Mending The Widow's Heart. Mia Ross
and she said, “Let’s go, then.”
As he unbuckled his seat belt, she caught herself remembering all the years of dealing with car seats and toddler boosters. Had it really been just a year ago that he’d outgrown the last of them? Mom was right—your own childhood dragged by, but when you were a mom, your kids grew up at warp speed.
Since the rain seemed to have settled in for the duration, Holly pulled up the hood on Chase’s sweatshirt, and they made a run for the antique front door. From what she could see through the glass, the place looked deserted. There was no Closed sign posted, so she yanked on the brass handle and was relieved when the door opened. She could hear muted big band music playing in the kitchen, but out front the scattered tables and long lunch counter stood completely empty.
“Hello?” She waited for a moment, then called out again.
She was just about to give up when something ominous rumbled underneath a set of old-fashioned ice-cream soda dispensers. It sounded like a displeased grizzly bear, and she instinctively drew Chase back a step when a pair of enormous hands appeared on the countertop. They were connected to a set of muscular forearms clad in denim, and as their owner appeared, it was all she could do to keep from turning and bolting back the way they’d come.
Six and a half feet, easy, he brought to mind the massive trees in the square. Tall, unyielding, built to withstand a storm and keep on going. His light brown hair was a little too long for her taste, and his icy blue eyes held a laser sharpness that would make anyone think twice about approaching him. “Can I help you?”
His less-than-friendly demeanor was off-putting, but she forced herself to smile. “I’m so sorry to intrude like this, but I’m Holly Andrews. Daphne Mills’s niece,” she added, hoping that dropping her famous aunt’s name would gain her some points. It didn’t seem to work, but he didn’t ask her to leave, so she boldly forged ahead. “When she hurt her back, she asked us to come help out until she feels better. We drove up from Boston today, and she said she was going to leave an envelope for me here.”
The man’s eyes darkened to a stony gray, and Holly replayed her introduction in her head, wondering what she might have said to warrant such a cool reaction. But the gloomy look vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she chalked her impression up to a long drive and the cloudy weather.
“Daphne mentioned something about that to me the other day,” he finally answered. “I think Gran put it behind here somewhere.”
As he began to disappear under the counter again, she moved forward to get his attention. “I hate to bother you, but my son needs to use the restroom. Could you point it out for us?”
He obliged her, and Chase zoomed off in the direction the man had nodded. That left Holly more or less alone with a stranger, and since he was obviously a friend of her favorite aunt, she decided that just wouldn’t do. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
He muttered something beneath his breath and rose with a grimace. “Yeah, I still forget sometimes. Sam Calhoun. I’d shake your hand, but—” Frowning, he showed her his filthy palms.
The collection of grim expressions he’d displayed, combined with his comment about sometimes forgetting to introduce himself, intrigued her more than they should have. Something about him screamed “wounded,” but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Then she noticed the outline of something rectangular dangling under his T-shirt, and she had her answer. “Military, right?”
“I was an Army Ranger.” His eyes narrowed into cynical slits. “How’d you know?”
“Just a hunch.” She nearly left it at that, then recalled her therapist’s advice about not hiding her difficult past and took a quiet breath before explaining. “My late husband, Brady, was a Marine.”
The chill in Sam’s eyes warmed a bit, and he gave her a look filled with the sympathy of someone all too familiar with her circumstances. Fortunately, Chase trotted in to rejoin them, saving her the awkwardness of either explaining further or pretending that there was nothing more to tell.
More than once, she’d caught herself wondering how things would be for her now if she’d never met Brady in the first place. But then she wouldn’t have Chase, and her life was infinitely better for being his mom. So, despite the fact that Brady had caused her more heartache than she’d once thought humanly possible, she did her best to feel grateful for the good things he’d left behind.
“Chase, this is Sam Calhoun, a friend of Aunt Daphne’s. Sam, this is my son, Chase.”
Her son stared up at the towering man but bravely held his hand out over the counter. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
A hint of a smile lifted the corner of Sam’s mouth as they shook. “Same here.”
Chase’s blue eyes drifted away, lighting on a glass display case filled with several varieties of cookies. “Are those fresh?”
“Kids like to stop in on their way home from school, so my grandmother makes sure there’s snacks for them to enjoy. She brought ’em outta the kitchen about an hour ago. Is that fresh enough for you?”
Chase nodded, and Sam motioned them to two stools. After washing his hands, he got them each a plate and set a delicious-smelling assortment in front of them. “Help yourselves, on the house.” When Holly opened her mouth to object, he cut her off. “You’re both soaked from the rain. It’s the least I can do.”
Deciding it would be rude to refuse his kind gesture, she chose one covered in chocolate icing and sprinkles. When she bit into it, it fell apart in her mouth as she hummed in appreciation. “Amazing. Now that I’ve heard it again, Calhoun sounds familiar. Is that the name I saw on the brass sign next to the bridge?”
Pride softened Sam’s angular features, and he nodded. “In 1820, Jeremiah Calhoun and his two brothers crossed the creek with nothing to their names but three teams of oxen and their wagons. They were top-notch blacksmiths, but there was no ironworks around here at the time. They opened Liberty Creek Forge to supply metal for themselves and other businesses that had started springing up. They built the bridge a couple years later so folks could get here easier. Some of them liked the area well enough to stick around.”
“And the rest is history,” she said, smiling at the appealing homespun story.
Having been raised in Savannah, she had a reverence for the past that had followed her throughout her life. She’d hoped to use that to create some kind of connection with this enigmatic man, but her efforts failed miserably. For some reason, the tentative light in his eyes dimmed, leaving them a flat grayish-blue that made her think of the storm clouds still hovering outside the windows.
Looking away, he pulled a pint carton of milk out of a cooler for Chase, then took two sturdy-looking mugs from a set of open shelves that ran the length of the wall opposite where they were sitting. “There’s a new pot of coffee. Would you like some?”
“Please.” One sip nearly put her on the floor, but she managed to swallow the jolt of caffeine without gagging. She reached out for a bowl of nondairy creamer and emptied a few of the thimble-sized portions into her mug.
“Too strong?”
Apparently, Sam was more observant than most, and she smiled to ease any insult she might have caused. “A little. I’m not used to coffee that’ll hold a spoon upright.”
“Sorry.”
It occurred to her that when he’d been relaying the story of his family’s legacy, Sam had seemed comfortable enough talking to her. But now that they were speaking more spontaneously, his conversational style was decidedly sparser. It reminded her of an actor who was adept at delivering his lines but stumbled while fielding questions during an interview.
She’d seen that kind of behavior many times at the veterans’ hospital, and she suspected that Sam was still waging a battle against something that had followed him home from wherever he’d been stationed. While Holly felt compassion for the former