Home At Last. Deborah Raney

girl onto her lap.

      “It’s cold out here,” Link said. She was in shirtsleeves except for the bib apron that bore the Coffee’s On logo. “And that sidewalk is a sheet of ice. Why don’t we get you both inside?” He offered his hand.

      But she batted it away. “I can get myself inside. I think you’ve helped enough for one day.” She sniffed and looked up at him, topaz-colored eyes blazing. Slowly, recognition dawned in them. “It . . . it’s you.” Her creamy brown complexion went rosy.

      “Yes. It’s Link.” He offered his hand again.

      But she ignored it. “Go on about your business. We’re fine.” She pushed the little girl’s corkscrew curls off her forehead and inspected her for injury. The child’s hair and skin were a paler shade of brown than Shayla’s—almost a muddy blonde—and her eyes were a striking blue-gray. Even so, she was the spitting image of Shayla. The little girl whimpered, but she didn’t appear to be bleeding or otherwise harmed. A miracle.

      Watching them together, the sequence of events replayed in his mind, and he shuddered, feeling a little weak in the knees himself. “That was a close one.”

      Shayla pierced him with a look. “Yeah, well . . . You might want to think about slowing down next time. You could have killed her.”

      “So you said.” About fifteen times. He narrowed his eyes. “And you might want to think about watching your kid closer next time.” He turned toward the street, half wishing he’d held his tongue. But seriously? She was going to blame him? He’d quite possibly saved the kid’s life. She should be thanking him.

      “Hey!”

      He turned back at the strident chord in her voice, preparing to get chewed out again.

      But she only said, “You’re coming for the order for the B&B, right? The Chicory Inn?”

      He eyed her. “Yes.” Wanna make something of it?

      “Your order’s ready.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Inside.”

      “Oh.” He curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “Thanks. My mom would’ve killed me if I forgot.” He winced inwardly. Nice choice of words, Whitman. Way to remind her you nearly ran over her daughter and that you’re running errands for your mommy.

      Shayla struggled to her feet, testing the sidewalk beneath her before lifting the girl into her arms. “Come on in. I’ll ring you up.”

      Did he hear a hint of truce in her tone? “You’re sure I’m allowed in your store? After all, I did almost kill your daughter.” He couldn’t help it. The sarcasm came second nature.

      She opened her mouth to say something, but instead, hitched her daughter higher on one hip and opened the door to the bakery.

      Shaking his head, Link followed her inside.

      The heady scents of coffee, warm cinnamon rolls, and maple icing wafted over them, and Link couldn’t keep from inhaling deeply. The mingling of aromas had a calming effect on him.

      Shayla set the little girl down at a child’s table near the cash register. The stack of coloring books and buckets of crayons and markers on the table looked like a scene from one of his sisters’ homes, and the little girl was instantly distracted.

      Flecks of ice sparkled in Shayla’s wild Afro. She looked gorgeous as ever, even if her complexion now seemed more gray than the creamy mahogany shade he remembered. Behind the counter, she consulted an order pad. “You had two dozen Parker House and a loaf of rye, right?”

      “Yes. I guess. Whatever Mom ordered.” He didn’t have a clue and couldn’t remember right now if his life depended on it. No doubt, his mother—He took in a sharp breath. Mom! He’d left her on the phone thinking he’d been in an accident. She’d be frantic.

      He reached into his pocket then remembered his cell was still in the truck. At least he hoped it was. “Hang on a sec, would you? My phone . . . Be right back.”

      She barely nodded and went on wrapping the bread.

      He risked ruffling the little girl’s hair as he went by. She flinched at his touch, but at least she didn’t start screaming. Shoot, his ears were still ringing.

      He jogged out to the pickup and did a quick walk around, inspecting it much the way Shayla had inspected her daughter. The truck was caked with dirty slush and mud, and the back right tire was scuffed where it had met the curb, but otherwise, no worse for the wear. He considered reparking since the truck had parallel parked itself across two angled parking spaces, but there were plenty of open spots on the street, and he didn’t want Shayla to think he was leaving.

      After calling his mother and giving her a carefully edited version of the morning’s events, he tucked his cell in his pocket and trotted back into the shop.

      A white bag with the bakery’s logo stamped on the side sat waiting on the counter, a receipt stapled to the side.

      He looked at it. It seemed a little high, but he retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar bill.

      She made change and handed it to him without a word, seeming a little dazed. Well, he was too. He bent to peer into her eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

      “I’m fine.” She wiped her hands on her apron and came around the counter, peeking at the table where her little girl was bent over a coloring book.

      He held up the bag of rolls. “Thanks.” He almost felt like he should apologize, even though he’d done nothing wrong, but under the circumstances, he decided it would be best not to press the issue. No sense getting her riled all over again.

      He headed out the front door, but halfway to the truck, he remembered the extra cinnamon rolls his mom had requested before all the excitement. Or was it coffee cake? He hurried back inside. “Sorry, I almost forgot! My mom wanted—”

      Behind the counter, Shayla stood with her face buried in the skirt of her flour-dusted apron, her shoulders heaving.

      Link’s heart stopped for the second time that day. “What’s wrong?” He looked around for the little girl. She was still coloring, seeming perfectly fine and oblivious to her mother’s tears.

      Shayla quickly turned away, dabbing at her face with the hem of the apron. But not before Link saw the tears blazing shiny trails down her smooth cheeks. When she faced him again, her forehead and cheeks were smudged with flour. “What do you need?”

      “Are you sure? Is everything okay?”

      “It’s fine.” Her lips firmed. “What else do you need?”

      Her tears rattled him now, and he stuttered. “My mom . . . um . . . she wanted something to serve for breakfast at the inn. She mentioned coffee cake, I think.”

      Shayla walked to the end of the pastry case and pointed to a ring-shaped confection with crumbly stuff on top. “We have this one. Or a pumpkin loaf.”

      “Okay. I’ll take two of those rings.” He hesitated, watching her closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

      She ignored his question and went to work boxing the coffee cakes. “That’ll be sixteen forty-seven.”

      “Um . . .” He waited for her to look up from the register. “You have flour”—he smiled and brushed his own cheek—“on your face. From your apron, I think.”

      She wheeled away, rubbing at her cheeks as if they were on fire.

      He laughed. “At least you’ve got some color in your cheeks now.” Stupid thing to say. “You were looking pretty pale—earlier, I mean.” Stupider thing to say. “You got it.” He pointed to her face. “It’s all off now. I just thought you’d want to know. Before your next customer comes in.”

      She glared at him. “That’ll be sixteen forty-seven,” she said again.

      “Oh.