Worth The Wait

“I asked if you wanted us to stay with Violet so you could go home and do whatever for a while.”

“And I,” Violet said, “told him I didn’t need a babysitter.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Hogan agreed. He stood. “And yes, I’ll be heading home now.” He waited until the others caught his not-so-subtle hint and abandoned their chairs.

“I need to get started on a new gazebo today,” Jason said.

Honor hooked her arm through her husband’s. “And I have to be at the salon in an hour.”

Glad to get them on their way, Hogan nodded. “I’ll walk you guys out.”

“You’re leaving now, too?”

Violet looked small and vulnerable and as far from “sweet” as a woman could get. “We’ll talk first,” he promised her. “Then I’ll go.”

“Honor, thank you for the cookies. Jason, thank you for the coffee. And, Colt, thank you for helping out at the diner.”

Colt slung his arm around her. “Thank you for the temporary job.” He gave her a squeeze, said, “Let me know if you need anything, all right?” and followed his uncle out.

Hogan gave her a long look. “I’ll be right back.”

After a few minutes spent chatting with Jason and Honor, Hogan watched them drive away. He turned to his son. “So, how’s everything going?”

“What do you mean?”

“New girl? Odd jobs? School?”

“Everything’s great, Dad. No worries.” He rattled the keys to his old pickup in his hand, anxious to be on his way.

Hogan settled against the fender. “You like the girl?”

The slow smile reminded him way too much of himself, and his uncle. “Yeah. She’s shy, but really nice.”

“Pretty, too, I noticed.”

Colt gave one nod. “Definitely pretty.”

“Working at the diner won’t put a crimp in things?” Colt carried a lot of AP classes, worked nights and weekends cutting grass and doing yard work, plus odds and ends jobs for neighbors, and still fit in time for girls and his friends.

“No, it’ll be fine.”

He didn’t often feel uncomfortable with his son, but over a touchy subject like college, he couldn’t help but frown. “I’m setting up another college fund—”

“It’s fine.” Colt opened the truck door in a rush. “I should get going. I’ve got five lawns to finish up before the diner opens.”

“Five?”

“They’re the size of postage stamps, Dad. Won’t take me long.”

Clearly Colt didn’t want to talk about it, either. Hogan let out a long breath. “I’ll see you at noon?”

“Probably quarter till. I’ll help you open.” He put the key in the ignition, but didn’t start it. “What’ll happen tomorrow?”

Hogan shook his head. “She’ll insist on coming in. She’s still got five days of meds to take, and she’s still running on empty, but there’s no way I can stop her.”

“I guess not.” Colt gave it some thought. “Tell the others to step up as much as they can.”

“Good idea. I’ll do that.” He clasped his son by the shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Be safe.”

Colt grinned. “You, too, Dad.”

Hogan closed the door, then turned to go back up the walk. He saw Violet standing at the window.

4 (#u08a0e847-b341-512b-9bf3-f222fb23b9b3)

NATHAN SAT ON his front porch early Monday morning, drinking coffee, thinking about the day and, admittedly, waiting for his neighbor to show herself.

He’d learned her pattern by observation.

Lights out at ten each night. Her porch light stayed on.

No visitors, but she ventured out to her porch early evening to read.

And each morning, between seven and seven thirty, she exited her front door, went down the walk putting in earbuds, her iPod attached to the waistband of yoga pants, and she jogged.

It was now seven fifteen.

When he heard her door open, he didn’t look her way. Just set aside his coffee cup and flexed his arms.

He was ready. More than ready.

Today she wore running shoes, black compression shorts, a yellow tank top, and if he was any judge of breasts—and he was—a sports bra. She had her thick dark blond hair in a fat braid down her back. Instead of sunglasses, she wore a visor that cast a shadow over her amazing eyes.

Without looking his way, she picked up her pace and fell into a light jog, her braid bouncing behind her.

Nathan watched her go, flexed again, then headed down the walk. His legs were longer, he was stronger and he’d catch up easily enough. But first he wanted to do more observing.

Why was she so aloof?

Trailing a good distance behind her, he watched the movement of her toned, shapely legs, the swing of her slim arms and the gentle sway of her round ass. She turned the corner.

Knowing she wouldn’t hear him, not over the rhythmic thwap-thwap-thwap of her sneakers, he picked up his pace.

Did his scar bother her? Sure as hell bothered him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, he’d retired from his position in one of the largest SWAT teams in the country and taken a much less demanding position in southern Ohio. That was something, he supposed. Wouldn’t rid him of the scar, but maybe it’d keep him from getting more.

Thinking about that day and the changes he made always left him hyperaware of the memory, the people who had died—and the people who had lived.

He touched his face where the scar cut across his cheek from his temple to the corner of his mouth.