Neither was Clay. In fact, he’d rather sit here all evening, enjoying what little time he and Rickie had left. “Why don’t I bring over a couple of hot dogs for us once they’re cooked?”
“That’d be nice. Thanks.” She made a little hole in the sand, one big enough to hold the bottom of her can. Once she set it down, she turned to him and blessed him with a pretty smile. “So what was it like growing up in Wexler?”
“I doubt it was much different from your neck of the woods. I lived on a ranch, though. So I had a lot of chores to do each day, plus a cow to milk and a couple of chickens to feed.”
“That’s cool. I never had any pets.”
Clay wouldn’t call an old milk cow or four harpy hens pets.
“Do you still live in Wexler?” she asked.
“No, after high school I moved on.” He nearly added, to bigger and better things, but there was no reason to share his West Point experience. And his military career was still off the table.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“The ranch? No, not at all.” He didn’t consider himself a small-town boy anymore. He was a soldier now. And Army proud.
“When I was in high school, I lived on a quiet street in Jeffersville,” she said. “The houses were all two-story and pretty similar, except we were the only ones who had a pool in our backyard. Actually, I guess I still have one.”
The comment struck him as a little odd. “So you live with your parents?”
“No, they both passed away recently. In a car accident. So the house belongs to me now.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been tough.”
She shrugged. “It was, but I’m dealing with it.”
He was about to say something, but the shadow that touched her gaze passed faster than a ghost, so he let it go at that. He didn’t want to stir up any sad memories for her.
Apparently, she didn’t want to dwell on them, either, because, after a couple of beats, she asked, “Does your family still live on that ranch?”
“My mom does. My dad died when I was young. When I was a teenager, she and I moved in with my paternal grandfather and my step-grandmother.”
Rickie turned toward him, her knee drawn up and bent, her hands clasped around her shin. “Tell me about her.”
“Who? My mom?” He hadn’t seen that coming.
“Yes, I’m curious about her. My real mother died when I was really young, so I never had the chance to know her.”
“I thought you said your parents died recently.”
“They did. I was orphaned the first time when I was eight and then adopted when I was nine.” She cast a glance his way. When their eyes met, she seemed to reel him into her story. Into her life. “My adoptive mother was good to me, but she wasn’t very maternal. At least, not the way I imagined a mom should be. Know what I mean?”
Not really. But he nodded just the same.
“I’m not complaining. It’s just that I had a super-cool foster mom once.” She seemed to brighten from the memory, rebounding easily, which was a relief. Clay didn’t like the sad, pensive look that had touched her expression a few moments ago.
Hoping to prolong the happier thoughts, he asked, “What was cool about her?”
“Pretty much everything.” Rickie’s smile deepened, her mood transformed. “Her name was Mama Kate—at least, that’s what we called her. I have no idea how old she was. Probably in her sixties. She was heavyset with an easy laugh and a loving heart. She never turned down a kid needing placement, so her house was packed with children. Yet she always found special time for each of us. And she was a whiz in the kitchen. She made the best meals—healthy and tasty at the same time. And her cookie jar was always full.”
Clay’s mom was a good cook, too, although she didn’t do much baking anymore. At least, he didn’t think she did. It had been a long time since he’d seen her face-to-face. They talked on the phone, of course. Usually on Sundays. But he didn’t go home too often. Just for Christmas—and only if he wasn’t deployed or stationed too far away.
“How long did you get to live with Mama Kate?” he asked.
“Not long enough.”
She didn’t explain, but Clay sensed a sadness about her. Without a conscious thought, he reached out and placed his hand on her bent knee, offering his comfort and support. Or maybe he just wanted an opportunity to touch her.
“It sounds like Mama Kate set a good example for you,” he said.
Rickie smiled, and this time, when their eyes met, something warm surged between them. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they’d made some kind of emotional connection, one that might linger indefinitely. But they really hadn’t. How could they? They’d just met. And they’d never see each other again.
Yet the longer they sat in the soft glow emanating from the porch lights, the more surreal the evening seemed. Sure, Rickie was just as pretty, just as sexy as ever, but there was so much more to her. And if she lived around here...
But she didn’t.
Reluctantly, he removed his hand from her knee. “I grew up without a father, but my granddad tried to set a pretty good example for me. He was tough as nails, but he also had a soft side.”
Again, she smiled. “So you grew up with a lot of love.”
“Too much at times.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“My mom was one of those helicopter parents. She hovered over me, hell-bent on keeping me safe, close to home and under her wing.”
At that, Rickie drew up both knees. Her smile deepened, sparking something in her pretty brown eyes. It felt pretty damn good to think that he’d done or said something that had caused her pleasure. But for some reason, he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about him or his mother.
“You might think that’s cool,” he said, “but you have no idea how tough it was to live with a mom like mine. Our relationship was pretty strained most of the time, which caused me to rebel every chance I got.”
Rickie cocked her head to the side, causing her curls to tumble over her shoulder. He was tempted to reach out, to touch them, to see if they were just as soft as they looked. But this time, he kept his hand to himself.
“In what ways did you rebel?” she asked.
He thought for a moment, wanting to choose the right example to share. For some dumb reason, he didn’t want to tell her about the time he and Duck got caught drinking Granddad’s Jack Daniel’s behind the barn. Or when he and Poncho lit up cigars in the old lot near the ball field and set the dried grass on fire.
“When I was just a little kid,” he said, “maybe four or five years old, my grandparents came to visit. It was right before Halloween, and Granddad’s wife made me a purple superhero cape to go with my costume. Even days after I’d gone trick-or-treating, I wore that silly thing all the time. And whenever I’d see my mom standing at the kitchen sink and gazing out the window, I’d climb one of the nearby trees and jump out of it. I knew I couldn’t really fly, but I’d pretend to. And my mom would really freak out.”
“Surely you don’t blame her for doing that. You could have broken your neck.”
“Yeah, I know. But she used to hit the