That Wilder Boy Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-59789-062-6

  Copyright © 2006 by Kim Vogel Sawyer. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  One

  Carrie Mays hung the little cardboard Out to Lunch sign on the door handle of the manager’s office and stepped into the bright August sunshine. Her lunch bag in one hand and a romance novel in the other, she moved briskly around Tower One, which housed the office, and made her way to the grassy courtyard.

  For a moment she stood and perused the area surrounded by the six apartment towers then chose a bench directly in the center where an ornamental flowering tree provided an umbrella of dappled shade. Settling on the bench, she crossed her legs, opened her paper lunch bag, and withdrew her sandwich. She hummed as she unzipped the plastic baggy and removed the tuna salad sandwich. Lowering her head, she offered a brief prayer then raised the sandwich to her lips.

  Just as she took the first bite, a strange rattle sounded from somewhere behind her. Puzzled, she peeked over her shoulder. Unable to determine the source of the sound, she shrugged and turned her attention back to her sandwich.

  The rattle became a rat-tat-tat, and then something cold slapped her across the back. With a startled shriek she leaped from the bench, knocking her lunch bag to the ground. She spun around in time for a second slap of water to catch her in the front, right across her knees, soaking the hem of her capris.

  “W–what?” For a moment she remained rooted in place, unable to process what was happening. But as the arc of water came at her again, she realized the watering system on the north half of the courtyard had come to life. At noon? She jumped backward, avoiding another blast of water, but to her chagrin her book, which still lay on the bench, took a solid hit.

  “Oh no!” She waited for the arc to move on, snatched up her book and lunch bag, then dashed for safety on the sidewalk next to Tower Two. She stood, dripping, holding her sodden sandwich and book away from her body and shaking her head in disbelief at this disruption of her peaceful lunch.

  A man trotted around from behind Tower Three and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. Carrie watched him shield his eyes as he surveyed the area. A smile grew on his face, and he socked the air, releasing an exultant “Yes!” The word carried clearly across the expanse of grass to her ears.

  “Yes!”? She felt her fury mounting. Had he turned on the system at noon? Her notes said watering was to be done from five to six-thirty in the morning, not at noon. So what was that “yes!” all about? She started to call to him, but he turned and jogged behind the building.

  In a few moments a stuttering chop-chop-chop then hisssss signaled the shutdown of the sprinklers. Water droplets glistened on blades of grass like tiny diamonds. Carrie stared for a moment at the grass, waiting to see if the system would spring to life again. When it didn’t, she stomped down the sidewalk, her anger increasing with every step in her squishy sandals, to the place where the man had disappeared. She rounded the corner of Tower Three at a good clip and collided full force with a solid chest.

  “Ack!” The force knocked the book from her hand and bounced her backward two feet.

  Dirty hands caught her upper arms, keeping her from falling on her seat. The moment she had her footing, she jerked loose and opened her mouth to let loose a tirade.

  “What’re you doing, running down the sidewalk like that?” The man’s scolding voice cut off Carrie’s words. “You could get hurt, especially when the sidewalk’s wet. That makes it slippery.”

  Carrie’s jaw dropped. He was chastising her? Without answering his question she posed one of her own. “And just why is the sidewalk wet?” She swung her soggy lunch bag in the direction of the courtyard. “Since when do we run the watering system in the middle of the day?”

  The man took one step backward and crossed his arms. Muscular arms, Carrie noted, tanned from the shoulders of his sleeveless T-shirt to his knobby knuckles. She swallowed and drew herself to her full height—which was minimal compared to his; he was so tall!—then threw back her head in a pretense of haughtiness to disguise the sudden quivering in her belly. “I asked you a question. Why was the watering system turned on at noon? It’s clearly against policy.”

  A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched as his gaze roved from the waterlogged bag in her hand to her dripping capris. In a low drawl he answered, “This morning at five o’clock, according to policy”—he had the audacity to offer a teasing smirk—“when I ran the system I noticed one of the sprinklers wasn’t working. So. . .I replaced the head. I had to turn things on to make sure that’s what the problem was. I was hoping it wasn’t underground, in the line. Pretty big relief to me to see it working.”

  So he was the groundskeeper, Carrie realized. He had a valid reason for running the system, but still. . . . “But still, couldn’t you look before you turn things on? I was right out there on that bench, and getting wet was a rather unpleasant surprise.” She gestured toward her capris. The linen was beginning to dry, turning into a crunch of wrinkles around her knees.

  He glanced at her clothes then stooped over and picked up her book. He examined it for a moment, his lips tucking in as he ran his thumb across the damp, curling pages. Holding out the book on his broad hand, he met her gaze squarely. She noticed his eyes were a deep brown with very thick, curling lashes. Lashes most women would love to have. But they did nothing to downplay his rugged masculinity. She felt a blush building.

  “I did look, but you weren’t there at the time. You must’ve come out when I was behind the building. I’m really sorry.” He raised his wide shoulders in a boyish shrug. “Maybe I didn’t look closely enough. Rarely are any of the residents in the courtyard at noon—they’re all inside eating.”

  His calm, penitent reply deflated Carrie’s anger. She snatched the book from his hand and hugged it against her chest. “It’s okay. I’ll dry. It just surprised me is all.”

  A low chuckle emitted from his throat. “Yeah, I imagine.” His gaze dropped to her soggy sandwich. “Can I replace your lunch?” He jerked his thumb toward Tower One. “There are some snack machines in the lobby—nothing fancy, but you won’t go hungry.”

  Carrie backed up two slow steps. “No. No, thank you. I–I’m going to need to run home and change my clothes.”

  He followed, advancing the same two steps, a lazy smile on his handsome face. “So you’ll be back?”

  Carrie nodded, the movement rapid and jerky. Why was she feeling so. . .discombobulated? “Yes. I’m filling in as office manager while Jim’s on vacation.” She reversed another slow step.

  He advanced another slow step. “Ah. So I’ll see you around?” The idea seemed to please him.

  It pleased her, too. “I suppose so, if you’re here every day.” She stopped moving backward.

  He stopped, too, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “I’m here every day. I’m Rocky.”

  She shook her head. “You’re—what?”

  He laughed softly, a pleasant sound. “Rocky. Tha
t’s my name. Robert Jr., really, but I’ve always been called Rocky.” He paused, tipping his head, the sun bringing out glints of yellow in his tousled brown locks. “And you are—?”

  “Carrie.” She allowed a grin to tip up her lips. “Caroline, really, but I’ve always been called Carrie.”

  A full smile grew on his face, exposing white teeth, the front two slightly overlapped. Dimples appeared in his honed cheeks, causing Carrie’s heart to skip a beat. “Carrie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too, Rocky.” They stood for a silent minute, smiling at one another. Then Carrie jerked to attention. “I–I’ve got to go. I’ll need to open the office again by one.”

  He nodded. “Better scoot then. Take care, Carrie. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes. . . .” Why was her breathing so erratic? Blowing out a big breath, she said, “Good-bye, Rocky.” She spun and trotted to the office where she retrieved her purse, climbed in her car and headed for home. She resisted the urge to look back and see if Rocky was watching.

  ❧

  Rocky watched Carrie slide gracefully behind the wheel of a compact sports car, the layers of her long blond hair swinging forward to hide her profile from view. He swallowed as she tucked the hair behind her ear, revealing the sweet curve of her jaw. Pretty girl. Really pretty girl.

  And very nice car. . . .

  He watched until the car left the grounds then turned back toward the tool shack. The car settled it. Carrie was out of his league. He’d thought as much when he’d seen the outfit she was wearing. All the beadwork on the top and around the cuffs of the pants gave her away. She didn’t shop discount stores. Still, he hadn’t been able to resist flirting a little bit.

  Flirting came naturally. He admitted it without a hint of bigheadedness as he placed the tools in their spots on the pegboard. Girls usually thought he was good looking. There’d been a time when he used that to his advantage, but—and a rush of pleasure washed over him—he’d learned not to use people like that anymore.

  Six months ago he’d given his heart to Jesus. And ever since he’d been working at replacing the bad habits with things from the Bible. He didn’t use girls anymore. But he did enjoy a little healthy flirting. He hoped Jesus didn’t mind.

  The tool shack back in order, he grabbed his lunch box and headed for the courtyard, to the bench where Carrie’d been sitting. The concrete bench was dry to the touch, but darker gray showed where the spatter of water had struck.

  He couldn’t help smiling, thinking about how that cold water must have shocked the wind out of Carrie’s lungs. Then he stifled his amusement, remembering the ruined book. He sure would like to replace it. He wracked his brain. What was the title? Loyal. . .Something. And the author? Marie. . .Somebody. He released a huff of aggravation. He’d seen similar books somewhere recently.

  Ah! He slapped his thigh as remembrance dawned. In Eileen Cassidy’s apartment. She had a whole shelf full of romance books. He looked toward Tower Three’s fifth floor. He knew she’d welcome his company, and she probably had a full cookie jar. Decision made, he jumped up and headed for Tower Three.

  Eileen answered his knock on the third tap. As he suspected, she offered a huge smile and waved him in. “Just in time for lunch! I’ve got some corned beef and Swiss on rye and some store-bought potato salad. Help yourself.” She settled herself at the kitchen bar and pointed to the stool beside her. “Climb up.”

  “Are you sure?” Rocky stood beside the bar, the sight of the towering sandwich inviting him to dive in.

  Eileen nodded. “I made an extra one for John, but he said he’d be going for a hamburger for lunch. So I’ve got a spare.”

  That was all the prompting Rocky needed. He sat. “Thanks.” He offered a brief prayer then lifted the hefty sandwich. “Corned beef and Swiss sounds a lot better than my bologna.”

  “Bologna. Phooey. Give it to Roscoe.” Eileen laughed as her huge yellow and white cat, who lazed in a spot of sunshine in the middle of the living room, lifted his head and chirped a “brow?” in response to her suggestion.

  Rocky liked Eileen. She was really more his brother Philip’s friend. She had worked at Philip’s job placement service for disabled adults before becoming a resident caretaker here at Elmwood Towers. But in the past months she had adopted him as well. Eileen adopted everybody, Rocky thought as he bit into the thick sandwich. He still had a little trouble relating to her boys, as she called the three adults with developmental delays who were in her charge, but his Bible said he was to treat people the way he wanted to be treated. All people. And he was trying.

  “So what’re you up to today?” Eileen asked, working her words around a bite.

  Rocky propped his elbows on the edge of the bar, wiping away a bit of mustard with his knuckle. “Fixed the watering system this morning—bad sprinkler head. This afternoon I’ve got to mow the north yard and the courtyard and do some weeding around your flower beds.”

  Eileen grinned. “Flowers are blooming like crazy, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah. But they sure create extra work for me.” He grinned to let her know he wasn’t complaining.

  She laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “Aw, they’re worth it. The boys and I are scoping out the grounds, looking for new places to plant. We want to add a garden or two every year. Might even try to bury some daffodil or tulip bulbs yet for a nice surprise next spring.”

  “Well, let me clear the spots for you when you find them, okay? Digging up that sod is too hard for you.” The protectiveness caught Rocky by surprise. He remembered a time when he wouldn’t have cared if an old lady worked too hard.

  “I’ll do that. But you will let the boys and me plant the flowers, won’t you?”

  Rocky nodded. “Sure.” He finished his sandwich.

  Eileen pointed into the kitchen. “Cookie jar’s full.”

  He grinned. “Thanks.” He ambled around the corner, pulled out two good-sized chocolate chip cookies then headed back toward the bar. His gaze lit on the bookshelf that stood on the north wall of Eileen’s living room. A row of short paperback novels drew him like a magnet. In four steps he was in front of the shelf.

  A chuckle sounded from beside him. Eileen stood at his elbow. “What are you looking at?”

  He tapped one book with his finger. “These. You sure have a bunch of them.”

  Eileen nodded. “Yes. Ro-o-o-omances.” She sighed the word, clasping her wrinkled hands beneath her chin and fluttering her eyelashes.

  Rocky laughed, shaking his head. Who’d have thought romance still bloomed in the hearts of old ladies?

  Eileen quirked a brow. “You don’t read romances, do you?”

  “No.” He scanned the titles. “But I need one.” Briefly he explained the morning’s catastrophe and shared what he could remember of the book’s title.

  Eileen’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh! One of my favorites—Loyal Traitor. I think Marie Harrison wrote that one.” Eileen trailed her finger along the spines then crowed, “Yep! Right here.” She pulled the book from its spot and held it out. “Is this it?”

  “Yeah!” Rocky licked a bit of chocolate from his finger and took the book. “Can I buy this from you?”

  Eileen shrugged, crossing to the sofa and sinking into the cushions. Roscoe immediately jumped in her lap. She petted the cat with one hand and flapped the other hand in his direction. “Take it.”

  Rocky hesitated. “But you said it’s one of your favorites.”

  Eileen chuckled. “As you can see I have a shelf full. I’ll survive. Besides, if you’re going to dig up a spot of sod for me, you’ll earn the price of that book.”

  Rocky shook the book at her. “Thanks. Appreciate it.” He glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. “I gotta get back to work.”

  Eileen pushed the purring cat from her lap and rose to walk him to the door. She gave him a quick hug before opening the door for him. “Enjoy your afternoon. And I hope the book does the trick.”

  Rocky turned back. “
The trick?”

  Eileen smirked. “Uh-huh. I saw the light in your eyes when you mentioned the girl on the bench.”

  Rocky felt heat climb his neck. “Oh, but—”

  Eileen shook her finger at him. “Don’t start that with me. I’m old, but I’m not stupid.”

  Rocky ducked his head, fighting the urge to smile. “Come on, Eileen. . . .”

  She laughed and gave him another impulsive hug. “She could do worse! Now go get that book delivered and get your mowing done.” She shooed him out the door.

  “She could do worse. . . .” Eileen’s words replayed themselves in Rocky’s head as he stepped into the elevator. Who would have imagined someone saying that about Rocky Wilder, the troublemaker from the wrong side of the tracks? He punched the lobby button and felt the car begin its descent. As much as Eileen’s words touched him, he knew his limitations. Carrie was obviously not within his reach. He tapped his leg with the book. He’d make amends for ruining her novel; then he’d forget about her. She was only filling in for two weeks. It would be easy to forget her.

  The elevator came to a stop, and he headed back to the courtyard. As he crossed the grass toward Tower One, a splash of pink and white caught his eye. Eileen’s impatiens. Impulsively he veered to the right and pinched off a few blooms. The flowers would make up for her ruined lunch.

  He’d make amends then forget her. Easy.

  Yeah, right. . . .

  Two

  Her wristwatch showed a quarter after one when Carrie zipped into the reserved parking space at Elmwood Towers. Stepping from the air-conditioned interior of the car into the August heat was a shock, but within minutes she entered the manager’s office and drew in a breath of cool air—apple-scented, thanks to the little plug-in air freshener she’d brought yesterday. Her sundress swirled around her ankles as she moved to the desk and set down her purse next to a wilting cluster of pink and white blossoms that rested on top of—

  She straightened in surprise and looked around. Someone had been in here! And the only “someones” who had a key for this office, other than her, were the owners, the maintenance manager, and the groundskeeper.