facilitator, and the saver of faces. And, for some reason, Sloan had sent Patrick here to take care of him. He wondered if she had forgotten what a burden Patrick could be.
No. Not likely, he decided. Patrick and his total disregard for consequences had nearly cost her custody of Will after his father died. And yet Patrick was the one who had rescued him when Will’s birth mother had kidnapped him from the children’s receiving home—not because she wanted him, but because she wanted to matter. Will could still remember the secluded, ramshackle trailer where she’d hidden him, how afraid he had been—of her and of the drunken man she lived with. He’d been too afraid to cry, to eat, to sleep. And then he’d looked up and seen Patrick and Meggie’s not-yet-husband, Jack Begaye, lying in wait in the underbrush. Patrick, his incredible, redheaded big brother, had come running as hard and fast as he could in spite of the boyfriend with the shotgun, stealing Will right out from under the boyfriend’s and Margaret Madman’s noses. Patrick had brought Will, albeit sick and feverish, safely home again. It was Patrick who had read “Goodnight Moon” aloud a hundred times during Will’s convalescence and offered his hand for holding so Will could dare to sleep.
Which was one of the reasons why Will got into his own beat-up truck now and headed to Mrs. Bee’s house. It was early still, and it was already hot. He was sweaty from his run, thirsty and still a long way from finding his harmony.
He parked in front of the big Victorian house that reminded him a little of the Baron home place, which he’d seen in a photo Sloan had given him. He didn’t see anyone around. He stood outside the truck for a moment, then headed for the picnic table under one of the big shade trees in the backyard to wait. There was a slight breeze in spite of the heat, and someone had planted a well-tended garden nearby. He stood watching the bees work their way through an assortment of tomato and cucumber and squash blossoms. He could hear a radio playing somewhere and the rolling rattle of what he guessed was some beat-the-heat skateboarding going on somewhere down the street. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, and he wiped them away with the tail of his T-shirt.
“Hey,” a voice said behind him.
He looked around to find Arley standing a few feet away. She was wearing shorts and a midriff-baring top that had little ribbon bows on it, and she looked as hot and sweaty as he did—only she was beautiful. If there had been any doubt in his mind, his immediate visceral response to seeing her underlined that there was no way he could pretend he was here solely to keep Patrick’s word for him. Finding her like this and talking to her again were the reasons, and maybe they both knew it.
“Where’s Patrick?” she said.
“Patrick is…there was an all-night poker game,” Will said in explanation.
Arley smiled. “He wasn’t kidding, then.”
“About what?”
“He said he was the black sheep of the family.”
Will looked toward Mrs. Bee’s house. He could hear the banging of pots and pans through the open kitchen window and someone singing “Blessed Assurance.”
“So…Patrick is all about poker games,” Arley said when he looked at her again.
“No, Patrick is all about burning the candle at both ends, knowing it’s dangerous, and still admiring the light.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
