Jillian Hart - Sweet Blessings

With the edge of the spatula, she scraped the grill—she liked a tidy kitchen—and studied the last meal ticket on the wheel. It looked like Mr. Whitley had shown up, the sixth member of the retired ranchers who met every morning at the same table. She cracked three eggs neatly—Mr. Redmond’s Sunrise Special was the last of the first wave of the usual Saturday-morning rush. Maybe she’d be able to take a few minutes away from the grill, grab some coffee and—

Jodi shouldered through the doors, loaded down with empties, which she unloaded with sharp clatters at the sink. “Well, I tell you, that just about breaks my heart.”

“I’m betting you don’t mean the pile of dishes to clean?”

“Nope. I waited on a man this morning. Striking, young guy, somewhere around our age, maybe a bit older. You know how on some folks it’s hard to tell?” She washed and yanked a paper towel from the dispenser to dry her hands.

Amy’s pulse thickened. It was as if her blood had turned into sand, and her heart was straining to pump it through her veins. The background sounds of the cooking food and customers in the dining room faded to silence. Why was she reacting this strongly to the mere mention of the man?

Unaware, Jodi continued on. “Well, I tell ya, I’ve never seen a sadder-looking man. People got all kinds of heartaches, we both know that, but it just sort of clung to him like an aftershave or something. Just so much despair.”

Amy knew. She’d seen it, too.

She tossed the used paper towel. “He looked like he was down to his last dollar, but he left me a five-dollar tip.”

“You mean he was here and left?” And I didn’t see him? The spatula clattered forgotten to the counter as she went up on tiptoe to peer at the long line of booths in front of the sunny window.

Of course he wasn’t there, and she rocked back on her heels. “Finish this up, will you? I’ll be right back.”

“Well, sure, but what—?”

Amy pushed through the doors and left without answering. She hurried down the center aisle where old timers argued over politics and the weather, where early risers read the day’s paper over coffee. A typical morning, with the scents and sounds and people she knew so well, and she couldn’t explain why she felt so desperate. It was as if she’d failed to do something important, and that didn’t make any sense at all.

The cap. She remembered, skidded to a stop in the doorway, let the glass door swing shut as she reversed and dropped behind the counter. The cap was still there on the top of the plastic bin and she grabbed it without thinking, pounding out the door, and making the bell jangle like a tambourine. Her shoes hit the pavement and the fresh breeze punched her face.

She ran half a block, past the diner and the drug store closed up tight. He was nowhere in sight. What was she doing running off like this? She’d left eggs on the grill. The sunshine slanted into her eyes, too bright to see up the sidewalk where it stretched the rest of the length of town. There was only one more block before buildings gave way to green pasture. He wasn’t here. The hat probably wasn’t his. So why was she standing here wanting something, and she didn’t even know what it was.

What she should do was go back inside, rescue the Sunrise Special from the grill, concentrate on her job and not give the loner another thought. She didn’t like men—she didn’t trust them. She got along just fine in the world when they were customers or friends of the family or family. She had a policy against interacting with the male gender for any other reason. So, had she lost her senses, or what?

No, she was shivering in the brisk wind because of her conscience. Her faith taught the golden rule—to do unto others, and she had to thank him, if she could. Even if it was only to return his hat, if it was his hat.

A strange sensation skidded against her jaw and cheek, or maybe it was the trees whispering in the breeze. Either way, she turned toward the sensation and there was a man’s dark form, a man dressed all in black, a shadow moving in the sun-bright alley.

It was him.

“Hey, wait up!” She started toward him, but the wind snatched her words and she feared he hadn’t heard her. He kept on walking with his purposeful, leggy stride. She saw an older-model blue pickup, dusty and well used, parked at the motel’s alley-side lot.

There. She had her answer. She firmly believed that the angels above wouldn’t have brought him to her diner twice if there hadn’t been a reason.

Determined, she jogged after him, with the cap clutched tight in her hand. “Hey! Mister!”

He had to have heard her this time. His brisk gait stiffened. His shoulders tensed to steel. His long athletic legs pumped noticeably faster as he bridged the last few yards to the driver’s door of his truck, unlocked the door and yanked it open. He was behaving as if he didn’t want to talk with her. As if he wanted to avoid her.

She wasn’t about to let a little thing like that get in her way. “Is this your cap?”

He turned, meeting her gaze through the window of the open cab door. His was a chilling look as he studied her from head to toe.

She was intensely aware of her scuffed sneakers and the knot in the right shoelace keeping it together as she jogged closer. As if resigned, he left the door open and backed away from the truck. A dark look masked his face. She held out the cap so he could read it.

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