SOMEBODY'S HERO Read online

  And blaming her was better than admitting that some part of him might have wanted them to come. For five years he'd worked hard at not wanting, and in just a few days…

  No. Better to blame her.

  She stayed quiet on her side of the seat. Though the sun wasn't overly bright, she'd pulled a pair of dark glasses from her purse as soon as they'd cleared the trees that shaded their road and had kept them on. Occasionally he caught her rubbing her temple as if trying to ease an ache there. Maybe he should have insisted that she go to the doctor… But she was an adult. Surely she knew better than he if she needed medical care.

  Though he was too damn familiar with people who refused to seek care when they needed it. How many times had he watched his mother cope with injuries because a hospital visit raised questions she couldn't answer? How many times had he nursed his own aches in silence?

  Too many.

  If not for Lucy, the trip would have been uncomfortably quiet, but she kept up a running commentary. She was the most curious child he'd known. It never occurred to her that he might not be interested in what she had to say. Must be nice to have that kind of confidence in yourself.

  The dump was located two and a half miles south of town. He paid the couple bucks' fee, unloaded the rugs with the help of the attendant, then turned the truck back toward town.

  When they reached the edge of town, Lucy spoke. "Hey, Tyler?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm hungry."

  He grimaced. It was barely ten o'clock, and the last place he wanted to go with them was his sister's diner. Rebecca would take it as a sign that her efforts to fix him up were working and she would never give him any peace.

  Jayne roused from her silence. "Sweetie, we'll be home before too long and we can eat then, okay?"

  "But I'm hungry now, Mama. Doesn't a sticky bun sound good?"

  Jayne paled as if just the idea might empty her stomach.

  "Have you eaten anything at all?" Tyler asked. When she shook her head, he said, "Maybe you should. Oatmeal or crackers or something."

  She considered it a moment, then nodded, and he wondered why the hell he'd opened his mouth. Because old habits were hard to break. He'd been taking care of too many people for too many years. But those people—except for Edna—were family. Jayne wasn't.

  He didn't even want to think Jayne and family in the same sentence.

  Frowning, he turned right on Main and found a parking space near the diner. Lucy skipped ahead, and Jayne matched his pace, which slowed the nearer they got.

  They both reached for the door handle at the same time, their hands about an inch apart on the worn metal. Hers was so much smaller than his, delicate, well suited to typing, soothing a little girl … or arousing a man.

  She made a choking sound that was probably meant to be a laugh and withdrew her hand. "Sorry," she murmured and stepped back so he could open the door.

  Mouthwatering aromas drifted from the diner. Just inside, Jayne stopped and took a tentative breath. Testing to see if the smells would aggravate what already ailed her? Then she smiled faintly. "Smells good. Where do you want to sit?"

  "Doesn't matter." He could already feel the speculative gazes on them. A quick glance around the room showed that practically every soul he knew was there, and they were all curious.

  Lucy charged toward the nearest empty booth. As they followed, Rebecca, her arms filled with dirty dishes, detoured to meet them. "Hey, Lucy, Jayne." Bumping her shoulder against him, she winked. "Bubba."

  He scowled at her back as she continued to the kitchen.

  Lucy climbed onto one bench and slid across to make room for Jayne. Tyler claimed the other bench, his feet bumping hers as he settled in. He muttered, "Excuse me," then her foot nudged his and she repeated the words.

  How long had it been since casual contact with a woman had seemed so significant? Since the woman had been Angela. Look how badly that had turned out.

  He slid his feet as far back as he could.

  Balancing three glasses of juice with a coffeepot, Rebecca returned. After filling their mugs, she asked, "Is it okay if I steal Lucy for a minute? I'd like to introduce her to Jordan Ryan."

  Great. Next Lucy would want to eat with Jordan, which would leave him and Jayne together. Alone. In front of everyone.

  "Sure," Jayne said with a smile. Before she could get up, Lucy scrambled over her, jumped to the floor, slid her hand into Rebecca's and headed for the counter, where Jordan sat with her sister, her brother and the Adams twins.

  Tyler rested his hands on the tabletop, absently scraping one fingernail across a scar on the other hand. He was uncomfortably aware of his grandparents and two of his brothers seated at a far table and of Daniel and Sarah Ryan sharing a nearer table with the Adamses. He knew what they must be thinking—the same thing Rebecca did. That he needed to give up his isolation. That it was time for him to settle down and start a family. That he needed a woman.

  That Jayne Miller could be a very easy woman to need.

  His jaw tightened. He doubted that last thought was in anybody's mind but his, and he couldn't afford it. He couldn't let himself want what he couldn't have.

  Across the table she shifted. When he raised his gaze, she smiled a little. She was pretty when she smiled. But, hell, she was pretty when she didn't smile. "Looks like Lucy's found a new friend. Do you know Jordan?"

  "She's my boss's daughter." Scrape, scrape went the nail over the scar. The mark was old, white, barely raised. An old injury at work or a souvenir from Del? He couldn't remember.

  "Which one is your boss?"

  With a breath, he locked his fingers together, then tilted his head to the right. "The big guy over there is Daniel. Sarah, his wife, is on his left. The others are Zachary and Beth Adams. They're lawyers." They'd saved his mother's life and made a huge difference in his. He owed them—and the Ryans—a lot.

  "Is Jordan Daniel and Sarah's only child?"

  "No." He pointed out D.J. and Kate, who, according to her mother, had a crush on him. He hoped she was wrong. He was almost twice Kate's age. He'd changed her diapers when she was little. She should be interested in someone a whole lot younger … who'd seen a whole lot less.

  "The twins are Brendan and Colton Adams," he finished.

  "The two young men over there—" she gestured toward the wall "—seem very interested in you. Who are they?"

  "My brothers, and it's you they're interested in."

  "I guess strangers must be something of a curiosity."

  Tyler looked to see if she was kidding. She didn't appear to be. A thousand strangers could march through the door, but unless they were young, female and pretty, Alex and Josh wouldn't spare them a glance.

  Jayne met all three of their requirements.

  "So you've got two brothers and a sister. Nice."

  "Three brothers. Aaron must be working this morning."

  "Wow. I'm an only child. Greg has a brother, but he never stays anyplace long enough for the dust to settle. Their parents are divorced and living in California and Texas, so all Lucy's got is my parents and me, and they're three states away. They live outside Chicago, in the same house I grew up in. It's really—"

  Abruptly she caught her breath. Her cheeks flushed pale pink, making her look younger, more vulnerable. He'd always had a weakness for young and vulnerable—Rebecca, the boys when they were little, Angela. For as long as he could remember it had been his responsibility to take care of them, to help them out, to protect them.

  But Jayne could take care of herself, and the only threat he was responsible for protecting her from was him.

  That knowledge made his gut tighten. He reached for his coffee, his hand unsteady, then drew back, hiding both hands beneath the table, staring hard outside. It wasn't fair. The first half of his life had been tough enough to live through. Did it have to affect the rest of his damn life? He wasn't to blame for those years. His father was. The justice system was and, to some extent, his mother was. He'd been t
he victim, not the villain, but he was still paying. It was his future shot to hell, his life in some sort of purgatory.

  It wasn't fair, damn it!

  Through the buzzing in his ears he became aware of a distant voice—Rebecca's. He forced his breathing to steady, forced the anger and the hopelessness away and shifted his gaze to her. She stood next to the table, order pad in hand, smile in place. She wasn't angry, wasn't bitter, didn't have control issues. For a moment he resented her like hell for it. But just for a moment. If anyone in the family had to keep paying for Del's sins, he was the best choice. He was the strongest, the most capable. He could do what had to be done.

  He could resist temptation.

  Even if he didn't want to.

  "…wants a sticky bun and a hamburger," Rebecca was saying. "Is that okay?" She waited for Jayne's nod, then turned to him. "What about you, Bubba? Breakfast or lunch?"

  It took forever to relax the muscles in his jaw, to unclench his teeth. "Breakfast."

  "Two eggs over easy, ham and hash browns, plus one order of my special oatmeal, coming right up."

  After she left, the silence dragged out. He tried to think of something to say but couldn't. Maybe the less he knew, the less he would want to know. The less he would want, period.

  But when Jayne raised one slender hand to massage her temple, he asked, "How's your headache?"

  Smiling, she guiltily lowered her hand. "It's going away."

  And he knew where it was going—straight into the bull's-eye between his own eyes. And it was going to be an ache aspirin couldn't cure.

  Only time. Strength. And solitude.

  * * *

  Rebecca's special oatmeal—rich with butter, brown sugar and pecans—had been exactly what Jayne needed to settle her stomach and help the aspirin get her headache under control. She still had plenty of aches by midafternoon, but they were all below the neck—thankfully, or the pounding of hammers and the whine of the saw outside would have sent her crying into the woods.

  She'd offered her help once again with the steps, and Tyler had turned her down once again, saying that Lucy would provide all the help he needed. If she were a more sensitive person, her feelings might be hurt that he so obviously didn't want her around. Instead she was grateful for the attention—and lack of annoyance—he showed her daughter. Greg's time for Lucy had been limited, and he'd always grown bored quickly. He'd visited her only twice after he'd moved out, and in the five months since the divorce she hadn't seen or talked to him at all. She needed someone like Tyler—a man who acted like a man—to balance what she'd seen in her father.

  As long as she didn't get too attached…

  Pushing away from the computer she'd set up on the dining table, Jayne stood with a grunt. All she'd done was sign on to download her e-mail—a few from friends, a lot from the author loops she was on—and check the ranking of her last book on Amazon, and her traitorous body had already stiffened up on her. Maybe she would get in better shape once they were settled in. Hiking through the woods and up and down the mountains should help with that. Granted, she couldn't do much hiking on her one acre, but surely Tyler wouldn't mind if they explored his property. Especially if it kept them out of his way.

  She opened the windows in every room to let the fresh air in, then breathed deeply of pine, springtime and fresh-sawed wood. Outside, Lucy was asking probably her thousandth Why…? question. Tyler's answer came in a quiet, patient murmur.

  Smiling, Jayne picked up the paint chips she'd gotten at the feed store and held them, one at a time, at arm's length in front of a bare section of wall. White, or anything tame like it, was out of the question. And so was brown, when so much of the house was already brown. Mint-green was okay. Yellow was nice and sunny. And cranberry—

  "That would look good with white trim," Tyler said from the doorway.

  Surprised, she glanced at him. A man who knew colors. Must be the craftsman in him. "That's what I was thinking. And yellow in the kitchen, peach for my room, light green in the bathroom and lavender for Lucy's room."

  "Aww, Mom…" Lucy pressed her face to the window screen from outside, "I don't want purple again. That's a baby color."

  "Lucy, you loved your lavender bedroom at home."

  "I was little then, and this is home. I want…" She ducked out of sight, slipped through the small space in the doorway that Tyler wasn't filling and studied the chips in Jayne's hand for all of three seconds before pointing. "That one."

  The chip she chose was orange. Not the delicately hued peach at the far end of the strip that Jayne had selected for her own walls but traffic-cone orange.

  "How about this one?" Jayne pointed to a much paler shade, but Lucy shook her head and tapped the pumpkin color again.

  "Maybe this one?" It was a medium tint—still too orange for her tastes but not nearly as bold as the other.

  But again Lucy shook her head. "And a black floor and ceiling," she added decisively.

  The queasiness returned to Jayne's stomach. "As small as that room is … it'll look like some kind of Halloween cave."

  "You could just say no," Tyler said.

  She could, Jayne thought as Lucy raced off to her room with the paint sample in hand. But why bother? With luck, Lucy would enjoy her room for a while, then grow tired of it and want something more suitable. "It's only paint," she said with a thin smile. "And I can always keep her door shut."

  It was impossible to tell from Tyler's shrug whether he approved of her decision.

  "How are the steps coming?" she asked as she sorted out the paint chips she'd chosen.

  He blinked as if remembering why he'd come inside. "They're done."

  "Wonderful." She went outside and walked to the edge of the new steps. They were straight and solid, with sturdy rails on either side, and pristine except for the Lucy-size footprints where she'd tested them. "These are great. How can I repay you?"

  He moved around her, then took the steps two at a time to the ground. "Don't fall down them."

  "I'll do my best," she said drily.

  He'd already cleaned up his work space and loaded his tools in the back of his truck. Other than the sawdust littering the ground, there was nothing else to show he'd worked there—no discarded nails or cast-off bits of lumber. He was amazingly neat.

  "Seriously, thank you very much. This was way beyond being neighborly."

  He looked up at her, his gaze narrowed. "I'm not neighborly."

  He'll tell you he's not neighborly, Rebecca had said, but the only one he's kidding is himself.

  "Right," Jayne agreed. "It was way beyond being unneighborly."

  With a curt nod, he went to his truck, climbed in and drove off. Instead of parking in the driveway, he went around back, no doubt to put everything away in its place in the shop. She almost felt sorry for him—he'd offered an hour or two of his time on his day off and had wound up working most of the day, as well as finding himself the unwanted center of attention.

  But it was hard to feel sorry for him when the day had turned out so well for her. Okay, so she'd broken the porch railing and banged up herself in the process. She'd also gotten rid of those stinky old rugs and gotten a new set of steps.

  Besides, maybe Rebecca was right and Tyler did need a life. Not with Jayne, of course—not in the way Rebecca was thinking. Jayne had only three priorities in her life at the moment—her daughter, her career and her house. But it seemed to her that Tyler had spent way too much time alone. If she and Lucy could help bring him out of his shell, that was A Good Thing…

  Wasn't it?

  * * *

  Tyler left work Monday with a smashed thumb—the result of thinking about the wrong thing with a hammer in his hand—and an invitation to return for dinner. With Jayne and Lucy.

  An invitation? He snorted. Command was more like it. He'd tried to get out of it, but Sarah wasn't taking no for an answer. So here he was, wasting time that would have been better spent in his workshop, taking the neighbors he didn't wan
t to a dinner he didn't want. As the crow flew, it was less than four miles to the Ryans' house. As the truck drove, it clocked in at just under ten. It promised to be a long drive and a longer night.

  "How long have you worked for Daniel?"

  He glanced sideways to see that Jayne had finally lost interest in the acres of forest they were passing and was focused on him instead. She wore her hair down tonight, a sleek length of light brown that fell past her shoulders. Instead of her usual jeans and T-shirts, she wore khaki pants that fitted snugly and a white top that hugged every curve. Tall, slim but with the aforementioned curves, she looked less like old Edna than any neighbor should.

  His throat was suddenly tight, and he used clearing it as an excuse while he recalled her question. Oh, yeah. Work. Daniel. "Since I was a kid."

  "You say that as if you're so old now." She paused, and when he didn't say anything, she asked, "How old are you?"

  "Twenty-eight."

  She snorted. "You're still a kid."

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty."

  He wouldn't have guessed she was older than him, but then, he'd always felt older. It had something to do with his earliest memory—quieting Rebecca's fearful wails while their father's rage and their mother's sobs echoed through the house. Or his second earliest memory—learning to change Rebecca's diaper because their mother was hurt too badly to do it herself.

  Carrie had always blamed herself, and sometimes Tyler had, too. Sometimes he'd known the beatings were his fault—he'd put something away in the wrong place, he hadn't kept the younger kids quiet enough, he hadn't done his own chores quickly enough to help out with his mother's. It had taken a long time to put the blame where it belonged—on Del Lewis himself. No excuses, no reasons that mattered, no scapegoats. Just Del.

  And he'd paid for it eventually. Punishment had come years too late, but it had come. "Tyler, are you—"

  A hand touched his arm, and he yanked away, jerking the steering wheel and sending the truck careening toward the opposite shoulder. The wheels spun, then fishtailed in loose gravel, and he eased up on the gas pedal as he steered back onto the right side.