least late thirties to have a daughter that age. Yet…her skin was still creamy and unlined, her eyes blue and full-lashed. Her hand had been much smaller than his, and soft.
But it was Maggie’s eyes that stuck in his mind. Eyes that smiled warmly with welcome but that held a hint of cool caution in their depths. Eyes that told him whatever her path had been, it probably hadn’t been an easy one.
He stood up abruptly and reached for the jeans in his duffel, going to hang them in the closet. He wasn’t here to make calf-eyes at the proprietress. That was the last thing he should be thinking about. He had a job to do. That was all. He had information to gather and who better to ask than someone in the know, someone who would take his questions for tourist curiosity? Inviting himself to dinner had put her on the spot, but with the desired results.
The afternoon light was already starting to wane when he dug out his laptop and set it up on the small desk to the left of the bed. Within seconds it was booted up, connected and ready to go. He logged in with his password, checked his e-mail… and waited for everything to download. Once he’d taken care of everything that needed his immediate attention, he quickly composed a few short notes, hitting the send button and waiting what seemed an age for them to leave the Outbox.
“I miss high speed Internet,” he muttered, tapping his fingers on the desk, waiting for the dial-up connection to send his messages. Waiting was not something he did well.
But perhaps learning to wait was a life lesson he needed. He’d been one to act first and think later too many times. Dealing with the aftermath of mistakes had caused him to be put on leave in the first place. He hadn’t even been two weeks into his leave when it had been cut short and he’d been given this assignment, and he was glad of it. He wasn’t keen on sitting around twiddling his thumbs.
Grant had asked for him personally. As a favor. And this wasn’t a job to be rushed. It was a time for watching and waiting.
He frowned at the monitor as the messages finally went through. He didn’t want to run up a long distance bill while he was here, but staying in communication was important. For now, his laptop was his connection to the outside world. It was a tiny community. The less conspicuous he was, the better.
He realized that his room had grown quite dark, and checked his watch. It was after six already, and Maggie had said dinner was at six-thirty. He didn’t want to get things off to a bad start on his first day, so he shut down the computer and put his backpack beneath the empty duffel in the closet.
* * *
Maggie heard his footsteps moving around upstairs for a long time, listening to the muffled thump as she mixed dough and browned ground beef for the soup.
Nate Griffith. U.S. Marshal. The name had conjured an image of a flat faced cop when Jennifer had told her about the reservation. Despite the flashes of coolness, he was anything but. He couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty-one. And it hadn’t taken but a moment to realize he was all legs and broad shoulders, and polite manners.
“Whatcha making?”
Jennifer’s voice interrupted and for once Maggie was glad of it. She’d already spent too long thinking about her latest lodger.
“Pasta e fagioli and foccacia bread.”
“Excellent.” Jen grabbed a cookie from a beige pottery jar and leaned against the counter, munching.
Maggie watched her. There were some days she really missed the preteen years. Parenting had been so much simpler then. Yet hard as it was, she hated to see Jen leave again.
“Day after tomorrow, huh. Did you book your bus ticket?”
“I booked it return when I came, remember?” She reached in the jar for another cookie.
“You’ll spoil your supper,” Maggie warned.
Jen simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, I’m not twelve, Mother.
“You should be glad I’m leaving. That leaves you alone with Detective Hottie.”
Maggie glared.
“Oh, come on, Mom. He’s a little old for me, even if he is a fine specimen. But he’s just about right for you.”
Maggie put the spoon down with more force than she intended. “First of all, keep your voice down. He is a paying guest in this house.” She ignored the flutter that skittered through her at Jen’s attempt at matchmaking. “He wouldn’t be here at all if you’d asked first and booked later.”
Jennifer stopped munching. “You’re still mad about that, huh.”
Maggie sighed, forgetting all about his footsteps. It wasn’t all Jen’s fault. She did her own share of picking fights. She should be trying to keep Jen close, not pushing her away.
“I just wish…I wish you’d give some thought to things first, instead of racing headlong and then having to backtrack. You took the reservation without even consulting me.”
“I was trying to help. I told you I was sorry about it. And they did come through with the cash, so what’s the big deal?”
How could Maggie explain that the big deal was that she worried over Jen day and night? She hadn’t been blind the last few years. Jen had skated through without getting badly hurt. Yet. But she’d had her share of trouble and Maggie was terrified that one day she’d get a phone call that something truly awful had happened. She wished Jen took it as seriously as she did.
“Let’s not argue about it anymore, okay?” Arguing over the reservation was irrelevant now. Maggie had been irritated with Jennifer at the time for not taking a credit card number, but it had ceased to matter. The United States Marshals Service was picking up the tab. All of it. A day after Nate had reserved the room, someone from his office had called and made arrangements for payment, not even blinking when she’d told them the rate, or the cost of extras. And she’d charged them high season rates, just because she’d been so put out at having to put her travel plans on hold.
She pressed dough into two round pans, dimpling the tops with her fingers before putting them under a tea towel to rise. No matter how much she wished she were lying on a beach in Cancún right now, she still derived pleasure from doing what she did best. Cooking for one was a dull, lonely procedure and her spirits lightened as she added ingredients to the large stockpot on the stove. Jen had been home for the last week, but it wasn’t the same now that she was nearly adult and spreading her wings. Having guests meant having someone else to do for. It was why she’d chosen a bed and breakfast in the first place.
The footsteps halted above her, the house falling completely silent as their argument faltered.
“I didn’t mean to pick a fight with you.”
“Me, either.” Jen shuffled to the kitchen doorway and Maggie longed to mend fences, although she didn’t know how.
“Supper in an hour,” she called gently, but it went ignored.
Maggie reached across the counter to turn on the radio. She hummed quietly with a recent country hit as she turned her attention to pastry. Her foot tapped along with the beat until she slid everything into the oven, added tiny tubes of pasta to the pot, and cleaned up the cooking mess, the process of cooking and cleaning therapeutic.
At
