Almost a Hometown Bride

He ended up having to use the hand towel as a washrag to get the soot off. By the time he was done, the burn on his belly and arm were seeping, so he checked the medicine cabinet for antibiotic ointment. He found it and a gauze pad for the worst one on his abdomen. He also found a package of throwaway razors. He’d inherited the Native American sparseness of body hair, but there was enough to get his attention, so he reached for one of the razors, too.

While there wasn’t much room to maneuver in the small confines, Cain took a small pleasure in the privacy of the closed door. That’s the one thing he had been most offended and affected by in prison. He was tempted to strip and step into the tub under the hot shower spray, but the little waitress didn’t deserve to be thrown into another tailspin. He did, however, let himself imagine her behind that clear plastic shower curtain, naked and sleek from the water sluicing down her body. Her head would be tilted way back, her wet hair cupping her sweet bottom the way he wanted to.

What is her story? he wondered as he hung the soaked towels over the shower rod. While hardly beautiful by today’s commercial standards, she had a child’s flawless skin and pleasant enough, though not remarkable, features. Her serious eyes were a shade lighter than her mahogany hair. When she wasn’t studying him like a dubious owl, there had been a sadness in their depths, and secrets. Those eyes would probably make heads turn if she used a little makeup, as would her mouth. It was small, but formed like a bud. Hell, he thought, if she just licked them moist, she could make a man lose his train of thought. If she would lick him—

A spasm in his groin reminded him that he’d been successful in the weight room and needed to look into getting a size larger jeans. He hissed as he adjusted his clothing, then slid on his T-shirt.

Get the damned wood for her and get out of here.

Yes, he had to go. Word would spread quickly that he was back, and he needed to move on to the reservation and see his grandmother. With the storm about to make driving difficult, he hoped she would put him up for a night or two until he figured out if it would be possible to get a job in the area, or if old prejudices would force him to move on. No doubt his grandmother could use a hand around the place, too.

He raked his hands through his wet hair and wished he’d taken the time for a haircut. No wonder Merritt, the little ferret, was spooked by him, he thought as he checked his reflection one last time before emerging from the bathroom. Better, he thought, but with his chin-length hair, he looked like one of his wilder ancestors.

Merritt was taking the tea bags out of the mugs and adding honey and lemon as he reached her. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he said. “I didn’t know where you wanted the towels, so I spread everything on the shower curtain rod.”

“That’s fine. And you can call me by my name. It’s Merritt,” she said as though guessing he hadn’t paid attention before.

“I remember.”

“I’ll tell Alvie how kind you were.” She pushed the mug across the counter toward him.

Noting her hands were trembling slightly, he murmured his thanks. “You might want to rethink that idea. She’s always been decent to me, but she might not like the idea of me being anywhere near you—or being allowed into her house.”

Merritt glanced up at him from beneath fine but surprisingly long lashes. “She’s the one who told me about your uncle and the price you paid for trying to get justice for him. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too—since I didn’t succeed.”

“Excuse me?”

Certain that Alvie had shared the official Paxton spin on things, he was determined to at least get his side told to someone other than people who would see the truth was buried. “My uncle lived long enough to give me a description of the vehicle and a partial license plate number. That told me the truck belonged to my father’s ranch, and the driver turned out to be the ranch foreman, Dane Jones. I tracked him down determined to haul his worthless butt to the sheriff’s office, only to find out someone beat me to him. Someone had knocked him senseless. And when the deputies arrived right on my heels, Jones let me take the fall for what happened to him.”

“That’s terrible. Couldn’t your father intervene?”

“He died before I was born,” Cain replied grimly.

“What about his father, your grandfather?”

When Cain sent her a “we’re done talking” look, Merritt grew flustered. “Surely the authorities could see that your hands weren’t bruised and that you hadn’t been in a fight?”

“It’s a long story.” He shouldn’t have said as much as he did, but he’d wanted her to understand what it meant to sympathize with a half-breed who was considered an outcast even by his own flesh and blood. The more she kept her distance, the better off things would be for both of them. Ignoring the tea, Cain went into the living room where he slid into his jacket and reached for the galvanized steel bucket behind the stove, then the shovel on the implement stand.

“I take it that your mother has passed, too?” Merritt asked from the wide kitchen entryway.

“I came into the world and she went out.”

“Dear God. I’m sorry. Again.”

“Ancient history. Look,” he said, growing increasingly uncomfortable, “let me just get this stove cleaned out, and I’ll get your wood. There are things I need to do.”

“Of course. I can manage on my own now. Please don’t make yourself late for my sake.”

Embarrassment turned her cheeks the color of raspberries, which in turn made Cain feel like a creep. “I don’t mean to insult you,” he said with a patience he didn’t feel. Why was he treating this little pest with kid gloves? He didn’t care about anyone or anything anymore. At least that’s what he’d told himself six thousand times while behind bars. “I just— I know you feel uneasy around me. For the record, that goes both ways.”

Her expression made him think that he’d suddenly begun speaking in a different language.

“What am I doing that makes you uncomfortable?

There weren’t enough words to answer her question, but she made him feel decades older than his thirty-three years. Concluding that it was best to leave Merritt with her naive perspective on small town law and order intact, Cain set into the task of filling the bucket with ashes, which he carried out back beyond the barn. It took two more trips before he was ready to start adding kindling to the remaining coals and get another fire going.

When he was satisfied that the fire would keep burning, he headed outside without further comment and started loading the rack onto the porch. It was snowing steadily now, and the intensifying wind started to carry the flakes horizontally.

At some point the mug of hot tea mysteriously showed up on one of the half-moon slices of hardwood, and he paused to take a few swallows, grateful for the relief against the cold. This kind of work in this kind of weather required a hat and gloves, neither of which he possessed yet. She knew—and wouldn’t let him pretend it didn’t matter.

Several trips later, he had enough wood to last her a few days. As he looked for a spot to set the empty mug so that he could avoid going inside again, the door opened. She’d wrapped herself in a shawl over her apron and turned away as occasional snowflakes slapped at her.

“I’ll take that,” she said softly. Her gaze only grazed him.

“I appreciate the gesture.” He handed it over, careful not to make contact. Those damned hands were trembling again—or hadn’t stopped. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“Be safe.”

He didn’t know if that was possible. He did believe getting away from here would improve his chances greatly. Nevertheless, when she retreated back into the house and closed the door, he felt—guilty? Something he couldn’t describe, but he resented the feeling.

He turned up the collar of his jeans jacket, and his long-legged stride took him off the porch, skipping the stairs. Then he jogged to his truck, slipping several times, his cowboy boots slick on the wet snow.

Once in the truck, he glanced back at the cottage. If nothing had changed while he’d been gone, it was the only residence for another mile or so. In this weather the place looked more isolated than ever. But that wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself.

He turned the key and had to floor the gas pedal before the old truck coughed and the engine reluctantly started. “Man, are you going to be a money pit,” he muttered. Unfortunately, it was all that he could afford with the money he had.

As he drove toward the reservation, he forced himself to think forward and prepare for the reunion. He’d had no letters from home in the years that he’d been locked away. Except for his grandmother, there was no other immediate family, and Gran had never learned to write. Was she even alive? He tried to recall how old she would be, but couldn’t. His mother had had two sisters besides the brother who’d been run over. The last he knew of either of them, one had moved to Nevada and the other to Wyoming. He needed to prepare for the possibility that there was no reason to stay in Almost.

With the extra-strength pain pill taking effect, Merritt was able to push back the blanket she’d been lying under and ease off the bed. It still depressed her that she moved like someone twice her age when she first got up after a nap, and especially after a full night’s rest, but the house had warmed nicely. After one more mug of hot tea, she would be at full speed again—or as good as someone in her condition could be.

She hadn’t meant to lie down, but the upheaval with Cain Paxton’s arrival in town, added to the weather’s effect on her body, had left her with little choice. Not if she intended to last through the dinner shift. Once in the kitchen, she turned on the oven before inspecting the several loaves of dough she’d reworked a last time and covered with clean damp dish towels before lying down. They would produce beautiful honey-cracked wheat bread and finish baking just in time for her to carry back to town.

Once she got them in the oven, she started on the cheese sticks that Alvie liked to serve with soups and salads. The corn bread would be next. She supplemented her income by baking for Alvie, as well as taking special cake and pie orders for birthdays, anniversaries and holidays. She’d been doing that since school, having learned early in life that she had to rely on her own income if she wanted to survive. Whatever money her mother had earned—when she’d been in any condition to work—went to booze, or was mooched or taken by whatever man was in her life. What had begun out of necessity had evolved into an enjoyable creative process. The labor proved an excellent tension outlet and therapy for a shy, frightened child, who needed healthy ways to escape a basket case home life.

As she mixed the shortening and flour, her mind inevitably drifted to Cain. Had he reached his grandmother? His truck looked to be twice as old as Leroy’s, but at least it ran. For the moment.

She hoped he could make a new start. She had known her share of ex-cons in her twenty-seven years. Her mother had rarely hooked up with any other kind of man—until Stanley Wooten. Although Stanley was just lucky that he’d never been caught and locked away—like his son Dennis.

Shuddering, Merritt pushed them back into a dark hole in her mind and visually locked the door. No, she thought, Cain Paxton might look intimidating but, incredibly, he wasn’t corrupted or evil yet. He’d shown her kindness and concern, and she’d seen shame and regret in his dark eyes. He wasn’t lost. Yet.

The afternoon passed quickly and bit by bit product stacked on the counter, until Merritt knew she had to brave the intensifying storm outside and make the awful trek to town. As she packed her baked goods into the oversize thermal carrier, she hoped against hope that Leroy would show up at the road. But as she fed the wood-burning stove a last time, she knew the folly of such a wish. Leroy loved Alvie; however, that didn’t mean that he was going to compromise his comfort by coming after her, even if she was key to making Alvie’s business more successful. Especially not when he would first have to jump-start a battery that had needed replacing weeks ago.

Leaving on a kitchen light and a lamp near the aquarium for Wanda and Willy, she leaned down to the glass. “It should be an early night. Not to worry.”

Outside, the stairs were already treacherous and covered with snow. Merritt tugged the shawl over her head farther down to protect her face and vision and made the descent with care, hugging the carrier like a baby. The wind was trying to turn it into a sail and lift her off the ground. Although it wasn’t yet officially sunset, it was already growing dark. Locals and the errant vacationer would come to the café due to these awful conditions, which was the only reason she plodded on.