A Brush With Love (7 page)

Tom snatched her arm before she could open her door. “Do you want my manly-man card too? Please, I’ll never live it down with the guys if they hear you pushed. Let me do this. You’re the driver of this team.” Beneath the wooly knit of her sweater, he could feel the rough, ribbed skin of her arm. He’d always wanted to ask her about how it all happened. He’d only heard bits and pieces of a trailer fire. How painful it must have been. Then to live with the constant reminder . . .

“We’re not a team.” She slipped her arm from his touch.

“Okay . . . we are for now. Unless you want to sit here all night.” He jostled her shoulder, also coarse and jagged beneath her sweater. “Come on, if I can’t push us out of this, I’ll hand in my man
and
Marine cards.”

She reared back. “You were a Marine?”

“Yes, and still am, I guess.
Hoorah
. Just no longer on active duty. Ready?” Popping open his door, Tom’s first step sank
into a pool of icy water, filling his shoe with ooze. Nice. He sloshed around to the back of the car, the rain soaking his hair and jacket, slipping down his collar, trickling down his neck and back.

At the back of the old Beetle, Tom anchored his backside against the car, hooking his hands under the fender as he tried to find good footing. He’d bet his ruined Nikes that the temperature had dropped a southern, damp, frigid degree or two in the past fifteen minutes.

“Ginger?” he called, glancing around, the rain water draining into his eyes and the crevasses of his face. “Ready?”

The engine whirred, coming to life. Tom ducked into place. “Okay, go!”

He pushed, his feet anchored against nothing but ooze, as Ginger fed the Bug a bit of gas.

But all combined, their efforts produced nothing but spinning tires and spewing mud. Extracting his feet from the sucking mud, Tom sloshed over to Ginger’s window and tapped on the glass. She inched it open.

“Hey, Tom, I think we’re still stuck.”

He laughed. “Now you’re Captain Obvious. I’m going to rock the car a bit. You didn’t eat a lot of food at the buffet, did you?”

“Such a funny man you are.” She shut the window and faced forward, a slight, happy curve on her lips.

Yeah, she wasn’t as hard and defensive as she let on. Tom rounded back to the VW, the rain still thick and heavy. If it took
this
to get to know her, to break down the barriers, he’d do it again. And again.

“Okay, Ginger, give this Beetle Bug some juice!”

The engine rumbled as she let off the clutch. Tom rocked the car, straining to dislodge it, adding his Marine muscles to the German horsepower.

Come on . . .
He’d dealt with worse in Afghanistan.
Lord, can You get us out of this?

The car lurched free, dropping a shivering, soaked-to-the-bone Tom into the mud. The red taillights beamed five feet ahead. Ginger tooted the horn in celebration.

Thanks, Lord.

Pushing out of the mud, Tom scrambled for the passenger door. But Ginger stuck out her hand as he started to sit.

“I just had the car detailed.”

“W-what?”

“And these are leather seats.”

“Y-you’re joking.” Meanwhile, rain slithered down his face, into his ears, and pooled at the base of his neck.

“Yeah, I’m joking. Get in here. You’re letting in the cold air.” Her laugh warmed his soul.

“You’re a regular riot, Alice.” He dropped into the seat with a squishy
slosh
. “Where’s a hero’s welcome when he deserves one?”

“You’re right. Thank you. Very much. The stallion of Rosebud to my rescue.” She shoved the heat slider to high and eased the Bug forward.

“Boy, you
do
remember everything. The stallions of Rosebud . . . I haven’t thought of that nickname in a long time.” He ran his hands though his drenched hair but there was no place to dry his cold, wet hands. “Sorry about this mess.”

“When you don’t have a life, you pay close attention to others.” She chuckled softly. “I can still see you, Eric,
Edward, and Kirk Vaughn strutting down the school halls, three abreast, patting your chests on football Fridays, rapping some stallions of Rosebud song.”

Tom laughed. “Yep, ‘We’re the stallions . . . of Rosebud High . . . fear the name, we’re what we claim, when you’re not looking, we’re gonna crush ya . . .” He drummed the rhythm on the dash. “Ole Kirk, I miss him.” Kirk had gone pro but died in a small aircraft crash while doing mission work during the off season.

At his funeral, Tom’s heart first stirred toward full-time ministry. Something he swore he’d never do. He’d watched his father and wanted nothing of that life.

“Such a senseless death.”

“I can still hear Eric’s voice when he called to tell me . . . I couldn’t believe it.” Tom glanced at her. “But Kirk died doing something he believed in. At his funeral, I stood in the back of Brotherhood Community Center—there had to be a thousand people crammed in there—and bawled like a baby. That day changed me.”

“How did that day change you?” The VW nosed down again. Ginger urged the car with a bit more gas, trying to move quickly through the rut.

“I just knew. No more fooling around with God. I had to get serious.”

“Serious with God? Were you not serious? The preacher’s kid?”

“I was the opposite of serious.” The car hit another water patch and fishtailed sideways before listing to port, finding another rut and sinking. The engine gurgled and died with a tired sigh.

“No, no, no,” Ginger rocked in her seat, trying to reignite the engine. But the rain, ruts, and mud had won. “Matilda, we were almost there.” She pointed to a small light on the distant horizon before turning to Tom. “See if you can push.”

“Ginger, face it. Elements one, VW Bug with humans, zero.” Tom leaned out his door, looking under the car. “The back left is buried.” He ducked back inside. “We’re going to have to walk.”

“Walk? In this?” Ginger angled over the wheel, peering at the rain. “Maybe we can wait it out.”

As if the heavens heard, the clouds rumbled, lightning flickered, and the rain fell in double-time. The car sank a bit lower.

Tom offered her his hand. “I say we run for it. You with me? Do you have a flashlight?”

“Dear diary, Bridgett Maynard’s wedding was a blast. I got to run in the rain and mud.” Ginger popped open the glove box, producing a flashlight, then slipped the keys from the ignition and reached around behind the seat for her purse and small duffle bag. “I can’t believe this.”

“I was on a patrol like this one night in Afghanistan.”

“In a VW?” Ginger clicked on the flashlight, shot open her door, and stepped out. “Oh, wow, it’s cold. And muddy. Ew, I’m sinking.”

“No, in a Humvee. And hold on.” He sloshed his way around to her and without hesitating or pausing to see if she’d care, he slipped his hand into hers and pulled her past the car onto a piece of solid ground. “Better?”

“Better.” She exhaled, glancing up at him, shining the flashlight between them. “Thanks for coming with me.”

He curled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to wipe the rain from her cheek. “Wouldn’t have missed it.” This was ten times better than sitting around with a bunch of guys, wondering if she was all right.

“Well . . .” She turned toward the small light beaming through the rain. “I say the last one there is a monkey’s uncle.” With a rebel yell, Ginger launched into a full-on sprint, the beam of the light bouncing about the darkness.

“What? Wait—” Dang, the girl had wheels. He caught her in a few strides and was about to swoop her into his arms when Ginger disappeared, face first, into a slop of mud, the flashlight sinking with her hand while her purse and duffle floated beside her like useless life preservers.

“Ginger?” He bent for her, swallowing his laugh. It really wasn’t funny. No . . . it was hilarious. “Are you all right?” He looped her bags over his head, settling the straps on his shoulder. What was another ounce of mud or two sinking into his shirt? “Here, let me help you.” He offered his hand but she refused.

“Mud. I hate mud.” Ginger pushed to her feet, bringing up the flashlight, letting loose a blended laugh-cry. She shook her fist at the storm. “You can’t beat me.”

“Come on, Scarlett O’Hara, let’s get to the house. We can argue with the storm from the other side of warm, dry walls.” He took her left hand, striding forward. But a dozen steps in, Ginger went down again.

“That’s it. Sorry, Ginger, but—” Tom swung her duffle bag to one side as he ducked down and hoisted her over his shoulder in one swift move.

“Whoa, wait a minute, what are you doing?” She hammered her fist against his back, kicking.

“Simmer down.” He picked up his pace, his feet chomping through the water and thick, sucking mud. “I want to get to the house without you falling into the mud every five feet. Hey, can you pass me the flashlight?”

She was light, an easy load. One he wouldn’t mind shouldering for, well, the rest of his life. But the history . . . Not between them, but their parents. Did she even know?

“Nothing doing. I hand you the light and you drop me, leaving me out here all night.”

Tom jogged on, double-timing it. “I just picked you up. Do you seriously think I’d leave you out here?”

“Well, you do have a reputation for leaving a girl without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-grits. Now, really, put me down.” She kicked, pushing on his shoulders, trying to get free. “I don’t need to be rescued.”

“Really?” Without a by-your-leave, kiss-my-grits? So, she did remember the night they were supposed to eat pizza and watch a movie. Tom had wanted to call her that night but he’d spent the time battling with his dad, refusing to pack his suitcase until his baby sister came out of her room, hysterical with tears.
Stop it! Stop fighting.

“Tom, put . . . me . . . down.”

“Seems to me you were losing that battle with the mud.” She struggled against him but he hung on. “If you keep squirming, I’m going to drop you.”

“Good, do it. Better than being carted around like a sack of seed.”

He should’ve let second-thoughts surface before releasing her but she seemed so intent on her demand. So . . . he let go, sending Ginger to the ground. She plopped into a soggy puddle and bobbled for balance while Tom continued on, plowing through the rain and muck.

“Hey!” Her call bounced through the raindrops. “What’s the big idea?”

He turned, walking backward, seeing nothing but the white glow of her flashlight. “You said, ‘Put me down.’ ”

“And you believed me?” Her sloshing and complaining trailed after him, the white light bobbing, until she finally caught up, whapping him on the back of his head.

He laughed, feigning a yelp, and caught her around the waist, spinning her around. “My mama taught me to respect women’s wishes.”

“You think she intended you to dump a girl to the cold, muddy ground?”

“Yes, if that’s what she demanded.” Slowly he set her down, her lean frame against him, shivering and soaked. Her breath mingled with his, their heartbeats in sync. Even with the flashing light aimed behind him, he could see every inch of her face. “Ginger—”

“Tom, I-I’m—” She gently freed herself from his embrace, from whatever his heart was about to confess. “Freezing. We’d better get to the house.” Ginger aimed the light ahead, spotlighting the old ranch homestead.

“About another thirty meters.” Tom took her hand and the flashlight, not caring if she protested, and led the way, holding her steady, instructing her around the ruts and puddles.

The yellow dot fifteen minutes ago was now a full-blown porch light. Tom jumped the veranda steps, the cold starting to sink in, bringing Ginger along with him.

She tried the door handle. “Locked,” she said, shaking. “She sent me to a locked house? What happened to ‘Daddy never locks the house’?”

“Hold on.” Tom tried the windows by the door. Also locked.

“So, when were you a Marine?” Ginger said, following him.

“Between semesters.” All of the front windows were bolted. “Stay here, let me scout out the place.”

“Between semesters? Like on your school breaks? You ran down to Paris Island and said, ‘Hey, I’m here.’ ”

He smiled back at her. “Something like that.” Tom hurdled the veranda rail and jogged to the back of the house. He didn’t care about Ginger’s wagging finger; Bridgett was going to hear about this. It was one thing to be the caught-up bride but another to be so self-focused she disregarded her guest’s well-being.

On the back deck, Tom tried the knob on the French doors, grateful when they gave way to his gentle push.

Stepping inside, he found a switch and with one click, a set of recessed lights over the fireplace beamed on. Excellent. The power was on. He started to step forward but the slosh of his shoes drew him back. With a sweeping glance Tom checked out the place. The work of Mr. Maynard was evident. He kicked off his shoes. Can’t track mud across the hardwood.

Crossing the spacious room with its vaulted ceilings and crown molding, he flicked on the end-table lamps.

At the front door, he opened up and stood aside for
Ginger to enter, dropping her bags from his shoulder to the floor. “Please, enter your humble abode.”

“So, like, the power was on?” She huddled by the door, a muddy mess as she glanced around. “Wow.
This
is the
old
homestead?”

“Well, consider the source. Bridgett Maynard.”

“It’s beautiful.” Ginger slipped from her shoes and wandered toward the kitchen, then back to the great room. “I think I got the better deal coming out here.”

“But everyone else is at the house with food and maids. Does this place have anything to eat? Is the water on?” Tom stepped around to the kitchen, trying the faucet. Water flowed freely. “Looks like you’re set then.” Tom locked the French doors and picked up his shoes. “Keep the doors locked. There’s homeless camps in those woods. Even in this cold.”

“Thank you. For everything.” She motioned to the doors unaware that the dark scarf she wore swung loose, exposing the neck she worked hard to hide.

He fought the urge to touch her, to tell her the wounds would be all right. She didn’t have to hide. But that would definitely cross all of her boundaries. Real or imagined.