The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Page 16

  Her glance showed she didn’t accept that. “How old is your sister?”

  Two years older than he, but Adam didn’t say that. She’d just point out that he’d been too young to take care of a sister that close in age.

  It didn’t matter. He could allow her to win this one. Victory always cheered her up, and she deserved that.

  Much earlier than Sam wanted to be out of bed, he studied his reflection and thought what an idiot he was.

  To look almost civilized, he’d chosen his one dress shirt, white and fairly presentable. Because he had no iron, he’d steamed it in the shower. He tightened the belt on khakis that hung on him. Add to that fairly new athletic shoes he’d found in the box of stuff the general had sent to him. He hadn’t opened the carton until late last night after he’d had a couple of drinks. Only a few because he wanted to be able to function at the same time as he buffered himself from any memories rattling around loose inside, any reminders of activities he’d participated in back when he had two legs. Fortunately he’d found nothing but clothes and shoes.

  He looked at himself in the mirror again. Over the last few days, he’d changed: better-looking clothes, shaved, and not hungover. What would he do next? Get a haircut? Not likely, but this “presentable” stuff seemed to be creeping up on him.

  Who was he trying to kid with the white shirt and new shoes? He wasn’t normal, lovable ex-marine amputee Sam Peterson, not inside or out, so why was he attempting to look like that? The kids didn’t care about his appearance, which left only Willow Thomas to impress and she… she… Well, he didn’t know about her but he did know about himself. He had no business dressing up to… what? To attract her? To date her?

  To marry her?

  Crap. What a load of crap.

  He put the comb down, shook his head so the clean hair looked unkempt, and pulled off the shirt. With the prosthesis, changing shoes and trousers was more of a hassle than he wanted to face. He grabbed the cane and hobbled back into the bedroom.

  In the corner, Aunt Effie’s chair was piled with dirty clothes. On top of the dresser sat a pile of clean clothes he hadn’t shoved into a drawer. Folding and putting clean clothing away was a hassle he’d learned not to bother with. A pile on the dresser worked fine and let him know when he needed to do the wash again. No one in this house cared if his T-shirts were wrinkled or not. He grabbed his marine T-shirt, the one the kids wanted him to wear, and tugged it on.

  He’d have to wash clothes soon, not one of his favorite chores. Manipulating out to the washer and dryer in the back of the narrow carport with a load of clothing under his arm stretched his ability. After a few attempts, he’d learned to put the laundry in a dirty clothes bag and drag it behind him.

  Dumb stuff to be considering. For a treacherous minute, he wanted to check himself in the mirror again, but he didn’t. He didn’t care how he looked. He was clean and that was all Nick and Leo cared about, if they even cared about that.

  Seven o’clock. Ready and waiting. They’d pick him up in fifteen minutes. He grabbed his cane and headed toward the living room. He needed a drink. He functioned better dead to feeling of any kind.

  Vodka? Did he have any vodka? No one would smell it on his breath. No one would notice if he were unsteady, not that he could get that drunk in fifteen minutes. A drink or two would take the edge off. He headed toward the kitchen exactly as a knock sounded on the door. Too late. He should’ve known the boys would keep on their mother until she gave up and headed over here early.

  Why had he agreed to this?

  “Just a minute.” Sam forced himself to close the world out and quiet his thoughts.

  “D’ya need some help, sir?” Leo shouted through the door.

  “No,” he called back. “Be right there.”

  For a moment, Sam hyperventilated, dragging in huge gulps of air while his heart pounded in his chest and sweat dripped down his face, all signs of an impending panic attack. “I’m doing fine,” he said to himself in a low voice, attempting to calm his breathing and slow the heart. He hadn’t had a panic attack since shortly after he got here. Why had one hit him now?

  “I’m fine,” he repeated quietly. As the VA counselor had coached him, Sam pursed his lips and pretended to blow an imaginary candle out to decrease the amount of oxygen he took in. His heart began to slow.

  “Captain?” Willow called.

  Oh, great, exactly what he needed, an anxious professional like Willow wondering what was happening.

  “I’m fine,” he said, loudly this time. And he was. His breathing had slowed and his heart no longer thudded as hard in his chest.

  “I’ll be right out,” he shouted as he limped into the kitchen, got a glass of water, and drank it slowly. After that, he splashed cool water on his face and wiped it off, glad he’d caught it in time, before he went into full anxiety mode. He felt a little wobbly, but that would clear up soon.

  He shuffled back through the living room and opened the door. “You’re a little early,” he said.

  Willow scrutinized his face. She could probably read the physical signs of distress but didn’t mention it, quickly turning her gaze away.

  Couldn’t she meet his eyes? Did she still feel a little uncomfortable about that kiss?

  Or maybe it wasn’t that kiss at all. Maybe as a professional she recognized the signs of a recent anxiety attack but didn’t want to address it now. He didn’t, either.

  The boys wore jeans so new and stiff they crunched a little as they walked, with new burnt orange T-shirts and matching athletic shoes. All ready for the first day of school. Their mother wore slacks and a nice shirt, her usual dress, almost like a uniform for work. She’d changed from her professional shoes to some with a thin heel—what were they called? Kitten heels? Why did he know that? Probably from watching that late-night program with Stacy and Clifford when he couldn’t get to sleep. Or was he named Clinton? He didn’t know and didn’t really care, but the shoes looked great on Willow.

  “Cool,” Nick said. “You’re wearing your marine T-shirt. Sir.”

  “Come on, sir.” Leo leaped down the steps and ran to open the car door.

  “Mom says you get the front seat because it’ll be easier for you to get in.” Nick danced next to the car and watched Sam. “She knows stuff like that.”

  “It’s a really low car,” Willow apologized.

  “We can help if you need us to hold your elbow or anything.” Nick held out an arm.

  “Get in, goofball.” Leo dragged his brother to the driver’s side of the car, pushed him into the back, and followed.

  With the car door open, Sam sat on the edge of the seat, then turned as he picked up his right leg and placed it inside the car. In a car like this, it was a little awkward but not a difficult task. He grabbed the armrest and closed the door while Willow got in the other side.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I should’ve opened the door for you.” He’d forgotten a lot about how to treat a woman.

  “Thank you, Captain, but I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car by myself.”

  “I know that. That doesn’t mean a gentleman should allow you to.”

  As she turned the key and started the engine, she glanced at him, then quickly away, concentrating carefully on the nonexistent traffic as she pulled onto the street. He grinned. She still couldn’t look at him, which suggested… well, he didn’t know what but not indifference.

  “It’s a short ride, sir,” Nick said.

  “He knows that. He used to live here,” Leo said in an older-brother voice.

  “I don’t remember much about town.” Sam looked over his shoulder at the boys. “I haven’t been here for…” He paused to consider. “… for about fifteen years, and I haven’t gone anyplace but to the hospital and the grocery store since I got back. Is the junior high still next to the H-E-B?”

  “Did it used to be?” Nick said. “No, it’s that way.” He pointed vaguely to the east.

  The boys attempted to explain wh
ere everything else in town was located and how the old IGA had become a department store and where the new post office was, as if he remembered where the old one had been. While they chattered, Willow kept her eyes on the road with so much attention she could’ve been driving at the Indy. After a few blocks of a carefully navigated route, she pulled into the driveway of the school, found a parking space close to the front door, and let out a deep sigh.

  Sam would have laughed at her relief, but that would probably spook her more. To spook or not to spook? The question made him feel somewhat Shakespearean but didn’t solve the dilemma that was Willow Thomas.

  After their mother stopped the engine, the boys pushed out of the backseat and ran to his door to pull it open.

  “Sir, we’re here, sir,” Nick and Leo said in unison.

  As were a lot of other parents, all headed toward the building with their children. People might think they were a family, too. He’d never been a part of this kind of a family, not with the general always away or busy. Not that the four of them were family. Fantasy. When would he learn fantasy was not his friend?

  He turned in the car, picked up his leg, and placed it on the ground before pushing himself to his feet and picking up his cane.

  “Sir, take my hand.” Nick stretched his arm out.

  “No, lean on me, sir.” Leo shoved his younger brother aside.

  “Thanks, guys, I can make it. However, I think your mother is closer in height to me. If she could just give me a hand to get over the curb.”

  An expression of doom flashed across Willow’s face, but, like a professional, she reached out, took his hand, and placed it on her arm. Although she attempted to hide it, she shivered, only a bit. Fortunately, he knew exactly what that meant.

  He grinned. She kept her gaze at the ground as if it were filled with craters that presented insurmountable obstacles for an amputee, as if there were an IED buried nearby that she needed to guide him around.

  It wouldn’t hurt to allow himself this fantasy for an hour or two. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to feel nearly normal, pretend he was like those dads with kids running ahead of them and with a pretty woman by his side, even if only for a short time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The fantasy collapsed an hour later, as soon as Sam got home. Once inside, the solitude hit him like the thick humidity of the Texas coast on an August afternoon.

  He was alone. No family, no redheaded sons, no wife. Alone.

  What irony. For months he’d wanted to be alone. He must be doing better if he’d started wanting people near, but it didn’t feel better.

  He took a step toward the kitchen. If he couldn’t find vodka, he’d call the liquor store. They were always happy to deliver. But he stopped himself. He didn’t want liquor and numbness. At least, not complete oblivion, not like he used to.

  He wanted someone with him. He wanted to hear the boys in the backyard, but that wouldn’t happen, not with school starting. And as skittishly as she behaved, their mother didn’t seem likely to drop by for a visit just because he was such a nice guy.

  He took a few steps toward the phone, picked it up, and hit the quick dial. “Hey,” he said when the general picked up. “When will you get here?”

  He’d become really desperate if he wanted to talk to his father and actually looked forward to the general’s arrival.

  Willow breathed a sigh of relief when the captain got out of the car. She hadn’t thought he could leverage himself up, not from this low car. He’d refused to allow her to give him a hand up or a shove in the back but struggled to get out on his own. Men! she thought, then changed her generalization to Marines. Stubborn and independent but admirable and inspirational—and the boys adored him.

  Not that she wanted to consider those positive qualities because she didn’t want to care about the captain as a person, as the man who’d pretty much adopted her children or, at least, had provided day care. That couldn’t be fun for a single man like him.

  Then she realized she’d spent the last few minutes watching him move up the walk and take the steps one at a time. She’d noticed again how fine he looked from every direction, front, back, and sides. What an idiot. She put the car in gear, checked behind her, and pulled out. Unfortunately, she had never become accustomed to the power of the engine. It sounded like a race car: vroom.

  Was he dating? Surely, having grown up here, he knew people, probably families with women his age unless, of course, they’d all moved to the big city. The fact that he wasn’t driving yet would cut down on that. The places to take a date in Butternut Creek were limited.

  She shouldn’t be considering either the captain’s love life or his body. With a glance at the clock, she turned her mind back to her schedule for the day. Nearly eight thirty. She’d arrive early for her first appointment. After that, she’d go onto the floors to evaluate several patients.

  But no matter how hard she attempted to concentrate on work, a corner of her brain kept bringing her back to that moment in the hallway at school, when Sam had put a hand on the shoulder of each son and smiled down at them. Leo and Nick looked up at him in such awe and, well, yes, love that the air around them seemed to sparkle.

  No matter what he said or did, Captain Peterson was a good man, a man who cared about her sons. That scared her a lot, because she could fall for a man who spent time with the boys. Grant seldom did. She could care for a man who—oh, who was she kidding. She was already incredibly attracted to this man for reasons that had nothing to do with his relationship to her sons. She was attracted because, despite his attitude, he was smart and handsome and sexy. She’d begun to think no man could make her catch her breath, make her peek out the window of her office just to see him exercising.

  For heaven’s sake, she sounded like a lovesick schoolgirl. No, not true. He made her feel like a desirable woman. She hadn’t felt that way since she’d found out about Tiffany.

  “Reverend Jordan,” Maggie shouted from her office. “Phone.”

  He picked up the receiver. “Adam Jordan.”

  “This is Detective Somerville calling. Want to fill you in on the investigation about the child’s family.”

  He grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper. “Go ahead.”

  “We identified her mother through fingerprints as Deanne Smith, lives in San Saba.”

  “Melissa Smith. So we know her last name. Have they located any relatives? Friends?”

  “The local cops went by the house, but no one’s home. Looks as if someone lived there until a few days ago. Newspapers in the front yard and mail in the box, but only junk mail. Nothing personal.” He paused to clear his throat. “Mrs. Smith teaches third grade at the elementary school. She didn’t show up for teacher training last week. The police checked at the school board office, but the emergency contact in Virginia doesn’t answer.”

  “Missy said Virginia when we asked about her grandmother,” Adam interjected, though the detective knew that from when they spoke earlier.

  Somerville continued, “We ran down the references but none of the people listed have talked to her recently. That’s about it.”

  “A dead end, huh?” Disappointed, he sat back in the chair.

  “Sir, we’ll keep investigating. Hard to believe she could just disappear without a trace.”

  “What about Missy’s father?”

  “No information and not a trace of men’s possessions in the house. Also not listed on Mrs. Smith’s job or rent applications.” He paused. “The police have Mrs. Smith’s fingerprints from her background investigation, which is how they were able to match the ones the lab found on the child’s shoes. They’ll put the prints in the system to see if anything shows up.”

  “You mean like a body?”

  “Yes, but also could be a Jane Doe in a hospital. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  Bree’d be home in an hour from volleyball practice and Mac was studying upstairs. As she cuddled the child who’d fallen asleep in her lap, Birdie enjoyed th
e soft, sweetly scented warmth of a little girl. At the same time, she realized her shoulder ached and she was simply too old for this.

  The preacher had called her earlier about Missy but had no helpful information. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “You need to have Missy’s mother turn up soon. I’m worn out.”

  Too tired to carry the child upstairs to the blow-up mattress they’d put in Birdie’s bedroom, Birdie carefully placed her on the sofa and made sure the blanket covered her. Then she headed into the kitchen to see what she could thaw and heat up for dinner.

  The previous night, Missy’d fallen asleep at ten thirty after Mac had spent nearly an hour rocking and calming the child. Birdie’d been asleep for only a few minutes when Missy’s sobs awakened her. She stumbled across her bedroom to the corner where Missy slept and picked the girl up.

  “Mommy. I want my mommy.”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know.” She sat on the edge of her bed and rocked Missy until she quieted.

  When she got back in bed, Birdie pulled the sheet over her shoulders and attempted to fall back to sleep but two questions haunted her:

  When was Missy’s mother going to show up?

  And why had she, an old lady feeling older each day, taken the child in?

  Sam had gone off the wagon last night. Not that he’d been securely on it. At least, not completely, but the pain and the isolation and the longing…

  What kind of a wimp had he become? Why had he turned to alcohol again when he knew it didn’t help? He knew the emptiness and the ache would still be there long after the fleeting surcease of tequila… well… ceased.

  He was supposed to be at the hospital in an hour. The van would be here in forty-five minutes. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, knowing no amount of counting backward would make him feel better. Even the idea of walking up and down between the railings in PT intensified the pain.

  And he’d have to see her again. Willow Thomas, who’d been avoiding him for nearly a week. The boys had come over after school a couple of afternoons. Like he wanted that or needed them.