The road ended at what had perhaps been the original farmhouse. The old structure was rimmed by a broad, shaded porch with a trio of welcoming rockers. A late-model pickup truck was parked in the drive. Jutting above the home was a much taller structure, no doubt the barn that now held her boat.
Jenna rose slowly, uncertain whether she wanted to go any farther. Somewhere behind her, a dog barked. Otherwise the loudest sound was the hot morning breeze rustling the cottonwood trees. They whispered a country welcome, a soft invitation to settle down, ease away from all the burdens she still had not fully left behind.
Then she heard whistling.
She found herself drawn around the house, over to where the boat’s bow jutted from the open-sided structure. Thankfully, most of the craft and its injuries were lost to deep shadows. Even so, Jenna felt a stab of very real pain.
She had seen enough.
Jenna started back to her car. If the guy was all that interested in paying top dollar for a mooring he would never use, he could deal with Sol.
Then she heard the man begin to sing.
The man could not carry a tune in a wheelbarrow.
Even so, he sounded, well . . .
Happy.
It was the sheer joy in his voice that drew Jenna forward. So close she could not fully ignore the gaping holes in the boat’s side. Then she was inside the barn’s shade and able to watch as a man wearing nothing but cutoffs and sneakers appeared on the stern deck, carrying two large plastic buckets filled with debris. He dumped the contents over the craft’s opposite side and into a large metal dumpster. Then he stood there, hands on hips, and belted out the refrain’s first line: “Country roads, take me home.”
Awful. Just dreadful. It would have been painful if he had not sounded so . . .
Happy.
Then he noticed her standing there. And laughed. “Okay, now you know why I don’t even sing in the shower.”
“Noah Hearst?”
“I probably should apologize for offending your ears. You come about the jet wash?”
“I . . . No. I’m Jenna Greaves.”
“Oh, wow. Now I’m really embarrassed. Hang on a second.” He went belowdecks and returned slipping a T-shirt over his head. He descended a set of makeshift plywood steps and asked, “Did I forget an appointment?”
“No.” She shook a rock-solid hand. Took in his strength, his graying dark blond hair, his height. His grin. Totally without guile or self-consciousness. He looked so . . .
Happy.
“It’s really great you’re here. I have a hundred questions, if you’ve got time. I should probably go shower before I launch in. Only, I’ve got this crew coming to jet-wash the hull. And I’m working alongside them, scraping off the barnacles. A shower would be wasted. . . .” He glanced behind her, his smile grew broader still. “And here they come now.”
“Can I help?”
“Lady, that is the last thing you want to ask me today, not dressed like that.” His grin was infectious. A great splitting of his tanned face. Shoving the weary lines to either side, making a mockery of the dark rings under his smoke-gray eyes. “Today is all about making a total stinking mess. We’re aiming to spray, then scrape, then spray again.”
When he started toward the two approaching vehicles, she fell in alongside. “What about the holes?”
“The salvage operator who brought the boat here claims his guy is the best. I’ve fitted a temporary seal over each spot. Wallace assures me they can aim the jet so the pressure won’t strike those wounds. We’ll see.”
She liked the way he described them. Wounds. Liked his easy manner, the way he waved a hello to the two men stepping down from the lead truck. Liked his smile.
Jenna heard herself say, “I want to help.”
“Like I said, you can’t, not dressed like that.” Just the same, he paused and inspected her. “You’re serious.”
“There must be something I can do.”
“Not on the boat. We can’t risk anybody being inside, in case the jet misfires and punches through my temporary pads.” He hesitated, then said, “I was planning to run into town, grab sandwiches and drinks—”
