what you need is a swift kick in the ass.”
Kick? Holt suppressed a shudder. “The hell you say.”
Jack raised his hands in a placating manner. “Just to clear your thinking, is all, but since you out-weigh me now by a hundred pounds, I’m not the man for the job.”
“I’m taking Caprice to Georgia. After today, I won’t see her again."
Jack slammed his fist on the table. A spoon rattled and dark liquid sloshed over his mug's thick rim. "When it comes to females, we're jinxed. Let's face it, Holt. Your temperamental bulls have a better social life than we do."
****
While the Freelander cruised south and crossed into North Carolina, Caprice sat on the sofa with Shawn. She kept his attention by pointing to glossy magazine images of magnificent red and black Limousin bulls with first place, and best-in-show ribbons attached to their leather halters.
Shawn grew bored and retrieved his crayons from the red duffle, and Caprice consulted her watch. It was noon. She still had time to make her five o’clock meeting.
They whizzed past sun-struck trees. The yellow and orange blur of lilies in the highway’s median reminded her of Monet and Renoir's rich works. Like a lace border on Irish linen, pastures were edged by verdant forests.
Her fingers flexed and she imagined herself poised with a horse-hair paintbrush between her fingers. Yet, it would take courage to face a blank canvas again, to mix oils, and smell solvents without the haunting image of Sandra Lovelace’s luminous brown eyes.
Soon Holt decelerated and parked in the picnic area of a rest stop. From his place on the floor beside the shepherd, Shawn finger-signed “A” for Armor. He faced his palms toward the floor and swung his out-stretched hands from side to side.
Glad for the distraction, Caprice nodded. "Let’s ask Holt if you can walk him."
She watched Holt unfold his length from the driver's seat. He was tall and his wide shoulder span exuded boundless strength. Low slung jeans covered narrow hips and long, powerful thighs. His dark gaze ensnared hers. Soon they would be parting, but she was still curious about his past and the reasons for his broken marriage.
"Shawn wants to walk Armor," she said.
"Let him. Do you own a dog?”
“No. I never grew up with them, and we don’t have room for a pet in our townhouse. Dogs need a place to run,” she said, hating the defensive pitch in her voice. “They need to be fed and brushed.”
“Shawn.”
“But, he’s only five.” When Holt grimaced, she stared. “You think, I over indulge him because of his handicap, don’t you?”
“A dog will teach him responsibility.”
She was still considering Holt’s words when they stepped outside. Scattered among a large stand of maple trees were several picnic tables occupied by vacationing families and couples, young and old. Shawn led Armor along a chain-link fence, and the pair became partially hidden as they stepped among crepe myrtle trees heavily laden with coral blossoms.
Holt gestured to a shaded pavilion yards from the motorhome and the rest stop’s curving road. Caprice sat beside him on the concrete bench and pressed her back to the table’s edge as katydids filled the air with their buzzing crescendos.
Holt leaned forward, rested his elbows on spread knees, and clasped his hands. Granted, they were strong hands that could snap her bones on a whim, but Holt had also rubbed Armor behind the ears, and patted his father's shoulder to comfort him in a private moment. In companionable silence, they watched as Shawn ran, urging Armor into a game of hide-and-seek among the thick shrubbery.
Finally Holt spoke. "What are your plans?"
"When it’s safe to return to Charleston, I’ll continue building my mural business. In the meantime, Shawn will benefit from seeing Grace and spending time with my two nephews.”
"Shawn needs a father, not one in name only. And you shouldn’t be alone, Caprice. Do you date?"
"I’m too busy for all that.