repeating your mistakes.
He stared at the dark house for a moment longer, then finally hauled his butt back down the road, not wanting to go back to his aunt’s house, not knowing what to do, as razor-sharp fragments of emotions churned inside him.
Okay. She was right. He had lied. And she had every right to be furious.
But he hadn’t lied just then, and he didn’t know how to make her understand he never would again.
Ten minutes later, he halted in front of Percy Jenkins’s pasture, bordered with a haphazard post-and-rail fence he remembered the cows always seemed to take on faith was meant to keep them off the road.
His chuckle sounded bitter in his own ears. Lord. A lousy pasture, a few rotting timbers, and down reminiscence road he went. Oh, what the hell, Dean thought on a sigh, ominous in the heavy silence. Might as well get ’em all thought out and used up and done with. Maybe then he’d get some peace.
He leaned against the rickety fence and surveyed the moon-washed pasture, its emptiness bringing him an odd sort of comfort as he thought about cows and Sarah and old fences. They’d be out walking, passing this way, and the easygoing beasts would amble up to the so-called barrier, sticking their massive heads over the top with soft snorts and snuffles, knowing Sarah would always stop and rub their noses and shoot the breeze with them, just as if they were people.
She always did have a way with cows, you know?
For several seconds longer he stared into the silver-laced darkness, fighting. Then, at last, he lowered his head onto his arms and let the tears come.
The sun had been up for some time when he finished his hour-long jog. Which had had little positive effect, except perhaps to sweat a couple of quarts of poisons from his body. He’d meant to shower as soon as he got back, change out of his sleeveless sweatshirt and running shorts, but the scent of coffee lured him into the kitchen—where his aunt’s trenchant gaze slammed into him as she sat with her own cup of coffee at the chrome-and-Formica table in the center of the room. Only a desperate need for caffeine kept him from doing an about-face.
It was nearly eight-thirty; he was surprised to see her still in her pastel-flowered housecoat and slippers. But her thinning gray-blond hair was pulled back into its customary bun, not a single wisp allowed free of its confines, putting the world on notice that she was ready to face the challenges of the day, hardheaded nephews included. His head throbbed in spite of the exercise, his eyes were gritty, and his brain felt sandbagged: this he did not need.
Ethel Parrish had fifteen years on Dean’s father, had been married once, briefly, before he was born, but that was all he knew. He also knew she’d never resented taking on her nephews, including an eight-year-old, and she’d treated them well. That didn’t mean she was particularly easy to get along with.
She didn’t start in right away, which meant she was mulling over her plan of attack. Damn—it was much worse when she’d had time to think about what she wanted to say. Keeping a wary eye out in case she pounced, Dean found a bag of English muffins in the bread box, slipped one into the toaster.
The night, or what had been left of it, had been hell. Knowing sleep wasn’t in the cards, he hadn’t even bothered undressing. In fact, the only part of him that had fallen asleep was his backside, gone dead from sitting in the glider on his aunt’s porch for three hours while his thoughts tumbled around in his aching head like laundry in a dryer. But at least he could say the time hadn’t been wasted. Not by a long shot. Because, by the time somebody’s rooster a farm or two away started its raucous crowing at 5:00 a.m., he’d come to a number of conclusions, not the least of which was that Sarah Whitehouse had become an unreasonable, pigheaded, oversensitive pain in the neck and he was better off without her.
Oh, sure, his ego had taken it on the chin when she’d refused to listen to him, when she insisted his intentions toward her were less than circumspect. It had hurt. But now, in the daylight, he supposed he’d been the victim of some sort of nostalgic fantasy. That seeing her, after all this time…well, it wouldn’t be the first time his imagination had taken off without him.
Despite a physical attraction so intense it scared him, it was perfectly obvious now that nothing but guilt had driven him over there last night.
The muffin leapt out of the toaster, making him jump. He snatched it, wincing as the heat seared through his calluses, and dropped it onto a plate.
So, hey—if she wasn’t interested in what he had to say, he sure wasn’t going to bust his butt over it. Besides, there were other women who’d listen to him just fine. Lots of ’em. Especially in Atlanta.
Which had led him to debunking Nostalgic Fantasy Number Two, which was that Sweetbranch was no more a part of his life these days than Sarah was. After all, he had a thriving business in Atlanta which was just about to expand; he had even already looked at a couple of possible factory sites. Upward of a dozen people worked for him, depended on him; with the expansion, that number could easily grow to fifty. More.
That he hated living in a big city, he thought as he finally pulled himself together enough to butter the muffin, couldn’t be allowed to factor into the equation. He’d made his economic bed in Atlanta, so that’s where he’d have to lie for the foreseeable future. Even if it killed him.
Carrying the muffin with him, he found his way to the coffeemaker and filled the cup nearest to his shaking hand, refusing to look again at his aunt until he’d taken at least three large swallows of the brew. The instant he clunked the cup onto the counter, though, she said, “Heard you go out last night.”
He pivoted his torso only as much as necessary to face her, managing to form a tiny, contrite smile. Anything larger hurt too much. “Sorry. I wake you?”
“No.” She scrutinized him from between slitted, bald eyelids. “What were you doing?”
“Just went for a walk.” Another swallow of coffee.
“Where?”
He was beginning to remember why leaving hadn’t been as difficult as it might have been. He finally turned all the way to her, leaning against the front of the sink. “Nowhere in particular. Just couldn’t sleep.” Inside his skull, a marching band began drill practice.
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