Playing Dead in Dixie Page 6

  Wes crossed to her side and looked down at the casserole dish. "Homemade chicken pot pie."

  She prodded the biscuit lying atop the creamy chicken and vegetable stew beneath. "Is this the pie part?"

  Wes pulled a plate from one of the cabinets. "Just put it in the microwave for about a minute," he told her, reaching for the cabinet where his father kept the drinking glasses. "You want milk or tea?" he called to J.B.

  "I want everybody out of my house," J.B. shot back.

  "Okay, milk it is." Wes opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic half-gallon milk container. He screwed off the top and gave a sniff. Still smelled okay. His father was bad about letting the milk go sour and not letting Wes know so that he could go pick up some fresh.

  After pouring a glass of milk, Wes grabbed a couple of paper towels from the rack on the wall and a fork from a nearby drawer. He handed them to Carly. "Here, take these to J.B. And don't get too close. He might bite."

  "Not if I bite first." Carly carried the glass, the fork and the towels to the table.

  "You're still here?" J.B. muttered.

  "Gotta love that Southern hospitality," Carly replied. "No wonder everybody raves about it."

  The microwave beeped, and Wes carefully carried the hot plate to the table. He placed it in front of his father. "There you go. You need anything else?"

  "Just to be left alone."

  "Lucky you. We're about to leave." Wes looked at Carly. "Go on out to the truck, if you will. I'll be out in a second."

  She gave a little nod and left the dining room. A couple of seconds later, he heard the front door open and close.

  "You could have been a little nicer to her, J.B. She was only trying to help you."

  "She was trying to handle me," J.B. retorted. But his voice softened a little when he added, "She's pretty good at it, ain't she?"

  Wes laughed. "I don't much know what to make of her, to tell you the truth."

  "She's got a mouth on her."

  Yes, she did, Wes thought, thinking about her full pink lips, ripe for a thorough kissing. "She does tend to say whatever she's thinking."

  J.B. picked up his fork and poked around at the chicken and vegetables on his plate. "No, she tells you what she wants you to think she's thinking."

  Wes realized his father was probably closer to the truth. Carly was like an iceberg, in-your-face on the surface but hiding a whole a lot more in the dark waters underneath.

  That's what made her so damned dangerous.

  CARLY HAD THOUGHT WES would drop her off in front of the Strickland's house. She was surprised when he parked the truck and got out to walk her to the house.

  He cleared his throat when they reached the porch. "Thanks for trying to help with my father. I'm sorry he was so rude."

  "He was a pussycat compared to my grandma," Carly assured him.

  "He needs to quit blaming the world for how things have gone wrong for him. He's mad at me and everyone else because his body doesn't work like it used to, but when the rehab people tried to teach him exercises to get back his motor functions, he dug in his heels and fought them like a tiger."

  "The stroke changed who he is. How he thinks. What might make sense to you or me—how sticking your hand down in a can of warm rice and working it helps to stimulate the nerves and muscles of a stroke-injured hand—doesn't make any sense to your father at all." Carly leaned against the door frame, gazing up at Wes. "All he knows is that he used to have a hand that worked, and now he doesn't, and he can't see how a pile of warm rice is going to change that."

  "Your grandmother had to do that, too?"

  Carly nodded. "Yeah. And she hated it. It took a long time for her to see that the crazy things the therapist was telling her to do really did work."

  "How long did it take to convince her?"

  "Three years."

  Wes sighed, leaning against the door frame. "Dad's been that way for almost ten. Even if he changed his mind now and tried some of the things they're suggesting, how much control of his arm and hand could he get back?"

  "I don't know," Carly admitted. "But it would have to be more than he has now, right?"

  "I should probably check on him on my way home."

  "No." Impulsively, she caught his hand. "He'll be all right now, I think, and it'll make him feel worse if you turn back up tonight. Just make an excuse to phone him when you get home if you're still worried."

  Wes squeezed her hand. "J.B. may not be glad you were there tonight, but I am."

  Warmth spread up her arm from the spot where their palms met. "You take care of everybody around here, don't you? Your dad, your aunt and uncle, this whole town—"

  "You give me too much credit." He released her hand and took a step back. "It's late. I'd better go."

  She curled her tingling fingers into a fist and pressed it against her stomach, trying to ignore the little voice inside that urged her to make him stay. "Thanks for taking me to meet Shannon. She's nice."

  "You'll find most folks around here are." He looked as if he wanted to give her a warning as he turned to leave, but he settled for a brief nod as he headed to his truck.

  As he drove away, Carly lingered on the porch, sitting in the rocking chair by the door and gazing out at the darkness beyond the yellow glow cast by the porch light above.

  The evening had been remarkably short on tension between them, despite the events at his father's house. She'd felt like a teammate, helping him deal with his difficult father. And although she knew he'd soon be back to playing suspicious cop to her secretive outsider, she was glad they'd ended this night, at least, as allies instead of enemies.

  "JUST RUN YOUR FINGER ALONG the hull seam, like this." Bonnie Strickland slid the pea hull open and raked the peas inside into the bowl on her lap.

  Carly picked up a fat purple hull and mimicked the movements of Bonnie's nimble fingers. The hull popped open, and a couple of peas tumbled into the bowl on her lap. She gave the other peas a nudge with her fingertip and they plopped into the bowl beside the others. She picked up another purple hull and repeated the process.

  So this was shucking peas. Hmm. Not as alien a process as she'd expected when Bonnie first suggested it.

  Outside the kitchen, the light had taken on a warm, golden glow as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a reminder that day number six in Bangor, Georgia, had almost passed, and Carly was still hanging around town.

  She'd promised herself she'd be out of town within a week, had even added another hundred dollars to her stash, thanks to Floyd taking pity on her and paying her wages Friday in cash instead of a check. Three hundred dollars would get her back to Savannah, for sure, or maybe she'd head south toward Valdosta, see what kind of work she could find there.

  She needed to keep moving. Harder to hit a moving target.

  But there were other considerations. Like Floyd and his problems at the store. She hadn't yet figured out a way to get a look at his books, but she wanted to give it a whirl before she headed out of town. If what Wes had told her was correct, the hardware store shouldn't be having financial troubles.

  Carly thought maybe the problem was with Sherry and her non-existent math degree. Or perhaps someone was skimming money off the receipts and covering it up somehow. She wouldn't know until she got a look at the books.

  There was also Shannon Burgess to think about. Carly couldn't run out and leave her holding the bag at the fabric store. Shannon had already put in a lot of hard work into making the outfits Carly had ordered. Carly would have to keep working long enough to pay Shannon for the clothes.

  And then there was Wes.

  He hadn't come around since Thursday night, when he'd left her on the front porch after driving her home from his father's house. She'd expected to see him at church on Sunday when she'd attended with Bonnie and Floyd, but neither Wes nor his father had been there, an absence significant enough that everyone Carly had met that day commented on it.

  Maybe Mr. Hollingsworth had been s
ore from his fall. Maybe Wes was tending to him.

  Or maybe the chief was just avoiding her.

  "You're doin' great, honey. I may put you to snappin' beans next." Bonnie tossed the last hull into the garbage bowl and crossed to the sink to run water over her peas. "You ever snapped beans?"

  Carly finished emptying her last hull and rose as well. "No, we mostly got our vegetables already frozen."

  "That's a shame. There's nothin' quite like vegetables fresh from your own garden." Bonnie took the bowl of peas from her and ran them under water as well. She nodded at Carly's hands. "You'll want to go wash those hands."

  Carly looked down at her fingers and found them stained purple from the hulls. "Will it come off?" she asked, alarmed.

  Bonnie smiled. "You may have to scrub it a bit."

  Carly hurried to the bathroom and took a bar of soap to her hands, scrubbing until the sudsy water ran lavender. She managed to get most of the stain off, although the tips of her fingernails remained faintly purple. Blotting her hands dry with a towel, she stepped out into the hallway.

  And collided with one hundred and ninety pounds of solid, muscular male.

  She gazed up at Wes, her pulse ratcheting up a notch. He slid his hands under her elbows, steadying her. She half expected an apology—he was a polite Southern boy, after all—but he remained silent, his dark gaze settling on her lips. He filled the narrow hallway, sucking the oxygen from the air with the sheer force of his presence, until Carly's head felt light and cottony. Her body thrumming with awareness, she took a step back just to find room to breathe. Her back connected solidly with the wall of the hallway behind her.

  Wes's eyes darkened. He took a step toward her, closing the distance she had opened, and lifted one hand to rest on the wall beside her head. "Still here, I see."

  His low growl set her nerves humming at a higher pitch. She struggled to keep her reply even. "You really need to make up your mind, Chief Wes. Do you want me to stay or go?"

  He cocked his head slightly, his gaze still fixed on her mouth. "That's the question, isn't it?"

  He smelled good. Male, spicy warm, laced with a whiff of soap, suggesting he'd showered before he came over.

  Tantalizing thought. Brought all sorts of intriguing images to mind.

  He bent closer, and she saw a fresh nick on the underside of his jaw. Bathed and shaved. Well, well.

  Maybe he had a date, she told her traitorous mind. His good grooming might have nothing to do with her at all.

  But the hungry look in his dark eyes as they lifted to meet hers suggested otherwise. "Eaten dinner yet?"

  She shook her head. "Bonnie's cooking peas and cornbread. I shucked the peas myself."

  His lips curved. "Shelled the peas. You shell peas. You shuck corn. And don't worry, she'll save you some leftovers."

  Her stomach fluttered. "I won't be here?"

  He shook his head slowly. "You're coming with me."

  She lifted her chin, forcing herself to remain outwardly cool, even as her heart tripped wildly in her breast. "Does this caveman act impress the Bangor ladies?"

  "You haven't seen my caveman act yet, sugar."

  "So, you just walk in here and I'm supposed to go with you because you say so?"

  "No, you're supposed to go with me because you're the kind of girl who can't resist a surprise." He tipped her chin up with one finger. "Right?"

  Spot on, actually, but she wasn't ready to admit it. "I'll have to check my appointment book."

  "You don't have any appointments." He ran his finger down her throat and over her collarbone before dropping his hand back to his side. "And my surprise has an expiration date."

  "Mysterious," she murmured, trying to ignore the shivery fire his light, intimate touch had ignited.

  "And you love a mystery, don't you?"

  Breathing was becoming difficult. "When are we leaving?"

  He backed away, glancing at his watch. "How soon can you change?"

  "Into what?"

  His dark eyes glittered with humor. "You do know how to ask a leading question."

  She found her own lips curving with a nascent smile. "Should I dress up or go casual?"

  "What you're wearing is fine." Wes leaned against the wall, folding his arms and looking her slowly up and down. She seemed to feel his gaze, like invisible fingertips moving feather-light across her skin.

  She looked down at her attire. Jeans and a yellow t-shirt she'd borrowed from Bonnie. The jeans fit nicely, showing off her long legs, but the t-shirt was oversized and a very unflattering color. Hardly something she'd wear on a hot date.

  And if the rapid-fire cadence of her pulse was any indication, this particular date might be a pretty hot one.

  "Let me put on a different top, at least." She slipped past him, out of the hallway into her bedroom, where the air seemed less heated.

  She had found a cute black tank tee in a thrift shop in Savannah during her brief stop there. Spaghetti straps and a bodice cut in at the waist to show off her shape. She slipped it over her head and checked her reflection in the dresser mirror.

  She looked pretty. There was no vanity in the observation, just a statement of fact. Of her mother's three daughters, she was the pretty one.

  "Use what God gave ya," was her mother's favorite saying. For Carly's sister Lorna, providence had given her an affinity for nurturing, a gift that had earned her babysitting money and later a job at a Trenton day care. For Teresa, her interest in mechanical things had led to a job in a Philadelphia machine shop and good union wages.

  For Carly, her looks were supposed to be her ticket out. She'd been the only one of the three to inherit both her Irish mother's green eyes and her father's long, sooty lashes and wavy black hair. Her lithe, curvy figure was a feminine echo of her father's lean, muscular build, her clear, pale skin a gift from her Irish mother.

  "Lorna and Teresa, bless their souls, they'll be havin' to study all the time," her mother always said. "But you're my pretty one. You'll be the one to find ya a fine fellow who can take ya away from here and you'll be happy as clams in butter."

  But Carly hadn't waited for someone to take her away. She'd gotten out as soon as she could, hit the road and kept moving. Anything to avoid the trap her mother had stepped into all those years ago.

  Carly left the bedroom, half expecting to find Wes still standing in the hallway, waiting for her. But he was gone, only the faint scent of him still lingering in the air.

  She followed the scent to the kitchen and found Wes at the at the table, talking to Bonnie. A large wicker picnic basket sat on the table between them.

  "Well, don't you look pretty as a picture!" Bonnie smiled up at Carly, a matchmaker's gleam in her eyes.

  "Ready to go?" Wes asked, a very different sort of gleam in his eyes, a dark, sizzling look that made Carly's knees tremble.

  "Where are we going?" Carly countered.

  "You'll see when we get there." Wes unfolded his long legs, bending to kiss his aunt on the cheek. "Thanks for the pickles, Aunt Bonnie." He picked up the picnic basket and gestured with his head. "Comin', Jersey?"

  Not waiting for her answer, he turned and strode through the doorway leading to the back porch.

  "Go ahead, honey, he don't bite," Bonnie said, still grinning like she'd just won the lottery.

  "Do you know where we're going?" Carly asked.

  Bonnie shook her head. "But wherever it is, he stopped by Sharlene Crump's house and picked up a Mississippi Mud Cake."

  Carly lowered her voice. "Is that good?"

  "That's very good," Bonnie assured her.

  Wes stuck his head through the doorway. "Are you comin' or not?"

  It was probably a very bad idea to go anywhere alone with Wes Hollingsworth. He'd already proved, more than once, that he could get under her skin with little effort. What kind of secrets would he be able to wheedle out of her if he applied even a touch more of the sizzling seduction he'd teased her with in the hallway a few minutes earli
er?

  Maybe she was her father's daughter after all. Because she couldn't seem to walk away from this particular gamble, no matter how high the odds against her.

  She followed Wes out to his truck. He surprised her by opening the door for her and giving her his hand to help her climb up into the cab. "Buckle up." He rounded the front of the truck and climbed into the cab.

  As he buckled his own seat belt, Carly murmured, "In New Jersey, no girl in her right mind would go off somewhere with a man she barely knew, especially if he didn't tell her where they were going."

  He turned and pinned her with the full force of his dark, smoldering gaze. "This ain't Jersey, sugar. And I doubt you've ever been in your right mind."

  "Not even a hint where we're going?"

  His eyes darkened, igniting a slow burn deep in her belly. "You're just going to have to trust me. Think you can do that?"

  "We'll see," she answered, not quite ready to concede.

  He turned back to the wheel and cranked the engine, a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. "Yes, you will."

  "Is that a warning?"

  He cut his eyes at her again, his smile widening.

  Alarm klaxons screamed in her head.

  Warning, she thought.

  Definitely a warning.

  Chapter Five

  Being alone with Carly Devlin under a crescent moon, gazing up at about a billion stars, was what any sane man would call flirting with danger. And Wes Hollingsworth had given up flirting with danger years ago.

  At least, he'd thought he had. Until he'd laid out the blanket in the back of his pickup truck and realized that all those ads about roomy truck beds didn't take into consideration the full impact of Carly Devlin in a little black tank top and a pair of tight blue jeans.

  Between the picnic basket, the Coleman lantern, and Carly's hip butting up against his own, the back of the truck felt as tiny as a closet.

  "Where are we, anyway?" Carly asked, picking through the picnic basket.