Reclaimed (3 page)

“You met that neighbor yet?”

Paul pushed back a groan. “Yep. Stopped by on Monday.”

Chuck Stanton tapped the paperwork against the conference table. “Tell me she isn’t a little bit of Colorado sunshine.” His grunt accentuated his sarcasm.

Keeping his stare blank, Paul wondered what took Chuck fifteen miles on a gravel road to meet Miss Wilton. Business, Tom had said. Too bad he hadn’t thought to ask exactly what the banker’s
business
had been.

“She’s a bit on the cool side,” Paul said, “but some people are just wary.”

Was he actually defending the Pickle Lady? Well, she was his neighbor, after all. When it came to business opportunities, Chuck was a predator.

“Ah, Paul. Always the nice guy …” Chuck smirked, his head shaking.

Never the right guy
. Easy enough to finish. He’d heard it at every bachelor party he’d been a part of since they were twenty-one. How long ago was that? Sixteen years?

Ugh.
Think of something else.

Chuck saved him from thinking at all.

“Hey, you gonna come shoot tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, I might come fire a couple of rounds. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to catch up on, though, so I’ll be gone before coffee.”

“You’ve got a bunch of friends to catch up on, too, old man.” Chuck slid his documents into a file folder and stood. “You’re gone way too much.”

“Work, buddy. Lots of work.” Paul held his hand out, and Chuck took it. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Hey, Paul.” Chuck caught him as he neared the door. “Watch out for that city girl. She’s got claws.”

Good grief. A guy suffered one broken heart, and you’d think he couldn’t handle an uppity woman.

Suzanna stared at her reflection. What did country girls wear to church, anyway? Tugging at the fitted jacket, she flicked the pleats at the bottom of her pencil skirt with her knees. The outfit was all wrong—way too business.

She glanced at the dress she’d laid on the bed. The delicate, green paisley print had been her favorite. Jersey knit, it would slide over her shoulders, drop into a V at the neck, and gather in an attractive knot at her waist. She never wore that dress anymore.

The only other option was her black wrap. The funeral dress. She’d rather burn the thing than wear it again.

Maybe jeans would work. Country churches were casual, right?

No. Not jeans. Not on her first Sunday. What if Andrea were dressed up? How would she feel if Suzanna plopped down next to her in work clothes? As if she didn’t stick out as a misfit already.

Suzanna wiggled out of her suit and slipped the paisley over her head. It settled over her frame, fitting just like it had when she’d bought it a little more than two years ago. She fingered the knot at her waist, and the memory came tumbling back.

They had been celebrating. They hadn’t had the money to splurge, but it’d seemed necessary. Jason’s transplant was a success. He would recover. Live. That demanded a celebration.

She glanced at the woman in the mirror, and her focus fixed on the ring hanging at her neck. Cold and empty—just like her. Heat pulsed through her veins as tears blurred her vision. She was just a frame. Drained of energy, of joy, of life.

She tugged the jersey off and curled up on the bed. Clothes no longer a concern, Suzanna pulled a gray fleece throw over her shoulders.

Church would have to wait. Suzanna Wilton was not ready to fake it just yet.

CHAPTER THREE

“What’s the matter, Bumpkin Girl?” Mother nudged Dre, who sat to her right. “You look mopey.”

Tom sprawled an arm across the back of Andrea’s chair and squeezed her shoulder. “You didn’t really think she’d come, did you, hon?”

Paul studied Tom and then glanced back to Dre. “The Pickle Lady?”

“Stop calling her that, Paul.” Dre’s eyes narrowed.

He sat up a little straighter. Why was Andrea so wrapped up with this city girl? Mopping up the last of his gravy with his dinner roll, Paul worked to overcome his irritation. How had his rude neighbor managed to work her way into all of his conversations?

“What’s going on with you two?” Mother’s look bounced from Dre to Paul and back again.

Dre’s eyebrows arched, and she kept her stare locked on Paul.

“Nothing between us.” He rubbed at the tension knotting in his neck. Surely he could rise above it. Didn’t need to let the Pickle Lady eclipse his Sunday afternoon. “Dre’s just worried about my new neighbor.”

Andrea slouched in her chair. “Suzanna Wilton. She moved into Mrs. Hawkins’s old place. Did you ever meet Mike Wilton?”

“Yes.” Mother’s voice begged for more information.

“Suzanna is his daughter, and he left the place to her. Seems to me we haven’t given her much of a welcome.” Andrea’s eyes sparked, and her accusation nagged Paul. “So I went over to say hi. She’s the sweetest girl, but there’s something about her. Something...tragic. Her eyes seemed sad.”

Sad? What trick had the Pickle played on his sister? He saw an angry woman with sourness oozing from her pores. 

Had there been tragedy in her expression?

“She did lose her father suddenly.” Tom leaned against the table with his free arm. “That would explain it.”

Mother’s forehead wrinkled. “How did Mike die?”

“Heart attack. Happened while he was driving to town. Sherriff found his pickup in the ditch.”

“That
is
sad.” Mother tsked. “Still a young man. Late fifties, I’d guess.”

Tom nodded.

Shame heated Paul’s skin. He’d been unfair in his judgment. Harsh in his thoughts toward the Pick—toward Miss Wilton.

“I don’t know.” Dre brought the conversation back around. “She didn’t choke up when we talked about her father. I feel like it’s something different. Anyway, Mama, I invited her to church. I’m super-bummed that she didn’t show up.”

Mother patted Dre’s arm. “I know a determined young woman who could coax a badger out of a hole. You keep at it, Bumpkin.”

A smile softened Dre’s eyes until they settled on Paul again. Why did she keep looking at him as though he were to blame? He knew nothing about Suzanna Wilton—had nothing whatsoever to do with her problems.

Disappointment sagged in Andrea’s expression. Paul’s shoulders sank.

Sunday dinner with his family—the best part of the week. He missed it when he was working the river property, and now it was strained. Thanks to the Pickle.

Glancing at his mother, he examined her with careful thought. She looked more rested. He allowed satisfaction to calm his annoyance. His parents were doing okay—a massive relief after Dad’s third stroke.

Looking around the table. His sister’s kids were awesome—funny, intelligent, and well mannered. He loved every minute he got to spend with his two nieces and one nephew. Man, they grew fast.

Kelsey was only a peanut in his arms twelve years ago. Now she was a willowy sixth grader. Prettier than any he knew elsewhere. Nine-year-old Kiera grew lovelier every day, complete with her retainer and glasses. And Keegan. What a rascal that boy was. Five years old and more get-up-and-go than anyone around him had to match. The little gus could charm Paul’s meanest bull into a tutu.

The years had slipped by, and Paul assumed they were the closest to his own kids he’d ever know. Honestly, that was okay. Usually. Most days, he had enough work to do to fill the loneliness, but he sure was thankful for moments like this. What would he do without his family?

His survey came back to Dre. Her silence pleaded with him.
You’re a better man than this.

Letting his gaze fall back to the table, Paul resolved to try again.

Mother had always done laundry on Thursdays. Suzanna didn’t know why she patterned any part of her life after the woman, but she’d assigned the task for the same day. As she pinned the last of her sheets to the line, a breeze ruffled the cotton against her face. She’d never used line-dried sheets before, and she wondered if they’d be as crisp and fresh as someone on Pinterest had claimed.

Dust billowed beyond the tree line, and the sound of tires on gravel grew more distinct with each breath. Mr. What’s-His-Name neighbor-man’s truck passed the creek, the dark blue paint gleaming in the sunshine. He slowed as he approached her drive, and Suzanna groaned when he turned in.

Persistent old bugger. She squared her shoulders, wishing Andrea had pulled up instead. Why did her only company the whole week have to be an opportunistic buzzard?

The engine cut, and by the time she rounded the front of the house, the man was striding toward her with the typical confidence of a self-important cowboy.

“Afternoon, Miss Wilton.” He smiled as if they were friends.

Suzanna scowled. She met his handshake, gripping harder than necessary. “Hello.”

Holding her hand, he looked into her eyes. There was something intentional about his gaze. Suzanna prepared herself for manipulation.

“I wanted to check on you,” he said. “Wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Really? Doubtful. Suzanna bobbed her head in slow measures and swallowed. “I’m fine, same as last week.”

He smiled. The expression seemed genuine.

Oh, he was good at this.

“Good. Listen, I left in such a hurry last week. I didn’t give you my number.” He passed a slip of yellow legal paper across the space between them. “You know, in case you did need something. I’m only a mile down the road, and I wouldn’t mind helping out.”

Jaw set tight, she glanced down at his boots. Was he serious? “Thanks.”

Her response sounded more like a question than gratitude, and her face warmed. How sincere was this guy? She forced herself to meet his eyes.

He nodded with a half smile and tugged at his cowboy hat. “Good day to you, Miss Wilton.”

Suzanna stared at his back while he strode to his truck. What was he about? She skimmed the paper he’d handed her.

Paul Rustin.

Well, Mr. Paul Rustin, let’s see what you’re up to.

“Mr. Rustin.”

The truck’s door chime dinged while he paused inside the opened door, one boot propped on the running board. “Yes ma’am?”

“There’s a spigot over by the big water tub for the horse.”

“The tank?”

Sure. What did she know? Her ears felt hot. “Yes.”

Dropping his foot on the gravel he nodded. “Okay, the spigot?”

Oh yeah. That’s where she was going with this. “Right. It doesn’t work. I’ve been hauling water from the house.”

His eyebrows pinched. “Hmm. Let’s take a look.” He shut the door, ending the incessant ding-ding-ding escaping from the cab. Did all country people leave their keys in the ignition?

Suzanna crossed her arms as he approached.

“By the barn?”

Stupid girl. He was waiting for her to lead the way. She cleared her throat and moved a half a step away. “Yes, inside the pen.”

“Corral.”

Now he was just showing off. She rolled her shoulders back as her lungs filled with indignation. Dipping a curt nod toward the back of the property, she set her stride toward the dadgum
corral
.

Mr. Rustin walked beside her, his relaxed stride irritating her with every step. She couldn’t bring herself to check his expression, but she had no doubt there would be smug laughter in his eyes.

They reached the fence, and Suzanna fumbled with the gate. Mr. Rustin climbed on the bottom rung of a sturdy panel and sprung over. She dropped the carabiner that secured the slide-lock and watched the man saunter to the tank. He flipped the handle up and … nothing happened.

Shocking.

“Sure enough.” He leaned down close to the pipe, listening.

Did spigots whisper symptoms? Whatever was the man doing?

He shook his head. “It’s not working at all.”

Exactly. Suzanna was so glad she asked.

“Do you have a separate main for the barn?”

“A separate main?”

Leaving the spigot open, he covered the ground back to the fence and sailed over the top again. “A water main. There might be a separate valve that would need to be switched on.”

Why would that be? Sheesh.

“Let’s go check the house.” He set off in that direction. “If there’s a separate valve, chances are it’ll be in the basement.”

“Not in the barn?” Suzanna jogged to catch up.

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t think so. More likely to freeze. We’ll check the house first.”

They reached the side door, and he pulled open the screen. He stepped back, and Suzanna stared at him.

He tugged it wider and swept his free hand to the side.

“Oh, sorry.” She scurried into the house and led him past her kitchen. Pushing on the narrow basement door, she drew a long breath and tugged on the chain dangling to her left.

“Is it creepy?”

His voice drifted from just above her head, tickling her spine. She jerked against the sensation, snapping herself rigid. “I don’t know.” She cleared her throat, irritated that she sounded like some goofy teenager. “I haven’t made it down there yet.”

Because it was creepy. The narrow stairway was dark and steep. Cobwebs from spiders Suzanna didn’t want to think about drifted between the dark, exposed studs. The concrete floor at the bottom looked cold and foreboding. She hadn’t any intention of visiting the depths of gloom on her own.

She hadn’t any intention of visiting it with her handsome neighbor, either. Wait. Handsome?

Mr. Rustin put a hand to her shoulder and pushed her against the doorjamb. He slid past her and dropped down the steps, his chest brushing against her arm. Suzanna scolded her heart for pounding ridiculously hard.

He ducked under the header as his boots smacked against the concrete floor. He was pulling on the light bulb chain in the basement before Suzanna realized she was still standing on the top step, staring at his broad shoulders. Shaking her head, which felt stupidly light, she forced her feet down the exposed wood risers.

“I got it, Suz.” His grin flashed beneath the wide rim of his hat. “It’s just around the corner here.”

Suz? How did she feel about that one? Her heart continued its silly skipping, while her brain tried to conjure up indignation.

Forget it. What was wrong with her anyway? She paused halfway down the flight of stairs. He could take care of it, and she wouldn’t have to descend any farther into the icky pit. But that would only add to his growing stockpile of ammunition. She wasn’t selling. He’d have to get that set into his cowboy-tough head. She may be out of place and less than capable right now, but she wasn’t letting go of the only thing her dad had left her.