followed her grandfather’s wishes. But that didn’t mean it had been easy.

      They’d lost him when he’d died of a heart attack two years earlier. But they’d been losing her grandmother by degrees for years before that. And in the past year, Minerva Marcum’s Alzheimer’s had become so advanced that she didn’t even recognize Abby anymore.

      Even though Abby was now a qualified RN, she’d had no choice but to do what her grandfather had made her promise to do when the time came—place her grandmother into full-time residential care.

      “So you’ll get another blower,” the man was saying. “Or a shovel. But for now—” he waggled the long handle “—this is it.” He set off again, pushing another long swath of snow clear from the driveway.

      She trailed after him. “Mr., uh—”

      “Sloan.”

      At last. A name. “Mr. Sloan, if you don’t mind lending me the shovel, I can do that myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to—”

      “—just Sloan. And, no, I don’t have better things to do. So go back inside, check the fire and unpack that crystal of yours. Soon as СКАЧАТЬ