Here With Me by Beverly Long Page A

okay short-term but a darn
poor long-term solution. She couldn’t stay in her room forever.
Jingle had gotten used to eating every three hours. There’d be some
serious consequences if she missed dinner. “Come in,” she said.
    The door opened slowly and George stood
there. His hair was messed and his cheeks had a hint of pink from
the sun. He carried an old straw cowboy hat in his hand.
Grandmother had always kept extra in the barn. “Your grandmother
said you were likely unpacking,” he said. He made no move to come
in.
    “Just started,” she said. She was glad she
was sitting. George Tyler did the windblown cowboy look very well.
She could smell the sweet mix of horse and fresh grass tangled up
with the scents of budding wisteria and wild mustard. He’d been in
the meadow. “Enjoy the horses?” she asked.
    “I did,” he said and for a minute, his eyes
didn’t look so serious. “I’m grateful to your grandmother for
letting me ride.”
    “I think she thinks you’re the one
doing her a favor. I don’t have to tell you how lucky you are to
have landed that particular job. I’ll be getting carpal tunnel
while you’re galloping across the valley.” She said it so that he’d
know she was teasing.
    “Carpal tunnel?” he repeated. If anything, he
looked even more serious.
    Had no one in the sheriff’s office ever had a
worker’s compensation injury? “Never mind,” she said.
    He continued to stand in the doorway.
    “George, come in. It is your room, too,” she
whispered.
    If anything, his cheeks took on a slightly
pinker hue. But he came in—far enough that he could shut the door
behind him. He leaned his very fine rear end against the edge of
the dresser.
    When he didn’t say anything, she got nervous.
Like a fool, she held up her cell phone. “I got a referral from a
friend. You know, for an OB-GYN. I. . .uh. . .just called him and
set up an appointment.”
    He chewed on the corner of his bottom lip.
“An O. B. G. Y. N?”
    He said each letter like it was a separate
word. Good grief. The man had said he was married. Surely his wife
had had an occasional doctor’s visit. “An
obstetrician-gynecologist. You know, somebody who delivers
babies.”
    His head jerked up. “Did I grab you too hard
earlier?”
    “No. I’m fine,” she said and tried to squelch
the rush of heat that started to spread outward from her belly
button. He acted like he really cared, that it wasn’t just a job
for him.
    “I’m sorry about that,” he said.
    “Not your fault. Just some kind of crazy
accident.”
    He crumpled up the brim of his cowboy hat.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
    What? “George, you were there. You saw what
happened.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t want to upset you
or to worry you needlessly. But just a few minutes ago, when I came
into the house, I heard your aunt and your uncle talking. They
weren’t in the room with the piano or the dining room. It was the
room off to the left.”
    “That’s a little sitting area,” she said.
    “Yeah, well, they were sitting in there and
talking about you. I heard your aunt tell her husband that it might
have been nice if the wine barrel had hit you—that their problems
would all be taken care of.”
    “Oh.” After a minute, she said it again.
“Oh.” Then she felt stupid that that was the only word she could
think of. It was just such a hateful thing for Tilly to have said.
“What did Louis have to say?” she asked, rather inanely. What did
it matter?
    “He told his wife not to worry about you.
That he had it under control.”
    “I see. You know, if you hurry, you’ve got
time to shower before dinner,” she said.
    “What?” He looked at her like she was crazy.
“Did you hear what I said?”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “First of all,
what happened in the wine shed was an accident. There’s no way that
Louis and Tilly could have known that I was going to be in the shed
at the exact moment that Montai was moving barrels. And second of
all,