Whenever You Come Around (7 page)

“Morning, Charity.” Ken glanced at the stovetop. “I should have let you know I could fix breakfast for Buck this morning. Sorry I didn’t think to send one of the kids over to tell you.”

Children’s laughter drifted in from the other room, and Charity felt another painful stab in her chest. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. “You were busy. Just let me finish cooking, and I’ll be out of here.”

“You don’t have to rush.”

“Actually, I do. I have work waiting for me at home.”

Work . . . and a need to escape the warm family scene going on in the other room.

W
HEN THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND
C
HARITY AND HER
dog a short while later, Buck looked at Sara. “Did she seem upset to you?”

“It’s hard to say.” Sara gave a small shrug. “A lot of years have passed since I hung out with Charity, and that was only because she was Terri’s little sister. She kept to herself most of the time. In college and after, I heard she became quite a party girl. That was difficult for me to believe, but I guess it was true.” A frown furrowed her brow. “Now she’s a
successful author. She seems to have pulled her life together. At least in the obvious ways. But she really turned her back on Kings Meadow and all the people who knew her when. Terri worries about her. I know that for certain. So do her folks, although they’ve never said so to me.”

It was more information than Buck had expected to get from Sara, and he found himself intrigued by it. The day of the accident, while he was with Charity in the parking lot, he’d thought she disliked him or at least wanted him to leave her alone. But maybe it was something bigger than that. Something not about him in particular but about Kings Meadow in general.

Ken stepped into view. “Charity put your breakfast on the table. Want me to bring it to you?”

“No thanks, bro. I’ll eat in the kitchen.” Buck pushed on the arm of the sofa with his left hand until he was upright enough to move his knee to the scooter. “Man, this is a pain,” he muttered to himself.

Sara heard him and laughed softly. “I’d trade you if I could.” She rubbed her belly in a circular motion. “Six weeks of those casts or, hopefully, six weeks of this.”

“No, thanks. Don’t think I’d care for that trade.” He grinned at her as he rolled toward the kitchen.

“You can bet you wouldn’t,” Sara retorted.

As Buck got settled at the table, Ken said, “I think I’d better get Sara home. Do you need anything else before we go?”

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks for the help.”

Ken punched him in the upper arm, a gesture that said more about the love between brothers than any words could.

Chapter 6

I
N
B
OISE ON A
F
RIDAY NIGHT
, C
HARITY HAD RARELY
stayed at home. She usually went out to dinner with a date or to see a movie with girlfriends or dancing with a group of singles. When with others, she could escape the memories she wanted to avoid, memories she’d run from for years.

She had fewer choices in Kings Meadow. She could go to one of the bars, but those places were smoky and noisy. And besides, she’d stopped drinking once she admitted the part alcohol had played in her numerous bad choices. She could go out to eat at the Tamarack Grill. They had good food, but there would also be too many people who knew her. Too many people with too many comments and questions.

No, it was better that she stay put. Except her parents’ home felt so quiet and empty, and the silence wasn’t comfortable. It gave her too much time to think. To think about the past. An even bigger problem here in Kings Meadow than when she was in Boise. She’d had enough grim thoughts for one day.

I
could
cook
a
real dinner for Buck
.

Where had that thought come from? No, that wouldn’t be wise.

Why not? If I don’t cook, I’ll go over there and heat another helping of a casserole. Does he deserve more of the same, day after day?

Besides, Buck wasn’t at fault for the memories that troubled her any more than his nephew was at fault for her reaction to him that morning. Guilt by association. That wasn’t fair.

And besides, I
like
to cook
.

She released a deep sigh.

She had spent the better part of the last year trying to change the things that were wrong with her and wrong with the ways she had lived. She’d grown tired of . . . of everything. Mostly she was tired of the fear that had let her past rule her present.

Her mind made up, she went into the kitchen and removed items from the refrigerator: salmon—although she had shopped for one, she’d bought enough for two—a couple of potatoes, and the makings for a tossed salad. She reached to turn on the oven, then pulled back her hand. If she did the cooking here, she would still be surrounded by the silence that troubled her. No, she would prepare the dinner at Buck’s house. Maybe he would be even more impressed by her culinary skills.

She and Nathan Gilbert, her last boyfriend, had frequently enjoyed candlelight dinners in her home. She’d thought for a short while that they might marry, but Nathan hadn’t been impressed by her efforts to put her life in order. He wasn’t interested in settling down. Not with her. Not with anyone. She couldn’t even lay the blame entirely at his feet. For years she’d broken off every relationship the moment it looked like the
man in her life was getting too serious. She’d never let herself fall in love. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to love. But now . . . perhaps she’d like to have a chance of loving and being loved.

Shaking off those thoughts, she put the dinner preparations into a basket and headed out the door, Cocoa following close behind. Buck’s driveway was empty of any vehicles save his truck. Had a friend already been there to feed the horses or was someone still to come?

She knocked as usual. When she heard him call, “Come in,” she turned the knob and opened the door.

“Is Cocoa welcome?” she asked before stepping inside.

“Of course. She and I made peace this morning.” Buck was seated on the sofa where he’d been that morning as she departed. He pointed at the basket. “What’ve you got there?”

“Dinner.”

He cocked an eyebrow in question.

“I figured you must be tired already of warmed-up casseroles. How does baked salmon sound?”

“Delicious. But that’s a lot of trouble for you to go to.”

“Not really. I have to eat, too, you know.”

He grinned. “You’re going to eat with me?”

She felt his smile in the pit of her stomach, the sensation completely unexpected and entirely unwelcome. “Yes.” She turned toward the kitchen.
Careful. He’s just a neighbor in need
.

Charity set the basket on the table and withdrew the two potatoes. It wasn’t long before they were baking in the oven. With that done, she tried to find the right pans and bowls and knives for the remainder of the meal preparation. Charity’s kitchen in Boise had a specific place for everything. So did her mother’s. Buck’s cupboards were—to put it kindly—less
organized, and it took quite awhile to find some of the items she wanted, even after having used his kitchen several times.

Finally, everything she needed was on the countertops, and she went to work on the salad, chopping and slicing and mixing. When it was ready, she placed the salad bowl in the refrigerator next to the paper-wrapped salmon. In short order, she’d cleaned up after herself with a damp dishcloth.

“Anything I can do to help?” Buck asked, his voice much closer than the living room.

Surprised, Charity spun to face him.

Buck didn’t seem to notice he’d startled her as he rolled his scooter toward the cupboard that held plates, bowls, and glasses. “I can at least set the table. It’s good for me to get off the couch.”

Had the kitchen shrunk in size in the last few moments? It seemed so with him in it.

Stretching up, Buck took two dinner plates from the cupboard and set them in the basket on the front of the scooter. A couple of drinking glasses followed. Two sets of silverware went into one of the glasses.

“You’re getting quite accomplished at that,” Charity said.

“Maybe boredom is the real mother of invention.” He shot a grin over his shoulder. “You know. Instead of necessity.”

Once again, his smile brought a shiver of pleasure.
Not good. Really not good.
She was trying to turn her life around and had been making progress. She wanted stability, a future, and if God was willing, a family. But she didn’t want to find it here in Kings Meadow, and she wouldn’t find it with a man like Buck Malone.

Without a word, she turned away and got back to cooking.

B
UCK WASN
’
T USED TO WORKING THIS HARD TO WIN
a woman’s interest. It frustrated him. It also made him all the more determined to break down those defenses of hers or know the reason why.

He rolled toward the table. “Tell me about your writing.” That seemed a safe topic. “What got you started?”

There was a lengthy silence, and he wondered if she would refuse to answer. Had he made her that angry this morning? He glanced toward the stove and found her back to him.

But finally, she turned. “The short version: I wrote my first book on a dare from Terri.” She shrugged. “I never knew I wanted to write a book until I did it. And afterward I couldn’t imagine wanting to do anything else.”

A dozen or so years ago, Buck had had dreams for his future. He’d planned to go to college, and then he’d hoped to play professional baseball. He’d wanted to travel, to see the world. Lots of choices had seemed to stretch before him. Time and circumstances had obliterated most of them.

But he wasn’t bitter about the way things had turned out. He’d done what had to be done. He’d taken care of the people he loved. Now he had a simple, uncomplicated, uncluttered life. He liked it that way. He didn’t lack anything that he needed, and his wants were few.

“What about you?” Charity asked.

He had to stop for a moment to figure out what she was asking. Then he mirrored her earlier shrug. “I sort of fell into guiding. Needed work and got hired on by an outfitter out of Cascade. Eventually I decided to work for myself.”

“And you never aspired to do anything else?”

“Not really.” The last thing he wanted was for Charity
to pity him. If she didn’t know what had happened to his dad and the events that had followed, then he’d just as soon keep it that way. “I mean, nothing that matters much in the overall scheme of things. I’ve got a good life. I don’t see any reason to change it.” He removed the plates and glasses from the basket on the scooter and slid them to opposite sides of the table.

“Did you ever . . . Did you ever want to get married?” she asked.

“No.” The word sounded sharp in his ears. He looked toward her again and tried to soften the next one. “You?”

An expression he couldn’t define flittered across her face. Wistful? Painful? Fearful? Something. “I didn’t want marriage for a long time. I wanted to be on my own. It was better that way. But lately I’ve had a change of heart. If I . . . If I could find the right man, yes, I’d like to get married.”

“Have you got somebody in mind?” In Buck’s experience, most women had somebody in mind when they asked about marriage. Several local gals had thought he was the one for them. It had taken some convincing to change their minds. All of them were now married to other guys and he was happy for them—and happy for himself.

“No,” Charity answered after a few moments of silence. “Nobody in mind. I was in a relationship with a man named Nathan for over a year.” She shrugged a second time. “It didn’t work out, and we stopped seeing each other this past spring. I haven’t done any dating since then. I’ve been sort of . . . reevaluating.”

He wondered if Nathan was the cause of the sadness he sometimes saw in her eyes. He hoped not. She didn’t look sad right now. Still, he had a sudden distaste for the fellow,
whoever he was. He had to be an idiot to have let Charity get away.

Uneasiness washed over Buck, although he couldn’t pinpoint the cause. It was followed by another wave of frustration over his current circumstances. He was trapped inside the house, unable to get out, unable to work, unable to even spend time with the horses. The days and weeks of his confinement—or at the very least his dependence upon others—stretched before him like an unending parade.

C
HARITY TURNED TO THE REFRIGERATOR AND
WITHDREW
the salmon. After seasoning the fish with coarse-grained salt and ground black paper, she placed it skin side down in a nonstick pan. The pan went straight into the oven on the rack above the potatoes. By the time she turned around, Buck was no longer in the kitchen—and it bothered her that he was gone. It bothered her even more that it bothered her.

She walked to the living room entrance. Buck was back on the sofa, left hand on Cocoa’s head while the fingers of his right hand tried to scratch a spot beneath the cast on his leg. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

He looked at her. “It already smells good.”

Not knowing what else to do with herself until the fish and potatoes were ready to come out of the oven, she went to the nearest chair and sat on it. Not for the first time, her gaze roamed the living room. There weren’t any feminine touches anywhere. It was a man’s domain, without knickknacks or unnecessary adornment. A fine layer of dust lay on all flat surfaces; she was tempted to do something about that.

Then she remembered the framed photographs on a shelf in a bookcase that was mostly empty of books. She’d noticed them a couple of days ago but hadn’t taken the time to look at them. Curious now, she got up and crossed to the bookcase.

On the far left were a couple of family photos from when Ken and Buck were still young kids, both of them taken in the outdoors, one of them with Buck showing off a large trout. Buck’s senior photo was next to that one. He looked the way she remembered him best—handsome, self-confident, and full of youthful exuberance. Next to it was one of Buck on horseback, brown cowboy hat shading his face. A string of packhorses followed behind him, and tall pines framed both sides of the trail. The final photograph was an eight-by-ten of his parents on their wedding day. Where were they now? she wondered. Had someone told her and she’d forgotten? Obviously they weren’t in Kings Meadow or they would have been the ones looking after their son.