Sarah's Legacy. Brenda Mott

him. Her well-manicured fingernails, painted with clear polish, weren’t overly long. She had pretty hands and a great smile, and he was sorry to see he’d made that smile vanish.

      He accepted the tea and gritted his teeth when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks.” He took a drink. The tea had lemon, no sugar, just the way he liked it.

      “I’m sorry, I don’t keep sugar in the house,” Bailey said. “I seldom use it.”

      His gaze boomeranged to her once more as he wondered if she realized her slipup. She looked back at him, unaware. It was enough to break his black mood.

      “Except when you bake, I guess. Did you use it all up when you made the cinnamon rolls?”

      Bailey’s face turned three shades of crimson, and warmth snaked through him. Belatedly, he realized just how much he’d enjoyed teasing her, watching her squirm. He’d been alone for a long time. His self-imposed banishment from social scenes, no relationships with women, had been bearable up to this point. It was a way of punishing himself, although for what he couldn’t quite decide. Because he couldn’t save Sarah? Because he hadn’t been strong enough to take care of her and still manage to hold his marriage together?

      Whatever the reasons, he hadn’t dwelled on them. All he knew was he wanted to be alone, and he’d been fine doing that, until Bailey came along. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that brought out this side of him, one that had lain buried for so long. Guilt threatened to take hold of him. He didn’t deserve to be happy or have fun. Sarah was gone. What right did that leave him to go on living, loving and laughing? None, as far as he could see. But something about Bailey swayed his reservations and demanded he let loose and enjoy a little friendly bantering with her.

      Maybe he’d give in. Just this once.

      He knew damn well she hadn’t made those cinnamon rolls. She might have heated them in the oven, but he’d recognize Camille Kendall’s recipe anywhere. Nobody baked like Camille. The town’s café owner constantly asked her to supply him with baked goods.

      Besides, Trent had seen the burned bottoms of the cinnamon rolls in Bailey’s trash can and the bread knife in the sink, which she must have used to cut them. He’d gotten a kick out of the lengths she’d gone to to keep him from knowing she couldn’t cook.

      “They take quite a bit of sugar,” Bailey said, lifting her arms in a casual gesture. “I hope the tea is all right with just lemon.”

      “It’s fine,” he said, letting her off the hook. She was damn good at sidestepping the truth without telling an out-and-out lie.

      “I’m going to the feed store to pick up the chain link,” Bailey said. “Would you like a sandwich before I go?”

      Trent shook his head. “Maybe later, thanks.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm and looked up at the sun. It must be about noon. The time had slipped away from him while he worked, as it always did, one hour fading into the next, one day into another.

      He focused on the here and now. “How do you plan to haul the wire?” He glanced pointedly at her Mustang convertible parked in the driveway.

      “I have a pickup truck,” Bailey said. “If you change your mind about the sandwich, help yourself.” She started to leave.

      “Bailey, wait.” The words were out before he could stop them, though he knew he should leave well enough alone. It was best to keep his distance from her. He’d made a choice to spend the rest of his life alone, and he aimed to stick with it.

      Bailey paused, and Trent ran his hand through his hair, unable to leave things the way they were between them. No matter what his innermost feelings were. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”

      “Forget it.” She smiled softly. “I’d better go before the feed store closes. Apparently, they roll up the sidewalks shortly after lunch on Saturdays here in Mayberry.” She headed for the garage.

      Trent leaned on the posthole digger and watched her walk away, still liking what he saw far too much. A moment later a familiar pickup truck shot away from the building, with Bailey behind the wheel.

      “I’ll be damned.” Trent shook his head and chuckled dryly. The ’53 Chevy Bailey drove was one he’d often seen parked outside the Texaco station where local mechanic Lester Godfrey worked. Coated with primer-gray paint, the truck bore the loving touch of countless hours of work getting body and engine back to near-new condition. The tires probably hadn’t seen fifty miles, and the 389 Pontiac V–8 engine, with three 2-barrel carburetors, purred like a cream-fed cat. That truck was one of the few things Lester gave a damn about, outside of his kids and his fondness for Budweiser.

      How the hell had Bailey gotten possession of Lester’s pride and joy?

      Trent wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

      By the time Bailey returned from the feed store, he had the holes dug and had stopped to take a break. He sat under the shade tree and tried to coax the dog to come to him. As the morning had worn on, he’d noticed the heeler-mix had relaxed somewhat, at least to the point where he was no longer choking himself. But now, as Trent held out his hand and spoke, the dog tensed once more and retreated.

      “I hope I’ll be able to win his trust sooner or later,” Bailey said, coming up behind Trent.

      He rose to his feet, causing the heeler to move away as far as the rope would allow. “Good luck. Do you want to back your truck over here so I can unload the posts and wire?”

      “You don’t have to do that,” Bailey said. “You’ve already done enough.”

      “I might as well set the posts for you,” he said. “That way the cement will have a chance to harden and you can finish the rest tomorrow.”

      “We’ll do it together, then,” Bailey said.

      The simple meaning of the word sent a shiver creeping up his back. Together. It was something he really couldn’t relate to anymore. But he had to admit, working with Bailey turned out not to be such a bad way to spend the afternoon. She helped him mix the cement and they did half the job, stopped to eat a sandwich, then finished the rest. By late afternoon, the steel posts jutted from the ground around the entire perimeter of the yard like so many elongated teeth.

      Bailey stood back to admire their handiwork. A satisfied smile curved her lips. “Looking good.”

      Trent thought the same thing, though it wasn’t the fence he admired. Bailey’s long legs had grown all the more brown from being in the sun all afternoon, and moisture flecked the cleavage between her breasts. Swallowing, Trent put his shirt back on. “We might as well call it a day. You want to go see the horses? Ride a couple of them?”

      He told himself he’d extended the invitation because he wanted to get it over with. He’d string the wire on his fence that evening by himself and be done with it. Done with the day’s work and with Bailey. There was no point in drawing things out. The sooner he showed her the horses, the sooner she could choose one and the quicker he could get her out of his hair. Fun was fun, but he had to come back to reality. After today, he’d be wise to remember Bailey Chancellor was off-limits.

      “I’d love to.” Bailey nodded toward the dog. “Let me feed him and change my clothes first.”

      A short while later she stood dressed in Levi’s, a sleeveless blouse and, to Trent’s surprise, cowboy boots. He raised his eyebrows. “You actually own a pair of boots?” Somehow, he’d expected her to ride in tennis shoes, which was dangerous and exactly the type of fool thing he’d thought a woman like her would do.

      Bailey eyed the toes of her black boots. “Sure I do. I told you I’ve been taking riding lessons.”

      Trent grunted and led the way across her pasture, toward the gap in the fence. The route was quickly becoming familiar and comfortable. It was a good thing the fence would be back up soon, putting an end to that.

      In