Swept Away. Karen Templeton

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      All the males, as well as a small pack of dogs, had been gone for a good two hours—something about repairing a fence, she gathered. Her father’s enthusiastic offer of help had thrown Sam, Carly could tell, but he’d relented once Dad convinced him he’d helped fix plenty of fences as a kid growing up on his parents’ dairy farm in Iowa. So off they’d gone, Sam’s apparent lack of concern about leaving a stranger alone in his house unnerving her even further, tossing her own cynicism back at her like a hot potato. And like that hot potato, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with such no-strings-attached generosity. Except she knew if she held on to it for more than a second, she’d get burned.

      Carly downed another sip of coffee, only to grimace at its bitterness. The swing’s chain jingled, startled, as she got up and tossed the dregs out into the yard. Then she stretched her arms over her head, hauling in a lungful of air before slowly swaying from side to side, then bending down to easily lay her palms on the floorboards in front of her feet, taking care not to hyperextend her bum knee. Almost more than giving up performing, the thought of losing her flexibility and control over her body gave her the willies.

      Speaking of willies…she actually shuddered when she walked back into the house, it was so impossibly neat. Fancy, no—the blue and beige early-American sofa had a decidedly weary aura about it—but everything was stacked or shelved or hung up or otherwise relegated to its appointed place. Not a single cobweb dangled from the ceiling or clung to a lampshade, not a speck of grunge huddled in the corners of the bathroom, and the clawfoot tub had been as white as Miss America’s smile. Creepy. While Carly wasn’t prone to letting dishes pile up in the sink, her housekeeping philosophy generally ran along the lines of when she got grossed out, she cleaned.

      And yet, how to explain the occasional wall painted bright blue or tangerine or lemon-yellow, the animals snoozing or lurking everywhere she looked, the exuberantly free-form artwork smothering one entire wall of the airy, teal-green hallway leading from the living room to the kitchen? Or the row of boots lined up with almost military precision in the mudroom, except for one tiny red pair, defiantly lying on its sides…the mad collection of family photos in mismatched frames, on walls, on shelves, on end tables?

      Sam’s wife was in at least half of them, a round, pretty woman who’d been clearly in love with her husband, her children, her life. Carly’s chest tightened for the obvious hole her death must have left in this family. As generous as Sam was with his smiles, none of them even came close to the ones in these pictures.

      She carried her empty mug back into the kitchen, where one of a dozen notes tacked here and there instructed whoever—in this case, her—to either wash it out or put it in the dishwasher. Smiling, she rinsed it out and set it in on the drainboard, then decided to see what she could throw together for lunch, since she imagined the guys would be back soon. Not that Carly was inclined to either domesticity or helpfulness, but it seemed silly to make lunch for herself and not go ahead and make it for everyone else at the same time.

      A block-printed note on the refrigerator sternly reminded her to think about what she wanted before opening it, but since she didn’t know what was inside, she supposed she could be forgiven for browsing, just this once. She found many of the same staples she remembered from summers at her grandparents’: bologna and American cheese and lettuce and big, ripe, juicy tomatoes still fresh from the late summer garden, Miracle Whip and generic mustard, with loaves of IronKids and whole wheat bread in the large basket on the counter. The milk would be fresh, she knew—she’d heard the lowing of a cow or two while she’d been sitting on the porch—and nothing skim about it. And if you wanted water, there was the tap. Well water, she imagined, ice-cold.

      A humongous ginger tomcat snaking around her ankles, she started slicing tomatoes on a wooden board she found by the sink, frowning at the wipe-erase board the size of a medium-size continent hanging on the only counter-free wall, divided into columns with chores listed under each name. Even little Travis was up there, with Feed Chickens and Collect Eggs as part of his duties. Although she did notice that there was always an older child listed with the same chores, so maybe the little guy was only in training. Still, this was a method that brooked no argument. And frankly seemed at odds with what she could have sworn was a laid-back demeanor on Sam’s part. But there it was, irrefutable evidence that Sam Frazier apparently ran his home like a military institution.

      Or an orphanage, she thought with a pang.

      She heard the growl of a pickup outside; the cat tore over to the back door. A minute later, amidst sounds of laughter and a hiss from the cat as Radar burst inside, Travis trooped into the house, followed by her father, then Sam, both men wearing the unmistakable glow of satisfaction for a job well done. Or at least done. Her father, especially…when was the last time she’d heard him laugh like that, seen a smile that big on his face?

      “I made some lunch,” she announced, waving at the table. “Sandwiches, if that’s okay. Bologna or cheese, or both, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

      Her father said, “I think I need a quick shower first. If that’s okay?” he directed at Sam, who said, “Sure, go right ahead,” and then Dad vanished, leaving Sam staring at the table as though she’d set up a tray full of live snakes.

      Wordlessly he plucked off his ball cap and slapped it up onto the six-foot-long pegboard mounted near the door, the move revealing a ragged, dark splotch plastering his shirt to a chest more substantial than one might expect given his overall leanness. Several strands of hair that could have been either silver or blond fell across his forehead; he swiped at them, his gaze bouncing off hers before sweeping over the innocent sandwiches mounded on a plate in the center of the table. Travis’s grubby hand shot out to claim half a sandwich, but Sam grabbed him with a “Not before you wash your hands, pup.” Then, one arm around his youngest’s chest, he met her eyes again and said, softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

      “No problem,” she said with a bright, idiotic grin, trying desperately to lighten the inexplicably weighted atmosphere. “Wasn’t as if I had anything else to do. What would you like to drink?”

      Again with the weird look. Full of lots of angst and undertones and all sorts of stuff Carly really didn’t want to deal with. “I’m all sweaty,” he said, his eyes still locked with hers. Uh, boy. Thank God her father was still out of the room, was all she had to say.

      “Hey. You want to talk sweaty? Try fifty dancers in an unair-conditioned studio in July. At the end of a two-hour rehearsal. You don’t even rate.”

      That, at least, got a small smile, like a crack in the ice on a warm day, and at least some of the undertones slunk away.

      Some. Not all. Certainly not the ones that made her glad her father wasn’t around. And that she wouldn’t be around for more than a few days.

      Sam carted Travis over to the sink, holding him up to wash his hands, then dousing a paper towel with the running water to mop the kid’s face for good measure before freeing the protesting child so he could clean himself up. Leaving Carly to ponder why—how?—after all the beautiful bodies she’d seen in motion over the years, she couldn’t seem to unhook her eyeballs from this one. All he was doing was washing his hands, for crying out loud.

      Then she heard a dry chuckle and realized he was watching her, watching him, and she felt a whoosh of desire so strong she nearly lost her balance, followed by the calm, clear words, You are so not going there.

      Well, hot damn—maybe, just maybe, she was finally growing up.

      Chapter 3

      It’d been a long time since a woman had made him lunch.

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