Colton: Sweet Southern Charmers Book 4 Page 4

  Colton loosened his grip on her waist. He felt a prickling of regret for his behavior. This kiss had started as a prank to get even for the public wisecrack she’d dealt. But now the joke was on him.

  As much as he hated to do it, he had to end the kiss before he dragged her into that room with the plotless movie and inseminated the hell out of her.

  April wanted Buddy to finish what he’d started. She wanted him to deepen the kiss and plunder her lips until the scorched flesh of her mouth melted beneath his own. Instead, he pulled away, but only slightly, granting her a view of the deepest, brownest eyes that existed in all of Bliss. His eyes were shuttered so that she had difficulty reading the emotion behind his dark lashes. Again, he kissed her—two quick pecks that teased rather than satisfied—and pulled away before she could fully realize the magnitude of what had just transpired between them.

  April’s knees almost buckled when he released her. Placing a hand on the reception desk to steady herself, she stared at the man who had so thoroughly turned the tables—and turned her heart upside down—after her joking remark.

  Aunt Sophie cleared her throat. “Um, if you two are finished, Miss Hanson, the doctor will see you now.”

  3

  April was still thinking about Buddy’s unexpected behavior that evening at her mother’s house as they discussed the upcoming family reunion.

  “Are you sure you’re reserving the campground just for us?” Joan Hanson asked her daughter. “It’s hard enough for some of the older people to sleep in those hard beds— in those un-air-conditioned cabins, I might add—without a bunch of midnight kumbaya-ing from the youth groups you and Colton always have there.”

  April took a deep breath. Count to ten, she told herself. Before she made it to five, her mother launched into a commentary about the family members who would be coming.

  “If your cousin Ardath has gotten any fatter than she was last year, you’re going to have to reinforce the picnic benches. I swear, she must die of embarrassment at weddings and funerals, what with her panty hose making that god-awful swishing sound every time her thighs rub together.” She passed a pencil across the kitchen table to April. “Make a note to make Ardath play softball. Heaven knows, the girl can use the exercise.”

  Although her mother came across like a steamroller sometimes, April knew she meant well. Joan’s actions— and her sometimes callous comments—were, in her own misguided way, a demonstration of love and concern for her family members.

  Even so, April refused to join in on her mother’s well-intended meddling. “Mom, I’m not going to make anyone—”

  “And hide the beer from your uncle Joseph. The doctor told him to stay away from the stuff. Besides, we don’t want him making a public spectacle of himself like he did last year. The neighbors are still talking about that wheelbarrow incident.” Joan patted her lap in invitation to her smash-faced Himalayan cat who wound around the leg of her chair and then snootily sauntered off. Instead, Maybelline answered the invitation and left a wet nose print on the elder Hanson’s bare knee. Joan wiped her knee and continued her train of thought.

  “I certainly don’t want to give the gossips any new ammunition to hurl at your poor uncle Joseph.”

  April picked up the pencil and scribbled a note under the list of items to buy. Her mother leaned forward and read it, upside down.

  “What do you need duct tape for?”

  “To tape something shut,” April said innocently. She studied her mother’s mouth and decided she’d need an extra-wide roll.

  “And speaking of beer and public humiliation, what’s this I hear about you and Colton getting thrown in jail for selling beer without a liquor license?” Joan ran a hand through her frosted hair and gave a beleaguered sigh. “It was bad enough that your sister’s reputation suffered in high school. I won’t have you ruining your reputation, as well.”

  April pressed her fingers to her eyebrows and tried to rub away the tension as she’d seen Buddy do so many times. “Did you speak to Nicole?”

  “No. Is Nicole involved, too? I read about it in the paper.” She got up and retrieved the thin weekly newspaper from the sofa. After opening the Bliss Crier to the middle, she spread it out in front of April and pointed a finger at the picture that accompanied the short article. “This guy here—the one who looks like Elmer Fudd—says he arrested you for breaking the liquor laws.”

  April sighed. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  Joan’s eyes glittered with moisture, and April had the strong sense that her mother was about to launch into manipulation mode.

  “You were always such a good girl. I always bragged about you because you never gave me a moment’s trouble. I was even going to give you something special … you know, a family heirloom to signify how much you mean to me.”

  April was right. Major manipulation mode.

  “But I suppose I could always give it to Nicole instead. After all, Grandma Hanson’s quilt should stay in the family, and I don’t hold the circumstances of Nicole’s pregnancy against her.”

  “Are you talking about the Hanson family quilt that has a story behind each patch?”

  Joan nodded.

  It had started out as her great grandmother’s lap robe. As events had unfolded in the course of her family members’ lives, patches got added to the border until it was now large enough to cover a twin-size bed.

  A child’s bed.

  Her child’s bed.

  As a young girl, April had loved pointing to the various colored squares as old seventy-eights played on the ancient Victrola, and hearing her grandmother tell why that particular scrap of fabric had been added to the quilt. If she thought about it long enough, she could probably recall all the squares and the story that went with each. There was a square of white lace from her great grandmother’s wedding dress, a blue square from her father’s Cub Scout uniform, the pink teddy bear design from Stella’s favorite shirt in kindergarten, and there was even a patch of canvas from the tent that blew down during one of their early family camping trips before the divorce. Stella had once called her a sentimental twit for getting so attached to the quilt, but April had never been able to explain why it was more than a mere blanket to her.

  April stood and emptied her cold coffee into the sink. Deep down, she knew her mother would never defy Grandma Hanson’s last wishes. But for her to even hint at such a thing clearly indicated how strongly she felt about April keeping her good name intact. The whispers that followed Stella’s indiscretion had wounded Joan deeply, and April didn’t want to put her through the same kind of heartache and disappointment.

  The newspaper rustled as her mother refolded it. “Don’t let me down.” The gentleness and sincerity of Joan’s plea weakened April more than even the best staged manipulation.

  Still, she couldn’t resist testing the waters. Self-consciously folding her arms over her abdomen, April leaned against the sink. “So, if I were to, say, go to a fertility clinic and get pregnant with a stranger’s baby, you’d disown me?”

  “I’d never disown you!” Joan stood and pushed her chair under the table. “But I don’t like you joking about something like that. Someone might hear you and think it’s true.”

  April felt her emotions go limp. She would never convince her mother that having a child this way was a socially accepted option these days. But there was no way April would give up her wish to have a baby.

  With a little careful planning, she could have the baby she so desperately wanted and still spare her mother the disappointment of another grandchild born out of wedlock.

  With a barely suppressed smile of triumph, April gathered the list and pencil she’d left lying on the table. It would take some thought, but she was determined to have her cake and eat it, too.

  The hard part would be persuading Buddy to buy out her half of the campground.

  In preparation for April’s upcoming family reunion, Colton painstakingly vacuumed the pool while Clyde killed weeds that had sprout
ed through cracks in the concrete apron.

  Colton was worried about April. But that was par for the course with them. He’d been looking out for April for as long as he could remember. This time, however, he didn’t know how to bail her out of the problem that was eating at her.

  Her biological clock was ticking, and it was obviously driving her nuts. She’d always mothered anyone and anything that would let her. When they were kids, there had been kittens, dogs, and even a baby bird that had tumbled out of its nest. Now there were Steven, Clyde, the baby squirrel, and the myriad children for whom she organized recreational activities. And heaven help him if he should come down with a cold. April went into high gear mothering mode whenever anyone got sick.

  She wanted a family, and he wanted more than anything to be a part of it, agreement be damned. Colton stabbed the skimmer into the water and rescued a fat black cricket.

  When she’d married Eddie Brock, his so-called best friend, Colton felt as though a huge piece of himself had died. For some reason, he’d thought she would still be there when he got back from college. He had hoped that their time apart would affect her as deeply as it did him and that she’d realize the lifelong caring between them could, and should, go beyond mere friendship. As a shy, inexperienced teen, he’d been reluctant to risk rejection by suggesting a romantic relationship. Ever since, he’d regretted his hesitation.

  They had kept in touch throughout her marriage, but their emails and phone conversations were polite and ever so platonic. After the divorce, rumors went around that he was the reason for her and Eddie’s breakup. Colton didn’t care what people said about him, but he sure as heck didn’t want them making up stories about April. So, when he came back to Bliss as her business partner, he started dating women left and right, just to prove the town gossips wrong. What they didn’t know was that—no matter how beautiful or alluring his dates were—he’d much rather be with April.

  Some of Colton’s married friends envied him his vast collection of girlfriends. What they didn’t know was that he envied them the permanent relationship they had with the one special woman they loved.

  He turned to hang the skimmer on the chain-link fence, and Clyde lifted his attention from the dandelions beside his wheelchair. The older man stared past the empty playground toward the dirt and gravel road leading to the campsites. A woman with short blonde hair jogged toward them, waving her arms and shouting something.

  “Is that April?” Clyde asked.

  Colton took notice of the pendulous attributes that bounced beneath the woman’s T-shirt with her every step, then called up a mental image of his petite, pert business partner in a knit tank top. “No, April’s smaller.” After he’d said the words, he hoped Clyde would assume he was referring to her height.

  “I think she’s the one at site R-17,” Clyde said. “She and her husband have that blue Winnebago.”

  Colton remembered now. “And the little girl that April went goofy over.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Adjusting the brim of his Stetson, Colton stepped through the gate and jogged across the grass to see what the matter was. Behind him, the wide tires of Clyde’s chair crunched on the gravel driveway.

  Although the woman appeared to be only about thirty years old, the physical exertion caused her to breathe heavily, as if she were older than he guessed or maybe just out of shape. A cold trickle of dread traced a path down Colton’s spine as he considered the other alternative … fear.

  By the time he reached her, she was incoherent, her voice high-pitched with panic. Colton stilled her flailing arms and forced her to look squarely at him. Using his most authoritarian demeanor, he spoke with strained calmness.

  “Slow down. You’ll have to tell me what’s wrong if you want me to help you.”

  Clyde wheeled up to them. “Bee sting?”

  She wiped away tears with the handkerchief Colton had given her and tried again to tell him what had happened. He was able to make out the words my baby and lost.

  Clyde made a quick U-turn with his wheelchair. “You go,” he urged Colton. “I’ll call for help.”

  As Colton raced off with the mother of the missing girl, he hoped Clyde would be careful about how he phrased the situation to April. The last thing he needed was to have her add her own fears to the mother’s.

  April and Maybelline arrived at the campsite mere seconds after they did. The father pushed aside a leafy branch and emerged from a wooded path behind their campsite. The look he flashed his wife told Colton all he needed to know. The toddler was still missing.

  Mr. Kohlman was more helpful in describing what had happened than his wife had been. As he spoke, Colton noticed that April instinctively put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. She was taking this personally, he could tell. Her lips flattened in a tight line, and the father explained how two-year-old Kimberly had seen a rabbit just beyond their picnic table and had apparently followed it into the woods. She must have slipped away in the short time that he lit coals for a hot dog lunch and Mrs. Kohlman went inside for plates and potato chips. Colton sympathized with the distressed couple, but he had an even stronger urge to comfort April the way she sought to reassure the mother.

  Instead, he started issuing orders. In their distress, the Kohlmans appeared relieved to have someone take charge for them. Colton handed Mrs. Kohlman the walkie-talkie April had given him.

  “You stay here in case Kimberly comes back on her own,” he said. “Mr. Kohlman, you fan out to the left. I’ll take the center area, and April, you go to the right. We’ll meet back here in twenty minutes.”

  When April hung back, he watched her pick up a yellow scrap of fabric from the picnic bench. “Is this Kimberly’s?” she asked Mrs. Kohlman.

  The woman nodded, clutching the walkie-talkie to her chest like a lifeline. “That’s Kimmy’s blankie.”

  At the affirmative statement, April bent and held the fabric to Maybelline’s nose. Colton shook his head at the idea of that flea-brained dog tracking a child by scent. The canine might be a golden retriever, but it seemed clueless as to the meaning behind its breed name.

  He couldn’t stand around and let her waste precious time. “Forget it, April. That dog doesn’t even know how to fetch a newspaper.”

  She looked hurt, and he instantly regretted his words. But April should know by now that the dog wasn’t very smart. She herself had been trying, without luck, for the past few weeks to teach it to fetch the paper.

  April, however, seemed determined that her plan would work. “Go kiss the baby,” she told the dog.

  Colton shrugged his shoulders and trudged off into the woods. The only thing April had been able to teach the dog—who loved tiny children perhaps as much as April did—was to lick a toddler’s bare knees or forearms rather than jump against him. Colton supposed the only reason the dog consented to the behavior modification was because of the delighted laughter brought on by the “kisses.” If the anticipated reward of a giggling baby inspired Maybelline to hunt down the child, more power to her. Unfortunately, Colton didn’t hold much hope that the animal would be of help.

  At least the weather was warm. Although there was no danger of exposure, Colton worried that the little girl might stumble into a nest of yellow jackets. Or, if her tiny legs took her far enough, the creek posed a threat. The bright sun faded as though someone had hit a dimmer switch, and the sky darkened, warning of an afternoon thunderstorm. He stepped over a fallen tree, calling the child’s name as he pushed his way through the canopy of new foliage. They would have to hurry if they were to find the girl before the storm hit.

  When he eventually returned to the campsite, he was disappointed to learn that no one had had any luck finding Kimberly. But he wasn’t half as upset as April seemed, though he wasn’t sure whether her attitude was because of not finding Kimberly or because she was now talking to her personal adversary, Alexander Dugg.

  Colton stepped forward, prepared to mediate if necessary. A cluster
consisting of Steven and about a dozen strangers—probably folks who’d heard about the lost child on their police scanners—gathered around the pair, listening as they debated the best plan for finding the kid.

  “Afternoon, Deputy Dugg.”

  April watched as the deputy looked up at the towering tree of a man who stood before him with his right hand extended. Dugg stared at the huge palm and thick fingers, obviously unsure whether this former inmate—albeit a temporary one—was still angry with him. She could almost see the gears turning in the little man’s brain. If he put his own squat hand in that big one, he might never practice shooting his gun again. And then any chances for becoming sheriff would be zilch.

  The deputy must have decided to risk it and was overtly relieved when the squeeze was only uncomfortably tight. He flexed his fingers, glancing up at Colton to see if he was silently laughing at him. But there was no smile on the big man’s face. Colton seemed more concerned about the child than about goading him. April wondered whether the deputy felt relieved or inconsequential.

  “Buddy, I’m glad you’re here,” she told her partner. “Dugg here is trying to tell all these people to go home, but we need them to help search.”

  “Great. Just great,” Dugg said. “You’re gonna try to undermine my authority right here in front of all these civilians.” The squat man took on an air that seemed to indicate he would nip that in the bud. “This is a police matter, Miss Hanson. Untrained citizens have no business interfering in criminal matters.”

  “Criminal matters!” April flung her arms, and the deputy dodged. “Buddy, are you going to kick him off our property, or am I?”

  The deputy cleared his throat. “It’s possible that this is actually a kidnapping. I’m going to have to question Mr. Kohlman.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve the small notepad he kept there, but he was stopped by a powerful grip on his wrist.