At Home in His Heart (2 page)

“Come on, Mom,” her daughter cut in. “Now look who’s nagging.”

“I’m not nagging. I’m concerned.”

“About what?” Devon wadded her napkin and tossed it on the table. “That the kid might be having
fun?
”

Sandi glanced at her watch and rose. Time to make her exit before these two got into it full-scale as they’d been known to do. She forced a lighthearted lilt into her voice. “Thank you for treating me to a birthday dinner. And on one of the nicest days weather-wise we’ve had this year. It’s been fun.”

She loved them both to pieces, but there was only so much Bradshaw fun she could take at a time.

“You’re leaving already?” Devon wouldn’t relish lingering alone with her mother.

As she’d done most of her married life, the now-widowed elder Bradshaw retreated to the family’s mountain home each year to escape the ovenlike temps of Phoenix—the Valley of the Sun. Devon, on the other hand, popped in on occasional weekends and only for as long as she and her mother could tolerate each other. It looked as if this might be an ultrashort weekend.

Sandi pulled her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m filling in at the Warehouse a few hours this week. Kara Dixon’s juggling the family business, working part-time with an affordable housing group and helping her fiancé at his High Country Equine Center. Grand opening’s Memorial Day. Since Gina went to swimming lessons with a friend last evening and is at a sleepover tonight, I don’t mind.”

LeAnne sighed. “Is it necessary that you work at all in the summer, Sandi? Keith’s daughter is at an age where she’ll need a firm, guiding hand when school lets out next week.”

Keith’s daughter.
She always threw that in there when she wanted to emphasize her daughter-in-law’s mothering inadequacies.

She gave LeAnne a smile intended to reassure, not challenge, but explaining about the necessity for the job would ruin the surprise. Besides, it was already her intention to spend more time with Gina in the coming months. “I’ll only be working part-time—afternoons several days a week—and Meg Diaz is as good of a mother stand-in as I could ever hope to find. Her stepson, Davy, is a wonderful little playmate for Gina, too.”

“I’m not being critical, darling, it’s just that—”

“Mom.”
Devon’s voice again sliced into the conversation and the pair sat glaring at each other.

Definitely time to go.

Sandi bent to give each a speedy hug. They said their goodbyes with promises to get together soon, and with a sense of relief she headed down the street, drinking in the signature scent of Canyon Springs’s ponderosa pine.

Although she and Keith’s mother had settled into a fairly comfortable peace after his death, it was no secret her mother-in-law hadn’t started out as her greatest fan. From the day Corporal Keith Bradshaw brought his bride home to meet the family, she hadn’t pretended approval of the match.

After all, Sandi not only didn’t hail from the country-club crowd, but had put herself through a less-than-prestigious Midwestern college on scholarships, student loans and minimum-wage jobs. To add to her unsuitable pedigree, her “introduction” to Keith came via a letter written in support of the troops while he was stationed in Iraq.

Not at all what Mommy envisioned for her youngest son.

As much as Sandi disliked the association, she and Bryce Harding had one thing in common: LeAnne Bradshaw’s disdain of their dubious influence on her beloved baby boy. But in Bryce’s case, her mother-in-law’s perceptions were right on target.

A niggling unease swam up through the murky darkness of Sandi’s subconscious. The same apprehension that assaulted her when she’d run into Bryce last winter. And again last night.

How much had her husband shared with him about their relationship? About her? About the quarrel that had haunted her for too many long, lonely nights in the wake of Keith’s death?

And did she really want to know?

“Y
ou’re not real talkative tonight.” Grandma Mae, her silver-gray hair tightly wrapped in pink plastic curlers, sat at the kitchen table across from him peeling potatoes into a pan nestled on her lap. Gnarled fingers clasped the handheld peeler Bryce had bought for her so she’d be less likely to cut herself with a knife. She wouldn’t let him help with the chore. Said she had to keep her arthritic hands as limber as she could for as long as she could, and working with them was better than any medication she’d yet found.

She gave him a knowing look. “In fact, you’re even less talkative than usual.”

Bryce grunted as he turned to gaze out the window over the sink where the last dregs of sunlight filtered through the pine branches. God had been poking at him since yesterday. About Keith’s wife. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Saying he was being too hard on her. Needed to tell her about his plans for the museum, too. He’d seldom had to deal with that kind of prodding much B.J. Before Jesus. Keith would have said that was because he’d been like a kid with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears yelling
la la la la la.

Sure was a lot of stuff he wished he could talk to Keith about now. Spiritual stuff. Women.

But it was too late.

He turned back to the woman who’d raised him, who knew him better than anybody else did. “Nothing much to say, I guess.”

She fixed him with a scrutinizing eye. “Are you regretting coming back here?”

“No.”

“Awfully small town for such a big man.” She set the pan on the table, pushed both it and a cutting board toward him to indicate he could do the slicing. Then she grasped the arm of the chair as she attempted to pull herself to her feet. Bryce was halfway out of his own chair to assist her, but she waved him off and accomplished it on her own. Shuffled to the sink, still favoring that ankle she’d broken late last fall. “Not a whole lot exciting going on around here for someone who’s lived off an adrenaline rush for fifteen years.”

“Overrated.” He placed a potato on the cutting board and reached for a wooden-handled knife. He’d had enough of that kind of excitement to last him a good long while. Iraq. Afghanistan. Bad enough he dreamed about it. Woke up in a cold sweat.

In comparison, firefighting in a tiny town would seem like child’s play. Not that he’d mention that to the fire chief who’d promised to back his application. But nobody in Canyon Springs—you’d hope anyway—would be waiting in ambush when you raced in to put out a fire.

Grandma turned on the faucet. “Don’t imagine there’s much around here in the way of young single women, either.”

Sandi Bradshaw’s wide-eyed gaze flashed through his mind. He took aim with the knife and gave the potato a whack. A chunk flew into the air and landed on the worn linoleum floor. He bent to pick it up. “That’s overrated, too.”

She snorted, and he couldn’t suppress a grin.

He’d never confided to her the details of his life in the
military, but undoubtedly she’d filled in the blanks on her own, wise woman that she was. No point in denying it. He’d sowed his share of wild oats.

And then some.

Wasn’t proud of it. But what was done was done and now in the past.

He changed the subject. “Do you want to go to the Memorial Day parade on Monday? I’d be happy to take you.”

He didn’t much care for parades himself, but he’d dress like a clown and stand on his head in the middle of it if that would make Grandma Mae happy.

“I’d like that.”

“Then it’s a plan. So, Gran, what’d you do today?” He sliced another potato—with less gusto this time.

“Peggy came by and set my hair.” She patted her curlers. “Then I watched a little TV. Did some reading.”

He had reading to do, too, if what was in the box sitting on his bed was what he thought it was. Grandma had been at him to join the men’s summer group at Canyon Springs Christian Church. But he’d taken one look at the syllabi posted in the fellowship hall a few Sundays ago and decided it wasn’t for him.

Not that he couldn’t use some help in the God department, but a big chunk of it focused on how to be the head of a household. A husband. A parent. He’d feel out of place among all those married guys. Dads. Grandpas. He didn’t put much stock in what others thought about him, good or bad. But this was different. He’d look downright silly to them. Green as grass.

It was stuff he needed to know, though, if he was going to be the kind of man he should have become a long time ago. All the stuff Keith kept telling him—and he hadn’t listened. Blew him off. But going to the men’s study would be like a rookie recruit marching out with a bunch of battle-hardened, heavily equipped veterans—without guns and gear. In skivvies even.

There was nothing to stop him, though, from ordering
online the CDs and workbook they were using. So that’s what he’d done. Ordered a volume on Arizona history, too, just in case Grandma asked what was in the box.

Yeah, he had a lot of catching up to do. But he didn’t want to think about why, since his encounter with Sandi yesterday, that it seemed more urgent than before.

Sandi would give just about anything not to have to make this call.

But all too often doing the dirty work was synonymous to her role as the president of the historical society. Right now calling Bryce Harding fell into that category. Why’d the electricity have to go out tonight? Just when she’d slipped in to catch up on work? But with the museum set to be open Saturday and Monday, she didn’t dare hope the situation would resolve itself. Since Mae’s grandson seemed to be sticking his nose in museum business now, she’d let him deal with it.

She speed-dialed Mae’s number on her cell phone. Had the power gone out upstairs, too? She glanced around the darkened room of the old stone house which sat a block off Main Street, surrounded by trees. At nine o’clock and with leafed-out bushes and bristly pines snuggled in close, hardly any light came in from the street. She gave an involuntary shudder.

It was creepy here at night.

In the dark.

Alone.

“Hello?”

Startled when the phone picked up on the first ring and a familiar masculine voice responded, she steadied herself by launching in with her most businesslike tone. “This is Sandi Bradshaw. I’m downstairs at the museum. The power is out, although it looks like the neighbors still have lights. Do you?”

“Yeah. You probably blew a fuse down there.”

She waited expectantly, but he didn’t offer a solution.

“Is that something you can do something about? I have work to do here tonight and the museum will be open tomorrow.”

He paused as if debating her request, then it seemed he’d covered the mouthpiece with his hand for she could hear indistinguishable words in his rumbling voice. Probably consulting with Mae. When he returned he seemed to speak with reluctance. “Grandma has extra fuses. Hang on.”

The phone went dead.

She crammed it back into her purse. No wonder he’d long infuriated LeAnne, why she was so adamant about daughter and daughter-in-law giving him wide berth. How had her charming husband gotten along so well with him since childhood? She had no choice, though, but to wait for Bryce to ride to the rescue.

When at last she heard him on the porch at the rear of the house, she stubbed a sandaled toe on a chair as she made her way through the outdated kitchen that the historical society still used on occasion. By the time she got to the door, he’d already used his key and let himself in.

He had a flashlight, one of those sturdy man-type ones that could sit on the floor and direct a beam with a tilt-type head. It illuminated the room, throwing a massive shadow of his broad-shouldered body to the wall behind him.

“Thanks for coming.”

He nodded, then moved past her. Shining the light around the room, he flipped a wall switch. The room remained dark.

She refrained from a smug I-told-you-so.

He wordlessly glanced in her direction as if reading her mind, then maneuvered around the table and headed to the front of the house. She followed, relieved to have another human being in the darkened building even if that person had to be Bryce. Didn’t hurt either that he looked as if he could take on anything that might spring out of the shadows at them.

He halted and turned, looking surprised to see her tailgating
so closely. “What are you working on that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

Meaning, why did he have to get out of his cushy recliner and surrender the TV remote to Grandma so he could do this right this very minute?

“I’m inventorying a donation of photographs that came in this week. Early days of Canyon Springs. Perfect timing since my daughter is celebrating a birthday with friends tonight.”

His brow wrinkled. “But it’s not her birthday, right? That’s in April.”

He remembered that?

“Right.”

He nodded at her confirmation and moved into the main room of the museum. Flipped another switch.

Got a clue now, Sergeant?

Maneuvering around her, he headed back through the kitchen to an adjacent room that once served as a pantry. Now it housed a hodgepodge of boxes containing the town’s memorabilia and office supplies. She stood in the doorway, acutely aware of the diminutive dimensions of the space as he set the flashlight on a shelf. Then with a long-suffering look in her direction, Bryce lifted down from the wall a gingham-decorated bulletin board to reveal a metal panel. Fuse box. What did he expect? She couldn’t leave that ugly gray thing protruding like that.

She returned to the front room to allow him to do whatever he needed to do in peace. Rummaging through her purse with a lighted key chain, she found the red, spiral notebook that contained her checklist. Perfect. If he intended to raise the rent, she may as well negotiate more bang for the buck.

A few minutes later, blinding light flooded the room from the overhead fixture. While her eyes were still adjusting to the abrupt contrast, he joined her.

“Wow. Thanks. You’re a pretty handy guy to have around.”

Now why’d she say something stupid like that? Sounded almost like flirting. She didn’t flirt. Hadn’t since Keith. Wasn’t going to start now.

Bryce gave her an assessing look. “It appears you’re back in business.”

“So it was a blown fuse? What would cause that? I didn’t have a bunch of appliances on at the same time.”

He shrugged. “No telling. Maybe a power surge. Decrepit fuse.”

“Well, thanks. And while you’re here—” She flipped through the pages of her pocket-size notebook. “Would you mind taking a look at a few other maintenance-related things?”

From the pained expression that clouded his eyes, it looked as though his TV remote must be calling his name.

“They wouldn’t have to be done right this minute,” she hurried on. “But if I could point them out now, then you could take care of them later. Not as in a hundred years from now, but later.”

“Like what?”

She ran her finger down the list. “The toilet runs excessively. Wastes water. We have to remember to jiggle the handle to get it to stop. Wasps built a nest on the porch, above the front door. Not good. And the outlet in the kitchen where we plug in the coffeemaker is dead.”

She motioned him to follow her to the front room where she demonstrated a creaking floorboard. “Obnoxious, isn’t it? And there’s a crack in the window of the bedroom we use for storage, the miniblinds on the front window are stuck half-opened and the dead bolt on the back door is almost impossible to latch.”

“That all?”

“Oh, and the kitchen faucet drips.” She glanced again at her list. “Several other things, but they can wait.”

“Who took care of this stuff for you this time last year?”

“What?”

“Who did your maintenance work before I came back to town?”

“Well, I have the past few years.” She stuffed the notebook back in her purse. “Or at least I’ve done what I could or hired someone to do it.”

He raised a brow, his expression mildly amused as he studied her. “And now suddenly—?”

Her face warmed. Was he intimating that she’d abdicated her responsibilities so she could coerce him into spending time with her?

“You’re raising the rent. It seems only right that more property upkeep should be included. With every passing year more things go wrong, more expensive things. Like the window air-conditioning unit last summer. Tearing out and upgrading the sidewalk so no one would trip and sue us. Roof repair. Replacing the furnace which also, incidentally, heats the upstairs.”

He looked round the room, all evidence of previous amusement vanished. “Maybe it’s time the society found a more adequate facility. This is an old house. Old plumbing, old wiring, old roof. Maintenance comes with the territory.”

“I understand that.” How dare he suggest they vacate the premises because she was asking for reasonable accommodation? “But I also understand from Meg and Kara who worked with you on the parsonage remodel that you’re quite capable at that type of repair work. You could do it at a fraction of the cost it would be for us to hire someone.”

He was silent a long moment, as if weighing the value of her requests. Was he thinking he owed her husband to help out his widow? Or that as luck would have it, a premature passing had saved his buddy a lifetime of heartache? She hated not knowing how much he knew about her and Keith.

At long last he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He was agreeing? Without further argument? If he was in
such a willing mood, maybe she should have read the whole list to him. Who knew when there might be another opportunity like this?

“Thank you,” she managed, deflated that the need to defend the historical society’s rights had evaporated so easily.

“You’re welcome.” He took a few steps toward the kitchen, then paused to look at the crowded display cases and antique furniture. At the framed photographs, maps and documents lining the walls. Then he did an appraising once-over of
her.
A look that left her, of all the ridiculous things, wishing she’d combed her hair before leaving the Warehouse. Applied a little lipstick.

What was her problem tonight?