The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Read online

  Fortunately, the general stood, approached Winnie, and gallantly held out his arm. She placed her hand on it. Actually, she grabbed it as if she were drowning and his arm were a life preserver swiftly floating past. He didn’t seem to mind.

  As Winnie turned coyly away from the general, Mercedes and Birdie could see her working very hard to flirt. Birdie wished she couldn’t. It was too painful. Winnie batted her eyelashes as if they were butterflies preparing for flight, screwed up her mouth into an imitation of a Renée Zellweger pout—attractive on neither woman—and tilted her head as if her neck were broken. The final effort was a breathless, “Hello there,” accompanied by a Groucho Marx twitching of her eyebrows.

  All of which seemed to delight the general. Thank goodness.

  “Why don’t we leave these young folks alone and go out for a bite,” he said. “Just the two of us.”

  Winnie looked terrified. Her eyes sought out the kitchen door. With the hand the general hadn’t captured, she gave a wavering thumbs-up.

  “We’ll see you later,” the general said. “You two have a good time.” With that, he turned toward the front door with Winnie on his arm and hustled her outside.

  “That was easy.” Mercedes straightened. “And you don’t look a bit like beef jerky.” She grinned. “Well, only a little bit,” she added with that infernal honesty. “You’re attractive in sort of a dried-up way.”

  “Oh, just stop talking and fix the food,” Birdie said.

  Once the Widows served dinner, Sam stared at Willow across the table. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He refused to talk about the weather or his prosthesis or the boys, which left little else.

  “You know, we’ve never talked about Butternut Creek.” Good topic. “I used to visit during the summer and you grew up here. Maybe we have mutual friends.”

  But after a few minutes, they discovered they didn’t. Oh, she knew Mitzi Harris, whose younger brother had played baseball with Sam. She’d dated Matthew Morgan, older brother of Annie, Sam’s make-out buddy, not that he mentioned how he knew Annie.

  “Do you think we ever met back then?” Willow asked.

  Neither could remember. After all, the last summer he’d spent here, he’d been a skinny fifteen-year-old and she’d been a sophisticated college student. They hardly ran in the same circles.

  “Probably not,” she said. “You visited in the summer and I spent most of my summers working at camp or picking up extra hours at college.”

  After exhausting that subject, they still didn’t have anything to talk about, at least not as long as the Widows wandered in and out to clear the table and pour coffee.

  “As much as I like it, I didn’t have a thing to do with this,” he murmured as the women disappeared into the kitchen. “With our being alone.”

  Willow smiled at him. Good. That was a start.

  “I didn’t think you did. You looked as if you didn’t know we’d been invited.”

  “Miss Birdie is a devious and determined woman,” Sam said as he noticed a pair of eyes peeking through the narrow slit in the kitchen door.

  “She certainly is. And you looked as startled as I felt when Miss Jenkins hunted your father down.”

  “She did, didn’t she.” He grinned at the memory. “Sort of stalked him.”

  “I don’t think he minded,” she added.

  “Guess their plan to get us alone hadn’t taken the general’s early arrival into consideration.” The entire situation struck him as so funny, he started laughing. She joined but, when she stopped, he glanced at her. Her gaze wandered across his face, almost in surprise but also with interest and attraction.

  She blinked—a little dazed, maybe? “I haven’t seen you laugh before.”

  He bet she hadn’t. Her reaction seemed like a good sign except she sat at the table on a chair and he sat across from her on another chair.

  And that nice sofa stood empty in the living room.

  Who was still in the house? He glanced at the slit again to see two pairs of eyes staring back. Not the time to make a move. He preferred to do his courting—if that was a viable option in this situation—without an audience.

  Before he could say a word, the eyes disappeared. The sound of hushing and movement came from the kitchen followed by a loud “Good-bye,” spoken in unison. The door from the kitchen to the carport slammed loudly.

  With all the stuff they were carrying, he hoped the remaining Widows could get out that way. The general had brought Sam’s car down, the classic Mustang. Before his injury, when he was home on leave he’d spent every free hour rebuilding it. With the Mustang there, the narrow carport was a tight fit. Still, the Widows either managed it or were going to spend the night there, because they didn’t come back in.

  Now he and Willow were alone. To make sure, he stood, walked to the swinging door, and pushed it open. “Miss Birdie?” he said. No one answered, but on the counter was a CD player with several discs. Who had left that?

  “They’re gone.” He allowed the door to swing back.

  Willow leaped to her feet. “Then I’d better go, too.”

  “What about your sons?” He walked toward her. “When Nick and Leo come back and you’re not here, they’ll worry.”

  “Nice try, Captain. You can tell them I went home.”

  “How will they get home? Do you want them walking in the dark, alone?”

  “You make it sound as if danger lurks around every corner.” She paused to consider that for a few seconds.

  He wondered if she was trying to think of an excuse to leave and a time when she should come back for the boys. He waited.

  “You’re right,” she said after a deep sigh. “I don’t.”

  He took her hand. “Why don’t we sit and talk? Get to know each other?” He attempted to make his voice sound casual and nonchalant, as if they were friends who wanted to chat and enjoy each other’s company.

  Didn’t work. She tugged away and took a few steps to sit in one of the chairs, her hands folded primly on her lap.

  But Willow Thomas could never look prim. Oh, she’d tried, pulling her hair back, but the soft brilliance of her red curls made him want to wrap a strand around his finger and… actually, everything about her made him want to touch her.

  Sadly, she didn’t look as if she felt the same way. But she might. He wouldn’t know if he didn’t try. “I thought maybe on the sofa?”

  “I thought maybe facing each other.” She pointed from her toward the sofa. “So we can see each other as we…​um…​chat.”

  Her eyes showed a note of panic. He grinned, inside.

  “Do you think I’m going to attack you?” He colored his voice with a note of wounded sincerity.

  Her eyes flew open and she glanced up at him, worried she’d hurt his feelings, he guessed. She was a very nice woman.

  “Of course not.”

  Before she could figure out what he had in mind, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet, using the end table for balance and leverage. Ignoring her protest, he dropped her into the middle of the sofa and sat down next to her, his arm across her shoulders in case she tried to escape.

  That didn’t work, either. She slid away from his arm and to the other end of the sofa. “I went to the University of Texas,” she said. “Finished my degree and got a master’s in physical therapy. Married. Moved to Chicago where the boys were born,” she concluded. “And you?”

  “All over Europe and Asia with my parents. A&M, so I guess we’re rivals. Marines,” he said, matching her staccato delivery. “Iraq, then Afghanistan. Walter Reed. Here.” He wanted to slide closer but he didn’t have the smooth moves he used to. Lack of balance and lack of practice. Instead, he reached out to pick up her hand and used his thumb to rub circles on her soft palm.

  At least he did until she pulled her hand away, stood, and sprinted to the other side of the room. Once there, she crossed her arms and glowered at him.

  He’d blown it again. How many times did he have to re
mind himself that Willow didn’t react like the women he’d flirted with before?

  “Captain, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  Her voice sounded neither frightened nor wary but as if she’d pretty well tagged who he was and what he had planned.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about living in Chicago?” he asked in an even and—he hoped—fascinated voice.

  “Because I don’t believe learning all about the scintillating life of Willow Thomas is your ultimate objective.”

  “What do you believe that objective to be?”

  “Oh, come on, Sam.”

  Why was he so fumblingly obvious with this woman?

  “I have known a few men before you. I know your objective.” She took a few steps back.

  He had no idea where she planned to go. Outside? To the chair? Home? No, she began to tap her foot and continued to glare at him. Not a bit promising, but better than her leaving.

  For only seconds, he considered playing the sympathy card, but he knew it wouldn’t work, not with her. Besides, he didn’t want to use it with her. He went for humor. “Maybe you could think of kissing me as therapy.”

  As he’d known it would, the suggestion fell flat. He groaned—inside. He’d always been much cooler with women, had seldom needed to make an effort. Willow was tough. With her, he sounded like a lecherous idiot.

  She studied him. “Great line, Captain, does that ever work?”

  Crap. She’d called him “Captain.” “I liked it better when you called me ‘Sam.’”

  She didn’t answer.

  “And no, that never works because I’ve never used it.” He shrugged. Might as well be honest. “I’ve never used a line before.”

  “Aah, women just usually fall at your feet.”

  Could this get much worse?

  Surprisingly, the situation improved. She sat down again. Sadly, she’d chosen the chair. “However, we could try a different kind of therapy.”

  He couldn’t believe she’d agreed with him.

  “You know, maybe more conversation.”

  Great. At least she hadn’t suggested going home.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your father?” She relaxed back against the chair.

  “My favorite topic.”

  She smiled. “You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  “He’s a handsome man, very military. I notice you call him ‘General’ instead of ‘Dad.’”

  “Doesn’t take much insight to notice that.” He spoke with withering condescension in his voice, but the tone didn’t seem to bother her. She raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s basically who and what he is—a general, not a father.” Not what he wanted to discuss so he said, “And your husband left you?”

  Instead of the verbal slap he deserved, she said, “Aah, so we’re getting into the who-can-hit-whose-hot-buttons section of the conversation. My, we’ve come a long way and quickly. I believe, Captain, you’re hiding behind these attacks.”

  He should have remembered she was a professional, trained in counseling jerks like him as well as how to work with damaged muscles and frozen joints.

  “My ex-husband is a doctor, ten years older than me, separated but not divorced from his first wife when we met. We were married for ten years, had two great children. He met Tiffany at the hospital two years ago. She’s a drug rep. Imagine my surprise when I realized that, to feel manly and boost his ego, he needs a new, younger wife every ten years.”

  “Idiot.”

  “I agree.” She shrugged. “It hurt me, but the boys…” She glanced at him, serious. “I hated how much the split hurt them. A few months after that, I got this great job offer. We moved because Butternut Creek’s a great place for children to grow up.” She took a deep breath before she said, “It has been, thanks to you, Captain. You’ve been wonderful for them. They need a man in their lives.”

  Great. She saw him as a good guy, a surrogate father, the man in the lives of her boys.

  “But I don’t. Need a man in my life, I mean.”

  He studied her. If she didn’t need a man in her life, why was she so uncomfortable with him? “But you liked that kiss.”

  “Captain…”

  She kept calling him that.

  “I’m grateful to you… ,” she said.

  Not what he’d hoped for. Grateful, personable—the words she chose made him feel pitiable.

  “I went through a rough breakup, devastating because I didn’t know it was coming. We’ve moved, I started a new job. I feel as if I’m juggling so much that if I add more, I’ll drop everything.”

  “It’s not like I’m looking for a relationship,” he said before he realized what a mistake those words were. Willow was a relationship woman if he’d ever met one.

  She glared at him. “Oh, a quick hookup?”

  “No, not that.” Sam shrugged. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s me. I’m no prize. I have no idea what my future’s going to be.”

  “You’ve said that before, but I don’t agree. You have a degree from A&M…”

  “In military science, hardly useful now, but that’s not the issue. I’m not interested in a relationship because I need to get some things straight before… before I can do anything with my life. I have to figure out what’s in my future, if I have one.”

  As the words left his mouth, he knew he was lying. Yes, he needed to get his life back in order, but the rebuilding was happening, sort of on its own. It had started with the move here. He owed a lot to the friendliness of the Widows and the church, to Jesse and the weekly horseback rides, to Nick and Leo and Willow plus the staff in the PT department. He didn’t know what was ahead but he suddenly recognized he looked forward to it, a little. He’d thought about teaching, maybe math or science to kids Nick’s age. The idea had been nagging at him for weeks.

  Not that he was ready to share any of that, certainly not with a woman who showed such a cold, aloof expression.

  “Me, too,” she said with that determined lifting of her chin. “Then do we understand each other completely?”

  No, they didn’t. Not at all, but he felt pretty sure they should leave it alone.

  “Captain, I find you a very attractive man.”

  A better word than personable. However, he knew there was a “but” coming.

  “But…”

  Yeah, there it was.

  “I’m not ready. If I were…” She shrugged. “If I were and I weren’t your physical therapist, a relationship might be possible.”

  “I find you attractive.” Hot, too, but this was not the time to mention that. Probably should stop now, but he’d never been good about recognizing that. “And you’re grateful to me for being friends with the boys?”

  She glared and leaped from the chair. “Not that grateful.”

  “Not what I meant.” He pushed himself to his feet because he felt at a disadvantage sitting while she stood. Like a pitiful cripple.

  She really was gorgeous. He wanted her, but he had no idea what to say next to communicate his feelings when she looked so unreceptive. He repeated, his voice steady and as sincere as he could make it, “That was not what I meant.”

  He’d really screwed this up.

  Willow glowered at Sam for a few seconds until she felt her expression slowly softening. Could she trust him? He hadn’t made a move toward her. And yet, six feet away, she could feel his interest in her. No, more than that. He wanted her. His eyes blazed with desire that he did nothing to hide. The intensity of his need vibrated between them. Surprisingly for a woman who hadn’t allowed herself to feel for two years, she responded to that need.

  “That wasn’t what I meant. Do you believe me?” he whispered, studying her as if searching for a hint of her feelings.

  She nodded. “I believe you,” she murmured into the simmering connection that stretched between them.

  “Why do you keep pushing me away?” Sam said. “I can read yo
ur eyes. I know what that look means.”

  “Confusion, that’s what you see.” She had to gather herself together. She didn’t want this, not at all.

  She was, of course, lying to herself. “I have no idea where this… this whatever is going or even if it is going anyplace. I don’t believe we can call what we share a relationship. Maybe lust or interest or two lonely people searching for companionship.”

  He gave a bark of a laugh. “Companionship?”

  “I’m not ready for anything now. Nothing.”

  “Not what I’d hoped to hear, not how I feel or want, but…”

  “But?” She pushed him to continue.

  “But if I say anything more, I’ll tick you off.”

  He took a step forward. From his grimace and his whispered curse, she could tell he realized the action had been a mistake.

  “I’m pushing again.” He stopped and shook his head in chagrin. “I can’t seem to stop myself.”

  She took a step back, aware of how dangerous his proximity was to her peace of mind.

  “I shouldn’t have moved.” He stood very still but still watched her.

  With another step back, she ran into the wall. Unable to get farther away, she swallowed, lifted her gaze to his, and held her hand in front of her like a crossing guard.

  Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately because who knew what she might have said or done next—and before the silence lasted too long, the front door opened and the kids spilled into the house, Missy asleep in Mac’s arms. Sam took a step backward to drop onto the sofa and Willow turned toward the children. The movement broke the contact with Sam, easily done because the connection had been tenuous at best. Relieved, she hugged her boys and thanked the girls.

  The seven of them—well, five of them, because Sam didn’t join in and Missy slept—chattered for a few minutes before the girls left. Willow hurried out with the boys before they could do much but wave toward the captain. The quick departure seemed unfair to the boys. Leo and Nick wanted to talk to Sam for a while, but Willow couldn’t stay in that small living room any longer, not with Sam there filling the air with, oh, the Samness that had become so toxic for her peace of mind.

  Hours later, with the boys bathed and sleeping, Willow turned over in bed again and punched her pillow while thoughts tumbled through her brain. Had she made a mistake? Should she have accepted Sam as he was? Didn’t she deserve happiness?