Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
R AYNE WATCHED AS HENRY sloshed his milk shake onto the brick-paved street that encircled the square, wincing when it dripped on his uniform shirt. Chocolate milk shake on white knit. Great.
"Henry, watch your shake," she called as they darted in front of a small SUV looping the square. Traffic had picked up as the five o'clock hour neared.
"I've never been on a picnic," Henry shouted, catching up with Brent. Her son's words shook Rayne. Had she never taken the boy on a picnic? That couldn't be right, but she knew it to be true. She'd always been busy. What a horrible excuse.
Henry glanced at her. "Come on, Mom."
The child's face looked lit from within, like a hundred fireflies had taken up residence. It struck Rayne, the reason for his joy. He was thrilled to be with Brent. Just as she'd always been, dogging Brent's footsteps, worshipping at the altar of the all-state quarterback.
A bleep of alarm sounded inside her, but the sight of her son's smiling face overshadowed the fear. She wanted Henry to be happy, to smile rather than chew his shirt or check obsessively for the note card of emergency numbers he carried with him in his pocket like a security blanket.
What would some hero worship hurt?
She didn't answer that question. Just hurried her pace to catch up.
"Follow me," Brent said, carrying the two white bags with the red logo of a barn. Already grease marks formed on the outside of the bags. She suppressed the inclination to snatch them and toss them in a trash can.
They filed into the park like ducks waddling to a pond. The brick pavers of the path matched the ones in the street, and the oaks greeted them with a friendly wave of leaves. Rayne's hair whipped in the wind, and she impatiently pushed it from her eyes. Here and there, people moved around them, but no one sat on the park bench or wandered over the well-trod paths. It felt much as it had when she was younger, a magical little oasis in the middle of reality.
"How about here?" Brent motioned with a bag. He indicated one of the benches. A copper plate read In Memory of Edward Monk. May He Forever be a Part of our Lives. A balding man in a checked sport coat materialized in Rayne's mind. He'd carried wrapped bubble gum in his pocket and gave it to kids who gave him a high-five. His wife, Betty, had trimmed Rayne's hair at the Curlique.
"Y'all sit on the bench," Henry directed, snagging a fry from the sack that gaped open in Brent's hand. "I wanna sit by the fountain."
The fountain that gurgled at Founding Father Rufus Tucker's feet was about twenty yards away. Rayne nodded. "Okay, but no playing in the fountain."
Henry shot Brent another suffering look. The child was getting good at demonstrating disgust at her mothering, but inside she celebrated because usually he'd insist on sitting right beside her as if she might gallop away and leave him behind. The separation anxiety he'd been struck with reared its ugly head at the oddest times. But today wasn't one of them.
Brent rooted through the sack and pulled out Henry's fries, handing them to him along with a packet of ketchup. "Here you go, sport. And mind your mother."
Henry scarfed down three fries while nodding. He ran toward the fountain, clutching his treat.
Brent plunked down on the bench. "You want some of my banana split?"
"No, thanks," she said, still standing. She raised her face to the blue sky peeking through the trees. "We better not spend too much time here. Dawn wants us to pick up the chairs and cushions."
The leaves shimmered in the breeze, a soft rebuke to her need to rush. She inhaled the scent of spring in the air, allowed the splash of the fountain to soothe her, remind her that time marched at a clip, and she'd sought to slow it by coming to Oak Stand. She tore her gaze from the bark of the oak and the spark of new, sticky green on the silver-leafed maple to find Brent watching her. His mouth was full of cheeseburger, but his eyes showed a deep hunger.
It made her mouth dry.
He seemed to sense her reaction and shoved his soda her way.
She took it and sipped. Root beer. How long had it been since she'd indulged in a soda? According to her taste buds, too long. Then she recognized the moment as a mirror of the past- her sneaking sips of Brent's root beer while watching him wolf down a Dairy Barn cheeseburger. Deja vu waylaid her like a linebacker.
She shoved the soda at him. "Thanks."
He nodded as he scooped up a huge bite of vanilla ice cream drizzled with caramel and shoved it in his mouth. Rayne felt her knees get mushy. The man's mouth was seriously wicked. Sensuous bottom lip, framed by a scruffy five o'clock shadow that would make a Hollywood hunk envious. Then to further demonstrate the power of his sexuality, he licked his lips.
Damn it.
Rayne felt heat gather in her stomach. Her hand curled into a fist as if it remembered the feel of that hardness beneath those cotton pajama pants only nights ago. The air hummed with tension.
He took a scoop of chocolate-glazed ice cream and held the spoon toward her. "Want some?"
Rayne couldn't stop herself, she took three steps and lowered her head and opened her mouth.
Brent's eyes glinted. He knew what he was doing. The bastard. He said he wouldn't play games with her. Then what the hell was this? He slid the spoon in her mouth, his lips twitching with amusement. Still, she knew by the gleam in his eye, he enjoyed the flirting.
So Rayne swallowed the icy sweetness then took great pains in licking the chocolate sauce off her bottom lip. "Mmm. Good."
She could hold her own.
Brent closed his mouth then looked at the spoon, before dropping it into the plastic container that held the pooling ice cream and decadent sauces. He set it beside the half-eaten cheeseburger. He raised his hands to do what? Reach for her? Pull her into his lap?
Her mind raced with the possibilities before the water hit her in the face.
"Bull's-eye!" yelled Henry. Rayne stumbled backward, wiping the cold water from her eyes, looking for the perpetrator. Her gaze found her son, grinning mischievously, holding a faded water gun.
"What? Where'd you get that?" Rayne said, shaking droplets from her hands.
Brent dropped his arms, just as a stream launched toward his head. He ducked.
Henry squealed. "I found it under a bush. Awesome! I totally got you guys!"
Another stream hit Rayne in the shoulder before Henry lunged behind the azalea bushes growing behind the bench. Another blast of water arced over the tiny buds atop the bushes and hit Brent in the back of the head.
"That's it!" He cried, leaping up, encircling the bush.
Henry's cry of laughter floated out, as another stream of water whizzed over Rayne's shoulder. She ducked behind an oak tree. Brent jogged out with a laughing Henry slung over his shoulders. Henry still pulled the trigger of the water gun but the waning streams of water flew wildly with no target in mind.
Brent jogged toward the fountain. "Hmm. Where shall I set him down? Here?"
Rayne reached the fountain as Brent pretended to toss Henry in the tiled pool surrounding the fountain. Henry shrieked and clutched Brent's shoulders.
"Get him, Mom!" Henry shouted, wiggling and kicking his feet.
The water gun clattered to the pavers below and Rayne snatched it up and pressed the barrel to Brent's back. "Put the boy down, Hamilton, or I’ll make you look like you wet your pants."
Her statement caused Henry to dissolve into braying guffaws. Brent lowered her son.''You sure you want me to put him down?"
He dropped Henry down within a foot of the gurgling waters, still cradling the laughing boy. Henry yelled. "Not here!"
Laughing, Rayne prodded Brent in the back."If you get those new school shoes wet, someone's gonna get hurt."
Brent swung around and waggled his eyebrows. "You talk a big game, Mrs. Rayne Rose Albright, but I don't think you have it in you."
Rayne lowered the gun toward his stomach.
"Do it, Mom!" Henry cried, giggling in Brent's arms. Rayne smiled at the glee her son took in her being silly. How had she failed to show him that she had a sense of humor? That she could be fun.
Rayne cocked an eyebrow. "A mother must protect her son."
Sbe pulled the trigger but missed the mark. Brent grabbed the gun, set Henry on the bricks, and gave her a wicked smile. "Now, your mother's going to pay."
"Run, Mom!" Henry shouted, reaching for the water gun in Brent's hand. Brent let the child have the toy. His eyes were on her.
He lunged toward her. Rayne shrieked, hiked up her skirt, and ran to the other side of the fountain while Henry dunked the gun beneath the water in the pool, trying to refill it.
The sound of Brent's deep laughter joined hers as they raced around the monument The founding father glared his disapproval as Henry joined in the fray with a reloaded water gun. Rayne ran left and Brent met her. She spun and ran round the other side, but he was there before her.
Brent grabbed her upper arms and spun her backward. "You're going to pay for trying to make me look like I peed my pants."
Rayne could barely talk past the laughter. "Don't do it, Hambone."
He laughed at the nickname he'd earned in high school that made him sound like the hound dog he'd become. His laugh was low and luscious. Shivers crept up her spine. Then he scooped her into his arms. "Or what?"
"I'll tell everybody that you cried during Rudy," she said, digging her fingers into the softness of his shirt. Her fingers slipped so she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling into the water he now held her over.
"Everybody cries during that movie," he said, allowing her to slide down to his forearms.
"Eek!" she cried twisting away from the depths of the fountain. She could feel the spray on her arms. She looked down. Six inches from submersion.
Brent played dirty.
But then a stream of water hit him full in the face.
He sputtered and stepped back. "What the-"
Henry delivered a Sioux warrior battle cry. He'd perfected the call to arms over and over in his room one Saturday. He did it rather well. ''That's what you get for trying to dunk my mom!'
Eyes shut against the water running down his face, he laughed then whispered, “Yeah? Well, that's not all I want to do to her."
Heat unfurled in her body and she became very aware of being held in his arms. Of the flirtiness of his words. Of how good his lips had felt on hers several nights before.
Rayne wanted to ignore the feelings stirring inside her so she turned her head to see her son darting toward the azalea bushes. Smart boy. He was taking cover.
Brent seemed content to hold her. Her hands were still locked behind his neck in a death clasp. She could feel his heart beating right next to her breast. Something more than heat fluttered inside her. She looked up at the man that a mere week ago she'd sworn to despise. Something shifted. It was that feeling she got when doing a jigsaw puzzle. Like when she slid one big blob of linked pieces over to another big blob of pieces, and then suddenly she could see where they linked and matched up.
Revelation.
Brent's gaze met hers, and she caught her breath at the expression in the depths. Water droplets dripped from his dark brows and rivulets of water streamed down his face, but his ice-blue eyes seemed almost... serene.
"I swear Hank is about as aggravating as I was at that age. How'd you put up with me?" he asked.
And just like that, with one sandal hanging off her right foot and her hair caught painfully between Brent's arm and chest …with a giggling eight-year-old still zapping Brent with a water gun …with all of Oak Stand tootling around the square going to the post office or the grocery store, Rayne felt herself go under.
For a second time.
What it was or how to describe it wasn't important. All she knew was that she didn't hate Brent anymore. Maybe it was acceptance. Or lust. Or a connection that never went away. She didn't know. And putting a name to it wouldn't help. All she knew was her feelings had changed and she saw him as he was in the fading afternoon light.
A boy who was more than what others saw, a boy who had poetry beneath the shoulder pads. Rayne was nearly certain that as a grown man he was way more than met the eye, even if he’d come home in the early hours of the morning, drunk, and carrying deflated condoms.
***
brENT STUDIED THE beautiful creature he cradled in his arms and felt satisfaction sweep over him. Or was that warmth merely contentment?
Whatever it was, he'd not felt it in a long time. It was comfortable, like pulling on a favorite coat or taking the first sip of morning coffee.
Rayne stared back with a contemplative gleam in those brown depths. He loved her eyes. They were exactly the color of cinnamon, warm and spicy with a hint of imp. This was the Rayne he remembered. This was the Rayne he wanted to bring back.
And nothing beat standing in the middle of the town, holding her in his arms while being drenched by a demonic second grade sharpshooter.
Another blast of water hit him between the eyes, showering Rayne with a fine spray. She blinked against the assault, and the small droplets caught in her eyelashes.
Damn, she was pretty.
He allowed her legs to fall to the brick path beneath them. "Okay, let's go get this rogue assassin."
Henry's giggles had moved farther away.
"I lost a shoe,” Rayne said, dropping her arms from his shoulders and hopping around on one foot.
"Huh?"
She bobbed her head in all directions. “Sandal. I'm missing one."
Brent caught sight of the leather thong floating in the fountain. "There it is."
The sandal bobbed beneath the curve of the statue.
Brent could tell that it was too far away to reach.
Rayne frowned and called for Henry to come to them. The boy trotted up, water gun at his side. "Darn it, I'm out of water."
After a moment's contemplation Brent tugged off his well-worn construction boots. The water was cold, but he'd have few opportunities to play valiant knight with Rayne. "I'll get it."
"No," Rayne said, "I'm already barefoot."
"Can I go in?" Henry said, dropping onto his behind and pulling at his shoes.
"No!" Brent and Rayne shouted at the same time.
Rayne had already hitched her skirt up to her thighs. The sight caused lust to flare in regions he couldn't acknowledge standing in the middle of town with a kid in plain sight. But he couldn't help noticing of how toned her thighs were. How pale and tempting. He ripped his gaze from her legs and looked at the sandal bobbing in the fountain.
He tossed his socks atop the boots and rolled his jeans up to his knees. He tugged Rayne's hand as she lifted a leg to climb over the fountain rim. "No, you don't."
She stayed put.
He hissed as he sank his feet into cold water. April in Texas was fickle and they'd gotten a cold front a day ago. He was sure people in Alaska swam happily in the temperature of the fountain water, but Texans were thin-skinned when it came to bailing into cold water. Or maybe it was him.
As he grabbed the shoe, he caught sight of Henry perched on the opposite side. The kid tottered on the edge of the fountain, preparing to jump in. Rayne reached for him but her fingers missed.
"Henry!" she cried.
Brent reached out and scooped the boy out of midair.
"I told you not to-" Rayne started fussing, but a whistle rent the air.
They all froze. Rayne, skirt still gathered around shapely knees, dropped her mouth open. If he hadn't been standing in subzero water, the sight of her pink lips and the tip of her tongue might have launched a raunchy fantasy in his mind. But he was holding a wet sandal, balancing a seven year-old on his shoulder, and freezing his toes off in subzero water. Longtime Oak Stand police officer Roy Killough regarded them, hands on hips, whistle between his lips from the entrance of the park.
Officer Killough allowed the whistle to drop and perused the situation with amusement plainly evident on his worn face. "I got a call about vandalism."
"Vandalism?" Brent said, stepping over the edge of the fountain and setting Henry onto the pavers at his mother's feet. Rayne dropped her skirt. "You haven't taken Bernice Taylor's binoculars away yet?"
Roy grinned. "No. In fact, Fred bought her a new pair last Christmas. She can see a flea bite a dog across town. Without Bernice Taylor, half the news wouldn't make it to the front page of the Gazette. She's Fred's sure thing."
Brent wiggled his toes to restore circulation. "No vandalism. Simply fetching a shoe and a kid."
Roy shrugged. "I'd let you off with a warning, Brent, but this ain't the first time I've had to chase you and Rayne Rose out of the fountain. And it plainly states right over there that you are not allowed inside the fountain."
"Officer Killough, that was almost twenty years ago. We-"
"I don't suppose you'd want to teach the boy here that it's okay to break the law?" Roy gave Rayne a stern look.
She snapped her mouth shut, but Brent could see the anger in her eyes. It crackled and burned, but she managed to mind her smart mouth. Of course, Roy was being ridiculous. Any other officer and they'd all laugh and talk about old times. Not Roy. For all his outward harmlessness, he nursed a grudge against Brent held over from a dispute they'd had about the cost of the sunporch Brent had constructed for Roy's mother. The older policeman was a notorious cheapskate, not to mention paranoid about being swindled.
Roy pulled a pad from his back pocket and started scratching out a ticket.
"Are we going to jail?" Henry said, curling an arm around his mother's legs. He looked alarmed. No, scared.
Brent forgot about cold feet and the fact Henry had disobeyed. He didn't think twice. He pulled Henry to him and held him at eye level. "Of course not, Hank. Just a citation. We were being silly and forgot to read the sign over there." Brent pointed to the sign warning visitors to stay out of the fountain. "No problem. I promise."
Henry looked at Roy then his mother. "Mom?"
Rayne stopped shooting daggers at the obtuse policeman long enough to look at her son. Her face softened. "We're not going to jail, pumpkin."
Brent felt Henry relax in his arms. Then the child did something uncharacteristic, at least for as long as Brent had known him. Henry curled his arms around Brent's neck and laid his head on his shoulder. The absolute trust and small token of affection settled a delicious warmth around Brent's heart. Henry was big for seven, but just a kid. And he was scared. And something about the child's breath on his neck and sweaty grubby hands locked around him caused something wild and wonderful to move within Brent.
Then Henry whispered something in his ear that seared Brent to his soul. "I wish you were my dad."