Firefly Hollow (17 page)

“I’ll admit that I’m relieved he’s home for that very reason,” Owen said. “Maybe I’ll sleep nights now, knowing that you’re protected.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, thinking he was joking, but his face was serious. “Owen, this is nineteen-sixty, not the pioneer days, when panthers and bears and Indians were lurking outside the cabin doors.”

“I know what year it is,” he said as he held the door to the library open for her to pass. “But I also know that there are a lot of sick and twisted people in the world. A woman, particularly one who looks like you, living alone? You’d provide a lot of temptation for that sort of predator. It’s enough to give me gray hair, worrying. And before you say it, Miss Independent, it has nothing to do with you being able to protect yourself and everything to do with my protective instincts.” He walked back to the employee break room with her and waited while she locked up her purse and clocked back in.

“Do I dare interpret that to mean you aren’t simply biding your time with me?” she asked jauntily, her heart pounding as she waited for the answer.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm, his eyes unreadable. “If you knew how much you mean to me, how I feel about you, I’m afraid you’d run the other way so fast, I’d be left in a cloud of dust.”

Sarah swallowed, her hand coming up to cover his. “I—”

They were interrupted by Shirley. “I’m sorry to interrupt, kids. Sarah, Nellie needs you upstairs as soon as you can manage it.”

“Okay. I’ll head right up.” She waited until Shirley had passed, then said, “We need to continue this discussion later, I think.”

“Later’s probably a good idea. I guess you’re going to be busy tonight with your brother. Do you want to cancel our date?”

“Cancel, no. But we’re going to have to postpone it, I’m afraid. Can we try to meet tomorrow afternoon at the pool? I have to work, but I should be home by two o’clock or so.”

“Then I’ll hope to see you there.” He walked to the stairs with her, but didn’t go up. “I have everything I need, and I should probably get home and finish out this project.”

“I hate that I won’t see you tonight.”

The gentle, open smile that she loved so much spread across Owen’s face. “We’ll see each other tomorrow. That’s barely twenty-four hours.”

“Might as well be a year, the way I feel. Be careful driving home.”

“I will,” he assured her. “You do the same, later.”

With every bit of willpower she possessed, Sarah turned and went up the stairs. Her longing for Owen—for his company, his smile, his hugs and kisses—was growing exponentially. It was ridiculous to feel that way about someone she’d only known a few weeks. She’d discussed it several times with her mother, who had ruefully admitted she had fallen as quickly for Sarah’s father.

“I came in from school one day. I was sixteen years old, and Ira was visiting your Uncle Joe. I took one look at him and told my mother, ‘That’s the man I’m going to marry.’ The day after I graduated high school, we had our wedding. And I never regretted a single day.”

Given how hard Kathy had fallen for Randall, and how strongly Jack seemed to feel about Gilly, Sarah figured she shouldn’t be surprised that she’d tumbled so quickly. She was hesitant to put a label on her feelings yet, but she very much suspected she was falling in love with her neighbor.

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
HE RAIN STARTED LATE SATURDAY morning, a relentless drizzle that caused a thick, heavy fog to move into the valleys and coves of the holler. Sarah usually loved to sit on the porch and watch the fog roll up, but not when it threatened her meeting with Owen. The fog had caused her to take nearly thirty minutes longer than usual to get home. It was well after two by the time she pulled in the driveway.

She rushed into the house and yelled out a hello, but didn’t get a response. In record time, she changed into her walking clothes and dug her rain poncho out of the back of her closet. She hurried back downstairs and into the kitchen to pull a bag of food together, most of which she’d prepared that morning before leaving for work. As she laid the poncho across the back of a chair at the table, she saw a folded note with her name on it.

Sarah,

I hope you had a wonderful day at work, sweet baby girl.

The house should be empty by the time you get home. I’m going over to First Creek to visit Mahala Brashear. As you know, Jack’s out with Gilly and won’t be back until this evening. I expect you’ll be late getting in, as well. Tell Owen hello for me.

Also, please ask him to dinner tomorrow. I think it’s time he had a sit-down with the whole family, don’t you?

Stay out of trouble, have fun, and stay safe.

Love,

Mom

Sarah’s eyes smarted, and she closed them against the tears that always seemed to hover right below the surface these days. She knew her mother was doing the best thing she could to heal by going to Georgia, and she wanted to see Eliza find her feet again. But Sarah was going to miss her mother, who was truly her best friend in the world. She swallowed, raising the paper to her face to kiss it. “Love you, too, Mama.”

With the food packed, Sarah shrugged into the poncho and made sure the doors were locked. As she headed across the yard, she checked her watch and winced. It was nearing three o’clock, and she wondered if Owen would even still be waiting for her. As the thought went through her head, she heard a noise and looked up to see him coming down the path toward her.

“Hey!” she called. “I’m sorry I’m late. It seemed like everything in the world was trying to keep me from getting here on time. And then it’s raining to boot.”

Owen, clad in a waterproof coat of his own, just smiled. “I don’t mind a little rain. I’m glad to see you. I was starting to worry something had happened.” He took the bag of food with one hand and held out his other. Sarah took it and let him pull her close for a kiss.

“I missed you last night,” she said. “It was good to see Jack, but I kept wishing you were there.”

“They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he teased. “I missed you, too. So, since it’s raining, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I brought food, as you can see. We could go back to the house. No one’s there.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “We could. Or we could go to the top of the mountain. There’s no one there, either.”

Sarah was surprised. “Really? I thought you said if you ever took me to your house, you wouldn’t let me back off the mountain.”

His slow, wicked smile turned her heart upside down. “I did say that. But we could go to my parents’ house.”

They’d been slowly walking up the trail toward the pool, but at that puzzling statement, Sarah pulled him to a stop. “Your parents’ house? I thought that’s where you lived.”

“No. Not for some time now.” A considering frown furrowed the space between his brows. “It’s… complicated. If you’d rather go back to your house, that’s fine. I thought I’d offer.”

“You throw that sort of mystery out to me and expect me not to hot-foot it up to the top of the mountain? Think again, buddy.” She waggled a finger at him playfully.

“Come on, then. As good as this coat is at keeping out the wet, I’m starting to feel a little like a dog that’s been left outside in the cold.”

They went up the mountain, which felt like a private haven, shrouded as it was in fog. The branch of water that fed the pool was swollen, running slightly muddy as a result of the rain, and Owen helped her cross at a narrow spot. Having never been past that point, Sarah gazed around her with avid curiosity. The climb grew steeper after they passed the pool, and aside from Owen pointing out a landmark here or a particularly stunning cluster of wildflowers there, they didn’t converse much.

“How much farther is it?” Sarah asked ten minutes after they’d crossed the branch.

“Not much. We’re almost there.”

Not a minute later, they reached a flat bench of land that ran parallel to the ridgeline, and he led her to some wide steps that had been set into the mountain. When they reached the top of the steps, Sarah gasped.

Spread out in front of them, an open expanse of land spanned the ridge. It was a meadow, situated on the very peak, with the mountain falling away on all sides. The white, two-story farmhouse in the middle of the field had a wraparound porch. To the far left was a barn, and to the right, behind the kitchen garden, was a newer-looking building. The additional structure was also two stories and blended into the landscape of the mountain as though it had been carved there.

“Owen, this is beautiful. I’ll bet you can see forever from up here when it isn’t foggy.”

He looked around the clearing, and Sarah could see a sort of peace steal over him. “You can. If you don’t have plans for Independence Day, you should come up here. You can see every fireworks display in every town around here for thirty miles.”

“It’s a date, then. How many acres do you have here?” Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the view was how flat and open the grassy pasture was. In a region where the majority of the flat land was spread across river bottoms and where homesteads were carved out of craggy rocks and forests, to find a meadow of any size was a treat. The grass created a soft-looking carpet, one Sarah thought she would be happy to get lost in someday if the occasion arose.

“About eight in the clearing and about five hundred total.”

“Five hundred? I thought you all only had about three hundred.”

“My father did. After he died, I started adding to the property.”

“So where do you live, exactly?”

Owen pointed at the newer structure. “Over there. I built it a couple of years ago. I’d show it to you, but you know the rules.”

Sarah shook her head. “Silly man. One of these days, I may show up on your doorstep and hold you to that rule. What will you do then?”

“Why don’t you try it, and we’ll find out?”

She leaned against him, nudging him a step to the side. “Let’s get you out of the rain before you melt.”

He led her up to the front door of the farmhouse and opened it. “After you.”

Stepping inside, Sarah was full of curiosity. The house was older, but well maintained. Hardwood floors stretched throughout the rooms she could see from where she stood in the open door. The living room was on her left, the dining room on the right. Straight ahead, stairs led up to the second floor, and a hall on the left vanished into the back of the house.

He took her poncho and hung it up, then did the same with his coat.

“It’s lovely. Give me the nickel tour?” she asked.

“Of course. Let’s start upstairs, shall we?”

Walking up the staircase, Sarah let her hand trail along the polished oak bannister. “I’ll bet you never slid down this growing up.”

Owen sent her a grin over his shoulder. “Oh, never. I was a perfect little angel.”

Sarah snorted and tried to ignore the image of a little Owen that ran through her head. She sternly pushed aside the voice in her head that wondered what a child of theirs might look like.

When Owen showed her which of the four bedrooms had been his, she frowned. “How long ago did you move out, exactly? This room doesn’t look like you stayed in here since you were much younger.”

A fine tension visibly settled across his features. “I wondered if you’d pick up on that. Remember the part about my not living in this house being complicated?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s part of the story. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until we’re finished with the tour to tell you about it.”

Sarah clasped his hand. “Whatever you want.”

Back downstairs, he showed her through the rest of the house. When they reached the hall leading to the back, Sarah noticed the pictures on the wall. Owen tried to keep her moving, but she dug in her heels.

“Is this your family?” she asked, pointing to a formal portrait of two adults and two little boys. “It has to be. You do look like your father.”

He sent her a quizzical look. “It is. How did you know I look like him?”

Sarah tucked her arm into his, her eyes only leaving the picture long enough to glance up at him. “Mama told me. How old were you here?” She touched the picture with a gentle finger, tracing the curve of younger Owen’s cheek.

“Four or so.”

“You were adorable. I could just squeeze those little cheeks. Oh, Owen.”

Embarrassed by her gushing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Moving on, let’s see the kitchen next.” He started walking down the hall, but Sarah didn’t move.

“I’m going to finish looking at these pictures, if you don’t mind,” she teased. “I’ve seen kitchens before; I’ve not seen your baby pictures.”

“Oh, geez. What is it with women and baby pictures? My aunt Amy’s the same way. You go ahead and look to your heart’s content. I’m going to grab the Cokes I stashed over here earlier.”

Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Well, wasn’t that confident of you. How’d you know I’d agree to come back here with you?” When he shrugged without answering, she realized how uncomfortable he was. “Owen?”

He waved away the question in her voice. “I’m fine. It’s this house. Makes me… edgy. I’ll get the Cokes.”

Feeling as though she was on the verge of learning some of his secrets, Sarah wrapped her arms around herself as she finished perusing the pictures on the walls. Seeing the progression of Owen’s life as he went from toddler to young man, she could clearly see a divide. He went from being a happy, smiling young boy to a solemn, guarded teenager. Something had clearly happened to him, and it dawned on Sarah that whatever had occurred probably accounted for his solitary life as an adult.

The last frame didn’t hold a picture, but a family tree. It was old and faded, with the names written in a neat, feminine hand. She traced Owen’s name and date of birth, reading the information out loud. “Henry Owen Campbell, born July fourteenth, nineteen-thirty-three. Son of Henry Duncan Campbell and Lucretia McLemore Wells. Lucretia McLemore…”

Sarah’s voice trailed off, and she stood there, staring dumbly at the framed parchment. “No. No, it can’t be. He wouldn’t… Henry Owen. H.O. McLemore. It has to be a coincidence.” Even as she denied the evidence in front of her, she remembered Owen’s vigorous defense of the reclusive writer, how he’d often show up with ink stains on his hands, his mysterious research into genealogy and regional folklore.

“The Coke’s cold,” Owen said, coming down the hall with two bottles in hand. “Why don’t we go—”

Even from several feet away, Sarah heard him swallow. If she hadn’t been so surprised by the unexpected discovery, she would have laughed at the expression on his face. “Owen?”

He glanced from her to the family tree and back. She watched the guarded expression he’d worn when they first met come over his face, and she felt a pang in her heart.

“I guess we need to talk,” he finally said.