Travis by Mia Sheridan

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Haven

 

The screen door swung closed behind me as I stepped outside the house. I frowned in confusion, squinting down the road as I waited to see Travis’s cruiser.

What in the world was he up to?

Bring the hose?

I glanced back at the house, spotting a wound-up hose near the wide front steps. With a huff, I walked back to it, unwound it, and squatted down next to the spigot.

“What’s going on?” Betty asked, her tone laced with concern as she stood on the porch, watching me.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Travis just told me to be ready with the hose.”

“Oh dear.” But she looked more excited than nervous now.

“What’s happening?” Burt asked, his walking stick clicking on the wood of the porch as he came up beside Betty.

“I don’t know, but I’ll describe the scene as it . . . as it . . .”

“Happens,” Burt said quietly.

“No, no . . .”

“Unfolds.”

“No . . .”

“Occurs.”

“Exactly,” Betty said.

A car appeared in the distance, turning onto the road that led to the B&B and coming to a skidding halt in the driveway.

Travis jumped out of the cruiser, throwing the back door open and removing the saddest-looking plant I’d probably ever seen. I gasped, turning the water on with a flick of my wrist and dragging the running hose to where he stood. “Oh my God!” I said, gasping and then laughing. “You found them? You found them?”

“Yes!” he called, his head back in the cruiser as he removed another plant, setting it next to the first one. “Hurry! They might only have minutes left.”

I laughed again, but got right to work moving the hose back and forth over their roots and leaves, giving them the drink they so obviously needed, crooning to them while I did.

As Travis shut the doors of his cruiser, I lifted the hose too quickly and accidentally shot a stream of water in his face. “Eek,” I said, lowering it and soaking the front of his uniform.

He brought his hands up in defense, running one back through his saturated hair, laughing suddenly, water droplets flying out around him.

I dropped my arm, water pooling at my feet as I stared at him, laughing proudly in front of the plants he’d rescued. For me.

My heart constricted. My muscles felt heavy. It made me feel both energized and . . . afraid.

He ran his hand over his face again, his gaze meeting mine, his smile slipping as he watched me stare at him.

Behind me, I heard Betty’s soft voice rise and fall as she narrated the scene for Burt.

“You did this for me. Why?”

He paused, as though the question had caught him off guard and he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. “Because that’s what friends do.”

I felt a small drop inside me but shrugged it off, the fear from a moment before lifting.

Travis’s face went very serious, water droplets catching the sun and shimmering in his thick, dark lashes, highlighting those unusual whiskey-colored eyes. God Almighty, but he was beautiful. “And also,” he said softly, “because I wanted to say I was sorry. For what I did . . . with Gage. The possums. Ticks. You know.”

I couldn’t help laughing. How could my heart not soften at that? “You’re forgiven.” He’d saved my plants. He’d done it just for me. “How’d you find them anyway?” I asked, nodding to the dripping line of greenery . . . or . . . brownery as the case may be.

“I put out an APB. And I hung official police department flyers on bulletin boards all over town.”

I grinned and so did he. For a few moments we stood there smiling inanely at each other, my shoes saturated by the running hose, still held at my side.

Behind me, Betty’s voice had lowered, almost to a whisper and when I glanced back, Burt had a dreamy smile on his face.

I looked back at Travis. Were we ever going to discuss that kiss?

Or was it unnecessary? A one-time-deal chalked up to . . . anger stirred up to a mostly incoherent breakdown, that had then flared to some form of passionate temporary insanity?

Travis raised his head and squinted to where Betty and Burt stood, lifting his hand and giving them a small wave and then returning his gaze to me. “So um, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’d like to come with me to the blueberry festival tomorrow.”

The blueberry festival? Oh right, the one Clarice was in town for, and I’d heard mention of at the club.

“As friends,” he clarified, as though my pause may have indicated I was wondering if he was asking me on a date. He’d said that about Gage’s party though too. The one where we’d kissed, and done . . . non-friendly things.

I released a small breath, ignoring that. “A whole festival surrounding . . . blueberries?”

He grinned again. My God, that grin. Those eyes. The dents in his cheeks. That stubborn jaw.

Some insanely ridiculous idiot had cheated on this man . . . with my brother.

He’d been hers and she’d let him go.

Right. Friends.

He nodded behind me to the house. When I glanced back I saw that Betty and Burt were no longer there. “Clarice will be there,” Travis said. “I bet the whole crew will be.”

The crew. “We have a crew?”

He laughed. “For better or worse, for now, yeah, I think we have a crew.”

I laughed too but something about that made a flush of happiness warm my insides. A crew indicated . . . belonging. Even if temporary.

“Most of the town will be there,” Travis said. “My brother will give a speech. In sign language. His voice box was injured when he was a kid.”

“Oh.” I frowned, adding that small nugget to what I already knew about Travis’s family. “How sad.”

Travis shrugged. “Everyone is used to it now. Most of the town speaks sign language, as does his family, even my six-year-old nephews. They had this group class at the high school about six years ago. They had to move it into the gymnasium it was so crowded.” I smiled softly. He was babbling and I wasn’t sure exactly why, but it was very endearing coming from Chief Hale, the picture of masculine law and order, even if he was standing there in a sopping uniform.

“You live in a really nice town,” I noted. I’d already experienced the kindness of so many strangers in Pelion, but it told me even more about who they were collectively that they’d all shown up to learn the singular language of one community member.

He almost looked surprised by my comment, pausing for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah I—we, that is—really do.”

I nodded and our gazes lingered for another moment. I had this foreboding feeling that attending things like blueberry festivals with the town’s handsome chief of police and our crew, was going to make it that much more difficult to drive out of town in less than two months. I should decline. I should stay in and read. I should clean out my car. It needed a good detailing after weeks of being on the road before we’d arrived in this lake town, not to mention my propensity for transporting things packed in dirt. And also considering my brother may or may not be sleeping in it.

“Sure,” I finally said. “I’d love to go to the blueberry festival with you.”

 

**********

 

What did one wear to a blueberry festival?

Something . . . summery, no doubt as it was . . . well, summer. The season of blueberries.

I rifled through my suitcase, sitting open on the luggage rack under the window. I had a strict no unpacking policy, a policy that discouraged ideas about settling in or growing too comfortable in one place, but unfortunately, encouraged a constantly wrinkled wardrobe.

Would blue make me look like I was trying too hard?

You are trying too hard, Haven.

With a huff of frustration at myself, I pulled the blue sundress over my head, smoothing out the creases as best as I could.

A knock sounded at my door and in response, I smiled, rushing forward and then pausing, opening it slowly. “You’re—”

It was my brother. “Early.” I withered. “Hey, Easton. I thought you’d already left for work.”

He came in, throwing himself on my bed. “No, I don’t have to work until noon today.”

“Oh,” I said, closing the door slowly. “Okay.” I glanced at the clock. If he was punctual, Travis wouldn’t be knocking on my door for ten minutes. “You’ve been scarce,” I said to my brother, leaning a hip against the—empty—dresser. “Where have you been?”

His eyes shifted strangely and my heart sank. What in the world was my troublemaking brother up to now?

He held a hand up. “I’m not causing trouble,” he said, as though he’d read my mind, which wasn’t difficult as it was usually the question that accompanied the lip-pursed look I was currently wearing. I relaxed my face. “I’ve been volunteering at the local fire house,” he said, an unusually sheepish look on his face.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Easton sat up and shrugged. “Fire . . . you know. Sensitive topic.” My heart missed a beat and whatever was on my face made him look down, taking the edge of the throw blanket and rubbing it between his fingers idly. “Listen,” he said, lifting his gaze again. “I think you should know something about that policeman. The one who lives here now.”

I released a pent-up breath. “He’s the chief of police. And I already know, Easton. He told me.”

Easton had the good grace to wince. “He’s crazy, Haven. Like bona fide crazy. He pulled a gun on me!”

“You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you! God, Easton, why? Why do you do those kinds of things? They hurt people. They ruin relationships. Families.”

“Maybe he should thank me for exposing his girlfriend for the cheating tramp she is.” He shot for bold but came up short, arriving at the intersection of sulky and immature instead.

“I think you’re missing the point. And I highly doubt you’ll be getting a thank-you from Travis Hale anytime soon.”

He looked down again, rubbing the fabric. “I know you’ve been hanging around with him. Which seems suspicious, considering what he obviously thinks of me.”

“He should see me as guilty by association? Because of your poor choices?”

Easton shrugged again, which ignited a spark of anger. If he was aware that his actions might have a negative impact on me, why did he keep behaving in the same manner, over and over again? God, he’d left a trail of mayhem in our path. Thank God we’d left all those places behind.

We’d been forced to leave those places behind.

“Just be careful of him,” he said. “Seriously. Something isn’t right about that guy. There’s something very wrong with him.” He stood up, and though he irritated and frustrated me regularly, my heart softened when he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, taking my hands in his, the burns on his palms raised yet smooth, a reminder of how he’d fought to save the only thing familiar to him, and had been—literally and figuratively—scarred.