“Clint taking good care of you?” She glanced around.
“Yes, ma’am. Best boss I’ve ever had.”
Considering the kid looked barely old enough to shave, she doubted he’d had that many bosses. “Any idea where he is?”
The kid nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He’s in the workroom. Around the corner.”
Smiling, she bit back a chuckle. As if she needed to be told where the work room was. “Thanks.”
The door stood half-open. First thing she spotted was the sawhorses, then two boards leaning against the wall, and finally, Clint, focused on another piece of wood in his hands. “Waiting for it to talk back?”
Slowly turning his head to face her, his expression barely shifted, only a hint of a smile teased at one corner of his mouth.“Could be.” Now his eyes were twinkling with mirth. It wasn’t often she’d catch this serious man smiling, and here twice in just a few days.
Looking more closely at the wooden board he held in his hands, she inched closer. “Those are our corn hole boards.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I thought they’d been tossed.”
“Cleaning out the closet in the tack room, I found these in the back corner. They looked to have been made with love, but seen better days.”
Her cheeks pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Charlie made those with the boys a few hundred years ago.” She ran her fingers over the one board. “I think the hinges finally gave out.”
He bobbed his head. “Figured I’d restore them. Not sure if I can save the artwork.”
“It would be nice, but life moves on. We could have Mason help Carson with the artwork.”
“Carry on the tradition.” Clint’s smile widened. It made his eyes sparkle. Nice eyes, the color of warm honey.
He switched paper—120 to 220—and kept his pressure even. No showing off. Just the kind of patient motion that makes things last. The easy movements had her nearly mesmerized. Next, he wiped the board with a tack cloth, a small hiss of dust lifting, then he set the cloth aside and focused on the next board. Always near her now that Kade had reported to his temporary duty, Brady settled at her feet, thumped his tail, and kept the world supervised with eyes mostly closed. She wasn’t sure if that counted for approval of the project or not.
So entranced, she’d almost forgotten why she’d come in here. Clearing her throat, she pulled the list from her pocket and stepped closer. “I’m afraid I can’t read my own handwriting. Any idea what this line is?”
Setting the newly sanded board to one side, he took the list and perused it from top to bottom. “The hinge pins?”
Her gaze shifted to the list. “Of course. For the broken gates.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He returned the list.
“Thank you.” She turned and for the first time noticed the two finished boards in the corner. “Oh my.”
Slowly, she walked over. The boards were beautiful. Gingerly, almost reverently, she ran her fingers down the edge. Smooth, shiny, and Carson’s hand painted flag looked exactly the way she remembered it.
His sanding stopped. “Is that a good ‘Oh my’ or a bad ‘Oh my’?”
“Good.” Her head tilted to see him. “It looks even better than the day they finished it. I thought you didn’t think you could save the designs?”
He shrugged. “I said maybe. I sanded it just enough to get the old lacquer off, took as little of the paint as I could, then with a little effort here and there, and some touch-up paint there and here…” He shrugged again.
“Don’t suppose you found the bags in that mess?”
His chin lifted and tilted to the opposite corner. “In that box over there.”
Dragging herself away from the memories of all those years ago, she walked to the box he’d indicated and reached inside. The bags had come from her sister’s shop too many years ago. She tossed one in the air ever so slightly, then caught it. Leaning in to grab another, she did the same. They were in pretty good shape. Her hands full, she glanced in Clint’s direction. The man had straightened, rolled his shoulders, and was now rolling his neck when the weight of the small bag suddenly felt heavier than it should.
Biting back a smile, she squeezed the one bag, lightly flipped it in her hand, and then, grinning a little wider, leveled her arm in front of her, focused on the mark, and let the beanbag fly.
The handful of beanbags fallen to the floor, Alice Sweet stood across from him, eyes as wide as silver dollars and both hands covering her mouth. Assuming her intent had been to smack him dead center of his chest, the lady had great aim. Good thing it was only a beanbag or he’d be dead where he stood.
