He refused her offer of a hand, instead doing his own slow survey. She failed whatever test he’d set her. “I’ve driven past the house a few times today,” he said. “But you weren’t here.”
“Just got here,” she replied. The guy needed a personality bypass, but he’d done his second good deed for the day.
“It’s after nine.”
“Is it?” It could be a hair past a freckle for all Holly cared. She held out her hand. “Max.”
“I fed them.” He handed her the carrier. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
Her eyebrows rose at the masterful tone. “That’s not necessary.”
“The least you can do is go and see your grandmother. Or”—he leaned closer and his nostrils twitched—“maybe you need a bath first.”
“Advice noted.” She set the carrier on the floor, then closed the door in his face, deliberately locking it. She braced herself—body and mind—for a pushback, expecting his pent-up irritation to explode in loud knocking or shouted instructions. Nursing had taught her a lot of men didn’t take no for an answer. Her heart skittered against her chest. A lot of people didn’t take no for an answer.
Endless micro-seconds later, he turned on his heel and walked away. At the sound of his vehicle backing out of the driveway, she released her breath to the count of eight. “Whew!”
A gentle giant.
* * *
Christopher—Kit—Silverton spotted Holly’s van in the hospital carpark the next morning. He’d have picked the battered vehicle as hers even without the interstate plates. The profusion of what looked like opium poppies spray-painted across one side made its own self-indulgent statement. He grunted, frustration leaving an itch between his shoulder blades.
He’d driven past the house this morning, prepared to offer her another lift because whatever his opinion, Mona loved her. And he’d fallen hook, line, and sinker for the feisty old lady since she’d invited him to co-manage her gardening-as-healing project six months ago.
“Shi–shoot!” he corrected himself. To his mind, Holly ranked lower than a stink beetle for using her grandmother as her bank. “For fuck’s sake, she’s still following a hippie lifestyle at twenty-something.” And that’s two gold coins in the swearing jar.
To a disinterested observer, hiring Kit made sense. He owned and operated the town’s only gardening supplies and landscaping business. But Mona had known his foster father, known his real father was a murderer, and known he’d come from the same desolate place as the kids on her project.
Had probably also known she was throwing him a lifeline. Mona seemed to make a habit of rescuing people.
He stomped through the front doors of the hospital, annoyed with himself and Holly. He didn’t know for a fact she’d never worked. But hell, in the six months he’d worked closely with Mona, her granddaughter had crisscrossed the country, a camp follower for musos.
Except the camp follower beat me here this morning.
Kit had been ungracious when he’d met her, but he hated being helpless. Mona had slipped into unconsciousness shortly after he’d found her. The duty doctor had taken charge while Kit had started tracking down her next of kin. By the time Holly had picked up the call, his patience with a slow-to-respond family was exhausted.
“I’ll be there,” she’d said.
The hours had dragged on, dappled sunlight had faded into night, and those three imprecise words were all he’d had. He’d driven himself crazy second-guessing her arrival time and had tried, without luck, to reach her again. Then he’d paced, trying to outdistance the guilt of not leaving Mona’s garden secure. He’d only left Mona’s bedside when the doctor had advised she was stable, and because he’d known her first question would be about her animals.
Finding no one in sight at the second-floor reception desk, Kit headed down the corridor to Mona’s room. A musical laugh floated through her open door.
“I’m surprised some of my campsite aroma doesn’t still linger. I gowned up last night to prevent contamination,” Holly gurgled.
She’d visited last night!
Presumably before I met her. She’d let him make a fool of himself. Irritation flared again. She’d also shut the door in his face. He pushed this one wide in time to see Holly’s Junoesque form bent over Mona, her fingers combing gently through the grey hair, her ginger-brown eyes filled with tenderness. No one had looked at Kit with such open adoration since his eighth birthday. The sense he was trespassing on an intensely private moment hit like a belly punch.
She glanced up. “Mr. Silverton.”
Her gaze danced mockingly, her pink-and-green cropped hair a neat, glossy cap on her skull where last night it had stuck up as if she’d been trying to pull it out by the roots. The clothes were an improvement as well. The paint-spattered shirt and scruffy jeans were clean, unlike last night’s overalls and purple sweatshirt.
“Ms. Cooper.” He looked from her to Mona, moving to the side of the bed with his hand outstretched. “I’m sorry.”
Mona took his hand, the light squeeze a poor substitute for her usual robust handshake, and guilt jabbed at him again. “Not your fault,” she whispered.
“I found you on the ground near a new ditch.” The memory of her crumpled, motionless body brought Kit out in a cold sweat. “There was a mattock nearby, and no fencing to show the hole.”
“I remember I tripped,” Mona said slowly. “Then I couldn’t get up.”
“You fell heavily, bumped your head on the mattock, and passed out,” he stated grimly. A mattock was a dangerous tool at any time, a mighty double-headed implement with its axe blade and cutting edge. Leaving it outside overnight was dangerously negligent. “My fault the gear wasn’t put away.”
“Why’s it your fault?” Holly’s brow puckered.
“I’m Mona’s gardener on the project.” Although her passion for the kids had infected him until finishing the project had become his goal as well.
“More than a gardener, Kit,” Mona protested.
“Christopher! Kit! Mona’s talked about you. Now I know who you are.” Holly’s brow cleared. She cocked her head to one side, and her eyes lit with interest.
Darkness threatened to swallow him. She couldn’t know his father had killed his mother when Kit was eight years old. Mona wouldn’t have shared his past without his permission.
He threaded his fingers through Mona’s. “What were you doing in the yard after dark?” Holding her hand soothed him.
“Looking for Max,” Mona replied.
“Damn cat!” Holly uttered the expletive.
He waited for Mona’s usual ferocious set-down to anyone criticising her beloved companion of twenty years. When no defence came, he gave his own. “She and Bella were standing guard when I found Mona.” The warmth from Bella stretched full length had prevented hypothermia, if you believed the duty doctor. Kit planned to supply top-of-the-range crunchies for both animals for the rest of their lives.
“Cupboard love,” Holly said matter-of-factly. “Probably wanted breakfast.”
About to protest again, he saw the smile curving Mona’s mouth. Mona was lapping up her granddaughter’s silliness. Holly Golightly, Mona called her. Audrey Hepburn might have made the character glamorous on the movie screen, but the Golightly girl hadn’t been a stayer. Postcards arrived irregularly from this Holly, stamped from different towns.