Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (10 page)

Now it was P.D.’s turn to look concerned. “You think he’s contemplating taking off again?”

Elam nodded. “Jace has always had a long fuse. But something’s building up in him—like a powder keg stuffed beyond its capacity. If something doesn’t happen soon to relieve the pressure . . .” Elam rested his chin on P.D.’s head, watching, waiting as the hall light continued to stay on for an awfully long time. Then, the entire house went dark.

Damn.

“Elam?”

He glanced down, realizing he hadn’t finished his thought. P.D.’s eyes gleamed up at him with concern.

“If we can’t help him find a way to release his stress, it’s only a matter of time before he explodes. Either that, or he may disappear again. If so, this time, we’ll never be able to find him.”

*   *   *

JACE’S
phone began ringing at seven the next morning, only a few hours after he’d finally been able to fall asleep.
By the fifth or sixth caller, it was clear that the town grapevine had been hard at work again, passing on updates about Annie’s condition, the arrival of her relatives from back east, and the plan to ready Annie’s house for her return. Judging by the messages he’d been fielding, the community felt that—even though Bronte had only been in Bliss a week—they’d waited long enough for her and her family to settle in. Now, they were gathering together to offer their help.

At first, Jace tried to head off the efforts at the pass, sensing that today, of all days, Bronte didn’t need a herd of well-wishers arriving on her doorstep ready to help fix up her grandmother’s house. But after a few dozen telephone exchanges, it became clear that God Himself wouldn’t be able to stop the volunteer brigade gathering in the wings. Furthermore, as he answered his cell to discover that a cement truck would be at the Ellis residence at eleven sharp, he realized he didn’t want to bring a halt to the wave of volunteers coming her way. Bronte needed to know she wasn’t in this alone.

And he needed to see Bronte.

It didn’t seem to matter that he’d spent the night convincing himself that they should put some distance between them. Nor was he particularly put off by the thought of encountering her kids again. She was becoming a drug to him, and he needed a fix. What better way to assure her children that they were merely friends than by surrounding them with as many chaperones as possible? He would play his role to the hilt and show Lily and Kari that he didn’t have designs on their mother.

Yeah, right.

By the time he’d showered and dressed in his oldest work clothes, he’d convinced himself that things would be fine. He simply had to play it cool.

But as soon as he clattered down the stairs and went in search of Barry, he was confronted with the stark reality of the situation.

Barry sat at the kitchen table glowering at a bowl filled with more marshmallow surprises than Lucky Charms. Judging by the cereal scattered all over the wooden surface
in front of him, Barry had upended the box to find all of his favorite treats.

“I thought we had a deal. No sugar cereal except on Saturdays.”

Barry didn’t even look at him. He stabbed at the milk-soaked bits of marshmallow as if he were planning to harpoon a whale beneath the surface.

“It
is
Saturday.”

Shit.

“I thought we’d also agreed that I would do the pouring.”

“I’m not a baby, Jace,” Barry said, his voice deepening with resentment. “Sometimes, you treat me like a baby.”

Damn.
This wasn’t how Jace wanted to start his day. But since there would be no peace until Barry had spoken his mind, Jace poured himself some coffee and sat down opposite his brother.

“I don’t mean to treat you like a baby, Barry. I want you to be safe and happy.”

Barry looked up, peering at Jace through his too-long hair. A part of Jace realized he needed to get his brother into the barber for a trim even as the rest of him registered the anger being thrown his way.

“That’s a lie, Jace. If you wanted me to be happy, you wouldn’t have chased away my bestest friend.”

Aw, hell.

“Barry, I didn’t chase Lily away. That’s the last thing in the world I wanted to do.”

“Then why did you make everybody mad? What did you do?”

Jace sighed, rubbing a hand on the muscles tightening at the back of his neck. How on earth was he going to explain the situation with Bronte and her family when he didn’t understand all of the elements himself?

In the end, he decided that there was no other option than to tell the truth.

“Lily and Kari noticed that Bronte and I were holding hands.”

“Is that bad?” Barry asked, his brow knotted in confusion.

“No, that’s not bad. But Lily and Kari are used to seeing Bronte holding their daddy’s hand, so it upset them. They didn’t know yet that Bronte and their daddy were divorced.” When Barry continued to blink at him wide eyed, Jace asked, “Do you know what divorced means?”

Barry nodded. “It’s when your daddy doesn’t live at your house anymore and you only see him during the summer, like Scott’s daddy.”

Scott’s parents had divorced more than three years ago, but to Barry, the event was still fresh.

“That’s right.”

“Why didn’t they know?”

Jace sighed. “I think Bronte wanted to tell them when they got to Bliss.”

Thankfully, Barry seemed to accept that limited answer.

“So why is Lily mad at me? I didn’t hold hands with Bronte.”

Jace felt his heart twist at Barry’s earnest expression.

“Aw, Barry. She’s not mad at you. You know how things happen sometimes, grown-up stuff, and you feel left out and confused. That’s what happened to Lily. As soon as you see her again, you’ll find out that she still wants be your friend.”

Barry pushed away his cereal. “I need to go to Lily’s house,” he announced, jumping to his feet. He was halfway to the door before Jace managed to bolt from his own chair and catch him.

But for the first time, Barry wrenched free—using such force that Jace wasn’t able to hang on.

“Don’t you stop me, Jace! I need to make sure she’s not sad anymore.”

Jace held his hands out in a calming gesture, realizing that his days of forcing Barry to do anything were swiftly coming to an end.

“I’m not going to stop you, Barry. There’s a whole group of people heading to Annie’s place to help clean out flowerbeds and fix up the house. I came down here to invite you to come along. If you want to go now, that’s fine.” He pointed to Barry’s pajama-clad figure. Barry was well on his way to
being over six feet tall, like his brothers. Yet, somehow, P.D. had managed to find Barry a pair of Spider-Man footsie pajamas with room to spare. “I thought you might want to put on some work clothes first.”

He offered his brother the choice: Go now, or change. Jace knew there would be plenty of times when Barry wouldn’t be allowed to make his own decisions, when someone else would have to step in and make them for him. But for now, in this instance, Barry needed the freedom of making up his own mind.

Barry seemed poised on the balls of his feet, ready to bolt. But at the last minute he turned and raced toward the swinging door.

“I’ll be down in a minute, Jace. Wait for me.”

Wait for me.

As his brother thundered upstairs, Jace felt as if a huge fist had reached in, grabbed his heart, and twisted.

Wait for me.

Wait for me to grow up.

Wait for me to become a man.

The hand in his chest squeezed tighter, nearly blocking off his windpipe. This was why Jace stayed, why he fought to stay sane as each day mirrored the next, and the next, and the one after that.

Because one day, Barry would be a man. Outwardly, he would be tall and strong and physically fit.

But he would always be a little boy.

And Jace needed to be there to help pick up the pieces whenever the two disparate realities crashed headlong into one another.

Which was why he couldn’t even consider getting closer to Bronte—or any other woman like her. There wasn’t a female alive who would want to tie herself to such a permanent responsibility. Unlike other children, Barry wouldn’t be growing up, going to college, beginning his own family. Yes, there would be opportunities for him, of that Jace was sure. Barry had already conquered many of the obstacles that doctors had insisted he would never overcome. If he
continued to progress, there might be chances for jobs or group homes in his future—if he didn’t decide he wanted to stay and work on the ranch. But Jace and his brothers would always need to be there to serve as his safety net.

Judging by the past couple of women Jace had dated, that wasn’t a commitment that most women were willing to make. They wanted a man who would make them the center of their universe. They wanted their own homes, their own children, their own responsibilities. When the time came, they wanted to boot those baby birds out of the nest and spend their golden years free of the burdens of a child with special needs.

Special needs.
Sometimes Jace hated that term. Barry didn’t have
special
needs. He had the same needs as anyone else. Love, security, and opportunities. Jace would see that he got them. Even if it meant sacrificing a few of his own goals.

So he should stay away from Bronte. She already had a boatload of her own responsibilities. There was no way in hell that she would want one more added stress. Jace would keep things cool, friendly.
Neighborly.

And try his damnedest to forget how good she’d felt in his arms.

“W
HY
are you sleeping in your clothes?”

The question seemed to come from far away. Bronte stirred, feeling as if she were being cradled by a thick cloud. She was warm here. Safe. Oh so relaxed.

“Mom!”

Bronte jumped, her well-being scattering. Blinking her eyes open, she faced the light streaming through the window of her grandmother’s room. The softness that surrounded her was the thick featherbed and eiderdown duvet that she’d pulled under her chin.

“Why . . . are . . . you . . . sleeping . . . in . . . your . . . clothes?”

Kari was speaking to Bronte as if her mother were a two-year-old, but for the life of her, Bronte had no idea what she was talking about.

Glancing down, she saw her arms draped in a T-shirt, then became aware of the rough fabric of her jeans. At the end of the bed, one foot, still clad in a flip-flop, peeked from under the covers.

How on earth?

Then, in a rush, Bronte remembered slipping out of the house to meet Jace, sitting with him on the glider. Heat seeped up her neck and into her cheeks when she recalled being held so tenderly . . . and then nothing.

Great. She’d fallen asleep. Probably with her mouth hanging open.

Then what . . .

Too late, she realized that Jace must have carried her into the house, up the stairs, past the room the children were using, and set her on the bed.

Wondering how much Kari knew, Bronte pushed the hair out of her face and asked instead, “What time is it?”

Thankfully, Kari’s attention was distracted by something on her iPod. She scowled at the screen and mumbled, “Ten thirty. Eleven.”

“
What?
” Bronte threw back the covers and rolled to look at the bedside clock, sure that Kari was exaggerating, but the huge red numbers read 10:57. At about the same time, she became aware of voices and pounding from outside, the whine of an engine. “What’s going on?”

She scrambled to the window, pulling aside the curtain.

“There are some people here,” Kari answered vaguely.

Not just “some” people. When she looked below her, the yard was filled with vehicles of every description, piles of lumber and sacks of cement. There had to be fifty individuals swarming over the area like ants on an anthill, each of them bent on their own particular task—weeding, shoveling, hauling lumber.

“How long have they been here?”

“About an hour.”

Bronte’s mouth dropped. She couldn’t help it. She could only stare at her daughter like some cartoon character whose chin rested on the floor.

“Who are they? Why didn’t you come get me?”

Kari shrugged, still regarding her iPod.

Tested to the very limits of her endurance, Bronte snatched the device out of Kari’s hand.

“Hey!” Kari protested.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

Kari thrust her chin out. “Because most of them came at the same time as that Jace guy. Why don’t you tell him to leave us alone? Why does he have to keep poking his nose in our business?”

Although Kari’s tone was belligerent, a sheen of moisture warned Bronte that her rudeness was merely a shield to much more vulnerable emotions. So when Kari snatched her iPod from Bronte’s hand and stomped out of the room, Bronte didn’t bother to call her back. Coward that she was, she would avoid that battle for now.

The shrill
beep, beep, beep
of a utility vehicle being put into reverse sent her to the window again just in time to see a cement truck easing toward the house.

Now what?

She might have stood rooted to the floor in confusion for some time if a familiar, lanky figure hadn’t moved toward the house. She instantly recognized the cowboy hat that had been jammed down over his brow, but this time, instead of a button-down shirt, he wore a T-shirt that was faded and spattered with several colors of paint. His jeans were similarly worn, with patches of denim that were beginning to wear out at his knees and along the hem. They had obviously been a favorite pair at one time because the fabric coated his legs and thighs like faded indigo ink. When he turned to gesture to the driver of the truck, Bronte couldn’t help noticing that one of the rear pockets was coming loose at the corner—which drew her attention to the man’s butt.

He really did have a fine butt.

As if he sensed her regard, Jace turned and looked up at the house. When he saw her, he waved a hand sheathed in a leather work glove.

Bronte offered him a weak salute in return, hoping that he hadn’t known how intensely she’d been ogling him. Then, when he turned to the driver again, she reared back, her hands flying up to her head.

Crap!
She’d forgotten that she’d spent most of the night burrowed under the covers. Her eyes flew to the mirror,
confirming her worst fears.
Bedhead
didn’t even begin to describe the riot of tangled waves.

Groaning to herself, she dodged into the bathroom and beat her own record for the shortest shower of all time. Armed with plenty of conditioner, she used a wide-tooth comb to coax the snarls out of her hair. Then, after a quick rinse, she twisted the long strands into a smooth braid.

After drying off with one of her grandmother’s threadbare towels, she spent precious minutes putting on her makeup before racing back into the bedroom. A squeal of disappointment leaked free when she realized that she desperately needed to do some laundry. But after digging to the bottom of her bag, she was able to come up with a lacy embroidered shirt and a pair of sky blue linen pants. She’d be a tad overdressed for whatever was going on downstairs, but it would have to do. So far, she’d stopped at the local grocery store for the basics, but she hadn’t topped off Annie’s meager supply of laundry soap and softener.

That thought made Bronte groan again when she realized she had a yard full of people and—except for staples—her grandmother’s cupboards were nearly bare. As she slid her feet into flats and hurried down the stairs, Bronte prayed that she had enough flour, sugar, and eggs to at least whip up a batch of cookies.

But as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she saw P.D. unloading groceries from the mound of sacks piled on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind that we made ourselves at home,” P.D. said.

Bronte could only shake her head in confusion.

P.D. grimaced. “After last night . . . well, I figured you were running on fumes, so I wouldn’t let anyone go into your bedroom. I insisted everyone tippy-toe around, especially if they came into the house. But then the damned cement truck showed up. I hope it didn’t wake you.”

“No. I was already up.” Bronte didn’t add that it was Kari’s insistent questions that had dragged her to consciousness.

Bronte moved to the back door and peered through the window. “What’s going on?”

P.D. grinned. “The grapevine has been hard at work.”

Bronte’s brows creased in confusion.

“Annie’s been a part of this community as long as anyone can remember—she taught half the people out there,” P.D. said, gesturing with a bunch of celery. “As soon as folks heard about her accident, they wanted to find some way to help. Thank heavens, someone managed to channel their energy into something productive.”

Bronte felt her stomach twist into knots. When she’d shown Jace the list of improvements that she’d hoped to make, she hadn’t planned on doing them all right away. She had less than two hundred dollars left in her wallet—and that would have to last until she could come up with a job. The trips to the hospital in Logan would probably eat most of it up in fuel.

Some of her unease must have shown because P.D. touched her arm. “Hey, you don’t need to worry about any of this. Bliss has a habit of pulling together and volunteering their time and a few odd supplies when someone needs it. Last year, there was a fire in my restaurant and when I first saw all the damage, I was sure it would take months to rebuild. But the next day, there were dozens of volunteers helping to remove the debris and scrub the place from top to bottom. They did in a day what would have taken weeks—and probably more than I could have afforded—to get things started.” P.D. offered her an encouraging smile.

“But all of these supplies—”

“The lumber came from surplus piles in countless barns in the community. The shingles are left over from those used to replace the damaged roof at Vern’s.”

“But the cement—”

“Donated by Enid Wilkerson, matriarch of the Wilkerson family and CEO of Wilkerson Cement. She and Annie are part of a quilting group that meets at the Civic Center every Wednesday.”

“So what can I do to help?”

“My friend Helen and her husband Syd have already got their famous Dutch ovens cooking outside, but I thought we could throw together a couple of salads.” P.D. frowned. “A lot of boys showed up with the Scout groups, and I don’t know if the bread I brought and Helen’s cherry chocolate cake will spread far enough, so maybe I should send someone to the store for more rolls and some cookies.”

“No!” Bronte said hurriedly. She rushed to the fridge, opening it to find cartons of eggs, milk, and orange juice had been pushed to one side on the top shelf. “Let me do that. How long before lunch is served?”

“Probably an hour, an hour and a half?”

“Perfect.”

As she pulled ingredients from the cupboard and began arranging them on the counter, Bronte felt more in control of her circumstances than she had since arriving at Bliss. She might not be able to hammer nails or drive a backhoe, but she could supply bread and dessert—and she could do it with her eyes closed.

After uncovering her grandmother’s mixer, she began measuring flour and sugar into a stoneware bowl. Bronte would be the first to admit that she was far from being the expert in the kitchen that P.D. was, but she’d always loved to bake—probably due to summers spent in this very kitchen learning how to make cookies, doughnuts, and cake. None of Annie’s recipes were complicated. But they were down-home favorites that were as satisfying to the soul as to the taste buds.

Within twenty minutes, she had mixed up a sweet biscuit dough, rolled it out on the table, and spread butter and a thin glaze made of powdered sugar, orange juice, and grated orange zest in the middle. Then she rolled it into a log and cut slices, which she placed in several greased pans. After placing dish towels over the biscuits until it was time to bake them, she washed out the mixing bowl and paddle and began making oatmeal raisin cookies from another recipe she knew by heart.

P.D. had long ago finished unloading the groceries and
was making piles of chopped purple onions, olives, and marinated vegetables for a pasta salad. A huge pot on the back of the stove was bubbling away, churning multicolored rotini in a fragrant roiling tide while the timer marked the last few minutes of cooking time.

“You know your way around the kitchen,” P.D. said.

Bronte shook her head. “Nothing even close to what you do. But I’ve mastered some of the baking that Annie taught me as a kid.” She allowed herself a self-satisfied grin. “I paid for part of my first year of college by selling cookies in the student union building.”

“What was your major?”

Bronte felt her smile falter. She’d wanted to teach English literature and write poetry. But after only a year of school, she’d married Phillip. He’d insisted there was no need for her to continue her education since he would support her for the rest of her life. For a while, she’d continued to fill journals with scrawled lines of blank verse—but even that had fallen by the wayside when life intruded.

“English and secondary education. But . . . I-I didn’t finish.”

P.D. nodded matter-of-factly. “So when are you going back?”

Bronte eyed her in surprise, a teaspoon filled with warm, fragrant cinnamon suspended over the mixing bowl.

“What do you mean?”

P.D. set down the knife and propped her hips against the counter. “It’s obvious that you regret not having a chance to finish. Why don’t you go back now? There are several excellent universities within commuting distance from here.”

Excitement spilled into Bronte’s veins, building up steam until it thundered through her body. But just as suddenly, reality doused it with an icy wave. Turning back to the mixer, she blindly dumped the cinnamon into the bowl, her mind frantically trying to remember if she’d added one teaspoon or two.

“There’s no way I could go back right now.”

The buzzer went off and P.D. punched it into silence, then
lifted the heavy pot from the stove and carefully dumped the water and pasta into a waiting colander.

“Why not? I bet you could qualify for a scholarship. You’re a single mother looking to finish your education. There’s got to be financial aid available.”

Again, Bronte was tempted by a spurt of adrenaline, but she firmly pushed it away. “Maybe in a year or two.” Why did the words taste more like
never
in her mouth. “Right now, things are too . . . unsettled. Too . . .”

She didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. How could she plan something as definitive as an education when she didn’t know how she was going to pay for the next round of groceries?