all yours. Do you want everything not left at the graveside delivered to Preston’s house tomorrow afternoon?”
She glanced around at the room that overflowed with flowers, ceramic statues, blankets, bibles and other sympathy mementos. Her expression became confused. “Please, no. What would I do with them?”
Good question. What did a person do with flower arrangements and such following a funeral? Sloan had no idea. He’d never known his parents, had grown up in foster-homes and had certainly never experienced a funeral from this perspective. “I could help you go through everything. There might be a few items you want to keep. We could take the live flowers to the nursing home or hospital, distribute them amongst the patients and staff there, and hopefully add a smile to their day.” He smiled, hoping Cara would do the same, even if only a small curving of her lips.
She didn’t.
Obviously considering what he’d suggested, she toyed with her bottom lip. “There’s nothing I want to keep. It could just all be delivered there to begin with and we wouldn’t have to go through anything. Give them to Dad’s nursing-home patients, the nurses or whomever you think best. All I ask is that a running list of items and who gave them be kept so I can send appropriate thank-you notes.”
Her expression pinched and she rubbed her temple. “Or does the funeral home do that? I’ve no idea.” Fatigue etched on her lovely face, she ran her gaze over the abundance of tokens sent in Preston’s memory. “I’d asked that everyone make a donation to the local heart association rather than send flowers. That would have been much easier to deal with, really.”
Sloan would have liked to have sat down next to her in the pew. He felt ridiculous towering above her. Despite her momentary politeness, she wouldn’t welcome him sitting next to her. He didn’t need a genius IQ to figure that one out. Still, he attempted an empathetic smile.
“I’m sure lots of donations have been made, too. The town’s people want to show their love and appreciation for all that your father has done for them over the years. No one has given so much of himself for the benefit of others as your father did for Bloomberg.”
She nodded absently, glanced around the room, now empty except for them and the coffin. Her face paled to a pasty white and her knuckles threatened to burst through the thin layer of skin covering them. A sob almost broke free from her pale lips. She managed to stop it, but not before Sloan realized what she’d done. His heart squeezed in a painful vise-like grip.
“Are you okay?” That was a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t okay. She’d bury her father in less than twenty-four hours.
But rather than blast him for his ridiculous question, as he’d expected and braced himself for, she just shook her head. “No. I need to get out of here. Please. Just get me out of here.”
He wasn’t sure what she intended him to do, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to ease the strain on her face. When she didn’t move, he reached for her hand. “Let me help you.”
Still looking drained and a bit panicky, she put her hand in his.
Several things registered all at once. Her hand sent chills through his entire body, probably from their sheer frigidness, although he couldn’t be sure because there was something electric in the feel of her skin against his, too. Second, she shook. Again, this could be from how cold her hands were but he suspected it had more to do with the situation. Another was how fragile she felt in his grasp. Preston’s daughter was a strong, independent woman, a bit of a daredevil and a phenomenal athlete. At the moment, she wasn’t any of those things. She was a little girl who’d just lost her father and she looked overwhelmed.
Without a word, Sloan led her to his Jeep, helped her into the passenger seat. She had a rental car at the funeral home, but she didn’t need to be driving. Not with the way she was shaking, with how utterly exhausted she appeared. He hadn’t slept much the past few days either, between covering his and Preston’s patients and his own grief. But at the moment he was the stronger of Cara and himself.
“Sorry I don’t have the top on.” He rarely kept the top on the Jeep because he liked the freedom of the air whipping about him. “It’ll be a bit windy.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, barely loud enough for him to make out her words. “My mind just wanted to get out of there, but my body didn’t seem to know how to leave. Or maybe it was my heart that didn’t want to go.”
“A normal stress reaction.”
“I’m not stressed,” she automatically argued, her shoulders stiff.
“Okay, you’re not stressed,” he agreed, not willing to debate with her since they both knew the truth. He started the Jeep and pulled out of the funeral parlor parking lot, heading down the highway toward the quiet neighborhood where Preston’s house was located.
About halfway to Maple Street he glanced toward where she sat, staring blankly out the open doorway. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling strands free from where she had it pinned back. Utter fatigue was etched on her face. He reached across the seat, put his hand over hers. That skin-to-skin electricity zapped him again.
Her head jerked toward him. Had she felt it, too?
Regardless, she looked ready to demand he take her back to Greenwood’s, that she’d only temporarily lost her mind in asking for his help. But whatever had sparked to life within her deflated just as quickly. Without a word, she went back to staring out the open doorway. Within seconds her body relaxed and her head slumped against the headrest.
Hand still tucked beneath his, she’d gone to sleep.
He parked the car in front of Preston’s gray-and-white Victorian-style home, jumped out and went to Cara’s side of the car.
Should he wake her or just carry her inside?
No doubt she’d not slept much, if at all, the night before. If he woke her, would she be able to go back to sleep or would she lie grieving through the long night hours?
Memories of her tearstained face from the day before decided it for him.
Digging his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the front door, went back to the Jeep and carefully scooped Cara into his arms.
She was as light as a feather.
And smelled of heaven.
Or as close to heaven as Sloan had ever smelled. Like the soft, sweet fragrance of cherry candy mixed with an amazing, almost addictive freshness that made him want to inhale deeply. Then there were those electric zings. His entire body sparked with excitement.
He held a woman who had fascinated him for months, long before he’d met her. As he’d dated and tried to make a life for himself in Bloomberg, he’d found himself comparing every woman to the woman Preston often spoke of, never satisfied, always feeling as if he was waiting for something more.
Waiting for her to come home perhaps?
Which made no sense.
He blamed Preston. Preston compared every woman Sloan dated to Cara so, of course, Sloan had done the same. The man’s dying words had been a request for Sloan to promise to take care of Cara.
A promise Sloan had given and meant.
But,
