Her Small-Town Hero Page 8

  She sighed and reached up to sweep the hat from her head, holding it in front of her. “I know. I just didn’t pack the right things before we set out. Goes to show you how tricky memories are. See, in my head, Oklahoma is this warm, golden place of warm, lazy days.”

  “The lazy, hazy days of summer,” he commented.

  She smiled dreamily. “Mmm, with the crickets making their music and the screen door slamming. I remember shadows dark as ink under the trees.” She lazily waved one hand side to side, adding, “I can still feel the fan blowing back and forth, back and forth, filling the whole house with the smell of blackberry pie cooling on the kitchen table.”

  “Peach,” he said, hugging his own memories close. “My grandma made the best peach pie in three counties.”

  “Ah, but the blackberries were free for the picking,” Cara Jane reminded him. “We’d drive along the country roads and take what spilled over into the bar ditches.”

  “But the best thing about summer,” he declared, nodding, “is watermelon.”

  “Ooooh. Ice-cold, juicy watermelon,” she agreed. “I ate so much one time, I had juice dripping off my chin and running down my chest. I had to be rinsed off with a water hose before I could go back into the house.”

  “Well, of course. That’s why you can’t eat watermelon in the house,” he teased. “You have to eat it sitting on the back porch so you can spit the seeds into the dirt between your bare feet.”

  She laughed at that. “I can just see it. You, Ryan and Hap—about thirty years younger—sitting on the edge of the porch, eating and spitting and covered in sticky watermelon juice.”

  “Don’t forget old Chuck,” Holt said, grinning. “He was the best spitter of the lot.”

  “And who is Chuck?”

  Some of the joy of the moment dimmed. “My daddy,” Holt told her. “Charles Holt Jefford, but everybody called him Chuck.”

  “You’re named for him,” Cara Jane remarked softly.

  Holt nodded. “Partly. Holt for him, Michael for my mother’s father, Michael Carl Ryan.”

  She lifted a finger. “I see a pattern developing.”

  Holt laughed. “You do, indeed. My brother is named Ryan Carl Jefford. Grandpa Mike died when we were little bitty, and Grandma Ryan way before that. Mama worshipped Grandpa Mike because it was just the two of them, and then she worshipped Daddy after Mike was gone.”

  Cara Jane nodded. “It’s funny how much we have in common, isn’t it? My husband’s name was Charles, and he was named for his father. Plus, my mother’s parents died before I was even born.”

  Frowning, Holt said, “I thought your husband’s name was—”

  “Addison Charles,” she supplied. “That’s where Ace comes from. A for Addison. C for Char—” She stopped dead in her tracks, and suddenly Holt knew he’d stumbled onto another of her secrets. A for Addison, C for Charles…

  “And E? What’s E stand for, Cara Jane?”

  “Edward,” she said angrily, though which of them she was angry at, Holt didn’t know. “For my brother.”

  “I thought you weren’t close to your brother.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you named your son after a brother you aren’t even close to?”

  “You can always hope, can’t you?” she demanded, reaching for Ace.

  Holt swung away. Ace huffed against his neck, and that’s when he realized that the boy had fallen asleep. He spread his hand across that little back and looked down at Cara Jane, feeling warm and protective and chilled and suspicious all at the same time.

  “I’ll carry him,” he muttered darkly, wishing that every moment with her didn’t end up tainted by distrust and suspicion.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way and parted at her door with whispered farewells. Sighing, Holt headed back to the church, the keys to the truck heavy in his pocket and misgivings heavy on his heart.

  Chapter Seven

  “H ere it is in Romans,” Hap said, smoothing the delicate leaf of paper with his gnarled hand.

  Cara had known that he would have answers for her. She’d wanted to ask the questions the day before right after the service, but Holt had so unnerved her that she’d thought it best to keep her distance until he’d gone. Then this morning Hap had announced that Holt would arrive this afternoon as soon as Ace rose from his nap to “help with the heavy work,” as Hap put it. Cara had decided to speak to Hap about Grover’s sermon during the lunch break, and he’d already clarified much that had confused her. The old man pecked the paper with the tip of his forefinger.

  “Yep, this is the passage Grover read yesterday. Now what is it that’s got you stewing?”

  Cara shifted close, and he moved over to make room for her at the end of the table. Bending low, she started reading to herself.

  “There,” she said, placing her fingertip on the page. “What does that mean, ‘His elect’?”

  Hap bent low, adjusting his glasses, but even as he looked, he spoke. “Well, now, that just means believers. We’d say Christians these days, but the term wasn’t in use back then.”

  Cara read the passage again, aloud this time, then went on to the end. “Huh. It doesn’t say anything about sin.”

  Hap chuckled. “Well, now, it does and it doesn’t. It talks about charges and justification, and those things have to do with sin, the committing of it and the forgiving of it. The point Grover was trying to make is completely valid, though. Here, let me show you.”

  His knobby hands flipped through the delicate leaves with swift surety. He took her through the book of Romans in a matter of minutes. Soon Cara’s mind whirled with memorable phrases.

  All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

  He is faithful to forgive.

  He Who did not spare His own Son.

  Confess with your mouth.

  The last one bothered her greatly. “What does that mean?”

  “In this case, it means declaring aloud that Jesus is your savior. In some other verses, it means to admit to your sins, your wrongdoings. That’s the first step to salvation, admitting your sins and seeking forgiveness.”

  Saddened, Cara merely nodded and stared a little harder at the Bible. How could she confess her wrongdoings if it meant putting herself and her son in danger? She certainly wanted to. The longer she knew Hap Jefford and his grandsons, the more pronounced her guilt became, but then she’d think of the cold, doubtful look in Holt’s eyes, and fear would overwhelm even her shame.

  Restless and cranky, Ace kicked the wall next to the portable crib, letting them know that nap time had arrived.

  “We better get out and let him sleep,” Hap said, picking up the Bible. “We can continue this in the front room.”

  “Oh, no,” Cara said, sidling in the other direction. “I have two more units to do.” She jerked a thumb in Ace’s direction. “I’ll just get him down and head back to work.”

  Hap opened his mouth as if to protest, but the front door chime sounded, and he flattened his lips. “Best see who that is. Likely it’s just one of the boys.”

  Cara didn’t hang around to find out. Whether it was one of his domino buddies or a paying guest, she had work to do and thoughts to mull over, though what good might come of that, she couldn’t imagine. This confession thing had her stumped. She couldn’t even explain her predicament well enough to get answers without Hap or someone else tumbling to the very thing that frightened her most.

  Feeling sick at heart, she went to the crib, bent and picked up her son. Cradling him against her chest, she carried him out to the laundry. After emptying both washers into the dryers, she took Ace back into the apartment, where she began to sway and croon. Drowsy as he was, Ace fought sleep for several long minutes before he relaxed into bonelessness. During that time, Cara kept thinking over and over how she could not be one of God’s elect because she did not dare confess her sins. Much as she wanted the assurance that she did not live separated from God’s love, she knew that
if confession had to be part of it, she was doomed. For how could she tell anyone, let alone Hap or Holt, that she had run away from a mental institution?

  Cara placed her palm against her son’s forehead and felt the heat radiating off his skin. Irritable, Ace squawked and shoved her hand away.

  “I can’t go,” she said, torn between disappointment and relief.

  She’d managed to keep her lips sealed these past three afternoons while working with Holt, who’d been all things endearing, and she’d been looking forward to this midweek prayer meeting to which Hap had invited her. After all, God would still hear her prayers, wouldn’t He, even if she couldn’t confess her deception? He’d heard her before when she’d prayed for help. On the other hand, she wanted to confess so badly at times that she just didn’t trust herself, not around Holt, at any rate, and especially not the friendly Holt who seemed so fond of her son now.

  “What do you think it is?” Holt asked, smoothing Ace’s hair with his big hand.

  “Maybe we should be calling a doctor,” Hap suggested.

  “Office is closed,” Holt pointed out. “We’d do better to take him to the emergency room in Duncan.”

  “He’s cutting teeth,” Cara said. “That and a case of the sniffles is all it is, but it’s enough to make him too fussy for church. You two go on without us.”

  “Are you sure?” Holt asked, his brow creased with worry.

  Cara almost laughed. Big, bad Holt Jefford. Let a kid steal his hat and he went all soft over him. She wished it didn’t please her so much.

  “He’ll sleep and tomorrow he’ll wake up fine.”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Holt hedged.

  “We’ll pray for him,” Hap declared.

  “But meantime, if you need us, you call,” Holt told her. “I’ll set my phone on vibrate.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she insisted, settling into the rocking chair in the front room with Ace on her lap, “and we’ll be right here holding down the fort when you two get home.”

  The men started for the door. Holt hesitated, looking back at her with a frown before following Hap out into the cold.

  “They’ll be fine,” she heard Hap say. “’Sides, you got your phone. What’d we do before Ty got us them phones?”

  She couldn’t make out Holt’s reply as they moved away. Then again, she couldn’t make out much about him, period. First he’d been downright standoffish, even grumpy, now he seemed to be making an effort to be friendly. He’d been a lot of help, too, cleaning drapes and carpets and so on, those chores that went beyond the daily tasks. Seemed like someone was always pitching in these days. Ryan had done the dinner dishes on Monday and Tuesday.

  “Only fair,” Ryan had told her when she’d protested, “since I’m eating your cooking.”

  Hap had said pretty much the same thing when he’d insisted on washing up this evening. He’d even gone so far as to claim that the hot, soapy water felt good on his arthritic hands.

  Neither of them made her uneasy like Holt, did, though.

  He still worried her with his pointed, perceptive questions and narrow-eyed stares, but it was more than that. She practically itched whenever the man came around, especially if he stood too close. She supposed it had to do with the times when she’d let down her guard with him and run off at the mouth, letting things fall that would be better left unsaid, like when she’d mentioned Aunt Jane and blurted the explanation of Ace as a nickname for her son.

  At least she’d managed to cover, or so she hoped. E for Edward. Thank God she hadn’t uttered the name Elmont. That information could lead to all sorts of trouble for her.

  Ace stiffened up like a board in her lap, complaining about the mucus that clogged his throat and reduced his howls to croaks.

  “Okay. Let’s see if we can’t get you a little relief.”

  Rising, she moved into the apartment, where she paused to shrug into an old corduroy coat that Hap had started insisting she wear. Even with the sleeves rolled halfway up, they covered all but her fingertips, but the big coat provided ample room for carrying Ace inside it against her chest. They hurried across the tarmac to their room to grab the little bag where she kept such things as baby vitamins and analgesic drops.

  After she got the drops into him, cleaned his nasal passages and put the kettle on to steam atop the potbellied stove in the front room, Ace drifted off to sleep cradled against her in the rocking chair. His weight so numbed her arms that she carried him back into the apartment and laid him in the crib, thinking how much he’d grown in these past couple of weeks. He still slept peacefully an hour or so later when the men returned.

  “How is he?” Hap asked at once, coming through the front door.

  “Breathing easy and sleeping hard,” she told him, tipping the chair forward as she got to her feet. “I’d better get him settled in for the night.”

  “I hate for you to wake him,” Hap said. “Why don’t you let him stay here in the apartment with me tonight.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she insisted, shaking her head. “He’ll expect me to be there when he wakes.”

  “But he and the crib are too much for you to manage,” Hap began.

  “I’ll help her,” Holt said, the front door closing behind him.

  The protest rose automatically to her tongue. “No, no, that’s not necessary.”

  He glowered at her. “I said, I’ll help you.”

  She ducked her head in acquiescence, knowing that she’d have a difficult time getting the crib collapsed and across the tarmac with a heavily sleeping Ace in her arms. Irked, she followed Holt into the apartment where she slung on the corduroy coat. He moved to the crib, bent and easily lifted Ace into his arms. Hastily, Cara folded up the crib and together they moved through the kitchen and out the back.

  Holt felt the warm little body snuggled against his chest and warmth seeped into his heart. The first time he’d held the boy, he’d marveled at his unexpected heaviness. Now, however, the little guy felt light as a feather. Holt supposed it was a matter of perspective. Ace no longer rated as a burden to be borne but, rather, someone to be shielded and protected. Holt wondered when that had happened.

  Maybe it was seeing the usually good-natured imp fussing and unhappy earlier that evening. Or maybe it was simple proximity. Holt had come to appreciate the little scamp’s usual sunny nature these past few days. It seemed to Holt that this boy needed the protection of an arm stronger than his mother’s and so far as Holt could see, he happened to be the only one around capable of providing it.

  That didn’t mean Holt would be any less protective with his own family, however. He’d been protecting and caring for his family since the deaths of his parents, and he would not allow Cara Jane to hurt either of them. He wanted to believe that he had her all wrong, but Cara Jane had lied. Holt knew it, he just didn’t know how yet.

  He’d had real trouble staying in his chair while listening to Cara and Ryan chat in the kitchen earlier this week. The talk had been completely innocuous, all about how she’d prepared certain dishes and how she seemed to use fewer pots and pans than Charlotte did. The real problem had been how happy Cara Jane had sounded, how at ease the two of them had seemed with each other. Holt had wanted to march in there and demand that Ryan be as leery of her as he was himself, but he’d wanted to do that because he knew it would keep Ryan away from her.

  The irony of the whole situation continually pricked Holt. He knew that she lied. That ought to have been enough to repel any feeling for her. Instead, he found himself drawn to her, even admiring the way she went about her work and how seriously she took her responsibilities as a mother.

  How, Holt wondered, had he gotten into this mess?

  More importantly, how did he get out of it?

  He’d asked God that very thing tonight, but silently, which reminded him of the promise Hap had made earlier.

  “We prayed for Ace tonight,” Holt told her as he waited for her to get out her key and let them into her r
oom. “Everyone did. We put his name on the general list.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open. “I appreciate that. I really do.”

  Holt followed her into the closet and waited while she set up the crib with quick, familiar efficiency. It bothered him that the boy didn’t have a proper bed and that she had to drag that contraption around with her all the time. Besides, where would Ace sleep if a paying guest needed the crib? One had been enough before they’d acquired a resident infant. He decided he’d best discuss the issue with Hap and see if they couldn’t come up with a more permanent solution, then it struck him that he shouldn’t be thinking of permanent solutions until he knew the truth about Cara Jane.

  He lowered Ace into the freshly made bed, then stood by while Cara Jane changed his diaper. The boy stirred, complaining with whimpers and kittenish growls, then promptly dropped off to sleep again the moment she covered him with a blanket. Holt and Cara Jane crept back out into the larger room.

  “He’ll sleep until the medicine wears off,” she predicted.

  “You got enough to see him through the night?” Holt asked.

  “More than enough. Besides, with all those prayers, he could be well before morning.”

  “Take that much stock in prayer, do you?” Holt asked idly.

  She nodded and bent to swipe a wrinkle out of the coverlet near the foot of her bed. “I’d be foolish not to, considering.”

  The statement sounded unfinished to Holt, so he had to ask, “Considering what?”

  She shrugged off Hap’s coat and plopped down on the bed she had just straightened, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her. Holt watched her decide how much to say. Finally, she answered him.

  “I was praying in my car when I came upon this place.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Maybe that’s not how it’s properly done,” she went on somewhat defensively, “but it was quiet, Ace was sleeping, and I was driving, trying to figure out what we were going to do.” She broke off and glared at him. “Well, you talk to other people when you’re driving, don’t you? I’ve heard people say prayer is just talking to God.”