Liz Talley - A Taste of Texas

“Like the baseball player I saw a show on. Hank…”

“Aaron?” Brent finished for him.

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Cool. I can use that name here. No one knows me yet.”

“Well, you better ask your mom about that. You know moms.” Henry was funny. Brent liked kids better than he liked most adults.

Henry picked up the ball and rolled it around in his hand before sending it airborne. He caught it neatly. “Yeah, my mom can be crazy about stuff like that. About sports and stuff. She doesn’t think sports are important.”

Brent feigned horror. “What’s wrong with her?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m good at them. I play football, baseball, basketball and soccer. I even took karate before my dad died. I liked kicking boards and stuff. It’s pretty cool.”

The boy tossed the ball as easily as he’d tossed out information. He’d lost his dad. Tough for a boy like Henry. He seemed headstrong and sturdy, the kind of boy who needed a firm hand. A good mentor. A man to toss the ball with.

The boy threw the ball and caught it in one hand, slapping a rhythm Brent couldn’t resist.

“You know, I could get my glove, and we could toss the ball around,” Brent offered. “But first you better make sure it’s okay with your mother.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Awesome.”

“So go ask.”

Something entered Henry’s eyes. A sort of oh, crap look. “Um, it’s okay. She’s making bread or something like that.”

The boy’s gaze met Brent’s and a weird déjà vu hit him. The kid’s eyes were the color of cinnamon. Like eyes Brent had stared into a million times. He glanced at the gate that had been locked for over ten years. The gate that led to the Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast on the other side of the fence the boy had climbed.

“Your mom, is she by any chance—”

“Henry Albright! Where the devil are you?” The woman’s voice carried on the wind into the Hamiltons’ backyard.

“Oops, that’s my mom. She’s gonna be mad. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Henry said, scrambling toward the fence.

Brent closed his mouth and watched as Henry ducked beneath the redbud tree before grasping one branch and swinging himself toward the brace on the fence. His worn sneaker hit perfectly and he arched himself so the other landed beside it. But the boy hadn’t been fast enough.

The gate opened with a shove because the grass had grown over the once well-worn path.

Henry froze and so did Brent.

A woman stood in the opening. Her curly red hair streamed over a blue apron that was streaked with flour and she wore a frown. Brent allowed his eyes to feast on her, for she was sheer bounty. Her cinnamon eyes flashed, her wide mouth turned down, but the body outlined in the apron was lush and ripe from the long white throat to the trim ankles visible beneath the flowing skirt. Bare feet anchored themselves in the healthy St. Augustine.

Rayne Rose.

Brent swallowed. Hard.

“Hey, Mom,” Henry said, dropping to his feet. “This is—” Henry turned to him. “Hey, I don’t know your name.”

Brent didn’t move, just watched Rayne as she registered his presence. He could see her tightening. See her shock. See her try to recover.

“Brent,” she said.

Something tugged within him at his name on her lips. Her sweet lips. The first ones he’d ever kissed.

“Oh, you know him. Good. We were gonna play a little baseball,” Henry said, trying to slide past Rayne into the yard of Tulip Hill. She caught his shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” she said, looking at the boy. “You are not supposed to wander off. And you are not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“But you know him,” Henry said, shrugging his shoulders in that devil-may-care manner all boys had.

“But you didn’t. Pick up your glove and get in the house. You have some reading to do before we register you for school tomorrow.” Her words were firm but there was a softness in her manner, in the way she patted the boy’s shoulder.

“But, Mom, I—”

“No arguing, Henry.”

A mulish expression crossed his face. “Fine. But I don’t want to be called Henry. From now on, I’m Hank.”

Aggravation set in on Rayne’s face. He’d seen it every day on the face of his own mother. “Hank?”

“Yes,” the boy said, disappearing behind the fence. “I want to be Hank. I hate being Henry. That’s a nerdy name.”

Rayne closed her eyes. Then opened them again. She looked at Brent. “I’m sure this is your doing?”

Brent shrugged and thought about crawling under the porch. “Sorry.”

Her response was to laser him with her normally warm gaze.

“Nice to see you, Rayne,” he said.

She stared at him for almost a full minute before speaking. “Stay away from my son.”

She turned and tugged the gate closed behind her.

And that was it.

That was how he became reacquainted with the only girl he’d ever loved.

RAYNE SLAMMED THE GATE and stood a moment, trying to stop her insides from quivering.

Brent Hamilton had always done that to her. She’d been eleven when it had first happened. She’d spied him doing push-ups from over the fence. It was the first time she’d even noticed a boy’s muscles, and she’d stared for about ten minutes before he’d caught sight of her sprawled in the tree watching him. She’d scrambled down and disappeared, much too embarrassed to confront the boy who’d been her friend from the day she’d climbed out of her parents’ VW van, tripped up the front steps of her aunt’s house and noticed a boy throwing acorns at wind chimes.

Brent was still a good-looking son of a bitch with a rippling body and overtly masculine aura. But the emphasis should be on the son-of-a-bitch part.

She wasn’t a silly little girl, so she willed her shaking legs to obey and marched toward the peeling porch.

Henry stood there, arms crossed, brow wrinkled. He opened his mouth. “Mom, I want—”

“Don’t start, Henry. You violated a big rule, buster. Haven’t we talked about this before? You climbed into a stranger’s backyard.”

“I didn’t think anyone was home. Besides, you know him. You said so,” her son said, kicking the rail, causing the rooster planter to teeter.

“Stop before you make the planter fall. It’s my starter of cilantro,” she said, climbing the steps. She peeked into the pot. The sprouts had given birth to the fan shapes that would become the flavorful herb. “And it doesn’t matter that I know the neighbor. You don’t, and to do what you did is dangerous.”

“You said this town is safe. That I could run around and play and stuff. Can I go back and throw ball with him? Please?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, surprised her normally cautious son would want to go. It was the baseball that pulled him. But she didn’t want Brent messing around with her son. Brent was a lot of things. Charming. Egotistical. Unreliable. Things she didn’t want Henry to glean from a man who’d once had the town wrapped round his golden arm, and who would no doubt do the same with her impressionable son. “Every place has dangers. From now on, you consult me before you leave this yard. Got it?”

He made a face. “Okay, but can I go throw? Please. Please. Please.”

“Did you hear me?” She shook her head in wonder. Were all males born with selective hearing? “No. Now up to tackle that reading. I want you to make a good impression tomorrow.”

“I hate that dumb book. It’s about stupid cats and mice. You know I don’t want to read that stuff.” He kicked at the rail again. The planter tottered. She caught it with one hand.

She gave him the evil eye. He immediately stepped away from the rail and dumped his glove on the pew that sat to one side of the porch. “The book I bought for you is on the accelerated reader list. It’s a Caldecott book. They’re always good.”