Free His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches) by Karen Kirst Page B

not to do
anything rash, like he very nearly had last night, he pivoted on his heel and
began to stroll away from the house. As expected, she followed.
    “Why?”
    He sighed, uncertain if he was strong enough to maintain
self-control. To keep things between them platonic. Businesslike would be even
better, though at this point, all but impossible. No other woman had ever gotten
under his skin like this one.
    Waving a hand in dismissal, he drawled, “You know, your skin is
like heavy cream and your eyes the hue of blueberries. Your lips—”
    “I get the picture,” she spoke up hastily.
    Silence stretched between them, their boots striking the stones
and birds twittering in the trees filling it. He was glad she was behind him,
unable to see the struggle in his expression.
    “How was church yesterday?”
    “Good.” She hesitated. “Though I’m not sure I appreciated the
onslaught of questions about you.”
    That brought him around. His brows met in the middle. “About
me?”
    “Yes, you.” She met his gaze openly. “This is a small town,
remember? People are curious about Lucinda’s son, Charles’s grandson.”
    He absently rubbed his chest, so accustomed to the pressure he
was beginning not to notice it. “I’m sorry you were put in an uncomfortable
position on account of me.”
    “It wasn’t that bad.” Concern flooded her gaze. She touched his
wrist, her fingers lingering against his skin. “Are you all right? I’ve noticed
you doing that a lot.”
    He lowered his hand, forcing her to drop hers. “It’s a habit.”
Turning, he resumed walking. This time, she fell into step beside him.
    “You aren’t having chest pains, are you?”
    “No, nothing like that. Just pressure and sometimes an
uncomfortable tightness. My physician checked me out and declared me healthy.
Said I needed to slow down for a while.” He skimmed the flowers with his
flattened palm, an ironic smile on his lips. “Stop and smell the roses.”
    Sensing her regard, he turned his head to meet her probing
gaze.
    “It appears this trip could accomplish that, if you’d let
it.”
    “You don’t understand.” He stopped short to face her, throwing
his hands wide. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t
want that house,” he confessed, jabbing a finger at the yellow structure visible
in the distance. “This garden. I don’t want to meet people who knew my mother,
to listen to them say how sad they are that she never came back. How my
grandfather regretted how he handled my parents’ marriage. How he died all
alone, with no one to comfort him.”
    He passed a shaky hand over his face. Frustration and sorrow
churned inside him, and he wanted to rail at someone or something, needed to
release these emotions before they consumed him. But his mother wasn’t here to
explain herself and neither was his grandfather.
    “No one blames you,” she said quietly, his grief mirrored in
her face. “I’m sorry for the things I said before. I made assumptions about you,
about your motivations, that I now know were wrong.” Slipping her slender hand
in his, she gently squeezed. “Charles wasn’t alone at the end.”
    “What?”
    Her lips trembled. “I was with him. So were Mr. and Mrs.
Calhoun. He was ready to meet Jesus. He went peacefully.”
    “That’s good to know,” he scraped out. He felt raw inside.
    What if everything he’d ever believed about the man was untrue,
distorted by deception? All those years wasted harboring resentment. Feeling
unworthy. Outraged on his mother’s behalf, hurting for her. Had he been wrong
about it all?
    He held on to her hand like a lifeline. “Did he ever say
anything about me?”
    “A few times.”
    “I see.”
    “He loved you, Lucian,” she said, pressing closer, “but it was
a painful subject. In many ways, your grandfather was a very private man.”
    Nodding, he swallowed hard. He shared that particular
trait.
    “Lucian—”
    Reaching up, he cradled her cheek with his hand, skimmed