Page 29 of Shadowing Her Stalker

“You’re going to starve here,” he grumbled.

She smirked, both tickled and touched by his grudging concern. “I won’t, I promise. We live in the middle of nowhere. Mom keeps the pantry well stocked and I’m sure the freezer in the cellar is filled with good stuff put up from her summer garden. I’ll throw something together.”

He gave another one of those slow, thoughtful nods. “I won’t grill you any more tonight, but tomorrow, I need everything you can give me.”

“Deal,” she said with a brisk nod. “Were you able to get set up okay?”

“The connection out here must be bouncing off a satellite launched during the Ice Age.”

“Slow, huh?”

“Glacial. But steady so far.” He held up his crossed fingers. “I’m getting surprisingly good reception on my phone, though.”

She nodded, then reached past him to open the bedroom door. “Yeah. Much faster to build cell towers than to run fiber-optic cable up here.”

“If I need to speed things along, I may run into town to get a wireless router,” he said as he followed her down the hall to the living area.

“I hope you realize running into town from here will likely mean going back to Conway or heading up to Harrison,” she warned. “Maybe Clinton, but I doubt it.”

“I figured. But I haven’t reached the level of frustration where I feel the need to shop,” he said with a chuckle.

Cara smiled at the attempt at levity. “Well, if the urge does overcome you, the router’s on me. I keep offering to upgrade things for them, but Mom insists she only uses the computer to place supply orders and check email.”

“She told me she plays a mean game of online mah-jongg,” he informed her as they passed through to the kitchen.

“Does she now?”

Cara raised her eyebrows when she spotted the woman in question transferring a hunk of cooked beef onto a serving platter usually reserved for Thanksgiving. Biting back any commentary about houseware choices, she crossed to the counter and pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. You should have given me a shake. I would have helped.”

Her mother’s mouth curved into a pleased smile and Cara stayed where she was, inhaling the familiar scents of home cooking mixed with Chanel she bought for her mother each Christmas.

“You needed rest,” her mother said in her usual no-nonsense tone. “I made you a sort of stir-fry.” She jerked her chin at the sauté pan brimming with a jumble of colorful garden vegetables. “Used a bit of oil, some soy sauce and some all-purpose seasoning. I also have some rice. It’s the boil-in-a-bag kind, not the fancy stuff,” she warned.

“Sounds great, Mama,” Cara said, then gave her mother another impulsive peck on the cheek. “And I don’t need rice, regular or fancy. But thank you.”

Cara wasn’t sure if these unexpected concessions to her dietary choices were because Wyatt was here or if her mother was simply glad some strange man hadn’t made off with her only child. Nor did it matter. She appreciated the effort.

“Your father is getting washed up,” Betsy informed her. “If you’ll get Wyatt whatever he’d like to drink with supper, I’ll get this to the table.”

“Here. Let me,” Wyatt said, stepping up and extending his hands to take the platter.

To Cara’s surprise, her mother acquiesced without even a token protest.

“Sweet tea okay for everyone?” she asked, turning to the fridge. It was a rhetorical question as far as she and her parents were concerned, but she didn’t know Wyatt well enough to presume.

“We also have milk, water and what appears to be a lifetime supply of fruit-flavored carbonated water,” she called.

“It was on special at the store. Buy two, get one free,” her mother said with a sniff.

“Tea is fine for me, but—”

Wyatt trailed off as Cara pulled a pitcher filled with sweet tea from the fridge. But when she turned, she found him standing beside the round kitchen table where they’d eaten lunch looking perplexed. She quickly ascertained the cause for his concern. The table she and her parents had used for most meals had always been big enough for the three of them, but now, with the addition of a place setting for Wyatt, there was no room for the serving platter.

“I’m sorry I’ve taken over your dining table.” He turned to her mother, a deep furrow of consternation bisecting his brows. “If you’ll give me a minute, I can get things cleared—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Betsy interrupted, then pushed past him to remove the wooden napkin holder with its nested salt and pepper shakers to make room. “There.” She gave him a brisk nod. “We never eat in there anyway.” She pulled Cara’s plate from her usual spot. “You can fill your plate at the stove, can’t you, Sweets?”

“I can.”

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