Baby, Don't Go Read online

  The bridge was even more spectacular up close. The pattern of the yellow-tinged wood in the ceiling alone was a treat for the eyes. Interspersed among the new timbers were older ones—remnants from the original structure, if she remembered correctly from the website. Amy Bradshaw had built quite a landmark, evidenced by the arrival of a family of sightseers who’d apparently come just to see the bridge. Alicia gave them a brief smile as she exited the bridge, then she made her way down to the creek using the same path she’d used when she’d first arrived.

  No one was around, thank goodness, so she was able to comb the area for the bracelet. She didn’t find it on the first pass, so she retraced her steps, poking under bushes with the toe of her running shoe, poised to flee if something living crawled or slithered out. Then she checked the water’s edge and all around the rock she’d used as a platform, but the bracelet was nowhere to be found. Heaving a sigh of disappointment, Alicia crouched on the rock and trailed her fingers in the cool water, then splashed her face and arms.

  Her cheeks burned from a different kind of heat when she remembered how brazen she’d been when she was here before. She’d been lucky that a group of tourists hadn’t come upon her then.

  She removed her empty water bottle from its belt and scrutinized the stream, wondering if it was safe to drink from. But since facing a hot run back without water was even less appealing, she filled the bottle and stood.

  A terrific splashing noise about thirty yards down on the same side of the creek caught her attention—it was a fish…fighting at the end of a line…connected to a fishing pole…held by Marcus Armstrong.

  Alicia smiled to herself and headed toward him.

  13

  Marcus bit back a curse. The first damn bite he’d gotten all day and of course it had to be when he was hoping Alicia Waters would leave before she noticed him.

  He leaned back and cranked the reel, keeping the tip of the rod up, but allowing the fish to wear itself out before he reeled it in entirely. Meanwhile, he kept one eye on Alicia, who was picking her way along the water’s edge toward him. He hoped she realized how steep the bank was.

  He reeled in the fish, and held the striped bass in one hand while using pliers to remove the hook in its mouth with the other hand. He grinned. It was at least twenty-four inches long, easily a keeper.

  A shriek pierced the air. He jerked around in time to see Alicia sliding down the hilly bank toward the water. Her eyes were wide, her arms and legs flailing, to no avail. She rolled and plopped into the water head first, then disappeared.

  Marcus cursed again and bolted in her direction. Here the water was well over her head—if she wasn’t a strong swimmer or if she panicked, she could drown. With a flash of regret, he tossed the bass back into the water. Then he kicked off his boots and waded in, stripping off his bulky fishing vest as he went. When the water reached his chest, he made a shallow dive. His back quickened and he prayed it didn’t seize up on him. The spot where she’d gone in was muddy from the dirt she’d stirred up, but at least her white shirt was easy to spot. He grabbed a handful of it and jerked her to the surface.

  She surfaced sputtering, her eyes rounded. She threw her arms around his neck and gasped for breath.

  The feel of her body jammed up against his was a jolt to his system. “Easy,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

  He wrapped one arm around her waist and used the other to paddle backward until his feet touched bottom. She coughed and wheezed, clinging to him like a piece of seaweed. He stood and dragged them both to the bank where he’d been fishing, depositing her on a flat rock.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, brushing her wet hair out of her big, brown eyes.

  She nodded, gulping air. “I…can’t swim.”

  Latent fear spiked in his chest. “Then for future reference, you shouldn’t fall into water.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t exactly mean to.”

  “Still, you should be more careful.”

  She touched the water bottle in her belt. “I was coming down here to ask you if the water is safe to drink…but I guess that’s a moot point now.”

  “I guess so, since you swallowed a bellyful.”

  “And I wanted to see your fish,” she said, looking around. “Where is it?”

  He pulled on his boots and gave her a wry look. “It was either him or you.”

  She gave a little laugh. “Then I’m glad you chose me.”

  “Except I was planning to eat him for supper.” Too late, he realized where her mind went because his mind went there, too.

  And he was suddenly ravenous.

  “I guess I could offer to cook you supper,” she said finally.

  He scoffed. “And burn down the town? I’ll pass.”

  She smirked. He wondered if she had any idea how beautiful she looked, with water droplets on her skin and her running clothes vacuumed to her curves. His body warmed in response. He shifted, lest his own soaked clothing give away too much.

  As if she read his mind, she gestured to his worn jeans. “I got you all wet.”

  Lord, everything the woman said came out sounding so sexy. “They’ll dry.” To distract himself, he retrieved his fishing pole and began to repack his tackle box.

  “You’re giving up?” she asked.

  He gestured to the water, still cloudy from their “swim.”

  “I think we’ve scared off anything that might’ve been interested in a worm.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He jerked his thumb toward a four-wheeler parked on the bank above them. “I thought I’d ride up to the home place and check on things.”

  “Home place?”

  “Clover Ridge, where I grew up.”

  “You have a home there?”

  “No…the twister took my parents’ home, but Porter and Kendall are building on the property. Can I give you a ride back to town?”

  “Why not take me with you?”

  He looked up. “To Clover Ridge?”

  She grinned. “Are you afraid I’ll set fire to something?”

  Yeah—him. “No.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.” She pushed to her feet and brushed off her backside.

  It was a fine-looking backside.

  He hooked his vest over his shoulder, then picked up his fishing gear with one hand and helped her pick her way across slick rocks and weeds to where the four-wheeler sat. He stowed his tackle and collapsing pole in the storage compartment under the seat, then straddled the ATV, fairly certain this wasn’t a good idea.

  He had the same feeling in his stomach now as he’d had on the battlefield, just before enemy mortar rounds started falling.

  “Climb on,” he said, once again feeling as if everything he said was sexually loaded. Alicia was going to think he was a hound dog.

  And if she knew he’d ogled her that first day at the creek, her opinion of him would be cinched. He pulled his hand down his face. He had no business getting tangled up with this woman—aside from the fact that she was a firebug and had fantastic breasts, he knew next to nothing about her.

  She threw one long tanned leg over the seat and settled in. “Where am I supposed to hold on?”

  “There’s a handle behind the seat…or you can hang on to me.”

  She smoothed her hands over his bare wet stomach. “Where? I don’t see any love handles.”

  Marcus couldn’t help the stab of male satisfaction as he started the engine. “Here we go.”

  She wrapped her hands around his waist and he pulled away. The warmth of her soft fingers distracted him from his twinging back. Her body was tucked up behind his, her breasts pressing into him, her thighs hugging his. He was aware of every inch of her as they rode along the shoulder of the main road.

  Just before entering town he veered onto a more narrow, less well-maintained road that climbed high on a ridge overlooking the town. He knew this road as well as he knew his own hand, had traveled it on foot, bicycle, horse, tractor, truck and just about
any other type of transportation available. It looked as if Porter had bush-hogged the weeds recently, so the road was more passable than the last time Marcus had ventured up this way to visit his dad.

  He didn’t know what Alicia Waters would think of him stopping by the family cemetery, but she’d invited herself along, so he honestly didn’t care.

  He slowed as they approached the section of road where the Armstrongs’ home had once stood next to the Maxwells’ place.

  “Armstrong,” Alicia read from the black mailbox sitting at the end of the broken, grown-over driveway. “This is where you grew up?” Her velvety voice was near his ear.

  He nodded, then pointed. “If you look closely, you can see the footprint of the house. Over there is the root cellar where Porter and my mother hunkered down during the twister.”

  “I saw the photos on the town website,” she said. “The devastation looked pretty extensive.”

  “It was. This entire area is like a big mixing bowl,” he said, twisting on the seat to gesture to the opposite ridge. “The twister touched down and because it was contained in this relatively small space, it just kept getting stronger and stronger.”

  “It’s amazing no one was killed.”

  “The Sweetness Miracle,” they said at the same time.

  Marcus smiled. “I haven’t heard that phrase in a long time.”

  “I must’ve read it on the website,” she said. Then she turned back and pointed to the two stacks of timber drying in adjacent fields. “Your brothers’ future homes, I take it?”

  “Right. Porter is going to build where our parents’ home sat, and Kendall is building about a quarter-mile away. Together we own about three hundred acres up here.”

  “It’s pretty,” she said, glancing all around with something akin to fear. “But it seems so…remote. I assume these roads have to be repaired?”

  He nodded. “And utilities provided. Yes, once we get the city limits stabilized, it’s going to be a huge effort to extend services to the outlying areas.”

  “Where’s your future home?”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” he said. A lie. He’d thought about building his own home more often than he cared to admit. But it seemed pointless when he’d be rambling around in it alone and most of his duties would be in town, at least for the foreseeable future.

  “You don’t want a home of your own?” she pressed. “A family?”

  “I have other priorities,” he said, his voice more curt than he intended. But if the woman had any ideas about including him in her manhunt, she needed to know right up front that he wasn’t on the market.

  She seemed to digest his words. “What happens to this land if the town is turned over to the government?”

  “Everything outside the city limits is still privately owned, or is reverted to the state if property taxes weren’t paid. The ownership of the town itself doesn’t change that.”

  “But will you want to live here if you don’t have influence over the direction of the community?”

  “It wouldn’t be as appealing,” he admitted. Then he turned to look at her. “But that’s not going to happen if I can help it.”

  “Are other former residents coming back to rebuild on their land?”

  “Some have said they will.”

  “But they’re waiting to see what happens with the federal grant?”

  He set his jaw. She had found his sore spot—the fact that even though everyone said they believed in Sweetness and believed in him, everyone was waiting to see if he could really pull it off.

  Even his brothers, who hadn’t yet broken ground on their own homes.

  But he understood. They had other people in their lives to consider and didn’t want to invest everything in this ridge if the town wasn’t a sure thing.

  Still, it stung.

  It occurred to him that the sudden probing curiosity seemed out of character for his head cook. “You’re full of questions today.”

  “Just making conversation,” she said lightly.

  He put his hands on the grips. “Ready?”

  “We’re leaving?”

  “Just going a little farther along the ridge.”

  He tried not to think about how good it felt when she put her hands back around his waist. He goosed the gas and continued along Clover Ridge, dodging potholes and tree saplings that had taken root in the crumbling asphalt.

  Her hands tightened when they rode through tall weeds or went over particularly rough patches of road. And her head swung side to side, as if she were afraid of what might be lurking in the dense growth. He wondered if she was starting to have second thoughts about living in Sweetness. She wouldn’t be the first person attracted by the romantic notion of living “in the country,” only to discover it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  When the cemetery came into view, he slowed and steered toward the tall iron gate.

  “We’re stopping at the graveyard?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

  “I’m stopping to visit my father,” he said. “You don’t have to go in.” He pulled to a stop outside the gate and cut the engine.

  She climbed off gingerly. “I don’t want to intrude, so I’ll wait here if that’s okay.” She brushed at her clothes that looked to be nearly dry after their ride.

  “Sure,” he said, pulling a shirt from the storage compartment. “I won’t be long.”

  He shrugged into the shirt and walked through the gate, scanning for recent damage. He and his brothers had repaired headstones and tended to all the local cemeteries, but with Homecoming weekend coming up, he wanted to make sure everything was in good shape for visitors, especially his mother. He picked up branches and bits of trash as he walked among the tombstones of families he knew: Maxwell, Cole, Dodge, Smithson, Moon, Clinton and so many more. He deposited the garbage in a metal bin in a far corner away from any graves. They would burn the contents when it was filled.

  Then he made his way to the Armstrong plot and laid a hand on his father’s headstone. Alton Armstrong, beloved husband and father.

  “And grandfather,” Marcus said. “You should see Kendall’s son, Pop. He’s a chip off the old block. I guess it’s a good thing one of us is keeping the name going, huh? I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Amy have another little one or two. Porter, too.” Then he laughed. “He’s dragging his feet about walking down the aisle, but I see how he looks at Nikki, and he’ll come around. They’ll add to the Armstrong brood before long.”

  Marcus looked up and saw Alicia watching him, her hand cupped over her eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, he crouched to pick up a twig from his father’s grave. “Mom’s good. Having Tony around has given her someone new to dote on. She can’t wait to move back to Sweetness and be a full-time grandma.”

  He ran his hand along the base of the headstone to clear a few leaves. “The town’s coming along nicely. I’m finally feeling good about where we are and making Sweetness ours again. I want to make you proud, Dad.” He swallowed a lump in his throat, then he smiled. “I went fishing today, caught a nice bass on your favorite lure. Had to toss him back, though…you’d understand if you’d been there.”

  He pushed to his feet and glanced back to the gate, but didn’t see Alicia. She must’ve gone exploring.

  He looked back to his dad’s tombstone. “No, I haven’t met the right girl yet,” he added with a rueful laugh. “I haven’t had a lot of time and besides, you and Mom set the bar pretty high. You told me if I ever met the right woman, I’d know, so that’s what I’m banking on—”

  A bloodcurdling scream rent the air. Marcus jerked his head around—he still couldn’t see Alicia. He took off at a run, his mind racing. There were bears in the area, and he’d seen more than one mountain lion at too-close range, wolves, too. When he reached the four-wheeler, he looked all around, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Alicia!”

  “Marcus!” Her voice came from a grove of small trees. He could see her white shirt through the leaves.
“Rattlesnake!”

  His pulse spiked. Timber Rattlers were not to be taken lightly. “Don’t move, Alicia—I’m coming!”

  He opened the storage compartment of the four-wheeler and pulled out a soft-sided pistol case, then removed a handgun. He’d had to use the weapon against aggressive species only a few times while they were clearing the land, but was glad he’d had it on those occasions.

  He hurried to the trees and stopped short at the sight of Alicia’s bare butt. She was crouched down, had obviously gone in search of somewhere to relieve herself and chosen an unfortunate place to drop her pants. She was frozen, riveted on the snake a few feet in front of her, its head raised, its tail swaying ominously.

  14

  Alicia was beyond terrified. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stared at the hissing snake reared high, its flattened head bobbing toward her. She could barely breathe, could only picture this horrific, violent end to her life. Nina would post something nice in the magazine posthumously, about how Alicia had died doing something she believed in.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Marcus. He was holding a gun at his side. But the snake was growing more agitated, weaving and hissing—could he shoot it before it bit her face off?

  She wobbled, on the verge of fainting.

  Marcus strode toward the snake. Alicia tensed. But instead of raising his gun, he reached forward and grabbed the snake by its neck.

  Alicia’s eyes went wide—was he completely mad?

  But to her amazement, instead of turning on him, the snake went limp in his hand.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s not a rattlesnake.”

  She relaxed only a millimeter. “But I heard it rattle!”

  “No, you heard its tail stirring up leaves to make you think it has a rattle. It’s a hognose snake. Completely harmless.”

  She frowned. “It’s an imposter?”

  He laughed. “Exactly.” He walked a few feet away and set the snake on the ground. It promptly slunk away. He looked back to her and grinned. “You have to admit it’s a clever defense. Very convincing.”