Missy Tippens - A House Full of Hope

“Thanks, but I can’t. I stopped by to talk with Mr. Ryker for a moment.”

“Oooh?” Mrs. Gunter said, with a hopeful lilt on the end of the word.

Mark hopped up, leaving his chair to rock back and forth without him in it. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Hughes?” Though concern drew his brows downward, his voice sounded perfectly calm and…well, perfect.

How could he infuriate her so, even in that smooth tone of voice? And where had his Georgia accent gone anyway? Had he purposefully hidden it? Was he ashamed of his past?

He should be ashamed of his past, accent or not. “I need to speak to you about something—privately.”

“You talk in the garden.” Mrs. Gunter stood and shooed them down the back steps. She pointed toward a path that led into a garden surrounded by holly hedges.

The sun was heading below the horizon as Mark followed her farther along the path dotted with pink-and- yellow lantana, pots of geraniums, beds of petunias. At the last event she’d attended at the Gunters’, a bridal shower, she’d thought the garden lovely, peaceful. But now, with the crescendo of frog calls, the oppressive, flower-scented air and closeness of Mark as he trailed behind her, right on her heels, the shrubbery closed in, smothering her.

At the first bench, she stopped and turned to him. “I know you donated the money for your dad.”

“And how could you have come to that conclusion?”

He was calm and cool and totally irritating. And those eyes…a woman could lose herself in those eyes.

She sat on the rough stone bench, mainly to get away from him. “Becca saw you outside the bank today.”

He sighed as he sat next to her. “I was afraid of that. I really want to keep this anonymous. So please don’t tell my father.”

“You’re afraid he’ll reject the donation if he finds out it’s from you?” As soon as the words left her mouth and she saw the hurt on his face, she regretted her question.

“I’m sure he’ll reject it. He wants nothing to do with me—which I understand. But I don’t want him to struggle when I’m able to help.”

Pity tried to worm its way into her heart, but she stood firm. One time, many years ago, she would have fallen for his spiel, for his generosity. At one time, she would have thought him attractive.

But this man had ruined Sydney’s reputation, started her on the road to alcoholism and then, when he realized what he’d done, vanished. She would not feel sorry for him.

“I don’t plan to tell your father. The deposit is simply bank business as far as I’m concerned. But if you try to make my family move before we’re ready, then I may have to reconsider.”

He raised his brows with what appeared to be humor. “Does your husband know you’re here threatening me?”

A flash of pain shot through her. Though it had been two years since his death, hearing someone say your husband still hurt. “My husband passed away. I’m simply taking care of my family the best I can.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry for your loss.” Genuine regret drew his brows back down from their teasing height and made him frown. Then he looked away.

If he’d had half a care for the people of his hometown, he would have known about Anthony’s death. The tree frogs seemed to lapse as awkward silence settled around them.

“So how long do you plan to live in Dad’s house?” he asked.

“Two to three years. I hope to buy or build as soon as possible.”

He seemed to consider whether he could tolerate his dad living in the garage for a few years. She wished she felt better about it herself. She’d been dealing with guilt since she’d watched Redd move out of the only home he’d ever known, watched him climb those steep garage stairs several times a day. She clung to the fact he’d said he was tired of rattling around that big old house, hoping it wasn’t strictly a financial decision. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if Redd had been truthful.

Mark stood and casually rested his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, almost as if he’d rehearsed the genteel country-club look. “The house needs a lot of repairs. Maybe I could stick around and help.”

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