Reclaimed (4 page)

She took the stairs with quick steps, ignoring the musty smell of dirt and old wood. Mr. Rustin stood around the corner to her right, studying a large tank and several pipes.

“This is your well pump.” He pointed to the tank secured to the wall, and then his finger moved to three pipes. “And these are your mains. These two are open. That one’s closed.” He bent and gripped the lever, pushing it parallel to the pipe.

“What are the other ones for?”

“One is the house. The other—you’ll have to go exploring for that. Maybe there’s another tank in your west pasture.”

“Why wouldn’t they all be on?”

Shrugging, he shook his head. “Dunno. Let’s go see if that fixed your problem, though.”

He waited for her to lead and clunked up the stairs behind her.

Suzanna gulped in fresh air as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Her head cleared, and the silly woman who had behaved like a juvenile faded. She took to the barn with confidence, leaving Mr. Rustin to follow. The sound of splashing water filled her ears as they approached the corral. She climbed the fence panel, unable to leap it as Mr. Rustin had. But she landed without falling, a satisfying success. Leaning against the handle, she put her weight into it, shutting off the pump.

“Thank you, Mr. Rustin.” She brushed her hands against her jeans as she walked back to the fence.

He grinned from his place on the other side. “You’re welcome.” His eyes held hers and his smile grew.

He was mocking her. Suzanna’s back jerked straight as she folded her arms.

Mr. Rustin pulled on his hat. “Afternoon, Miss Wilton.”

Suzanna stomped to a stall, refusing to watch him as he walked away. He was
not
handsome.

Paul shook his head as he pulled away. She was almost friendly. For about five seconds.

Was she actually afraid of the basement? He chuckled, and something warm bloomed in his chest. She’d looked so timid standing on that top step. Hesitation had softened her features—she was pretty.

It was short lived. What made Dre think the woman was sweet? And shy?

Paul glanced in his rearview mirror. Suzanna’s house shrank as he traveled down the road. He wondered if he and Dre had met the same woman.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Hey there, Suzanna Wilton.” A feminine hint of southern drawl drifted from behind.

She knew that voice. Suzanna turned in the aisle, clutching her box of Grape Nuts. “Hi.” She smiled, unable to hide her relief. Aside from the smug Mr. Rustin, she hadn’t spoken to anyone face to face all week. She’d prayed she would run into Andrea as her Jeep Wrangler kicked up dust on the drive to town.

Ironic. God would answer a small request. He’d ignored all of the big, important ones.

“I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by this week.” Andrea leaned against her cart. “I was hoping to, but my week went into overdrive. Fall Festival is this weekend, and we do a chuckwagon feed for the barn dance at Heritage Park.”

Suzanna glanced at Andrea’s cart. Number ten cans of beans and fruit cocktail nearly filled the space, and bags of buns were stacked on top, heaped to the brim. She wondered who “we” was. Did Andrea’s family do all that on their own?

“I’d love to have you visit, if you get time.” Suzanna wished she could swallow the words. So selfish. So needy.

“You bet.” Andrea’s smile seemed sincere, her nod determined. “How about coffee in the morning? I run the kids in for school at 7:30, and I could stop on my way home, if that’s not too early.”

Company. Good company. Suzanna would make daybreak work if it meant she’d get to smile, get to laugh again.

“Not too early at all. I’ll have a pot ready for you.”

Andrea’s smile widened. “So, are you coming to the Fall Festival?”

“I don’t know anything about it.” She needed to get a newspaper or something.

“Well, let me tell you, girl. It’s a blast.” Andrea leaned toward Suzanna, grasping her arm. “Town strings up that old barn with lights. Saturday, the park is abuzz with vendors and games. Cotton candy and funnel cakes. Drum-line sound-off, battle of the bands, and solo sing-off. It’s almost better than the county fair. Then at night, those lights blaze, and music sets the air in motion. Mmm, girl. It’s so much fun. You don’t want to miss it.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Suzanna’s lips. Small town charm. Something she’d hoped for.

But to go alone?

“Listen, Suz. You could ride in with us. Tom and I can stop and pick you up, and you could spend the day with us. You’ll get to meet the whole town, and it’ll be great.”

So, she was transparent. “How about I follow you in? If you’re doing the chuckwagon thing, I don’t want to get in the way, but the festival sounds fun. Would that be okay?”

“Perfect.” Andrea hugged her. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Suz, but I’ve gotta run. My daughter has piano in five minutes, and I still have to check out.”

Suzanna nodded as gratitude lifted her cheeks. Thank God. She did. For the first time in countless months, she did exactly that. In the next heartbeat, though, she wondered why He had just now decided to listen to her pleas.

Her eyes and nose stung. It was too late. For Jason, for her, God was listening too late.

Paul shuffled the football to Jim Calloway and jogged off the field. Sweat dripped near his ear, and he rubbed it away with his sweatshirt. Dropping onto the picnic table near the water cooler, he watched while the guys tore around on the grass.

Man, they were getting old. High school had long since bid them good day. Gray speckled every one of their heads—well, except for Jim. His hair fell out the year his third daughter had been born. Paul ran a hand over his head. He was getting a little thin on top too. Where did time go?

Had it been nineteen years since they’d graduated? Nineteen years since they’d sauntered through this park, proudly flashing letterman jackets and guaranteeing each other that once school was done, they were leaving this small town for good?

Here they were. Six out of the twelve guys in their class. Still tossing a football around at Fall Festival. Still calling Rock Creek home.

For Paul, that was a good thing. He had needed some redirection in his life. For some of the other guys, though, being here meant they were stuck. Bad choices, hard luck, or a lack of courage. They just didn’t get where they thought they’d go.

“Can you believe how sloppy these kids play?” Chuck filled his Gatorade cup and dropped next to Paul, his sides heaving like he’d been running a marathon. “We were so much more disciplined.”

Probably not. Paul was sure he wasn’t, anyway. Discipline hadn’t been a part of his vocabulary at age eighteen. Paul dropped his head, hoping a shrug was both an answer and a deterrent. He didn’t want to hear any of Chuck’s “good ole days” speeches. They were long, centered on himself, and generally fictional.

“You didn’t come shoot last week.”

Bummer. That topic wasn’t much better. “Nope. I went to Dre’s for brunch, and Kiera asked to go riding.”

“Man, that’s nuts.” Chuck shoved Paul’s shoulder. “You managed to avoid the matrimony irons, and you still get roped into kid duty?”

“I had fun.”

“Sure. I draw the line with my woman when it comes to Saturday shoots. I’m going. End of discussion.”

Such a big talker. Paul leaned back against his hands, squaring a look on Chuck. “You’ve got a pretty good wife, Chuck. I’m sure Shelby gives you plenty of slack.”

Chuck opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He smacked his jaw shut and let his attention roam over the park.

Paul surveyed the activity as well. The high school kids continued to pound the middle-aged has-beens. Holeman’s had sponsored a bouncy castle, set up past the field under a trio of ash trees. Children screamed and giggled as they ran with abandon, zigging past booths and dodging adults as they chased through the crowd. Rock Creek High’s drum line pounded away on the stage opposite the old barn. Nothing ever changed.

He loved that.

Tom and Andrea’s chuck wagon was parked near the barn, and they were hard at work preparing food for the dance. Keegan climbed on the wheels and over the wagon tongue, and Kelsey followed him, no doubt having been assigned guard duty. Andrea hefted a roaster to a table by their rig and stopped to talk to Mrs. Blake. They chatted for a few moments, Dre touching the old woman’s shoulder as she so often did with anyone, and then she waved to someone out of Paul’s line of vision.

The Pickle Lady stepped around the wagon, responding to Dre’s beckon. A groan vibrated his core.

Andrea introduced the pair, and the three women stood in a loose circle. Dre smiled and talked. Mrs. Blake nodded. The Pickle looked awkward. Timid. Exactly like she’d looked at the top of her stairway. He thought it cute then. Not so much now.

What was she doing out on that place all alone? She was clearly afraid—incapable. Fifteen miles from town, attempting work for which she’d never been seasoned. That kind of undertaking required confidence and strength—for a man or a woman. Timidity would only get her into trouble.

It didn’t suit at all. Why was she so set on staying? It wasn’t like she was stuck. He’d made an offer himself. So had Chuck. And Jim. Why was she being so stubborn?

“So, have you talked to her anymore?” Chuck nudged Paul’s bicep with his elbow.

Caught staring. That can’t be good.

“Stopped by earlier this week.” Paul hopped to the ground, shrugging like the subject was inconsequential. Because it was. “She needed a hand with...something that wasn’t working right.”

Did he need to cover her ignorance? The sooner she figured out she was in over her head, the better—for her. He had no reason to feel bad about it.

“Did you get some sense talked into her?”

Paul scowled. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“She doesn’t belong out there.” Chuck seemed perfectly at ease slamming a stranger.

Paul’s jaw clamped hard, and a muscle near his eye twitched. He couldn’t understand his reaction. He’d just thought the same thing. “It’s her property, legal and fair. Her dad worked awful hard to reclaim the land. Don’t know that we have any right to begrudge her.”

Chuck’s eyebrows twitched. “Maybe so, nobleman, but you’re not thinking of others.”

He tossed his head, not trying to disguise irritation. “How’s that?”

“Doesn’t affect you the way it does those of us east of her property.” Chuck took a swig from his paper cup before he crushed it. “That spring water doesn’t flow to your land. Did you know she inherited senior water rights pertaining to Rock Creek?”

No. He didn’t know that. Didn’t know why that rumpled Chuck, either. “That a fact?”

“’Tis. Mike was a reasonable man, and the work he did on that place benefitted everyone. But now we’ve got this little upstart lady runnin’ things and who knows—”

“How do you know she’s not reasonable?”

Chuck unfolded his former linebacker body and planted his feet a little too close to Paul. “You think she’s reasonable?”

Paul swallowed, hating that he allowed Chuck to intimidate him. The man was all wind. Well, no, that wasn’t true. He was a cunning businessman, and he kept manipulation in his back pocket. He held notes on almost every business in town, including the Cottonwood County Sale Barn and Rock Creek Meats. Two operations necessary to Paul’s.

“Don’t know either way.” Paul pulled his shoulders back and forced his eyes to meet Chuck’s challenge.

“She’s refused offers five times over. Offers that come close to doubling the actual value of the property. That’s not reasonable at all, is it?”

Double the value? What was Chuck afraid of? Paul’s fist closed behind his back as heat spread over his skin. He’d just landed himself in the middle of something, and he didn’t want any part of it. Not for Chuck. Not for Suzanna Wilton.

He glanced back to the wagon—to the Pickle. She smiled at Andrea. A small, timid smile.

Chuck would run her over.

“Doesn’t seem neighborly,” Paul said, “to push a woman out of town before you know anything about her.”

He met Chuck’s dark stare and walked away.

Had he really just thrown himself in with the Pickle Lady?

“You don’t have to help, Suz.” Andrea filled buns with sloppy joe meat while Tom and Suzanna sliced watermelon.

“I don’t mind.” Suzanna took up another melon, tapping the rind out of habit. Heavy. Hollow. Perfect.

If she weren’t helping, she’d be leaving. She dropped her eyes when tears began to burn. Andrea had introduced her to at least two dozen people. They smiled, shook her hand, and asked about her roots. Most were kind. A few, however, were definitively not.