She’s a woman now, the mother of my child. I want her to be the mother of all my children. I came back because my life will never be complete without her in it, but it’s too soon to say all of that. I have to earn it first.
Instead, I hold out my hand, escorting her to the back of the room. “Maybe we should take it slow.”
“You can take it however you want. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
We stop for Noel to hug Miss Jessica at the back door. She tells me to come by and see her, and I hug her again before the nurse leads her out to a waiting van.
I hold the door for Noel to exit the sanctuary. “Can we try to be friends? For Dove’s sake?”
Our daughter comes up the walk skipping. Sawyer holds one of her hands and in the other she has a handful of papers.
“I would do anything for her.” Noel’s voice is quiet.
It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but I can work with it.
“Taron Rhodes. Didn’t expect to see you here again.” Digger’s voice makes my skin bristle, and we stop, turning to face him.
A little girl with mousey brown hair in perfectly formed sausage curls stands at his side. I don’t miss her scowling at my daughter, and I think the Hayes family must have a lot of bad eggs in it.
“I didn’t come back to see you.” My voice is level. We’re at church, so I don’t plan to engage with him.
“If history’s our guide, you’ll be gone as soon as you get what you want.”
Dove slips her small hand in mine, and my jaw clenches. “I left to serve my country as you well know.”
“Uncle Digger donated two thousand dollars to make a Dixie Gem office space at the civic center.” The little girl’s voice is as snide as her uncle’s.
Dove inhales a little gasp, and her eyes flash to mine. I’m caught off guard by her turning to me, and a surge of protectiveness floods my chest.
“This your niece, Hayes?” I nod toward the little girl who’s wearing a matching leopard print coat and knit hat with black boots and leggings.
“She is indeed.” He smiles proudly at the little girl, who is currently smirking at my daughter.
I have a sadistic urge to pull her knit cap down over her face.
Noel speaks up, her voice annoyed. “Unusual timing for a donation of that size, Digger.”
“Darcy, what have I told you about discussing family business in public?”
She looks up at him, fake remorse in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Uncle Digger.” Then she sticks out at her tongue at my daughter… Little—
“Good morning, brothers, sisters.” The pastor walks up, preventing me from grabbing Digger by the collar. “I see we have a visitor today. I’m Pastor Sinclair.”
“Pastor, this is Taron Rhodes.” Noel’s voice is smooth, but I’m not ready to let this go. “Taron was in the service with my brother.”
“Well, thank you for your service.” The older man shakes my hand, and I break my staring war with Digger. “And welcome to First Methodist. I hope we see you again.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be back.”
“He’s staying in the cottage!” Dove skips beside me smiling and holding my hand. “He’s helping Uncle Sawyer with the new trees.”
“Is that so?” The man bends down to smile at my daughter, holding his Bible into his side. “That’s a big job. I’ll be praying God protects and gives you good weather.”
Noel smiles, placing her hand on Dove’s shoulder. “Thank you, Pastor. I guess we should all get some lunch now.”
“Very interesting sermon, Pastor.” Digger’s tone is haughty. “I’d never heard that expression before, but I was edified by your elaboration on the topic.”
Oh, brother.
“I thank you for that…”
They continue talking, but Noel catches Dove’s hand, guiding us away quickly. Once we’re at Sawyer’s old Silverado, which she’s now driving, she lets out an exasperated noise.
“Same here.”
Dove looks up at us with worried eyes. “Darcy’s sure going to win Princess Peach now.”
Noel’s lips tighten, and she shakes her head. “That’s not how it works, honey… At least, that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
A note of worry is in her voice, and I decide to meet Digger head-on with this pageant nonsense. He’s not the only one with a bankroll.
25
Noel
Dove is infatuated with Taron, and to his credit, he’s taking the time, getting to know her. Every morning, he’s up with us at breakfast, talking to her and letting her help him make hoecakes.
She sits on his hip watching as he spoons the batter into the pan, and they wait, having little conversations about her favorite foods, her friend Boo, Angelina Ballerina, and of course, Princess Peach.
“That one’s ready.” Her head is on his shoulder, and she points to a cake in the back right corner. “That one’s ready, too.”
He flips them, balancing her on his arm. “Good eye.”
His muscle flexes, he kisses her head, and I can’t stop a swoon…
At night she snuggles up with him on the couch while he reads whatever Angelina Ballerina book she’s chosen. I peek through a crack in the door to watch, snorting as he does the different voices.
He’s so big and she’s so little, but they look so much alike. I’m surprised my brilliant little girl hasn’t figured it out yet.
“You can be Mr. Operatski.” Dove points to a picture in the book.
Taron makes a face. “I don’t like him. He’s a big grouch all the time.”
Her little lips press together and she thinks. “Mr. Mouseling?”
“He’s Angelina’s dad?”
She nods, and the way he looks at her, the tenderness in his voice, melts my heart. “Okay.”
“He runs the Mouseland Gazette, but he builds stuff, too, like the Royal Theater for Angelina to play with.”
He might be taking it slow, but my heart is off to the races. It’s like a puppy on a leash, straining and jumping all around for the thing it wants.
The thing that isn’t good for it.
The thing that almost killed it.
During the days he works with my brother, preparing the soil for planting, going into town and meeting with the growers, stacking the new trees as they arrive, their roots wrapped in burlap sacks.
Sometimes, on my way to prepping my store, I’ll slow my pace to watch him work, to let my eyes run down his strong body, watching the flex of his muscles, the deepening of the lines in his arms, and the pull of the fabric across his shoulders.
Of course, he busts me, and his grin is as powerful as ever, even more now that his hair falls over his eyes. He pushes it back with a large hand, and my memories of those hands on my body flood my mind.
Blinking away, I focus on the store and my future—cleaning, arranging, making the products I need to sell.
Time passes.
Thanksgiving is in a few days, and I’m sitting at the table going through the paperwork Deacon prepared to register Miss Jessica’s old shed as a place of business when he bustles through the door with Dove chattering beside him, home from school.