“No. I just have to heat the sauce and boil the spaghetti. It shouldn’t take long.” She bit her lip and fled to the kitchen.
He let her retreat and wandered the main room, all pine walls and floor. A cream shag rug lay under the coffee table and a patchwork quilt added a splash of color over the back of a leather couch. The walls were mostly bare, but framed photographs dotted end tables and lined the mantel.
He took a closer look at the pictures. Each one displayed a man or groupings of men, her brothers, he assumed. Hoped. A little girl smiled in most of them. A toddler with tiny pigtails poking out the sides of her head, some a little older, sporting missing teeth and long, white-blond hair, not gold as it was now.
Turning from the pictures, he ran a hand down the solid wooden post, admiring the craftsmanship. “This is really good work. Did the man who left it to you build it?”
“Yes. Long before I knew them.”
Stephen crossed the room and leaned against the counter opposite where she stood at the stove. He watched her open the same drawer three times before finally taking out a wooden spoon. “You sure you don’t need any help?”
“No. I mean…yes. I’m sure I don’t.”
“Okay. No rush.” She, however, looked very rushed, and cute, as her words tumbled out in a heap and he fought a smile.
“Do you want something to drink? I’m sorry, I should have asked you already. I don’t have a lot of company.” She averted her gaze with that last statement, angled her head toward the refrigerator. “I have soda and iced tea. Or water.”
“Tea’s fine.” So maybe it wasn’t just him making her nervous. And if having a man over for dinner was a new thing, he couldn’t help being glad. “So, how long have you lived here? In the cabin?”
“Almost two years.” She poured and held out the glass to him with a hand that shook so much, the ice cubes knocked together.
Damn, was she nervous? Or maybe afraid? Was she hiding from someone out here in the woods? The last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable by asking, but he couldn’t help wondering if someone had hurt her, scared her. If so, he’d find out who and do some hurting of his own.
He watched her intently as she got out butter and Parmesan and opened a loaf of French bread. “Here. Let me at least cut the bread.” He straightened and moved toward her. “My mom always told me not to stand around like a log.”
“Okay.” She went back to the stove to stir the sauce.
“So they left everything to you in their will? The property, the house?”
“Not exactly.”
While she explained, he sawed off pieces of bread, buttered them on a tray, and put them in the oven.
“I guess Mr. Bradley had a feeling when he went into the hospital that he wouldn’t be coming home. And he didn’t. He told me there was an envelope for me in the barn office and the next day he died. Just three weeks after his wife. Almost like he didn’t want to live without her.”
Something he could understand, Stephen thought.
“The physical therapy part was just an idea, but the Bradleys liked it, wanted the place used for something good after they were gone. I have a date to go in and state my case. No one will talk to me before then.”
“I could look into it for you.”
“No. But thanks.”
He’d be looking anyway. If the city was looking to take it for revenue purposes, which was possible, they’d be more eager if they thought they had a buyer. He’d do everything in his power to make sure they didn’t. And if his partner hadn’t gotten the message before, he’d make damn sure he did now.
When the pasta was ready, they sat across from each other at her small table. Always ready for a meal, he poised his fork to dig in.
Hannah raised a hand to her forehead, beginning the sign of the cross. Crap. He dropped his fork and joined her, thinking his mother would probably cry if she knew how long it had been since he’d done that. Or that the only mention of God from his usual companions was in direct praise of his performance.
“It’s good,” he finally managed after inhaling several bites. “Really good.”
“Thanks. My brother taught me to cook, so…I always wonder if it just tastes good to me or…” She shrugged. “Probably not as good as your mom’s.”
“Another casualty of being raised by wolves?”
She took a bite and smiled.
“Honestly, it’s better, though I’ll deny that if you tell her I said so.” He watched her eat, more at ease than she’d been the last time they’d sat across from each other. Progress.
Progress toward what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he felt good when he was around her. And until he’d met her, he hadn’t realized how much he needed to feel good. He’d be perfectly happy just to sit here all night and watch her eat. The way she cut her spaghetti into small pieces instead of twirling, the way she smiled at him across the table, just being Hannah.