Wednesday's Child. Gayle Wilson

during the course of his rehabilitation he’d become aware of that. Certainly not in the beginning. He’d been too focused on his own adjustment to his new physical limitations to notice how others reacted to them.

      Maybe it had been coming back to Linton, where he’d spent a large part of his adolescence, that had made him aware of how differently the people he’d known then treated him now. Some were openly curious, which he’d been surprised to discover didn’t bother him. Others pretended not to notice, as Mrs. Chandler had done tonight when he’d opened the door for her.

      Some—and those were the ones he detested—were determined to be “helpful.” There was nothing more certain to set his teeth on edge than solicitude. Especially from a woman to whom he was physically attracted.

      In that respect, he would have to give his great-aunt’s guest credit. In a matter of minutes, she had been able to conceal, if not destroy, any tendency to try to protect him. She hadn’t wanted him to climb the stairs to show her the room, which had been a strike against her. She hadn’t tried to circumvent his determination to retrieve her suitcase or move her car, however, and thank God she hadn’t met him halfway up the stairs to take her bag from him. Despite that ridiculous announcement that she didn’t need to see the room she was about to rent, he grudgingly gave her full marks for the rest.

      “Exhausted,” he said aloud in answer to Lorena’s question. “And obviously still stunned.”

      “Why, I should say so. Bless her heart. What a thing to have happened. I swear they ought to close that bridge, as many people as have gone off into the river through the years.”

      “Maybe between the train wreck and this, they will.”

      He was leaning against the kitchen counter watching Lorena take things out of the refrigerator. Although she was almost ninety, she moved exactly as she had when he’d spent those long-ago summers down here. Her motions were quick, almost birdlike, an impression that was magnified by her size and her thinness.

      “I didn’t promise her supper,” he said when she pulled a loaf of homemade bread out of the bread box and began unwrapping it. “Actually, I didn’t promise her anything but the use of the room. You don’t have to fix her a meal.”

      “You think she’s already eaten?” Gnarled fingers paused over the loaf she had baked this morning, she looked up at him, faded blue eyes questioning.

      “I doubt it,” he said, reluctant to add hunger to the many problems Susan Chandler faced. “She’s probably used to eating later than we do.”

      Most nights Lorena had supper on the table by six. Of course, since they both began the day shortly after five, Jeb wasn’t complaining. The timing had been an adjustment, however. As he imagined it would be for Mrs. Chandler.

      “From Atlanta, you say?”

      “That’s what her tag says.”

      “That poor woman.” Lorena’s eyes and hands had returned to her task. “I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling.”

      “According to the paper, her husband’s car had been submerged for years. She’s had a long time to come to terms with his disappearance.”

      Maybe this was only a welcome closure for something she had dealt with long ago.

      “Still…” Lorena said. “I mean she was married to the man. She must have loved him. And then…I guess he just disappeared, and she never knew what happened to him. It breaks my heart to think about that.”

      Jeb watched as she laid the two thick slices she’d cut off the loaf on a plate she had taken from the cabinet. After she’d spread mayonnaise thickly on both, she began piling ham on one.

      “Did you like her?”

      His great-aunt’s question caught him off guard. For one thing, he wasn’t sure whether he had or not. There was no denying that he’d found her attractive. And he had also admired her. Despite the day she’d had, she hadn’t backed down when he’d challenged her about the car. And even as much as she obviously wanted the room, she hadn’t been willing to cater to his rudeness. More pluses than minuses.

      “Well enough to offer her a room.”

      “You knew I’d want you to do that,” Lorena said.

      “Still, I wouldn’t have. Not unless I thought she was someone we could share the place with. At least for the night.”

      “Is that all she’s staying?” Lorena looked up from the act of slipping a slice of tomato onto the ham. “Seems like it would take longer than that to work out the arrangements.”

      “Actually, I don’t know how long she’ll be in town. We didn’t discuss it in detail. And she may decide she wants something more modern after tonight.”

      “Maybe I can convince her to stay,” Lorena said, fitting the second piece of bread on top. “I think hot tea, don’t you? I’ve got some chamomile. That should help her sleep.”

      “Judging by her eyes—” Jeb began and then stopped.

      He’d been about to say that she would be tired enough to sleep without any of his aunt’s herbal remedies. When he remembered what Susan Chandler had been through today, he thought she might appreciate something to help remove the images that must be in her mind.

      “What about her eyes?”

      “Like I said. She looked exhausted. More emotionally than anything else, maybe, but…I think she’d like that tea.”

      His great-aunt reached over and turned the gas on beneath the kettle that always sat in the exact same place on the back of the stove. “Did you show her where the extra quilts are? There’s supposed to be a cold snap, either tomorrow or Sunday.”

      “Why don’t you wait until you find out whether she’ll be staying that long before you go worrying about extra cover. She’ll be fine tonight.”

      “Maybe I should spoon up some of that peach cobbler.”

      “You don’t even know if she’s eaten, Lorena. Why don’t you ask her about dessert before you carry it up?”

      The kettle began to whistle, putting an end to his attempt to rein in his great-aunt’s innate hospitality. There was some part of him that welcomed the idea that Susan Chandler’s stay in the house would end after tonight. Another part admitted a degree of interest in her plans that went beyond casual curiosity. She was an extremely attractive woman. Woman being the operative word. At thirty-five, Jeb wasn’t interested in someone who thought JFK referred only to an airport.

      Susan Chandler was probably a few years younger than he. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Her fair skin showed little signs of aging, but with that dark auburn hair, she would have had no choice but to stay out of the sun.

      Physically, she wasn’t the type he was normally attracted to, both taller and thinner than he preferred. Even as that negative assessment formed, he rejected it.

      Given his profession, he’d never been interested in long-term relationships. He had judged women he became involved with on their willingness to accept that. As well as on their physical attributes, he admitted. Something he wasn’t particularly proud of. Not considering his present situation.

      Despite Susan Chandler’s ability to mask her initial feeling of pity, he’d been aware of it. And the look in her eyes wasn’t one he wanted to see in a woman he was attracted to.

      “There now,” Lorena said, stepping back to admire the tray she’d prepared. “What do you think?”

      “I think she’s damn lucky Wayne Adams sent her here.”

      “Don’t you curse, Jubal Bedford,” Lorena scolded, although it was obvious the compliment pleased her. “Remember, you’re an officer and a gentleman.”

      So far, he thought. So far.

      “IT’S