The Comfort of Favorite Things (A Hope Springs Novel) (18 page)

Sitting on the front porch, her legs dangling over the edge while she ate the very boring bologna sandwich she’d fixed herself for dinner, Becca watched yet another car make its way up the drive to the house. It wasn’t one she recognized, but there had been too many lately to keep track of. Keller Construction was a lot bigger deal than she’d thought, being able to bring on so many men at such short notice.

For not the first time, she wondered about Thea’s guardian angel. No one was supposed to know about the shelter. It was a safe house, and in Becca’s particular case, it was doing a very good job keeping her out of her ex’s reach. She hadn’t dated for years after her discharge from the service. She would’ve been smarter to remember why than to take the chance she had. But she’d been lonely, and Dez had been so sweet.

She’d met him at a honky-tonk in Fort Worth, a working cowboy, a man who lived close to the land, who talked about his horse as if the animal was his best friend, who knew what it was like to scrabble for a living, who expected to be handed nothing he hadn’t worked his ass off to earn. He smiled easily. He laughed readily. He loved as if no woman before her had existed. As if no woman would exist in his world once she was gone.

He also had a thing for his whip, and a temper that was as robust as his sex drive. If she’d known that in the beginning, she could’ve saved herself a lot of grief. And bruises. And trips to the clinic for stitches. Teach her to let down her guard. To let a man close enough to make her want to. She knew better. It was why as much as she blamed Dez for the disaster that had sent her into the night alone and bleeding, she blamed herself.

You’d think she had learned something in the navy, she mused, stuffing the rest of the white bread, mayo, and lunch meat into her mouth to chew, but apparently not. She dusted her hands together, then wiped her palms on her jeans and her mouth on the inside of her T-shirt. That’s when the slam of the car door brought her head up.

Of course. Her mouth was full and she was still covered with the grime she’d picked up crawling around beneath the kitchen floor, looking for a piece of copper tubing in a recess the plumbing dude couldn’t squeeze into. It made perfect sense that the man she most wanted
not
to see was the one walking toward her.

“You again.” The one who kept trying to get under her skin by doing no more than being observant.

“Manny Balleza,” he said, nodding with the introduction.

Sigh. She really didn’t want to know who he was, or his name, and so far had successfully avoided learning it. Knowing was the first step to caring. To interest. To thinking he’d be different than the others. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “Dakota’s not here.”

He shoved his hands to his hips and grinned as if he was looking through her. Reading her mind. Letting her think what she wanted to. For now. “I’m here to see Frank Stumbo.”

Huh. “Why?”

“That’s between me and Frank.”

“I’m not just going to let you inside the house,” she said, but then it didn’t matter. Frank had come out through the back door and circled the house to his truck. He saw her, saw Manny, raised an index finger in greeting and continued on, his work boots kicking up dust on the way, his overalls sagging on his thin frame. “And now I guess I don’t have to.”

“No, I guess you don’t—”

“Are you a cop?” she interrupted him to ask.

“Excuse me?”

“A cop. You have that look,” she said, waving one hand.

He frowned as he glanced down at the sport coat and dress shirt and Dockers and shoes she knew a cop could afford. “Not sure what that look is, or why suddenly everyone’s so interested in my clothes, but no. I’m not a cop.”

“Fine.” She got to her feet, having no idea what he was talking about, and dusted porch dirt from her hands to the seat of her jeans. Then she jumped down beside him. “I’ll be right here keeping an eye out.”

He tried really hard not to grin. “I need to speak to him privately.”

“I didn’t say I was going to listen.”

“You’re not exactly the trusting sort, are you?”

If it wouldn’t have made her seem flighty, she would’ve laughed. “I don’t trust anyone without a very good reason.”

“Frank can vouch for me, and obviously you trust Frank.”

She and Frank had spent some quality time over a pot of navy-bean soup. She’d messed up the seasonings. He’d looked through everything in the fridge and the pantry and tossed in what would fix it. He hadn’t told her she was stupid for not paying attention or for reading the recipe wrong and using garlic salt instead of garlic powder. She’d been distracted. It happened.

Frank had just heard her yelling at the beans and come in to see if he could help, and she’d been frustrated enough at possibly having wasted the food to let him. She’d had a soft spot for Frank ever since.

“Go on then,” she said, crossing her arms. “Have your little talk with Frank.”

Manny backed up a step, then turned, but didn’t make it any farther before coming back to her. “Do you have something against my clothes?”

“I didn’t say anything about your clothes.”

“Then what did you mean about me having
that look
?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You look . . . tired, I guess. Worn out. And you do dress like a cop. The jacket and everything, but none of it really tied together.”

“Oh, so you were referring to the fashion police.”

She looked at him, blinked, then laughed, quickly covering her mouth as if she could hold back the sound. It was just one bark, but it sounded so strange, and felt even weirder in her chest. Damn him for making it happen, she mused, then laughed once more, this time at herself.

She was a piece of work, wasn’t she? “No. I was not referring to the fashion police.”

“Well, that’s good, because pot and kettle and all that.”

This time instead of laughing she gasped. “You’re mocking the way I look? When I’ve been on my hands and knees crawling around under the house?”

“You’ve got a little of the house in your hair there,” he said, waving one finger. “Some insulation or something.”

She reached up and swatted at her hair, finding nothing, then shaking her head when he said, “Other side.”

She swatted again, more aggravated that she regretted not looking in a mirror than that she hadn’t done so.

“Here. I’ll get it,” he said, plucking the fibers before she could stop him from getting that close.

“Stop it,” she said, swatting at his hand this time.

“Want me to put it back?” he said, holding it out like an offering.

“No, I don’t want you to put it back. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, dropping the fluff of pink and watching it blow away. “Just trying to lighten things up. Get you to laugh again. You’ve got a great laugh. A great smile.”

Oh, no. Oh, no. “Do not even tell me you’re coming on to me.”

“You know,” he said, frowning as with hands at his hips, he looked off into the distance. “I haven’t had to come on to a woman since my twenties when I thought that’s how things were done. Now if I’m interested, I just let them know.”

“Yeah?” Cocky ass. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“I’ve been single about ten years,” he said, and looked back, his expression completely serious save for the humor flashing through his eyes.

She tried not to laugh again. She really, really tried. But the way he so easily made fun of himself . . . No.
Enough
. She was not going to start thinking he could be one of the good guys. She’d thought Dez was a good guy, and look how that had turned out.

Still, she couldn’t keep herself from asking, “Well? Are you?” though she was surprised she’d been able to get out the words with her throat all twisted up with wondering what he would say. Wondering what she wanted him to say. Wondering why she was wondering anything at all.

“Interested?” he asked, and she gave him a single sharp nod.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that. Frank’s waiting,” he said, canting his head toward the other man’s truck. She rolled her eyes as he turned to go.

What a loser she was.
Loser
. Letting him get to her. Letting herself almost, just almost care. She had just reached the porch steps when he called out, “Becca!”

She looked over—not caring, not letting him get to her, not a loser—to see him walking backward and nodding.

“Yeah. I am,” he yelled, giving her a wave as he turned and slapped Frank on the back.

All she could do was stand where she was and do her best to remember to breathe.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
itting in the passenger seat of Becca’s car where she’d parked it behind Bread and Bean, Ellie flipped through the notebook that was her constant companion these days. She wanted to do her absolute best by Thea and the shop, and she’d been trying out a variety of breads, buying most of the ingredients on her own dime, though Thea had said she’d reimburse her.

It just didn’t seem right, having the boss pay for her mistakes, her trial and error, though she supposed Thea could write off the expenses on her
taxes. Ellie just wanted to have the recipes perfected by the time the shop
opened. She wanted customers to know which day they could get fresh cia
batta, which day French baguettes would be available, which day focaccia.

Every day would bring white and wheat or at least a multigrain. She’d never known many folks to really be fans of pumpernickel or rye, so she’d offer one of those every other week until she got a feel for the demand. And she’d schedule in fresh cinnamon-raisin swirl for weekend French toast. Sourdough was another thing entirely. Who didn’t love sourdough?

She was having the most trouble coming up with a gluten-free loaf she would actually want to use for a sandwich. Tapioca starch and brown-rice flour seemed to work well as basics, but when she added potato starch she got a better crumb. Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet figured out the proportions; every time she put slices through a griddle or panini press, they burned.

She knew she was close to getting it right. The bread wasn’t heavy like the one she’d made with sugarcane fiber and plum puree. That loaf had been stuffed with flax and sunflower seeds, too, and the flavor had been sweet and nutty, but it wasn’t what she wanted to use for peanut butter and jelly. Or even grilled cheese.

Setting her pen in her notebook, she reached up to rub both hands over her face. Why did she have to think about grilled cheese? Why? She’d been doing
so
good since talking to Thea the other night, though obviously she was only fooling herself or she wouldn’t fall apart thinking about sandwiches. Sandwiches and soup and Lena Mining.

She thought the three might just be linked forever in her mind.

A knock on her window brought her head around. She pressed her hand to her chest where her heart was thudding, then started to roll down the window. In the end, she opened the door. She needed to get out of the car anyway. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

“Lena, hello. How have you been? It seems like ages since I’ve seen you”—
way to be casual, El
—“though I guess it’s only been about a week.”

“An insane week. Truly insane.” Lena shook her head and shuddered as if shedding layers of stress. “I forget that summer class sessions are shorter so they’re way more intense, and I’m so bad at knowing when to call a debit a credit, and vice versa.”

“Isn’t it like the source is credited and the destination is debited?” When Lena offered her a curiously pleased smile, Ellie shrugged, and added, “I read that somewhere once.”

“It sounds so simple like that, but I still can’t keep it straight. Which is why I’ll continue to work in a confectionery, and my mother can hire a CPA.”

Ellie reached back into the car for her tote bag and notebook, then locked and slammed the door. “Are you quitting school?”

“For now,” Lena said and nodded. “It’s early enough in the semester that I can drop the class without a penalty. I’ll register here soon for something in the fall.”

Ellie tucked her notebook down in her tote as she asked, “You have an idea of what you want to study?”

Lena shook her head. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for a career, you know? I like too many different things, and I want to do them all, and experiment to find out where I fit.”

“It can take a while.” And sometimes it never worked out. Ellie’s dream was still to teach art, but she couldn’t imagine ever having another chance. Not without changing her name, cutting her hair and dying it, wearing contacts . . . Bobby would be looking for her until the day one of them died. The thought was just too much to deal with today. She was so very tired of being afraid.

“Honestly?” As if shy, Lena glanced down at the Doc Martens she wore with dark-green combat pants that were as baggy as her long-sleeved T-shirt was form-fitting. The pants hung low on her hips, and Ellie wondered if the boots were comfortable for being on her feet all day. It was safer than wondering if her bra, visible through the shirt’s fabric, was really a camouflage print. “What I want to do more than anything is open an animal shelter.”

That snagged Ellie’s attention and had her smiling. “Like for rescue dogs?”

Lena nodded. “It’s just that there’s so much involved. The land, and licenses, and zoning, and regulations, and veterinary care. I’ll get it figured out.”

“Sounds like it would cost a fortune.” Also like a good use of a business degree. Why in the world had she ever majored in art?

“It probably will,” Lena said with a laugh. “But my grandparents left me a very nice inheritance. I think they’d like the idea of me spending it like this.”

So maybe her dream
would
come true. That made Ellie happy. Truly. “It’s nice you have that luxury.”

“I have a cushion. Not sure I’d call it a luxury. Besides what I have from my grandparents, I have an insurance payout from my father. He died when I was a senior in high school, and left me and my mom the money. Ten years of interest on that and investing makes it a lot easier not to worry about where my next meal is coming from.” And then she suddenly stopped talking, staring at Ellie like she wanted to take everything back. “That was really crass. I’m sorry. I know better than to talk about money.”

But Ellie was still back on what Lena had said first, and she reached out to hold Lena’s wrist. “I’m so sorry. About you losing your father. It was wonderful that he provided for you.”

Lena shrugged, her expression tender as she covered Ellie’s hand with her free one. “I guess. I mean, I still have to work. I have bills,” she said with a laugh. “But I don’t have debt. I pay cash for everything. I spend more than I should on my hair, changing it up all the time, but I don’t have a thing for designer bags, so I figure it’s a fair trade-off.”

“And here I was just thinking that I spend too much on specialty flours.”

“Flowers? Like hybrid roses or something?”

That had Ellie smiling. “No. Baking flours. Like spelt and teff.”

“I didn’t even know those were things. But if the breads turn out half as good as your sourdough, then it’s worth the splurge, don’t you think?”

Reluctantly, Ellie pulled her hand away. “So you liked the sourdough?”

“I
loved
the sourdough. The loaf you gave me? I made toast out of it every morning for breakfast. Sometimes with garlic butter. Sometimes the butter was plain, which I’m sure made Callum a lot happier since I didn’t smell like some vampire repellent all day,” she said, her cheeks coloring. “I made croutons for my salad one night, and used it to mop up the juice from a rotisserie chicken. You do good bread. Bread and Bean is going to be a huge success thanks to you.”

Ellie didn’t even know what to say. “You should come to the house this weekend and bake with me.”

“Seriously?” Lena’s eyes widened. “I would love that.”

“Fair warning. The place is a mess now with all the construction. But this should be the last weekend before the kitchen is finished.”

Lena looked down again. “How’s that coming along?”

“The place is going to be a showpiece when Keller Construction is done. Or at least once they’re done and Thea can implement all her decorating plans.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It really is. We were so lucky to have—” Ellie stopped, cutting herself off. “Anyway, do you have plans on Saturday? You could come watch me inaugurate the new kitchen. Or get your hands dirty if you wanted to. Unless you’re busy.”

“Since I won’t be going to class, I won’t be busy with anything that won’t keep.”

“What time would be good for you?”

“What time do you want me there?”

“Is ten too early?”

“Ten is perfect. I’ll see you then,” she said, her smile wide and excited. “But now I gotta run before Callum docks me for being late.”

“Oh, tell him it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

“I’m just kidding, El. He’s too smart to mess with the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Well, not counting his girl and his fiancée.”

Ellie didn’t know about Callum, but one thing was true: Lena Mining was the best thing that had happened to her in her entire life.

Pencil in hand, Dakota sat at the Keller Construction drafting table that served as his brother’s office going over the progress report from Tennessee’s foreman on the project at Dragon Fire Hill. It really wasn’t any of Dakota’s business; the company belonged to Tennessee. He’d put together the crew and handed out the jobs, but Dakota was curious.

He was the one with the most personal investment because of his connection to Thea. Also because of the things he knew to be fact about the women living with her, as well as the things he suspected were true.

He’d told Thea the crew would be in and out as fast as they could, but he was surprised to see the list of smaller tasks that had already been completed. At this rate, the house would be done before the coffee shop. Then again, the house had a half dozen men putting in twelve-hour days.

Dakota’s was a one-man show.

He was supposed to be outlining his headway at Bread and Bean for Tennessee to look over, but the notes he’d jotted so far were all about Thea. The particulars she’d shared about her life. The things she’d left out. The questions he had about both. And yeah. He had reams worth of questions.

The notes he was having the most trouble with, scribbles, really, because no one would ever be able to make out the words, were the ones about why he cared as much as he apparently did. If he didn’t, he’d be able to forget everything she’d told him about her life since he’d seen her last and move on. But he couldn’t. And he hadn’t.

So . . .

He looked down at what he’d written.

Thea had been involved with a wealthy man who’d stripped her of everything that made her who she was. Who’d kept her locked away like an animal. Who’d used her when in the mood like he would any of his playthings. Cars. Bikes. Boats. Planes. A football team. A private island. Whatever the rich spent money on. Very little of it on Dakota’s radar. None in his budget.

He’d arrived in Hope Springs with a backpack, a bedroll, a cell phone, and a couple changes of clothes. He had a tent, but he never traveled with more cash than he could afford to lose.

He’d done a lot of his moving around by hitching rides with friends of friends, but had pedaled his way through the Pacific Northwest, and hoofed it almost as many miles as he’d traveled by bus or train on his way across the country. On his way home.

Vagabond
was a good word.

Home he was having more trouble with.

A gust of wind through the barn helped blow away both and return him to Thea. The smells of fresh-cut pine and cedar fencing and the tall grass outside filled his head as he thought about the girl he’d known in school, the girl he’d
loved
in school—because he had to face it; nothing else described the emotions of those years—who would never have allowed herself to be bundled away and brought out on a whim.

It was a wonder she’d been thinking clearly enough to escape when she had, that the traumatic bonding she’d described hadn’t won out. Stockholm syndrome. It was the only thing that made sense. The absolute rage he felt for what she’d gone through did not. Anger was something he no longer had truck with. Anger was the emotion that had changed his entire life. Changed his brother’s life. His sister’s life.

He would not let his feelings about Thea’s past mess up what either of them had now.

The sound of a vehicle’s wheels on the gravel drive brought his head around. Dolly Pepper’s Prius made no other noise. He swiveled on his stool, then watched her exit the front door, only to open the back door and reach for something there. Usually she came to work with a bag of needles and yarn. Today she held a pan of food. She smiled as she approached and offered it to him.

The dish was still warm when he took it and reminded him that he’d skipped lunch. “A woman bearing gifts. My favorite kind.”

“You’re favorite kind of gift?” she asked with a laugh, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses, her short gray hair catching shimmers of sun. “Or your favorite kind of woman?”

She really had the sweetest laugh. Dakota didn’t know if he’d ever met a woman as warm and genuine as Dolly Pepper. Funny how his mother would be about the same age, yet he couldn’t picture how she might look. He hadn’t seen her in over a decade. “I’m going to have to say both.”

Dolly set her purse on a stack of boxes. “I might hold that against you if bringing food to a man who doesn’t take the time to eat wasn’t one of my favorite things to do.”

He frowned down at the covered dish that smelled so good.
“Tennessee’s not here.”