“I understand why you didn’t, sir. How’d everything go in there?” Bronson asked.

  “Just a small bruise. Nothing most boys don’t endure.” Ned’s father glanced at his wife, then at the plentiful patients in the waiting room. “Why don’t we step outside?”

  Bronson nodded, and we followed the Abbendroths into the parking lot, where they stood by a concrete retaining wall. I dragged in fresh breaths of the open air.

  Mr. Abbendroth placed a hand on Ned’s shoulder. “Ned here told us what happened. I wish to apologize for the trouble my son has caused you all and your camp. I want you to know we’re withdrawing him immediately. We hope it’s not too late for you to award his scholarship to another student.”

  My jaw dropped. Ned had been awarded one of the whole summer scholarships. His enthusiasm for the camp was contagious. Yes, he could be mischievous and a little too fun-loving, but after only three days, I couldn’t imagine our camp without him.

  Bronson shook his head. “Sir, that’s really not necess—”

  “I should have listened to my gut and sent him to the camp in D.C. to begin with. It’s not your fault, Mr. Martin. Some kids simply need a firmer hand.”

  My jaw quivered until I couldn’t hold my words back any longer. “Bronson doesn’t let the kids get away with anything. He’s a great teacher, Mr. Abbendroth.”

  Bronson’s fingers brushed my arm. “It’s okay, Morgan. Mr. Abbendroth didn’t mean for us to take offense.”

  “I most certainly did not. I think your camp is a great idea—it just might not be for every kid.”

  “Dad, I really like it there. Please, could I have another chance?” Ned looked up at his father’s imposing posture. “I promise I’ll be good.”

  “No, son. My mind’s made up.” He held his hand out to Bronson. “Thank you for bringing him to the hospital, Mr. Martin.”

  “Sir . . .” Bronson began. I could almost see his mind scrambling for a way to convince Mr. Abbendroth, for a way to keep Ned.

  Mr. Abbendroth paused, but when Bronson didn’t speak, the older man nodded. “Good night. Thanks, again.”

  “Sir, what if there were a way for Ned to make it up to the camp for his actions? A little discipline, I mean.”

  Mr. Abbendroth straightened. “How’s that?”

  “I need workers for the apple-picking business we’re starting over at Orchard House. What would you think of Ned putting in an hour or two after camp and on Saturdays to help out?”

  Mr. Abbendroth spread his feet apart, arms loosely clasped in front of him as if just told by an officer that he could stand “at ease.” “And you’d consider that discipline?”

  “It’s hard physical labor, sir. I’d need help keeping the weeds back in the orchards, keeping the pests away, turning compost, watering the trees.”

  “Isn’t that what the kids at the camp are doing?” Mrs. Abbendroth asked.

  “Well, yes, ma’am, to an extent. But the goal of camp is fun, of course. Otherwise, why would any of them want to come back? I’m talking real work for Ned. Something to build muscle and strength of mind. Something to show him that life’s more than a game.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Bronson’s words. Harsh words, coming from him. But they seemed to sing the tune Mr. Abbendroth liked to dance to.

  He glanced at his son. “What do you think about this, Ned? If we give you one more chance at Mr. Martin’s camp, do you agree to work—to the best of your ability—for him at his orchard?”

  Ned’s eyes widened. “Yes. I’ll do a great job. I promise I will, sir.”

  Mr. Abbendroth turned to Bronson. “And you’ll let me know if he steps one toe out of line, Mr. Martin?”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I mean it—one toe. I will not have my son running around, wreaking havoc in this town. One incident, and D.C. it is.”

  For a moment, my heart went out to the boy. The last thing Ned was doing was “wreaking havoc.” Okay, maybe he wrought a little havoc today. But he wasn’t a bad kid.

  Still, although I might not agree with Mr. and Mrs. Abbendroth’s parenting approach, it was apparent they loved their son. Who was I, of all people, to judge them?

  “You have my word, sir.” Bronson held out his hand. “Thank you. I could really use the help in the orchard.”

  “Don’t try paying him anything, either, understood? This is strictly a disciplinary act.”

  “Of course, sir. I wouldn’t dream of going against your wishes.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll see you soon.” Mr. Abbendroth placed his hand on the small of his wife’s back and they started toward their car. Ned trailed behind, turning back once to give us a small, grateful smile.

  We stood there, watching until they climbed into their Jeep Cherokee and drove away.

  I gave Bronson a sidelong glance, raised a single eyebrow. “So, your solution to every problem student is to hire them for orchard work so you have to manage them for additional hours of the day?”

  The corners of Bronson’s mouth tugged into a grin as he shook his head, casually propping a playful elbow on my shoulder. “Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. There are no problem students. Only students with gifts they haven’t quite harnessed yet.”

  “That’s . . . profound.”

  He let his arm fall. “My dad used to say it. But he also said, ‘The less routine, the more of life.’ I could never get on board with that one.”

  “You do seem to like your schedules.” I’d noted how he never allowed the kids extra time on an activity if it wasn’t in the plan. While the camp endeavor had begun as a way to simply get the kids outside, enjoying good honest work, it very quickly evolved into a regimented camp. Not that I blamed Bronson. Thirteen kids needed routine.

  “How about something not on the schedule, then?” he asked.

  My skin prickled at his words.

  “What’d you have in mind?” I may have asked the question, but I already knew I’d agree to whatever Bronson Martin had up his sleeve if it meant spending more time with him.

  18

  “Maybe we should have taken the kids here instead.” Bronson pushed his paddle through the clear waters of Megunticook Lake. The sun began its descent, shining on the water, though the July days would leave them with hours of more light.

  In front of him, in the double kayak he’d borrowed from Asher, Morgan slid her own paddle into the water on the left side of the boat. “It’s peaceful, that’s for sure. So, what’d we need to talk about during this impromptu teacher’s meeting?”

  He cleared his throat. No better time to test the waters—since she was surrounded by them and couldn’t run away. “This isn’t a meeting, it’s more of a date. I just told you it was a meeting so you’d agree to it.”

  She dipped her hand into the water and splashed him. “Bronson Martin, I thought you were a man of integrity.”

  “Integrity, yes. But also, desperation. I put on my professional hat when we talked about our plans for tomorrow with the kids. Oh, I forgot to mention, Mom said she’d give us a hand with the apple pies after she was done serving breakfast. There. That covers the meeting portion of our night. Now, onto the date.”

  Morgan shook her head, and although he couldn’t see her face from where he paddled in the back of the kayak—only the slender outline of her back, her auburn hair pulled in a ponytail that came a couple inches past her shoulders—he could imagine the smile on her lips.

  Man, he loved to make her smile. He loved to make her happy. He was, he realized, beginning to love everything about her.

  He cleared his throat, attempting to dispel such notions from his head. Yet, what was so wrong about the thought? Whoever she’d been in high school wasn’t who she was now. The woman two feet in front of him was compassionate, a deep-thinker, beautiful . . . and struggling. Was that what he was attracted to? That blasted desire to help? To make things better? To assuage the guilt she clung to surrounding that night eight years ago?

  On the not-so-distant shore, a King Rail spread its feathers in the sun, embracing the carefree, unburdened summer evening. If only he could get Morgan to open up to him. Would she allow him to share her burdens?

  “Since you conveniently trapped me out on the water before you informed me of the night’s agenda, I suppose I have no choice but to capitulate.” Morgan dug her paddle deep in the water.

  “I suppose you don’t.”

  “You know, I like you better when you’re not quite so full of yourself.”

  “And I like it better when I can see your face when we’re talking.”

  She twisted around in her seat and scrunched her nose at him. “If you wanted to talk to me face-to-face, you should have suggested a business dinner.”

  “Okay, will you have a business dinner with me Friday night?”

  “No!” She faced forward, cutting her paddle into the water again. The sun slipped behind a thick forest of trees—the foothills of Mount Battie—as they rowed forward. “Do you enjoy rejection or something? Is that it?”

  How could he tell her he’d never felt this way about a woman before? That he wanted to spend all his waking hours with her, that he loved how she worked tirelessly in the orchards with him, and now alongside the kids. That he’d walk to the ends of the earth if it meant she’d give him just a small chance . . .

  A horsefly landed on the smooth, pale skin of Morgan’s arm. He leaned forward, hand raised. “There’s a horsefly on you. Wait a minute, hold still.”

  Wrong choice of words. She dropped her paddle in the water, wiggling around and flapping her arms wildly, screeching and squealing.

  A laugh erupted from deep in his chest. “I said hold still, not dance around like a banshee. There, it’s around me now, you happy?”

  She twisted around. “It’s on your head.” She raised her hand, leaned toward him. “Come closer.”

  “Words I’ve been waiting to hear all night.”

  “Now, this might be a little harder than”—she brought her hand down on his head—“necessary.”

  “Ouch. Did you get it? Do I need to come closer again?”

  “Missed it. Wait.” It landed on his shoulder and she lunged, tilting the boat.

  “Easy there, killer,” Bronson grabbed her arms to steady her, but she jerked free, causing the boat to rock more.

  She turned around, half standing in order to readjust as she faced forward. “My paddle!” A few feet away, her paddle floated in the water. She leaned out over the side, extending her fingers toward it, but the motion was just enough to prod the rocking boat sideways. With a splash, she fell into the lake, coming up spluttering a moment later. Her auburn hair plastered to her forehead and in front of one eye. She pushed it aside, her skin glistening with droplets of water.

  She was still the prettiest sight he’d ever seen.

  Bronson reached for her, trying to tamp down his laughter. “Wait until Ned hears about this.”

  “You will not speak a word of this to anyone,” she ground out, attempting to haul herself back into the boat with Bronson’s help.

  Once she’d managed to secure her arms in the boat, he grabbed for her waist to heave her up. The kayak rocked precariously. “Pardon my hands . . .” he managed, a moment before the boat overturned, sinking him into the water beside her. The cold climbed beneath his ballcap and clung to his shirt and pants. One of his flip-flops slipped from his foot.

  One hand on the kayak, Morgan threw her head back and laughed, splashing him. “That’s what you get.”

  “Oh, that’s what I get, huh?” He reached out to poke her side as she continued splashing.

  She wiggled away. “Maybe one of us should get on one side and one of us on the other.”

  “Worth a try.” Bronson swam around the kayak. “Ready? One, two, three.” He struggled up, but when Morgan lost her grip, the kayak rocked back, splashing him in the water again. Two more tries, and they both laughed so hard they didn’t have the strength to try again. Bronson ducked beneath the kayak and popped up beside her. “For the record, this is the best first date I’ve ever had.”

  She screwed her nose up in that adorable way of hers. “This is not a date.”

  “Well, we sure aren’t having a teacher’s meeting out here. What else would you call it?”

  “A disaster. A . . . horribly funny disaster.”

  He slid his hand along the side of the kayak, a bit closer to her and studied her shining green eyes and wet lashes. Somehow, hidden behind the kayak, no one around as far as the eye could see, the moment felt incredibly intimate.

  He licked his lips. “Morgan, I really like you. I know I told you I’d be nothing but professional—”

  “Yet another reason for me to doubt your integrity.”

  “But if I don’t at least tell you how I feel about you, I’ll be wondering forever if we could have happened.”

  If we could have happened.

  I had never known that innocuous little word—we—to pack so much punch. In it, I saw possibilities. I saw Bronson’s desire for me, the past few months of getting to know him, a glimpse of a future that could be ours.

  But I couldn’t go there. Better to stick to jokes and teasing. Better to escape this water, where the slight swishing and swirling movement of Bronson treading the lake brushed against my skin, driving me to distraction.

  I’ll be wondering forever if we could have happened.

  I cleared my throat, searching for a suitable comment to guide this conversation to safer ground. “And I’ll be wondering forever if some giant fish is going to grab my ankle and drag me to the bottom of this lake. Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed the rope at the front of the boat and began swimming toward the shore, tugging the kayak away from the seriousness of the moment, away from Bronson.

  After retrieving the paddles and tossing them onto the kayak, Bronson swam up beside me, taking the rope. “Here, I got it. Why don’t you push from behind?”

  I didn’t put up a fight. Better to have the separation of the kayak between us. Better not to face Bronson and the brave thing he’d done, serving his heart on a platter for me to spear with a steak knife.

  By the time we’d reached the small shore, my limbs ached and I gasped for breaths. Bronson dragged the kayak onto the sand and I flopped beside it, pulling my wet t-shirt away from my body.

  While I didn’t normally put extra effort into my looks, I wondered what Bronson thought of me. Then again, why did I concern myself? If I cared for his heart at all, which I did, then I should attempt to repel him.

  He lay beside me, sucking in deep breaths, not appearing concerned about my appearance in the least.

  “For the record, I’m totally telling Ned that you stood up in the kayak and flipped us over.”

  I slapped him on the arm, then snatched my hand back. I couldn’t flirt like this. I couldn’t say one thing with my words and another with my actions, no matter how my body betrayed me.

  We grew quiet. The sound of a woodpecker echoed across the lake. In the distance, a group of kids laughed as they swam to the floating dock near the beach. They jumped off and splashed into the water. Beneath the vibration of it all, I closed my eyes, more relaxed than I’d been in a long time.

  “Morgan.”

  My eyelids fluttered open as my body hummed to life, a siren wailing through me.

  Bronson turned on his side, propping one hand against his head as he stared down at me with those chocolate eyes. “Any chance you could tell me what you find so terribly undatable about me? That way, the next time Amie tries to set me up with her yoga instructor, I can give her some reasons why the poor woman doesn’t need to waste her time.”

  The corner of his mouth hitched up in a halfhearted smile, and a pinch of jealousy squeezed my insides at the thought of Bronson with Amie’s yoga instructor. A fit, lean, confident woman, of course. Someone who deserved Bronson’s attentions.

  Well played, Bronson. He succeeded in making me jealous.

  I inhaled and exhaled a long breath, conscious of my chest rising and falling, of the t-shirt that clung to my body. Again, I pulled it away from my wet skin in hopes it might dry faster. “You’re not undatable, Bronson. Clearly. You’re—” I stopped. Amazing, is what I wanted to say. Passionate. Caring. Incredibly hot.

  “Just undatable for you?” he said, guessing at my words and getting them all wrong.

  I huffed, suddenly frustrated with myself, with the entire predicament. I had let him get too close.

  “No, Bronson. I’m undatable, okay? I don’t date.”

  He blinked. “Why not?”

  “Because . . .”

  Could I make him understand?

  “Because . . .?” He dipped his head, as if to urge me on, but I didn’t miss the fear in his eyes. Suddenly, he laid back on the beach. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re married. Is that it?”

  I couldn’t manage to snatch back the small laugh that escaped my mouth. “No, I’m not married.”

  “Did you take a vow of celibacy, then?”

  I threw an arm over my face. “No vows here, unless you count the one I made to myself after Isabel died.”

  There. I’d said it. Perhaps I should have censored myself better, but there was a sort of relief in coming clean.

  We stared up at the sky as my words lingered, the light from the late afternoon sun illuminating a crisp blue against the vibrant green of the trees above.

  “What sort of vow did you make after Isabel died?” His solemn voice broke the sacred silence.

  I sat up. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. No one understands.”

  It was my problem. My cross to bear. No one needed to judge me about it.

  I crossed my legs to wiggle into a sitting position, but he grasped my arm with enough tenderness to convince me to stay.

  “Morgan, tell me. You shouldn’t be alone in this. Maybe I won’t understand, but I’ll try like heck to do my best. Let me in. Please?”

  Looking at him now, with his dripping hair, his own t-shirt plastered to his muscled chest and well-defined biceps, the penetration of his gaze a tangle of question and concern, I understood the depths of what I denied myself. For I had never longed for a man like this, never wanted one to enfold me in his arms as badly as I wanted Bronson to do so now.

 

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