Farrow was no place for her.
Lilith House might prove dangerous.
And what will you do about it, Cam? Come up with an excuse to board up every window and crawl space? Sit on her doorstep with a pistol? Wouldn’t it be easier just to let them do what they want, so long as they don’t hurt her?
Yeah, yeah it would.
He’d tried to remind himself of that as he’d walked through her mess of a kitchen to check the window, spotting the drawings of cakes she had hanging up on one empty wall underneath a logo that read Ruby Sugar. The colored sketches were so outrageously beautiful and unique that they had stunned him for a moment. And Camden wasn’t a man generally impressed by spun sugar and frosted flowers.
So she was beautiful and kind and ridiculously talented. So what?
Where exactly do your loyalties lie? Those had been Georgia’s words and they rang in his ears now.
With you, Georgie, he’d answered. Always with you.
“There was no one in the crawl space,” he said. “When you start with the renovations, you might want to have them sealed up permanently though.”
Her eyes ran over his face as though she could see under his skin. It made him nervous. It made him feel like she knew things about him he didn’t want her to know. She doesn’t. How could she? “What was the original purpose of those crawl spaces? Any idea?”
“I don’t know if anyone knows for sure. I’ve heard Hubert Bancroft had them created as hiding spaces for his family should there be an invasion of some sort. It was a lawless time back then. Wealthy people often had hidden spaces in their homes where they might hide people or things worth stealing.”
“Things worth stealing,” she muttered as if mulling over the phrase. Scarlett’s gaze moved away for a moment and she nodded her head. “Not to mention Hubert Bancroft considered himself judge, jury, and executioner in the murder of innocent people. I might be paranoid too if I was a stone-cold devil any fair-minded person would relish seeing dead.”
Like that, he thought, a small chuckle moving up his throat at her phrasing, true though it was. She said things like that and it made him want to protect her, not just from physical harm, but from anything that might distress or scare her, or even make that small frown line appear between her eyes. Because she was perceptive and caring and decency poured off her like a tangible thing.
Christ Almighty.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, opening his mouth to tell her to lock the door behind him. He didn’t want to spend another moment with this woman. It was shaking things up. It was going to ruin everything.
A shrill chirping came from the direction of the kitchen. He turned toward it. “What was that?”
Scarlett sighed. “Our temporary guest.” She turned, heading toward the noise and, unable to resist, Camden followed.
When they arrived at the kitchen, Scarlett went immediately to a Tupperware container sitting on the counter, picking it up and turning toward him. Inside the container, nestled in a kitchen towel was a baby bird.
“He ate a little bit of mashed egg earlier, but he won’t take any water.”
“Good. A nestling can easily drown if you give it water.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Okay. Well, good to know.” She ran a finger over the back of the baby bird. “Sorry, little guy.” She looked at Camden. “How do we hydrate him?”
“He’ll have gotten enough from the food. You can get some baby bird formula at the pet store in town tomorrow.” He pursed his lips. This situation needled at him, felt all-too familiar. “Where’d you find it?”
“By our front door.” She shrugged. “I’m assuming it fell from a nearby nest and an animal dragged him near the house. He’s lucky to be alive.”
“Seems like a suitable name, then. Lucky.”
She smiled. “Lucky. Yes, I agree.” She peered over at the bird. “You have been christened.”
“Once you name something, it’s harder to see them die.”
She appeared to consider that for a moment. “Yes, I can see how that’s true.” She sighed. “It’s too late in any case. Haddie’s already attached.” She paused. “I’d hoped Haddie would be able to care for him, but he’s making that sound every hour and so I suppose I’m on night duty.”
She looked tired. It didn’t diminish her beauty, in fact, if anything it enhanced it, made her look soft. Vulnerable. The way she might look first thing in the morning, after a night of— “They eat frequently,” he said, watching her watch the baby bird. “If he seems reluctant to take food from you, tap on his beak right here. He placed a finger over the spot he meant, careful not to tap now that the small thing had fallen back to sleep, buying her—and him as long as he was here—some temporary quiet.
“Okay. Thanks.” She looked up at him. “You know a lot about wildlife.”
“Some. You can’t grow up in a town surrounded by wilderness without acquiring some knowledge about its inhabitants.”
She smiled. “I appreciate the help. I’m a city girl who never owned a pet. I know very little about animals, wild or otherwise.” She gently placed the container back down in a darkened corner of the counter, turned around, opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again to say, “Do you want a nightcap?”
He stared at her, his gaze flicking briefly to the helpless baby contained snugly and safely in a Tupperware container. She’d be up every hour on the hour tonight. She seemed resigned to it. And for what? For some pitiful creature who’d probably die anyway because she didn’t know what she was doing? Go, he told himself. Staying is a bad idea. Very bad. His eyes returned to her pretty face, expression expectant. “Sure,” he sighed. “I’ll have a nightcap.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Scarlett retrieved two glasses from the cabinet, mindful to be as quiet as possible so she didn’t wake the sleeping baby. That chirping sound was enough to set any new mother’s hackles on edge.
“Is whiskey okay?” she asked, nodding to a bottle on the counter. “It’s all I have. My best friend is a liquor distributor and she gave it to me. I’m not much of a whiskey drinker, but she gifted it because of the label.” She picked up the bottle and turned it around so that the Rebel Yell label was facing him. “Private joke,” she said, her lips tilting in a wry smile as she thought of the night she’d withdrawn the first of the money she’d deposited seven years before and they’d gotten drunk and danced to Billy Idol in her living room. Later, she’d cried herself to sleep in a heap of tears and shame, but for a few minutes there, she’d been strong, she’d let the world—or at least the four walls of her living room—hear her rebel yell. That rebel yell had quickly faded to a quiet sob, but the whiskey had been on her counter since Merrilee had given it to her, a reminder to grasp that strength when she could, however tremulous and temporary it might be.
And the further reminder that Merrilee believed in her strength and supported her dreams.
“Sounds like a good story,” he said.
“Not really,” she answered too quickly, carrying the glasses and bottle to the table. They both sat down and she twisted off the cap, pouring them each a finger. She held up her glass. “To empty walls, sleeping babies, and those who arrive when you call for help,” she whispered.