Kylie swallowed the tears tightening her throat. A widow raising three children without a complaint, Anna had always been there for her children—and now she wasn’t. During those hard years, Anna had managed the small twenty-acre farm, selling butter, eggs and vegetables. She’d midwifed and birthed a good share of the babies in Freedom Valley. She’d washed and ironed for others, sold her herbal soaps and ointments, and most of all she’d loved and tended her children—and others who needed a kind heart. From her mother, Kylie had learned how a gentle, caring touch could heal. Kylie had learned the first elements of her profession as a massage therapist from Anna. “So here we are, Mom. I’m back home again. Single white female, recently divorced, with a zero bank balance, and all I can do is polish your furniture.”
Kylie could almost hear her mother say, You’ll do fine. Make the best of it. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and get on with life. Whatever is troubling you, deal with it as best you can, her mother had said. In the lonely hours, lemon and beeswax and plenty of good cherished furniture is a fine way to deal with troubles.
“I failed at everything, Mom. My life, my dreams, my marriage. I came away with nothing but a few things packed into the back of my pickup.”
Mmm. And other people haven’t failed? You came away with yourself and I’d say that is something. You’re strong and you’re good and you’re talented. Take your time, deal with it and go on.
“I love you, Mom. I always will.”
Love yourself more, Kylie. You’re a special person, giving light to dark, troubled souls. The world needs your laughter and energy and your beautiful, loving heart. You heal with your hands and your laughter.
“I did take in a few strays, didn’t I?” The Bennett house had always overflowed with Kylie’s refugees—even the box of newborn mice that she’d wanted to keep, and baby birds tossed to the earth by the winds.
You’re strong, Kylie. You love to tend those who need you, but take time for yourself, too. Mend and go on.
“Is that what you did after Dad died? Kept us all fed on a threadbare budget, worked until you dropped, and still loved everyone around you, tending them?” Kylie had only been eight, but even then she’d known that she could never give her heart to a man who was less than her father—“Why did I have to marry Leon then?”
Her mother’s soft reminder floated in the shadows. Sometimes the helpless take advantage of a good heart, honey. Don’t worry so—
“Mom, I need you—” The shadows didn’t answer this time, but the scent of Anna’s herbs and her baking still clung to the house as Kylie wandered through it. The pantry was lined with Anna’s canning jars, seeds and dried herbs neatly labeled, the clutter of hot water kettles and pressure cookers and juice makers ranged across one shelf. In a shallow basket, bars of lavender soap were neatly wrapped in plastic and tied with ribbon, waiting to be taken to Anna’s customers.
In the shadowy room familiar to Kylie, the dim light gleamed upon a tall bottle labeled Blackberry Wine. The cork had been dipped in wax, and cording wound around the base, neatly finished in a bow and waiting to be tugged.
Kylie inhaled the scents flowing through her like memories. “Mom, I don’t suppose you ever had a pity party, did you? Just to get everything out of your system, so you could go on?”
She could almost hear her mother’s soft, knowing laughter—then Kylie remembered when she was nine and had awakened for water. Her father had been gone a year then. Life had changed for the Bennett family and Anna hadn’t complained about the hard work, the long nights mending and struggling to support her family. Yet all those years ago, in the kitchen, her mother’s face had been covered with a mud pack and her hair was coated with mayonnaise. She had been soaking her work-worn hands in an aromatic soapy water, clear fingernail polish at the ready. A bottle of blackberry wine had been opened; Anna’s glass was half full. Kylie had stared at her usually neat mother, and Anna had said, “There are times when life hits a woman hard, and it’s best she pamper herself a bit, undergo a cleansing of sorts. And then she goes on. That’s what I’m doing now—dealing with the woman in me. When it’s your time, you’ll know.”
“It’s my time tonight, Mom,” Kylie said. “Thanks. I love you.”
Whoever knocked persistently at the front door wasn’t giving up and they were interrupting her blackberry “glow.” Careless of the plastic wrap sheathing her naked body, Kylie jerked open the door. Through her mellow mood, the music of the tranquillity tape flowing around her, she saw the man she once detested. There was no mistaking the width of his shoulders, that hard, blunt face and untamed hair. She eyed him warily; she wasn’t certain she didn’t still hate Michael Cusack. Once, she would have hurried out the back door to let air out of his motorcycle tires. Once, she would have dumped water balloons on his head from the second story of her house. She would have written creative passages in bathrooms, like “Michael Cusack sucks eggs” or “Cusack has a fatal and contagious disease.” Now she only wanted to be alone, sharing her blackberry wine with her mother’s soothing presence. The blue clay facial mask cracked when she stated, “It’s midnight, Michael. Go home to your harem.”
In the light passing through the opened door, Michael Cusack loomed over her, even more rugged and dangerous looking than that night thirteen years ago when he’d plucked her from a mechanical bucking bull she’d been riding on a dare. “I could have ridden it, you know. Go away.”
He rubbed his jaw, black eyebrows drawing together as he studied her. The scar ripping across his jaw was old and deepened his dangerous look. The September wind whipped at his shaggy black hair, his dark green eyes lighting with humor as he looked down at her. “I usually check on Anna’s place as I pass. The yard pole light is out. What’s with that getup and the goo on your face?”
“And I never liked being called ‘short stuff.’ Don’t do it ever again. You did that at Tanner’s wedding two weeks ago when Miss Bosom was draped around you.” Kylie wanted to make certain he knew exactly his crimes of the past. She resented the inches up to Michael’s six-foot-two height. At her eye level, the width of his chest was covered by a black sweatshirt. Well-worn jeans ran the long powerful distance between his black motorcycle boots, and Kylie launched her next volley without reservation. “It didn’t bother me at all that you never asked me to ride on the back of your motorcycle.”
“Okay,” he said slowly in that gravelly voice that could raise the hair on her nape and his eyes hadn’t moved from her plastic wrapped body. Humor softened the lines on his face. “You used to be a stick. Things have changed.”
She jabbed him with her finger and carelessly tossed away the challenge that sprung from his narrowed green eyes. “Hey, buddy. I’ve been having a hard time, okay? Mom and I are having a little chat, and you aren’t invited. I’m trying to lose weight fast, to feel better about myself, and I’d heard about this somewhere—whether it works or not, I don’t know. But I’m activating, buddy. I’m not just letting myself wallow in things that weren’t. When I’m up to speed, I’ll get a good exercise program and drop the comfort foods.”
“Mmm.