The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (7 page)

So Birdie wasn’t bird-watching. She was people watching.

The little spy.

Shelby chuckled and craned her neck to see if she could make out who the child watched with such fascination. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone plunge into a lap pool. Someone naked. Not just naked...but tight male ass naked.

Whoa. Birdie wasn’t just spying—she was a peeping, uh, Birdie. So what to do about that?

This was a child and a naked dude. A responsible adult would find Abigail and squeal. But maybe not yet. Maybe she needed to know more. Something about the girl’s pluck and natural curiosity carved a tender place in Shelby’s heart. Had to be hard having a mother like Abigail. Again, teacher Spidey sense blipped and she decided to track down Birdie later to suggest she not spy on naked dudes in their lap pool no matter how nice the view was.

“Shelby?”

She jerked around to find Abigail standing at the head of the stairs holding a tray. John’s sister wore her hair pulled back into a knot, a deep blue sweater and the same flats from the evening before. She looked like a librarian catching someone making out in the stacks.

“Oh, hey,” Shelby said, turning with hopefully a nonguilty smile. “Just checking out the, uh, view.”

Abigail snorted. “No view out that window. I fought like the devil trying to preserve this historical area, but I didn’t win. They built that subdivision last fall. I tried to fence them out and mask the sounds of a busy neighborhood with the water feature out back.”

Shelby moved toward her room, abandoning her own spying on the very interesting Birdie. “Well, my view’s lovely and I didn’t hear anything.”

“I’m lucky most of the rooms face the woods on either side of the house. I haven’t had trouble, but I would have preferred the solitude.” Abigail set the tray on the bedside table. “Nice socks.”

Shelby lifted her foot and wiggled the One Direction socks. “I feel cool, but maybe I’ll leave them for Birdie.”

“Don’t bother. She thinks boy bands are stupid...and boys are disgusting.”

Yeah. Right. “Well, she’s only...eight or nine?”

“Try twelve,” Abigail said with a smile. “A little small for her age.”

Twelve? Shelby thought she had stretched it by suggesting eight. Of course, Shelby didn’t know a lot about elementary-aged kids. Neither of her siblings had procreated, professing no urge to overpopulate the earth—something about the ozone layer and stretch marks. And by the time students hit high school and Shelby’s desks, most had gone through puberty.

“I brought you some oatmeal, a soft boiled egg and dry toast. John said you were sick or something and I didn’t know if you wanted anything rich. I have some Bananas Foster French toast if you’d rather that?”

Oh, yum. Shelby’s stomach growled...but then she thought about the diet guidelines in her healthy pregnancy books. Maybe something low fat and easy on her stomach would be a good idea. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“John called and said he would pick you up at noon.” Abigail’s remark was more a question than a statement, said the way a mother would say it...with that little unspoken “And?” at the end.

“Great,” Shelby said.

Abigail stood there for a moment, looking indecisive. Shelby knew she wanted to ask about her and John, but was too polite to do so. And Shelby wasn’t going to help. That was John’s cross to bear.

“Okay, if you need anything else,” Abigail said, still not moving.

“Nope,” Shelby said with a smile, sinking onto the bed, wishing now she’d just left her T-shirt on. She’d forgotten about breakfast, which was crazy since suddenly she could eat a small horse.

Abigail walked toward the door, casting wistful glances back at her.

“Thanks, Abigail.”

John’s sister turned. “Oh, good gravy, just tell me. Are you seeing John?” So much for his sister not asking questions.

Shelby played dumb blonde. “Of course I’m seeing him. He’s picking me up at noon.”

Irritation flashed in Abigail’s eyes, reminding Shelby of her brother. “Oh, stop it. You know what I mean. Y’all say you’re just friends, but John has never had any female friends. He’s a farmer.”

“Farmers don’t have female friends?”

“You’re good at avoiding questions, but I’m the only girl in my family, so I’m good at getting around the bullshit,” Abigail said with a feral smile. “So are you dating? Because he’s never mentioned you. None of us even knew he—”

“Maybe he didn’t want his family to know his business. I don’t like my family sticking their noses into mine. I’m the baby of the family so I’m good at avoiding everything. I win,” Shelby said, trying for lightness, lifting the toast and taking a bite. It was good—a homemade multigrain. Good for Shelby and good for baby.

“We’re not like most families,” Abigail sniffed. “We’re very close and we’ve been very worried about John.”

“He doesn’t strike me as a man who needs his sister to manage his life or screen his dates.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Abigail said, propping her hands on her hips, looking even more like a librarian. This time Shelby had talked too loudly...or lost a book. Deadly librarian sin. “I suppose the only way he could have met you was online.”

“Boy, you’re determined, aren’t you?” Shelby said, “Besides what’s wrong with online dating?”

“Online dating isn’t real,” Abigail said.

Shelby made a face. “I know plenty of people who’ve met online and have good relationships. One of my friends married a guy she met online. Besides, John’s a big boy. He can do what—”

“One would think,” Abigail interrupted, abandoning the open door, moving back toward Shelby. “On the outside, he’s tough. Always has been. But inside he’s tender.”

Just because a man had been hurt by losing someone he loved didn’t mean he was tender. And even though her own sister was a bitch extraordinaire and unlikely to care about Shelby’s happiness any more than she’d care about the local grocery bag boy, Shelby understood the need of an older sibling to look out for her younger brother. Abigail meant well, but Shelby bet she wouldn’t like the same sort of prying in her own life. “Hurt like you?”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about John and the shit he’s gone through the past year.”

“I already know he lost his wife.” She’d only asked Annie for location and basics. His wife had been listed as deceased, nothing more.

“It’s the how she died that’s the problem.”

Shelby’s face must have indicated she had no clue what Abigail spoke of.

“You don’t know how she died?”

“I didn’t want to pry.”

Abigail sank onto the desk chair. “His wife’s name was Rebecca. She died last year...in September.”

The hair rose on Shelby’s nape. John had wanted to forget. That’s why he’d been at Boots.

“She had gone into Gonzales to her mother’s and popped by the gunsmith’s to pick up John’s shotgun. She was carrying it inside their house when it accidently went off. The smith had left a round in the chamber during the test fire. John was the person who found her.”

“Oh, God,” Shelby breathed, dropping the toast onto the plate.

“It was a freak accident. John couldn’t have saved her even if he’d been there when it happened.”

Shelby shook her head.

“He found her that evening on the back stairs of Breezy Hill. Would have been traumatic to find anyone who’d died from a gunshot wound, but she wasn’t just anyone to him, was she?”

The toast felt like a brick in her stomach. Shelby turned away from Abigail. “That’s horrible.”

“Yes. Horrible, but now you see why I’m concerned. Maybe I shouldn’t stick my nose in—”

“No, you shouldn’t. Look, I understand the inclination. John’s obviously been through a great deal, but, trust me when I tell you he’s not being irresponsible. We haven’t jumped into anything.” Except reckless, unprotected sex that resulted in pregnancy.

“Even so, this whole thing, him bringing you to Thanksgiving is—” Abigail paused as if weighing her words “—quite frankly, odd. John’s the steadiest member of our family. He doesn’t do things like this. I’m sorry if my honesty offends you.”

Shelby stared at the woman trying to figure out her brother’s life. What could Shelby say after learning about the way Rebecca Beauchamp had died? The whole idea of how hurt John was made her ache...and sent flashes of reservation through her body.

Tread carefully, Shelby.

“I’m sorry,” Shelby said, for lack of anything else.

“Me, too,” Abigail said, a glimmer of appreciation flickering through the sadness in her eyes.

For a moment they both faced each other, Shelby lost for words to capture the feelings swirling inside, Abigail studying her.

“I’m not offended by your honesty, and I appreciate you telling me about John’s wife. I needed to know,” Shelby said finally.

“Just be careful with him, okay?” Abigail turned and exited, softly closing the door.

Shelby flopped back onto the unmade bed, feeling both irritated and incredibly sad.

What had happened to John’s wife was some heavy stuff. He’d found his wife dead on the back porch steps...absolutely unthinkable.

And Abigail thought she could protect her brother, which was touching, but there was no need to protect him from Shelby. To her, John was merely another man she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t be interested in, because he was in love with the memory of his wife.

Yep, Shelby really knew how to pick ’em.

Handsome? Check.

Enigmatic? Check.

Committed to another woman? Check.

And this one was dead. How did a girl compete with that?

She didn’t want to feel anything toward the man who’d cried after having sex with her. But she knew, of course, that deep down inside under all the warning and caution signs she’d nailed over her heart, something drew her to the man...something more than the baby cradled in her womb.

Just be careful with him.
Abigail’s words were good ones to live by. Maybe if she’d had John’s sister around, she wouldn’t have believed Kurt, the lawyer at her father’s firm who had professed to love her and taken her virginity, and then went back to his wife. Or maybe she would have done a better background check on Darby Dufrene.

Sighing, she rose, determined to ignore whatever drew her to John, and managed to choke down the rest of her toast. Then she allowed the hot water in the bath to soothe her tense muscles, relieved to note only a small streak of blood on the washcloth. After using the cream prescribed by the doctor...oh, the humility of being a woman...Shelby tried her best to pin her hair back with the three bobby pins she scrounged from the side pocket of her purse. Thankfully the Transportation Security Administration had missed them during the preflight screening. Lacking her makeup kit meant she had to employ emergency tactics with her one tube of pretty plumtastic lipstick, using it to highlight her cheekbones so she didn’t look like something John’s golden retriever barfed up.

Finally, after fastening her David Yurman loops and sliding on her boots, she walked out, prepared to wait downstairs for John. But she ran into him coming up the steps.

He smelled like he’d been in the fields, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Just an odd scent of sugarcane. And man.

“Hey,” he said, expression guarded, making her wonder just how much he’d processed from yesterday’s news. He didn’t look any more at peace.

“Hi,” Shelby said, waiting for him to turn and start back down the stairs. He didn’t budge.

“How are you?” he asked, meaning clearly, was she still bleeding?

“I’m good. Better than yesterday,” she said.

He examined her, reading between the lines. “Did you get rest? Been off your feet?”

“Yes, drill sergeant,” she said with a salute.

“I’m worried about you traveling today. Jamison said bed rest. My truck isn’t a bed.”

“It has a bed,” she said, trying for lightness, not wanting to spend a long hour in the car with an overly anxious John.

“Not the same thing,” he said. Wish not granted because obviously John wasn’t the lightest of folks...and now she better understood why.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should stay here.”

She crooked an eyebrow. “You going to fold my panties?”

“I can,” he said, a teeny smile flitting across his lips before disappearing.

“I insist on going with you. I’ll rest all afternoon. Pinky swear.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, merely headed downstairs. Lying around Laurel Woods Bed-and-Breakfast with no TV or gossip magazines felt like punishment, which made riding into Baton Rouge to fetch her things sound as good as winning tickets to the Emmys and sitting next to Hugh Jackman. Being totally desperate for interaction was an understatement.

And that the handsome farmer was every bit as gorgeous as the Aussie actor was an added bonus she didn’t want to acknowledge because she didn’t want to remember the way he’d touched her...the way he’d kissed her. The memory of his taste and touch paired with the pain in his past made her weak, made her want to fix him.

Being a sucker for broken guys isn’t cool, kiddo. Never works. Guard yourself, Shelby. You can’t fix broken like this, so take the friends-only route. Safer, better traveled and won’t leave you in a ditch.

Abigail stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing an old-fashioned white apron and a smear of flour on her cheek. She looked like a commercial for Duncan Hines.

“Are you sure you’re okay to travel?” she said, looking worried. “Of course, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I’m concerned nevertheless.”

“Such a worrywart,” Shelby said, trying again to lighten the mood. Jeez, these Beauchamps were a dark bunch. Shelby had grown up with the Addams family and they still weren’t as gloomy and anxious as these two.

“Understatement of the year,” John said, swinging open the front door.

“I’m the older sister. That’s my job,” Abigail said with obvious reference to the words she’d spoken to Shelby earlier. “Why don’t you stay for dinner tonight, John? I’m making pork roast and homemade French bread.”

“Got to get back to the fields,” John said, and a tiny dart of disappointment snagged inside Shelby. Why? What should it matter to her that John wasn’t coming back to eat pork roast? It shouldn’t.