Wild in the Moment

Five

Teague trudged down Main Street. Since the blizzard two weeks ago, there’d been no bad snowstorms, but no temperature melt, either. The sludge and crusty ice were piled so high you could barely find a decent place to park-which is why he’d been stuck walking the last three blocks. Usually he liked winter, but typically by late January, the snow had dirtied up; people were sick of bundling in winter gear; the thrill of Christmas was over and everybody was broke.

Actually, he wasn’t. He was making more money than he had time to spend-a totally unjust state of affairs-but blizzards had a way of soliciting business. When people were stuck in their homes, they tended to look around more, see the cracks, hear the groans. He swore half the town had called him, hoping to get a major rehab project going over the winter. More to the point-for him-was that working nonstop the past two weeks had kept his mind off Daisy Campbell.

Sort of.

Hands in his pockets, he passed by Carcutter’s Books, then Ruby’s Hair Salon. After Ruby’s, he crossed the road, automatically bending down to save little Tommie Willis from falling-that kid was always getting away from his mother, and the pavement was extra slick this afternoon. Still, he barely noticed the child or the storefronts.

She was still in White Hills, because everywhere he went-customers, gas station, hardware, grocery store-people were buzzing about the glamorous, prodigal daughter come home. But he’d driven out to the farmhouse countless times. No one was there and no phone had been hooked up.

It wasn’t as if he assumed they had a big thing going. He didn’t. But she distinctly hadn’t called him. It’s not as if he were hoping for the earth and the sun. He just wanted to find out if she could possibly, conceivably, want to turn his nights inside out ever again in this century.

The wind whipped around his neck, slapped his cheeks red. That’s how his heart felt. Slapped. Obviously he hadn’t turned her nights inside out. And since he knew he functioned best solo, he had no explanation for his heart feeling so roughed up and skinned.

He hiked on, his ears freezing because he forgot his hat-he always forgot his hat. He was headed for Karen Brown’s store, a place called Inner Connections. He’d never been inside the decorating place, never planned to, never wanted to. But he’d taken out a wall in John Cochran’s house, and they wanted a bay window, and Mrs. Cochran was housebound because of some recent surgery and she wanted some swatches.

Teague had no idea what a swatch was, but the interior decorating store-Karen Black, or whoever, did curtains and upholstery stuff-was supposed to have them. Lately he couldn’t seem to escape this kind of exasperating problem. All his clients weren’t as sweet and frail as Mrs. Cochran, but lots of women wanted decorating ideas to go with their carpentry and rehab projects.

Ask him, the whole thing was dumb. When you had a good-looking window, why cover the thing with a bunch of fabric?

He trudged past the barber shop, then Lamb’s Feed Store, then the cleaners. First place on the next block was the Marble Bridge Café. In the spring and summer, the café set Adirondack chairs outside so the locals could sip brew and fight about politics, Vermont-style. Teague wouldn’t mind popping in for a fast coffee-and to warm his hands-but he wanted to get this torturous swatch thing over with. Maybe after. Assuming he survived the decorating store. Assuming someone was there who could explain about the swatch thing. Assuming…

He stopped dead, then backed up three paces.

Something was odd. He wasn’t sure what snagged his attention, but walking down Main Street was invariably like listening to his own heartbeat. He knew how it was supposed to sound. He knew how it was supposed to look.

The Marble Bridge Café was one of those places that never failed to be predictable. By this time in the afternoon, George’d be sipping free coffee at the counter, his sheriff’s hat on the hook inside the door. The place would smell like something burned, because Harry Mackay-who’d owned the café for the past forty years-invariably started talking and forgot what he was cooking. People didn’t come for the food unless they were desperate, anyway. The café was primarily a breakfast and lunch place that Harry kept open through the afternoon because he had nothing better to do. In the early part of the day, it was a place to hang out, to fight about politics, to read the paper. It was tradition. And traditionally, by late January, Harry hadn’t taken down the Christmas lights; tired garlands were sagging from the windows; and the linoleum was muddy from people charging in with boots all day.

The garlands and lights were there.

The floor was the color of dirty snow.

The sheriff was sipping free coffee.

Teague couldn’t fathom what was different-and then realized there were people inside. By this time in the afternoon, the clientele had usually thinned out. Today at least half the booths and tables were occupied. Maybe Harry had a sale on burned food?

The thought struck his funny bone, but Teague would still have continued on if he hadn’t suddenly spotted a woman behind the counter. Not Janelle or the other part-time waitress who worked for Harry. Not anyone he’d ever seen in the café before. And he immediately pushed open the door.

Several called out greetings. He answered or nodded, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman. Her back was to him, but he could still tell that she wasn’t a normal woman-at least not normal by Marble Bridge Café standards. Her height clocked in around five-seven and she had glossy dark hair, worn shoulder length, the kind of hair that swayed when she moved and sifted colors in the right light. She wasn’t wearing jeans and an L.L. Bean sweater, which was the winter indoor uniform in White Hills. Not that he’d know designer clothes if they bit him in the butt, but he guessed the silky blue shirt and slacks cost the moon and then some.

It wasn’t remotely a wild outfit, but for White Hills, the cut and fancy lines were always going to draw attention. More to the point, he’d have known that glossy dark hair, that elegant little rump, anywhere.

He was halfway to the counter when she suddenly turned around. The instant she spotted him, the instant their eyes met, she froze. She was carrying a plate of cookies, and someone was talking to her from the kitchen-an open transom window led to the back room-but for a moment she just stood there, looking back at him.

Teague knew hurt pride could affect a guy’s imagination, yet he swore he saw a willful rose tint her cheeks, a sweep of yearning shine in her eyes. She looked just plain happy to see him-but anxious, too. Still she stood there. Still she didn’t move, as if she’d sucked in a sudden deep breath and just couldn’t seem to let it out again.

By then both the sheriff and Harry glanced up. It’s not as if anyone had a choice about being a stranger in White Hills.

“Hey, Teague,” Harry greeted him. “Rare for you to stop in on an afternoon. You playing hooky?”

“Everybody deserves a vice,” he said.

“Hey, Teague.”

“Sheriff.” He had no reason to know George Webster well, but it was the same with everyone there. They knew of him, or well enough to extend a greeting.

By the time he’d shed his jacket and wasted those few seconds on hellos, Daisy had disappeared back into the kitchen-whether she had a good reason or just wanted to avoid him, he couldn’t guess.

Either way, sitting down gave him a few minutes to analyze the situation. The more he looked around, the more he had the feeling that the Marble Bridge Café had turned into an alternate universe. Instead of smelling like old grease and burned food, scents wafted in the air that could make a guy throw himself on the ground and grovel-like the scent of fresh, warm bread. Blueberry muffins. Pastries. Cookies. Delicate, delectable stuff.

Maybe Harry owned the café and was given credit for feeding people, but he wouldn’t know “delectable” if threatened with ptomaine.

But it was seeing Daisy-finding Daisy-that kept stunning Teague. She belonged in that café like a Monet belonged in a hardware store. Boots in Vermont meant, well, boots. But she’d paired the blouse and snug black slacks with high-heeled boots so calf-hide soft they weren’t meant to ever walk in harsh weather. Silver glinted from her ears and wrist. A tiny towel had been slung around her waist, apparently auditioning as an apron, but she still looked elegant from the ground up.

Daisy? The town’s infamous exotic flower and favorite wild girl, cooking in an aging café? Ms. Five-Hundred-Dollar-Boots Campbell, wearing an apron?

“Cold out there,” the sheriff said. It was George’s standard conversational opener. Since the town rarely needed law for much of anything, there was no reason George shouldn’t hang out here, gaining weight on pastries and shooting the breeze and casting moony eyes at Daisy.

More to the point, he was usually good for information, so Teague tried pumping him. “Well, it’s sure warm in here, with a crowd like this. I don’t get it-I’ve never seen this many people in the café since I came to live here. What’s going on?”

“Daisy’s French baking, that’s what’s going on. About a week ago, Harry let her wander into the kitchen, and ever since then she’s been coming out with stuff nobody ever heard of. And before it’s gone, you better be asking for the lavender sponge cake. Trust me, you’ll never taste anything like it again. I forget what all else she came up with today. You could try the lavender-custard ice cream.”

“Lavender ice cream,” Teague echoed.

“I know, I know. Sounds like pansy food. In fact, that’s what she says, that there’s lavender in it. I swear, though, it doesn’t taste like any sissy flower-”

Someone tapped on the sheriff’s shoulder, and when he got embroiled in that conversation, Harry hiked over from the cash register. “What can I get you, Teague?”

“I’ve barely got a minute, but I could sure use a fast coffee. And some…” He was going to ask for a piece of the lavender sponge cake, but he spotted the empty cake platter on the counter. “Just coffee,” he said.

Seconds later his hands were snugged around a mug of hair-curling coffee, but Daisy still hadn’t shown back up. He could hear her voice in the distance-he assumed she was talking to Jason, Harry’s brother and short-order cook-but she didn’t come back.

He gulped the coffee, burned his throat, and gulped some more. His mind kept spilling out questions. All the evidence pointed to her working here, but that just seemed impossible. Harry didn’t hire extras-the café didn’t have enough business to justify more staff, especially in the slow month of January. And Teague couldn’t fathom why she’d seek any kind of job, much less a low-paying one, when the clothes she wore cost more than most of the cars parked outside. Besides which, he couldn’t figure out what she was still doing here at all, when she’d made such a point of telling him how much she hated small towns.

One other question hammered at his mind. The same tiny question that had been jamming his brain in the wee hours of every damn morning since he met her. If she’d hung around White Hills these past couple of weeks, then why hadn’t she given him a call? Why had she been avoiding him?

Harry twisted his considerable beer belly to engage him in more friendly conversation, but by then Teague had stood up, wrestled some change from his pocket and swung away from the counter. Obviously, he couldn’t chase her down in front of all these people. He grabbed his jacket and aimed for the door, thinking that now he knew she was here, he’d choose a free time, a quiet place, to corner her. Yet somewhere between the last table and the front door, his boots pivoted around. Instead of leaving, he found himself charging straight down the aisle, past the cash register, past the counter, past the saloon-style double doors that led to the kitchen area. Harry didn’t stop him. The sheriff didn’t stop him. Hell, nobody dared try to stop him.

He pushed the swinging doors so hard that one banged against the inside wall. “Daisy!” he yelled out.

Almost instantly, two heads showed up from around the corner of the freezer room. The small head with the exotic eyes and lush, soft mouth was definitely hers. The big one looked like a twin rendition of Harry-eyebrows bushier than weeds, a tummy that looked like a hot-air balloon, three sprouts of hair straight on top. Harry’s brother disappeared back into the fog of the freezer room.

Daisy stepped out.

Teague wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Something like, “Damn it, woman, I’m not in the habit of having the best sex I ever had in my life and then having my lover disappear as if it never happened.” Or “Daisy, why didn’t you let me know you were still in town?” Or “Daisy, for God’s sake, what are you doing in this café?”

But somehow he sensed vulnerability in those soft, dark eyes. He knew he was crazy. He’d been crazy ever since he made love to her. Daisy was sophisticated and capable of handling herself in any situation-God knew he’d seen her step up in the blizzard, even if she would hate the idea of being labeled resourceful and practical. The point, though, was that imagining vulnerability in her eyes was likely a sign of more lunacy in him, not of anything that was really there.

Still, something went wrong. He managed a scowl and a bellow, but what came out of his mouth was hardly confrontational. “Daisy, do you know what a swatch is?”

“A swatch?” she echoed in confusion.

“Yeah. A swatch. Like a woman needs to do curtains or upholstery or something.”

“Oh, like a swatch of fabric?”

“I think so.”

“Well, sure,” she said.

“Thank God. Can you explain it to me at dinner?”

“Okay,” she responded, as if she’d never disappeared from his life and it was no big deal to go to dinner together.

Possibly he was a certifiable lunatic, but that didn’t mean he’d lost the ability to recognize he’d gained ground. “Seven o’clock?” he pressed.

“Okay.”

“Where do you want me to pick you up?”

“How about if I meet you right outside the café here?”

There. He’d got that settled. Before she could change her mind-and ignoring all the interested eyes in the restaurant-he charged right back down the aisle and this time, directly outside. The sudden spank of icy wind tried to slap some reality into him, but didn’t seem to work. His head was still reeling. Had he imagined it? That wild night? That extraordinary coming together, the connection he’d never felt with anyone else, the jolt of excitement just talking to each other? Was it some fantasy he’d imagined in the stress of a blizzard? Because he’d had no one for so long? Because he’d stopped believing he’d ever find a woman who bamboozled his common sense ever again?

Was Daisy real-or had being knocked out two weeks ago seriously addled his brain?

As if she weren’t already anxious-times-ten to be seeing Teague again, she was running late. To add insult to injury, she was just tugging on a cowl-necked sweater when her new cell phone beeped. Impatiently she grabbed it.

“Finally,” a feminine voice scolded. “I got your voice mail about having a new phone number, but you didn’t say where you are. I’m gonna shoot you if you ever do this again!”

Anxious or not anxious, Daisy had to chuckle. Her baby sister sounded so bossy. Camille had been through hell and back over the past couple years, losing her first love and almost losing herself in the aftermath. It had taken a long time-and the love of a terrific guy-to put that strident, bossy confidence back in her voice. “Hey, I called Mom and Dad and you and Violet, to let everyone know my new phone number-”

“But all you did was leave messages, so no one actually had a chance to talk to you! Nobody still knows where you are!”

“Well, I’m here. Home in White Hills. For a little while, anyway.” With the cell phone clapped to her ear, she pushed on black Manolo Blahnik shoes, then stuffed a bill in her Kate Spade purse.

“But no one’s there! You know Violet closed up the house for the whole winter. And that I’m off with Pete and the boys.”

As much as Daisy missed her sister, she shot another glance at her watch and kept hustling, grabbing a hair-brush, then lipstick. “Like it’s my fault the family’s gallivanting all over the place? For that matter, you’re the only one in the family who’s totally settled in White Hills, but instead of being around with your new husband and kids-”

“And dogs. And my father-in-law.”

“Yeah. You sure know how to do a honeymoon, kid.”

“Quit distracting me,” Camille chided. “The last I knew you were still in France. Violet and I both knew there was something wrong with Jean-Luc, something serious, but you never once told us what was going on. The next thing I know, I get the message that you have a new cell phone number and you’re back in the U.S. and your last name is suddenly Campbell again.”

“Yup,” Daisy said, which seemed to cover everything.

“You got a divorce?”

She couldn’t answer that question quite so lightly. “Yes. And I’ll tell you about it. And Violet. But right now I’m rushed-just please don’t say anything to Mom and Dad until I’ve had the chance to tell you two completely what’s going on first, all right?”

“No, it’s not all right. First I want to know-”

“Camille, I can’t talk now, honestly. I swear I’m not evading a conversation. I’m just plain short on time. And I need more than two seconds to explain what’s been happening.”

“Okay, but-”

Daisy hung up. It was already ten minutes after seven. Being a few minutes late wasn’t criminal, but she’d asked Teague to meet her outside-which meant he was stuck out there on a frigid-cold night. She tugged on a jacket, locked the back door and charged down the stairs.

She’d carefully thought through everything she was wearing, from the St. John’s sweater and slacks to using the last of her hoarded Cle Peau makeup. Daisy couldn’t imagine Teague remotely caring about designer labels-and right now, he had no idea that all these silly, impractical clothes were all she owned. She’d played the pricey look up, rather than down, to help create a distance between them. She didn’t want him to think of her as normal, as conceivably staying in White Hills, or that there was any potential between them.

That was the theory. But she’d also hoped to have more time to plan how to handle this meeting, and instead felt rushed inside and out.

The bottom door opened into the vestibule of the Marble Bridge Café-and then one more door led her out to the street, where a tall, dark-haired man in a sheepskin jacket stomping his feet to keep warm stood. He spun around when he heard the door, then stopped dead when he saw her.

The streetlamp glowed on his ruddy cheeks and snow-dusted hair, but he looked at her with a fierce glow in his eyes. A blister-cold night suddenly warmed. A lonely heart was tempted…or, Daisy corrected herself, a lonely heart would have been tempted by the promise in those wonderful, sexy, warm eyes if she didn’t know better.

She wasn’t going to repeat the same mistakes. She couldn’t possibly have fallen in love at first sight-or first night-not the kind of love that could conceivably work. It didn’t matter what her heart told her. Her heart had been dead wrong before.

“You came from inside the café? It looked all closed up and locked down to me. I never thought Harry kept it open past the afternoon hours,” he said in confusion.

“You’re right, the café’s closed. I’m living in the apartment above it.”

He glanced up. “I didn’t even realize there was an apartment up there.” He opened his mouth as if intending to question her further, but then he looked at her again. Really looked. She had the shivery feeling he would like to swallow her up, because his gaze seemed like a vacuum that sucked in every tiny detail and kept it. “You look terrific.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.”

“Only, you look too darn terrific for any restaurant this town can offer.”

“Trust me,” she said wryly, “you can afford me.”

She recognized where he was driving-McCutcheon’s, the best restaurant in White Hills-and diverted him to a fast-food burger place instead. He looked tired, her one-time lover. Fit and full of hell and more than capable of causing her a great deal of trouble, but still, tired.

“Your head’s okay? All recovered from that major bump?” she asked him a few minutes later-while stealing another of his French fries. It was the first time she’d seen him in clothes, she realized. He hadn’t been naked the whole time during the blizzard, but when she’d first found him knocked out, he’d been in work duds. Tonight he wore dark cords and a dark sweater with a Nordic pattern. Nothing fancy, still practical, but good clothes that looked more than good on him.

Daisy couldn’t name a single item in her wardrobe that qualified as practical, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire someone with traits she didn’t have.

“Actually, the sheriff insisted I go to a doctor, and the doctor decided I’d had a concussion. Like this was meaningful, to have a new definition for a headache.”

“And the ankle?”

“Aw, that. Not worth mentioning. I’ve still got it taped, but that’s just because I’m a sissy.”

“Excuse me.” She stood up, her hand slapped over her heart. “We need to broadcast to greater America that a man in the universe just admitted he was a sissy.”

He just grinned-and threw a French fry at her.

“So it was sprained, huh?”

“Just a little sprain.”

“Even little sprains hurt like a bear.”

“You know?”

She nodded. “I fell off a boat one time, hit an ankle. It was one of my more graceful moves.”

“Did someone get a photograph? Because I don’t believe this story about you not being graceful.”

She stopped dipping fries in the ketchup. She knew charm. All too well. But there wasn’t charm in his voice, only honesty, and that gentle, honest compliment put an itch in her heart.

That’s all it was, though.

An itch.

The itch was bad. Downright unignorable and unforgettable-but still, no worse than a mosquito bite. She could get past it. What she wasn’t sure she could cope with was getting through a more serious conversation, but she sucked in a breath for courage and determined to try. “Teague, you have to be wondering what I was doing in the café-”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me with my swatch problem.”

Daisy hesitated. She’d thought his swatch question was a joke-Teague’s making up an excuse to have dinner with her. She’d been positive that if he found her again, he’d ask for an explanation of why she’d disappeared after the blizzard and made no effort to contact him.

The truth was, she’d wanted to. Fiercely. She’d had to work on it every day, giving herself emotional pep talks, exercising her hard heart muscle-or trying to develop one. She was in no position to take on any guy, much less one in White Hills. She’d fooled herself before, about thinking a man was right for her. She shouldn’t make too much of a one-night encounter. It was the blizzard. A wild moment in time. But that’s all.

So she’d told herself.

But looking at him now, laughing with him over ketchup and burgers and fries, she knew why she’d really hidden away. She’d been afraid to see him again. Afraid she’d feel like this. Happy. Lifted up. Her hormones all asizzle and her pulse thumping like a puppy’s tail, just to be with him. “The swatch?” she echoed.

“Yeah. Would you mind coming with me? Seeing the Cochran house, the project I’m working on?”

“Come with you?” she parroted blankly.

“It’s in town. Just three blocks over. I just want to ask your advice. We could be in and out in ten minutes.”

She opened her mouth to say no, but that just seemed cowardly and dumb. What possible harm could it do to spend a few more minutes together, especially at some kind of torn-up construction site? “Okay,” she said.