Swept Away

“We hadn’t decided that. One of the perks of being in limbo,” she said with a grand wave of her fork. “I’ve got a half offer from an old dance school friend who’s married with munchkins and the minivan and the whole nine yards in a Chicago suburb, she wants to open a dance school and wondered if I’d be interested in teaching.”

“Are you?”

That bite of lettuce finally found its way into her mouth. After several seconds of chewing, she shrugged. “It’s an option.”

The pipes groaned again, this time from the water being turned off. “But…not one you’re very excited about.”

“Hey. I’m thirty-seven. Even without my knee sabotaging me, I only had maybe five good years left, anyway. Eight if I didn’t mind pity applause,” she said with a short, dry laugh. “Still. Somehow, even though most dancers turn to teaching after they retire, I somehow never saw myself doing the Dolly Dinkle Dance School routine. Teaching a class full of everybody’s precious darlings in pink leotards and tutus… I can’t see it, frankly. I’m not really into kids.”

Sam thought of her wiping Travis’s chin and smiled to himself. “Yeah. I can tell.”

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” she added quickly. “Exactly. I just never quite know what to say to them. How to relate to them. I mean, my biological clock’s merrily ticking away and I’m like, ‘Fine, whatever.’ Shoot, it’s all I can do to take care of myself.”

Chuckling, Sam polished off his last sandwich, then chased it with the rest of his iced tea. When he finished, he leaned back in his chair. “You always this up-front with people?”

She shrugged. “Pretty much. Does it bother you?”

“It’s a mite unnerving, but no. Not particularly. Actually it’s kinda nice to be around someone who has no trouble saying whatever’s on her mind.”

“Most men wouldn’t agree with you.”

“That’s their problem,” he said mildly. “So tell me about your dancing.”

Brows lifted. “This isn’t a date. You’re not going to win any points by pretending to really be interested in what I do.”

“Humor me. It’s not every day I have an honest to God ballerina sitting in my kitchen. And I’d add ‘eating my food’ but that would be stretching it.”

Her eyes followed his to her plate. “Ah,” she said, with an understanding smirk, before her shoulders bounced again. “I’m not anorexic, if that’s what you’re thinking. I ate like a pig at breakfast, that’s all.”

“What? A piece of toast and a grapefruit half?”

“Hah. Three pieces of French toast, sausage and two scrambled eggs.”

“I’m impressed.”

“So was what’s-her-name. The woman who runs the place?”

“That would be Ruby.”

“Ruby, right. She wanted to know where I’d put it. Anyway…you sure you want to hear this? Okay, okay,” she said when he let out an annoyed sigh. “Not sure how much there is to say, really. I’ve been dancing literally since I could walk, even though I didn’t start formal training until I was ten and Dad retired, so we weren’t moving every five minutes. I went to dance camp as a teenager, then on to North Carolina School of the Arts for high school. After I graduated, I danced with a major New York company for a couple of years, which for anybody else would have been a total dream job. Except I realized that staying there would have meant basically dancing in the chorus of Swan Lake for the rest of my career. So I decided I’d have more opportunity in a smaller regional company, even if it meant a cut in pay. Never expected to end up back in Cincinnati, but there you are.”

On the surface, her words seemed straightforward enough. And yet, something about the way she wouldn’t look at him, the fingers of her left hand constantly worrying the edge of the plastic placement the whole time she was talking, led Sam to wonder if that part of her life had really been as straightforward as she was making out.

He took another bite of his sandwich before saying, “You ever regret your decision? To leave the bigger company?”

“No,” she said immediately. “See, dancing isn’t something I do, it’s who I am. Not that I expect anyone else to understand that. I mean, how much sense does it make to be so passionate about something that pays squat, that leaves you in virtually constant pain, and offers zip job security?”

“Sounds an awful lot like farming.”

She grinned. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. But hey—at least farming feeds people.”

“Who’s to say what you do doesn’t feed people, too?” he said, and a rich, startled laugh burst from her throat. “What? You think a country boy can’t appreciate the arts?”

Her laughter died as another blush crept across her cheeks. “Well, no, but—”

“Hey, the tradition of farmers letting loose with music and dancing goes way back. Why is it you suppose that whole wall out there’s covered in the kids’ artwork? And why else would I put myself through the torture of listening to a twelve-year-old murder the violin for a half hour every day? Or scrape together a few extra bucks so one or the other of ’em can take a special art class or music class after school? Maybe it’s not ‘art’ in the way a lot of folks define it, but whatever it is, it’s not something tacked on—it’s just the way people are wired.” He allowed himself a second or two to stare into those wide eyes, then said, “Not what you expected, is it?”

She blinked. “No. Not by a long shot.” Lowering her eyes, she poked at her salad for a couple beats, then looked at him again. “So. Do you dance, Sam Frazier?”

“I’ve been known to do a mean two-step in my day.”

Again, that wonderful, rich sound of her laughter filled the room, like something that had been let free after being confined for far too long. Then their eyes locked and need kicked him in the gut, swift and hard, and man, was he ever glad to see Lane.

“Well,” Sam said, rising, “I reckon I’ve goofed off long enough. Still got a ton of work to do before the kids get home from school. Thanks for lunch,” he said with a nod, grabbing his hat off the rack and screwing it back onto his head. “And if either of you need to go into town or want to go sightsee or something, feel free to take the Econoline. Keys are on the rack over there.”

A week, he thought, striding out to the barn. Surely he was strong enough to last a week.

Only then a little voice in his head said, Don’t bet on it, and he thought, Oh, hell.

She could make it through one lousy week, right?

A single week. Seven piddly days. Maybe less, if the axle came in earlier…

“You sure your knee’s okay?”

Which made at least the sixth time her father had asked her this since they’d set out on their walk around the property. His idea. One her knee actually hadn’t been in total agreement with, but she knew she’d be okay as long as she took it easy. Staying in that house, however, was another matter entirely.

“This isn’t exactly like running the marathon, Dad. I’m fine.”

A loud, obnoxious cackle sounded inside her head.

“And I know you,” Dad said. “Used to drive your mother and me nuts, the way you wouldn’t admit defeat if your life depended on it.”

Well, maybe not out loud. Because she was definitely feeling, if not defeated, certainly poleaxed.

By a quiet, soft-spoken farmer with six kids. And how messed up was that?

She simply wouldn’t think about it, that’s all.

Carly laughed, the sound maybe a little shriller than it should be. Her father gave her a funny look. “You know me well. But really, it’s okay. Actually,” she said, realizing with moderate panic that attempting to not think about Sam was like trying to get gum out of her hair, “I’m kind of surprised you suggested this. I would have thought you’d be all worn out from this morning.”

Eyes like deep ice cut to hers; chagrin toyed with his mouth. “Because I’ve got one foot in the grave, you mean.”

“No, of course not—”

“I’m only sixty-three, Lee. Not ready for the home yet.”

She smiled. True, the morning’s outing seemed to have done her father a world of good, provoking a pang of guilt that she hadn’t been pushier about getting him out and doing long before this….