A Weaver Holiday Homecoming Read online

  Chloe straightened. “Pie.” She stuck her head under the sink. “Is it fixed?”

  “Don’t move the—” Mallory could tell the moment Chloe’s curiosity prompted her to move the towel from the pipe, because she squeaked and jumped back out of the indoor sprinkler “—towel,” she finished.

  Her daughter wasn’t a large fan of water in her face. She tolerated her baths out of necessity, but anything more—swimming, splashing in a sprinkler on a hot, summer day—was mostly out of the question.

  But Mallory hadn’t temporarily uprooted her family from New York to settle in this small Wyoming town for the purpose of getting Chloe over her fear of water.

  Her reasoning had been much more involved.

  “Here.” She pushed aside the disquiet that was all too willing to coil anxiously in her stomach these days, and handed Chloe another towel off the towel rack.

  She dropped the wet towel back over the leaking pipe and pushed to her feet. “It’s going to take a person who actually knows what they’re doing to fix it, I’m afraid.”

  She steered Chloe out of the bathroom toward the stairs and peeked into the bakery box at the enormous pecan-laden wedge of pie. Her mouth watered. Between the hospital and the leaking pipe, she hadn’t managed to find time for a decent meal. “Looks delicious.” She leaned down and kissed the top of Chloe’s nut-brown hair, spotting her grandmother when they reached the foot of the stairs and turned to the kitchen. “Thank you,” she told them both.

  “Thank her.” After less than two decades in the United States, Kathleen Keegan’s voice still held plenty of her native Ireland as she waved at Chloe. “She paid for it out of her allowance.”

  Mallory set the pie on the narrow breakfast bar and found a fork in the drawer. “Did you have fun shopping before you stopped for lunch?” Kathleen was notorious for finding bargains in the oddest of places.

  She looked up as she sank the fork into the rich dessert and caught the secretive glance Chloe and Kathleen shared. “All right, you two. What’d you buy?”

  “Nothing.” Chloe’s voice was innocent, but her eyebrows were riding an inch above normal, hiding beneath the tousled bangs covering her forehead. “I found a Purple Princess game, though. The new one. It was only twenty dollars!”

  Mallory hid a smile and tried not to groan in pleasure as she swallowed the forkful of gooey pecan. Chloe adored Purple Princess video games and could endlessly wax eloquent about the reasons why she just “had-had-had” to have each new one when they came out. And usually, the games came at a much higher price tag. “Why didn’t you buy it, then? I know you had more than twenty dollars in your wallet when you and Grammy started out this morning.” And Mallory could have returned the unopened game that she’d already purchased and hidden high in the closet.

  Chloe’s gaze darted to her grandmother again. Her round cheeks turned rosy. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” she suddenly announced, and darted out of the kitchen.

  Mallory eyed Kathleen. “Well?”

  “Aye, don’t be looking at me, child.” Kathleen waved her hand in a shooing motion. “I’m not going to blab on her secrets.”

  Mallory’s smile broke loose. “Christmas shopping, perhaps?”

  “I’m going to have to hire a plumber,” Mallory said, returning to the most pressing issue when Kathleen merely smiled.

  “Call your nice Dr. Clay and ask her to recommend someone.”

  Mallory gnawed the inside of her lip. Prevailing on Rebecca Clay was something she wanted to avoid and not merely because Mallory could guess who the woman would recommend for the job. It was because of the other woman that they were in Weaver at all.

  She could hear Chloe’s footsteps from overhead.

  Well, it wasn’t precisely Rebecca Clay that was the reason Mallory and her crew had come to Weaver six weeks ago. Rebecca had just facilitated it.

  The real reason was Chloe.

  The anxiety inside Mallory swamped her hunger, and she covered the remainder of the pie and rinsed her fork at the sink. “I’ll find someone,” she murmured as she headed to her office at the back of the house. But the squawking sound of the ancient doorbell had her changing course.

  She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, which were damp from the water leak, and yanked open the heavy door without any of the caution she would have normally used in her apartment building back in New York.

  The tall, broad-shouldered man standing there on the porch staring at the ground raised his head as the door swung open, and she found herself looking into a pair of deeply blue eyes.

  A strikingly familiar blue.

  She froze. Her lips parted, but no words could emerge, since her mouth had gone bone-dry. No amount of mental preparations had been enough, she realized. Meeting the man in person had been her plan. Her goal. Yet faced with him now, she felt unprepared. Not at all ready.

  His heavy, dark eyebrows quirked together for a moment, but he was still the one to break the silence, his voice deep and slightly gruff and definitely in keeping with his rough, unshaven jaw and the tousled, dark hair on his head that looked in need of a good barber. “You’re Dr. Keegan?”

  She swallowed. Nodded.

  His gaze was sharp. Studying. Almost as if he were memorizing her appearance before he stuck out a bare, long-fingered hand. “I’m Ryan Clay,” he introduced with spare brevity.

  Her hand seemed to lift of its own accord and settle against his square palm for the briefest of moments.

  The contact still managed to leave her feeling shaky.

  And that shakiness had nothing to do with the words that she knew were going to come out of his mouth, before they actually did.

  “I’m here about your daughter.”

  Chapter Two

  It was almost like looking at a ghost, Ryan thought, staring at the woman. Dr. Keegan.

  She was staring back at him, her eyes wide. They were distinct, those eyes. A honey-brown that was oddly translucent.

  And oddly familiar, though he knew for a fact that he’d never met her before.

  “What about my daughter?” Her smooth voice had a faint lilt to it. And though it might have held suspicion, given the way he was showing up on her doorstep like this, it didn’t seem to.

  But it held something. Something he couldn’t quite identify.

  He realized she was hugging her arms across her chest; the white cable-knit sweater she wore not doing enough to hold the cold air at bay. “I want to return this.” He held out the dollar bill that Chloe had left. “And give her this.” He pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket.

  The doctor moistened her lips, drawing attention that didn’t need to be drawn considering he’d already taken note of their shape. Their soft fullness. The fact that they were bare, pale pink.

  The envelope crinkled softly between his fingers.

  God. She was so damn familiar—

  “Mom! Grammy said to tell you the water in the bathroom’s getting worse.” Chloe suddenly appeared next to her mother, sliding between the doctor’s slender body and the door. Her smile widened when she spotted him. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  Her mom’s hand slid over the girl’s shoulder, closing protectively across her chest.

  He didn’t blame the woman. Kids needed protection in this world. Even in little towns like Weaver, Wyoming.

  He crouched down until he was more on a level with the kid and handed her the dollar bill. “This is yours. I really didn’t need it as much as you thought.”

  She didn’t take it, though her spiky black lashes lowered and her eyes shied away guiltily. “No, it’s not.”

  “Chloe? What’s going on?”

  Ryan looked up at the doctor. It had been easy enough to track them down to this old house in this old neighborhood. Once he’d found the office on Sycamore, all he’d had to do was visit a few of the neighboring businesses to ask about the new doctor in town, and tongues had started wagging.

  Before long, he’d learned all abo
ut the house she’d rented about six weeks ago near the town park; the fact that she was friendly but not too; that her daughter was attending school and the grandmother helped watch the girl.

  None of the talkative souls he’d run into had mentioned a man in the mix.

  “Your daughter has a generous heart, Dr. Keegan.”

  She tucked a wave of streaky brown hair behind her ear. “Mallory,” she said faintly. “And, yes. She does. But I’m afraid I don’t understand what this is about.”

  “Here.” Since the kid wouldn’t take the dollar, he stuffed it into the mom’s hand instead and handed the kid the envelope, which she tore into eagerly as he rose to face the mom again. Though that was a relative term, since Mallory Keegan stood damn near a foot shorter than he did. “Your daughter and I ran into each other at Ruby’s. She thought I needed a…loan,” he settled on.

  “Look, Mom!” Chloe had pulled out the gift certificate from the envelope and was waving it between them. “It’s for the new Purple Princess game! That’s what it says, right? F—r—e—e,” she spelled out.

  Mallory’s brows drew together and she tugged the vivid, purple card he’d picked up at CeeVid—his uncle’s computer gaming company—out of her daughter’s grasp, looking from Ryan’s face to it. “Yes, that’s what it says.” She focused on Ryan again. Uncertainty clouded her gaze as if she were waging some internal debate.

  He wasn’t sure who was on the winning side, though, when she took a step back, leaning against the open door to push it wider. Her arm was still around Chloe, the dollar crumpled between her fingers. “Maybe you’d better come in.”

  He could see past them both into the warmth of the house.

  He’d returned the buck. Given the kid a gift just because it was easily convenient for him, thanks to family connections, and it was time to go.

  He shifted sideways a little and stepped past her, into the house.

  He immediately spotted the white-haired woman from the diner, coming down the stairs. Her arms were full of bath towels. Sopping wet, judging by the water dripping off them.

  Mallory pushed back her hair again and gave him an awkward smile. “Have a seat.” She waved in the general direction of a living room opening off the hallway where they stood. “Chloe, sit with Mr. Clay and introduce your grandmother. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  She hurried over to the elderly woman and took the towels. Water squished out of them even more during the exchange, and she left a wet trail behind her as she disappeared down the hall.

  Realizing he was watching the sway of her shapely jean-clad rear, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a small, slightly damp hand slid into his.

  “Come on.” Chloe tugged him toward one of the sleek beige couches that nearly consumed the living room, their style screaming modern against the aged brick of the fireplace that they flanked. “Grammy, this is Mr. Clay,” the little girl called over her shoulder as they went. “Mr. Clay, this is Grammy.”

  He caught the amused glint in the woman’s eyes as she followed them. “Kathleen Keegan,” the lady elaborated in a distinct brogue. “Can I take your coat?”

  The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled. He suddenly felt surrounded by women.

  Ordinarily, that wasn’t exactly a situation to cause him undue strain. But something about the Keegan women—all three of them—made him distinctly edgy.

  He should have just let the kid give up her dollar. She’d have felt good about donating to a charity case and he wouldn’t be standing there wondering what the hell he was doing.

  But as soon as the wish crossed his thoughts, what was left of his conscience smacked him hard.

  So instead of keeping the coat exactly where it was—on and ready for him to make a quick exit—he shrugged out of the scarred leather and handed it over to the old woman, who beamed at him as if he were four and had just correctly recited the alphabet.

  “Sit. Sit.” She waited until he’d perched on the awful couch. “What can I get you to warm yourself?”

  He caught sight of Mallory crossing the hallway again and squelched the wholly inappropriate answer he could have given. “Nothing, ma’am. I’m fine, thank you.”

  He could see the argument forming in her eyes even before he finished speaking, and pushed to his feet. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy, but do you need help?”

  He scooted around Kathleen to intercept Mallory. She was carrying a bucket and a mop, with another towel, dry this time, tossed over her shoulder. “Do you have a water leak or something?” Chloe had said something about water getting worse—he hadn’t paid any attention because he’d been too busy cataloguing her mother’s soft lips, and his unwelcome and very physical reaction to her appeal.

  Mallory shook her head. “No worries. Everything’s fine.”

  It wasn’t exactly an answer and he gave a pointed look at the items in her hands and her cheeks went pinker than her lips.

  “Just some cleanup,” she added hurriedly, and fairly dashed around him to pound up the stairs. “Gram, fix him some of your famous hot chocolate,” she called over her shoulder.

  “It’s a fine mix,” Kathleen said, behind him. “I add a little kick when it’s a strapping young man like yourself drinking it.”

  He didn’t want hot chocolate. Even if it were spiked. He didn’t want to be here in this house that smelled like lemon furniture polish and lilacs. He didn’t want to be reminded of things that were good and clean and worthy.

  He wanted to be away from Weaver, away from everything that he’d once known and cared about.

  He closed his hand over the newel post at the base of the staircase and looked back at Kathleen. “How bad’s the leak?”

  She was still holding his coat, folded at her waist. “Pretty bad,” she said. Her eyes—a color she’d passed on to Mallory—twinkled a little. “My granddaughter won’t admit it, but I’m afraid she might be making it worse.”

  “Hold the kick,” he told Kathleen.

  “Can I have some hot chocolate, too, Grammy?” Chloe piped as he headed up the stairs.

  Finding the bathroom wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was follow the trail of wet footprints down the hardwood hall.

  She was on her hands and knees, derriere to the door, furiously wielding the fresh towel over the floor. The source of the problem was obvious thanks to the opened cabinet that had been emptied of everything except a pitiful collection of wrenches and a bucket that was near to full beneath the steady trickle of water coming from one of the pipes.

  “Galvanized pipe,” he said, and her head jerked around to peer at him over her shoulder.

  He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and forced himself to look at the plumbing and not the very feminine shape before him.

  He mostly failed, though.

  “Old houses like this often still have galvanized instead of copper or PVC,” he continued. “Unfortunately, it corrodes from the inside out and you sometimes don’t even know you’ve got a problem until—” he waved his hand toward the cabinet and sink “—Niagara Falls.”

  Her lips compressed and she turned back to drying the floor. “I’ve tightened again and again. It just won’t stop.”

  He crouched down next to her, realizing too late just how close that would put them. “You need a repair clamp.”

  She twisted around until she was sitting on her rear. Her shoulder brushed his. “A repair clamp?”

  She had a tiny mole above her lip.

  He shifted slightly. Put a few inches between them.

  He didn’t need hot chocolate.

  He needed a cold shower.

  “Tightens around the pipe with a rubber gasket,” he said abruptly.

  She looked back at the pipe. Her waving hair slid over her shoulder. Brushed her cheek. “And it stops the leak?”

  “Yeah.” He shoved to his feet, edging back out of the doorway. Into the hall. Where breathing in didn’t mean breathing in the scent of her. “Hardware store’ll have them. Doesn�
��t solve the corrosion, though. You’ll want a plumber to look into that soon or you might end up with a few more waterfalls before you’re through.”

  She tossed the towel over the leak, pulled the large bucket out to empty into the bathtub, replaced it beneath the leak again and spread the towel out on top of the sink to dry. “I should have rented an apartment in that complex on the other side of town,” she muttered, turning to face him. She dusted her hands down her thighs. “I’m used to apartments. I like apartments. They come with building superintendents to deal with all of this sort of stuff.”

  “Then why choose this old place?” She’d have been across town, instead of practically around the block from the Sleep Tite, if she’d have gone the apartment route. “I grew up in this town. The houses in this neighborhood were old when I was a kid.”

  She tilted her head back a little, looking up at the ceiling. “Because I’m a sucker for my family. And both Chloe and Gram loved it on sight. Gram because of the enamel doorknobs and crystal chandelier and Chloe because of the park down the street.” She sighed a little and looked back at him. “It seemed the least I could do since it was my decision to uproot them from New York.” Her eyes narrowed a little. “I’m sorry. You’re not interested in all that. Why did Chloe give you a dollar?”

  Like it or not—and he pretty much was squarely in the not camp—he was interested in “all that.”

  Maybe because there was that nagging familiarity about her. Or maybe it was just because every time he looked at her, his blood stirred in a way that it hadn’t in a very long time. Or maybe it was because his own existence was so freaking pathetic that he was dreaming up excuses to prove otherwise.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. Above her head, he could see his reflection in the ancient mirror above the sink. Lines around his eyes. More gray in his unkempt hair than had been there a year ago. A jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in too many days.

  “She didn’t so much as give it to me as pretend it was mine,” he said. “She seemed to think I was more in need of her dusting money than she was.” He couldn’t think of an earthly reason why he was telling her the details. Knowing he’d looked derelict enough to elicit pity from her daughter wasn’t exactly something for him to feel proud of.