At precisely one o'clock on a sunny September Saturday
afternoon, Megan McGuire spied the pirate.
Had Canyon Springs been a coastal, historic reenactment
community or adjacent to Disneyland, she might not have
looked twice. But to the best of her knowledge, the mountain
country of northern Arizona generated little demand for the
likes of seafaring swashbucklers.
Only minutes earlier, she'd propped open the door of the
general store, allowing warm, pine-scented air to permeate
the cool interior of the natural stone building. Once again
huddled behind the oak counter and intent on reviewing next
week's lesson plan, the creak of the wooden floor reached
her ears. At that moment she glimpsed the flash of a gold
hoop earring and a black eye patch as a bandana-headed man
disappeared behind a shelf.
What now? The little town, with its many seasonal
visitors, seemed to draw from a bottomless grab bag of
eccentric individuals. Meg gave her short, tousled hair a
shake and smiled. She'd come here as one of them herself six
months ago, so she could afford to be tolerant.
Reluctant to leave her cozy little nook, she nevertheless
set aside her pen and straightened her maroon Arizona State
hooded sweatshirt. The guy was probably a motorcyclist, not
a pirate as her too-active imagination labeled him. But to
fulfill her role as a part-time employee of Dix's Woodland
Warehouse, his appearance warranted an investigation.
She found the man crouched in front of the medication shelf,
his muscled arm extended toward a row of aspirin boxes.
Short-sleeved black T-shirt. Faded jeans. Well-worn tennis
shoes. Except for a gold band on his left hand, all other
fingers were pinched into dime store-quality, gem-studded
rings. A foot-long plastic sword tucked securely in a belt
loop topped off his unconventional regalia.
Nope, not a biker. A pirate.
Definitely a pirate.
"Yo-ho-ho. May I help you, matey?" Meg bit her lip, chiding
herself for the glib intro. After all, the customer was
always right, even if the customer was a healthy-looking
specimen of maleness dressed like a five-year-old's concept
of a buccaneer.
He glanced up, one startled brown eye meeting hers. The
other remained concealed beneath a black satin patch. The
man pulled a box from the shelf and stood. Ramrod straight,
legs slightly apart. Just like Meg's older brother, who had
been out of the military for years and still assumed that
soldierlike stance even when "at ease."
He didn't look more than a handful of years older than her
twenty-seven, and although he was under six feet tall, he
nevertheless towered over her five-foot-three stature.
Cropped black hair peeped from beneath the red bandana as he
removed a gold hoop from his ear. Kneading the reddened lobe
with a thumb and forefinger, he held up the aspirin box in
his other hand.
"Headache."
"Getting your land legs back will do that. Clip earrings, too."
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he lifted the
eye patch and tilted his head to study her. "You're going to
give me a hard time, aren't you?"
Such expressive eyes. Captivating. "I could. But hey, to
each his own, right?"
The pirate stuffed the earring in a back pocket. "I bet
you're wondering—"
"Dad," came a child's chiding whisper from behind a nearby
postcard rack. "You're not talking like a pirate."
"Sorry." The man dipped his head in acknowledgment to the
scenic display, then focused again on Meg. "'Tis Talk Like a
Pirate Day."
She raised her brows.
"International," the youngster's soft voice clarified.
"Ah, yes." The man patted the plastic sword at his side.
"International Talk Like a Pirate Day."
A black-haired, brown-eyed boy dressed in an oversized
pirate's hat and black rain boots stepped from behind the
rack. His shy smile brightened. "Ahoy, Miss Meg!"
"Ahoy, yourself, Davy." She recognized Davy Diaz, whose
grandfather was her landlord, so to speak. The good-looking
brigand was Bill's offspring?
"Be ye knowin' this comely lass, son?" The man glanced down
at the beaming boy, then winked at Meg.
Her heart roller-coastered for a fleeting moment.
Davy ducked his head and nodded, then stepped closer to lean
against his father's sturdy leg. "Miss Meg is my Sunday
school sister."
"Assistant," Meg corrected with a smile in the
kindergartener's direction. He'd been a newcomer at church
the previous Sunday. "I'm a helper in the elementary
department."
"Sunday school, huh?" The man bumped Davy with his knee.
"You lucky kid. My teachers were old ladies. Ugly old ladies."
Warmth crept into Meg's face as both Davy's smile and that
of the man broadened in her direction. Then Davy looked up
at his father, his eyes wide with wonder.
"You went to Sunday school when you were a kid, Dad?"
"You betcha."
The boy's mouth dropped open and he placed fisted hands on
his hips. "Shiver me timbers!"
Meg chuckled. "I think that's pirate talk for wow."
The man laughed, his gaze again catching Meg's as he held
out a bejeweled hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss Meg."
"Megan—Meg—McGuire."
"I'm Joe Diaz."
Cocky Joe Diaz, she amended as her extended hand disappeared
into his firm, warm shake. Her heart skittered again, but to
her relief their shared laughter covered a sudden shortness
of breath. What was wrong with her? Flirting with some kid's
father—and some other woman's husband. Maybe it was the new
medication making her feel giddy. Yeah, that was it.
"Bill's son, right?"
"You know my old man?"
"She lives in an RV, Dad," Davy interjected. "In the
campground. Is that cool or what?"
"Way cool." Joe's eyes narrowed with the same speculative
look Meg always got when people heard she lived in a house
on wheels. A look filled with "whys" they were too polite to
ask.
Joe folded his arms, his forehead wrinkling. "So, why do you
live in an RV?"
She laughed. "Why not?"
Davy tugged on his father's pant leg. "We turned out the
lights in Sunday school, and she showed us balloon lightning."
Joe cocked his head in question.
"You set a ball of clay on the table and insert two
stretched-out paper clips like antennae. Then you rub a
balloon against a woolen scarf." She demonstrated with her
hands. "Hold the balloon close to the paper clips, and
voilà! Sparks."
"Whoa. Now it's my turn to say it—shiver me timbers! That's
outside the norm for a Sunday school lesson, isn't it?"
Meg shrugged, unable to drag her gaze from his. "I'm a
science teacher. Sometimes I get carried away."
Like right now. Losing herself in the warmth of his eyes.
And oh my, that smile. Some lucky woman had sure hit the
prayer request jackpot.
"My daddy's a science teacher, too," Davy chimed in, his
face glowing with pride as he wrapped an arm around his
father's leg.
Meg's interest quickened. "Where?"
"Nowhere yet." Joe ran a hand along the back of his neck.
"But it looks like I'll soon be blowing the dust off an
ancient secondary education degree."
A knot twisted in Meg's stomach. "Locally?"
"Yeah, my old school principal, Ben Cameron, is still
holding down the academic fort here. Can you believe it?
Says he may have a science teacher who won't be returning
after maternity leave. So I guess there is some truth to
that saying. You know, when God closes a door, He opens a
window."
Or slams both shut. Hard. Meg swallowed. "So this is your
hometown?"
A dimple surfaced. "For better or for worse, I'm a product
of Canyon Springs."
She heard the laughter in his voice, clearly oblivious of
the blow he'd dealt her.
"So," he continued, his eyes attentive, "you're a science
teacher. Here?"
"Subbing. Show Low. Pinetop-Lakeside. Anyplace within
driving distance. At Canyon Springs exclusively the past
month." She zipped her hoodie, then rubbed her palms
together, willing her circulation to jump-start and the
erratic beat of her heart to subside.
This couldn't be happening.
"Great. Then I'll know at least one familiar face at the
faculty meetings."
"Miss Meg?" The little boy stepped forward, his eyes
dancing. "Did you know I was named after Davy Jones Locker?"
She knelt down to his level, still attempting to suppress
the anxiety washing over her in icy waves. "No, I had no
idea. I'm impressed." She glanced up at his father, forcing
a smile. "Way to go, Dad."
Joe's arms remained folded, but he cast an amused sidelong
glance in Davy's direction. "He was named after his
grandfather. David. On his mother's side."
Davy shrugged, his smile impish.
"So, which of you," Meg whispered to the boy, "is Captain Jack?"
"Me," father and son responded in unison.
"Two captains?"
Both nodded, Davy an adorable Mini-Me of his parent.
Joe motioned to his son. "Davy wanted to be the other guy—
until I congratulated him on getting the girl."
"I don't want to get the girl." Davy rolled his eyes, then
pointed to his father. "And he doesn't want to get the girl
either."
Meg laughed and stood. "I'm sure your mom's relieved to hear
that."
For a flashing moment Davy's eyes registered confusion, but
his father scooped him into his arms and heaved him over a
broad shoulder. Joe pulled the patch down over his eye again
and spun toward the door.
"Aarrr! Come, Captain. Our ship sets sail. Bid Miss Meg
farewell."
"Aye, aye, sir!" Giggling, the little boy clutched his hat
to his head and waved. "Farewell, Miss Meg."
"Bye, Davy. I'll see both you Captains at church tomorrow."
"This Captain." The little boy waved a chubby
finger at himself. "Grandpa will bring me."
"Okay. See you then."
Oh, no. Meg rushed to the door as the pirate pair
stepped onto the porch. "Excuse me, um, Davy's dad?"
Joe swung around to face her with a still-snickering Davy
over his shoulder. "Joe."
"Right. Joe. About your headache—"
"Gone. Must have been that earring." Grin broadening, he
winked. "But thanks for asking."
Flirt. Bet the little woman at home has to keep a short
leash on you.
"Sure. But I mean… the aspirin?"
She pointed, and he glanced down at the box still clutched
in his fingers. With an apologetic shake of his head, he
tossed the aspirin through the open door in a high arc. She
caught it with both hands.
"Thanks for keeping me honest, Miss Meg. Wouldn't want to
get arrested in the old hometown." He bestowed another wink.
"At least not right off the bat."
He turned away, his footsteps echoing a hollow cadence on
the wooden porch.
"Dad, can we have pirate food tonight?" Davy's plaintive
voice carried back to Meg.
"What? Fish sticks? Again?"
"So you met Canyon Springs' hometown hunk and hero rolled
into one." Sharon Dixon, the shop's owner, maneuvered her
considerable weight and a metal walker over the threshold.
Her auburn hair now lacking the tell-tale gray it sported
earlier in the day, the fifty-five-year-old glanced in a
mirror hanging inside the door and brushed at her bangs.
A former heavy smoker, her voice came in rasping fragments.
"Saw him come out the door as I was leaving the Cut-n-Curl.
Quite the looker. Cute kid, too. But don't get any ideas.
Joe' ll tire of this place. Faster than you can bat your big
baby blues at him."
Catching a whiff of generously lacquered-on hairspray, Meg
laid a stack of T-shirts on the shelf she'd been stocking,
grateful it had been a slow afternoon and the shop was
devoid of customers at the moment. Why did people always
assume that because she was single, she "got ideas" anytime
an attractive man crossed her path? She'd hardly given the
eye-catching pirate a second thought—or had she? Okay, maybe
a second. Or third.
"Don't worry, Sharon." She turned away to straighten a
sunglasses display. "Men in general—and married men in
particular—hold little interest for me."
"Joe's not married. Widower."
Meg cringed and gave the display rack a slow spin. No wonder
Davy looked confused when she referred to his mother. Or why
his father immediately toted him far, far away from the
blundering Sunday school assistant.
Usually, she took precautions with parental references at
school. No one came from an intact
mom-pop-and-two-point-five-kids home anymore. She could
blame her change in meds or the distraction of Joe Diaz's
dazzling smile all she wanted, but it was her own
insensitive mess-up. She'd apologize at the first opportunity.
She stooped to pick up an empty T-shirt box.
"I'm surprised he's still on the market," the older woman
continued as she made her way slowly across the room,
sneakers peeping from beneath turquoise velour sweatpants.
"Good lookin' guy like that, you know? Too bad my Kara's not
in town anymore. She had a crush on him when she was in
junior high. Probably still does. She tell you about that?"
Kara was Meg's best friend from college and one of the
reasons she'd arrived in the somewhat remote Canyon Springs
in the first place. Ironically, Kara sounded the bugle to
charge into the world at the very moment Meg called retreat.
"She never mentioned him." No doubt she'd remember her
friend talking about a man whose smile could take your
breath away and send your heart kicking into overdrive.
"Then she still has a crush on him," her mother concluded
with a nod, "even though he hasn't been around these parts
since high school. Took off for college, then the Navy. But
just as well she's not here. He won't be for long either."
"I don't know about that." Meg stripped the seam tape from
the cardboard box in her hands, wadded it and tossed it in a
nearby trash can. "It sounded like he plans to stay awhile.
He's applying for a teaching job."
"Around here? In his dreams. Look at how long you've waited."
Meg dropped the box to the floor and flattened it with her
foot. "A science teaching job."
Sharon's eyes widened and she clasped a hand to her mouth.
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes." Meg gave the box another stomp. "Ben Cameron, his
old principal, has apparently told him he's just the man for
the job."
"Can he do that? Doesn't the board or somebody have to
approve it?"
Meg shrugged. "Davy's dad—Joe—thinks God's opening a window."
Sharon scoffed. "Pooh. I have it from a good source—Joe's
dad—that Joe hasn't graced a church door since his wife
died. What's he know about God opening any windows?"
"You don't always have to be sitting in the front row pew
for God to hear you," Meg said. "Or for you to hear from
God. And for some people, church is the hardest place to go
when they've suffered the loss of a loved one."
Sharon scoffed again and eyed Meg. "I hope you told Joe you
have a prior claim to the job. Need it more than he does."
Her heart lurched. "Of course I didn't."
Sharon eased the walker closer. "Doll, you can't let him
come in and roll right over you. As I recall, that boy's
used to calling the shots and getting his own way. This will
be no different if you don't take a stand."
"I'm not going to make a play for the sympathy vote." Meg's
lips tightened. She'd decided that right from the beginning
and she wasn't backing down now. The job was either God's
will or it wasn't. Manipulation on her part wasn't going to
play a role in the outcome.