A Highlander in a Pickup - Laura Trentham Page 0,103
creepy that you’re following me.”
“I’m not following you.” This time he could state it as fact. “I live five or six miles down the road.”
She stared straight ahead and ignored him.
“I can’t rightly drive off and leave you here. People fly up and down this road, and there’s no shoulder. Either you let me give you a ride, or I’ll trail you until you get home. How far do you have to go?”
She shot him an assessing glance. “Not far.”
“It will go faster if you let me give you a lift. How ’bout it?”
Her nod was reluctant and nearly imperceptible. He sped up, pulled halfway off the road into knee-high scrub grass, and climbed out. After loading her bike into the bed of his truck, he opened the passenger door, pushing his own shopping bags to the side.
With her dark brown eyes full of suspicion, she grabbed the side of the seat and attempted to climb in. The lift kit plus the mud tires made it a difficult distance for her. After watching her try twice and fail, he picked her up by the waist and set her on the seat, making sure his hands didn’t linger.
She gasped and turned on him like a half-feral cat ready to strike even the kindest hand. He took two stumbling steps backward, windmilling when his heel caught a divot of soft ground. After he regained his balance, they regarded each other like prey and predator. There was no doubt what she considered him.
He held his hands up as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to scare you, miss.”
“Keep your bloody hands to yourself next time.” She slammed his truck door shut.
He was just relieved she hadn’t bolted for the woods. Instinctively, he knew she’d be more comfortable keeping him in view at all times, and he circled around the front of the truck to climb into the driver’s seat.
Once he got them back on the road, he kept his voice casual when he asked, “Where am I dropping you?”
“At the top of Meadows Lane.”
His foot jerked on the gas pedal. “Are you staying with old Ms. Meadows?”
“Aye.” While her body remained as still as a mouse not wanting to attract the gaze of a circling hawk, he didn’t miss the surreptitious glances she aimed in his direction from the corner of her eye. What had made her so skittish and suspicious?
A widow and recluse, Ms. Meadows lived in an old house on a sliver of woods and hills along a creek surrounded by Pierson land. His dad had been trying to buy the property from her for decades.
“I’m Holt Pierson, by the way. What’s your name?” he asked.
She hesitated as if she was loath to surrender any more information than she already had, meager though it was. “Claire.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She made a throaty sound of acknowledgment, but didn’t return the sentiment. “Do I take it your skills don’t extend to the kitchen?”
“And what would you know about my skills?” He couldn’t keep the tease out of his voice.
Color rushed her cheeks. “I watched you compete at the games this summer. That’s all I was referring to, I can assure you.”
“I watched you perform too.” He tossed a glance toward her, but she didn’t react as far as he could tell. “Are you sticking around Highland for a while?”
“Here it is. You can let me out at the top, thanks.”
Overgrown bushes camouflaged the start of a gravel lane. Holt had driven past hundreds of times and never paid it any mind. The old mailbox needed a coat of paint and legible numbers and the red flag dangled toward the ground like the standard of a defeated army. He hadn’t seen the old house in years even though as the crow flew, it was a half mile or less from his cabin. Based on the overgrown state of the lane and the dilapidated mailbox, he could only imagine what shape the house was in. Last time his dad had gone out to make yet another offer to the old lady, she’d run him off with a shotgun.
When he was young, he’d see Ms. Meadows sometimes at church. She sat on the opposite side of the sanctuary, wearing an old-fashioned pillbox hat and clutching a black patent leather handbag with a tarnished silver clasp. Holt’s father and Ms. Meadows observed a cease-fire while in the house of the Lord. Holt had followed his dad’s lead and ignored the old lady. He supposed it had become a habit. A bad one.
Holt beat Claire to the truck bed and lifted her bike out, replacing the grocery items that had fallen out. Her hands brushed his when she took the handles from him. Her fingers were thin and cold, and when he’d lifted her into the truck, he couldn’t help but notice her physical fragility. In contrast, strength radiated from her eyes and the set of her jaw.
“Thanks for the ride.” She ducked between the bushes and out of sight.
“Maybe I’ll see you around Highland!” Holt called out.
“Maybe.” Her voice lilted to him.
He stood there for a moment, wondering if he’d imagined her. Wired like he’d slammed an energy drink, he headed to his cabin on the farm. He couldn’t stop wondering what had happened to her since the summer and what she was doing with old Ms. Meadows. Did his fascination stem from the fact Claire wasn’t someone he’d known all his life? She was a mystery, and in a town as small as Highland, not many mysteries remained.
Carrying his last bag of groceries into the cabin, he noticed the jar of peanut butter with the cracked lid rolling between the grooves in the bed liner. Debris stuck to the peanut butter inside. Looked like he owed either Claire or Ms. Meadows a jar of peanut butter.
Worry worked its way into his psyche like a splinter. When was the last time Ms. Meadows had been to church? He couldn’t remember. Was she ill or injured? Was Claire taking care of Ms. Meadows or taking advantage of an old lady? While he had a hard time believing Claire was up to no good, the air around her had been rank with desperation. Desperate people often couldn’t afford morals.
Holt tossed the peanut butter into the air and caught it, a decision snapping into place. He would stop by Ms. Meadows’s house tomorrow with a new jar of peanut butter in hand as a peace offering. It would be as good an excuse as any to check on Ms. Meadows and to see Claire again. His curiosity was aroused.
With an anticipation he hadn’t felt in months, Holt couldn’t wait for the morning.
Coming soon …
Don’t miss the next title in Laura Trentham’s heartwarming Highland, Georgia series
A HIGHLANDER IS COMING TO TOWN
“Romance that is both extremely sensual and phenomenal.”
—Fresh Fiction
Available in October 2020 from
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Also by Laura Trentham
THE HIGHLAND, GEORGIA SERIES
A Highlander Walks into a Bar
THE COTTONBLOOM SERIES
Kiss Me That Way
Then He Kissed Me
Till I Kissed You
Candy Cane Christmas (novella)
Light Up the Night (novella)
Leave the Night On
When the Stars Come Out
Set the Night on Fire
THE FALCON FOOTBALL SERIES
Slow and Steady Rush
Caught Up in the Touch
Melting into You
About the Author
Laura Trentham is an award-winning author of contemporary and historical romance, including the six novels in the Cottonbloom series—now available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks. She is a member of RWA, and has finaled multiple times in the Golden Heart competition. A chemical engineer by training and a lover of books by nature, she lives in South Carolina. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Also by Laura Trentham
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Paperbacks, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
A HIGHLANDER IN A PICKUP
© 2020 by Laura Trentham.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
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e: 9781250315045
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2020