It wasn’t Brett.
Instead Callie opened the door to find Little Jimmy Ham standing on her back doorstep and disappointment ricocheted through her before she reminded herself that she wasn’t in any hurry to see Brett Sawyer again.
He made her feel too many things. Too many distracting things.
Jimmy was much better. Safer.
She’d gone to school with Little Jimmy right up until he’d quit during sophomore year to help out at his family’s farm. Or what was left of it since it had gone to hell in a handbasket after a drought.
Most people figured he’d been kicked out of school because of bad grades, but Callie knew better. She’d tutored him and while he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, he was no dummy, either. He’d just missed out on so much education because of his family’s hard luck.
But he’d always been nice and respectful, and so Callie gave him a welcoming smile. “What brings you out here?”
“My momma wanted me to stop by.” His brown hair was in desperate need of a cut, but he’d tried to tame the long strands by slicking them back and stuffing them behind his ears. He sported a nearly threadbare blue shirt, the edges frayed, the top button missing near the collar, and an old pair of faded blue jeans. The only thing that wasn’t worn were his black sneakers, the laces stiff and tight as if he were wearing them for the first time.
He was tall and lanky like his daddy and his granddaddy before him, but there was already a Big Jimmy, his dad, and a Really Big Jimmy, his granddad, and so Little was next in line when it came to distinguishing the men in the family and the name had stuck.
“She wanted me to bring you this,” he went on, holding up an apple pie covered in plastic wrap. “She said to tell you how sorry she was.”
Delia Ham was just as tall and lanky as her husband and son, and she made the best apple pie in the state. When she wasn’t cleaning rooms at the local motel, that is, a job she’d taken among others to help make ends meet since the farm wasn’t producing.
“I’m sorry, too,” he added.
“Thanks so much.” Callie took the offering and stepped back. “You want to come in? I could make some coffee or rustle you up some leftovers.” She eyed the goody in her hand and smiled. “We could have a piece of this delicious pie.”
“No, no.” He shook his head and glanced behind him, as if antsy that someone might catch him on her doorstep. “I need to be getting back. I’ve got to help my pa with something.”
“It’s kind of late for a project.”
He shrugged. “My pa works a lot of hours.”
“I hear that.” Callie glanced at the empty gravel drive that curled around the back of the house. “Did you walk all the way here?”
“It’s not too far. I cut across down by the river.”
“That’s two miles away.”
He shrugged. “Our truck ain’t running so good. It needs a new water pump on account of the old is barely hanging on. Pa says we can only use it for emergencies.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and backed up a few steps. “Mister James was always real nice to me,” he added. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him. You take care now,” he added, stepping off the porch.
“I will.” She glanced behind her at her keys hanging from a nearby hook. “If you wait up, I could give you a lift home.”
“Don’t trouble yourself none. The walk is fine.” He stuffed his hands even deeper into his pockets and in a matter of seconds, he was gone, disappearing into a cluster of trees near the barn.
Seconds ticked by as Callie eyed the treeline. Finally she closed the door and headed back inside. She ignored the urge to slice into the pie just for herself, slid it into the last empty spot in the refrigerator, and headed into the living room. After tucking a blanket around her sister and a softly snoring Jez, she turned off the TV and headed down the hallway. She stalled in the doorway of the front den and eyed the stack of newspapers sitting next to her grandfather’s recliner. She really should bag it all up and toss it.
She would.
Another night when she wasn’t so freakin’ tired.
But despite the exhaustion she couldn’t relax enough to actually catch a few z’s when she finally climbed into bed.
She tried to tune out the world, but the past few days kept playing over and over in her head, yanking her back to the slow chug of the ancient window unit and the hum of the lightbulb that flickered every once in a while from the adjoining bathroom.
Recent events rolled through her consciousness—the explosion, the swarm of police, the black-zippered bag disappearing into the coroner’s van, the endless stream of old-lady hats passing near the closed casket, the whisper of nosy neighbors, Brett’s sudden appearance at the Bachmans’.
She could still smell the intoxicating scent of warm male, cool leather, and just a hint of aftershave. Not the overwhelming, cloying kind that a lot of men wore. No, this was just a splash. A whisper of masculinity that reminded her of strong arms, a solid chest, and the most amazing blue eyes fringed in dark lashes.
For the hundredth time that day, she found herself wondering if he still tasted every bit as good as she remembered.
She drew a deep breath and gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her head back on track. That meant forgetting how helpful he’d been, how nice, and focusing on something—anything—else.
She took a shower. She drank hot cocoa. She watched a few episodes of Orange Is the New Black on Netflix. She even pulled out her satchel and spent an hour folding and stamping the quarterly newsletters that Les mailed out to his existing customers before moving on to her laptop and the dozens of digital pics she’d taken at the Daughters of the Republic bake sale last week.
The paper was going to run a feature on Julia Carmichael, president of the organization, and they’d asked Callie to supply a few pics from the event.
Where she’d once done most of her work in the makeshift darkroom set up in the back barn with an old camera and some used equipment given to her by her yearbook teacher, she now worked with a cheap digital and an editing program. The pics weren’t the best, but they were the best for what she had. And certainly top notch for a small publication like the Rebel Yell.
She picked out the most vivid pics, wrote up a few tag descriptions, and sent them via e-mail to Charlotte Mackey, the newspaper’s editor, along with an offer to do pics and a story on next week’s annual VFW Spaghetti Dinner and Raffle.
It was a little after three a.m. when she finally finished everything and clicked send. Her head ached and her shoulders felt tight, but she still wasn’t any closer to falling asleep.
She felt too wired to close her eyes.
Nervous.
Scared.
The truth followed her through the ancient house and out onto the back porch.
Not that she was scared because her granddad was gone and she was all alone. She was used to facing the world all by her lonesome. James had never had her back or helped ease her load. He’d simply sat in his recliner when he wasn’t holed up outside, oblivious to the world around him. To the struggle.
She touched her bare toes to the clapboard floor of the back porch and pushed the rickety swing just enough to set it in motion. Hinges creaked and wood groaned, the sounds quickly melting into the buzz of crickets and the snores of the other two foster babies—a mutt named Earl and a Great Dane mix named Susie—that were camped out nearby. There’d been zero comfort in seeing James sprawled in his La-Z-Boy, his snores bouncing off the walls to the point that she’d actually contemplated buying earplugs.
She hadn’t because, while annoying, the sound had always meant that he hadn’t drank himself into an early grave just yet.
The notion struck and her gaze shifted to the line of trees that stood at the edge of the massive stretch of grass. Several yards beyond was the spot where James had built his still and met his maker.
Her gaze hooked on the yellow police tape that stretched between two trees that lined the path that led to his old cabin. She’d walked that path just a few days ago.
Run, as a matter of fact. The minute the explosion had hit, she’d been on her feet, heading for the back stretch of woods, her heart pounding, the dread building.
She’d known even before she’d seen the flames slicing through the black night that something bad had happened.
A feeling she would never, ever forget.
One that washed through her all over again as she pushed to her feet and left the rickety swing to walk toward the break in the trees.