Finding Home (Montana Born Homecoming Book 2) (9 page)

But it was the everyday intimacy that left a gaping hole. The teasing you-wear-the-black-teddy-I’ll-kill-the-giant-arachnid and the I’ll-clean-the-shower-drain-if-you-drape-your-hair-over-my-belly negotiations. Samara swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat.

The Spider-Killing Factor. You didn’t appreciate it until it was gone.

She bet Logan would be a great spider-killer.

“You okay?” He looked at her quizzically.

She dragged her attention back. “Yeah. Just trying to remember all the names.”

“You’ve got lots of time for that,” said Logan. “We should order. And before you ask, everything’s good here. I have a weakness for the meatloaf but you would love the chicken pot pie. It’s crammed with vegetables, and I’m guessing you like your veggies.”

A waitress walked past then, leaving a wake of aromas drifting over their table. Oh, sweet merciful heaven, that was
food
.

Maybe she was getting emotional simply because it had been so long since she’d eaten in a public place, or with anyone other than Jade. Or dined on anything other than Jade’s ever-so-slowly-widening list of acceptable foods.

Maybe it had nothing to do with being here with Logan, or the air of coupledom surrounding them.

Right.

Suddenly her stomach was filled with butterflies.

“Soup and salad will be lots for me.”

“Please.” Logan shook his head at her. “I can hear your stomach growling from across the table. And you’ve been licking your lips, did you know that?”

She jerked her head. “I have?”

“You have. Enough to draw attention from the football corner over there; keep that lip thing going and they’ll be lining up for your phone number.”

Samara laughed, surprising herself. “I highly doubt that.”

But even hypothetical attention felt so good.

“Hey Logan,” said the waitress with a smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s your new friend?”

The young woman turned to her, bright-faced with curiosity.

“Hey Mardie, meet Samara,” said Logan. “Sam’s actually an old friend. And I’m happy to say that after a long absence, she’s made her way back to… Marietta.”

He held Sam’s gaze the whole time he was talking and beneath his polite words ran a powerful undercurrent, a warm, intimate subtext meant only for her. He
said
Marietta. But she’d swear that he almost said
me
.

Mardie and Logan began chatting about Homecoming and the rivalry between the Marietta and Livingston football teams.

She hadn’t come back for Logan. She hadn’t even thought of him.

Had she?

Her good memories of this place were tied up with Logan, of course, but that’s not why she returned. She wanted to walk down the street and say hi to people, by name. She wanted to know her child would grow up without sirens at night, or neighbors screaming through the walls, or being in a classroom with different kids each year. She wanted that sense of calm and stability that came with an old town that held onto its heritage without getting stuck in the past.

She came here to find a home and make a life.

She’d never even thought of Logan.

Except that Logan was part of everything she loved about Marietta.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” said Mardie.

“Um. Drinks?” Sam’s cheeks grew hot.

Logan grinned. “You jumped time zones briefly, so I ordered for you.”

“You did not!” Shock at his presumption was accompanied by an unexpected sense of relief. Presumption was a privilege of coupledom, but it was so luxurious to let someone else take the wheel, even briefly, in something as small as a pub order, she couldn’t be annoyed.

Plus, they were here together, weren’t they?

“You need more than soup and salad. Plus, I want to see if I still know what you like.”

Logan’s eyes drifted down over her body, and the little hairs on her arms lifted, as if he’d drawn a line down them with his finger.

“And here we are.” Mardie swooped in and set a frosty sleeve in front of her. “For the lady. And for you, Logan. Enjoy!”

“Wait,” protested Samara. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order beer.”

With one hand, Logan sent Mardie off to handle a fresh wave of customers.

“Come on. Surely New Yorkers drink beer.”

“Of course,” said Sam. “But I haven’t had alcohol since-”

Since Michael died. No, before that. Since Jade was born. Actually, since their honeymoon, when she couldn’t figure out why she was so queasy.

But Logan wasn’t listening to her protest.

“I’m sticking to soda so you don’t have to worry about my driving, and you’re going to enjoy this golden ale guilt-free. With any luck, by the time we leave, those tight shoulders of yours may have loosened their stranglehold grip on your ears.”

She punched him lightly across the table, annoyed and delighted in equal measure. “That’s a horrible image!”

He shrugged, his eyes dancing. “Truth hurts, lady. Drink up.”

She took a tentative sip. The chilled liquid slipped over her tongue, smooth with a slight bite. She took a second sip, feeling the cool drift down to her stomach, then turn to the tiniest whisper of warmth.

She heard a little moan of appreciation from the back of her throat.

“Good, huh?”

She looked up from her glass to find Logan watching her intently. His smile was gone and in its place was an expression of such longing, such sadness, such concern that she was instantly back in high school, telling him that her father had lost yet another job. That she was moving away. Again.

“Yeah,” she answered, her voice hoarse. “Logan, are you okay?”

With one quick gesture, he shook off whatever he’d been feeling and his face settled back into his usual comfortable, friendly expression.

“Apparently not, if I’m out with a beautiful woman and not following the conversation.”

She flushed at the compliment but wondered what had triggered that brief moment of emotional nakedness.

Their food arrived just then.

Samara watched with amazement as Mardie set a heaping plate of chicken pot pie in front of her, the gravy still bubbling through the top of the pastry. The aroma, rich and comforting, hit her nose and instantly, her stomach growled so loudly that she pressed her hand into it, certain that the whole room must have heard it.

Mardie wasn’t done. She set down a second plate with salad, then a basket of bread for them to share, then pickles and finally, Logan’s plate.

“Make sure he gives you a taste of his meatloaf,” said Mardie. “It’s to die for.” She winked at Logan and left before Sam could even respond.

“Eat up, honey,” he said, gesturing to her plate. “We’ll talk more once your plate’s clean.”

Honey?
Warmth stole over her, completely unrelated to the oven-hot food in front of her.

“This is far too much,” she said.

He looked at her thoughtfully, then speared a small piece of meatloaf and held it out to her across the table.

“Try this.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I’ll have enough trouble eating my own.”

His eyes dropped to her neck, then lower, ranging over everything visible above the table top. Again, like a fiery finger, his gaze scorched every cold part of her.

“Eat.”

She opened her mouth and he put the bite of meat onto her tongue, then sat back and watched, his eyes hooded and dusky, as if anticipating her pleasure gave him even greater pleasure.

Flavor burst onto her tongue. She moaned as the tiny tease of satisfaction made her hunger roar to life. She wanted more, much more.

“Oh my God,” she said when she could speak. “We should trade.”

“I knew you’d like it.” He grinned. “Now try your pot pie. If you still want to trade, fine. Otherwise, we’ll switch orders next time.”

Next time?

“You seem pretty sure of yourself, Logan Stafford.”

He enjoyed another forkful of meatloaf, a satisfied smile on his face.

Samara gaped at the mouth-watering abundance before her, then pierced the flaky crust with her fork and took her first small bite.

And moaned again.

“Don’t tell the meatloaf,” she said, speaking through her food and not caring, “but this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Good. I’m making it my personal challenge to get some weight back on your bones.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Who died and made you king?”

“Don’t you mean to say ‘You’re not the boss of me’?”

It had always been so easy to be with Logan, she remembered. Years ago at school, he found a way to bring her out of her shell and here he was again, helping her feel comfortable again, making her feel special.

Loved.

She remembered kissing him under the bleachers.

“Getting warm?” asked Logan. “A good meal will do that.”

She nodded, but it wasn’t only the food. He was the first boy she’d ever explored physical intimacy with. They talked about going all the way, but both being virgins, agreed to wait until their one-year anniversary. To make it really special, a night to remember.

Only she was gone by then.

Logan waved down their waitress. “Another beer for the lady, when you have a moment.”

With shock, Samara noticed that her glass was empty.

“Did you drink my beer?”

He smiled and shook his head. “You did it all by your sweet lonesome. Just like you polished off the pot pie.”

He was right. The chicken pie was gone. A single piece of lettuce lay wilting on the salad plate. There was a breadstick in her hand and the most wonderful feeling of satiation in her belly.

“My goodness, I’m like a hog at a trough!”

“Now, don’t even start with that,” said Logan, reaching across to touch her hand. “I enjoyed watching you eat almost as much as you enjoyed eating. There’s nothing a man likes more than to see a woman happy. Especially if he can take the credit.”

*

Logan watched Sam
stack their empty plates, nestling the knives and forks, folding the crumpled napkins. Her fingers were long and elegant, the nails unpolished, short and smooth. She’d been organized and tidy as a teen, a way of coping with a life filled with upheaval and uncertainty.

But there was more to it now, and he had a feeling he knew why. He remembered the way she touched the carpet, how she checked for parallel lines and right angles, her distress at finding a rough patch on the banister.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began, “but what’s the deal with Jade?”

She jumped. “Nothing. She’s fine. She’s unique. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Whoa, there,” said Logan. “No offence intended. I’m just trying to figure things out. You have to admit, you’re a little overprotective.”

He waited. Parents of special needs kids had to be highly organized and schedule-oriented. They were often frustrated and highly-defensive, too. Sadly, the desire to do the best for their children often pitted mother against father when they needed each other the most.

But then, he’d seen that in parents of ordinary kids, as well.

A muscle in her jaw flickered. “I don’t like labels.”

“Has she been assessed?”

Samara sighed heavily. “Over and over and over. She cried so much, you see. Some days it seemed like that’s all she did. We weren’t prepared, especially Michael. As she got older, the crying stopped, but they still never bonded. I was the only one who could hold her. He thought something must be wrong with her. So we went from doctor to doctor. But they all said she tested ‘within normal limits.’ We were told to take parenting classes.”

He heard the humiliation behind the words.

“Rough start.”

“Michael wouldn’t take them without me, and we’d already scared off every sitter we could find, and then suddenly,” she paused for a shaky breath, “he was gone.”

“How old was she when Michael passed away?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“Not quite three.” She looked down at the breadstick in her hand. “I pretty much shut down for a while after that. My poor baby.”

Poor Sam, he thought, knowing how much she despised pity.

“Bob’s trained for autistic kids, isn’t she?”

She froze. Had he gone too far?

Then she began pulling off crumbs and putting them in rows.

“She’s not certified,” she answered finally. “But, yeah. She’s had some training.”

Jade seemed immature in some ways, and she had definite socialization issues, but that could be said about some of his students, too. And none of them were autistic.

“Seems to me she’s everything Jade needs.”

He suddenly remembered a day from that one summer they had together. He’d convinced her to join a group of them who were hanging out by the cookhouse on Yellowstone River, swimming, sunning, sharing a few purloined beers. She was excited until they insisted – not unkindly – that they drive across town so she could grab her contribution to the snack pool.

A buzz sounded from Sam’s bag.

She pulled out her smart phone and scanned the screen, her eyebrows furrowed.

On that long-ago day, when they bumped over the tracks to the tumble-down rented cracker-box where she lived with her parents, the truck grew quiet. Two men sat on the concrete steps leading to her front door, a couple of empty six-packs littering the dead grass around them. Her father, he knew without being told, and old man Goodwin, Flynn’s dad and the town drunk.