pumpkins and gourds.”
She smiled at the image his words spawned. Caleb’s wife was a gifted painter. In fact, one of Becca’s paintings hung on the wall across from Jessica’s bed. Young Noah was a sweetheart, and he loved being a big brother to three-month-old Isaac.
He angled his face so that his mouth met her ear. “Tread carefully with this one, cuz. While I suspect he’s telling the truth, there’s no way of knowing his history and whether or not it’s a violent one.”
Her smile vanished. Of course he was alluding to her past. Her discernment would forever forward be called into question. Teeth clenched, she merely nodded, quickly disengaging her arm once they entered the house.
He was right. Grant Parker was a puzzle. One no one might ever be able to solve.
For a while there, Grant thought he might get stabbed a second time. Or shot. Or, at the very least, punched.
Jessica’s relatives were not pleased she and her mother had taken him in. The scarred one especially looked as if roughing Grant up a bit would make him feel better. Alice O’Malley’s presence dictated they be polite. Still, the unspoken strain in the crowded living room was palpable.
Although he tried not to appear fixated on his perplexing young hostess, his gaze insisted on sliding in her direction against his will. Seated on a low cushioned stool beside the unlit fireplace, Jessica held a delicate china teacup in her hands, the saucer on the stool beside her. She’d served up the cobbler for everyone except herself and him. His excuse? He’d probably cast up his accounts if he attempted to eat anything more. As for hers, he wondered if she was too nervous to eat, concerned about maintaining her waistline or the kind of person who enjoyed the act of cooking more than actually sampling the fare. He found himself wondering a lot of things. Such as why she’d come to his rescue outside when he’d obviously messed up by mentioning her private grief.
The brief excursion outside his bedroom had winded him. While he longed to recline in his borrowed bed, doing so would impart the notion he was either weak or hiding something. Instead, he’d sunk into the closest wingback chair, the soft, worn cushions like a gentle hug. Focusing on the conversation flowing around him took his mind off his body’s state of perpetual soreness.
There was talk of extended family members, both young and old, as well as the state of Josh’s furniture business in town. Sophie, who they’d explained was Will’s sister, was expecting twins. From the way Nathan’s expression lit up, Grant surmised the proud father-to-be wasn’t daunted by the prospect of caring for two infants at once.
Ensconced in the chair nearest his, Alice beamed. “Grant, Sophie practically raised Will, what with her pa off roaming the country and her ma dead. Her grandfather helped as much as he could. I miss that gentle soul.”
On the other side of the coffee table, the three O’Malley brothers sat side by side on the sofa. Their collective focus shifted to him.
He gripped the mug’s handle tighter. “Congratulations.”
Nathan considered him. “Thank you.”
Caleb leaned over and set his empty bowl on the walnut table with a clatter. “What about you, Parker? You remember having any children?”
Jessica gasped. The silence that followed could’ve suffocated him. Or was that the panic that refused to leave him entirely, crouching in the shadows and waiting for a chance to pounce?
To cover his anxiety, he lifted his mug and sipped the aromatic brew.
“Caleb, I don’t believe that’s appropriate.” Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, Alice frowned at her nephew.
“I’m simply curious.”
“No, you’re trying to evoke a reaction,” Jessica retorted, her eyes full of fire. “It’s rude.” Shooting to her feet, she started collecting the discarded dishes. “Now that you’ve all met Grant, it’s time for you to go. Ma and I have ten bushels of apples to turn into apple butter by day’s end.”
To his surprise, Alice didn’t refute her daughter. “Yes, we do have a busy day ahead of us.”
Grant nestled the mug against his thigh. “I don’t mind answering the question.”
Everyone in the room stared at him.
“I don’t know if I have children. Or a wife. For all I know, I could have a family out there waiting for me to come home.” The words sounded like a foreign language to his ears. He rubbed his thumb over his left ring finger. It was bare. There wasn’t an indentation or sun line indicating he’d ever worn a ring. He couldn’t fathom having a wife, let alone children. “I may not have my memories, but I have a sound mind and enough good sense to know that these ladies are well-loved in this community and by your family. I wouldn’t dare repay their generosity with ill-treatment.”
Josh slapped on his hat and stood. “Let’s hope you’re telling the truth, because we won’t tolerate anything less than gentlemanly behavior. Not only do we know every square mile of these mountains, we’ve had plenty of practice hunting down criminals. It’d be in your best interest not to cross us.”
His brothers stood as well, their expressions no less cautionary.
“Understood.”
Alice ushered them to the door like a mother hen with her chicks. The affection the older widow harbored for them was written in her lined countenance. Made him lonely for something he wasn’t sure he’d ever had.
Drawing on all his strength, Grant leveraged himself out of the comfy chair and relieved Jessica of the bowls. She didn’t protest. In the warm, sunlit kitchen, she emptied the mugs’ leftover contents into a scrap pail one by one. He leaned his hip against the wooden counter. The tangy scent of ripe apples teased his nose. Baskets brimming with the bright red and green fruit lined three walls.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“They’re your family,” he said. “They care about you.”
“I care about them, too,” she said drily. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t annoying sometimes.”
“Be thankful you have someone to annoy you.”
Her luminous gaze sought his as she lowered the last cup into the dry sink. “You may not have been married, but you do have a mother and father. Possibly even siblings.”
He studied the cheery yellow curtains, the pie safe shelves crowded with baked goods, the burlap rug at the door boasting a rooster pattern. He hadn’t been hatched in a coop. He’d been born to parents and raised in a home. What sort of parents he’d had and what sort of home life he’d experienced were questions he could add to the growing list of unknowns.
“The family tree page in the Bible was left blank. I could be an orphan.”
She toyed with one of her ear bobs. “Or...your folks couldn’t read or write.”
Impatience dogged him. Edging around her, he went to the basket beneath the window and, choosing an apple, brought
