The Rain Sparrow. Линда Гуднайт
she’d come through at dawn, she’d said nothing. A short time later, she’d placed a fresh cup of coffee next to him. He’d called her a goddess.
The classy blonde innkeeper had simply smiled and padded quietly away, a courtesy he appreciated. He didn’t like interruptions when he worked. In fact, he didn’t like people when he worked. He supposed his assistant had relayed that persnickety piece of information when she’d booked the room for an indefinite period of time for enough money to get him anything he wanted. Today he would express his desire for a coffeemaker. Or he’d go into town and buy one. He wasn’t a purist. Any old cup of java worked, though he appreciated Julia’s freshly ground beans.
He sipped the rich, bold grind, a reminder of Carrie, the squeaky cute librarian, his fellow storm watcher from last night. He wondered if her jittery nerves had finally settled enough to sleep.
When he heard a man’s voice in the kitchen, his curiosity got the better of him. Ready for a refill, he hit Save and closed the laptop. Forget the dream. He didn’t write historical novels.
Right now he needed coffee.
Upon reaching the kitchen door, he stopped, amused. Innkeeper Julia and a dark-haired man were locked in a passionate kiss. If Hayden were polite, he’d do the well-bred thing and slip out again. But he was a writer and therefore fascinated by the innate bonds that attract male and female, sometimes to their joy and every bit as often to their detriment.
As the pair broke apart, rather reluctantly if he was any judge, the man noticed him and said, “Caught again.”
Julia made a soft noise, flushing slightly, as she turned and offered a sheepish but glowing smile.
“Hayden Winters, this is my fiancé, Eli Donovan, who apparently returned to the carriage house late last night without warning me.” Her June-blue eyes flashed adoration at her fiancé. “Eli, Hayden is a newly arrived guest.”
Eli extended a hand, though he seemed to regret releasing his hold on Julia. Who could blame him? Love was a beautiful thing. For other people.
“A pleasure, Hayden. I read your books.”
“Thank you. I apologize for interrupting.” Not that he meant it. “Mind if I snitch another cup of coffee?”
“She makes the best.” Eli took Hayden’s cup and refilled it. “How was your room?”
“I’m not sure.”
Julia, who now peered into the oven, looked up with a frown. “Was something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He told her about Brody but skipped the dream.
“For heaven’s sake.” She gazed up at the ceiling as if she could see the boy wrapped in sleep and the plush bedding of the Mulberry Room. “That poor child.”
“I hope you don’t mind.” Being a good guest often reaped benefits. “You can charge me extra if you’d like.”
“For what? Being nice enough to rescue a little boy from the storm? For giving up your own night’s rest?”
“I slept a little,” he said, and the dream pushed in. He pushed back.
“Speaking of kids,” Eli said to Julia. “How’s my son?”
“Good as gold and sweet as pie. He missed his daddy, though.”
“I’ll run up and see if he’s awake.” Eli grabbed her for another kiss that left him grinning and her flustered. “Save me some bacon.”
Hayden took his coffee out on the long wraparound veranda, propped up his feet and watched morning slide across the emerald-green magnolias. The large shady yard was littered with leaves dispatched by last night’s wind, the grass glistened, still wet, and the flowers along the porch front drooped, too battered by the storm to lift their colorful heads. But the rain-washed air smelled glorious-fresh and moist and clean like the Appalachian woods in spring.
He found it interesting, if a bit pathetic, that even after all the years away, after all the fabrications, the success and money, he missed the green hills and deep, secret hollows, the crystal creeks and thick woods of Appalachia. Coming to Tennessee reminded him starkly of the home from which he’d escaped at sixteen. He could almost smell the Smoky Mountains to the east, like his Kentucky Mountains, a part of the long Appalachian chain that had once split east from west. With a kind of nauseating nostalgia, he’d driven the rental car around the curves of roads populated only by horse pastures or thick woods and shadowy secret trails the country boy still hiding in him longed to explore.
At his back, an old-fashioned wooden door opened and the blue Australian shepherd he’d seen yesterday trotted out for his morning business, black nose to the sparkling wet grass. Carrie appeared, carrying her own cup of coffee. Hayden whiffed the spike of vanilla flavoring she’d added, along with Carrie’s own scent, fresh and clean with a spicy edge of mystery.
“Good morning.” Her voice was throaty, a rough morning sound that sent his mind spinning down inappropriate avenues, to tumbled beds and warm, sleep-drenched interludes.
His head lolled in her direction. Her short hair was slicked back in a headband, her pale skin scrubbed pink and void of makeup. Over a blue print dress, she’d tossed a jean jacket against the morning chill. Simple and charming.
“You didn’t sleep long,” he said, not minding that she’d interrupted his solitude.
“When the sun rises, so do I. It’s a nasty habit left over from college when I’d get up early to cram before class.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Late nights?”
“Uh-huh. Slinging macchiatos.”
“Ah, yes, the wild midnight barista,” he said with a slight smile.
With an answering curve of bowed lips, she leaned against the veranda railing and sipped at her coffee. “Get any writing done?”
The dream rushed in, the people, the train, the watch, disturbing in a way that carried undercurrents he hadn’t quite put his finger on. The dream itself had not been terrible, not like the killers who stalked the edges of his thoughts and littered the pages of his books. Those didn’t disturb him at all.
“Some.”
“Did you kill anyone? Metaphorically speaking.”
“Will you be disappointed if I say neither metaphorically nor literally?”
She laughed, and a single dimple flashed at the corner of her mouth. She had a sweet face, made even more innocent by her round puppy-dog eyes and fresh-scrubbed style. She was doubtless younger than him by several years and a lifetime of experiences he wouldn’t wish on anyone. A small-town woman protected by and comfortable in the bosom of familiarity.
“Have you checked on Brody yet?” she asked.
“Later. He needs the sleep.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“Great minds.” He stretched his legs out on the porch, propped his crossed ankles on the railing.
“When he wakes up, I’ll drive him home.”
“Nice of you,” he said, though he would have made the same offer. He was curious about Brody’s home life, curious to know why the kid had lied and didn’t want to go home. He was also gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and wouldn’t mind a few hours’ sack time on the pillow top upstairs.
“I’m going that way. Might as well give him a ride.” She sipped again, dainty and ladylike, fingers on the handle and the opposite hand beneath the cup. “Thank you for keeping me company last night.”
“Storms really scare you that much?” He wanted to probe deep, his usual response to anyone’s fears because, quite frankly, he could use the information in a book. Psychology, even one’s own, provided powerful motivation.
“The fear is silly,