One month later...
Still a bit in shock, Mick helped his grandfather load the last of his stuff onto the moving truck, then stepped back and closed the door. “I guess that’s got it, Gramps.” Mick kicked at a loose pebble in the driveway. “Are you sure about this?”
“How many times have I got to answer that question?” Charlie grumped. “I’m moving. I’m taking Morgan Freeman’s advice from Shawshank Redemption. ‘Member that line? Get busy living or get busy dying.”
Mick swallowed a long-suffering sigh. Yes, he remembered. He’d only heard it about a dozen times over the past three weeks.
“Since I ain’t ready to die, I reckon I’ll live and I don’t want to live here anymore, which I have explained to you repeatedly.” Charlie paused and scratched his head. “Usually you ain’t so thick. I don’t know what you’re problem is. You’ve been in a terrible mood lately. A real funk.”
“I’m not thick,” Mick explained, summoning patience. “I just think you’re making a snap decision based on Mabel’s fried chicken and an annual festival centered around a dessert.”
Honestly, when his grandfather had announced that he was moving to Monarch Grove--into Sarah Jane’s old house, no less--Mick couldn’t have been any more stunned than if he’d suddenly announced he was going to start buying a foreign made vehicle or off to march in a Gay Pride parade. Citing the need to be alone, when Mick had left Monarch Grove his grandfather--despite an interesting run in with Byron which had involved the breaking of glass and few choice words about keeping him cold hands to himself--had stayed behind for a few days. Mick had assumed it was to give him some space--he’d never dreamed the old man had actually been looking for a new place to live.
“Well, I hate moving off and leaving you, but you know where I am and you’re always welcome to visit,” Charlie said. “That article in Designing Weekly has done amazing things for Sarah Jane’s business, so I’m going to help her out until she finds a permanent partner,” he needled, knowing that it would drive him crazy. “That Sarah Jane,” Charlie chuckled fondly. “She’s a pip. Hard worker, good heart, easy on the eyes.” His grandfather stared a blazing hole through him. “A man could do a lot worse than a girl like her.”
So he’d said, Mick thought, once again ignoring his grandfather’s repeated pointed attempts at matchmaking. As if he didn’t know exactly what kind of person Sarah Jane was. As if he didn’t miss her with every fiber of his being, every miserable beat of his wasted heart.
Over the past month Mick had come within a gnat’s ass of going back, of taking her up on her offer. After all, he sure as hell wasn’t getting anything done here. He’d picked up breathing where his grandfather had left off, maintaining the delicate balance of the Minot ecosystem. He inwardly snorted at the thought.
He’d been restless and miserable, like a cat pacing a cage ever since he’d walked away from her. And no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he was doing her a favor, that until he got his head screwed on straight he didn’t need to become any more involved with her than he already was...Mick couldn’t help but think he was a first-class full-of-shit ass.
His grandfather exhaled mightily, as though he’d finally lost patience with something. Or given his dark expression, someone.
Namely him.
“Okay, Micky. I’ve got to say something to you.” His bushy brows drew together in a straight line. “All my life I’ve tried to make up for the fact that you pretty much got the shaft from your parents. I brought you home with me when you came in from school over the summers and I taught you a trade so that you’d always have a way to earn a living. No, I didn’t make you a rocket scientist, but carpentry is honest work and if it was good enough for Jesus, then I reckon it ought to be good enough for anybody.” He paused. “But the one thing I seemed to have not been able to teach you is something that you can’t learn.”
Mick blinked, confused. “If you can’t teach it, then how can you learn it?”
“Don’t sass, boy,” his grandfather snapped. His silver hair bobbed with indignation. “It’s good old common sense! Sorry to say so, but you don’t seem to have any. Or you’ve lost it. Either way you’re making a total mess of things right now and, well, what sort of a grandparent would I be if I didn’t try to help?”
“The kind that didn’t insult and interfere?” Mick suggested.
“That’s not my style.”
He didn’t think he’d be so lucky, Mick thought swallowing a long-suffering sigh.
“Anyway, I know that you’ve been going through a rough patch lately. I can tell that your confidence is shot and with good reason. I’m not going to tell you not to blame yourself for that mistake with Carson Wells, but I would ask you to put one of those buddies you’re so proud of into your shoes and tell me if you thought one of them ought to feel responsible.”
Mick paused. “You mean if it had been Huck or Levi who’d made the call to send Carson over the ridge?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Mick said, mulling it over, though he knew he was lying. Had it been one of them, he would have told them the same thing they’d been telling him for months. That they weren’t mind-readers and a soldier’s orders were only as good as his intel.
“Well, I suggest you think on it,” his grandfather said. “And in the mean time, you need to get your butt back to Monarch Grove and patch things up with Sarah Jane.”
“Gramps--“
“I saw the way you looked at her, Micky,” his grandfather said, his voice low and knowing. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. You’re in love with her.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement, one that was accurate and on point.
“And you’re miserable.” He slapped him on the arm. “Seems to me you need to follow the Morgan Freeman’s advice, too. Get busy living, or get busy dying. Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you’ve got golden ticket.”
And with that parting advice, he slapped him on the back, climbed into the cab of the moving truck and drove away.
Back to Monarch Grove. Back to Sarah Jane.
An image of an old home place, restored and filled with dark-blonde-headed children and a menagerie of pets, the scent of blackberry pies in the oven suddenly overwhelmed him. He imagined working with her every day, laying down with her every night, waking up with her every morning and all the wonderful things that could happen in between. Warm thighs, soft breasts, breakfast in bed and Christmas mornings.
He imagined his life...with her, and knew every moment away from her was one wasted.
He’d been such an idiot, Mick thought, disgusted with himself. A total and complete idiot.
And stupidity of this order demanded a grand gesture. Thankfully, Sarah Jane had given him the information he’d needed to make one.
* * *
“Sarah Jane, I’m afraid I’ve gotten some bad news,” Mason said, staring at her with a hangdog expression which instantly put her on alert.
In the process of putting her tools away, Sarah Jane stilled. They’d been working at another old house in a neighboring city for the better part of two weeks and had finally finished the salvage. Deciding a vacation was in order after such a hard summer--then of course the old broken heart thing--she’d booked a condo in Orange Beach and was looking forward to take a bag full of books and some sunscreen and hitting the sand for a little relaxation. If Mason’s bad news jeopardized her plans, she’d quite possibly pitch a good old-fashioned bucket-kicking fit. Turn her inner redneck loose.
“What?” she asked cautiously.
“That was Carl,” he said, gesturing to his cell. “Imogene Childress has sold Ponder Hill.”
Horrified, Sarah Jane gasped. Shock lanced through her. “But I just tried to buy it from her a couple of weeks ago! She swore she wasn’t going to sell!” Sarah Jane began to pace, shoving her hands into her hair. She pulled until her scalp ached. “Did he say who bought it? Who she finally sold it to?”
Maybe if she offered them enough money she could force a sale. She felt tears prick the back of her lids and resisted the urge to drop onto her rear end and squall. Honestly, she hadn’t shed a tear over Mick--she’d told herself that crying indicated that she’d given up on him and she hadn’t--but losing that house, her dream house, suddenly made everything else, every repressed emotion, every bit of irritation, fear, longing and hope bubble up within her and pour out of her eyes.
Huge sobs caught in her throat, then bubbled out a gasp at a time.
Seemingly unsure of what to do, Mason hurried over and put a scrawny arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Sarah Jane, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Carl says the buyer is interested in restoring the house and won’t work with anyone but you. I told him we’d come straight out there.”
Sarah Jane hiccupped and looked up. “What? Restore the house?”
“Yes,” Mason said. “That’s good news right?”
“No, Mason,” she said, even more miserable. “Now, not only was she not going to get her dream house, she was going to be asked to restore it to someone else’s specs.” She shook her head. Nope. She couldn’t do it. “Call Carl back and tell him the buyer is going to have to come up with an alternate solution. I’m not doing it.”
Mason blinked, seemingly certain he’s misunderstood. And with good reason--she’d never turned down work. But this was one job she couldn’t do.
“Sarah Jane, at least meet with the guy. See what his plans are.”
She frowned. “It’s a guy.”
He nodded. “That was my understanding. It’s on the way home. Let’s just swing by and see what he has to say.”
She’d swing by and kiss her dreams goodbye, Sarah Jane thought. Make a final wish on her angel. But she’d be damned if she’d fix up her house for someone else.
Twenty minutes later, she climbed out of the truck and stared up at the old mansion, her throat tight. Rather than get out of truck, Mason powered the window down. “I’m going to run down to Carl’s for a minute. He asked me to come by and check his computer. He’s having some trouble.”
Sarah Jane frowned. He was leaving? “Mason--“
“Go on inside,” he said, shooing her. “I’ll be right back.” And with that odd behavior, he was off.
Oh, well, Sarah Jane decided. It didn’t look like the new owner was here either, which was actually kind of nice. She’d like a minute to spend in the old house before she left, a goodbye if you will. She doubted the new owner would appreciate her breaking and entering on the property. Then again, she’d been in jail before and survived the experience.
She lingered a minute in every room, once again imagining how she would have restored things, arranged the furniture, put her Christmas tree and her clawfoot tub. Ridiculous, she thought, but she couldn’t help it. She’d always, always loved this house. Had wanted it since a child.
Ultimately she made her way upstairs, to her favorite spot in the whole house, her angel window over looking the property. Another lump welled in her throat as she stared out across the landscape.
She had one wish left, Sarah Jane thought. She’d better make it count. “Send him back to me,” she whispered, tracing the angel’s robe with her index finger. “Please.”
Mick stepped out from a bedroom on the right, startling the breath out of her lungs. She inhaled sharply and clasped a hand over her mouth. That gorgeous smile, sexy and irreverent and just the slightest bit unsure curled his lips. “Hi, Sarah Jane.”
She frowned, staring at him, unable to make it all compute, make sense. “You?” she asked, her voice raw with emotion. “You bought this house?”
He nodded. “I did. It took a bit of persuading and more cash than I’d planned to part with, but after everything I’ve put you through...I thought it would make a nice--“ His gaze tangled with hers “--consolation prize.”
She blinked, confused. Consolation prize? Everything he’d put her through?
“It’s yours, Sarah Jane,” Mick said patiently. “I bought it for you. Actually, the idea is for us, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.” Again that endearing smile, the one that made her heart ache, her belly roll, her limbs quake.
God, she’d missed him.
She cleared her throat. “Considering you bought the house before talking to me, I’d say you’ve already done that.”
“I wanted to make a grand gesture,” he said. “See if I could get rid of that Squatting Snake in the Grass moniker. Maybe exchange it for something a little better. Like Warrior Bleeding Heart’s Husband?”
Sarah Jane grew utterly still as the impact of that little question rocketed through her. “Husband?”
He pulled a shrug. “I’m already doing everything else backward. Thought I might as well go for broke and throw a proposal in there,” he explained, as though this logic were completely reasonable.
“For the record, Mick, typically women like it when a man gets down on one knee and offers a ring.”
He sidled closer and slid the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “Maybe so, but I’m not asking the typical woman. I’m asking you.” His voice grew raspy, as though his throat were closing up, and his brilliant blue gaze tangled with hers. “And you are anything but ordinary, Sarah Jane.”
He couldn’t have found a compliment she would have appreciated more, Sarah Jane thought, her chest so full she feared it would burst. “Do you want an answer now?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Mick dropped his forehead against hers in relief and chuckled softly. “Now would be nice, yes.”
She tsked regretfully. “My life is a mess right now. I don’t know if it would be fair to drag you into it,” she said, shooting his words right back at him.
He laughed, the wretch, then lifted her off her feet and planted a long, hot kiss on her lips. Her insides melted. “Life’s messy, Sarah Jane. But I’d rather be in a mess with you than anywhere else.”
She grinned, realizing that ever wish she’d ever made to her angel had come true in this moment, and rocked suggestively against him. “Then let’s get dirty.”