No Ordinary Day , Tate, Harley [ebook offline .TXT] 📗

out the retort as he watched Emma and Holly head toward the house.

After a few moments, he loped up beside her.

“Change your mind?”

“Decided I’d rather not hear the gunshot and always wonder.”

She cut him a nasty glance, but the rain cut it short.

“Oh, look! It’s so cute!” Holly practically scampered forward, pointing at a little white farmhouse straight out of a picture book. A white post-and-rail fence lined the driveway and a mailbox announcing the Sutton residence presided over the front lawn. Emma took a deep breath. If these people were as welcoming as their yard, maybe they could dry off and have a warm place to rest.

“Holly, slow down!” John’s voice sliced through the rain, but the girl didn’t listen. He jogged after her, looking every bit the military man he used to be, until the front door to the house swung open.

“Get off my property!” an older voice warbled as it called out from the shadow.

Emma slowed. John stopped, one hand on his hip where his pistol was holstered.

Holly skittered to a stop and held up her hands. Tank’s fur bristled.

This was going all wrong. Emma waved at the porch. “Hi, there! We were just looking for some cover from the rain, that’s all.”

“I said, get off my property!” A figure emerged from the shadows pointing a double-barreled shotgun straight at Holly. From the shake in the barrel and the shock of white hair, Emma guessed the man was in his seventies, maybe older.  She could understand his concern.

“We don’t mean any harm.” Emma glanced at John, who still kept his hand on his hip, ready to draw. “Like I said, we’re just tired and wet and could use a rest.”

“Of course you could.” A hot pink umbrella covered in polka dots bounced toward the shotgun-wielding man with a wisp of a woman underneath it. She grabbed the barrel and shoved it down. “Gilbert Sutton, don’t you go makin’ these poor people feel unwelcome.”

“They don’t look poor to me.”

The woman shook her head and let go of the gun. “Y’all come right on up to our front porch and let me get a look at you.”

“We don’t know them, Irma.”

She tsked him and pointed at Tank. “Anyone who has a dog is good people.”

Gil and John rolled their eyes in unison and Emma couldn’t help but laugh. “I appreciate your kindness, ma’am.”

“There’s no ma’ams around here. Name’s Irma. Now get out of that rain before you catch your death.” She ushered them forward, patting Holly on the back as she ducked beneath the metal roof.

Gil lowered his weapon and stepped back to make room as Emma and John squeezed in.

Irma’s clucking broadcast her dissatisfaction. “Put down that shotgun and go get some towels from the laundry.” She shooed her husband into the house.

Grumbling about meddling women and unwelcome visitors, Gil let the screen door swing shut behind him.

“You pay him no heed.” Irma smiled as she took a good look at the lot of them. “Y’all look like drowned rats. We’ll fix that. Some towels, maybe a change of clothes, some warm food in your belly. You’ll be right as rain.” She scrunched her nose as she peered out at the sky. “Maybe not this right.”

Emma smiled and Holly laughed, but it turned into a chatter.

“Goodness, where is that husband of mine? Gilbert!” Irma hollered for her husband and Emma smiled wider. These were good people.

The screen door whooshed open. “You’d gone and put the good towels in the front,” Gil huffed as he emerged from the house. “I had to rummage through to find the old ones. No need to holler.”

“I didn’t care which towels. Not like they’re contagious or something.” Irma plucked towels out of her husband’s arms and handed them first to Holly and Emma then John. She took the last and draped it over Tank, giving him a good rub down. As she pulled back, Tank shook from head to tail, sending the last bits of water trapped in his fur into the air.

Gil sputtered and cursed. “Only thing worse than a wet dog is wet dog water all over me.”

Ignoring her husband, Irma ushered everyone inside, past a cozy living room with an afghan draped over the back of the sofa and a recliner facing the TV, and into a farmhouse kitchen with black and white linoleum and metal-edged Formica counters.

She pointed to the kitchen table. “Y’all sit right here and I’ll get some water heating for tea. Then we’ll see what we can do about your clothes.”

“I’ve got clothes for me and probably Emma.” Holly glanced her way. “Assuming you don’t mind?”

Relief coated Emma’s voice. “Not at all. Anything you have would be great.” Sure beat the completely sheer blouse she was now wearing thanks to the rain. Luckily, the towel was large enough to wrap around her shoulders and her front.

“Then all we need is some men’s clothes.” Irma sized up John before turning to her husband. “You two look about the same size. Go fish him out a pair of jeans and a work shirt.”

“You don’t have to trouble yourself for me.” John glanced at his soaked sweater. “I’ll dry.”

Gil had half-risen out of his chair, but he sat in response to John. “See? He doesn’t need any.”

Irma pointed with a handful of spoons. “If you don’t go get him some dry clothes, I’ll be feedin’ the dog your bowl of chili.”

Holly suppressed a giggle and Irma winked at her. Gil stomped off once again, on the hunt this time for dry clothes.

“Now, where were we?” Irma smiled and launched into directions to the bathroom for Holly, who promptly disappeared with her duffel bag. A few minutes later, she emerged, carrying a wet bundle of laundry.

Irma pointed across the kitchen. “Dryer’s straight through that door in the pantry. You shove those clothes in and once everybody’s changed, we’ll fire it up.”

Holly handed Emma her soppy duffel bag. “Everything inside is dry. Help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

Emma took the bag