The night rain poured from celestial buckets. Tom rode silently alongside Ginger, debating with himself why he’d forced her to accept his help.
So he could apologize for the past? So he could be near her? All of the above?
Watching the overgrown and rutted road through the VW’s bouncing headlights, it was hard to see exactly where they were going. Man, it was dark and wet out. For this alone, he was glad he nudged in.
“Careful, Ginger, there’s a big—” Tom braced as the nose of the VW Bug crashed into a rain-gutted rut. “Rut.” Did Bridgett sincerely mean to send Ginger out in this gully-washer alone?
“Sorry.” She jerked the wheel right, then left, down shifting, trying to maneuver through the pitted path.
“This is crazy. We’re a mile from a marble and crystal plantation with three stories. Couldn’t you have slept in one of the many parlors or living rooms?”
“Tom, don’t, please.”
Fine. He could tell his ranting only wounded her more. But it just burned him that Bridgett had so casually booted Ginger from the house.
“‘With slaughterous sons of thunder rolled the flood,’” he said.
She clutched, shifted, jerked the wheel, voice tense when she said, “So you read Tennyson?”
“Just that one line. He claimed to have written that line when he was eight.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I suppose I have to.” The VW slowed, wheels spinning in mud, then shot forward, and continued down the so-called road. “I can’t challenge him on it, can I?”
She laughed softly. “No, you can’t. Do you read a lot?”
“As I have time. Some poetry. Novels. Theology books. Memoirs.”
“I love books. Novels, poetry, memoirs, no theology though.”
“I remember you as the math whiz.” He liked the gentle turn of the conversation.
“I like math, but I read a lot when I was recovering from . . .” She hit another deep rut. Muddy water shot in front of the headlights. “Ah, this is no man’s land.”
“I’m sure Bridgett didn’t realize—”
“Don’t say a word to her.” Ginger released the wheel long enough to scold him with a wagging finger. “It’s bad enough she announced there was no room for me in front of everyone. It’s another thing if you go to her complaining on my behalf.”
“She should know,” Tom said, his voice metered with the bumping and swaying of the VW—which was rapidly losing the rutted field versus small car battle.
“Then speak for yourself. Leave my name out of it. I mean it. I’ll be gone soon enough.”
He cut a glance her way. The dash lights accented the smooth angles of her face and set off the highlights of her sable-colored eyes.
“Can I at least pay for you to drive this little beast through a car wash?”
Ginger laughed, the engine moaning as she gently eased the car through a hungry puddle and nearly stalled. “Where is this homestead she spoke of so highly?”
“Keep going.” Tom squinted through the rain. “It’s so dark out here.”
Another rut and the Beetle Bug’s engine whined, stuttered, knocked. Ginger patted the dash. “Almost there, Matilda. Come on, baby.”
“Yeah, come on Matilda.” Tom ran his hand over the metal dash. “Good girl, you can do it.”
The VW splashed through a large puddle, then found traction on a patch of solid ground. Ginger gaped at him, shifting into a higher gear. “Seems even Matilda is subject to your charms.”
“Even Matilda? I’m not sure my so-called charms work on any of the ladies.”
“Ha, right. Weren’t you the one who made sure you had a date every Saturday night?”
“Is there anything your elephant brain doesn’t remember?”
“Yes, like why I agreed to do this wedding.” Ginger groaned as the VW nosed into another pothole and ground to a stop, jerking the two of them forward.
She clutched and shifted, urging the car onward. But the Bug moaned and rattled, and the tires spun without traction.
“Reverse,” Tom said. “See if we can back out.” Nothing doing. More tire spinning and slipping, more engine lamenting. “Cut the wheel left, then hit the gas.”
But the ground was too drenched and the revving engine lacked the horsepower to heave the little car out of the mire.
“Ginger?”
“What?” She stared straight ahead, letting out a heavy sigh.
“We’re stuck.”
“I’m so glad you came with me, Tom. Otherwise I’d sit here wondering all night what happened.”
He liked being with her one-on-one, liked when she shed her shyness and timidity. “Fine, I’m Captain Obvious. It’s the way I roll.” Tom peered through the dash to the edge of the headlights. If there was a homestead on the horizon, he couldn’t see it through the rain. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he glanced back to see if the big house was in view. Might be easier to turn around than go forward. But it wasn’t. “So what’s your plan?”
“Can we call someone? Who owns that big monster truck? Can they get us out?”
“Scott Ellis owns the truck. I don’t have his number but I can try Eric or Edward, have them send him out.” Tom tugged his phone from his jeans pocket, calling Edward first, then Eric. No answer with either one. “Guess we’re on our own.”
“Let me try Bridgett.” Ginger reached behind her seat, pulled her bag around, and dug out her phone. Her effort netted the same result as Tom. No answer.
Guess there was only one thing to do. He reached for his door handle. “I’ll push. Stay in first gear. When I say go, gently, and I do mean gently, let off the clutch and give it a little gas.” Tom cracked the door open, letting in the wet and the cold. “Cut the wheel to the left, and try to find the most solid ground you can.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” She motioned to the door. “You’re seriously going to push?”
“Unless you want the honors.”
She hesitated, then unsnapped her seat belt. “Yes, of course, I should push. It is my car.”
Tom snatched her arm before she could open her door. “Do you want my manly man card too? Please, I’ll never live it down with the guys if they hear you pushed. Let me do this. You’re the driver of this team.” Beneath the wooly knit of her sweater, he could feel the rough, ribbed skin of her arm. He’d always wanted to ask her about how it all happened. He’d only heard bits and pieces of a trailer fire. How painful it must have been. Then to live with the constant reminder . . .
“We’re not a team.” She slipped her arm from his touch.
“Okay . . . we are for now. Unless you want to sit here all night.” He jostled her shoulder, also coarse and jagged beneath her sweater. “Come on, if I can’t push us out of this, I’ll hand in my man and Marine cards.”
She reared back. “You were a Marine?”
“Yes, and still am, I guess. Hoorah. Just no longer on active duty. Ready?” Popping open his door, Tom’s first step sank into a pool of icy water, filling his shoe with ooze. Nice. He sloshed around to the back of the car, the rain soaking his hair and jacket, slipping down his collar, trickling down his neck and back.
At the back of the old Beetle, Tom anchored his backside against the car, hooking his hands under the fender as he tried to find good footing. He’d bet his ruined Nikes that the temperature had dropped a southern, damp, frigid degree or two in the past fifteen minutes.
“Ginger?” he called, glancing around, the rain water draining into his eyes and the crevasses of his face. “Ready?”
The engine whirred, coming to life. Tom ducked into place. “Okay, go!”
He pushed, his feet anchored against nothing but ooze, as Ginger fed the Bug a bit of gas.
But all combined, their efforts produced nothing but spinning tires and spewing mud. Extracting his feet from the sucking mud, Tom sloshed over to Ginger’s window and tapped on the glass. She inched it open.
“Hey, Tom, I think we’re still stuck.”
He laughed. “Now you’re Captain Obvious. I’m going to rock the car a bit. You didn’t eat a lot of food at the buffet, did you?”
“Such a funny man you are.” She shut the window and faced forward, a slight, happy curve on her lips.
Yeah, she wasn’t as hard and defensive as she let on. Tom rounded back to the VW, the rain still thick and heavy. If it took this to get to know her, to break down the barriers, he’d do it again. And again.
“Okay, Ginger, give this Beetle Bug some juice!”
The engine rumbled as she let off the clutch. Tom rocked the car, straining to dislodge it, adding his Marine muscles to the German horsepower.
Come on . . . He’d dealt with worse in Afghanistan. Lord, can You get us out of this?
The car lurched free, dropping a shivering, soaked-to-the-bone Tom into the mud. The red taillights beamed five feet ahead. Ginger tooted the horn in celebration.
Thanks, Lord.
Pushing out of the mud, Tom scrambled for the passenger door. But Ginger stuck out her hand as he started to sit.
“I just had the car detailed.”
“W-what?”
“And these are leather seats.”
“Y-you’re joking.” Meanwhile, rain slithered down his face, into his ears, and pooled at the base of his neck.
“Yeah, I’m joking. Get in here. You’re letting in the cold air.” Her laugh warmed his soul.
“You’re a regular riot, Alice.” He dropped into the seat with a squishy slosh. “Where’s a hero’s welcome when he deserves one?”
“You’re right. Thank you. Very much. The stallion of Rosebud to my rescue.” She shoved the heat slider to high and eased the Bug forward.
“Boy, you do remember everything. The stallions of Rosebud . . . I haven’t thought of that nickname in a long time.” He ran his hands though his drenched hair but there was no place to dry his cold, wet hands. “Sorry about this mess.”
“When you don’t have a life, you pay close attention to others.” She chuckled softly. “I can still see you, Eric, Edward, and Kirk Vaughn strutting down the school halls, three abreast, patting your chests on football Fridays, rapping some stallions of Rosebud song.”
Tom laughed. “Yep, ‘We’re the stallions . . . of Rosebud High . . . fear the name, we’re what we claim, when you’re not looking, we’re gonna crush ya . . .” He drummed the rhythm on the dash. “Ole Kirk, I miss him.” Kirk had gone pro but died in a small aircraft crash while doing mission work during the off season.
At his funeral, Tom’s heart first stirred toward full-time ministry. Something he swore he’d never do. He’d watched his father and wanted nothing of that life.
“Such a senseless death.”
“I can still hear Eric’s voice when he called to tell me . . . I couldn’t believe it.” Tom glanced at her. “But Kirk died doing something he believed in. At his funeral, I stood in the back of Brotherhood Community Center—there had to be a thousand people crammed in there—and bawled like a baby. That day changed me.”
“How did that day change you?” The VW nosed down again. Ginger urged the car with a bit more gas, trying to move quickly through the rut.
“I just knew. No more fooling around with God. I had to get serious.”
“Serious with God? Were you not serious? The preacher’s kid?”
“I was the opposite of serious.” The car hit another water patch and fishtailed sideways before listing to port, finding another rut and sinking. The engine gurgled and died with a tired sigh.
“No, no, no,” Ginger rocked in her seat, trying to reignite the engine. But the rain, ruts, and mud had won. “Matilda, we were almost there.” She pointed to a small light on the distant horizon before turning to Tom. “See if you can push.”
“Ginger, face it. Elements one, VW Bug with humans, zero.” Tom leaned out his door, looking under the car. “The back left is buried.” He ducked back inside. “We’re going to have to walk.”
“Walk? In this?” Ginger angled over the wheel, peering at the rain. “Maybe we can wait it out.”
As if the heavens heard, the clouds rumbled, lightning flickered, and the rain fell in double-time. The car sank a bit lower.
Tom offered her his hand. “I say we run for it. You with me? Do you have a flashlight?”
“Dear diary, Bridgett Maynard’s wedding was a blast. I got to run in the rain and mud.” Ginger popped open the glove box, producing a flashlight, then slipped the keys from the ignition and reached around behind the seat for her purse and small duffle bag. “I can’t believe this.”
“I was on a patrol like this one night in Afghanistan.”
“In a VW?” Ginger clicked on the flashlight, shot open her door, and stepped out. “Oh, wow, it’s cold. And muddy. Ew, I’m sinking.”
“No, in a Humvee. And hold on.” He sloshed his way around to her and without hesitating or pausing to see if she’d care, he slipped his hand into hers and pulled her past the car onto a piece of solid ground. “Better?”
“Better.” She exhaled, glancing up at him, shining the flashlight between them. “Thanks for coming with me.”
He curled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to wipe the rain from her cheek. “Wouldn’t have missed it.” This was ten times better than sitting around with a bunch of guys, wondering if she was all right.
“Well . . .” She turned toward the small light beaming through the rain. “I say the last one there is a monkey’s uncle.” With a rebel yell, Ginger launched into a full-on sprint, the beam of the light bouncing about the darkness.
“What? Wait—” Dang, the girl had wheels. He caught her in a few strides and was about to swoop her into his arms when Ginger disappeared, face first, into a slop of mud, the flashlight sinking with her hand while her purse and duffle floated beside her like useless life preservers.
“Ginger?” He bent for her, swallowing his laugh. It really wasn’t funny. No . . . it was hilarious. “Are you all right?” He looped her bags over his head, settling the straps on his shoulder. What was another ounce of mud or two sinking into his shirt? “Here, let me help you.” He offered his hand but she refused.
“Mud. I hate mud.” Ginger pushed to her feet, bringing up the flashlight, letting loose a blended laugh-cry. She shook her fist at the storm. “You can’t beat me.”
“Come on, Scarlett O’Hara, let’s get to the house. We can argue with the storm from the other side of warm, dry walls.” He took her left hand, striding forward. But a dozen steps in, Ginger went down again.
“That’s it. Sorry, Ginger, but—” Tom swung her duffle bag to one side as he ducked down and hoisted her over his shoulder in one swift move.
“Whoa, wait a minute, what are you doing?” She hammered her fist against his back, kicking.
“Simmer down.” He picked up his pace, his feet chomping through the water and thick, sucking mud. “I want to get to the house without you falling into the mud every five feet. Hey, can you pass me the flashlight?”
She was light, an easy load. One he wouldn’t mind shouldering for, well, the rest of his life. But the history . . . Not between them, but their parents. Did she even know?
“Nothing doing. I hand you the light and you drop me, leaving me out here all night.”
Tom jogged on, double-timing it. “I just picked you up. Do you seriously think I’d leave you out here?”
“Well, you do have a reputation for leaving a girl without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-grits. Now, really, put me down.” She kicked, pushing on his shoulders, trying to get free. “I don’t need to be rescued.”
“Really?” Without a by-your-leave, kiss-my-grits? So, she did remember the night they were supposed to eat pizza and watch a movie. Tom had wanted to call her that night but he’d spent the time battling with his dad, refusing to pack his suitcase until his baby sister came out of her room, hysterical with tears. Stop it! Stop fighting.
“Tom, put . . . me . . . down.”
“Seems to me you were losing that battle with the mud.” She struggled against him but he hung on. “If you keep squirming, I’m going to drop you.”
“Good, do it. Better than being carted around like a sack of seed.”
He should’ve let second-thoughts surface before releasing her but she seemed so intent on her demand. So . . . he let go, sending Ginger to the ground. She plopped into a soggy puddle and bobbled for balance while Tom continued on, plowing through the rain and muck.
“Hey!” Her call bounced through the raindrops. “What’s the big idea?”
He turned, walking backward, seeing nothing but the white glow of her flashlight. “You said, ‘Put me down.’”
“And you believed me?” Her sloshing and complaining trailed after him, the white light bobbing, until she finally caught up, whapping him on the back of his head.
He laughed, feigning a yelp, and caught her around the waist, spinning her around. “My mama taught me to respect women’s wishes.”
“You think she intended you to dump a girl to the cold, muddy ground?”
“Yes, if that’s what she demanded.” Slowly he set her down, her lean frame against him, shivering and soaked. Her breath mingled with his, their heartbeats in sync. Even with the flashing light aimed behind him, he could see every inch of her face. “Ginger—”
“Tom, I-I’m—” She gently freed herself from his embrace, from whatever his heart was about to confess. “Freezing. We’d better get to the house.” Ginger aimed the light ahead, spotlighting the old ranch homestead.
“About another thirty meters.” Tom took her hand and the flashlight, not caring if she protested, and led the way, holding her steady, instructing her around the ruts and puddles.
The yellow dot fifteen minutes ago was now a full-blown porch light. Tom jumped the veranda steps, the cold starting to sink in, bringing Ginger along with him.
She tried the door handle. “Locked,” she said, shaking. “She sent me to a locked house? What happened to ‘Daddy never locks the house’?”
“Hold on.” Tom tried the windows by the door. Also locked.
“So, when were you a Marine?” Ginger said, following him.
“Between semesters.” All of the front windows were bolted. “Stay here, let me scout out the place.”
“Between semesters? Like on your school breaks? You ran down to Paris Island and said, ‘Hey, I’m here.’”
He smiled back at her. “Something like that.” Tom hurdled the veranda rail and jogged to the back of the house. He didn’t care about Ginger’s wagging finger; Bridgett was going to hear about this. It was one thing to be the caught-up bride but another to be so self-focused she disregarded her guest’s well-being.
On the back deck, Tom tried the knob on the French doors, grateful when they gave way to his gentle push.
Stepping inside, he found a switch and with one click, a set of recessed lights over the fireplace beamed on. Excellent. The power was on. He started to step forward but the slosh of his shoes drew him back. With a sweeping glance Tom checked out the place. The work of Mr. Maynard was evident. He kicked off his shoes. Can’t track mud across the hardwood.
Crossing the spacious room with its vaulted ceilings and crown molding, he flicked on the end-table lamps.
At the front door, he opened up and stood aside for Ginger to enter, dropping her bags from his shoulder to the floor. “Please, enter your humble abode.”
“So, like, the power was on?” She huddled by the door, a muddy mess as she glanced around. “Wow. This is the old homestead?”
“Well, consider the source. Bridgett Maynard.”
“It’s beautiful.” Ginger slipped from her shoes and wandered toward the kitchen, then back to the great room. “I think I got the better deal coming out here.”
“But everyone else is at the house with food and maids. Does this place have anything to eat? Is the water on?” Tom stepped around to the kitchen, trying the faucet. Water flowed freely. “Looks like you’re set then.” Tom locked the French doors and picked up his shoes. “Keep the doors locked. There’s homeless camps in those woods. Even in this cold.”
“Thank you. For everything.” She motioned to the doors unaware that the dark scarf she wore swung loose, exposing the neck she worked hard to hide.
He fought the urge to touch her, to tell her the wounds would be all right. She didn’t have to hide. But that would definitely cross all of her boundaries. Real or imagined.
“Well, then, I guess I should get back.” He made a face as he set down his shoes and slipped in his feet.
“Oh, Tom.” She whirled toward him. “See, I knew you shouldn’t have come. Now you have to go back in the rain. By yourself.”
“Like I said, I’ve been in worse.”
“It’s freezing out there. You’ll catch a cold or something. I don’t think Bridgett and Eric will like you hacking and sneezing through their big society wedding tomorrow.”
“Can’t stay here, though, can I?” His gaze met hers and for a moment, he was back in high school, watching her in math class, wondering how he could work up the nerve to ask her out. She was so walled and guarded. Then and now.
“I guess not.” She stepped toward him. “See you tomorrow then.”
“See you tomorrow.” In that moment, it felt like something passed between them. But he couldn’t quite grab onto it.
“Hey, why don’t you try Eric again? He did say he needed his best man tonight. He could come get you.”
Tom slipped out his phone, none the worse for the muddy wear, and rang Eric. Again, no answer. He tried Edward to no avail.
He offered up his silent phone to Ginger. “Guess I’m trekking.” Tom gestured to the fireplace. “I noticed firewood out back. Do you want—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m an electric-heat-and-blankets girl all the way.”
“Right, sorry.” He reached for her hand, the one she didn’t hide under the sleeve of her sweater, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “If I had to be out on a cold, rainy night, I’m glad it was with you.” He stepped toward the door. “Good night.”
“Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you call me? That night? To tell me you were leaving?”
With her questions, time peeled back, and he saw her waiting at her apartment for him to come. But he never did. “I didn’t know I was moving until I went home. Dad announced he’d resigned from the church and we were going to Atlanta. No debate, no questions, no argument. I was seventeen years old and my father had just destroyed my world.”
“Why didn’t you stay with your Granddaddy? Or one of your friends?”
“Dad refused. Insisted we move as a family. The night we packed up to go, Dad and I argued so much we almost threw punches. Then my sister came out of her room, hysterical, begging us to stop.” Ginger listened with her arms wrapped about her waist, the warm light of the homestead haloing her. “It scared me, humbled me, when I saw her pain. Then I saw the angst on my father’s face and I gave up my fight. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, or why we were heading out of town like bandits, but it had my dad, and mom, in knots. I’d never heard them so much as raise their voices to each other, but that night, they weren’t even speaking. Nevertheless, I still managed to be a major pain-in-the-backside. I barely spoke to him for two months after we moved. Though he tried really hard to make things right between us.” Tom winced at his confession. “Now I realize at the worst time in his life, his family was all he had and all he wanted.”
“Trust me, if you have family, you have everything.” She shivered but he wasn’t sure it was because of the cold, muddy water clinging to her jeans.
“I’m sorry I never called you, Ginger. Or emailed. You were my friend and deserved better. I thought maybe we’d become more than friends. But when we moved, I put Rosebud and everything about it behind me.”
“More than friends?” Her eyes glistened. “Even if you’d stayed in Rosebud, we’d never have been anything. We were barely friends. Your friends would’ve never allowed it.”
“Allowed what? For us to be friends? Or more than? My friends had no say in my relationships.” He took a watery step toward her.
“Are you sure? Seemed to me they had everything to say about your relationships. Who you hung out with, when and where. Every time we had study hall together, they pestered you to skip out. They barely spoke to me when we were together, forget when we weren’t.”
“Ginger, I could make up my own mind. Even then. They had no say. I asked you to the movies, didn’t I?”
She furrowed her brow, shrugging. “As a payback for math help.” She smoothed her sandy colored hair over her shoulder, and shoved her scarf into place. “We would’ve never been anything more.”
“If I wanted there to be more—”
A bold knock startled away the intimacy of their conversation and Tom opened to find Edward on the veranda, Scott and his four-wheel drive idling by the steps.
“We’ve come to rescue you.” Edward barged inside. “Passed the VW on our way . . .” He gave Tom the once over. “Man, what happened to you?”
“We tried to push the car out.” Tom followed Edward’s glance across the room where Ginger stood on the other side of the reading chairs.
“Ginger,” Edward said.
“Edward.”
“You know our boy here is starting a church?” Edward clapped Tom on the shoulder.
“So he said.”
“No offense, but considering all that happened with Tom’s dad, we can’t be too careful. Especially around you.”
“Around me?” She fiddled with her scarf, smoothing it higher up on her neck. “What are you talking about?”
“Edward, let’s go.” Tom tugged on his arm, reaching for the door knob.
But Edward remained planted, his smile neither warm nor pleasant. “You know what I’m talking about, Ginger. I realize time has passed and with Tom not being married the rules are different, but nevertheless, there are expectations. We have to protect him from scandal and gossip all the same. He needs a good start in Rosebud if the church is going to make it.”
“Edward, that’s enough.” Tom jerked him toward the door. “Ginger, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Edward, what are you talking about? ‘Protect him from scandal’?” Ginger gazed at Tom, her lips pressed in defiance. See? Your friends won’t let you.
“She doesn’t know?” Edward glanced at Tom, incredulous.
“Ginger, you’re freezing and muddy. We’ll get out of your hair,” Tom said. Ed and his big mouth. He never did have any tact. “Say . . . I’ll come get you in the morning. What time?”
“Don’t dismiss me, Tom Wells. What don’t I know?”
“Nothing, Edward is just talking. You know, how it’s probably not good for Rosebud’s newest, young, single pastor to be alone on a dark and rainy night with a beautiful woman.”
She snapped back, her expression sober, the sheen in her eyes a blend of confusion and what-did-you-just-say? But she stayed on task. “Edward, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know, Ginger?” Edward stepped around the wingback chair toward her. His voice was smooth, his movements calculating.
“Edward, enough.” Tom came around the other side, pressing his hand into the man’s chest. “Let’s just go.”
“Your mom was the reason Tom’s dad had to leave town. Or at least she was the final blow.”
Tom dropped his head with a heavy exhale. Edward had been wanting to do this since Tom agreed to start the church. He thought Tom should, “Get it out in the open.”
“We don’t need any gossip or scandal cropping up.”
Ginger glanced between them. “Excuse me? My mom? The woman who hates church? Who . . . wouldn’t . . . even . . . take me?” Her words slowed as some sort of revelation dawned. But only for a moment. “No, no, not my mama. Preachers were definitely not her type.”
“Say what you will, but Shana Winters was in love with Tom Wells Sr.”
“Edward!” Tom shoved him out the door. What was wrong with him? “Ginger,” Tom paused inside the threshold. “I’ll come for you in the morning.”
“What are you talking about? She never even knew Tom Sr., let alone fell in love with him. My mother and your father? It’s laughable.” She turned away from them, disbelief tainting her expression. “My mother? She’s a lot of things, but not a home wrecker.”
“You’re right. She wasn’t a home wrecker,” Tom said. He could deck Edward. Seriously. “We can talk about this later.”
“No. Edward brought it up, so let’s talk about it now. My mother is responsible for your family leaving town, for your father losing his church? For you never calling me again?”
“Okay, here’s the truth. My father is responsible for losing his church, for us leaving town, and I’m responsible for never calling you.”
“So my mother wasn’t involved? Edward is lying?”
“Not exactly lying. Your mother and my father were friends—”
“He said something about love.”
“Ed,” Tom said. “Can you give us a moment?”
He started to protest, then turned for the door. “Hurry, it’s late. Eric’s waiting for us.”
As the door clicked closed, Tom reached for Ginger but she stepped away. “Edward doesn’t know the whole story.”
Ginger exhaled, the light in her golden eyes dimming as she closed the small window she’d opened to him.
“Then what is the whole story?”
From beyond the door, the truck horn sounded. Tom grumbled low. Wait until he was alone with Ed.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll pick you up and we can talk about it in the morning.” He smiled, coaxing her agreement. “Go, shower, get warm. I’ll see you at . . .”
“Eight. But is there any truth to what he said?” she said after a moment.
“Some.” He peered at her, gaze holding gaze.
She sighed, sinking down to the chair, then standing back up, remembering she was wet and muddy. “Even more reason now.”
“Reason for what?”
“That we can’t be more than friends. I told you your friends won’t let you.”
“And I told you, my friends have no say. See you in the morning, Ginger. And please, do not worry about this. Trust me.” The door clicked closed behind him and he jogged toward the waiting truck. Climbing in, he thumped Edward in the head. “Nice going.”
“She needed to know.” The man showed no remorse. “But really, Tom, her? Of all the women in southern Alabama?”
Tom mulled over the challenge as Scott revved the truck toward the big house, the powerful beast undaunted by the muddy, rutted terrain.
Why not Ginger Winters? She was kind and considerate, more than the man next to him who claimed to be a Christian. Every time Tom saw her in the past few days, she caught a piece of his heart.
But could he be more than friends with the daughter of the woman who played a role in his father’s demise?
Yeah, Tom had some praying to do. A conversation with God was about to go down. He’d be open, listening. But in the moment, the answer to Edward’s question was a resounding, Yeah, her. Really.