Shoulda Been A Cowboy. Charlotte Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ Rand had been studying her face. “What do you think?”

      “I’m still in shock.” She quickly read the remaining lines of the letter and choked back tears at the warm words of affection. “I’ll need to think about Eileen’s requests and let you know.”

      Rand followed her to the door. “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

      “Will you notify me about the funeral arrangements?”

      “You’ll be first on my list.”

      Caroline thanked him and hurried down the stairs. Easy for Rand to say she’d do the right thing. She was the one who had to figure out what the right thing was.

      ETHAN SPRAWLED on the porch steps of the old Victorian, his elbows on the stair tread behind him, his feet crossed at the ankles on the bottom step. Contentment, an alien emotion, settled over him, eased his breathing and slowed his pulse. For the first time since making his decision to move from the city where he’d spent his entire life, he felt at peace with his choice. He missed his parents and sister, but he couldn’t endure another Sunday supper with Jerry’s chair empty, his place setting forever removed. The vacant space chided Ethan louder than any words of blame. The absence of his brother’s grinning mug across the table had been a painful reminder of Ethan’s inadequacy, his failure to be there when Jerry had needed him most.

      His family swore they didn’t fault Ethan, but the agony in his mother’s face, the perpetual slump of his father’s strong shoulders and the missing sparkle in his sister Amber’s eyes seared deeper than any words of blame. He hoped his move would grant him the serenity to come to terms with the past. If his current state of mind was any indicator, he was on the right track.

      Although the temperature had soared earlier in the day, deep shade from an ancient magnolia held the late afternoon heat at bay and cooled the porch. Above the hum of a central air-conditioning unit next door floated the notes from a piano, a classical piece that soared and swirled. He appreciated the beauty of the strange music and welcomed the fact that its unfamiliar tune triggered no memories. He’d learned through experience that he couldn’t escape them, not with alcohol nor medication. Exhaustive physical labor often helped, but not always. He’d also learned that he could handle memories better when they didn’t ambush him, triggered by a sound, a scent, a sight or a few key words.

      Post-traumatic stress disorder, his therapist had called it, and warned Ethan that running away wouldn’t stop the cascade of terrifying flashbacks and painful memories, either. But Ethan had to try.

      There will be peace in the valley for me some day.

      The line from his mother’s favorite gospel hymn popped into his head. Maybe the haunting melody was an omen, he prayed. He’d been through hell the last few months. He could use some peace.

      Footsteps on the walk scattered his thoughts. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast had returned, her walk as seductive as he’d remembered, her golden hair glistening in the sunlight, her willowy figure causing his mouth to go dry. She was carrying a plastic bag with a Jodie’s Mountain Crafts and Café logo and looking as if she’d seen a ghost.

      He rose to his feet to meet her. “You okay?”

      She’d been walking with her head down. At his question, she jerked her chin up and gazed at him. Her enticing blue eyes widened with a mixture of confusion and surprise, as if she’d never seen him before.

      “Ethan Garrison,” he reminded her. “I checked in earlier.”

      “Of course.” A flush as pink as summer roses brought the color back to her cheeks.

      “You didn’t tell me your name.”

      “I’m Caroline Tuttle.” She sounded distracted, making him wonder what had happened in the short time she’d been gone that had shaken her former poise.

      Something about the woman stirred his protective instincts. “You sure you’re all right?”

      She nodded and moved around him to climb the stairs.

      “Wait, please.” He cast about for something to say, anything to keep her with him a little while longer.

      “Yes?” A tiny line between her feathery eyebrows marred the porcelain perfection of her forehead, and he felt himself going under for the third time in the shimmering depths of her deep blue eyes.

      Then he noted the bag in her hand and found a way to keep the conversation rolling. “Is this Jodie’s Café open for dinner?”

      She shook her head, and the scent of her shampoo, evocative of the wisteria covering the side arbor, filled his nostrils. “Jodie’s place is open only for breakfast and lunch.”

      “Is there somewhere I can grab a bite?” He wasn’t really interested in food, but the topic gave him a good excuse to keep talking.

      “The closest restaurant is Ridge’s Barbecue, but it’s twelve miles east on the main highway.”

      He sighed. “I’ve been driving since before dawn. The last thing I want now is to climb back behind the wheel. I guess I’ll make do with the crackers and Coke left in the cooler in my truck.”

      “Or you could have supper here with me.”

      He searched her face for signs of flirtation, but found only Southern hospitality. But he would take what he could get. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with a beautiful woman. Or had wanted to this badly. “I don’t want to impose on you and your family.”

      “Mama’s visiting her sister, so it’s just me for supper. If you’ll join me, I won’t have to eat alone.”

      No husband, no kiddies. This was his lucky day. “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

      “Not a bit.”

      OKAY, SO SHE’D LIED. But the trouble wasn’t in preparing supper. The trouble was the six-foot-plus of gorgeous testosterone sitting at the island in her kitchen. Caroline had wanted something to distract her from the sadness of Eileen’s death, but she should have been more careful what she’d wished for. Any more distraction and she’d be chopping off her fingers instead of slicing tomatoes.

      “Sure you don’t want some help?” Ethan propped his elbows on the island, looking more delicious than the meal she was preparing. “I’ve done a lot of cooking in my line of work.”

      “Are you a chef?” Somehow she couldn’t picture him in a chef’s apron and hat. A business suit didn’t fit, either. With his short-cropped brown hair, body by Bowflex and intense gaze, he reminded her of a young Bruce Willis, a man capable of saving the world—or at least his little corner of it.

      “Not a chef. A firefighter.”

      “Ah.” So she hadn’t been far off in her analysis. And firefighting explained the horrible burns on the back of his hands. But he didn’t seem the type who wanted sympathy, so she kept her tone light. “One of those guys who runs into the buildings everyone else is running out of.”

      “It’s mostly sitting around twiddling my thumbs and waiting for a call.” The warmth of his smile was at least four-alarm. “Unless it’s my rotation for kitchen duty.”

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