His Surprise Son

That thought led inevitably to the woman who was trying so hard to ignore him.

When he’d first met Isabelle Lambert, he hadn’t intended to be anything other than polite. She’d been a high school student, one year behind him in school, and a waitress, and he’d respected that. In his senior year of high school, Nate had taken to spending part of every day at The Pickle Jar, where he could order a drink and, when he had the extra cash, a sandwich and study for a couple of hours without being interrupted, since his friends rarely if ever showed up at the deli. Izzy had waited on him a number of times.

She seemed to be there, working or studying at the counter, anytime he came in. Hazel-green eyes and sandy-brown hair she scraped back in a nondescript ponytail wouldn’t have drawn his notice necessarily, but her manner did. Calm, serious and almost deferentially polite, she was so different from the other teenage girls Nate knew that she became a puzzle to him, and he loved a good puzzle.

“You’re very welcome to stay and study as long as you like,” she’d told him when he’d asked if they needed the table during one lunch hour. Her eyes, free of makeup, had held his gaze steadily and all of a sudden he’d realized they were large and changed color—sometimes the color of an aspen tree’s leaves, other times the color of its bark.

“I see you studying at the counter,” he’d said in his first real attempt at conversation with her. “Whose classes are you in?”

He’d noticed her mouth then—pink, unglossed and bowed at the top as it formed a surprised O, as if she hadn’t expected him to ask her anything not related to his lunch.

“I have Billings for history and Lankford for Literature. I’m working on an essay about The Grapes of Wrath and how a current depression would manifest differently from the Dust Bowl Migration of the 1930s. Especially on a local level.”

He’d whistled. “Who assigned that as a topic?”

She’d hesitated a second. “No one. The Grapes of Wrath was assigned reading, but I chose the topic. It’s interesting.”

Her intelligent eyes had lowered as if she’d thought she’d said something she shouldn’t have, and he’d noticed a pulse beating rapidly at the base of her slender neck. In that moment she’d reminded him of a cross between a falcon and a hummingbird. And he’d had a surprising revelation as an eighteen-year-old, realizing that around most girls, his smiles started on the outside and sometimes worked their way in; with Isabelle Lambert, his smiles started deep inside.

He never did get around to flirting with Izzy. One day he’d found an eagle’s nest while on a hike and asked if she’d like to see it. She’d said yes, and...that had been their first date, which was weird, because he hadn’t planned to date anyone at all. He’d dated plenty in high school, and he hadn’t wanted the distraction or the drama so close to graduation.

Because he’d known he was leaving for Chicago at the end of summer, he and Izzy had agreed to keep things light. They had broken that agreement in a dozen different ways.

“Yum! It so pays to have friends in the right places.” Holliday’s naturally sultry voice carried clearly through the library. “Mmm, lunch. And at exactly the right time. I’m wasting away.”

On the heels of her exclamation came the aroma of food and a voice that responded, “I wanted to check on the availability of the Black Butte room for a class on ASL in the Workplace next week. I forgot to reserve the room, so I thought I’d bring a little lunch to butter you up.”

Nate heard the crinkling of a paper bag. “Pastrami, Swiss and coleslaw on rye?” Holliday sounded reverential. “I will give you anything your heart desires.”

“You’re so easy.”

“Is that rumor still circulating?”

Peering around the row of books, Nate let his eyes confirm what his ears and nose already told him: Holliday’s visitor was Izzy, bearing food from The Pickle Jar.

Shaking her head, Izzy admonished around a smile, “Holly, lower your voice. Don’t give the gossips anything else to complain about. Last week, Evelyn Cipes was in the deli grousing that we’re the only town between here and Portland with a librarian who wears stilettos to work.”

“Goody! I loathe stereotypes. Want to join me in my office while I do justice to this delicious meal? I’ll get Maggie to cover the front.”

“Sure.”

Nate sprang into action before he had time to think. “Talk about ironic.” He addressed himself to the librarian as his stride carried him toward her desk. “Isabelle keeps telling me she doesn’t have time to talk to me, and yet everywhere I go, there she is.” He leaned forward to speak confidentially. “I think she’s following me.” He raised a brow, hoping the unique Ms. Bailey would play along. “Do you think she’s following me?”

The brunette looked delighted. “I don’t know,” she whispered loudly. “Let’s find out.” She looked at her friend. “Izzy, have you been stalking this big, good-looking man?”

Izzy looked horrified. Nate would have laughed if not for the fact that he didn’t feel like letting her off the hook so easily. Why the devil was she treating him like a stranger—and a very unwelcome one?

“Of course I’m not stalking. I don’t stalk.” Trying hard not to glance at him, she told Holliday, “I better get back to work.”

“I thought you were going to have lunch with me,” her friend protested.

“I know. I forgot that I need to get back. There’s a big party coming in for...brisket.”

“Yeah, I heard brisket is trending today.” Nate leaned casually against the desk, still addressing himself to Holliday. “I don’t believe her. Do you?”

The brunette’s forehead creased. In lieu of answering, she asked, “How do you know Izzy?”

One glance at Izzy’s face told him she did not want him to answer.

“We knew each other in high school,” he said, watching her closely.

“No kidding.” Holliday looked at Izzy, whose expression gave her the appearance of someone standing in line to get a root canal. “Were you...good friends?”

Fifteen years after he’d first noticed her, Izzy still had skin like a porcelain doll. He could see the red flush beneath the creamy fairness and wondered why seeing him again was so hard for her. He hadn’t returned to Thunder Ridge expecting to see her but considered their reunion a bonus. They may have been kids when they were together, but they’d shared adult experiences he still hadn’t shared with anyone else. And there were questions, unanswered for fifteen years now.

“I thought we were good friends,” he answered Holliday’s question. “Certainly enough to merit a few minutes’ worth of catching up. That’s what old friends do when they meet again. Right?”

“I know I would.” Holliday’s red lips curled with humor, her heavily lashed eyes darting with rabid curiosity between Nate and Izzy, who frowned mightily at her friend.

Suddenly, the sheriff from yesterday flashed in Nate’s mind. Was he the stumbling block to their spending a little time together? Nate may not have expected to see Izzy on this trip, but now that they were together, he’d like some closure. Not that he was channeling Dr. Phil, but he had questions that were fifteen years old. Didn’t she? If nothing else, he’d like to know why she’d refused to be in touch with him after she’d miscarried their baby.

“Five minutes,” he said to Holliday. “That’s reasonable, don’t you think?”

“Take ten,” she suggested, ignoring Izzy’s expression.

“You’re right. Ten. Can we use the meeting room?” When Holliday nodded, he turned to Izzy. “One-sixth of an hour, Isabelle. My watch has a timer. I’ll even let you hold it, so you’ll know I’m not cheating.”

Maybe he didn’t know Izzy well anymore—maybe he never had—but he could see the wheels spinning in her head. She was trying to think of a way to reject his overture, again. And then—

“Ten minutes,” she said decisively. “And then I have to go.”

If Nate could feel the waves of curiosity rolling off Holliday, he was sure Izzy felt them, too, but she strode ahead of them toward the Black Butte room without a backward glance.

At the door to the meeting room, Izzy stopped, allowing Holliday to pass ahead of her. The librarian reached into her bra, of all places, to extract a set of small keys, one of which she used to unlock the heavy oak door. She flipped the light switch and stepped back, only slightly less provocative when she asked, “Do you need a chaperone?”