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“Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling a hand over his mouth. “It just brings up bad memories.” He gestured to the mess in the kitchen. “Do you need a hand cleaning this up?”
“No,” I said, a little stung by his reaction to my questions.
“Okay, then, I’ll try to find a rope to tie up your goat.”
“He’s not my goat,” I protested.
He gave me a wry smile. “He is now.”
July 14, Sunday
I’D NOTICED Sawyer had left the day before soon after tying “my” goat to a tree with a rope long enough to let it graze, without going to the cemetery to work on the monolith restoration. Obviously he was still harboring troubling thoughts about finding Rose Whisper deceased in the graveyard.
And rightfully so.
My musings about whether he’d be back today were answered when I saw his truck roll by while I was gathering eggs. He raised his hand in a wave, and I waved back. After a while, I filled a thermos with iced tea and rode my bike down.
The man was shirtless again.
For most of my career, I’d silently lamented the bare-chested, long-haired men my publisher had put on the covers of my books, in a clench with a begowned woman swooning in his arms. It was what the readers wanted, but I had always wished for something a little more upmarket to squash disparaging remarks I and other romance novelists endured from people both inside and outside the industry.
Including my mother.
But standing there watching Sawyer’s body ripple and move from exertion, I suddenly understood why readers liked it.
For the first time, I kind of liked it myself.
With the help of the winch, he was lowering the repaired base of the monument into the ground. When it was in place, he moved in with a tool I recognized as a level, then nodded with satisfaction and stepped back.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
His head swung around. “Slow. But I’m getting there.”
I lifted the thermos. “I brought tea if you’d like some.”
He smiled. “Yes please.”
I pushed down the stirring in my midsection and poured tea into two plastic cups.
He gestured to a concrete bench a few feet away. “Want to sit?”
I nodded and followed him over. I sat as far away from him as I could, but it was a small bench. I could practically feel the heat emanating from his body.
“I Googled you,” I said. “You’re a captain?”
“In the Army Reserves—it’s part-time service.”
“And you’re a sculptor?”
His eyebrows went up. “Wow, you had to go to the third or fourth page of search results to find that.”
I laughed. “I saw one of your pieces. You’re very good.”
“Thanks. But most of what I do is much less artistic—firepits, stone walkways, retaining walls.”
“And you spend the rest of your time restoring headstones?”
“Most weekends when the weather allows. It’s peaceful work.”
