“Because it’s important that she knows she has people in her life who love her,” he added.
“Absolutely. I wish I’d had that during those hard years.”
“I’m trying to be that person for you.” He held his breath, watching for signs of flight.
She blinked rapidly. “You don’t know me . . . We’ve barely—”
“You haven’t seen Kaylie since she was one. Does that matter to you? Do you need to spend a year getting to know her before you commit to her?”
“It’s not the same!” She tried to jerk her hand out of his, but he tightened his grip, not willing to let her hide so easily.
“Listen.” He waited until she made eye contact. “You’re scared I’m going to not be here tomorrow. Or two months from now. So you hold back, refusing to put your heart out there. I’m telling you I’m a safe bet.”
“You can’t promise—”
“Don’t try to tell me what I can or can’t promise. I know what I’m capable of. I’m not scared of exposing my heart to you, Mercy, but I know you are terrified of doing the same.”
She was silent.
“But that’s okay. I get it. I know being abandoned by your family ripped a deep hole inside of you and you’ve got high walls built up around your heart to protect it. But you need to understand that it’s not a sign of weakness to allow yourself to be loved.”
“I can’t do that,” she whispered.
“Not yet,” he agreed. “Eventually you’ll learn it’s a sign of strength. You’ll learn it’s one of the hardest gambles in the world, but damn . . . when it’s right, the payoff is out of this world.” He touched her cheek, worried he’d pushed too hard, but she hadn’t run away. Yet.
She was so stubborn and independent.
But he wouldn’t have fallen for her if she were any other way.
FIFTEEN
Mercy liked Tilda Brass on sight.
She felt right at home with the elegant, mannered woman who wore men’s overalls and rubber boots and spoke in a kind voice. Tilda poured her a cup of tea and Mercy declined the milk, opting for a wedge of lemon. She’d asked Tilda to reschedule their tea to midmorning and Mercy was glad she’d already had her hit of caffeine for the day. Tea wasn’t her poison of choice.
She’d woken with a stiff neck, but a hot shower and some ibuprofen had made short work of it. Eddie had picked her up, stopped at Starbucks, and then dropped her off at a rental agency, where she’d waited impatiently behind two groups of tourists who couldn’t decide what type of vehicle to rent. Each time the twentysomething clerk glanced aside and caught Mercy’s stare, he seemed to completely lose his concentration and had to ask the customers to repeat themselves. Forty minutes later she was on her way in a Ford SUV, feeling as if she were cheating on her Tahoe.
Truman’s words from last night were fresh in her head. In fact, they’d ricocheted in her brain for most of the night. He was willing to risk a broken heart for her.
She wasn’t ready to risk one for him. Yet.
There’s nothing wrong with needing more time.
She sipped her tea and admired the intricately carved wooden mantel of Tilda’s fireplace. Photos and pictures littered every surface in the formal living room. Mercy liked the contrast of the delicate doilies and crocheted afghans with the attire of her hostess, because she firmly believed in dressing to be comfortable. “How long have you lived here?” Mercy asked, knowing Truman had written twenty years in his report. The home no longer resembled the small house her childhood friend had lived in on the property. It appeared to have been expanded several times.
“Over two decades,” Tilda answered. “I was nearly sixty at the time, but I still had more energy than most twenty-year-olds. Buying this big farm didn’t seem like a big deal, but after a dozen years or so it became a bit much for my husband. He was ten years older than me and had slowed down quite a bit.” She eyed Mercy over the rim of her teacup. “I hear you’re sleeping with that good-looking police chief who interviewed me the other day.”
Mercy nearly spit out her tea. Tilda might have lovely manners, but apparently she said whatever she felt like.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve heard it from two different sources in town. People talk, you know.”
“I thought you didn’t get to town much,” Mercy said faintly.
“I don’t. But I have a phone. Still like to talk and catch up on some things. Who’s sleeping with who is always a topic my girlfriends want to discuss. They seem to approve of the two of you.”
“Uh . . . that’s good.”
“I like being able to put a face to the names I hear about, so I was plumb delighted when you called and wanted to get together.” She looked Mercy up and down, assessing and nodding as if she liked what she saw. “I bet you’re nearly as tall as him, aren’t you?”
“Almost.”
“That’s good. I was taller than my first husband and it never bothered me that much, but when I remarried, I realized how nice it was to be able to look eye to eye with my second husband.”
“I understand.” Mercy did. She’d been taller than a majority of the guys she’d gone to high school with. Few were willing to take an interest in a girl they had to look up to.
“Doesn’t really matter in bed, though, does it?”
Mercy kept a straight face. “I guess not.”
“Your police chief reminds me of my second husband. Tall and dark with kind eyes and a nice smile.”
Her own smile spread across her face. “Yes, that’s Truman.”
“You’ve got that look about you,” Tilda said thoughtfully, scanning Mercy’s face. “When you said his name, I could see how important he is to you. You looked like a woman in love. I remember that feeling.”
Mercy caught her breath. She and Truman still hadn’t said those three little words to each other. Several times she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to say it, and she’d been convinced he was going to say it during their discussion last night.
He hadn’t. Was I disappointed?
A bit. Part of her wanted to hear it, and the other part screamed that she wasn’t ready.
Because if he said it, then she should too. Right?
Am I ready?
She recalled the bit of taped cotton she’d ripped from the crook of her arm in the shower a few hours ago. She’d led Truman to believe the blood draw was intended to check her nonexistent alcohol level. But when Mercy couldn’t swear she was not pregnant in preparation for the X-rays, the doctor had ordered the quick test. “Better to play it safe,” the doctor had said.
Mercy had spent the next few minutes in fear that she was pregnant.
She wasn’t.
“But then there’s times where you want to hit them in the head with a shovel and bury them deep in the back pasture because they pissed you off,” Tilda continued with a grin. “That usually leads to makeup sex. And then everything is better until you want to brain them again.”
Mercy took a drink of her tea, still at a loss for words.
“But you’re not here to talk about your man, you want to know if anything else has occurred to me about that fire.”
Relief swamped her. “Yes. Anything new?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Tilda took a big swig of tea. “I remember when your parents moved to town, you know. We lived out their way for quite a while. In fact, my man helped your dad dig fence post holes one year.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tilda needs some gossip time, not an opportunity to talk about the fire. She wondered how to steer the conversation back to the crime.
“I remember them being young and motivated and out to protect themselves from the world.”
“That sounds like my parents.”
“They weren’t nutty like some preppers are. Never saw them practicing drills with gas masks or digging a bunker to protect against radiation. They seemed to want to get back to a simpler time when people relied on themselves.”
“That was exactly what they wanted to do.”