Authors: Kathleen O'Reilly
The Captain smiled at her then, and Brooke smiled back. Good work, indeed. Brave, resourceful, matter-of-fact. Most of the world would never know, which was too bad because the rest of the world could learn much from Jason Kincaid. “Why did you enlist?”
He shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“Why did you leave?”
“That’s question number four,” he reminded her.
“I’ll give you four questions,” she offered generously, because she liked this cautious give and take, and if he was willing, then Brooke believed she should be willing, too.
“I stopped being useful, and didn’t want to sit behind a desk.” After he finished, he waited, watching her expectantly. Give and take. “Your turn.”
“After your mother died, why’d you stay on the road?”
Why?
“Nowhere was home. I kept trying to find it.”
“Is this home?” he asked, a deceptively simple question. This small town—where she’d never lived before—felt like more of a home than anywhere else, but it wasn’t because of her brother, or the Hart land, or the chatty dinners at the Wanamaker house. If she told him the truth, would he put up one thousand pounds of ballistic-resistant American steel? She glanced down at the couch and smiled to herself. When she looked up, maybe there was more in her eyes than she wanted, but hopefully a man with fifty-percent vision would only see half as much. “It’s a start. What about you? Is this home?”
His one good eye looked at her, looked through her, and Brooke’s fingers gripped the cushions a little harder.
“I don’t need a home.”
“Everybody needs a home,” she insisted. Everyone, including the Captain. Especially the Captain, who was normally a very intelligent man. But there were some things that the Captain pretended not to see, and she believed it was time someone pointed them out. Nicely, of course.
He shrugged again, brushing off her words. She longed to shake him, wake him up to the world, but the Captain was a tricky man, surrounding himself with Dog, the tools, the half-gutted cylindrical doo-hickey…
Then Brooke began to feel whole, a little wiser. He’d made a home, he just never knew it. With that, she walked over, kissed him once on the cheek, a silent invitation in her eyes, not so hidden this time. However, the Captain was a hard man who believed that the world didn’t need him, and he stared impassively.
Completely unfooled, Brooke retrieved her empty paper bag from the couch. The empty paper bag containing her imaginary vibrator, which she fondled as if it were a man. The Captain turned pale. “Knock, next time,” she instructed, and then strolled away, satisfied with his quiet moan. Wisely, she hid her grin.
T
WO DAYS LATER
, when Brooke awoke, she pulled her money from her boot, counted it out and beamed. More than enough for shoes. The Captain was already outside, taking apart some large metal tank, and Brooke approached with a spring in her step, because finally…finally, the world’s ugliest boots were going into the trash.
“I need to go to town.”
He pulled off his cap, put down the drill in his hand. “Shoes?”
She didn’t care for his judgmental assumption, even if it was the truth. Her right boot had a hole on top, and the West Texas dust had turned both shoes an unfashionable pasty gray. “Possibly. If I’m so inclined.”
Then he smiled at her and she decided she didn’t mind his assumption quite so much. “Good. Tallyrand’s has the best selection. Or, if you want, we can drive into Austin. There’s a great scrap yard on the east side of town.”
Normally she would have agreed, but when funds were limited, shopping was a blood sport best done alone. “Tallyrand’s will be fine. Maybe Rita will have time for a chat.”
“Rita always has time for a chat.” He paused, tugged at the bill of his cap. “What are you going to tell her?”
“Does it matter?”
“I should know, in case anyone asks.”
“You’re my boss. That’s the truth.”
He nodded. “The truth is always the easiest. No open toes.”
“Excuse me?”
He pointed at her feet. “No sandals.”
“Does this workplace now have a dress code?”
“Do you want to rip your toe off?”
Well, when he put it like that. “No. However, in deference to your somewhat overwrought, safety-first attitude, I’ll find something practical, yet still cute.”
He smiled again, a quicksilver tilt to his mouth. “Good luck with that.”
Boldly, because Brooke was never safety-first, she rose up and pressed a kiss to that quicksilver mouth. Automatically he pressed back, and for a few precious seconds, they were joined. Before he could move away, she stepped back and was rewarded with a quick flash of disappointment in his eye. Then the normally passive gray gaze returned and “Humph” was all he said before picking up his drill.
It was a good thing he couldn’t see her grin.
T
HE TOWN OF
T
IN
C
UP
came alive early on weekdays, the streets full of pickup trucks, delivery trucks, shopkeepers opening their stores. Yes, everyone was opening except Mr. Hadley’s law offices. Apparently, Mr. Cervantes wasn’t as diligent as she had hoped. Brooke shoved a note through the mail slot in the door, and then dropped in to Hinkle’s grocery to restore some of the long-lost Hart honor. Gladys, still remembering the shoplifted can of peas, treated Brooke suspiciously until Brooke complained about the weather, just like she’d seen Gillian do. Weather complaints seemed to be the quickest way to mend fences, and then Gladys complained about her gall stones, and by the time Brooke left the store, she knew she’d won the older woman over.
Down the street, Tallyrand’s was full, farmers picking up their weekly feed supplies. The line was curled halfway around the store, and one barrel-jawed old man wasn’t happy, complaining in a loud voice. Rita ignored him, and the old man’s voice grew louder before Brooke stepped in, asking about the weather, asking about his crops, until finally the old man lightened up, blushing under all the attention. Rita noticed, just as Brooke had hoped, and shot her a grateful smile.
A person could never collect too many friends. Having friends was the first step to belonging.
Once the line was cleared, Brooke found the shoes and now Rita was definitely ready to chat. Today, the former beauty queen was dressed in tight-fitting jeans tucked into ornate boots, and a burnt orange and white glitter vest.
“How long have you known the Captain?” Rita asked.
“Two weeks. When I first arrived in town, I was searching for a job. He needed help, and I applied.”
“I didn’t know the Captain was hiring.”
“Oh, yes. He stays very busy.”
“Doing what?” Rita pretended to dust off her glass display shelves, but Brooke wasn’t fooled. This conversation would be relayed in its entirety to pretty much anybody as soon as Brooke was out the door. No, Rita was an excellent way to upgrade the Captain’s reputation in the community.
“The Captain fixes things. He owns a thriving repair business.”
“Business? He doesn’t take any money for that. The widow Kenley called him about her broken washing machine that up and died, and he told her not to worry about it. He’d take care of everything.”
“And he does a little art work on the side,” Brooke told her, not wanting Rita to think that the Captain was some mere Maytag repairman.
“Art?” Rita raised a beautifully penciled brow. “The Captain? He’s an artist?”
After glancing around, pretending to check for lurking ears, Brooke motioned for Rita to move closer and spoke in a hushed whisper. “He’s a very talented artist. You should see some of the things that he’s done.”
“Paintings?” Rita whispered back.
Brooke picked up a set of cowbell windchimes and listened to the hollow clanging sound, deciding that cowbells were not the best choice in making windchimes.
Next to the wind chimes was a shelf full of cactus, the prickly pear kind, guaranteed to thrive in all climates or your money back, at least that was what the sign claimed. Brooke picked up the small plant, tested the sharp prickles and promptly put it back.
“Not paintings exactly,” Brooke explained. “I think his stuff defies the structure of most artistic genres, but you know how the art world is. Always wanting to put things into a box. When you stare into the soul of one of the Captain’s pieces, it’s like techno-art crossed with steampunk crossed with a very efficient environmental message. I simply call it ‘the Kincaid.’”
“Really? I had no idea. I never could figure out why he would want to move to Tin Cup after he left the service. Didn’t know anybody but Sonya’s aunt and uncle, Gladys and Henry, and they weren’t that close. We always thought he was traumatized by the war. PTSD.”
“Oh, no. He’s very, very normal. Eccentric, but normal.”
“You seem to know him very well.”
“I understand his work.”
“Do you have an art background?”
If one counted the year’s worth of auction house catalogs she’d picked up in New York, then sure. “I dabble.”
“How’s your brother?”
“I had dinner with him and his fiancée last night, as a matter of fact. Love the ring.”
At that, Rita frowned. “You saw it?”
“Well, yes, she’s not very shy about it. But it’s sweet, seeing them together. He seems to have done a lot of really great things for the town.”
“I know, I know. He seems to have gotten his act together, sure, but we all know he’s got some no-good mischief in his past, and those memories don’t get washed away so easily.”
This was the second time that people were accusing the Hart family of criminal acts. However, Brooke liked Rita, she wanted a discount on the smart pair of leather ankle boots that were sitting on the side table, and she wasn’t going to argue. “It seems like he’s really turned things around.”
“It’s the Sheriff’s doing.”
“Maybe Austen had something to do with it, as well,” Brooke added, needing to defend her brother in some way. “The Hart family is very civic-minded.”
“I suppose.”
“Can we talk about some shoes? There’s one pair here, but there’s a scratch on the leather.”
Rita picked up the shoe, bright red lips pursed until they disappeared. “I have another pair somewhere. Let me get them for you.”
Brooke pulled the woman back. “You know, I like these. I like the scratch, and I like you, Rita. Let me take these off your hands. Say, twenty-five percent off. I think that’s fair for damaged merchandise.”
“They’re very good shoes, and twenty-five percent… Well, Brooke, honey, I’m just a struggling storeowner, and in these lean times…”
Right then the shop-bell rang, and a well-to-do lady came through the door. With perfect timing, Brooke held the shoe out in front of her, just as the new customer passed. “It’s a very large scratch. Almost a hole. And who wants a pair of shoes that already have a hole.”
“There’s no hole,” Rita insisted, finally starting to look nervous.
Brooke smiled nicely. “Let me ask the lady what she thinks. I bet she thinks there’s a hole.”
Now genuinely alarmed, Rita grabbed the shoes, and pitched her voice low. “I’ll go twenty-five,” she said, wising up to the fact that Brooke was no amateur shopper.
Brooke nodded, followed her to the register, noticed the handmade sale signs and then felt a pang of conscience. Rita wasn’t some billionaire shopkeeper rolling in the dough. This was her community, her family, and the Harts were supposed to be very civic-minded. “What you said earlier…if it’s a problem, I could do twenty.”
Rita gaped for a second, and then started to chuckle, as if surprised that generous thoughtfulness might come from a customer…or maybe it was only the Harts. “You’re a cool customer, Brooke Hart, but I like you. For that, I’ll go twenty percent and not a percentage point more.”
“And the cactus, but I’ll pay full price for that,” Brooke told her, picking up one of the small plants, being careful not to get stuck. The Captain could use a few more living things around the house, and Brooke thought a cactus was the living thing most likely to survive under his care.
Satisfied with their agreement, Brooke counted out her cash and then took a quick peek at the new pair of shoes in her bag. Practical and still cute. The Captain should never have doubted her.
W
HEN
B
ROOKE CAME HOME
, the first thing she did was to show off her purchase.
The Captain watched and made primordial
humph
sounds as she twisted her foot one way, then the other. “You could have found something more solid.”
“They’re leather. The soles are some specially designed long-lasting rubber. And they look great with jeans.”
He made another
humph
sound, took another look at her shoes, took a long look at Brooke and then walked away.
This time, it was Brooke who made the primordial
humph
sound. This hands-off, safety-first attitude was getting old. She had forgiven him his earlier missteps, mainly because he was too nice of a man for her to be angry with. The Captain cared. She’d been careful not to be too slutty this time, better to ease him back into her bed. Thinking strategically wasn’t something that came naturally to her. Charlene Hart didn’t have a strategic bone in her body, and she’d been the sole role model in Brooke’s life, so Brooke didn’t fault herself for not having developed that quality yet, but she noticed that the Captain was very strategic. He could spend long minutes staring at an engine or part, prodding it gently, turning it over in his hands like a clump of clay. Everything the Captain did involved forethought and planning and patience.
Later that afternoon, she investigated the far side of the house, where a line of tarp-covered piles dotted the ground like tents. Under the first tarp, she discovered a treasure trove of old sinks, basins, faucets and one extralarge claw-foot tub. It was a beauty, with generous sides and an elegantly sloped back that rose higher than the front. Down the side of each leg was a raised design of some sort, and kneeling on the ground, she wiped at the grime, delighted to discover that it was a dainty mix of hearts and lilies entwined.