Sarah's Legacy

A shiver started at the base of her spine and crept up to her neck. His touch was gentle and reassuring. It felt far too good. Far better than her fantasies. As though thinking the same thing, Trent glanced down at their hands, then quickly removed his.

Bailey cleared her throat. “Hey, it’s no big deal. There are aspects to my job that aren’t always pleasant.” She picked up her roll once more. “For the record, I don’t enjoy seeing anyone turned down for a loan.”

“Like I said, I was just razzing you.” Trent took a swallow of milk, leaving behind a trace of mustache that made her recall a recent commercial that sometimes featured sexy men.

Got milk indeed.

Mmm-mmm.

Bailey pictured him shirtless again and mentally kicked herself.

“But people in town do talk about me,” she said, her words more statement than question.

“Sure they do,” he admitted without hesitation. “You’ve created quite a stir, coming in here with ways of doing things that aren’t typically small-town. That day care, for instance. And you’re holding a job position that traditionally has been male since Ferguson opened its very first bank. The old-timers, who’ve done the same things the same way their entire lives, are shook up.”

Bailey picked up her glass of milk. “I can assure you that accepting the position of bank president at Colorado Western National had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to create a stir in this town. If something happens to the economy, given the crises the majority of family-owned and-operated farms and ranches face these days, then the bank could go under and take the town with it. I’m trying to help by making money available to new businesses. This will benefit the town by keeping more young people here, rather than forcing them to find work elsewhere. That’s why I was brought to Ferguson.”

Trent lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Folks just need a while to get used to it, to realize that things change.”

He grew silent, and Bailey wondered if he was thinking about the changes that had occurred in his life the past year. She wanted to offer him a shoulder to lean on. But Jenny had said he didn’t like to talk about his daughter’s death, and Bailey had her own reservations in this regard.

Trent saved her from her troubled thoughts with a crooked grin. “Hey, I wouldn’t let it bother me if I were you. Besides, a woman who bakes homemade cinnamon rolls can’t be all bad, even if she does own a rogue dog.”

“He’s not a rogue,” Bailey said. “He just needs a little love, that’s all.” She finished the last bite of her roll. “What kind of dog do you figure he is?”

A shadow passed over Trent’s features and was gone so quickly Bailey wondered if she’d imagined it. “I’d say he’s a blue heeler-mix,” he said. “Maybe part Border collie. They’re both herding breeds, which would explain why he chased my horses.”

“You said you first saw him some time ago,” Bailey remarked. “Do you suppose he ran away from somebody during the Fourth of July weekend? I’ve heard that a lot of dogs get scared of the fireworks and take off.”

“I guess he could’ve, but I don’t recognize him as belonging to anyone around here.”

“Do they have a fireworks display in Ferguson?” Bailey asked. “He might have gotten away from someone who was just passing through and stopped to see the show.”

Trent finished his milk and set down the glass. “I didn’t pay any attention, Bailey. I’m not much on holidays.”

“Boy, I am. I go all out for every one of them, especially Christmas.”

Trent’s expression went completely dark, then his face paled beneath his tan. Bailey could have kicked herself.

Christmas. Trees. Duh.

But before she could say a word, he pushed away from the table and put his dishes in the sink—a little too hard. “I’d best get back to work.” He strode from the kitchen and left her sitting there, feeling like a complete idiot.

CHAPTER FOUR

TRENT DROVE the posthole digger into the ground, furious with himself for letting his emotions show. Bailey’s comment had been totally innocent. She couldn’t have known. Still, the words burned inside him.

He hadn’t celebrated a single holiday since Sarah died. Unless one counted his hanging an ornament on her grave on Christmas, as he had on her birthday and other special occasions…as he’d done the other day on the anniversary of her death.

He gripped the double handles of the tool and let the blades bite furiously into the earth, venting his pain. A part of him wanted to block the memory of his daughter’s voice from his mind, and another part wanted never to forget it.

I wish every day could be Christmas, Daddy….

The back of his throat swelled, and he swallowed hard and blinked. He hadn’t ever viewed a Christmas tree—or a holiday—in the same way after planting the blue spruce on Sarah’s grave. He’d decorated it by himself. Amy hadn’t wanted any part of that.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to dig. He had all but two of the holes finished by the time the screen door creaked open a couple of hours later. Though he knew Bailey had come outside, he ignored her. He heard her footsteps on the porch, then in the grass as she walked up behind him.

“I thought you might like some iced tea.”

Damn it. He shoved the posthole digger into the ground and faced her, then wished he hadn’t.

Bailey looked good standing there in her tank top and cutoffs, holding a glass out to him. Her well-manicured fingernails, painted with clear polish, weren’t overly long. She had pretty hands and a great smile, and he was sorry to see he’d made that smile vanish.

He accepted the tea and gritted his teeth when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks.” He took a drink. The tea had lemon, no sugar, just the way he liked it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t keep sugar in the house,” Bailey said. “I seldom use it.”

His gaze boomeranged to her once more as he wondered if she realized her slipup. She looked back at him, unaware. It was enough to break his black mood.

“Except when you bake, I guess. Did you use it all up when you made the cinnamon rolls?”

Bailey’s face turned three shades of crimson, and warmth snaked through him. Belatedly, he realized just how much he’d enjoyed teasing her, watching her squirm. He’d been alone for a long time. His self-imposed banishment from social scenes, no relationships with women, had been bearable up to this point. It was a way of punishing himself, although for what he couldn’t quite decide. Because he couldn’t save Sarah? Because he hadn’t been strong enough to take care of her and still manage to hold his marriage together?

Whatever the reasons, he hadn’t dwelled on them. All he knew was he wanted to be alone, and he’d been fine doing that, until Bailey came along. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that brought out this side of him, one that had lain buried for so long. Guilt threatened to take hold of him. He didn’t deserve to be happy or have fun. Sarah was gone. What right did that leave him to go on living, loving and laughing? None, as far as he could see. But something about Bailey swayed his reservations and demanded he let loose and enjoy a little friendly bantering with her.

Maybe he’d give in. Just this once.

He knew damn well she hadn’t made those cinnamon rolls. She might have heated them in the oven, but he’d recognize Camille Kendall’s recipe anywhere. Nobody baked like Camille. The town’s café owner constantly asked her to supply him with baked goods.

Besides, Trent had seen the burned bottoms of the cinnamon rolls in Bailey’s trash can and the bread knife in the sink, which she must have used to cut them. He’d gotten a kick out of the lengths she’d gone to to keep him from knowing she couldn’t cook.

“They take quite a bit of sugar,” Bailey said, lifting her arms in a casual gesture. “I hope the tea is all right with just lemon.”

“It’s fine,” he said, letting her off the hook. She was damn good at sidestepping the truth without telling an out-and-out lie.

“I’m going to the feed store to pick up the chain link,” Bailey said. “Would you like a sandwich before I go?”

Trent shook his head. “Maybe later, thanks.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm and looked up at the sun. It must be about noon. The time had slipped away from him while he worked, as it always did, one hour fading into the next, one day into another.

He focused on the here and now. “How do you plan to haul the wire?” He glanced pointedly at her Mustang convertible parked in the driveway.

“I have a pickup truck,” Bailey said. “If you change your mind about the sandwich, help yourself.” She started to leave.

“Bailey, wait.” The words were out before he could stop them, though he knew he should leave well enough alone. It was best to keep his distance from her. He’d made a choice to spend the rest of his life alone, and he aimed to stick with it.

Bailey paused, and Trent ran his hand through his hair, unable to leave things the way they were between them. No matter what his innermost feelings were. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”

“Forget it.” She smiled softly. “I’d better go before the feed store closes. Apparently, they roll up the sidewalks shortly after lunch on Saturdays here in Mayberry.” She headed for the garage.