Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan

raised planes of the cheekbones. Huge brown eyes, deep and dark, complementing the long, thick black braid. She’d obviously been working; she bore the look and scent of barn labor.

      The girl rolled her eyes as Sarah approached. Then she sniffed, unimpressed, the sound insulting. The boy stilled as if ashamed.

      “What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice held the same calm, flat intonation he’d come to know. Tilting her chin, she met Craig’s eye. “You may let go.”

      “Of course.” Irritation at being told what to do rose within him. “Now that I’ve saved his life, I’m expendable.”

      She didn’t smile. Grim, she addressed the girl. “Who’s watching Skeeter?”

      The girl flinched. “She’s watching cartoons.”

      Silent, Sarah didn’t move. She used the full force of those dark, impenetrable eyes to subdue the teenager. Defeated, the girl fidgeted. “I’ll see to her.”

      The teen flounced back to the small green house set in the trees, her posture indicating displeasure at life in general.

      Sarah’s gaze turned to the boy while the sound of a motor bore up the rise of the hill. As a group they moved the few steps to the road’s edge, allowing room for the oncoming vehicle. “What have you done, Brett?”

      Craig started at the name. Realization set in. Brett. Brett Slocum. Tom and Rita’s son. The girl must be the older daughter. Thinking back, he remembered her from her father’s funeral. She’d been in junior high then. Must be high school, now. Pretty name, too. Liddie? Tivvie? Something like that.

      The approaching car drew abreast. Glancing up, Craig recognized Maggie James’ polished silver coupe. She smiled and waved, then tooted the horn before she pulled ahead, angling her car to the side of the road.

      Brett’s look turned hopeful, maybe thinking his aunt wouldn’t chastise him in front of others.

      No such luck.

      “Brett?”

      He scuffed a toe into the scrabbled dirt along the road’s edge. “I read her stupid book.”

      “Her book?” Sarah’s exaggerated confusion flustered the kid. “She was upset because you read a book?”

      “A journal,” Craig supplied, keeping his countenance void of emotion with no small effort. Seeing the boy writhe under Sarah’s surveillance brought back plenty of memories. Her interrogation tactics were not unlike his mother’s.

      Sarah’s mouth dropped open. She gasped in righteous indignation. Her look implored the boy to set the record straight, declare the accusation untrue. Oh, yeah. Craig remembered the routine, front to back. Guilt 101. Did they teach that to women in class or was it intrinsic, inherent to the gender?

      Brett’s toe scuffed harder. Head down, he refused to face the look of disappointment on his aunt’s face. Craig couldn’t resist. “There’s more.”

      Brett shot him an affronted look and jammed his hands into ragged pockets. Glancing from Craig to Brett, Sarah made no acknowledgement of the approaching woman, focusing on her nephew. “Tell me.”

      “I told Matt DeJoy what it said.”

      “You didn’t.” Her dismay increased exponentially. “You shared your sister’s journal? Her private thoughts and dreams?”

      The boy’s toe dug faster as the charges compiled. His cheeks reddened. His shoulders twitched. He jerked his head. “It’s just a stupid diary.”

      “There is no such thing.” Sarah’s tone dropped to the dangerously quiet level Craig remembered all too well. Oh, yeah. That tweaked a memory or two. Times a hundred, at least. He fought a smile as Maggie reached them.

      With Maggie’s intrusion, Sarah raised her gaze. Again Craig was struck by the unflappable expression. The lack of affect. He used to think her unfeeling. Unreachable.

      Watching her interaction with the boy, he glimpsed the inner struggle. Saw the work it took to maintain the imperturbable appearance. She grasped the boy’s shoulder, her grip unyielding. “Get changed. You can help me in the back barn. Five minutes.” She added the last with a pointed look.

      He marched off, defiant, much as his sister had done.

      An awkward silence ensued. Maggie looked irked at Craig’s lack of greeting and Sarah seemed ill at ease. She nodded his way. “Thank you.”

      That was it? He opened his mouth to say something trite, then paused, reading the look in her eyes. Embarrassment. Shame.

      The shadow was brief, no more than a glimpse, but evident. He nodded back. “You’re welcome.” Feeling out of his element, he turned to make introduction. “Maggie James, this is Sarah Slocum. My neighbor, it seems.”

      Sarah’s look swept the work site cresting the hill. Something soulful flashed in her dark eyes. Pain? Her nod to the well-dressed taller woman was polite but swift. The tone of her cheeks went a deeper bronze. “I should get back to work.”

      Craig noticed Maggie’s subtle appraisal of Sarah’s appearance. Smells that clung. The dark flecks dotting her tall boots. A protective surge swept him again. He fought it off. “Of course.”

      With another nod, Sarah pivoted and strode away, the set of her narrow shoulders rigid. Craig turned toward Maggie. “You came to see me?”

      She swept his hillside setting a glance. “I heard you were building a house.”

      “You heard right. They just finished the fourteenth course of the basement. Not much to see yet, and probably not a good idea to hill-climb in those.” He dropped his gaze to her spiky heels, about as different from Sarah’s barn boots as you could get.

      And why on earth that thought occurred to him was a wonder in itself.

      “Probably not,” she agreed. She hesitated, shifting her purse up. “You won’t mind the smells out here?”

      Craig crinkled his forehead, then relaxed. “You mean farm smells?”

      “Yes.”

      He laughed. “Not at all. Especially not when farm visits are all in a day’s work. I don’t even notice it.”

      “I would.” She sounded regretful, but resigned. “I just thought I’d stop by and wish you well with your building. I know it’s something you’ve been looking forward to.”

      Forward to and then some. He’d had his house plans drawn up nearly three years back, then saved for the dream, living at home a year longer than originally planned.

      Now his wish became reality, day by day, emergent from the adjacent hillside splendor.

      And directly across from Sarah’s sheep farm. How in the world had that happened when he’d been so careful? Thinking back, he remembered querying Steve Laraby about ownership of the land to either side of him. East. West.

      Not across the street. He swallowed a groan with the realization.

      As he swung Maggie’s door wide, he mulled the situation. What were the odds that of all the acreage in the largest geographic county in New York State, Craig Macklin would end up building across from Sarah Slocum’s farm?

      What had his mother prayed for? Hills, trees, land, good neighbors and room for dogs.

      The whole “good neighbor” thing presented a notable challenge. Craig’s collar itched as he considered the situation. Every time he pulled out of his new driveway, Sarah’s presence would remind him of things he’d like to forget.

      Gramps’ angst and dismay upon discovering their money gone, rifled by a scheming, two-faced investor. Grams’ sadness. Their constant worry and guilt over being a burden, an elderly couple who had never burdened anyone all their lives.

      That worry hadn’t helped Gramps’ struggle with heart disease.