Garden of Dreams by Patricia Rice Read Free Book Online Page A

from or what perverse quirk of her tongue let it slip. She didn’t dare turn around to see how he took it.
    â€œBack in Arizona with her other Native American friends.”
    The toaster clicked as he pushed the bread down, and she dared a quick peek at him. He didn’t seem put out by her sarcastic question. In fact, he was watching her with a Cheshire-cat grin on his face. Nina hurriedly returned to scrambling the eggs. “Pocahontas was an easterner, Mr. Smith. I’d think she would find herself a trifle out of place in Arizona.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I’m a trifle out of place here. What is this place called?”
    â€œKentucky,” she answered dryly.
    â€œI knew that, Miss Toon. My geography may be poor, but I can read a map. I just don’t know where in Kentucky I got knocked off that map.”
    She reminded herself he was a guest and not one of her students. She really didn’t need this complication in her life right now. “Madrid,” she answered with a sigh.
    â€œMuh- drid ,” he repeated, pronouncing it like the city in Spain.
    â€œ Mad -rid,” she corrected, accenting and flattening the first syllable. “Like the New Madrid fault. You know, where the huge earthquake fault is. It’s just across the Mississippi from here. They keep telling us we’re ripe for a big one any day.”
    â€œOh, swell. I’ve come all the way across the country to go from one earthquake fault to another. With my luck, the big one will hit while I’m here. I don’t suppose you see a big black cloud hanging over my head with lightning bolts shooting out of it, do you?”
    She laughed. A large man with long hair sitting at her counter popping toast from her toaster was surreal enough for one morning. The thought of a black cloud floating around her kitchen with lightning bolts shooting out of it was just too close to how she felt right now. “Every cloud has a silver lining, Mr. Smith,” she chirped.
    She could feel his glare clear through her new cotton chemise dress. Ignoring him, she scooped the eggs into a blue willow bowl.
    â€œJD,” he answered, without any seeming relevance.
    She turned and squinted at him. “JD?”
    â€œJohn David. People call me JD.”
    She grinned. “As in, juvenile delinquent?”
    â€œJuris doctorate,” he threw back at her, carefully spreading a thick hunk of butter on the soft toast.
    â€œJames Dean.” She took the rest of the toast slices and cut thin slivers of butter to melt on them while he struggled with his hunk.
    â€œJames Dean was a stupid punk with no ambition. He liked making an ass out of himself. I do not and will never resemble James Dean.” He took a hungry bite out of the toast.
    â€œYou look more like a victim of war this morning.” She amazed herself. She talked with this stranger as if she’d known him all her life. Better. The boys she’d grown up with had been tongue-tied most of the time.
    She’d grown up here on the farm with Great-aunt Hattie, a confirmed spinster, and she’d seldom had an opportunity for bantering with any man. The boys she’d gone to school with didn’t count. She still thought of them as boys. She’d never had a man in the kitchen or any other room in the house, except when the preacher came calling, and he scarcely counted. She’d never related well to strange men. She’d hoped college would change that, but not many men attended teaching classes, and she’d commuted, so she hadn’t had time for hanging around afterward in the pizza parlor or wherever men hung around. Anyway, according to her aunt, all men were predatory. And she distinctly felt like prey when this one looked at her the way he did now.
    He didn’t seem to notice her ignorance. Rather than hobble around on his good foot, he continued sitting at the counter as he hollered “Jackie!” at the ceiling. The