Finding Home (5 page)

“He’s coming over here.” Her son relayed the news in a panicked whisper as he edged closer.

Cindy’s pulse took a leap, and she tightened her grip on the can.

“Excuse me.” The familiar deep baritone resonated in her ears. At least his tone was cordial rather than angry. A hopeful change.

Clutching the can, Cindy rotated toward him.

She’d known he was tall the night he’d towered over their table at the Orchid, but his full height registered now as he stood across from her. At five-seven she wasn’t short, but he had to top six feet by an inch or two at minimum.

“I’d like to apologize for my rudeness last Friday and introduce myself. Scott Walsh.” The hint of a smile that seemed forced pulled at his lips as he extended his hand.

He was hating this. Cindy could read it in his eyes and the taut stretch of his mouth. This was not a man who liked to apologize. Yet he was doing it anyway. That earned him a few points.

After transferring the can to her left hand, she took his fingers in a firm grip. “Cindy Peterson. And my son, Jarrod.” When the youngster resisted her attempt to tug him out from behind her, she gave up. “I’m sorry if my conversation with your boss caused any problems. I’d had a long, stressful day and said more than I should have. My mouth sometimes gets away from me.”

Her candor appeared to take him off guard, but surprise quickly morphed to amusement that put an appealing spark in his dark green irises. “As you may have guessed from this red hair and my comments on Friday, I can empathize with that. Shall we call it even?”

“Let’s.”

Her purse slipped from her shoulder as Jarrod eased out a fraction, and when she grabbed for it she dropped the can. Scott bent to retrieve it, scanning the label on the all-purpose bug spray before handing it back.

“Insect problem?”

“Ants in the kitchen.” She wrinkled her nose. “There was a whole parade of them last night. I have no idea where they came from.”

“They can be insidious. I had the same problem in my grandmother’s house last month.” He checked out the shelves behind her, then reached past her shoulder and snagged a different can. “I used this. Worked like a charm.”

“Sold.” She twisted around to replace the other can and took the one he offered. His fingers were long and lean, she noted, as they brushed hers. And the calluses on his palm told her he wasn’t the kind of boss who directed from the sidelines. An odd flutter skittered along her nerve endings, and she eased away, hugging the can to her chest. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Thanks for the understanding.” He tipped his head sideways to get a better look at her son. “Bye, Jarrod.”

It took a prod with her elbow to elicit a mumbled reply from her son.

With a lift of his hand, he disappeared around the end of the aisle.

Jarrod stayed close while she finished her shopping, but by the time she approached the high, old-fashioned counter at the seventy-five-year-old store that was one of her favorite town landmarks, Scott was gone.

The owner’s daughter greeted her as she approached, waving a small white bakery bag. “From Scott.” Lindsey tapped the plastic dome beside the cash register, where her homemade cookies were always displayed. “Chocolate chip today. He said to enjoy them for dessert.” She grinned, her brown eyes twinkling. “Looks like you two have made a new friend.”

“More like a peace offering.” Nevertheless, Cindy had to admit it was a nice gesture. “We had a little...run-in with him last week.”

“With Scott?” Lindsey raised an eyebrow as she rang up and bagged Cindy’s purchases. “I’ve only heard good things about him.”

The bell over the door jingled, and Lindsey leaned sideways to check out the new arrival. A tall, mid-thirties, sandy-haired man dressed in a National Park Service uniform entered. “Hi, Clint. That garden edger you ordered is in. Give me a minute to finish up here and I’ll get it from the back.”

“No hurry. I need a few other things anyway.” The man brushed the dust off his slacks as he strolled over to the counter, exchanging a greeting with Cindy and Jarrod as he inspected the dome. “Save me a couple of cookies, okay?”

“No problem.” Lindsey bagged Cindy’s purchases and eyed Clint. “Where’ve you been anyway? A dustbowl?”

The man grimaced. “A construction site. I stopped by The Point a few minutes ago with the contractor who’s going to develop the interpretive trail in the public-use area Mattson set aside. It’s a mess out there. But I have to say Mattson’s people are being accommodating. I ran into Scott Walsh, the foreman. Very cooperative. Seems like a good guy. He even offered us additional resources if we need them.” Still brushing himself off, he snagged a cookie and headed into the store.

Cindy watched him go. Interesting. Clint Nolan had been in town for a couple of years, and he generally kept to himself, living alone on the first floor of the two-family home he’d bought a mile out of town. He’d gotten involved in the Save The Point campaign Lindsey had spearheaded but in a quiet, behind-the-scenes kind of way, and he rarely offered opinions unless asked.

Yet he’d been forthcoming in his appraisal of Scott.

The man must have impressed him.

Lindsey had obviously come to the same conclusion. She nodded in the direction Clint had disappeared. “See what I mean? And Scott’s always been pleasant in our encounters. An excellent neighbor, too. He happened to be passing by last week while I was out in the lot debating what to do about a flat tire. He pulled in and changed it even though I told him not to bother.”

“I might have just met him on a bad day.”

“That’s possible.” Lindsey handed Cindy the receipt. “We all have those.” A shadow flitted over the other woman’s eyes, reminding Cindy that lots of people had problems far more serious than hers.

“But there are also happy endings.”

“Yeah. There are.” The tension in Lindsey’s features relaxed. “You keep that in mind, too.”

The bell jingled again to admit another customer, and as Lindsey turned to greet him, Cindy gathered up her bags. After handing one to Jarrod to tote, she pushed through the door and crossed the gravel lot to her Honda.

As she loaded the groceries in the trunk, Jarrod extracted the white bag containing the cookies and peeked inside, his expression puzzled. “How come he did this, Mom?”

“I guess he was trying to be nice.”

“He wasn’t nice to us last week.”

“You don’t have to eat his cookies if you don’t want to.” Stifling a smile, she closed the trunk as he pondered that. Fat chance her son would pass up homemade cookies—no matter the source.

“I don’t want to throw them away.” He crimped the top of the bag in his fingers and maintained a firm grip on it.

“Guess you’ll have to eat them then.”

“Yeah.” He followed her around the car and climbed in. “So do you still think that guy is mean?”

“Do you?”

“I dunno. He was nicer tonight.” He snapped his seat belt in place. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. We probably won’t see him much anyway.”

That was true. Scott had been on the job site since the project broke ground in January, and their paths had only just crossed. With her working more hours than ever, the odds of them meeting again were slim.

Yet as they drove home, Cindy found herself wishing they
would
meet. Which was odd.

And unfair to Steve.

Besieged by guilt, she struggled to find a logical explanation for her reaction. But the best one she could come up with—that she wanted to reassure herself she and Scott had smoothed out their rocky beginning—was lame.

The real explanation was simpler. And it was based on chemistry, not logic.

Like it or not, back in the store she’d felt a subtle zing of attraction for Scott Walsh.

And she didn’t like it.

Because it was one more complication in a life that already had far too many.

Chapter Three

S
cott swung into a parking space near the E.R. entrance at St. Joseph’s Hospital, yanked the key out of the ignition and pushed open the door.

This was not how he’d intended to spend his Friday night.

Two steps out of the car he realized he hadn’t tucked in the shirt he’d thrown on after taking the call from Seaside Gardens. After pocketing his keys, he shoved the tail into his jeans without breaking stride, double-checked the rest of his attire—and discovered he’d also forgotten his socks.

But as long as Gram was okay he could cope with missing footwear. She’d already broken one hip. Another fall could be fatal.

His stomach clenching, he strode inside as the E.R. doors whooshed open to admit him. He didn’t waste any time at the intake desk, and in less than a minute he was being ushered back to a treatment room.

As he passed the central nursing station, he caught sight of Paul Butler and slowed his pace. He’d known that his fellow congregant from Good Shepherd Church was a doctor, but he’d forgotten he worked at St. Joseph’s.

“I’ve been watching for you.” The man came around from behind the desk, white coat flapping. He took Scott’s hand in a firm clasp and answered his question before he could ask it. “Your grandmother is in X-ray, but my preliminary exam didn’t indicate anything more than a few bruises. The assisted-living facilities don’t take chances with falls, though. We see a lot of elderly patients who go back as soon as we check them out.”

The knot of tension in Scott’s stomach loosened. “That’s good news.” The words came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

“You can wait in the treatment room for her to come back if you like.” The doctor indicated a room four doors down. “But depending on how backed up X-ray is, it could be a while. If you haven’t had dinner, you have time to visit the cafeteria. Or there are vending machines in the hall near the waiting room.”

“Thanks. I’ll hang out in the treatment room for now.”

“No problem. Flag one of us down if you have any questions.”

As the doctor returned to the desk, Scott continued toward the room. From the threshold he eyed the single hard plastic chair in the corner, hoping it was more user-friendly than it looked.

It wasn’t.

After sixty futile seconds of contortions as he attempted to find a comfortable position, he gave up, determined to ignore the protest of his weary body.

Ten minutes later, though, it was more difficult to ignore the rumble from his stomach. Lunch had been a long time ago. Eight hours, to be exact, according to his watch. If the call from Seaside Gardens had come in even fifteen minutes later, he’d already have scarfed down the frozen dinner he’d been ready to nuke. Should he run to the cafeteria after all? Visit the vending machines? But what if some news came back on Gram while he was gone?

No. He’d stick it out for a while.

But thirty minutes later, when the complaints from his stomach and the unforgiving contours of the plastic chair ganged up on him, he stood. Five minutes. That’s all it should take to run to the vending machines and appease his hunger. The walk would also get the blood flowing again to the other complaining parts of his anatomy.

As he left the confined space and headed for the waiting area, he surveyed the other treatment rooms. Most of the doors were closed, suggesting a busy night. One was partly open, however, and he spared it a quick glance as he passed. A young boy was hunched over in a hard plastic chair in the corner, similar to the one he’d vacated.

A young blond-haired boy.

With a familiar face.

Scott stopped. Frowned. Backed up.

His eyes hadn’t lied.

It was Jarrod Peterson. And he looked scared out of his mind, his gaze riveted on a scene blocked from Scott’s view by a drawn curtain.

Who was back there? The boy’s mother? Father? Both?

He had his answer a moment later when a nurse lifted the curtain to exit the treatment room. Cindy Peterson lay covered with a sheet, her eyes closed, her blond hair spilling around her shoulders, a large gauze bandage taped to her forehead.

For the second time that evening, Scott’s pulse took a leap.

Angling toward the main desk, he scanned the busy staff behind it for Paul.

The doctor caught sight of him as he approached. “Sorry for the delay. They’re swamped in X-ray.”

“No problem. I was on my way to get some food and I caught a glimpse of Cindy Peterson.” He gestured toward the treatment room.

“Are you two friends?”

“We’re...acquainted. What happened?”

Paul gave him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I can’t discuss her case. But you’re welcome to speak with her.” The doors to the ambulance dock banged open behind them, and two paramedics entered wheeling a stretcher. “Gotta run.”

As Paul went to meet the arriving patient, Scott debated his next move. Cindy wore a wedding ring, but there was no sign of her husband in the treatment room. Was she here alone? Should he offer assistance—or lay low and respect her privacy?

All at once the door to Cindy’s room opened and Jarrod poked his head out. As if seeking...help? When he spotted Scott, his eyes widened and he darted back inside, closing the door behind him.