The Wedding Arbor

“Not at all. Are you done eating? There’s plenty of chicken left if you want more.”

“No, thanks. I’m stuffed.”

“Okay. Go get warm. I’ll clean up the dishes.”

Sara made a silly face at him. “What did you say?”

“Go get warm.”

“No, the rest of it,” she drawled. “I could have sworn you mentioned doing the dishes.”

“So?”

She giggled. “So, you’re going to have to bribe me not to tell anybody that I actually found a good-looking guy who can not only cook, but cleans up after himself.”

“I’d just as soon you didn’t mention meeting me at all.” His scowl confirmed how serious he was.

“Don’t worry,” Sara assured him. “Nobody would believe it, anyway. Far-fetched news like that falls into the same category as a sighting of Sasquatch.” She smiled. “Hey! Maybe I could sell your picture to the tabloids and retire for life on the proceeds.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” His voice was gruff, emotionally charged. “They didn’t pay me anything the last time.”

Hesitating, Sara tried to decide if he was kidding. Studying his closed expression didn’t help. She quit speculating and asked. “Are you serious?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. I have a history of making rotten choices in men. I’d like to know if I’m stuck out here in the woods with a famous criminal or something.”

Adam had been noticing how she glanced at the door and tensed up every time there was a crack of thunder or the wind blew debris against the windows. For the first time since they’d met, it occurred to him she might be frightened of something other than the storm.

He held up his hands for assurance, palms facing her. “I’m as honest and normal as anybody. A regular guy. Real apple pie.”

Sara made a face.

“What do I have to do, stand at attention, salute and sing the national anthem to prove it to you?”

Her eyes followed the path of his gaze. A guitar was propped in a far corner. “Do you really play and sing?”

“Some.”

“Oh, would you? I love folk music!” Given the natural ambience of the cabin, a wood stove for warmth, the cadence of the rain against the roof, she couldn’t think of anything she’d like better than hearing a softly strummed guitar.

“Maybe all I know is rock.” Adam watched her face to see what secrets her guileless features might betray. He usually played only for himself. The songs were more than company. They were catharsis. Did he really want to share that private part of his life with a stranger? He sighed. Maybe he should. If she was truly fearful, the distraction might help. The last thing he needed was to be trapped in a one-room cabin with a terrified woman.

“Anything will be fine.” Sara wanted to be agreeable, above all. “Afterward, I’ll help you clean the dishes.”

“That’s hardly scale wages for a musician.”

“Maybe not, but it is a big sacrifice for me,” she said. “I have an automatic dishwasher at home. All I have to do is load it. It does the whole job all by itself, even most of the pots and pans, providing I don’t burn them cooking.”

Adam was amused by a droll thought. He lifted the guitar carefully. “Actually, it’s Samson who usually does my dishes for me. I just set them on the floor and…” The distressed look on Sara’s face made him laugh. It was diverting to have such a gullible audience.

“You don’t!”

“No, I don’t. Except on possum night,” he jibed. “The extra grease in his diet is good for his coat. Makes it real shiny.”

“Oh, stop!” Laughing with him, Sara made a mock swipe with her hand as he passed.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very naive?” Adam took a seat on the sofa and propped the guitar across his lap.

“I’m afraid so.” She cast a furtive glance toward the closed door. “Someday, I’ll have to tell you about Eric.”

Someday? Adam’s mind echoed the idea. Sara was talking as if they had a future together. That was pure fallacy. Yet he could see why she’d fallen into the trap of thinking their unique relationship would continue. There was already a kind of natural camaraderie between them. It sprang from the amiable rivalry of two corresponding intellects.

Talking with Sara was an adventure for his mind; one which he was thoroughly enjoying in spite of himself. He’d be willing to bet she was, too.

Which meant nothing. Adam strummed an opening chord and began to sing a plaintive ballad. By the third song, Sara’s eyes had closed and she’d dozed off, slouched in a chair she’d pulled close to the fire. He would have covered her with a blanket and left her there if he hadn’t been worried she might accidently get burned. Laying the guitar aside, he approached.

“Sara?” The shadows of her long, pale lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened slowly, their depths misty and unfocused. She began to smile. Adam was pleased to see that she’d recognized him immediately.

“Oops.” Her groggy expression grew apologetic. “I didn’t mean to nod off. Your singing was wonderful. It’s just that this has been a long, trying day.” Not to mention the weeks and months preceding it, she added silently.

“No problem.” He glanced toward the narrow bed. “I suppose you’d like to turn in.”

Sara’s strong sense of fairness surfaced. “I’m not taking your bed, if that’s what you mean. I’ll just make myself a pallet here on the floor, next to the fire where it’s warm.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

She was wholly awake, now, her stubbornness in full flower. Getting to her feet she faced him, hands on her hips. “Who says?”

“I do. Not only is this my house, I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

“But I have Samson on my side.” Sara reached down to lay her hand atop the dog’s broad head and ruffle his silky ears. “Don’t I, boy?” The dog snuggled against her legs, his thick fur fluffier than usual due to the vigorous towel drying he’d received.

“I wouldn’t count on him to stay loyal,” Adam warned. “All I have to do is open the door to the refrigerator and he’ll be all mine again, heart and soul.”

“Just like a male. Always thinking about his stomach, right?”

Adam huffed. “Well, he didn’t get that big without considerable help from me.”

“I suppose not.” She gave the dog another affectionate pat. “I can see he’d have turned out to be a Chihuahua if you hadn’t taken such good care of him when he was a puppy.”

“You’re not going to distract me by making a joke out of it.” Adam had to stifle the smile brought on by the image of Samson as a lap dog. “You get the bed. End of discussion.”

“But where will you sleep?”

The moment she uttered the innocent question Sara felt her cheeks begin to burn. This was the awkward moment she had anticipated. Yes, she trusted her host—sort of—yet she felt compelled to remind him of her strong moral code. The problem was finding a way to express herself clearly without sounding as if she were preaching.

Adam remained firm. “I plan to sleep on the floor.”