Here Comes Trouble (3 page)

His mother was practically smothering him with
attention, Quin thought, as he began the four block
walk into town. He wasn't certain whether he
might have been better off taking his chances with
the angry bandits.

Retracing a path he'd traveled nearly every day
of his childhood, on the other hand, proved a good
idea. Sights and sounds he'd thrown off like bad
habits returned in a crash to his senses. The funny
rattle on the Thompson's heat pump. Chirping
birds returning for the spring. A few trees opening
tender green buds. A scent of daffodils in the cool
spring breeze.

The Morrison's house now sported green shutters instead of blue. A new street light stood on
the corner of Main and Henderson. Otherwise, he
might be stepping directly into a page from his
youth.

Nearing Main Street, he heard the bustle of cars,
not like New York, but quiet. There was little
noise to compete with the nesting birdsong.

He waved to Mr. Quick, the butcher, and looked
in the pharmacy. He was tempted to enter the
Five-and-Dime.

Right now, he needed to walk, look for changes,
smell the smells, inhale the sights-of home.

Littlemouth hadn't changed. It was still the
poky little town he'd longed to escape at the ripe
age of eighteen. Was it possible to love a place
and feel stronger knowing it existed, yet know
deep down it wasn't the right place for him?

He craved the exotic vistas of foreign bazaars.
The heady aroma of frangipani. The unique lilt of
a Muslim in prayer.

Perhaps he was destined to forever be a wanderer, as he'd always thought of himself, with only
a fond memory of home. The sameness of comparing your lawn to your neighbors, a typical nineto-five job, the most dangerous encounter being
whether you'd fall off the ladder while cleaning
the gutters-none of it was for him.

Here he was, though, at home in this sleepy little hollow called Littlemouth, about at home as a
rhinoceros in a department store. As soon as his
boss gave him the all clear, Quin would be out of
here and back to real life in a flash.

The only problem was that now he'd come
home, part of him wanted to stay. He'd become
used to being an outsider, the ugly American. The
sense of belonging in Littlemouth was strong and
it took him awhile to identify it because he hadn't
experienced it in so long.

Littlemouth was one of the most beautiful cities he'd seen in all of his travels. Sure, it didn't have
skyscrapers or three-hundred-year-old buildings,
but for him that wasn't what made a city great. It
had heart-which was something he thought he
might have misplaced years ago.

A sound called him from his thoughts. At first,
he wasn't sure what the sound had been, but it
disturbed his subconscious. He stood in place, listening.

Then he heard it: a whimpering and slight metallic rustle. He searched his surroundings, sought
the source of the noise, then focused on a dumpster at the alley a few steps ahead of him. Walking
forward to investigate, he heard more of a moan
and he instantly identified it as a dog's cry.

Quin shoved up the heavy brown lid. There was
no way the dog had gotten in there except by human hands.

Quin frowned.

Then he saw one of the largest dogs he'd ever
set eyes on, making him think of Cerberus, the
mythological Greek hellhound who guarded the
entrance to Hades. Calling the animal hellhound
might be more apt. He was a shorthaired mongrel,
scarred, missing part of an ear, and half-starved.
A black patch of fur covered one eye. Otherwise,
his color was nondescript tan mixed with pink scar
tissue. This brute had been in a lot of brawls.

"Hey, there, Tramp." His gaze caught sight of blood. The animal's front two legs were badly
gashed. The dog whimpered and his brown eyes
pleaded with Quin for aid.

Quin sighed.

He had to go in. Quin propped the dumpster lid
open with the metal brace to make sure it wouldn't
snap closed. He pulled off his beloved leather
bomber jacket, a high school graduation gift from
his folks, and laid it neatly on some boxes near
the dumpster. Then he tried to climb in, but his
bruised ribs protested. A lot.

Quin looked around, found a wooden crate, then
stood on it and managed to lower himself into the
dumpster.

Phew.

His surroundings reeked of rotten trash, soured
beer-and fear. "It's okay, Tramp," he softly said
to the animal, who silenced immediately and
looked at him out of those trusting brown eyes.

Quin could take him over to the vet, Doc Stephens, who'd patch him up and probably would
know the owner. Trying not to appear threatening,
he held out his hand. The dog licked it. "Suck up."

So far so good. Now to find a way to get him
out. Quin made a move to inspect the animal's
injuries-and the dog growled at him.

Quin had heard stories of people trying to help
injured animals and being bitten for their efforts.
He needed some way to protect himself.

Without hesitating for more than a second to
mourn the loss, Quin grabbed the shoulder seam
of his shirt and yanked. The sleeve came off and
dangled from his wrist. The hellhound allowed
him to bind his mouth. "Good boy."

The dog gave a timid wag to his stump of a tail.
He was one ugly dog. Giving him a good pet, Quin
said, "Hang on a little longer, Tramp. Trust me."

As he prepared to lift the animal, he heard the
tip tap of high-heeled shoes on pavement heading
their way. The steps halted in front of the dumpster.

Quin lifted himself up to see if help had arrived.

He froze. Then, without conscious thought, his
hand snaked up to finger the acorn necklace he
wore beneath his shirt. He looked into the one pair
of innocent brown eyes he could never forget.
Stella. Stella Goody with the same trusting brown
eyes as the hellhound's.

She stared at him expressionlessly, opening and
closing her mouth wordlessly. He'd pictured her
in his mind countless times while on his travels,
remembering her as the pesky little girl who managed to keep out of trouble while he always ended
up neck-deep in it. He remembered the pact they'd
made to never forget each other or their tree, and
in minute detail he remembered the day Stella had
given him the acorn she'd hollowed out, attached to a leather strap for him to wear. A necklace he
never removed except to bathe.

He'd forgotten that she'd be all woman now.
Little trace of his young friend remained, other
than the tiny dimple-like scar perched just above
soft inviting lips. A scar from the wound she'd
received the day she slipped off the makeshift vine
they'd used to swing from a large rock over the
creek.

Quin wished he wasn't covered in garbage. He
would have preferred to make a good impression
on her.

Okay. So she was irrational. Stella couldn't believe she'd chased Quin down Littlemouth's Main
Street just because he hadn't stopped at her house
as she'd expected. It was certainly no reason to go
tearing off after him.

So why had she bolted out the door and sprinted
to catch up? Because she was certifiable. It was
the only explanation.

When she'd heard Quin had come home, a
quiver of anticipation had climbed up her brain
stem. But watching him walk past her house had
nearly done her in.

It was natural that she'd wanted to see him.
However, they'd both grown up and grown apart.
They were continents apart, not only in their out look, but in what they wanted out of life. So why
the heck had she chased him?

When Quin had disappeared down the alley,
she'd hung back, not sure what to do.

Skulk. That's what she'd decided. Then she'd
plastered herself against the corner of the brick
building. When her ears hadn't picked up any indication of movement, she'd leaned around the
edge of the building to peer into the alley.

Where had he gone?

At first she hadn't seen him in the alley's dim
light, but heard what sounded like metal clanking
against metal. She'd gone closer to investigate.

Suddenly, Quin's head emerged from a trash
dumpster. She could smell the sour stench from
where she stood. On his shoulder rested a banana
peel and one of his shirt sleeves was missing.

Next, one of the ugliest dogs she'd ever laid
eyes on popped up his sorry head. His snout had
been tied closed by-so that was what had happened to Quin's shirt sleeve. What was he up to?

"Still hanging out with the wrong crowd, I see,"
said Stella, turning to leave. She felt foolish for
blurting out old business.

"Wait," Quin called.

How many times as a teen had she ached for
him to call out to her? She took a deep fortifying
breath before shifting around to see what he
wanted.

"I could use your help."

Stella raised her brow. Maybe she wasn't the
crazy person around here. "You look like you
could use a lot of help. Do you want the name of
a good psychiatrist?"

"That's not exactly what I meant-but this
dog's hurt and I can't get him out."

"Why not?"

"Banged-up ribs."

"Oh, yeah. I'd heard you came home needing
some TLC."

"Where do I sign up for TLC?" he asked, wiggling his brows.

"I think your mother has that more than covered."

"You're right about that, but I can never get
enough tenderness from attractive women."

"Still a charmer, I see."

"Think you could see your way into helping
me-this hurt animal?"

Stella was a sucker for a sob story. Especially
an injured animal's sob story. "What do you want
me to do?"

Quin grinned. "You're not going to like it."

"Try me." His smile did things to her insides,
things she'd rather not experience. It was too much
like falling from a great height or riding an out of
control roller coaster.

"You could start by removing your shoes. You
might want to take off your stockings too."

"Quin, I'm not undressing for you-or for the
dog."

"Very funny. I need you to climb in and help
me get him out of here."

Stella whimpered. The last thing she wanted to
do was climb in a stinky trash dumpster. "Are you
sure you can't do it yourself? Or I can't help from
out here?"

"Honestly, Stell, my ribs hurt. I jumped in to
help him before thinking, and now I can't lift him
without seeing stars. Please?"

"Misery loves company." Drat. Drat. Drat. The
guy had always been able to talk her into doing
things she didn't want to do. "Couldn't I go find
someone else to help?"

"And leave this poor hurt animal in here that
much longer?"

"Remove the banana peel and scooch over. I'm
climbing in."

Quin shook the banana peel from his shoulder.

He watched as Stella removed her shoes, revealing dainty toes. The dog must have wondered
what was holding things up, because he'd removed
his makeshift muzzle and barked, his tail wagging
in friendly expectation. Obviously, the brute
wasn't in as bad a shape as Quin had feared.

When it became apparent Stella wasn't going you. anywhere fast, Quin said, "Don't worry. I'll catch

"What about your ribs?"

"I'll brace myself on these boxes."

He leaned against a box, then held out his arms
to her. She swung herself into the dumpster faster
than he'd expected and he caught her, letting out
an audible gasp. Sure, his ribs hurt like the dickens-but what had him gasping wasn't pain.

Somehow, he'd caught Stella with one of his
hands under her arm and the other came up clutching her hip. There was something about holding a
handful of soft woman that did things to a manlike making him think of kissing her rather than
concentrate on matters at hand.

Stella looked as surprised as he was. He heard
the dog bark again and the sound of him scrambling around on the trash behind him, but it was
nothing compared to the high-pitched buzz in his
head.

"You can let go any time now," said Stella
breathlessly.

"I don't think I can."

She started squirming and he figured if he didn't
let her go, he'd steal a kiss for sure. He released
her, easing her down into the dumpster. She
looked flustered and a faint blush spread from her
neck up to her face.

Her long lashes down turned, she wailed, "What
do you have on your hands?"

Quin glanced at his palm and saw it was covered in black goop. When he looked back up at
her, he laughed aloud.

Clearly imprinted on her skirt was the evidence
of his groping: an unmistakable imprint of his
hand covered her hip.

The shocked expression on her face was priceless.

Stella was still his favorite girl, although she
was all woman now. There was something about
Stella Goody and dumpster trash that made him
feel all was right with the world. Nothing had
changed in Littlemouth, Kansas. And he was darn
happy about it.

After lending Stella his leather jacket to cover
her stains, then dropping Tramp off at Doc Stephens', Quin headed for home and a shower. As
he toweled off, his mother called and asked for a
ride.

When he arrived at Cait's house, he saw it
hadn't changed either. The big oak tree still shadowed the walkway, bringing to mind another oak
tree he wanted to visit while he was home. His
mother's motorcycle was parked beneath a pine
tree and he wondered if he should take a look at it for her. Probably not, though. She knew more
about motorcycle mechanics than he did.

Quin hadn't been inside Cait's house since he'd
had a run-in with the school bully and had gone
to her for first aid. While his mother was generally
considered permissive, she was also known to
overreact at the sight of injuries-particularly his
injuries.

Cait had dutifully cleaned him up and scolded
him about getting into fights.

Now he had to face TROUBLE en masse, a
sobering thought.