The Rain Sparrow

“For what? Being nice enough to rescue a little boy from the storm? For giving up your own night’s rest?”

“I slept a little,” he said, and the dream pushed in. He pushed back.

“Speaking of kids,” Eli said to Julia. “How’s my son?”

“Good as gold and sweet as pie. He missed his daddy, though.”

“I’ll run up and see if he’s awake.” Eli grabbed her for another kiss that left him grinning and her flustered. “Save me some bacon.”

Hayden took his coffee out on the long wraparound veranda, propped up his feet and watched morning slide across the emerald-green magnolias. The large shady yard was littered with leaves dispatched by last night’s wind, the grass glistened, still wet, and the flowers along the porch front drooped, too battered by the storm to lift their colorful heads. But the rain-washed air smelled glorious-fresh and moist and clean like the Appalachian woods in spring.

He found it interesting, if a bit pathetic, that even after all the years away, after all the fabrications, the success and money, he missed the green hills and deep, secret hollows, the crystal creeks and thick woods of Appalachia. Coming to Tennessee reminded him starkly of the home from which he’d escaped at sixteen. He could almost smell the Smoky Mountains to the east, like his Kentucky Mountains, a part of the long Appalachian chain that had once split east from west. With a kind of nauseating nostalgia, he’d driven the rental car around the curves of roads populated only by horse pastures or thick woods and shadowy secret trails the country boy still hiding in him longed to explore.

At his back, an old-fashioned wooden door opened and the blue Australian shepherd he’d seen yesterday trotted out for his morning business, black nose to the sparkling wet grass. Carrie appeared, carrying her own cup of coffee. Hayden whiffed the spike of vanilla flavoring she’d added, along with Carrie’s own scent, fresh and clean with a spicy edge of mystery.

“Good morning.” Her voice was throaty, a rough morning sound that sent his mind spinning down inappropriate avenues, to tumbled beds and warm, sleep-drenched interludes.

His head lolled in her direction. Her short hair was slicked back in a headband, her pale skin scrubbed pink and void of makeup. Over a blue print dress, she’d tossed a jean jacket against the morning chill. Simple and charming.

“You didn’t sleep long,” he said, not minding that she’d interrupted his solitude.

“When the sun rises, so do I. It’s a nasty habit left over from college when I’d get up early to cram before class.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Late nights?”

“Uh-huh. Slinging macchiatos.”

“Ah, yes, the wild midnight barista,” he said with a slight smile.

With an answering curve of bowed lips, she leaned against the veranda railing and sipped at her coffee. “Get any writing done?”

The dream rushed in, the people, the train, the watch, disturbing in a way that carried undercurrents he hadn’t quite put his finger on. The dream itself had not been terrible, not like the killers who stalked the edges of his thoughts and littered the pages of his books. Those didn’t disturb him at all.

“Some.”

“Did you kill anyone? Metaphorically speaking.”

“Will you be disappointed if I say neither metaphorically nor literally?”

She laughed, and a single dimple flashed at the corner of her mouth. She had a sweet face, made even more innocent by her round puppy-dog eyes and fresh-scrubbed style. She was doubtless younger than him by several years and a lifetime of experiences he wouldn’t wish on anyone. A small-town woman protected by and comfortable in the bosom of familiarity.

“Have you checked on Brody yet?” she asked.

“Later. He needs the sleep.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“Great minds.” He stretched his legs out on the porch, propped his crossed ankles on the railing.

“When he wakes up, I’ll drive him home.”

“Nice of you,” he said, though he would have made the same offer. He was curious about Brody’s home life, curious to know why the kid had lied and didn’t want to go home. He was also gritty-eyed from lack of sleep and wouldn’t mind a few hours’ sack time on the pillow top upstairs.

“I’m going that way. Might as well give him a ride.” She sipped again, dainty and ladylike, fingers on the handle and the opposite hand beneath the cup. “Thank you for keeping me company last night.”

“Storms really scare you that much?” He wanted to probe deep, his usual response to anyone’s fears because, quite frankly, he could use the information in a book. Psychology, even one’s own, provided powerful motivation.

“The fear is silly, I know, but they do. Always have. I owe you one.”

“Count us even.” He toasted her. “You knew where to find the coffee and cookies.”

He thought of her pretty pink toes and hid his grin with the coffee mug. The lack of sleep and the bizarre dream were giving him weird thoughts.

* * *

The kid didn’t want to go home.

Hayden figured that out about two minutes after stepping into the Mulberry Room with Brody’s dry clothes.

Still in the baggy sweats, the Huck Finn look-alike stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He’d wet his sandy-colored hair and was doing his best to slick down a frontal cowlick with both hands.

Hayden tossed him a comb. It would wash.

“When you get dressed, come down to the dining room. Julia has breakfast ready.” Hayden hung the dried clothes over the towel bar. “After breakfast, Miss Carrie will drive you home.”

The kid tensed, the comb flush against his wet hair. He kept his focus on the mirror, but Hayden could see the wheels turning. The kid’s body language spoke volumes.

“I’m okay. She doesn’t need to do that. I can walk.”

“A ride’s no problem. She lives in town and is going that way. See you downstairs.”

Hayden left before Brody could argue or come up with an excuse, though he didn’t know why it mattered. He was here to write a book, not get tangled up with some wayward kid.

The chatter of too many voices met him at the bottom of the crimson-carpeted stairs. He’d expected other guests, but when he walked into the red-walled dining room, one china-laden table was flooded with animated, laughing, gesturing women. Carrie was one of them.

The only males in the room, Eli Donovan and a small black-haired boy who could only be his much-missed son, sat next to a double window overlooking a backyard garden. Their plates were loaded with French toast, fruit and bacon, and the smell was enough to make Hayden’s mouth water.

“You’re surrounded,” Eli said wryly with a tilt of his head toward the female contingency. “Might as well enjoy it.” He pushed at an empty chair. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Hayden did, though he overheard the women’s chatter, gleaned bits of gossip, catalogued names. Julia slipped away from the others to bring his breakfast and more coffee.

When Brody appeared in the arched doorway, Hayden almost laughed. The kid looked shell-shocked, either by the abundance of estrogen or the opulence of the breakfast room.

Carrie saw the boy, too, and sent a smile in his direction. “Good morning, Brody. You look better.”

Brody offered a shy grin and made his way, silent as a memory, to what Hayden thought of as the guys’ table.

“They don’t bite,” he promised.