The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Page 9

  He flicked his glance toward the boys. Even with the spiked hair, they looked innocent but frightened. Shame filled him as he realized he couldn’t let them see what he was really like.

  When they’d been in before, the boys had entered the dining room—which he seldom used and was fairly uncontaminated. If he let them in, they’d see everything. Everything.

  No, he didn’t want them back inside, in the part of the house he used and trashed. Didn’t want them to know what a slob he was or how much he drank or how little he cared about anything and certainly not how little he cared about himself or his future.

  “Captain Peterson?” Willow repeated from outside. The determination in her voice convinced him even more she wouldn’t be content to stay outside.

  In an effort to make an inroad in the mess, he tried to kick bottles out of the way. Hard to do with only one leg. Sam took a few steps away from the door and used a crutch in an effort to shove a few under the sofa. He nearly fell between the cluttered end table and the pink velvet love seat.

  Finally, he gave up with a curse, deciding he wouldn’t feel ashamed. This chaos stated clearly who he was. He manipulated himself back to the door, opened it at the same time she pushed on it, then moved away so they could enter.

  Willow didn’t flinch when she and the boys entered. Probably had visited a few wounded vets in her time and knew what to expect, but the boys stood still, just inside the door, and studied the mess with wide eyes.

  “Look at all the bottles,” Nick said in a voice filled with awe.

  “Do you recycle?” Leo asked.

  He’d been wrong. The fact that kids had been exposed to his excesses made him feel more ashamed than he thought possible.

  “Any pizza left?” Leo scampered toward a box.

  “You wouldn’t want it if there were,” Sam said. “It’s really old.” He shoved an empty fried-chicken bucket off a chair and onto the floor, then lowered himself onto the sofa between a couple of Chinese delivery sacks and dropped his crutches on the floor before he asked, “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “Boys, come here,” she said to her sons. The boys’ heads turned back and forth as they admired the jumble and heaps of trash. Finally, her words brought them back to reality and, he supposed, the reason they stood in the middle of his living room.

  The two moved a few steps to stand next to their mother, reluctance showing in every step. The journey seemed as tortured and protracted as a trek through deep snow in weighted combat boots.

  “Leo and Nick have something to tell you.” When they didn’t say a word, she nudged Leo.

  “We’re sorry, Captain Peterson,” the older brother said. “We shouldn’t have been playing in your backyard without your permission.”

  Nick nodded. “And I shouldn’t have been throwing rocks. I’m sorry about your window.”

  Sam didn’t say a word, just watched the trio and waited.

  “The boys apologize for causing trouble and that you had to buy a new window. Unfortunately…” She paused, took a deep breath, and exhaled through her lips.

  Beautiful, sensual lips that promised more than he wanted to consider now. Not that she actually offered anything other than the apology, but he wasn’t too wounded to fantasize.

  “Unfortunately,” she repeated, “with our move and my starting a new job, money is a little short right now. The boys will work off their debt.” She glanced at the boys, then toward him, uncertain for a moment. “If that would be convenient for you.”

  He couldn’t imagine anything less convenient than having two kids around the house unless it would be the presence of these two kids and their mother.

  The two boys nodded, looking as solemn as imps with spiked red hair and freckles could.

  “No.” Sam waved the offer away. “Not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is, Captain Peterson.” Her chin jutted out a bit, only enough to show her determination. “They need to learn that bad behavior has consequences.”

  And he was the consequence? He grinned a little, inside. Being the consequence not the instigator of bad behavior was a first. It amused him. At the same time, he had no interest in actually being the consequence, and had to get the idea out of her determined, redheaded mind. He sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “The boys tell me that your husband ran off with a younger woman.”

  At his statement, she paled. For a moment, he regretted the words even though he’d meant to hurt her. But his inability to behave in a civilized manner should make her gather her sons and make a dignified, if quick, departure. Actually, he’d prefer an undignified departure—he’d like to see her scramble out.

  He’d obviously underestimated the character of Willow Thomas.

  She lifted that chin a fraction of an inch more and stared at him. “That does not mean that Leo and Nick can get away with breaking a window and not taking responsibility for the damage. Although it may not appear that way to you now”—she glared at each son—“they were raised to behave better.”

  She looked so brave and the boys so solemn that he had to steel himself. These were exactly the kind of people he’d have enjoyed before… All the more reason to beat her off with words and attitude.

  “Ms. Thomas, I’m not going to take care of your sons because you can’t control them.”

  That should do it.

  She took another deep breath, but before she could say anything, Leo stepped forward. “Sir, Mom expects us to behave ourselves. We were wrong to play in your yard without your permission and really wrong to break your window. Now we have to man up.”

  The old Sam, the pre-injury Sam, would’ve laughed to have his words used against him. This Sam shook his head. “You can’t shame me into this.”

  “Please, Mister… um, Captain.” Leo took another step toward Sam and swallowed. “Please. We’re good kids and we won’t bother you, but we can”—he looked at the mess—“we can clean this place. We’re good at that. We know how to vacuum and dust. Mom’s taught us a lot of stuff.”

  “Please?” The younger brother used every bit of his body to express his contrition: quivering lips, sad eyes, and bowed posture. Sam thought even the spikes in his hair bent in shame.

  He thought he’d discarded compassion for others in the strife of the last few months, but the remorse of these two kids was more than he could handle. He recognized it as emotional blackmail. It worked.

  “All right.” He gave up, amazed at how easily the family had defeated him. “You can police the area.”

  “Yes, sir,” Leo said. “Thank you.”

  At the same time Nick said, “Wow! We get to police the area.”

  Willow nodded. “Thank you. How much did the window and the installation cost?”

  “Four hundred dollars.”

  The boys gasped.

  “That means each of the boys owes you two hundred dollars’ worth of work. At five dollars an hour, that means forty hours of work each. Does that seem fair?”

  “Too much.”

  She glared at him, and he found himself nodding. He could shut himself in his bedroom if he had to and drink himself under the bed.

  “Was there any other damage?” She looked at Sam, then at the boys.

  “No, that’s all,” Sam answered. “Forty hours of work from each.” Would he survive it?

  “When can they start?” She glanced at her watch.

  “What day is it?” Didn’t really make a difference. Every day seemed the same to him. He only remembered appointments because someone called him the day before to remind him.

  “Thursday.”

  “Next week,” he said. Maybe they’d forget by then.

  “We can start right now, Captain,” Leo said.

  Sam shook his head to clear it, but it didn’t help. He’d planned to sleep until noon at least, but before he could suggest next week again, Willow spoke.

  “I have cleaning supplies in the car. Boys, go get them.”

  As the two ran out,
he glared at her. “Don’t you think I have cleaning supplies?”

  In fact, he didn’t. He’d used up the bits left in his aunt’s pantry and hadn’t bought more because it was hard enough just to carry food home. Besides, he’d had no desire to clean. Living like this had seemed right, but still, her assumption was insulting.

  “Of course you do, but you shouldn’t have to pay for them. Not when my sons did the damage.”

  He nodded.

  “I brought some work to do,” she said.

  Sam noticed the laptop hanging from her shoulder. He hadn’t noticed that when she came in. What man would when a woman looked like her?

  “I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on.” She checked her watch. “I’ll stay until noon and fix you all lunch before I leave.”

  “Ma’am, despite the fact that I’m disabled, I’m perfectly capable of supervising two kids.”

  “Of course you are.”

  He could read the implication. Although she’d read his file and knew his background, she was careful with her sons except when they ran around on their own. He admired that.

  “You don’t want to leave them alone with a stranger, especially one whose house is filled with bottles and trash,” he said. “I have a lot of bad habits, but I don’t hurt kids.”

  She didn’t agree or argue or deign to answer but turned toward the dining room, picking up bottles as she went. As she moved away, she left a view of that great derriere and a trail of perfume that floated behind her and smelled so sweet it masked the odor of the room for a second or two.

  The boys came loudly back into the house, loaded with supplies. To make sure they understood his reluctance, he frowned.

  Didn’t faze them.

  “We’ll start by picking up the cans and bottles,” Nick said.

  “No, leave that for me,” Sam said. He didn’t want these two picking up beer cans and drained tequila and bourbon bottles.

  “I’ll take care of the bottles,” Willow said.

  He nodded. “Okay, you guys shovel up the other trash while I take a shower and get dressed.”

  “Go ahead.” Leo waved him away. “We’ll be fine. We know how to do this.”

  “Yeah, we’re good at it.” Nick dropped his bucket on the floor. “We clean for Mom all the time.”

  No matter what they did, it couldn’t get any worse. Not even a herd of goats could make this any worse.

  “You sure have ugly furniture,” Nick said.

  “Remember your manners,” his mother said.

  “Shut up,” Leo whispered.

  Sam bet the older brother had just given the younger an elbow to the ribs, but he hadn’t seen it. He turned toward the bathroom and longed to shut himself inside while these two fought it out and while the luscious Willow Thomas leaned down to pick up trash. Because he hated to miss a single second of her efforts, he delayed the shower for a few minutes, until she finished.

  Chapter Eight

  Before lunch a few weeks later, Adam wandered over to the square, not a place he frequented. In the middle of a green lawn and big trees sat the courthouse, an ornate brick edifice built in 1865 with a tower and cupolas on each corner. A street wrapped around it with several gift shops, a tearoom, and an antiques mall facing the turreted brick building. Butternut Creek even had a small country music venue across from the courthouse, a site that must have once housed a movie theater.

  Benson’s Barbershop was between a tanning salon and the library and looked a lot like the shop his father had taken him to as a kid. Adam entered and sat down to wait because the barber stood at a huge chair, cutting the hair of an elderly man. On the counter were a couple of jars filled with combs and a blue liquid, a germicide, Adam guessed. Hunting and fishing magazines covered a table.

  “There you go, Roscoe,” the barber said finishing up with the elderly man. He opened a bottle of something red that smelled like roses and rubbing alcohol, patted it on Roscoe’s neck, then lowered the chair and said, “I’m Joe Bob. What can I do for you, young man?”

  When Roscoe departed, Adam climbed into the chair. The barber tied a cape on him and raised the chair. “I like my hair long on the top and shorter than it is around the ears and in the back,” he explained. In the mirror, he watched Joe Bob nod.

  The barber picked up a clipper, turned it on, and started in. Before Adam could say That’s too short, the man had nearly skinned him. Adam could feel his head growing larger—at least, that’s how it looked in the mirror—as his hair got shorter.

  Then Joe Bob put the clippers back on the counter, took a pair of scissors and a comb from the disinfectant, and started trimming. Adam sat mute, because he couldn’t think of anything to say. Besides, the damage had been done with the first pruning. After three minutes, the barber dropped the tools onto the counter and opened that bottle of red liquid.

  “No, thank you,” Adam said quickly. He didn’t want to smell like roses on top of having no hair left.

  “Eight dollars.”

  Adam took out his wallet, handed the barber a ten, and glanced at himself in the mirror. He had whitewalls an inch wide over both ears—and, he imagined, in the back, but he refused to use the mirror to check on that. The top measured a quarter inch if stretched. He looked like a new marine recruit. On marines, the shearing looked macho, but Adam looked like a hayseed, like Oliver Hardy. Like… he didn’t know like what, but not himself.

  After five seconds of observing the scalping, he couldn’t take it. He turned and ran, leaving the barber a two-dollar tip he couldn’t afford because he couldn’t watch his reflection long enough for Joe Bob to hand him change. On the other hand, this was a bargain. For ten dollars, he wouldn’t need to pay for a haircut for months.

  “Pastor Jordan?” Birdie MacDowell tapped gently on the carved door of the pastor’s study. Adam knew it was Miss Birdie because Maggie had shouted the information when Miss Birdie’s ancient van pulled into the parking lot.

  The pillar, not usually so meek, didn’t come in. Had a summons directly from her minister filled her with dread?

  Adam should have known better. When he got to it, he discovered the door was locked. He opened it and the pillar shoved the door wide to dash inside, followed, of course, by Mercedes.

  “Why did you call us? Has someone died?” Miss Birdie glanced around her as if expecting a grieving family in the study. “Was there an accident? I know a tree didn’t fall on the church because I didn’t see any damage.”

  Frightened the summons would give her a heart attack, Adam hurried to say, “No, nothing like that.” The words didn’t calm her.

  “A fire in the kitchen?”

  “Bird, calm down.” Mercedes patted her friend’s back, then turned toward Adam. He could tell the exact moment she noticed the haircut. She stopped talking, her eyes grew larger, and her mouth dropped open. Quickly recovering, she said, “Every time Bird’s called to the preacher’s study, she worries. She’s certain something terrible has happened to someone in the church.”

  “Oh, my Lord.” The pillar stopped glaring at the chaos of the minister’s study and scrutinized him. Then she stalked toward him, keeping her eyes on his newly visible ears. “You got a haircut.” Her voice filled with awe.

  “As ordered,” he said.

  “Look, Mercedes.” Miss Birdie pointed at Adam as if her friend couldn’t figure this out on her own.

  “I noticed, Pastor.” Mercedes put her hand over her mouth—probably hiding a smile or perhaps stifling a giggle.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  “You must have gone to Benson’s on the square, didn’t you?” the pillar asked. “They cater to the old men and the ranchers.” She shook her head. “Good thing your ears aren’t too big or you’d look like a jug.”

  Having Miss Birdie notice that his ears didn’t stick out didn’t make him feel a bit better.

  “You might should go to Marble Falls, next time, Preacher,” Mercedes suggested. “You know, the best thing about hair is it gr
ows.”

  The pillar continued to stare, her glance falling to his newly naked neck. “Terrible cut. Your neck’s long and bare, like a giraffe’s.”

  Exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “No, it’s not, Bird. You know giraffes have fur,” Mercedes said.

  As if that helped.

  “But all in all, you do look better,” Miss Birdie added.

  “Don’t worry, Preacher,” Mercedes added. “It looks…” Adam thought she wanted to say more, but he was learning she had a complete inability to lie. She didn’t utter another word.

  In an effort to change the subject, Adam waved toward the cleared chairs. He now had much smaller piles of books and papers beside each chair. A great improvement in his opinion, but he could tell by her posture Miss Birdie didn’t share that view. “Please make yourselves comfortable, ladies.”

  “Comfortable would be in the kitchen where we have pie and coffee,” Miss Birdie grumbled.

  “Now, Bird,” Mercedes chided. “Preacher, she doesn’t always realize how crabby she sounds.”

  Miss Birdie straightened and turned regally toward her friend. “Yes, Mercedes, I do. I sound the way I want to sound.”

  Before the two could argue more—an event that probably happened fairly often—Adam said, “But there’s no privacy in the kitchen and I need to talk to you about something confidential.”

  The Widows exchanged a satisfied glance when they heard the word confidential.

  “After all,” he added, reeling them in, “anyone might walk into the kitchen or overhear our conversation from the fellowship hall. If I had important, private, hush-hush information to share with the two of you, I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear.”

  Her attention grabbed, Miss Birdie seated herself and asked, “What is it, Pastor?”

  As Mercedes settled in another chair, the pillar studied Adam. As much as Adam had rehearsed what he planned to say, speaking and looking at Miss Birdie at the same time made him more than nervous. She’d pick up on that uncertainty and exploit it.