A Husband of Her Own (Dundee, Idaho #2)(12)
Author: Brenda Novak

“Did you say Booker’s back?” Rebecca asked.

Doyle grimaced. “Now I’ve done it.”

“When’d he get back?”

“I don’t know the exact day he rolled into town. Louise over at Finley’s Grocery saw him when he came in last Tuesday.”

“And he’s staying? For longer than a couple of weeks?”

“He told Louise he’s here to take care of Hatty now that her health is failing.” Doyle nudged Josh. “More likely he’s hoping for an inheritance.”

“He hasn’t called me,” Rebecca said, as though she wasn’t really listening.

“I’m sure he will,” her father said. “If I know him, he’ll be looking for a partner in crime. But if you talk to him, you might want to tell him that I’m having Chief Tom keep an eye on him. He won’t get away with anything this time.”

“Would you give him a break, Dad?” Rebecca said, her patience obviously slipping. “He’s been gone for…what? Twelve years? He was just a kid back then. I’m sure he’s changed by now.”

Josh couldn’t help noticing that her father’s verbal jab had included Rebecca, what with the “partner in crime” reference, but she said nothing in her own defense. Had she become so used to belittling remarks that she didn’t even bother to respond?

He didn’t want to think so. That threatened to pull him out of the “neutral zone,” and, when it came to Rebecca, he wasn’t about to abandon his central objective: to achieve peace, a sense of finality and very limited future involvement. The truce between them was already tenuous; he definitely shouldn’t overstep his bounds. She wouldn’t thank him for becoming her defender.

“If I know Booker, he hasn’t changed enough,” Doyle replied. “But I’ll let you two finish up. Good to see you, Josh. You ever get a chance, stop by City Hall and I’ll take you to lunch. And don’t forget the anniversary party.”

“Thank you,” Josh said. “I won’t.”

He and Rebecca watched her father go without saying anything. Josh had nothing to say. He didn’t like Booker, didn’t want Rebecca to connect with him any more than her father did. He didn’t like the fact that she was marrying someone who sounded so ill-suited to her—and so young. More than anything, he didn’t like the condescending way her father had just treated her. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say or do about any of it because what happened in Rebecca’s life was none of his business.

Tossing a twenty on her vanity, he jammed his hat on his head.

“You don’t want me to finish?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s fine the way it is,” he said and walked out.

TALL, WIRY AND SLIGHTLY BOWLEGGED, with a head of thick dark hair that fell low on his brow, often shading his eyes, Booker T. Robinson hadn’t changed much. He’d grown, of course, several inches from the look of him, and he’d filled out. But judging by the tattoos on his arms, the calluses and scars on his hands, and the long jagged scar on the right side of his face, the years hadn’t been kind to him. Even the clothes he wore, a plain black T-shirt with a front pocket and tattered blue jeans, added to his tough-guy image.

He was a rebel, all right. But Rebecca liked him. Probably because he was one of the more honest people she’d met. At least he was generally honest with himself. He wasn’t a pillar of the community. He probably never would be. But he didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. He cussed and smoked and sometimes drank to excess. He said what he wanted to say and he offered no apologies or excuses.

Rebecca had never been happier to see anyone in her life. She sank into the white wicker chair on his grandmother’s porch, put her feet up on the railing and felt at home in her own skin for the first time in months.

“I couldn’t believe it when my father said you were in town. Why haven’t you called me?” she said.

He handed her the cold beer he’d offered her when she first came to the door and carried his own to the porch swing a few feet away. Popping the cap, he took a long drink and sat down before answering. “I wasn’t so sure you’d be excited to see me. Your father was always one of those law and order types.”

“Yeah, well, he still is. If he gets the chance, he might try to run you out of town. But don’t take it personally. And don’t let anything he does reflect on me.”

He chuckled. “I see you two are still close.”

Rebecca remembered the way her father had treated her in the salon that morning compared to the way he’d treated Josh—stop by City Hall and I’ll take you to lunch—and felt her temper rise. But she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d been trying to forget Josh ever since shampooing his hair had felt like a sexual encounter.

She took a sip of her beer. “You ever marry?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“No. You?”

“None so far. I am getting married, though. I just don’t know when.”

“That sounds promising. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Name’s Buddy. Lives in Nebraska.”

He nodded.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“Nothing right now.”

This time the silence felt awkward, and Rebecca knew she’d treaded too close to something he wasn’t willing to discuss. So she backed off. “Haven’t you been going stark-raving mad out here with only your grandmother for company?”

“Not yet. I only got in last weekend, and Granny’s kept me busy fixing up the place.” He gazed out over the meadowlike yard. “It’s prettier here than I remembered.”

The Hatfield property was pretty. Set away from Dundee, back in the mountains, it consisted of several wooded acres. The house, a simple white A-frame as old and charming as the one on Little House on the Prairie, had a wraparound porch with a hint of fancy woodwork at the windows and doors. A detached garage sat off to one side, at the end of a long drive, and a stone path led through the backyard, past a root cellar and a neatly tended vegetable garden, to the back porch.

“My dad said you’ve come to look after Hatty,” Rebecca said. “Does that mean you’re staying for a while?”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, then offered one to her.