Those Sweet Words (Misfit Inn 2)

“He is.” She scrubbed up the fresh carrots. “He’s been helping out, while Kennedy is away.”

“Helping out, huh?” He went quiet, his face set in what she imagined he thought of as non-judgment.

Pru just sliced the tops off the carrots. “Your therapist tricks won’t work on me, Logan. I have nothing to confess.”

“Who said anything about confession? Not me.”

Realizing he’d picked up on something, Pru said the only thing she could think of to turn the conversation. “No, I don’t suppose you do want to confess about what you got up to at the wedding.”

He played dumb. “And what would that be?”

“Two words. Opal. Springs.”

She glanced up in time to see his ears turning pink.

“How did you…?”

“Did you think nobody would notice the wet hair when you got back?” Pru took some pleasure in seeing the unflappable Logan Maxwell off his game. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Athena, but I’m staying out of it.”

He looked toward the door, where a blistering fiddle joined the fray. “Message received.”

“What message?”

“You stay out of my stuff, and I stay out of yours.”

It wasn’t what she’d been saying, but if that was his takeaway, fine. She didn’t want to answer questions right now.

“You’re welcome to stay for snacks and music.”

“Actually, I was thinking I’d see if Ari wanted to go riding tomorrow. If you didn’t have other plans for her.”

Pru softened. “She’d love that.”

“How bout I help you finish that veggie tray and carry it out and ask her.”

“Sure. Thanks.” She set him up with the rest of the veggies and another platter to arrange them on, while she whipped up the dip and salsa.

Together, they carried the thrown-together feast out to the long table set up beneath the old bodock tree. All the picnic tables and most of the chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe around it, and musicians sat on every surface. Strings were well-represented, with multiple guitars, three banjos, two mandolins, a couple of other fiddles, in addition to Flynn’s, and even a stand-up bass. There were also a couple of harmonicas and even a dulcimer. The Talbots and the Simpkins—the sweet, older couple from Milwaukee—were camped out in loungers from the porch, grinning broadly as the group finished up a rousing rendition of “Rocky Top”.

“Wonderful!” Joanne Simpkins applauded with enthusiasm. “Oh, this is such fun. Do you always have live music?”

“We’re trying something new,” Pru told her.

“You ought to make this a regular thing,” Kenneth Talbot said. “This would be quite the draw.”

“We’ll give it some thought,” Pru promised. She supposed the other musicians might be talked into coming for a jam session with each other, even if Flynn wasn’t around anymore. But she didn’t know if she wanted the reminder. “We’ve got some light appetizers to tide you over. Please, enjoy!”

A few people set their instruments aside and came to fill a plate.

Done with her work for a bit, Pru perched on the edge of one of the picnic tables to enjoy the music.

“Ari and I have one to share that’s a bit more from my part of the world.” Flynn looked to Ari. “Are you ready, cailín beag?”

She nodded, and Pru watched in fascination as Flynn drew his bow across the strings and Ari began to sing. “There were three old gypsies came to our hall door…”

On the second verse, some of the guitarists picked up the tune, adding rhythm beneath her sweet, sassy voice. Pru hadn’t even known she could sing. When had she learned this?

“Then saddle for me my milk white steed, my big horse is not speedy-oh.” Flynn’s voice rose, as smooth and dynamic as his fiddle. The sound gave Pru chills.