A Weaver Beginning Read online

  She followed him onto the porch. “A few boxes and our suitcases.”

  He grabbed the shovel as he went down the steps and shoved it into the snow, pushing it ahead of him like a plow as he made his way to the car.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Abby said quickly, following in his wake.

  “Somebody needs to.”

  Her defenses prickled. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m perfectly capable of shoveling my own driveway.”

  His dark gaze roved over her. “But you didn’t. And I’m guessing if you’d had a shovel in that little car of yours, you’d have already used it so you could get the car into the driveway.”

  Since that was true, she didn’t really have a response. “My grandfather had a snowblower,” she said. “I didn’t really have a good way to move it here, so I sold it.” Along with most everything else that her grandparents had owned. Except the crystal. Ever since Abby had been a little girl, her grandmother had said that Abby would have it one day.

  And now she did.

  The reality of it all settled like a sad knot in her stomach.

  She’d followed her grandfather’s wishes. But that didn’t mean it had been easy.

  They’d lost him when he’d died of a heart attack two years earlier. But they’d been losing her grandmother by degrees for years before that. And in the past year, Minerva Marcum’s Alzheimer’s had become so advanced that she didn’t even recognize Abby anymore.

  Even though Abby was now a qualified RN, she’d had no choice but to do what her grandfather had made her promise to do when the time came—place her grandmother into full-time residential care.

  “So you’ll get another blower,” the man was saying. “Or a shovel. But for now—” he waggled the long handle “—this is it.” He set off again, pushing another long swath of snow clear from the driveway.

  She trailed after him. “Mr., uh—”

  “Sloan.”

  At last. A name. “Mr. Sloan, if you don’t mind lending me the shovel, I can do that myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to—”

  “—just Sloan. And, no, I don’t have better things to do. So go back inside, check the fire and unpack that crystal of yours. Soon as you can pull your car up in the driveway, I’ll leave you to it.”

  She flopped her hands. “I can’t stop you?”

  “Evidently not.” He reached the end of the driveway, pitched the snow to the side with enviable ease and turned to make another pass in the opposite direction. At the rate he was going, the driveway would be clear of the snow that reached halfway up her calves in a matter of minutes.

  She ought to be grateful. Instead, she just felt inadequate. And she hated feeling inadequate.

  Short of trying to wrestle the shovel out of his hands—which was a shockingly intriguing idea—she could either stand there watching or do something productive.

  Like checking the fire and unpacking.

  She went back inside. The fire had already started warming the room. Dillon had shed his coat and was sitting on the beige carpet, setting his video games neatly inside the cabinet. “When’re we gonna visit Grandma?”

  Abby stepped around his plastic crate and went to the fireplace. “I thought we’d go next weekend.” She moved the fire screen aside and took a piece of wood from the stack. She jabbed the end of it against the burning logs, sending up a blur of sparks before tossing it onto the top. Then she replaced the screen and straightened. “We can’t go every day like we used to.”

  “I know.” He pushed out his lower lip, studying the cover of his video game. “Would she ’member us if Grandpa hadn’t died?”

  Abby sat down on the floor next to him, pulled off her coat and put her arm around him. “No, honey. Losing Grandpa has nothing to do with it. But we remember her.” She ignored the tightening in her throat. “And we’ll visit her every chance we can, just like I’ve told you. Okay?”

  She felt his nod against her cheek.

  “Okay.” She pressed her lips to his forehead before pushing to her feet. “Why don’t we leave the rest of our unpacking until later and get the television hooked up. I’m finally going to beat you at ‘White Hats.’”

  He snorted softly. “Yeah, right.”

  Which just eased the tightness in her throat and made her smile instead. She turned away from him only to stop short at the sight of Sloan standing inside the door. She hadn’t even heard him open it.

  “Driveway’s clear.”

  She pulled at the hem of her long sweater. “Thank you. I’ll have to figure out a way to return the favor.”

  His dark gaze seemed to sharpen. And maybe it was her imagination that his eyes flicked from her head to her toes, but then that would mean it was also her imagination that her stomach was swooping around. And she’d never been particularly prone to flights of imagination.

  “That might be interesting.” Then he smiled faintly and went out the door again, silently closing it after him.

  Abby blinked. Let out a long breath.

  If Mr. Just-Sloan did have a wife, he had no business making new neighbors feel breathless like that.

  “Come on, Abby,” Dillon said behind her. “I wanna play ‘White Hats.’”

  “I know. I know.”

  And if he doesn’t have a wife?

  She ignored the voice inside her head and pulled the television out of the box.

  Whether the man was married or not didn’t matter.

  All she wanted to do was start her new job at the elementary school and raise Dillon with as much love as her grandparents had raised her.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  So she carried the new television over to the cabinet and began hooking it up. In minutes, the distinctive music from Dillon’s video game was blasting through the speakers. He handed her a controller and she sat cross-legged on the carpet next to him as she set about trying not to be bested yet again by a seven-year-old.

  She was no more successful at that than she was at not thinking about the man next door.

  Chapter Two

  “Sloan, it’s New Year’s Eve. You shouldn’t be spending it alone,” his sister, the voice of reason, said through the phone at his ear.

  “I’m not interested in crashing your evening with Axel.” Even though Tara had been married to the man for a few years now—had two kids with him, even—it was still hard for Sloan to say his brother-in-law’s name without feeling a healthy dose of dislike. Axel Clay was part of the darkest time of Sloan’s life. His sister being happily married to him made the situation tolerable. Barely. If not for that, Sloan could have gone the rest of his life hating the man. No more than he hated himself, though.

  “You wouldn’t be crashing anything, Bean.” Tara laughed. “Most of the family’s going to be here. It’s not like Axel and I will have a chance to be romantic while there’s a half-dozen kids chasing each other around.”

  Bean. The nickname she’d called him when they were kids. Considering everything that Sloan had put her through—the disruption he’d caused in her life by the choices he’d made in his—it was a wonder that she could even recall the days when he’d been her Bean and she’d been his Goober.

  They were twins. And they’d grown up in a family that never stayed in one place for more than a few months at a time. As an adult, all Tara had ever wanted was a stable place to call her own. While Sloan had kept right on with the rootless lifestyle.

  Which was why he was living here in Weaver at all. Trying to make up for the acts of his past. Trying to make things right with the only female left in his life that he loved.

  “Fine,” he said. “I also don’t want to crash your evening with the entire Clay clan.” He looked out the front window of his house again. Abby had finally moved her car into the driveway. “Maybe I have plans of my own.”

  He could almost hear Tara’s ears perk. “What plans would those be? Sitting in the dark, staring morosely into a beer while you dwell on the past?”

 
; Almost guiltily, he set aside the frosted beer mug he was holding. “You don’t know everything, Goob.”

  She sighed noisily. “Oh, all right. But you’re not getting off the hook tomorrow. Dinner at the big house. You’ve already agreed, and if you try to back out, I’ll call Max and sic him on you.”

  “My boss may be your cousin-in-law, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna let you tell him what to do.” In Sloan’s estimation, nobody told Max Scalise what to do, not even the voters who put him in office term after term.

  “We’ll see,” Tara countered. “Squire’s expecting everyone for New Year’s dinner, and nobody wants to cross him. Not even the mighty sheriff.”

  Squire Clay was Tara’s grandfather-in-law and the patriarch of the large Clay family. He was older than dirt. Cantankerous as hell. And one of a few people in Weaver that Sloan could say he genuinely liked.

  “I said I’d be there tomorrow and I will.” A flash of red caught his eye, and he watched Abby bounce down the porch steps. But instead of heading toward her car, she started crossing the snow separating their houses.

  “But tonight is mine,” he finished. Up close, Abby had looked even younger than he’d expected, but she’d also had the prettiest gray eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Okay. Happy New Year, Sloan,” his sister said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he could say the same, but he didn’t know what he felt. If anything. “Happy New Year, kiddo.”

  Then he hung up and watched Abby cross in front of the window where he was standing. A second later, she knocked on his front door.

  He left his beer on the table and answered the door.

  “Hi.” Those gray eyes of hers looked up at him, carrying the same cheerfulness that infused the smile on her soft, pink lips. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re not.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. He ought to feel like a letch, admiring her the way he was. But he didn’t. He felt...interested.

  The first time he’d felt interested in longer than he cared to remember.

  “What d’you need?”

  “Wood, actually.”

  The devil on his shoulder laughed at that one. No problem there. The angel on his other shoulder had him straightening away from the doorjamb. “It’s back behind the house.” He pushed the door open wide. “Come on in.”

  The tip of her tongue peeked out to flick over her upper lip. “Thanks.” She stepped past him into the house, and he saw the way her gaze took in the sparsely furnished living room. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Nope.” He led the way through the room to the kitchen at the back of the house and outside again. He gestured at the woodpile stacked next to the back steps, protected from the weather by the overhang of the roof. “Help yourself.”

  She went down the steps, her shiny hair swaying around her shoulders. He shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and tried not to think how silky her hair would feel.

  “Thanks again.” She stacked several pieces of wood in her arms. “I’ll restock as soon as I can.”

  “No need.” Thanks to his connection to the Clay family and their gigantic cattle ranch, the Double-C, he had a ready supply of firewood, whether he wanted it or not. “House warming up okay over there?”

  She nodded. Her hair bounced. Her eyes smiled.

  She’d have the boys at the elementary and junior high schools sticking their fingers down their throats just to have a chance to visit her in the nurse’s office.

  The devil on his shoulder laughed at him again. Wouldn’t you do the same?

  “Your brother live with you all the time?” Sloan was betting the “brother” story was just that. The boy looked just like her. He was probably her son. Which would mean she’d had him very, very young.

  “Yes.” She lifted the load in her arms and started backing away, making fresh tracks in the snow. “Thanks for this. Hope you and your wife enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Interesting. “Who said there’s a wife?”

  Her gaze skipped away. “Just assuming.” She smiled again. Kept backing away. Right until she bumped into the side of her house. She laughed and began sidestepping instead.

  “Assuming wrong.”

  She hesitated. Just for a moment, before continuing right along. But it had been long enough for him to notice.

  Definitely interesting.

  “Ah. Well.” She clutched the logs to her chest. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, then.” Her smile never faltered.

  He wondered if it ever did. She had a face made for smiles.

  “You, too.”

  She reached the end of the fence and finally turned away, crossing into her front yard.

  Her hair swayed and bounced.

  Sloan shook his head and went back inside. Whether or not the boy was her brother or her son, a young woman like Abby Marcum didn’t need something temporary in her life.

  And temporary was all he had to offer.

  * * *

  The car was unloaded. Most of the boxes unpacked.

  Abby sat on the wooden barstool at her breakfast bar and looked at Dillon. He was sprawled on the couch, a fleecy blanket pulled up to his chin, sound asleep. He’d had his triumph at ‘White Hats.’ Had his popcorn. Had the casserole she’d managed to throw together.

  It was nearly midnight. She could have gone to bed herself.

  She sighed and poked through the box of chocolates, selected one and followed it up with a chaser of milk. She doubted her girlfriends would approve. They’d also sent her away with a bottle of champagne. It was sitting, unopened, in the refrigerator.

  No champagne and no horizontal entertainment for her, both of which they’d insisted it was high time she finally experience.

  She held up her grandmother’s delicate crystal flute and stared at the milk. “Happy New Year,” she murmured just as the lights flickered twice then went out completely.

  With the television silent, all she could hear was the ticking of the clock that she’d hung on the kitchen wall and the faint hiss from the log burning in the fireplace.

  By firelight, she leisurely finished her milk and waited for the electricity to come back on. When it didn’t, she retrieved the lighter from the mantel where Sloan had left it and lit several candles.

  Then she headed back to the barstool and the chocolates.

  There was a loud knock on her door as she picked up the gold box. And at that hour it was certainly unexpected. But it wasn’t alarm that had her hurrying to the door; it was the fact that she didn’t want Dillon waking up. He was sleeping so soundly, and she didn’t want to ruin it. It was a rare night that passed without him waking out of a bad dream.

  She cracked open the door and looked out. Sloan stood there, a sturdy flashlight in his hand, and she opened the door wider. The air outside felt bracingly cold in comparison to the warmth slipping through her at the sight of him.

  “Everything okay here?”

  “Fine.” She poked her head out the door, looking up and down the darkened street. “Why?”

  “Just making sure.”

  “It’s only a power outage.” She smiled. “Did you think I’d be over here shaking in my boots?”

  The beam of his flashlight shifted, moving across her bare feet. “You’re not wearing boots.”

  She curled her toes against the carpet. “You caught me.” She realized she was still holding the gold box and extended it. “Care for one?”

  “I don’t know.” His deep voice was amused. “There was a time when my mother told me not to take candy from strangers.”

  Abby grinned. “Wise woman. But it’s your loss. These aren’t just ordinary chocolates.” She held the box up a little higher. In the glow from the flashlight, he couldn’t fail to notice the distinctive box. “You sure? I promised the friends who gave them to me that I’d share them with someone other than Dillon.”

  “I see. Can’t have y
ou breaking a promise, then.” He raised his flashlight and took one.

  “No point in standing out in the cold. Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink.” And then she held her breath, because she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t accept her invitation.

  But he stepped past her.

  Her stomach swooped.

  She noticed that Dillon still hadn’t moved as she quietly closed the door before crossing to the bar again. “Have a seat.” She waved at the second barstool and set the chocolates on the counter.

  He shut off his flashlight and shrugged out of his jacket. “Looks like you’re putting your grandmother’s crystal to good use.”

  “Trying.” She got a second flute from the cupboard then pulled open the refrigerator and snatched the champagne. She set the glass and the bottle in front of him. “You’ll need to open it, I’m afraid.” She didn’t even know how.

  He tilted his head slightly as he picked up the crystal flute she’d been using. Candlelight danced over it. “Definitely doesn’t look like you’re drinking champagne.”

  She felt silly. Grown women didn’t drink milk out of champagne glasses. “I’m not.”

  He lifted her glass to his nose. The old crystal looked shockingly delicate in his long fingers. “You mind?” But he didn’t wait to see if she did; he simply took a sip. Right from her glass.

  Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and she sat down weakly on her own barstool. The width of the counter separated them, but she still felt dwarfed by him. It wasn’t just that he was tall. His shoulders were massive. And up close like this, she was pretty sure she could make out a tattoo of some sort on his neck, not quite hidden by the neckline of his long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Milk always goes well with chocolate,” he murmured. He set her glass down on the counter and slid it toward her. “That’s what I’ll have if you’ve got enough to share.”

  She nodded, afraid that if she tried to speak, her voice would just come out as one long squeak. She went back to the fridge, blindly snatched the milk carton and filled his glass.

  “Anything else your friends say you’re supposed to do besides share the chocolate?” He kept his voice low, and even though she knew it was because of Dillon, it still felt unbearably intimate.