The Rain Sparrow

Carrie could never get her eyebrows to look that good.

“I thought you were busy rescuing the drenched boy.”

“Before that. The storm scared me. Don’t roll your eyes. I can’t help it. I came downstairs to watch the weather on TV.”

“And your hottie writer pal was already there?”

“He was trying to find the coffeepot. I showed him. We made coffee.”

“You must have nearly fainted when you learned who he is. I mean, you being a bookworm and all. Valery’s right. He’s not hard to look at, even if he’s older by a few years.”

Late thirties. Maybe even forty. When a guy looked that good, age didn’t matter.

“It was storming, Nikki,” Carrie said in exasperation. “You know how I feel about storms. I would have hung out with anyone wearing skin. I didn’t care if the guy was a writer or a skid-row bum.”

She might be stretching the truth a little, but she had been deeply relieved at finding a living, breathing, unterrified human in the kitchen. The fact that he was Hayden Winters was icing on the cake.

“Are you ever going to stop being a ninny about a little thunder and lightning?”

“One can only hope.” But how could she, when she lived with memories of that one particular stormy day, of the helpless dread and shattering humiliation that came with every thunderclap? All her life, she’d known something terrible would eventually happen during a storm. She’d been right.

Her sister glanced at her cell phone. “Aren’t you going up there? See what he wants?”

“Tawny’s got the front desk. She can assist him.”

Nikki made a hissing noise and shook her head in dismay. “You are the most hopeless female in Honey Ridge.”

Carrie laughed. “Bye, Nikki. See you.”

Her sister rolled her eyes for the tenth time, tossed her sleek hair and departed, eggplant stilettos tip-tapping on the indoor-outdoor carpet.

As Nikki disappeared from sight, Tawny whipped around the end of the stacks. “Someone wants to see you at the desk.”

Carrie suffered a little swell of energy, quickly tamped down.

He might be Hayden Winters, the most celebrated name in killer thrillers, but to Carrie, he was the guy who liked bold coffee and books and kept the tornadoes away. A pleasant and passing acquaintance.

Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll believe it.

“Be right there.”

7 (#ulink_a03765f1-1021-5aae-a41b-480b1b46de3c)

Libraries raised me.

—Ray Bradbury

Hayden scanned the library, taking in the small computer bay, the cozy sections of brown vinyl couches and chairs, the study tables, and the rows and rows of books tidily divided into sections. Along the east wall, a rack of current magazines overlooked round tables littered with various newspapers.

With each breath, he drew in the redemptive smell of books. Places like this had saved his life.

At the circulation desk Hayden asked for Carrie. A tiny blonde librarian, after giving him a puzzled stare as if she couldn’t quite place him but knew she should, took off toward the rows of books. Apparently, Carrie hadn’t mentioned his presence at Peach Orchard Inn, and he couldn’t decide if he was grateful or wounded.

He liked his midnight barista. Had been intrigued by her. Had found an excuse to see her again.

While he waited, Hayden perused the new releases shelf, flipping through Mary Higgins Clark’s latest as he kept half an eye out for Carrie.

When she came into view, a quick kick deep in his gut caught him off guard. His glance drifted to her ankle, noting the bracelet she’d worn a few nights ago was there again above simple black flats. Even in his sleeplessness, he hadn’t imagined Carrie Riley’s fresh appeal. Dressed in black skinny slacks and a white button-down, she’d tucked her short dark hair behind pearl-studded ears.

She was like the library, neat and orderly.

“You looking for a cup of coffee?” Her mouth curved.

“Might be. You have a few minutes?”

“Not for coffee. Sorry.”

So was he.

“Another time, then.” He slid a hand into the pocket of his chinos. “I wondered about Brody. Did you get him home all right?”

A crease appeared between Carrie’s eyes. She motioned toward a round table nearby, and they sat down across from each other.

Hayden had an uncomfortable feeling about the kid, and he was seldom wrong in his character analyses. Whether fictional or real, he discerned people. Right now, he discerned trouble for Brody Thomson and concern in Carrie Riley.

Posture erect, the tidy librarian clasped her hands together on top of the table. Her fingernails were unpolished, unlike the pearl-pink toes from Friday night. She wore no jewelry on her slim fingers, either. Another point of interest he filed away.

“Brody acted very uncomfortable about me driving him home,” she said in her soft-as-rainwater voice. “He wanted me to drop him off in town. He said he’d rather walk.”

“You let him?”

“No. I insisted on driving him all the way to his house.” She shrugged, dark eyes widening. “I had a funny feeling.”

“As did I. Any sign of his father?”

“He came to the door. Brody was anxious for me to leave.”

An oily feeling curled in his belly. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“This may seem silly—” she glanced up at him and then back down, absently picking at the curled corner of the Knoxville News Sentinel “—but as I drove away, I tried to keep watch in my mirrors without being too obvious.”

“Not silly at all. See anything?”

“When I turned the corner, I thought I saw his father slap the side of his head.” She exhaled a little breath of frustration. “I’m not sure, though, and it might have been a friendly thing like dads do sometimes.”

“You mean like a welcome home, a love pat?”

“Exactly. My dad used to put my brother, Trey, in a headlock and they’d wrestle around. Guy stuff. That’s probably what I saw.” She nibbled her bottom lip.