Phoebe's Groom Read online

  He told himself—repeatedly—that it was just a surface attraction. Phoebe was a pretty woman with shiny chestnut hair and brilliant hazel eyes. And though their careers had taken entirely different paths, they both shared a devotion of the culinary arts. That had to count for something in explaining his irrational, doomed-to-an-enormous-train-wreck of thought.

  He knew the exact second when his perspective had changed—when he had seen his own name scribbled in the dirt. Phoebe’s handiwork.

  It shouldn’t have meant anything to him, but in that one moment, his heart had jammed into his throat so hard he couldn’t breathe and his pulse started racing. It was more than a simple shock, he acknowledged silently. It was a bombshell—a horde of mixed emotions he didn’t even want to put a name to, much less explore.

  And yet, when he looked into those hazel eyes…

  “So, Lucy,” he said, his raspy voice slicing through the silence like a dull-edged knife. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Lucy’s gaze flung out in Phoebe’s direction before settling on her father. “She’s leaving?”

  “That’s enough, young lady,” Chance reprimanded sharply, his brow furrowing.

  Chance groaned softly. Was it any wonder Lucy’s barrage of callous words were striking their target? Lucy wouldn’t let up on the poor woman even for a moment. And at the end of the day, it was his fault.

  “Lucy. It’s not like you to be mean. Apologize to Ms. Yates.”

  “It’s Phoebe, please,” Phoebe inserted.

  Lucy dropped her gaze from Chance’s scowl, but even still she refused to speak.

  “Now,” he insisted.

  “Sorry,” the girl mumbled under her breath. She didn’t look sorry—or sound it, for that matter. In fact, it was the least sincere apology Chance had ever heard in his life. That said, he doubted he’d get anything better from her, even if he forced the issue.

  Lucy stood up, glaring at Phoebe and absolutely refusing to look at Chance.

  “May I be excused, please?” she asked in a bitter tone of voice that set Chance’s teeth on edge.

  “No, you may not,” he said sternly. “Now sit down.”

  Phoebe laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook her head, all in one graceful, fluid motion performed so judiciously that Lucy didn’t even see it—which was good, because Chance knew good and well that his daughter would be furious with such a gesture, even if it was for her benefit.

  In any case, Chance got the message, and the pleading look Phoebe flashed him confirmed his thoughts. He’d pushed enough for one night. Anything else he might try would likely do more damage than good, not only to Lucy, but to Phoebe, as well.

  Aunt Jo, sitting at the head of the table, nodded in silent agreement. Having lived at the house since Lindsay died, she knew more about how his daughter ticked than anyone. He greatly valued her good opinion.

  It didn’t sit right with him to lose a battle of wills, especially against Lucy, but he consoled himself by remembering that one single battle did not win a war. And he would win the war.

  He didn’t know how he would do it, but he was resolved to make things right between Lucy and Phoebe. It was becoming personal now.

  “Don’t you even want to know what your surprise is?” he asked, deliberately trying to shift Lucy’s focus to a more pleasant topic.

  “Depends on what it is,” she answered cautiously, looking from Chance to Phoebe and back.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” Chance started, but he paused when Lucy rolled her eyes.

  Beside him, Phoebe chuckled. He lifted an eyebrow at her. A joke at his expense wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind to bring the two females together on one side. Make that three females. Aunt Jo was laughing, too.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he repeated in a louder, firmer tone of voice, “that it might be fun for us to go to the Sparkses’ barn-raising next weekend.”

  “Really?” Lucy’s face lit up from the upward curve of her lips to her glowing green eyes. Chance thought it might have been worth it to go to the barn-raising just to see the smile on his daughter’s face. Why hadn’t he realized that before?

  Unfortunately, he should have enjoyed that short flash of enjoyment while it lasted, for a moment later Lucy’s smile faded.

  “Us?” she queried irately.

  Chance sighed heavily. “Yes, us. You, me, Aunt Jo and Phoebe.”

  “Why does she have to come?” Lucy asked, pointing an accusatory finger at Phoebe. “Do you really want to go there?” he retorted crisply. Exasperating child.

  Lucy shrugged, but she didn’t push the issue. “Can I please be excused now? I can’t wait to text all my friends and let them know I’m coming.”

  He chuckled. “Two more bites of broccoli first.”

  “Dad,” she complained, though this time without the sting in her tone, “I’m not two.”

  “No, you’re not,” Chance agreed. “But you still have to eat your vegetables.”

  Lucy sighed dramatically and popped two broccoli flowerets into her mouth. “Now?”

  “Go.”

  Lucy was out of the room almost before he’d spoken the single syllable. He shook his head as he watched her go.

  “It’s just a barn-raising,” he mused softly to no one in particular.

  Aunt Jo chuckled. “Are you so far over the hill that you don’t remember what it’s like to be a teenager at a barn-raising?”

  Chance scowled and shook his head. “That’s different. She’s a girl.”

  Phoebe’s pleasant-voiced laughter joined in with Aunt Jo’s. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His gaze traveled from woman to woman, both of whom were looking quite smug, like they knew something he didn’t.

  “You’ve buried your head in the sand, dear,” Aunt Jo offered. “Quite deeply, I believe. You can’t possibly not have noticed how Lucy is blooming into a young lady. Let’s not forget she’s a teenager now.”

  “She’s not blooming,” he said, though his denial obviously fell on deaf ears.

  “What grade is she in?” Phoebe queried.

  “She just finished seventh.”

  “I started liking boys when I was in the seventh grade,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. Or maybe she was poking fun at him. He couldn’t tell.

  “Boys?” This was not helpful. “If I see a boy so much as looking at my daughter during this barn-raising, I’ll string him up by his ears.”

  Phoebe laughed. “Why does that not surprise me? I totally picture you as the type of dad who will meet Lucy’s dates at the door with a baseball bat in your hand.”

  “Lucy is not dating until she is thirty,” he pronounced firmly. End of subject.

  “I’m sure she’ll be sorry to hear that, Chance, dear,” Aunt Jo said with humor lacing her voice. “Now why don’t you go finish the chores in the barn while Phoebe and I wash these dishes up?”

  He started to protest. He always finished the chores in the barn before supper, as Aunt Jo knew well. It was usually his job to wash the dinner dishes.

  But that wasn’t the point, now was it?

  He might be a guy, but he wasn’t that thickheaded. Clearly, the two of them wanted him out of the way, for who knew what reason. Probably to talk behind his back, woman to woman or some such nonsense. The addition of Phoebe to the household had definitely turned Chance’s world on its axis.

  There were far too many females around here. He was surrounded by them on all sides, and he’d be toast if and when they decided to gang up on him. This could not be good.

  He whistled for his Heinz 57 shepherd mix named King—a male, thankfully—and headed out for the barn. At least he’d have a little peace and quiet out there—if he could get Phoebe out of his head.

  Not likely, but he would try.

  Chapter Six

  STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: What do you wear to an old-fashioned country barn-raising? I’m going to have the opportunity to meet a l
ot of the people here in Serendipity, more even than I’ve seen at the café—if I can figure out what to wear.

  Phoebe had had a good chat with Jo while they finished the dishes. As always, the older woman had made her smile, despite all the mixed emotions she was feeling at the moment. Now back in her bedroom, she had time to mull over what Jo had said, or at least implied.

  According to Jo, things were going even better than she had planned. Phoebe didn’t know exactly what those things were that Jo was hinting at, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to find out.

  Even if she knew, she would probably have to disagree. Whatever headway she’d made with Chance was that much farther back she’d gone with Lucy.

  The girl hated her—and in no uncertain terms, wanted her gone.

  Rejection was rejection, and it stung, even if it came from a thirteen-year-old girl. Maybe especially because it came from a thirteen-year-old girl. Chance’s daughter.

  Even so, Phoebe couldn’t help but feel sorry for Lucy. Her mother’s death had taken an enormous toll on the girl, more so perhaps than anyone had realized. And though Chance clearly loved his daughter and tried his best, Lucy was floundering emotionally. It had taken Phoebe coming into the household and disrupting the status quo to raise up the emotional issues Lucy clearly hadn’t dealt with.

  Phoebe knew she needed to spend extra time in prayer for the whole Hawkins family. She’d learned over the years that prayer was the first line of defense. She knew now that she was not going to leave, even though on the surface it appeared she was making things more difficult for Lucy. Instead, she would do whatever she could to reach out to Lucy—even if she was rejected.

  Repeatedly.

  This last resolution was not only for Lucy’s sake, but for Chance, as well. If there was any way she could ease the pain she occasionally glimpsed in Chance’s dark gaze, she wanted to do it. She’d somehow become personally invested in the man, maybe from the first moment she’d walked into his kitchen and had seen him glaring back at her, challenging her.

  She hadn’t anticipated becoming emotionally entangled with the Hawkins family, and yet here she was, only the second day into her vacation, neck-deep in family drama.

  A smart woman might walk away. Instead, Phoebe’s heart urged her to step forward. Following her heart and not her head would probably be her eventual downfall, but she found herself unable to stop her concern about a dark, soulful man and his damaged but lovely daughter.

  Phoebe stared sightlessly into the closet where she’d hung her clothes only the night before. The barn-raising wasn’t for another three days, but in Phoebe’s experience, it was never too early to plan for the appropriate outfit. The only problem was that Phoebe had absolutely no idea what one wore to such an event.

  It was presumably casual, given that they would actually be constructing a building, but casual to Phoebe and casual to the townspeople of Serendipity was probably on the far opposite ends of the fashion spectrum. And even if it wasn’t, Phoebe’s wardrobe was lax in anyone’s definition of the word.

  Up until this point, her career had been her whole life, and with that came the clothes appropriate for her celebrated status. She didn’t particularly like dressing up, it was just something she did for work and didn’t really give much thought to.

  Now she was thinking about it.

  She considered asking Chance for advice but quickly nixed that idea. Chance was a rugged, completely masculine, thoroughly country man from the top of his cowboy hat to the tips of his scuffed, dusty boots. Not exactly the kind of guy who would know anything at all about fashion. He probably couldn’t tell her what kind of clothes people—women in particular—wore to barn-raising events if she’d decided to ask him.

  Lucy, on the other hand—now there was an idea.

  Phoebe folded two pairs of jeans over one arm and selected three different colors and styles of shirts from the closet—a rich chocolate-brown cable-knit sweater, a lavender rayon blouse and an emerald-green western shirt she’d purchased on impulse before she’d arrived in Serendipity and had yet to try on, much less wear.

  She found Lucy in the living room, seated on the couch watching a comedy on TV. Since the girl’s back was turned from where Phoebe had entered, she called out to her.

  “Lucy, can I get your opinion on something real quick? I need a female’s point of view.”

  To Phoebe’s surprise—or maybe not so much, all things being what they were—Lucy didn’t acknowledge her at all, not even to make a rude retort.

  She tried again. “I could really use your help.”

  She might as well not have spoken, for as much of a response the girl gave her—which was nothing.

  Maybe if she told Lucy what she wanted, the girl would be more interested. One more time, then. “I can’t decide which pair of jeans I should wear this weekend. I’ve never been to a barn-raising before.”

  “She can’t hear you.” Chance’s low, rough-voiced explanation came from behind her.

  Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat and then made up for it by racing into a full gallop. It appeared the man made it a habit of sneaking up on people. Or was it just her he liked to freak out?

  “You startled me,” she accused, shaking a finger at him. “Again.”

  His expression, one flash short of a scowl, didn’t change. “I thought you said you wanted help with Lucy.”

  She nodded. “I do, but—”

  “Then you ought to know you’re speaking to dead air space,” he explained briskly, cutting her off.

  “I know she’s watching television, but the volume isn’t up that loud.” Phoebe was uncomfortable talking about Lucy as if she wasn’t there, since she was present and only a mere two feet from where they were standing. If she was listening to any of this conversation…

  Chance’s crooked grin appeared. His smile was the only imperfect feature on his otherwise flawlessly chiseled face. Curiously enough, it was also what Phoebe found most attractive about him. It gave him character.

  When he smiled—which wasn’t often.

  “Observe,” he said, stepping forward until he was just behind Lucy. He bent down slyly, reached on either side of the girl’s head, and deftly plucked a tiny pair of ear buds from her ears.

  “Hey,” Lucy protested, leaning back to glare at her father. “I was listening to that.”

  Chance just chuckled and pointed to the cell phone in his daughter’s hand.

  “Why do you have the television on when you have music blaring in your ears and all your attention is on texting your friends on your cell phone?”

  “I’m watching the show,” Lucy insisted.

  Phoebe grinned. “A multitasker, like your father.”

  Lucy’s low-browed gaze met Phoebe’s. “Whatever.”

  “It’s a private joke,” Chance explained; not, Phoebe thought, that Lucy cared one way or the other.

  Lucy’s gaze never faltered from Phoebe’s. “Like I said—whatever.”

  “Do you have to do this all the time?” Chance asked, clearly exasperated.

  “No, it’s okay,” Phoebe said, stepping between father and daughter both literally and figuratively. “I don’t want to bother you, Lucy. I was just wondering if you could help me pick out my outfit for Saturday.”

  She sensed the immediate shift of the girl’s interest like a cleft in the ground after an earthquake. Was that a gleam of interest Phoebe had just seen sparking in Lucy’s eyes?

  For both their sakes, she hoped so. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, she held out the arm with the two pairs of jeans, one a dark wash, the other faded, folded over it.

  “What do you think?”

  Lucy eyed the clothing keenly, her lips twisting in thought just the way Chance’s did.

  After a moment, Lucy pointed at the faded denim. Phoebe probably would have nixed the darker designer jeans on her own, but she was glad for Lucy’s opinion.

  “And for a top?” Phoebe held up one hanger at a time for Lucy to insp
ect.

  “This one,” Lucy said, pointing to the western shirt. “It’ll bring out all the different colors in your eyes. And bring the sweater for later on when it gets cold. Do you own a hat?”

  “A cowboy hat?”

  Lucy shrugged noncommittally. “Cowboy hat. Stocking cap. Whatever.”

  “I have a hand-knit beret. Personally, I think I’d look ridiculous in a cowboy hat.”

  Lucy shrugged again. “Probably.”

  Phoebe’s comment had been meant as a joke, so she felt no offense that Lucy had taken it as one.

  She had to admit she was surprised—and impressed—not only by Lucy’s fashion sense, but by her common sense. The girl was actually being friendly, at least a little bit. Maybe there was hope after all.

  Chance didn’t look so convinced. “You didn’t pack a T-shirt?” He swept a glance over her, his lips twisting, presumably at her city-bred idea of casual wear—nice slacks and a sweater.

  Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat at his open perusal, but she stood her ground. She was so not the T-shirt type. Even her pajamas were made of silk.

  “Not one,” she confirmed.

  His eyebrow rose, but that was the only change in his expression.

  “Guess that’ll have to do, then.” He turned and walked out of the room without a further word.

  “You don’t need a T-shirt,” Lucy whispered as soon as Chance was out of hearing range. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s just a man.”

  Chance was a man, all right. No disagreement, there. That was part of the problem.

  Maybe she would buy a T-shirt if she happened to visit one of the larger towns in the area, but she would only be giving in to country living and common sense and not because Chance had suggested it.

  She didn’t care what Chance thought about her wardrobe, or how she looked. She didn’t. Really.

  STATUS UPDATE: PHOEBE YATES: Baking, baking, baking!

  JOSEPHINE HAWKINS MURPHY: Hooray!

  Chance smothered a yawn and paused as he reached for the back door of the café. As was his custom, he’d arrived promptly at 7:00 a.m., though this morning he had been more inclined to turn off his alarm, roll over and go back to sleep. He was usually a morning person, but now he found himself as exhausted as he’d ever been in his life.