Read Online Moonlight Man by Judy Griffith Gill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judy Griffith Gill
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plugged it in as soon as I got parked. Okay, Sharon? Better than keeping these hungry kids, waiting while you get something ready.”
“I’d planned on wieners and beans,” she said, and Jason made a rude, gagging sound that earned him a stern look.
“And as well as cookies, I must admit I make probably the best baking-powder biscuits this side of the Rockies,” Marc added.
That decided her. “Great. Sounds wonderful. But we’ll bring dessert. What time would you like us there?”
“Just as soon as you’re ready. I’m in about the third row back, about … say … fourth or fifth vehicle along.”
“I’ll find you,” she said dryly. “I know those rust spots intimately.”
The look he gave her suggested that he’d like for her to know more than his rust spots intimately, but after a moment he turned and skied away toward the campsite.
A long, hot shower revived Sharon enough to make the hike to the campsite without too much trouble, and Marc opened the door quickly to her knock. With four bodies inside it was cramped in the camper, but it was warm and snug and the stew and biscuits were as good as he’d promised.
“Stew?” she said, taking an appreciative bite. “I’d call this burgundy beef and serve it for company.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” he said. “Very special company.”
As delicious as the meal was, jammed into the booth around the small table, with Marc’s warm thigh pressed against hers, Sharon had to force herself to concentrate on her food, on the flavors and textures in her mouth, and try to ignore the other sensations coursing through her body.
For dessert, she’d taken Zinnie at her word and raided the freezer, coming up with a homemade apple pie that had only to be warmed in the oven after the biscuits had come out. Its spicy goodness filled the small camper with a wonderful aroma, and they all ate until they were stuffed.
“I don’t know if I can hold this,” she said when Marc set a big mug of hot chocolate in front of her.
He slid in beside her again and looked into her eyes. I could hold you, they seemed to say, and she shifted an inch or two away, crowding into Roxy, who said, “Mom, can I be excused, please?” Sharon laughed. “Well, sure you can, honey, but I don’t see where you’re going to go.”
“Up there. Jason and I can go up there and read our comics, can’t we? I’ve finished my chocolate.”
“Up there” was the double berth over the cab of the truck, and it was Marc who gave permission. Eagerly, the kids scrambled up. Marc leaned in and turned on a light at one end of the bunk. He was good with kids. She had to hand him that.
Sharon felt more relaxed now that she didn’t have to touch Marc, and finished her chocolate leisurely.
“You cooked, I’ll clean up.”
“You wash, I’ll dry. I know where everything goes.”
She nodded. “In a space like this, I guess everything has to go in exactly the right spot.”
They worked together harmoniously, bumping into each other now and then, but there didn’t seem to be anything threatening in those gentle touches. They had just finished when Jason said, “Mom, Roxy’s asleep.”
She pulled a face. “I was afraid of that. Oh, well, I can stuff her into her outdoor clothes and carry her.”
“No you won’t,” Marc said. Quickly, he got into his own boots and jacket, found a thick blanket, took it up to the front of the camper, and wrapped the sleeping child in it carefully. “You carry her things, and I’ll carry her.”
“You do that very well,” she whispered, as he rolled Roxy out of the blanket onto her bed without disturbing her.
“I had some practice once,” he said, reminding her with a sharp pang that he’d been a father and a husband at some time in his life, way back in that past that she knew held the answers to what made Marc Duval the kind of man he was, a drifter with callused hands and smooth manners.
He stood nearby while she tucked her daughter
“I’d planned on wieners and beans,” she said, and Jason made a rude, gagging sound that earned him a stern look.
“And as well as cookies, I must admit I make probably the best baking-powder biscuits this side of the Rockies,” Marc added.
That decided her. “Great. Sounds wonderful. But we’ll bring dessert. What time would you like us there?”
“Just as soon as you’re ready. I’m in about the third row back, about … say … fourth or fifth vehicle along.”
“I’ll find you,” she said dryly. “I know those rust spots intimately.”
The look he gave her suggested that he’d like for her to know more than his rust spots intimately, but after a moment he turned and skied away toward the campsite.
A long, hot shower revived Sharon enough to make the hike to the campsite without too much trouble, and Marc opened the door quickly to her knock. With four bodies inside it was cramped in the camper, but it was warm and snug and the stew and biscuits were as good as he’d promised.
“Stew?” she said, taking an appreciative bite. “I’d call this burgundy beef and serve it for company.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” he said. “Very special company.”
As delicious as the meal was, jammed into the booth around the small table, with Marc’s warm thigh pressed against hers, Sharon had to force herself to concentrate on her food, on the flavors and textures in her mouth, and try to ignore the other sensations coursing through her body.
For dessert, she’d taken Zinnie at her word and raided the freezer, coming up with a homemade apple pie that had only to be warmed in the oven after the biscuits had come out. Its spicy goodness filled the small camper with a wonderful aroma, and they all ate until they were stuffed.
“I don’t know if I can hold this,” she said when Marc set a big mug of hot chocolate in front of her.
He slid in beside her again and looked into her eyes. I could hold you, they seemed to say, and she shifted an inch or two away, crowding into Roxy, who said, “Mom, can I be excused, please?” Sharon laughed. “Well, sure you can, honey, but I don’t see where you’re going to go.”
“Up there. Jason and I can go up there and read our comics, can’t we? I’ve finished my chocolate.”
“Up there” was the double berth over the cab of the truck, and it was Marc who gave permission. Eagerly, the kids scrambled up. Marc leaned in and turned on a light at one end of the bunk. He was good with kids. She had to hand him that.
Sharon felt more relaxed now that she didn’t have to touch Marc, and finished her chocolate leisurely.
“You cooked, I’ll clean up.”
“You wash, I’ll dry. I know where everything goes.”
She nodded. “In a space like this, I guess everything has to go in exactly the right spot.”
They worked together harmoniously, bumping into each other now and then, but there didn’t seem to be anything threatening in those gentle touches. They had just finished when Jason said, “Mom, Roxy’s asleep.”
She pulled a face. “I was afraid of that. Oh, well, I can stuff her into her outdoor clothes and carry her.”
“No you won’t,” Marc said. Quickly, he got into his own boots and jacket, found a thick blanket, took it up to the front of the camper, and wrapped the sleeping child in it carefully. “You carry her things, and I’ll carry her.”
“You do that very well,” she whispered, as he rolled Roxy out of the blanket onto her bed without disturbing her.
“I had some practice once,” he said, reminding her with a sharp pang that he’d been a father and a husband at some time in his life, way back in that past that she knew held the answers to what made Marc Duval the kind of man he was, a drifter with callused hands and smooth manners.
He stood nearby while she tucked her daughter
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