The Hamilton Heir Page 3

“Okay.” Dawn lifted the hinged lid of the basket, took out the sandwich on top and bit into it. “Umm. Tuna. Delicious.”

  She chewed and swallowed, then said, “First, I have a few things I need to do at my apartment. You can eat while I’m changing into something more comfortable.” Her cheeks burned the moment she realized the possible salacious interpretation of her innocent remark. “I meant, you can eat while you wait for me in the car.”

  “Of course.”

  A sidelong glance at her companion revealed a smile he was trying to subdue. Tim was laughing at her. Oh, not out loud because he was too polite, but he was laughing, all the same. She’d have to choose her words a lot more carefully in the future. Some English major she’d turned out to be! A few minutes alone with Timothy Hamilton and her normally quick wit had fled like a dry leaf in a Tennessee tornado. Although he’d earned the behind-the-scenes nickname, Typhoon Tim, because of his habit of approaching work with the speed of a whirlwind, this was one more reason the name fit. He’d certainly blown her away with his cordiality and innate charisma.

  Dawn sighed in self-disgust and concentrated on finishing the first half of her sandwich. As she’d decided earlier, this was going to be a very, very long evening.

  They’d crossed the Cumberland via Mill Road and were approaching the downtown area of Hickory Mills when Tim broke into her contemplation with a question. “Are we getting close?”

  “Yes. My apartment is on Third, like I said, near the corner of Market.” She screwed the cap back on her bottle of water, then pointed. “You can turn here.”

  Blotting her mouth with a paper napkin she placed the picnic basket on the seat between them. “This is it. Park anywhere along the street. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time,” Tim said pleasantly. “I’ll be right here, relaxing and enjoying my supper.”

  He swung in parallel to the cracked curb, shut off the engine and got out to open the car door for her. By the time he’d circled the car, however, Dawn had already let herself out.

  He stopped short, slipped his hands into his pockets and struck a nonchalant pose while he watched her disappear into the three-story brick building.

  The woman was independent, that was for sure. Spunky. And she had the uncanny ability to make him laugh, something he did far too infrequently, especially lately.

  She also had a depth of character he’d missed seeing until now. Although he disagreed with her decision to quit school, he understood why a person would do so in order to help his or her family.

  If he and Dawn Leroux had nothing else in common they had that—a deep need to support and maintain the bonds of kinship. He certainly couldn’t fault her for that.

  Dawn climbed the three flights of stairs and unlocked the door to her apartment. “Beau? I’m home. Where are you?”

  The thump of the enormous brindle dog’s tail against the hardwood flooring echoed in the otherwise silent room. Dawn smiled as he rose, stretched and lumbered over to greet her. She was able to pat his broad head without reaching or bending. Phil had been fond of saying that a mastiff was a lazy man’s dog and Dawn had to agree. Not only was Beauregard so laid-back he rarely moved faster than a walk, he also remained quiet and calm in the face of almost anything, making him ideal for an apartment.

  She snickered to herself as she led the dog down the back stairs and released him into the small yard that backed up to an overgrown drainage ditch. Why should Beau get excited? There wasn’t much he couldn’t handle if he had to. His mere size generally precluded the necessity to act. No human or animal in its right mind would challenge a dog with a muscled body the size of a pony, jaws as strong as an alligator’s and a tongue as broad as her palm.

  Finished sniffing the grass and weeds, Beau returned to her as if they’d been together all his life. Dawn was thankful she’d been able to adopt him as a favor to her brother after Phil’s crippling accident. Their agreement had been for her to temporarily care for the big dog but, although it remained unsaid, Dawn and Phil both knew Beau would never go back to Louisiana.

  She didn’t bother to leash him as they climbed the stairs together. Beau loved three things. Human companionship, food and naps, pretty much in that order. Since she was his best buddy and they were headed in the direction of his food dish, there was no chance Beau would stray.

  As a matter of fact, he beat her to the door, pushed past her legs, headed straight for his dish and sat patiently waiting for his dinner.

  Kibble rattled into the bowl as she poured from the bag of dog food before she gave him fresh drinking water.

  He was crunching happily as she straightened and patted him on his broad, mottled-brown back. “Okay, baby, enjoy. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. You be good while I’m gone, okay?”

  His tail wagged faster in reply, though his nose remained buried in the food.

  She laughed. “Good. Stay right there so you don’t accidentally get me dirty. I’m going to go change. I have not been having a very good day.”

  The foolishness of conversing with a dog struck Dawn funny. Old Beau might not be a very good conversationalist but he sure was easy to talk to, wasn’t he?

  It was just as well Beau wasn’t able to give sage advice, she reasoned as she proceeded to don jeans and a blue short-sleeved sweater and run a brush through her hair. If she could think of any way to get out of spending the evening driving around with her persnickety boss, she’d send him packing in a heartbeat.

  Chapter Three

  Northside Community Church was well known not only because of its place in the history of Hickory Mills and Davis Landing, but also because it had a reputation for running exemplary outreach programs. The community kitchen and its preparation of meals-on-wheels was one such endeavor. The youth program was another.

  Behind the white-painted brick facade and wide, columned portico of the original, more traditional church sat a more modern complex of two-story buildings in which that kind of humanitarian work was carried on daily.

  Tim had known about the programs before he’d become Dawn’s temporary chauffeur but seeing one of them in operation gave him further appreciation of all the effort that went into managing such important projects.

  It also showed him how well-respected his administrative assistant was in the community. Although she was a Tennessee transplant, she’d apparently been totally accepted by everyone at Northside, natives included.

  Watching her greet the other kitchen volunteers so fondly gave him pause. Clearly, there were places where she was more fully accepted than he was, even though he and his family were an integral part of the entire area’s history and current prosperity.

  Dawn stood aside, tugged the hem of her short-sleeved sweater over her jeans to smooth it and motioned him to come on into the kitchen. “Ladies, you know Mr. Hamilton? I had car trouble tonight and he was kind enough to offer to drive me on my rounds. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  Amid a tittering chorus of welcome, Tim strode forward as if arriving at a board meeting and offered his most amiable smile. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he said. “Please, call me Tim.”

  Shaking hands with those who weren’t too deep in kitchen cleanup to offer, he saw Dawn standing back, hesitating. His smile widened. “Yes, you, too, Ms. Leroux. I’m sure it won’t destroy office protocol if we’re more informal tonight. It’ll help your clients relax, especially since they probably haven’t met me before, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.” She swallowed hard. “Um, Tim.”

  Tim couldn’t help being amused by her obvious nervousness. The woman was practically quaking. What was the matter with her? Did she think he was going to say or do something inappropriate? He’d been to Northside often enough in the past to be familiar with Pastor Abernathy and a few of the regular parishoners, especially the ones he played golf with, so what in the world could be bothering Dawn? She’d seemed just fine when she’d arrived and begun greeting the other workers like long-lost sisters. Now
, however, she seemed jittery, as if she couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  She found her voice moments later and pointed. “Those insulated boxes on the end of the counter are ours. The dinners go inside. If you’ll help me carry them to the car we can be on our way.”

  “Sure.” He bestowed amiable smiles all around, said, “If you ladies will excuse us,” and joined Dawn. In the background he imagined he heard audible sighs. Those poor women must be exhausted. He wondered if they worked there the whole day.

  Following Dawn to the car with the stack of padded boxes he asked about it. “How long do those volunteers work? Is it an all-day shift?”

  “We break it down into two, usually,” Dawn said. “The earlier shift is much larger. They do the majority of the cooking every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. A different bunch puts together the evening meals and cleans the kitchen.”

  She paused at the rear of his car while he opened the trunk. “Most meals are delivered earlier, between noon and two or three o’clock. That’s why there aren’t other drivers picking up now. And that’s why it was so hard to find someone to take my place. We only have a few regulars who like their food at suppertime and I’m able to handle all the ones in town. I work Monday and Wednesday nights. Amy drives the country route on Fridays.”

  “I see.” He carefully arranged the boxes in the trunk before closing it and starting for the passenger door. Dawn was already there, had it open and was climbing in. Acting like the gentleman his mother had raised wasn’t easy where Dawn Leroux was concerned, was it? It didn’t matter to Tim whether or not their outing was for pleasure. He didn’t have to be dating the lady to want to treat her with propriety.

  “I would have gotten that door for you,” Tim said, sliding behind the wheel.

  “It’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t doubt that for a second. What I meant was, it’s a simple courtesy. One I’m used to offering.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think of it quite that way.”

  Tim thought he detected an odd tinge of emotion in her tone as she turned to stare out the side window. He wondered if he’d embarrassed her. He certainly hadn’t meant to. He never had understood women, even though he’d grown up in a household with a mother and three sisters. Amy and Heather had never seemed to mind being treated with respect. Melissa? Well, that was another story. Melissa was a special case. She seemed to struggle with personal issues that didn’t faze the others.

  “Who’s our first customer?” Tim asked, taking care to keep his tone light and friendly.

  “Stuart Meyers,” Dawn said. “He lives alone in one of those shotgun houses all in a row down by the river. It’s not far. Go back the way we came and I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  “Right. I haven’t heard anybody mention shotgun houses in years. Aren’t those the ones that are supposedly so small you can fire a shotgun in the front door and the shot will travel out the back door before the pattern spreads enough to hit anything?”

  “I see you know something about history. Stuart will love you. How smart are you about The War?”

  “Smart enough to know exactly what you mean and to not call it the Civil War unless I’m talking to a Yankee,” Tim said with a grin. “I was in school before I’d heard the conflict called anything but The War Between the States.”

  “It was the same in Louisiana,” Dawn said. “Or The War for Southern Independence. That was always my favorite name for it.”

  “That figures, since you’re so independent yourself. I know Tennessee provided troops to both the North and the South. Which does your Mr. Meyers favor?”

  “He’s not fussy. He loves to argue both sides.” Dawn pointed. “Take that narrow road over there. Stuart’s is the second house on the right. The one that needs painting.”

  Tim refrained from saying that he thought all the houses in sight were in serious need of maintenance, most of them too far gone to be saved by a simple coat of paint. He parked as instructed, then released the trunk latch from the driver’s seat before getting out.

  He was standing at the rear of the car, trying to decide which meal package was which—or if there was any difference—when he noticed that Dawn had not yet joined him. Leaning to one side he peered around the raised trunk lid and saw her sitting primly right where he’d left her.

  Was she waiting for him to open her door? Surely not. Not after all her insistence that she could do things herself. Maybe the latch was stuck or something. He was beside the passenger door in three strides, jerked it open without undue effort and stepped back.

  Her face glowed and her blue eyes sparkled as she tilted her head to gaze up at him.

  Tim’s jaw dropped when she batted her long, beautiful lashes, and said in an exaggerated Southern accent, “Why thank you, kind sir. Bless your heart. I’m truly obliged for your gentlemanly behavior.”

  Dawn didn’t know what had come over her all of a sudden. She was brave and had a good sense of humor but she wasn’t normally foolhardy. Teasing Tim Hamilton like that, when he was trying so hard to be nice, seemed too over-the-top even for a laid-back Louisianan with Cajun roots.

  The fact that he’d recovered from the initial shock and looked as if he was struggling to keep from laughing helped salve her conscience. She swung her jeans-clad legs out of the car and quickly stood to smooth the hem of her sweater over her hips. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist.”

  Tim chuckled and shook his head. “I guess I deserved it for insisting we observe antiquated customs.”

  “No, you didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with a few old traditions. As a matter of fact, most of the folks we’ll be seeing tonight prefer classic Southern manners. And if that’s what suits them, it suits me, too.”

  “So, you’re something of a chameleon, is that it?”

  Separating the Styrofoam box containing Stuart’s meal from the others, she turned and headed toward his front porch. “I see myself as adaptable, not artificial. If I notice that something I say or do makes someone else uncomfortable, I try to avoid making the same mistake again.”

  “Point taken,” Tim said, falling in step beside her. “From now on, I promise I won’t insist on treating you like a fragile Southern belle.”

  “And I promise I won’t chew you out if you forget and try to open a door for me,” Dawn countered.

  “That’s big of you.”

  If Tim hadn’t been grinning so widely that the corners of his eyes crinkled, she might have worried more that he was actually offended. It was hard to tell for sure. He apparently had a sense of humor that let him enjoy a good joke without getting too carried away.

  Unlike my dad, she added, remembering fondly how her father’s deep laugh had filled the house till the windows almost shook with it. She was used to boisterous men like him: men who loved life, wore their feelings on their sleeves and were equally at home yelling encouragement from the stands at a softball game or shouting a reverent “Hallelujah” from a church pew.

  No wonder her reactions to Tim Hamilton were rather odd, she mused. He was so unlike anyone she’d ever been close to she was half awed, half flabbergasted. It was a wonder their working relationship was so effective, although it seemed to satisfy Tim.

  Then again, Dawn reminded herself, at the office she kept her focus on pleasing him and doing everything precisely his way. What was not to like?

  She climbed Stuart Meyers’s wooden steps, crossed the porch in two strides and knocked. From inside the tiny house she heard, “Hold your horses. I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” accompanied by the steady thump of the rubber tip of the old man’s cane.

  Smile in place, Dawn waited patiently. When the door swung open she greeted the white-haired octogenarian and explained why she’d brought a companion. “Evening, Mr. Meyers. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. This is Mr. Hamilton. My car is in the shop and he was kind enough to drive me.”r />
  “Well, come on in, come on in,” Stuart said brightly. “It’s not often I have company like this. “Y’all can stay, can’t you?” He paused to wink up at Tim. “The mister here and I can have a little sip of something smooth from Kentucky, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sorry, but no thanks,” Tim said. “I’m driving, remember?”

  “Pity. I been savin’ that bottle for a special occasion.” He hobbled into the main portion of the house that served as both living room and kitchenette.

  Dawn followed and placed Stuart’s dinner on a TV tray for him. She eyed the large oval table that he used for everything but eating. It was arrayed with toy soldiers, plastic artillery, rail fences made of twigs, and strategically placed piles of sand and dirt. “I see nobody’s won yet,” she said. “How’s the war going?”

  Stuart snorted as he shuffled past the overstuffed chair where he usually took his meals and proceeded to the table to peer at his handiwork over the upper rim of his glasses. “Not good,” he said. “General John Bell Hood’s Army of the Tennessee just let Schofield’s troops sneak through Spring Hill during the night and Hood’s about to get his you-know-what kicked at Franklin. Lost six Confederate generals there, you know.”

  Tim nodded. “Go on.”

  “Hood would be a fool to press on to Nashville and attack General Thomas after that, but that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. Guess he thought he could lead Sherman on a wild-goose chase and keep him out of Savannah. Might of worked, too, if he’d been able to move fast enough and recruit more men on the march.”

  Tim circled the table, assessing the battlements and curving strips of blue paper that evidently represented the wanderings of a river. “Is this the Cumberland where it runs through Nashville? Looks like the fortifications on Overton’s Hill.” It was a wild guess but Tim was rewarded with a gleeful shout from the old man.

  “It is! And over here’s Shy’s Hill.” A gnarled finger pointed. “The second Union attack begins here, on Hood’s right flank. It fails till Major General Smith’s men take Shy’s Hill and show ’em how it’s done.”