Joe shut his eyes and massaged his forehead for a moment, then let out a sharp breath. “Fine, I’ll do it. Somehow.”
“Glad to hear it. Knew I could count on you.”
Joe snapped shut his phone and blew out another breath. Well, hell—he’d spent most of the past fifteen years making sure everyone could count on him. Guess he had nobody to blame but himself for accomplishing his goal.
He got out of the car and walked over to the office, where Hank Logan stood outside with a mug of coffee in one huge hand and a grin spread across a face nobody in their right mind would call handsome. Joe guessed the lodge’s owner to be around forty, although you sure couldn’t tell it from the flat stomach and impressive biceps evident through the plain white T-shirt. Taller than Joe by a good two or three inches, the intimidation factor was nicely rounded out by nearly black, straight hair and a nose that looked like it was no stranger to a barroom brawl.
Joe had liked, and trusted, the ex-cop practically on sight, which was anything but his usual reaction to people. By nature, he preferred to take things slow when it came to getting to know a person. Not that fostering friendships was something he’d had much time for in the past several years, in any case. But now, seeing that grin, he let himself entertain an idea he rarely did, which was that it might be nice to put down roots someday. Have a friend or two to shoot the bull with now and then.
To have something resembling a normal life.
“Just made a pot of coffee,” Hank said. “Want some?”
“Hell, yes.”
The two men walked into the lodge’s office, which, with its tired fake wood paneling and cast-off furniture, had seen better days twenty years ago. Soon it—along with the rest of the original utilitarian motel—would be transformed into a “rustic” counterpart to the individual cabins farther up the road, nestled here and there in the woods blanketing most of the property. Hank had bought the place cheap a few years back, apparently figuring he’d fix it up and sell it. Enter Wes, who’d run across the motel and wanted to buy it. But from what Joe had been able to glean through the grapevine—one rooted firmly in Ruby’s Diner in town—the addition of a wife and daughter to the former recluse’s life had changed his mind about selling outright. Since Wes had still believed the property had a lot of potential as a small resort, he suggested he and Hank become partners in the venture.
Which is where Joe came in.
“So who all’s here?” he asked, taking a swallow of coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
“Plumbers, mostly, deciding how to get water up to the lots where the new cabins are going. And the grader got here right after you left, started leveling the lot closest to the lake.” Another grin etched deep creases in the weathered face. “Told the guy he took out so much as a sapling, there’d be hell to pay.”
Joe chuckled. He was usually wary of hands-on property owners, since more often than not they either got in the way or botched things up—if not both—which ended up costing everybody time and money. But not only were the renovations that Hank had done himself on the original cabins top-notch, Joe got the definite feeling Hank Logan was not a man who tolerated stupidity. In himself or anybody else.
Not only that, but he made coffee with serious cojones.
“The electrical contractor should be here, soon, too,” Joe said.
“He already was,” Hank said. “Since you weren’t back yet, I suggested he go on to Ruby’s for breakfast.”
Joe grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hank said, frowning into his empty mug, then going back for a refill. “Breakfast at Ruby’s has a way of mellowing a man.” He poured his coffee, then glanced over at Joe. “How’s the boy doing?”
Other than thinking I’m slime? Joe thought, then said, “He wasn’t too sure about things. But they seem like nice people over there at the camp.”
“They are that. Seth’s in good hands, believe me. Hey,” he said, apparently changing the subject. “You see my kid? Blair? Kinda tall, long red hair?”
“Maybe. For a moment. Until the other one shooed everybody outside.”
“The other one?”
“Taylor? Another redhead. Said she ran the place with Didi.”
“Yeah, that’s Taylor.” Hank took another swallow of coffee. “She teaches kindergarten up at the elementary school, went in with Didi when Bess Cassidy moved to Kansas to be with her kids two summers ago.” Nearly black eyes seemed to assess him. “From what I hear, Taylor’s got a magic touch with kids. They’re crazy about her, and she’s crazy about them. One of those women you figure would like nothing more than to have a batch of her own.”
Joe found himself staring hard at his coffee. “I suppose that’s an admirable trait in a teacher.”
“True. I don’t know her too well, myself, but Blair thinks the world of her.”
Now it was Joe’s turn for a second cup. “You have to wonder, though, how she ended up here.” At the silence following his comment, he turned to see Hank’s slightly puzzled expression. “Coming from someplace like Houston, I mean. Must be a big adjustment, living in a small town.”
“No argument there.” Hank knocked back the rest of his coffee, then twisted around to set the empty mug back beside the coffeemaker. “Guess it just depends on what you’re looking for at the time…. Well, hey, gorgeous.”
The last was directed, with a big smile, for a slender blonde dressed in shorts and a tucked-in sleeveless blouse who’d just come into the office. The woman was attractive in that way of women over forty who are unconscious of their beauty, her straight hair held back from her finely featured face with a couple of clips. Slipping a decidedly proprietary hand around her waist, Hank introduced her to Joe as his wife, Jenna, with a pride in his voice that Joe decided was due not to Jenna’s being his as much as that she’d chosen him.
He told himself the burning sensation in his gut was due to Hank’s coffee.
She welcomed him to Haven, a generous helping of crow’s feet splaying out from the corners of her eyes as a warm smile stretched across her face. While Joe was pondering her lack of Oklahoman twang, Hank asked Joe if he’d read any of his wife’s books—in her other life, she was the mystery writer Jennifer Phillips.
“For heaven’s sake, Hank,” Jenna said, swatting him lightly in the chest. “Quit putting people on the spot like that! You’re embarrassing both of us!”
Joe smiled. “I’ve heard the name, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader. Not anymore, at least. Not since…” He pushed aside the cloud of memory to think back. “Not really since high school.” The realization surprised him—had it really been that long since he’d indulged in the simple pleasure of reading a novel?
Fortunately, before these people managed to find out what size drawers he wore, the electrical contractor returned, giving Joe an excuse to sidestep any further discussion about his personal life and retreat once again into the safe, generally orderly world of bids, supplies and schedules, a world over which he had a fair amount of control.
As opposed to the world where he had virtually none.
On brutally hot days like this, by midafternoon not even the littlest ones were much interested in moving. So Taylor usually settled them in the grass under one of the big old cottonwoods out behind the church, reading aloud until their parents came to get them or they nodded off. She loved changing her voice to match each character, seriously getting off on the glow of delight when she’d glance up and see a batch of wide eyes and, sometimes, open mouths. And the giggles. She lived for the giggles.
And at the moment, she’d give her right arm to hear Seth Salazar giggle.
When