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Him again.
He was a record that kept playing in her mind. Why? She wasn’t sure if she was even attracted to a guy like him, all big, lumbering, and serious. Maybe it was because he looked like a man who needed help. Three kids, a bunch of pets, and a chaotic household? She’d likely need a bottle of wine in hand to muddle through, and she’d been raised with four brothers and sisters, along with an assorted number of pets.
But Lucas had never asked her outright for any assistance.
So maybe it wasn’t the fact he looked like a man who needed someone to toss him a life preserver.
Maybe she was intrigued by those broad shoulders, the jaw hewn from marble, the slightly full bottom lip that pressed into a stern line when he looked troubled… which was frequent in her limited experience. Besides he’d looked pretty spectacular in those worn Wranglers.
Yeah, she’d noticed the brand of jeans.
Cowboy jeans.
Boots.
Callused hands and—
A knock sounded on the door.
“Yes?” she called out.
“A little boy hobbled over here with a paper and said he wants a list. What am I to do with it?” Aunt Flora’s tinny voice squeaked through the narrow crack of the door. “Oh, and, well, dearest, another letter from Angola came.”
Addy’s heart plunged as she shot upright, sloshing water onto the tile floor. Fear’s fingers squeezed hard, and Addy had to focus on breathing. She sucked in air, closing her eyes, and counting slowly as she went through her mental checklist.
Windows locked? Yes.
Door bolted. Always.
Or maybe not. Aunt Flora had answered the front door, allowing Chris to hand off something. What if she hadn’t relocked it? Her fading memory allowed for such gaps in the house’s security.
Addy stood up, water sluicing down her body, jerking her robe from the hook.
“Addy?” Aunt Flora called. “You’re not answering me, and that little boy is waiting down in the foyer.”
The front door was definitely unlocked.
“Just a minute, Aunt Flora,” Addy called, scooping up a towel and rubbing at her legs.
Breathe, Addy. Robbie Guidry’s still in prison a hundred miles away. Calm down.
But her heart still galloped, driven by irrational fear.
Addy hurried across the bathroom, twisted the bolt, and jerked the door open. Aunt Flora chirped a surprised “oh” and stepped back, holding a yellow legal-sized paper that said LIST at the top. She also held a letter that stuck out to the side. A stamp declared it sent from a prisoner at Angola State Penitentiary. Not Robbie. He wouldn’t risk jeopardizing his parole. He used a friend, no doubt.
Addy’s heart stutter-stepped.
“Sorry,” she said, by way of apology. Aunt Flora clasped her free hand to her chest. “Did you lock the front door?”
Aunt Flora blinked. “The front door? Well, I think I did. Chris is standing there, and-”
“You have to always lock the front door, Aunt Flora. You know that.” Addy slid past her aunt while tightening the sash of her bathrobe. Normally, she wouldn’t venture out in front of anyone in such a state, but desperate times and desperate measures called for showing the legs she hadn’t had time to shave.
She jogged down the stairs so fast Chris jumped when she hit the landing.
“Hey, uh, Addy,” the boy said, nervously shifting his eyes around the foyer she’d painted Wedgewood blue last spring. He’d never been in her aunt’s house before. Not many people had. “Uncle Lucas sent me over to get your list. I have to get my homework done and everything, uh, soon.”
Addy reached over to twist the dead bolt, but just as her hand touched the handle the door opened.
