they might have done before, but on what I see in them right now.” Pausing, she gave him an assessing look. “I see a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong crowd. He owned up to his part in what they did and took his punishment for it. Now he’s come back to his hometown, where people care about him, hoping to put his life back together. How’m I doing?”
Those warnings in his mind blared again, but quieter this time. Despite his misgivings, Scott allowed himself a slight grin. “Fine. Makes me wonder how someone as young as you would come by that opinion, though.”
“Just how young do you think I am?”
He wasn’t touching that one, so he said, “Well, I’m twenty-seven, and I’m thinking you’re a couple years younger than that. How’m I doing?” he added, echoing her earlier question.
“Fine,” she parroted him with a little smirk, then got serious. “You’re not the only person in the world who’s had to shake off their past and start over again, y’know.”
With that, she took a trowel from her basket and began digging in the earth he’d turned. It struck him as an odd thing to say, but she didn’t volunteer anything more. Taking her silence as a hint that she was done discussing that topic, he began shaping the crescent she’d requested. “So how do you like it here?”
“It’s a charming little town, and the people are really nice.”
He’d known enough women to hear a qualifier in there somewhere, and he nudged. “But?”
After hesitating for a few moments, she sighed. “I’ve been here almost a year. The summer art fairs will be starting up soon, and I’ll be on my way.”
Her tone had a tinge of resignation in it, and he frowned. He’d just met her, but the thought of this cheerful painter being unhappy bothered him for some reason. “You don’t sound thrilled with that.”
“It’s the way it is,” she replied with a shrug. “I’ve learned that things go better for me if I’m not in one place too long.”
Scott understood that philosophy all too well. It had governed his life for years, and at first it had been fun. The excitement of drifting around the country, working at this job or that one, following the good weather, had given him some great memories. Then, one steamy Houston afternoon, the thing he valued most had been wrenched away from him.
That fateful day, he’d lost his freedom. It had taken him a long time to get it back, and he’d die before he would let anyone take it from him again.
* * *
Jenna knew a mess when she saw one.
Wearing tattered jeans and a well-loved rock-concert T-shirt that hung loosely on his tall frame, Scott Barrett definitely fit the bill. While they worked, she noticed he was careful to keep his distance from her. She’d never been to prison herself, but it wasn’t hard to imagine why he’d become so guarded about his personal space. There was something about him that spoke to her, though, and it was more than the slightly shaggy brown hair and determined set of his jaw. When he glanced over at her, she finally pegged what had snared her attention.
His eyes. Dark and wary, they connected with hers for a moment before flitting away. It was as if he didn’t want her to catch him observing her. She did a lot of portrait work for clients, and it had made her adept at reading people. Her instincts told her he wasn’t eyeing her in a creepy, stalkerish kind of way. Because she moved around so much, she knew how it felt to be an outsider in a community, but for him it was different. He should have felt at home here in the place where he’d grown up, but he didn’t. Knowing that made her feel sad for him, and she hunted for a way to ease his mind.
Hoping to draw him out a little, she attempted to resuscitate their lapsed conversation. “So, it must be nice to be back in your hometown.”
“Didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he muttered, stabbing at fresh ground with the spade.
He was digging outside the area she’d shown him for Will’s garden, but out of respect for his current attitude she chose not to point that out. Instead, she tried again. “I’ve lived in lots of different places myself. I think Denver was my favorite with the mountains and so many interesting spots to paint. How ’bout you?”
“I liked Texas. Till they told me I couldn’t leave,” he added with a wry grin.
The dark gallows humor caught her by surprise, and she couldn’t help laughing. “I can’t believe you can joke about that.”
“You give a man enough time alone with his thoughts, one of two things happens—he either goes crazy or he comes to terms with what happened. I’m not the loony-bin type.”
“I’m glad,” she said reflexively, getting a questioning look in reply. “I mean, for your family. They’ve all missed you so much.”
“I missed them, too.” Staring at his grandfather’s marker, he sighed. “More than you could possibly know.”
He had the same rangy, muscular build as his brothers, but there was something different about him she couldn’t quite identify. An artist as much by nature as profession, she’d always been inquisitive about everything and everyone around her. What made them unique, what made them tick. While she recognized that Scott was an individual with his own qualities, she couldn’t help comparing him to the Barretts she’d gotten to know. There was no denying he had his own vibe, and she searched for a way to define it.
Out of nowhere, it hit her: he was wounded. Judging by his pragmatic way of looking at life, it wasn’t from being locked up, at least not entirely. Since they’d just met, she didn’t want to pry into what was certainly very personal business, so she tamped down her curiosity and turned her attention to the cluster of forget-me-nots she was planting.
They didn’t talk at all, but he seemed to understand where she needed the soil dug out and stayed a few shovelfuls ahead of her while she worked. When she’d planted the last of the flowers, she stood and wiped the dirt off her palms onto her overalls. Holding out a hand, she smiled. “Thanks for the help, Scott. It was great to meet you, but I should be getting back to my studio.”
After hesitating for a moment, he gently took her hand, shaking it as if it was made of glass. Those dark eyes connected directly with hers for the first time, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t make herself look away. There was that pain again, but now it was joined by the hopeful look of a lonely little boy who thought maybe—just maybe—he’d found a new friend.
While she knew it would be completely insane for her to get involved with this guy, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed her. With every instinct screaming for her to back away and leave him be, she heard herself say, “All this digging sure is thirsty work. Can I buy you a glass of iced tea at The Whistlestop?”
At first, he didn’t react at all. Then, slowly, as if something that had been frozen was thawing a bit, a slow grin worked its way across his chiseled features. “You’re not from the South, are you?”
“Chicago. Why?”
“Around here, we call it sweet tea. And you don’t have to buy me any, ’cause I’ve got a gallon jug of Mom’s at the house. No one makes it any better.”
A quick glance around showed her nothing but trees and gravestones. “I don’t
