Her face fell slightly as she took it. “All right. If you have any questions, I’m right here.”
He nodded and wandered into what used to be the Wallers’ parlor. He couldn’t help but grin at the old-fashioned furniture and framed photographs as he thought of Grandma and Doc. People here really did recycle their ancestors’ names.
He drifted to a wall of black-and-white portraits, not paying much attention, until one caught his eye.
It was a group shot from the 1890s, townsfolk standing on Dunnigan’s porch. He leaned closer.
“That… looks just like Irene,” he muttered. His gaze shifted. “And that’s Grandma. And Doc. Holy cow, there’s Paddy, Mary, Cyrus, Polly…”
He blinked hard. “No way.”
He squinted again. Maybe it was just genetics. Families had look-alikes; it happened. That had to be it. Still, the resemblance sent a chill skittering up his arms.
“Wow,” he whispered. “That’s freaky.”
The teenage girl reappeared beside him. “Are yousureyou don’t want a guided tour?”
He eyed her and shook his head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He left a few minutes later, shaking his head the whole way to the car. The girl probably thought he was nuts.
Chapter Sixteen
By the time the sun cleared the ridge the next day, TJ had already been at work for over an hour. He’d mucked stalls, stacked hay, checked the water troughs, and fixed a fence rail by an outbuilding that could have waited. His arms ached and sweat stung his eyes. That was fine. It kept him from thinking about coffee shops, museums, and women who were quick to point out he was leaving anyway.
He tossed another flake of hay into a broodmare’s hay rack. The soft snorts of the horses as they moved around their stalls filled the barn. The sounds were steady and grounding. Animals and work didn’t ask questions. He’d be alone with his thoughts.
“Well, I’ll be,” a voice drawled behind him. “A man could get used to this sight.”
TJ turned to see his father leaning on the stall door, coffee mug in hand, amusement written all over his weathered face. “Couldn’t sleep,” TJ said, straightening.
“Uh-huh.” Charles Jones took a slow sip from his mug. “That why you’re trying to outwork your brothers before breakfast?”
TJ left the stall and stared at the flakes of hay he’d stacked into a wheelbarrow. He leaned against the wall. “Just keeping busy.”
His father’s brow furrowed slightly. “Busy’s good. Busy’s also what men do when they’re thinking too much.”
“Dad, I’m not…”
“Mm-hmm.” Charles stepped closer and kicked at some straw with his booted foot. “So, this wouldn’t have anything to do with that pretty girl you worked the booth with?”
TJ went still. “What makes you think that?”
Charles chuckled. “Boy, I’ve been married to your mother for thirty-five years. I know the look of a man trying to hide his feelings.”
TJ huffed out a short laugh. “You should write a book.”
“Wouldn’t sell half as well as those self-help things you read,” he said. “But I’ll give you a free chapter. When you find something worth staying for, don’t talk yourself out of it.”
TJ met his father’s eyes. “She thinks I’m leaving. And she’s right. I probably am.”
“Probably?” Charles asked.
TJ wiped a hand across his forehead. “The research position in New Zealand. It’s a good opportunity.”
“Son,” Charles said, his tone gentler now. “If you’re running toward opportunity, that’s one thing. But if you’re runningawayfrom something, that’s another.”
TJ didn’t answer. His father’s words hit too close to home.
Charles tipped his mug in farewell. “Breakfast will be ready when you quit punishing yourself.” He left the stall area of the arena and started toward the house. He stopped up short and called over his shoulder. “And tell your mother if you’re staying for lunch. She’s threatening to cook enough for an army again, hoping you’ll be joining us.”
