Книга - Everything She’s Ever Wanted

Everything She's Ever Wanted
Mary J. Forbes


MEMO TO SELF: SECOND CHANCES ARE FOR THOSE BRAVE ENOUGH TO SEIZE THEM.Since the betrayal that had upended her life, Breena Quinlan hid. Hid her feelings in the pages of a journal. Hid her body beneath baggy clothes. Hid in an out-of-the-way Oregon town. But Seth Tucker found the woman within. His every look, his merest touch told her that he wanted her. Everything about him, especially the way he tried so desperately to be a good dad to his daughter, screamed that he could be trusted. So Breena took the plunge and shared his address, then shared his bed.That had been easy.Sharing her secret required a leap of faith.









“I won’t be charmed by a man again. Nor am I seeking the quick bed bounce.”


“Who said that’s what I’m after?”

“Why wouldn’t you want sex?”

He hadn’t moved. “Two reasons. One, both of us have to agree and, two, we both have to feel it’s right.”

“It won’t be for me. It was difficult enough in my marriage.”

“You married the wrong man.”

He stood with his back to the living room window. Against the backdrop of the wet day, his big shoulders appeared tougher than usual, potent.

A surge of yearning shot through her.

She wanted him to see her as a woman.

She wanted him to care. To make love to her, with her.

Most of all, she wanted to be wanted.


Dear Reader,

Well, as promised, the dog days of summer have set in, which means one last chance at the beach reading that’s an integral part of this season (even if you do most of it on the subway, like I do!). We begin with The Beauty Queen’s Makeover by Teresa Southwick, next up in our MOST LIKELY TO…miniseries. She was the girl “most likely to” way back when, and he was the awkward geek. Now they’ve all but switched places, and the fireworks are about to begin….

In From Here to Texas, Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, a Navajo man and the girl who walked out on him years ago have to decide if they believe in second chances. And speaking of second chances (or first ones, anyway), picture this: a teenaged girl obsessed with a gorgeous college boy writes down some of her impure thoughts in her diary, and buries said diary in the walls of an old house in town. Flash forward ten-ish years, and the boy, now a man, is back in town—and about to dismantle the old house, brick by brick. Can she find her diary before he does? Find out in Christine Flynn’s finale to her GOING HOME miniseries, Confessions of a Small-Town Girl. In Everything She’s Ever Wanted by Mary J. Forbes, a traumatized woman is finally convinced to come out of hiding, thanks to the one man she can trust. In Nicole Foster’s Sawyer’s Special Delivery, a man who’s played knight-in-shining armor gets to do it again—to a woman (cum newborn baby) desperate for his help, even if she hates to admit it. And in The Last Time I Saw Venice by Vivienne Wallington, a couple traumatized by the loss of their child hopes that the beautiful city that brought them together can work its magic—one more time.

So have your fun. And next month it’s time to get serious—about reading, that is….

Enjoy!

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor




Everything She’s

Ever Wanted

Mary J. Forbes







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Elaine, for sharing Kinderhook Lane and other things…




MARY J. FORBES


grew up on a farm in Alberta amidst horses, cattle, crisp hay and broad blue skies. As a child, she drew and wrote about her surroundings, and in sixth grade composed her first story about a lame little pony. Years later, she was an accountant and worked as a reporter/photographer for a small-town newspaper and attained an honors degree in education. She also wrote and published short fiction.

Today, Mary—a teacher by profession—lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two children. A romantic by nature, she loves walking along the ocean shoreline, sitting by the fire on snowy or rainy evenings and two-stepping around the dance floor to a good country song—all with her own real-life hero, of course. Mary loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.maryjforbes.com.


Dear Reader,

The idea for Seth’s story came to me a number of years ago when my husband and I purchased a home in a residential area under construction. The site was atop a small mountain forested with pine trees. A couple times a week, dynamite blasted away boulders and bedrock, and eventually houses rose along those winding carved-out streets.

Since we were the first family to move into the area, we were surrounded by machinery, hard-hatted guys and dust. Dawn till dusk. Still, I walked our German shepherd every day. Up and down and around that mountain. Gravel trucks would pass by with loads of dirt or rock. One friendly driver took a liking to my dog. Each time he saw us walking along the newly cemented sidewalk, he would slow his monstrous Peterbilt, lean out the window and ask questions about her—or croon some doggie nonsense. Sometimes, if he was in a hurry, he’d simply wave and call, “How’s the pup?”

Well, how could I not ponder questions of my own on those walks? Like… What if a man driving a Paul Bunyan truck carried a secret fear? What if he lost his child to a custody battle? What if that child was unsure of his love…?

Since I also taught school and have, over the years, encountered hundreds of kids, it didn’t take long for my imagination to meld a child’s face into that nameless trucker’s life. But then, I went on to writing other stories, and my “Seth” faded into obscurity. Until now. Until he walked through the mist of my memories and demanded his story be the next of my Tucker brothers’ trilogy, in Everything She’s Ever Wanted.

So here he is—builder-man to the rescue. Happy reading!









Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue




Chapter One


Memo To Self:

A woman alone on a deserted residential street at nine o’clock at night might expect trouble. One on the town outskirts, hiking along a highway, stands out like a lure in clear water.

Breena Quinlan timed the words with each step. Wind bit her cheeks, paralyzed her fingers. She clutched the single brown bag of groceries against her thin fleece jacket. Fleece, when autumn bent toward winter, for goodness sake!

A rig, from its sound, crested the hill behind her. Headlights flashed through the brittle night air, etching her against the blacktop.

Think gloves, scarf, Aunt Paige, shop. Don’t think of the truck slowing. Slowing.

She ducked her head against another swat of October wind.

Air brakes hissed. The truck shuddered, stopped.

Keep walking.

“That your Blazer back there, ma’am?” a male voice inquired.

Breena picked up her pace. Why hadn’t she brought her cell phone?

Brakes squawked; the massive vehicle—a gravel truck—jerked gently forward.

“Ma’am, I know what you’re thinking.” Lit by dash lights, the driver laid a flannel-sleeved arm along the ledge of his rolled-down window. “I’m not that kind of guy. Name’s Seth Tucker. I own Tucker Contracting Limited here in Misty River.” He patted the door. “If you don’t believe me, read the logo.”

Breena shot a look toward the dark panel. Across twenty feet of night, the words were indistinguishable. Didn’t mean a thing. He might be a hired driver.

“Look,” he said, scanning the road ahead. “I’m on my way back to the job site to get my pickup. Let me call a tow truck from my cell. Then you can head back to your vehicle and wait out of the wind.”

“I’m all right,” she managed through stiff lips.

“You’re frozen,” he countered. “What the hell good will that do you if a real creep comes along?”

Touché. Her hands, face, legs were iced wood; it was a wonder she set one foot in front of the other.

“Fine,” the driver said. “You walk. I’ll drive alongside till we get to where you’re going.”

She stopped. He jammed the brakes. The truck ground to a halt, tire chains swinging, clinking below its undercarriage.

Five long seconds, the engine grumbled between them while she contemplated the situation and he contemplated her.

Should she take the offer? Get out of the cold wind? Stranger danger isn’t only for kids, Breena.

Scented of dead grass and diesel, the wind licked her face, stabbed through her frayed jeans; the bag rustled in her arms. She worked numbed lips. “Earth’s Goodness, do you know it?”

“Yep.” Again he studied the road. “Half mile off.” His scrutiny fastened on her. “Doesn’t it close at five?”

“I’m staying in a back room.” Far too much information.

But I’m frozen.

And a fool.

“Ah. You must be Paige Quinlan’s relative.”

So. He knew her. Benefits of small-town grapevines. “She’s my great-aunt.” Enough said. Her family wasn’t his business.

Shivers trilled her spine. Before she could think it through, she asked, “Your truck warm?”

“Like morning coffee.”

She clamped her rattling teeth. What she wouldn’t give for a Starbucks “tall with room.” Still, she debated.

The trucker rubbed a knuckle down his cheek. “Would it make a difference if I told you my brother’s the police chief here? You might’ve seen him around. Big, black-haired giant?”

“Jon Tucker?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s your brother?”

“All six-five of ’im.”

His dry tone had her frozen lips hooking a smile. The manager of the Sleep Inn Motel, where she’d first stayed after arriving in Misty River, cited Chief Tucker as the “biggest bugger you ever saw,” a titan who’d swept the town clean of its small-time pot growers last fall with what Breena thought must have been a Paul Bunyan-sized broom. She shifted the weighty bag. Could she go wrong with the sibling of such an icon?

People hailed John Wayne Gacy a pillar of the community. A construction man.

“Ma’am?” the trucker queried. “Call him on my cell, if you want. Or call your aunt—she knows me.”

“No, that’s fine.” Right or wrong she trusted this Tucker fellow’s words. Besides, what psychopath would ask a victim to call a cop? She crossed the pavement.

The driver’s door opened; he swung down.

He was tall. Maybe not as tall as his brother, but close—with shoulders that matched the powerful truck he drove. For three seconds, the interior lights marked dark, shaggy hair and a face sharpened by nature. Then he stepped out of the shadow of the massive vehicle toward her.

“Seth Tucker the trucker, ma’am.”

Ma’am. She fancied him saluting an eyebrow in chivalry: a shy Wyoming cowboy. Instead, he smiled, slow, crooked, nabbing her air. Extending a hand, he engulfed hers with blessed warmth.

“Breena Quinlan.” Never again Breena De Laurent.

He gave a polite little clip of his head. “Best get inside, Miss Quinlan, before you turn into an Alaskan icicle.”

“Breena,” she told him, slipping her hand away. The loss of warmth hurt.

He took the bag from her stiff, aching arms without hesitation and led her around the enormous, grinding motor to the passenger side. Gravel gnashed under his boots as he opened the door, set her groceries on the floorboard.

“Grab hold of the hand rail here,” he advised. “Careful, there are two stairs.”

She stepped onto the first of two-foot-high running boards, curved stiff fingers around the rung; a second later, he cupped her elbow, boosting her up into wonderful warmth. Behind her, the door slammed. The cab resembled the cockpit of a small plane. Dials and gizmos illuminated the dash; the steering wheel was the size of a car tire. Overhead, a pair of digital speakers offered soft oldies. Words to match her mood.

A man obviously born to big trucks, he leapt into the driver’s bucket seat, hit the control for the hot air, settled back, slipped the clutch. Glancing into both side mirrors, he shoved the stick into gear and edged onto the highway.

Against her legs vented heat chased chills.

“Rub your hands together, then rub your arms.”

“W-what?”

“Hands, arms. Rub them. You’ll warm up quicker.”

The meager exercise coaxed her blood to pump, her skin to heat. “Thanks,” she said when her lips softened and her teeth stopped clattering.

“Welcome.”

He maneuvered to an easy speed. She said, “Is this normal weather for Oregon?”

Again, the slow smile. “For October. You’re lucky it isn’t raining. Where you from?”

“San Francisco.”

“Just visiting?”

“In a way.” The decision to come to this northwestern part of Oregon on a year’s leave of absence had seemed reasonable three weeks ago. Buying into her great-aunt Paige’s shop, two days ago, suddenly seemed rash. What did she know about running a quaint, run-down, artsy shop like Aunt Paige’s, with its candles and chimes, pottery and potpourri? Its shell-framed mirrors and flower-shaped lamps, quilted bags and cloth pictures?

She knew about reviewing case histories. Drug and child abuse. Runaways. Severed homes. She knew about mending people’s broken hearts, their jagged lives.

Or she had, once. Before Leo’s betrayal.

Yet, it felt right, this decision. She would learn. The Ph.D. packed in a Frisco storage locker had taught her about hard work and sweat years ago.

And if you fall flat on your face? She’d return to Frisco, to her family therapy practice. Even if it killed her to live in the same city as Leo and Lizbeth. Oh, God. Even now, seven months after she’d seen them on that California beach, Breena felt the white jolt of shock. Her husband and her sister. Kissing. His hands caressing Lizbeth’s body.

Breena’s stomach lurched. She gripped the armrest, holding herself in place. Holding the hurt, the pain in place. She couldn’t, however, contain seven years of marriage. The past lived and breathed inside her, while the future spread out like a road meandering into a fire-blackened forest.

“You okay?” The man beside her stared down the dark highway, narrowed in the headlights. His hands—big, broad, long-fingered—lay relaxed on the wheel.

She sat back, curled her own hands into her lap. “Yes, I’m—fine.” Now.

“You run out of gas back there?”

“No. I think something broke in the engine. There was a lot of clanging.” She perused the myriad dashboard devices. “I’ve never ridden in a Goliath truck. It’s quite an anomaly.”

He smiled. “Anomalies can still be safe.”

Did he mean his truck or himself?

Maybe he figured her an affluent city-dweller, testing out homey country life. Or a California sun-bum out for “an experience.” Because he had been kind enough to supply her a ride, she wanted to set him straight. But how? If she said, “I’m tired of the rat race,” he’d assume her rich and fabulous, dabbling in the eccentric backwoods. If she said, “I want a change,” he’d assume she’d opted for “experience.”

Oh, yes, she wanted small-town life, itched for change. But more than anything, she longed for permanency, acceptance. Far away from Leo and Lizbeth.

Against the black asphalt the tires harmonized with ‘Hey, Jude.’ The Beatles’ oldie calmed her edgy nerves.

“I couldn’t stay in Frisco,” she found herself saying. “And I don’t know that I can go back.”

“Sometimes it’s best to move away, then.”

She watched a dark band of trees slip by under the cool moon. A few homes appeared, huddled in the night, their yellow lights soft, inviting. “Misty River seems like a decent town to move to,” she murmured.

“It’s okay. Folks ’round here all know each other. That can be a blessing or a drag.”

Which will I be?

“If you stay,” he continued, “they’ll get to know you, too.”

“Some do already.” Their eyes met across the console. “And now you.”

“Yeah.” His mouth quirked. “Now me.”

She thought of asking if his family had lived here forever, if he had a wife, children. Small talk to pass the minutes.

The shop’s oval sign, a charming weave of words and ivy painted on wood hanging from wrought-iron tapestry, beckoned with welcoming, amber light. He slowed for the cramped, elm-lined street feeding into the older section of town.

“Let me off at the corner,” she told him. “I can walk the last block.”

She didn’t want him parking in front of the shop. She didn’t want her nosy neighbor Delwood Owens peering out his window across the street and seeing Seth Tucker, whom she believed to be a good and honest man, dropping the new woman in town off at her aunt’s shop on a dark, wind-tossed night. Most of all, she didn’t want Seth wondering why she wasn’t living in Aunt Paige’s house, but in back of a store, why she saw independence as an avenue to regaining her self-esteem—a phoenix rising from the cinders of a husband’s infidelity.

Apparently, Seth Tucker cared nothing of what she or the neighbors thought.

He pulled up along the curb, got out, rounded to her side and hoisted the bag from her arms before she could climb down. Slamming the door shut, he turned and walked her down the sidewalk, through the squeaky, little swing gate in the middle of the crumbling stone wall edging the front property, right up the beveled, pitted walkway—the one she was convincing her aged, arthritic aunt to repair—right to the house, as if it were the most natural thing for him to do. Perhaps it was. Perhaps women were a common commodity at Seth Tucker’s side.

The image unsettled Breena. She didn’t want this stranger to be a womanizer, like Leo, but a man of honor and decency. But what unsettled her most was that she cared. Why? After tonight, she’d be lucky if he remembered her at the local post office. The image savored regret.

He stopped by the porch steps. “Which door—here or back?”

“Back.” She followed the worn dirt path around the house. The glow of lights up and down the street ousted shadows; in the backyard, darkness was thick, black. The one-car garage and contorted old apple tree imprinted a Halloween mood.

A tart wind speared her jacket, shuffled her hair. She folded her hands under her arms. Seth wore no coat. Was he cold, this quiet, gentle bear of a man?

At the back door, she pulled the key from her purse, took back her groceries. “Thanks again. You’re very kind.” She tendered a smile, hoped he didn’t expect to be asked inside.

He said, “I’ll call Bill, see if he can get a tow out to your truck.”

“Bill?”

“The Garage Center. He’ll need your keys as well.”

She shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I can phone the autobody shop.” She unlocked the door, flicked the inside light. “You’ve done enough already. I don’t want to impose—”

“You’re not. I’ve known Bill since we were kids. He’ll take care of your vehicle.”

His eyes told her if he called, the Blazer would be taken care of immediately. She needed the thing. Parked on the side of a highway all night, who knew what morning would bring? In some parts of Frisco, she’d be lucky to have an axle left. But this was small-town America where the worst criminal likely was a shoplifter.

“All right. Would you like to come in and use the phone?”

“I have my cell.”

Of course. She knew that.

He glanced toward the alley, where someone peered from a kitchen window. “Go on in. You’ll get chilled again.”

Handing over her car keys, she went, one hand gripping the edge of the door. “I appreciate this. Thank you, Seth.”

A scant smile. “My pleasure.”

She watched him walk away, then closed the door. Leaning her forehead against its wood, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding and shut her eyes.

For the first time in months, she didn’t see Leo’s face.



Seth pulled the pickup in front of the garage behind his house and shut off the motor and headlights. With the exception of the cooling engine, silence sang through the night. For several moments, he sat motionless, thinking about the woman. She was on the run. Whether from a husband, a lover or both, he didn’t know.

Forget it.

He had more than enough worry in his life.

And gray temples to prove it.

He turned his head toward the oversize, hip-roofed barn he’d converted into a workshop. A dark mammoth, the building squatted amidst the woods flanking his yard.

Damn, but he loved this eight-acre patch of heaven he’d bought two years ago. One day, it would go to Hallie to do with as she wanted. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking she’d live on it. She’d sell, invest the profit into her dreams.

Guilt bit hard. He knew zip about her dreams, about things close to her heart. What kind of man—what kind of father—didn’t know his own child?

The half-there kind.

Except when it came to the monthly checks he paid his ex-wife to raise Hallie: ten years ago, he’d even set up a college fund for his daughter. Was college her dream? Maybe she’d rather play in a jazz band, or live in the Australian Outback. Or maybe, just maybe, she wanted nothing more than her family intact.

The notion had him grabbing his gear, shoving open the door where a cold, wet muzzle pushed its way into his hand.

“Hey, Roach, you old scab face,” he muttered, scratching the lumber-headed dog behind its good ear. “Missed me, didja?”

A hundred and six pounds of umber-furred dog frisked on pan-sized paws around Seth twice, then took off in a lopsided lope through the dark, to the back porch.

“Sit nice,” a young, female voice commanded.

Seth stopped. “Hallie?” Searching the shadows, he walked toward the small, indistinct bulk that was his fifteen-year-old daughter, hunkering on his back step. “What’re you doing here?” It was Friday night, two days ahead of his visitation schedule.

“Mom and I had a fight.”

Another fight. Great. Closer, he saw her cuddled into the beast that had adopted him on a night like this last winter. She stroked a hand over its thick coat, averting her eyes from the myriad questions in Seth’s.

“How’d you get here?”

“I walked.”

The hair on his arms rose. He lived two miles from town, down a secluded dirt road. “It’s dark,” he stated, unnecessarily.

“I know, but I couldn’t stand it anymore and my friend Susanne is going somewhere with her folks this weekend and Aunt Rianne has company and…and I wanted to come here.”

She swiped the back of her hand under her nose. Her face was a thin, pale shape in the night.

Vulnerable. Innocent.

Seth wanted to drop his lunch box, pick her up like he once had ten years ago, hold her against his heart. She was his little girl, his baby. But divorce and years of slow distancing stood between them.

You could still do something about it.

Like what?

Like get to know her again.

But will she want to know me?

He held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

She climbed to her feet without his assistance. He tried to ignore the scratch on his heart. In the confined mudroom, the dog headed for its dish in the corner and lapped water. Seth plunked his lunch bucket down on the kitchen counter. “Did you tell your mother you were coming here?”

Hallie frowned. “No.”

He nodded toward his office down the hall. “Call her.”

“She doesn’t care where I go.”

“Well, I do. Call, honey.”

The girl slipped out of her backpack, let it thud to the floor. “She was going out with jerk-o Roy-Dean.”

“Leave a message on the machine.” This time, he pointed. He didn’t want her on the kitchen phone where he’d hear her one-sided conversation with the woman he wished he’d told to hit the road sixteen years ago.

Young lunatic, that’s what he’d been, thinking with his tropical anatomy. Melody Owens had come on to him faster than a starved cougar. He’d been twenty-two. She’d been eighteen going on forty-six. Fooling the bouncers about her age. Fooling him.

He snorted. Admit it, Seth. You couldn’t keep your eyes off her, much less your hands. Or anything else, when all was said and done. At the time, she’d been the hottest bit he’d seen in his entire life. Oh, yeah. She had burned him good.

Three months of fun. Three months of sex. Then one morning, she’d stood on his doorstep, informing him she was pregnant. He still recalled gawking at her like a lummox. Sowing your oats didn’t mean forgetting safety between the sheets.

Except he had. Once.

Five minutes of play in the backseat of his old Impala had transformed into sixteen years of pain.

Not that he’d shirked the responsibility for what they’d done. No. Exit shock, enter love overload when, in mere months, a small toothless being with big blue eyes stared up at him. Seeing Hallie had sent his dreams into overdrive.

Dreams dumped in the mud of his marriage.

He, who worked earth and stone, who wore boots and dripped sweat, hadn’t been good enough. Not for Melody’s daddy, or her.

But her belly had cultivated his DNA. His sweet Hallie. Tying him forever to Melody.

He thought of the woman tonight— Breena of the crafts shop—and recollected her quiet, rueful voice. Her soap scent. Her long black hair. All, different from Melody. So damned different.

He strode to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. Forget the woman. Forget Melody. Only Hallie mattered.

In the fridge, he found a mixture of vegetables and leftover meat loaf and arranged them on a plate, then shoved the entire concoction into the microwave.

Hallie returned, resignation in those summer-blue eyes so like his own. She shrugged off the Gore-Tex jacket he’d bought her last April, tossed it over a chair. “She wasn’t there.”

What could he say? Your mother is an idiot? Better yet— Your mother needs to accept she has a teenager living in her house?

Mouth shut, he set the table, hauled out the bowl of food when the microwave buzzed. In silence they sat and ate. Finished, he took the plates to the sink and flipped on the tap.

Hallie came beside him, catching the tea towel hanging on the oven door. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

His heart rolled, sweet and painful. Wish and you might receive. How many times had he yearned for her to voluntarily choose him? Though not through distress.

He looked down at her dark head just shy of his shoulder, at her smooth, pale forehead, the slant of her small, straight nose. “You don’t have to ask, Hallie. This is your home, too.”

She dried both plates together, set them on the counter. “Mom’ll stay at Roy-Dean’s, anyway.”

“She do that a lot? Leave you alone overnight?”

“Just since she’s been dating him.”

In other words, since last August, when Melody, his daughter in tow, had relocated to Misty River from Eugene. Two months.

Why hadn’t Hallie told him before?

Roy-Dean Lunn, eight years younger than Melody.

A pretty boy she paraded through town like a talisman for her aging face.

Lunn worked road maintenance, fixing highways and secondaries; winters, he ploughed snow in northeast Washington and Idaho. Down times, he blew his money on women and booze. Now he blew it on Melody while she blew off her responsibility—her legally assigned responsibility—to Hallie.

Whose fault is that?

Mine, dammit. I should have fought harder when I had the chance.

Except, he had fought hard—as much as his meager savings had afforded a decade ago. But Melody stemmed from second-generation money and politics and influence; her daddy owned Misty River Chev Olds and Seth, standing in front of a female judge who pitched her tent in the mama-bear-protecting-her-cub camp, had lost his footing.

Hearing she’d won the full right to raise their daughter, Melody had volleyed tears in front of the judge and Seth, seeing his ex’s wet gratitude, could only bow to the decision. Hallie was five years old. Much as it killed him, he knew his work hours weren’t conducive to a tot in kindergarten. His baby girl needed her mother, and that was that.

In the end, he got “visitation” every Sunday and was awarded joint legal custody, which granted a say in the child’s education, health care and other major facets of her life.

Then, five years ago, Melody—wanting her “last big chance at life”—had moved to Eugene, near her brother. A three-hour drive away. Where visitations with Hallie were chewed up by motel costs and travel time that disintegrated her belief in him. Even his phone calls couldn’t rectify the ever-widening gap between him and his daughter as she trudged through her teen years. His fault, of course. All his fault.

Well, he couldn’t alter the past, but he could do something about Roy-Dean Lunn.

“From now on when he shows up,” Seth said, “call me and I’ll come get you.”

Hallie tossed the utensils into the drying rack. “It’s okay. I can crash at Susanna’s or Grandma Owens when I know he’s coming. Tonight we… Mom wasn’t expecting him, that’s all.”

Seth drained the water. “I want you to come here, Hallie. Don’t bother your grandmother or your friend.” You’re mine, not theirs.

“Dad, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He faced her. “It’s not okay. You page me or call my cell phone or leave a message with Wanda at the office.” Her face, a river of emotion, had him setting a hand on her shoulder. “What was the fight about?”

She dropped her chin. “Nothing.”

“You walked here.”

A shrug. “I was mad.”

He gathered that. Tugging the towel from her hands, he hung it over the oven handle. “Wanna tell me why?”

Her lips were plank-straight.

Okay, he wouldn’t push. She’d tell him in her own good time. He stacked the plates in the cupboard, laid the utensils in the drawer.

She eyed him. “Aren’t you going to hassle me?”

“Nope.”

“Mom always does if I don’t tell her.”

He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “Want to watch some TV or play a game of chess?”

Another shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”

He chose chess. They played in the living room while logs burned and crackled in the fireplace, and she beat him.

“Guess I’m a bit rusty.” He smiled and got a sheepish one in return. His chest ached. “Want another round?”

A little smirk. “Want to lose again?”

“Ha! You’re on.”

This time, he won.

“Luck,” she told him, and grinned. His heart tumbled.

“That so? Make it two out of three.”

She had him checkmated within forty minutes.

Damn, he was proud. She was an admirable opponent, this daughter. He wanted to reach out, stroke her ponytail. His hand lifted, dropped. Too much, too soon. He couldn’t recall the last hug, the last kiss. Had she been five? Ten? I miss you.

Something must have shown in his face; she gathered the board and players back in the box, got up to return the game to the bedroom she used whenever it was his turn for “parenting time,” a new term for visitation rights. That was another thing he wished were different. Now that Hallie was older, he wanted her to visit on her own. Not when he asked, or when the system deemed it correct, or when arguments sent her running.

Squatting by the fire, he replaced the disintegrating logs. Spruce sap sweetened the room.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, honey?”

She stood just beyond the coffee table, a slim, shy figure, hands burrowed in baggy denim overalls. His throat tightened.

“Mom doesn’t want me dating.”

The fight. “I see.”

Her eyes, full of need for him to understand. “It’s not fair. She started dating when she was thirteen and I’m— I’m already fifteen.”

“Barely four months, Hal.”

“Still fifteen,” she persisted, those eyes growing more determined. “I’m older and more mature than a lot of my friends and they’ve been seeing guys since they were like twelve.”

Seth hung the iron poker on the hearth and rose. “Want some hot chocolate?”

“No. I want to talk about this.”

The topic had him itching to pace. He wanted to help her— God, he wanted to help her. But how? He said, “We can talk while it’s brewing,” and returned to the kitchen, where he set the milk on the stove to warm. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hallie crouch beside Roach, stretched out in the mudroom doorway. As she stroked his broad head, the dog thumped its stubbed tail on the linoleum, and watched her every move with guarded eyes.

The sight prompted a memory of the Quinlan woman the moment Seth had removed the groceries from her cold arms on the shoulder of the highway. Caution: it flashed across her face before she climbed the ladder into the cab and again when he took her keys for her truck at the back door of the shop.

In the months after he’d found Roach hiding under his front porch, he often speculated on the animal’s past. Why had the dog slunk on its belly to sniff his hand, then crawled quick as a light-affected bug back into its dark cavern?

Tonight, Seth wondered what lurked in the lady’s past that had her on a speedy retreat into that little hovel of a shop. And how long would it take to coax her out…

She’s not a stray, Seth. You can’t cure her ills.

Nor did he want to. Last thing he needed to do was worry over some woman he happened to offer a ride. Irritated with his thoughts, he said briskly, “Milk’s ready.”

In the pantry, he found packages of marshmallows and Oreos, put them between the mugs on the old oak table. Easing into one of the four chairs, he said, “So, who’s the boy you wanna date?”

“I didn’t say there was a boy.”

Seth lifted his eyebrows.

“Okay,” she said, with a sheepish smile. “There’s this guy… Tristan.” She shook a few marshmallows into her mug. “He’s really cute and wants to go to the matinee tomorrow. It’s not that big a deal, but Mom wants to come, too.” Hallie raised her head. “Can you imagine what everyone would think?”

He could. Kids, ten and up, whispering for months about how Hallie Tucker was chaperoned by her mother—her mercurial, wild mother—to an afternoon movie. Yeah, he could imagine, big time. And while he wasn’t crazy about the idea of Hallie alone with a boy, he was less enthused about Melody tagging along.

In a skirt the size of a belt.

Moody lips scored in ho-red.

Give-it-to-me stilettoes hiking her petite frame.

“She won’t even listen,” Hallie continued. “All she keeps saying is, ‘I was a teenager once, too.’ Like she’s the queen diva on puberty or something.”

No surprise there. The woman had been born snapping gum. Still did, if Seth had anything to say about it. Which he didn’t.

Tread carefully, man. You don’t want Hallie storming off, believing you won’t come through for her. Damn. He stood between a rock and a hard place. “How ’bout if I talk to your mother?”

“She won’t listen to you. She doesn’t listen to anybody.”

“Maybe she will this time.”

“She won’t. It’s either her way or the highway.” Across the table, Hallie observed their reflections in the night window. “I hate her.”

“You don’t mean that, honey.”

“Yes, I do. She’s getting so weird. I hear kids giggling behind her back whenever she comes to the school. The way she acts, the way she does her hair, the way she dresses. Since she got those implants last spring, she only buys tops that show—”

“Hallie.”

“It’s true! Like she’s so ho—ot.”

“Hallie.”

“I don’t care.” She turned away, but he caught the hurt. “It’s like we’re in a contest or some dumb beauty challenge. It’s totally stupid.”

“She’s your mother, babe.”

“Yeah, well, I wished she wasn’t. The way men look at her, it’s like she’s a…a bar tramp.” Her bottom lip quaked.

A vice gripped his chest.

There was nothing more to say. She was right; they both knew it. “Drink your chocolate,” he told her.




Chapter Two


Coffee mug in hand, Breena stepped onto the front porch of Earth’s Goodness at eight-thirty the next morning. The wind from the night before had faded and, under a soft sun, the quiet spice of fall crisped the air. She didn’t miss Frisco. Didn’t miss the snarl of traffic, the bitter smog, her joyless marriage.

She’d make it in this Oregon town, yes, she would. The next twelve months would prove it in ways the last thirty-five years in California hadn’t. If worse came to worst, Misty River was still a good place to hole up until she mended her heart.

The sound of a motor turned her head. Her Blazer, the sun glinting off its maroon roof, stopped in front of the shop. A young man climbed from the driver’s side.

“G’morning,” she called.

He gave a short wave and came around the hood as she went down the steps. They met at the gate. “You people work fast.” The name Tristan and The Garage Center were stitched in orange above the left pocket of his jade coveralls.

“Yep.” Under a Red Sox ball cap, the boy—no more than eighteen—grinned. “Bill opens at seven.”

Breena studied the truck. “Does he always deliver?”

“It’s policy,” Tristan said with pride, “if we can’t give the owner a courtesy vehicle.”

Possibly it was more Seth Tucker’s policy, but she wasn’t about to argue the fact. She took the clipboard the boy offered. “What was wrong with it?”

“Busted fanbelt.”

She checked the total at the bottom of the page and her mouth opened, then closed. In the city, the tow alone would cost triple. “Did Mr. Tucker have anything to do with this?”

“Uh…which Mr. Tucker?”

“Seth. Seth Tucker.” She held out the form, pointed to the low figure. “Did he have anything to do with this?”

“Don’t think so, ma’am.” Tristan’s forehead scrunched. “Bill’s the one did the tallying. Is there a mistake?”

None. None at all. “I haven’t had such—” Generosity? Decency? “—a nice surprise in a while.”

The teenager spruced his shoulders. “Glad we were of service.”

“Would you like to come in while I write out a check?”

“Hey, sure.” A wide grin.

Inside, she offered him coffee. He declined the brew but chose one of her home-baked sugar cookies sitting in a pretty clothed basket beside the till. One of her alms to the store.

“Nice place,” he called when she hurried to the back room for her checkbook.

“This your first time here?”

“Yep. Never had the need before.”

She signed the order copy and the check while Tristan remained rooted to the welcome mat as if walking across the floor in workboots would sully the varnish on the planks. She returned his clipboard. “Can I give you a lift back to the shop?”

“Nah. We’re just around the corner a ways. I’ll jog.”

Just around the corner. In a town of a thousand, a forty-minute walk encompassed the entire municipality. Friends and neighbors, greeting each other at every corner.

They stepped back into the sunshine.

“It was nice meeting you Miss—”

“Hey, there, Tristan.”

The boy turned. His smile faded. “Hi, Mr. Owens.”

Pot belly leading the way, Delwood Owens swaggered across the street. “Truck’s all fixed, I see.” Pursing his lips, he sized up the vehicle. Eyed Breena. “Saw Seth bring you home last night.”

What else is new? Old turd likely had an astronomy telescope on his bedroom balcony. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”

“Know him well, do you?”

She clamped her tongue.

Owens went on, “Upstandin’ citizen, Seth is. Damn hard worker. Has a wife.”

A wife. Of course he has a wife.

“Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea, know what I mean?”

“No, Mr. Owens, I don’t know what you mean.” He knew she lived in the rear rooms of the shop, had seen her coming and going for over three weeks. If he wanted to mark her as Misty River’s streetwalker, she’d deal with it. But he had no right to smear Seth in the process. “My truck broke down and Seth was the gentleman who saw me home safely. That’s all.”

Owens thrust out thick lips. “Wanted to make sure you knew.”

Liar. You thought I’d gasp and sputter at your news.

So Seth Tucker had given her a ride home. So he had a wife. He and every man on the planet did not interest her. In the least. “Would you excuse me, I have a shop to open. Take care, Tristan.” Careful of the walkway’s heaves and gouges, she headed for the porch.

“Um, Miss?” Behind her, the gate creaked. “You forgot your keys.” Tristan trotted back up the walk.

“Oh.” She felt like an idiot.

Owens walked around her truck, the veritable car dealer he was. Tristan glowered at the man. “Don’t pay him no mind, ma’am,” he murmured. “He used to be Seth’s father-in-law. Guess he figures he’s still got a say in his life.”

Used to be. “Thanks, Tristan. Seth seems like an honorable man. He doesn’t need to be humiliated by gossip because of me.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Never, ma’am. You’re like—you’re a lady.” He blushed. “And the gossip, well, it’s ’cause you’re new and—-and sort of a hottie. For an older woman. I mean…” Deeper blushing. “Oh, hell.”

“An old hottie, huh?”

“Sorry. Junk tends to come out of my mouth.”

“No,” she said, grinning. “I like it.”

“You do?”

“Hey, I’d rather be an old hottie than an old hag.” She patted his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Tristan.”

“Same here, Ms. Quinlan.” He secured the cap on his head, nodded. “You take care now.”

“I will.”

Humming, she went up the porch steps. The morning held favor after all.



With a Cape Cod roofline, the small house Delwood Owens had bought for his daughter when she’d married Seth—then had rented out when she moved to Eugene—appeared the same. Tiny yard, overgrown shrubs, flowers that needed winterizing. Melody was no gardener. That chore she’d left up to Seth in those early years.

Turning the pickup into the driveway Saturday morning, he said to Hallie, “Looks like your mother’s home.” Under the yellow maple guarding the left corner of the house, Melody had parked her sleek silver Mazda Miata. Delwood still came through when his daughter wanted new wheels. Too bad he didn’t hire her a gardener.

Hallie grunted. “Usually she doesn’t get home before lunch the next day when she’s with Roy-Dean.”

Anger sucked away his breath. Melody would consider Hallie old enough to stay alone for a night and half a day, but not old enough to go to a movie with a boy her own age.

He climbed out of the truck. “Want me to come in?”

Her head jerked around in surprise. The last time he’d stepped inside this house had been shortly after their divorce, when Melody complained about the living room TV going wonky and begged him to fix it after he dropped Hallie off.

“That’s okay.” She slipped from the seat. “I can handle it.”

He believed she could. She’d been “handling” it since she’d been five, since he’d moved out, since Melody had relocated them to Eugene. The anger dissipated and guilt claimed its stake.

“You should go, Dad,” Hallie said when he simply stood between the two vehicles, mulling over his conscience. “Mom’ll be anxious. She always is after visits. It’ll be worse this time because I went without her permission.”

Anxious? He wanted to ask what that meant, but Hallie headed up the drive, toward the backyard. She disappeared around the corner of the house, to the rear entrance.

For a moment, he debated whether to leave or follow. With visitations, he always stopped at the curb to pick up or drop Hallie off, the chronic delivery man, then drove away with his heart bumping along behind.

Yesterday, she’d changed that. Yesterday hadn’t been a court-assigned day. Hallie had come on her own.

Anxious. The word spurred him into the small rear yard.

For the first time since his divorce, he saw what years could do to a plot of ground. The old pine that had towered above the single-car garage in his day was gone, a two-foot stump in its place. Along the back, the wooden fence tipped and heeled in a patch of fireweed. Once the place had been home—small-scaled, but neat and tidy and wholesome.

The ideal place to raise a little girl.

Dispirited, Seth turned from the deterioration and started for his truck.

The back door squeaked. Melody stepped barefoot onto the cracked cement stoop. She hooked the screen with one hip, then let it whap closed.

Had he caught her in the guise of sleep? Or…in the guise?

A faded red robe matching her dyed hair skimmed the base of her butt. He wondered if she wore underwear. Knowing his ex, he figured not. Where was Roy-Dean, boy wonder? Behind the door? Ready to stumble out, frown matching hers on his Brad Pitt face?

Melody plucked a lighter and cigarette from one big pocket; lit up. Seth’s brows jammed together. Lunn’s influence?

“Well, now.” Her mouth spoke clouds of smoke. “Look what the puppy hauled home. Fixing to leave already?”

“’Lo, Mel.”

She jacked an elbow on her folded arm, gusted a blue ring. His stomach clenched.

“Whaddya want?”

He thought of the Quinlan woman. Gentle, easy on the eyes. Damned easy. A thousand-light-year gap separated her from this woman who’d once been his wife. Tough as a pavement compactor, that was Melody. A toughness, he knew, that in the past few years had begun stifling Hallie. “When’d you start smoking?”

“A while ago. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What affects my daughter is my business.”

“Don’t worry.” Melody cocked a hip, levered the robe higher. “I don’t smoke inside. Kid won’t let me.” She eyed him. “So. What is it you want?” she repeated.

His pulse kicked hard. Some role models they were for their child. Him a taciturn father who worked 24/7; her a… What had Hallie said? A bar tramp? He wouldn’t go that far, but in this second he half agreed with his daughter.

“Am I making you anxious, Mel?” he asked, vocalizing Hallie’s term.

“You?” She laughed, but her hand shook when she brought the cigarette to her lips. “Why on earth would I be anxious?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Maybe because last winter when you forgot to give Hallie lunch money for a week,” he enunciated forgot, “I meant what I said.”

Melody scoffed. “Right. You’d take me to court and get back those custody rights you signed away ten years ago.”

“Not by choice.” Your old man took me to the cleaners.

“Whatever.”

“It would be a different story this time, Mel. I’m not scraping the bottom of the bucket anymore.”

“No, but you’re still working forever and a day. The judge would put her in foster care before he’d give her to you.”

He let the words settle and brand. Melody was good at branding. Foster care. Where he’d spent three long, lonely years bouncing around, after his mother burned his father to death in the shed behind his family’s home. He’d had enough of foster care and social workers to last ten lifetimes. They’d have to kill him before he’d let one near Hallie or have her humiliated by a court battle that could see her carted off to some unknown pair deemed “caring and responsible” by The System.

“You know damned well,” his ex was saying, “she’s better off with me than in one of those places.”

He did know. That was the crux of this whole situation. Had been for years. But he also knew her words were a lot of hot air. If Hallie moved anywhere, it would be into his house. He’d see to that.

“Anyway, if Hallie’d told me,” Melody went on, “you know I would’ve left her the money.”

His jaw ached from clenching. “Actually I don’t. But I do know this. Leaving our daughter alone overnight is wrong. She’s not all grown-up. If you can’t be there for her, I will.”

“Big talk from a guy who’s never home himself. Least I work a nine to five most days.”

Only because your daddy bought you Cut ’n’ Class hair salon.

He ignored his thumping blood, zeroed in on the reason he’d come to this door. “Hallie wants to go to a movie this afternoon without a chaperone. I don’t see it as a problem.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re a man. Men think—”

“Jeez, Mel, it’s an afternoon movie, not an orgy. What can it hurt?”

Melody flicked ashes into the flower bed beside the stoop. “Orgy. Now there’s a word and a half. For your information, a helluva lot can hurt if that boy starts pawing her.”

“No one’s going to paw her. They’ll go to the movie, watch it and she’ll come home. End of story.”

“Ha. I was fifteen once. I know what goes on in those back rows, in the dark.”

“Don’t judge our daughter by your standards.”

“Oh, aren’t we all righteous? Like you never copped a feel in the back of a theater, you and those bad boy brothers of yours.”

Not at fifteen. He’d been too busy working his ass off after school. Trying to sweeten the B in his hive of marks. As for Jon and Luke, they’d been men in their twenties and gone from home. What they did with women was their business.

He set his hands on his hips, let out a deep breath. “Cut her some slack, Mel. She’s a normal teenage girl, a good girl. She won’t get in trouble at the damn movie.”

Melody tilted her head, squinted against a stream of smoke. “Did she tell you how old this guy is?” She smirked at his silence. “Didn’t think so. He’s a senior. Seventeen. A MacAllister.” As if that said it all.

The MacAllisters of Trailer Trash Park.

Fifteen years ago, Delwood Owens had swept Seth into the same backyard barrel.

Melody went on. “He part-times at the Garage Center. You still want her to go alone?”

Dammit. If he didn’t support Hallie, he’d lose his one skimpy chance of truly bonding with her. If he disagreed with Melody, whatever connection still existed between mother and daughter would be shot.

He said, “Why not let her go, if she promises to be home within half hour of it finishing? That’s roughly three hours, Mel. You can trust her for three hours in the middle of the day in a public place, for Pete’s sake.”

“In a dark public place. With a man. At eighteen, I was—”

Pregnant. And she’d never forgiven him for it. Not for “messing up” her life. For damn sure, not for squashing her big dreams of becoming a model.

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. What if I made a point of meeting the boy first?”

“You’d do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” If it’ll help my child.

“Fine.” She stuck her head back inside, yelled, “Hallie, get out here.”

The girl had obviously hovered within inches of the door; she appeared at once.

Melody exhaled smoke. “I’ve decided to have your father check this Tristan out first. Then I’ll decide if you can go to the movie.” She turned to Seth. “Can you be back here…” A glance at Hallie. “What time’s the movie, one-thirty?”

Hallie stared at Seth as if he’d dumped a load of fish at her feet. “You’re checking Tristan out like he’s a piece of—of machinery? That’s so lame! Never mind, okay? I’m not going.” With a whack, the inside door shut in their faces.

Melody sighed. “Well. Seems we’ve solved the problem.”

Seth wanted to rush after his daughter, hold her, protect her from the harsh gusts of reality. She’d come to him. Eager for his help, for his trust.

And he’d fouled up. I’m sorry!

To Melody he said, “There never was a problem.”

“No?”

“No.”

She snorted, arced the half-smoked cigarette onto the cement driveway, several feet from where he stood. “Shows how much you know, or care, about your daughter.”

He studied the woman who had borne his child. Aging like a sour apple. “I may not know her the way you do, but I care. More than you could ever imagine.” He walked away. His heart flayed his ribs.

“Wait a minute.” She hurried down the drive after him. “Where you going?”

“To work.”

“Aren’t you coming back?”

“No.”

“But what about that boy? What am I supposed to do if he shows up this afternoon?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, isn’t this like you,” she sneered. “Always running off when the going gets tough.”

Hand on the door handle of the truck, Seth paused. “Tough? You don’t know the meaning of the word. I busted my back to make a home for you. What did it get me? Ten years of hell. Ten years of seeing my little girl wait on a curb so I could drop her off a day later. Well, things are about to change, Mel. Hallie’s old enough to make her own choices now, and I’m not the poor schmuck you divorced.”

Her mouth turned ugly. “You jerk. This isn’t finished, you know, not by a long shot.”

“Oh, it’s finished, all right. It was finished the day our daughter was born and you and your daddy decided a construction man wasn’t good enough for the family.”

Heart hurting for his child, he climbed into the cab and drove off, leaving his ex-wife glaring after him, in a robe showing enough leg to make a racehorse jealous.



Hallie curled on her bed and hugged Sunny, her favorite fuzzy bear, to her chest. The furry little creature had been a gift from her dad when she was born. Love-tattered, missing an eye, Sunny held a treasured place on her bed, in her heart. This minute, he hid her tears, muffled her sobs.

If she hadn’t opened the window…hadn’t been so impatient to hear her dad’s voice one more time, his boot heels smacking the cement driveway, his truck door slamming…

Last night, it’d taken every ounce of courage to walk to his place, to seek his help. She wasn’t used to asking for help. Once he’d lived in this very house and laughed and teased and tugged her pigtails. She’d ridden his shoulders out to his truck where he’d swung her down, cuddled his hard, lean face into her neck, blown raspberries. Every day. Before he drove off to work.

Then he moved out, into another house.

She used to cry at night until she fell asleep.

She used to blame herself for his leaving.

She’d believed she’d done something wrong.

Now she knew the truth, why his trips to Eugene had waned. Once she’d thought it was his work and the long drives. It was finished the day our daughter was born…

Confusion swirled in her mind. She tried, truly tried to be the worthy daughter, doing all she could to please her parents. Getting straight A’s, joining the school jazz band, babysitting for her own money. She knew her dad was proud; he’d told her so. And her mom was proud—sort of—the way Hallie cleaned the house, mowed the grass, did the laundry, got groceries. She didn’t tell her dad about the chores, though. Somehow, she didn’t think that would please him the way it did her mom.

Her mom. What was up with her lately? She’d always been a little eccentric, but since returning to Misty River she was living in a time warp or something, wanting to be Hallie’s age again. Acting sillier than some of the eighth grade girls.

Last week, she’d said she was getting a lip stud. A lip stud. Her mother. Gross!

Even the jewelry wouldn’t be so bad, if her mom would just lay off the questions and not ask about everything. Like Hallie wanted to hop onto any old back seat and get preggers. Not!

The only good thing about her mom seeing Roy-Dean Lunn was that she had loosened her choke hold a bit. Not because Melody believed in Hallie, but because Roy-Dean wanted her mom to himself.

The freedom should have felt great, except she felt more lonely than ever. And now her dad, saying that it was finished when she was born…

She burrowed her hot face into Sunny’s furry curves. Her dad had cared! Last night. Years ago.

You were little. What did you know then?

She shivered under the drafty window.

Daddy.

The name fluttered like a butterfly around her heart.



Seth drove straight to the Garage Center. He greeted Bill and asked for Tristan. Twenty seconds later, a tall blond teen—-wiping his hands on a rag—came through the door.

“You Tristan?” Seth asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said carefully.

“Let’s go outside for a minute.” Seth strode through the door and headed for the rear of his pickup. There, he grabbed the tailgate with both hands and sized up the kid dressed head to toe in green coveralls. “I’m Seth Tucker. Understand you want to take my daughter out to a movie this afternoon.”

The boy had stopped a few feet away. Good. Showed the kid had some wits.

“I know who you are, Mr. Tucker. And, yeah, I’d like to take Hallie to a movie.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, almost eighteen.”

“She’s fifteen. Barely.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The boy aligned his shoulders. “I have a sister Hallie’s age. Anyone touched a hair on her head, I’d kill ’em.”

Seth scrutinized the boy’s brown eyes. “We’re not talking about your sister.”

The kid didn’t waver. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Tucker, I don’t—”

Seth stepped away from the truck. “You have her home within a half hour of the movie ending.”

Visibly relieved, the boy nodded. “Yessir.”

“Don’t want her mother getting upset.”

“Or you, sir.”

Kid was no slouch. “Or me,” he agreed and walked to the truck’s door. Tristan hadn’t moved. “Better get back to work, son, before Bill takes our gab session off your pay.”

He drove to work, whistling.



“When a woman stares into her cup without taking a sip, I’d say she’s got a purse full of man trouble.”

Breena raised her head, smiled at the owner of Kat’s Kafé.”

“Hey, Kat.”

The elderly waitress replaced Breena’s tepid coffee with steaming black. “Guy has a downright immoral heart, yes?”

“Shows that much, huh?”

“Honey, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve carried the same purse.”

“You? But you’re…”

“A granny? Doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of man ache. Ought to be man-iac, if you ask me.”

Breena laughed. “From a woman who understands.”

“You got it. Birds of a feather and all. Anything else I can get you, hon?”

“Yes. A contractor.”

“Planning to build something?”

Breena pushed aside her half-eaten toast. “I’m trying to win over Aunt Paige and get her to fix the shop’s walkway.”

“You go, girl,” Kat said, gray curls bouncing. “I’ve been nagging her about it for the last five years.”

Breena didn’t doubt it. Kat made sun-catchers in her spare time for Earth’s Goodness. A special bond existed between the waitress and Aunt Paige.

“There are some in this town,” Kat bent to Breena’s level, voice soft, “who’d love to see that little place torn down. They think it’s dozer bait and a fire hazard.”

Delwood Owens. Breena had heard him heckle Paige about retiring, about selling the house to a “real resident.” The old toad. Wait until he learned of her stake in the place.

Still, the walkway was a mess. Someone could get hurt, someone like Delwood Owens. Breena pictured pudgy legs flying, wide rump landing hard. She could envision the headlines in the Misty River Times: Shop Owner Takes Chev Olds Owner For A Loop.

She said, “The place is not going anywhere, Kat. So if you know a good contractor, one who won’t rip Paige off, I’d appreciate it.”

“Leave it with me.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” A pat to Breena’s shoulder and she was gone.

No, it’s not, but I’m glad you are. Twenty-eight days ago, the waitress had served Breena her first Misty River breakfast and had since spread her ample goodwill wing over her whenever Paige wasn’t available.

Sipping her coffee, Breena admired the world outside the window. Wednesday’s dawn crept across the thick timber range west of the river. Several dusty, work-worn pickups were angle parked in front of the café. First Street, she realized, sponsored a variety of local merchants. At this hour, traffic was spotty. Ah, such a prize, this sleepy-eyed ambience of Misty River.

She’d recognized its goodness that initial morning, after falling into bed at the Sleep Inn Motel, exhausted from the weighty war of Leo’s betrayal. And discovering he’d filched a portion of their accounts the day after she’d kicked him out….

How stupid she’d been.

For seven years, she’d loved him. And for seven months hated him. Now, shame ate her because, God forgive her stupidity, she hadn’t detected the nuances of those nonspeaking, nonsharing, nonneeding moments. While warding off the failings of others— Joan of Arc wielding the sword and shield of therapy—she hadn’t the sharpness or cleverness or astuteness to see the ashes of her own marriage.

Dr. Breena Quinlan, Crackerjack Counselor.

How callow she’d been.

Thank goodness for the trust fund her dad had opened on her eighteenth birthday, money to which she’d added over the years.

Money Leo couldn’t touch.

Forty-three thousand dollars.

Enough to keep the howlers at bay.

Enough to put a portion into another business.

And, quite possibly, into her dream of rambling roses around a deep porch. Of baked bread. Of homegrown vegetables.

Her rose-colored bubble dream—-the one of a loving man and sweet-faced children—-Breena had waved goodbye to long ago.

A smile to greet her at the end of the day was pure fantasy.

As were gummy, little hands and chubby cheeks and pug noses to kiss. Bedtime stories, homework, proms. Father of the bride, mother of the groom. All of it, fantasy.

Four years they had tried, she and Leo.

And then?

Then Leo defected to her sister.

Lizbeth, who already had a child from a previous relationship. Lizbeth, who was spontaneous, funny, beautiful, unattached, fertile.

Whose morals, when it came to her little sis, qualified a shrug of the shoulder. “He doesn’t love you, Bree,” she said over the phone a month after that hideous night seven months ago. “Let him go. Let him be happy.”

God. Such an unconditional gift, her sister’s love. And so typical. Whatever Lizbeth wanted, Lizbeth got and damn the messy aftermath—or that it was Breena’s husband.

How could you cross that line, Lizbeth? How?

Considering her wasteland womb and her skill in keeping a man’s interest and love, Breena’s second chances were over. Not that she wished for a man—hell could freeze like a frappé before she’d offer her trust again—but still…

“Got your contractor.”

Breena jerked around. “What?”

“Renovations, girl,” Kat said. “The walkway.”

“Oh!” She straightened.

With a wink, Kat hiked her chin at Breena’s sunny window. “Don’t blame you, doing a bit of daydreaming. Be raining like a monsoon before long. Hold on.”

She headed down the aisle, to three men in a booth four up from Breena. A policeman and a suit faced her. A big-shouldered worker type in red and gray plaid faced them. She studied his profile as he listened to Kat.

Seth Tucker? Who drove her home last week?

And, here she sat, by a day-lit window, in a gray hoodie, navy sweats, sneakers…sans makeup. Wonderful.

The worker stood, and followed Kat down the aisle.

“Breena Quinlan. Seth Tucker,” the tiny grandma said. “He built communities in the sandbox, and today is the master.”

Amusement shaded his eyes. “Now, Kat.”

“Now, Seth.” She patted his arm and left.

“So,” he said when they were alone. “We meet again.”

His voice, deep as a Nevada crater.

“Yes. Again.”

He slid into the booth, set the sheepskin vest he carried on the bench. A whiff of aftershave passed her nose. Like autumn air. He regarded the window—her. A smile flickered.

He’s shy, she thought. The man who drove King Kong trucks was shy. A ripple hit her heart. Leo had never been bashful.

They both spoke at once.

“Your truck’s—”

“Did you—”

She said, “You first.”

“I see your Blazer’s up and running.”

“The Garage Center did a great job. Thank you for recommending them.”

Kat returned with a fresh carafe of coffee. When she left again, he toyed tough, brown fingers along the mug’s handle. His nails were cut straight, his hands scar-pocked. A Band-Aid was wrapped around one forefinger.

“Kat said you’re looking for a contractor.”

“I am. The shop’s walkway and back steps need replacing.”

“Likewise for the stone wall out front of the place.”

Of course. A construction man would recognize all kinds of impairments even in the dark. “It can wait until spring. Can you install moon lights along the walkway?”

“Sure. You want it done tomorrow?”

He was teasing her. She glanced away. “I didn’t mean…” Warmth fanned over her skin the way a breeze shifts leaves.

“I could fit you in every couple days, between other jobs.”

He had mythical eyes. Charcoal auras around Dakota-blue. She smiled into them. “Thank you. I, uh, I assumed you were a trucker, not a contractor.”

He sipped his coffee, watched her. “I haul. But I own other equipment as well.”

“I see.” She had no idea what the other equipment might be, or what “I haul” meant. “Can you give me a ballpark estimate for the walk and steps?”

He quoted a figure. She reserved her pleasure; her savings could handle the cost. Definitely a standard deviation between city and town. Here, expenses remained low-cost and agreeable to her budget. If she wanted a future in Misty River, she needed both feet on the ground for secure financial investment, which meant calculating her pennies, learning to be an employer instead of an employee. “Sounds reasonable,” she said. “You’re hired.”

“I can patch the wall as well. For a minimal fee.”

He’d do that? “Mr. Tucker—”

“Seth.”

“Seth. I don’t think that would be—” Fair? Proper? Compared to California landscapers, his price was a godsend. “That’s very generous of you.” Her cheeks warmed.

“When do you need me?”

Forever. She rolled her lips inward. “Monday?”

“Monday’s fine.”

The bandaged finger roved the mug’s rim. “How come you’re doing the hiring? Paige sick?”

“She’s fine.” Breena reckoned her choices and went with instinct. She needed someone to understand, to recognize what she’d done and why. I need a friend. “I’ve bought into the shop.”

His nod encouraged her. “Paige is thinking of retiring come January. She’ll continue as a silent partner. We’re keeping the information confidential for now.”

Another nod. He sat back, set an arm along the bench. “You planning to stay, then?”

“Maybe.” She studied the idle morning outside. “Probably.”

“What’d you do in San Francisco?”

A black crew cab with five young men pulled up to the curb. “I was a family therapist and a marriage counselor.” A half laugh. “Dumb, huh? I couldn’t see the problems in my own marriage till it was too late.”

Everything about him stilled. “You’re a social worker?”

“Psychologist.”

“But you work with Social Services.”

“If a patient is referred, yes.” She studied him. He’d gone from warm and congenial to cool and cautious. “You don’t like therapists, Mr. Tucker?”

“No.”

His response stung. Her profession shaped her. Someone, somewhere, had twisted his perception. “Perhaps you’d rather not fix our store.” She said it kindly. With empathy. Or maybe not.

The arm left the bench. “I’ll do it. And I’ll leave my opinions at home.”

As long as she kept her career and her thoughts hidden. She could do that. “I’m not here to counsel anyone, Mr. Tucker. Unless it’s my finances and your costs.” She offered a smile and shook inside. “This is my home now. I may never go back to Frisco. I don’t know if I could deal with…deal with…” Her throat hurt. He wouldn’t understand. How could he, when she who lived with the deceit, the betrayal, the agony, couldn’t make sense of it?

His eyes were quiet. “The chance of seeing them again?”

Around her heart, tightness eased. He understood. For the first time in months, someone—and a virtual stranger at that—someone grasped the bitterness fogging her corner. She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Most of all, that. I kept thinking if I ran into them…”

Somewhere dishes clinked above the murmur of patron voices.

“Your relationship,” he said, “a divorce?”

“And a regular carousel ride.”

He lifted his cup, didn’t drink. “On a feral beast.”

“It was like eating live slugs on Fear Factor.”

His cheek creased. “Or crossing a river full of alligators on Survivor.”

Their eyes caught, held. A long while. His features were harsh, tough. His eyes—she could wander under those skies and never feel lost. She observed her hands clenched in her lap.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” She essayed a smile. “Sometimes reminiscing gets a little crazy.” They were talking like old friends, comparing tragedies, lives. Did you know my husband slept with my sister?

He remained silent.

She sighed, needing to explain. “I’ll get over it.”

The smell of bacon, grits and grease aromatized the room.

“Sorry for getting tight-assed about your career.” His lashes were sooty, thick as lawn grass. “There have been things— Never mind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Living in a new town, changing jobs, it’ll help.”

“If it doesn’t, I’m in trouble. Well. Enough of the maudlin. What time can I expect you Monday? We open at nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be there at one o’clock.”

She nodded, grateful he hadn’t quit on the spot, what with all her blubbering. “Do you need us to prepare the yard before you arrive? Mow the grass? Move shrubs?”

She caught it again, the amusement playing in his eyes, on his lips. As if he envisioned her and old Paige spading up the cement blocks, tossing them into a neat pile on the perimeter.

“No,” he said. “But I’ll need to take some measurements. Six tomorrow okay?”

“I’ll be there.”

And she would be. Her shop, her town. Maybe next September—depending how the shop fared under her management—she could buy Paige out. Leftovers from the sale of the house in Frisco might even mortgage a rambling-rose cottage near her aunt.

Wishes and dreams, peaches and cream.

Like Seth Tucker’s somber mouth. How would it feel on hers?

“Where—” She cleared her throat. “Where is your office?”

“A couple blocks that way.” He inclined his head.

“I’d like to discuss some details about the work.”

He set aside the mug. “Why not go over them now?”

“I should talk to Aunt Paige first.”

“Sure. We could meet back here for lunch.”

Such a strong face. And those Dakota eyes— “How about five at your office?”

He extracted a napkin from the dispenser, flicked a pen from his shirt pocket. A map took shape. “Follow Main east to Chicksaw Lumber, then turn left on Peak Avenue. After you cross the railway tracks, turn left for a block. The office is on the corner. Old, red-brick building.” A circle marked the spot. “Can’t miss it.”

The napkin glided across the table under his hand. She took the paper; electricity zinged between their fingers.

Caching the map in her tote, she smiled. She could find the place blindfolded. Misty River was that kind of town, that kind of community. Simple, uncomplicated—the way she wanted her life. She held out a hand. “Thank you, Seth.” His palm was warm, calloused. Familiar.

A slow, slanted grin staged a chipped front tooth. “See you at five,” he said. Vest in hand, he slid from the bench.

She watched him walk away, long legs, lanky hips, trucker shoulders. Incredible. “Yeah,” she mumbled, trying hard to ignore her thumping heart and not succeeding. “Five.”



Seth stepped out of Kat’s Kafé into hazy sunshine and walked eight feet across the sidewalk to where his pickup was angle-parked. He set the heavy thermos of fresh coffee beside the lunch bucket on the seat, then climbed behind the wheel.

Through the country-paned window of Kat’s, he observed Breena paying her bill. One minute, a stranger bumming a ride, the next, his employer.

He reached for the metal clipboard, scanned the day’s jobs. Put the truck in gear, fool. Get the hell out of Dodge.

He had no business mooning over a woman running from a bad marriage. Not quite mooning, more like unable to stop dreaming about those eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed the other night? They were damn near purple, like the tiny pansies growing alongside his house. Brave things striving to stave off the approach of winter.

So, why didn’t he start the truck and drive away, instead of spying like a dumbass jock?

Did she dump the husband? Or vice versa? What about kids? So far, gossip said she’d arrived alone.

So was she divorced?

Oh, yeah. Her eyes told him before her words. “A regular carousel ride.” God help him, but he’d felt a pang in his heart at that moment. Hadn’t his own carousel sported fire-breathing dragons?

Oddly, he hoped she would make it in Misty River. Okay, she spelled Big City. Possibly old money. Elite education. Family therapist.

But her face was honest, her smile sweet.

She’d worked with Social Services.

“Find yourself a different woman to drool over, Seth,” he muttered, tossing the orders. A local woman like…

His mind blanked.

A rap on the window had him jerking around. A black-haired devil smirked through the glass. Seth rolled it down.

“Stick to trucking, bud,” his brother advised. “Surveillance isn’t your gig. She’ll make you the minute she steps out outside.”

“Go ’way.”

Jon threw back his head and laughed.

“Goof,” Seth muttered without offense as his brother sauntered down the sidewalk, the khaki police chief’s uniform impressive on his tall, rangy frame. Seth’s mouth worked up a half grin. There, with the love of a damn fine woman went a damn happy man. All the power to you, Jonny.

Rolling up the window, he contemplated the café again. Dammit. This was his town. Where he’d been born, married, had his child, divorced. Established his company. Culture and adventure he gleaned from the PBS or Discovery channels. Tending his own house, his own lifestyle was what he enjoyed.

He’d part with it all if it would give him back every missed year with Hallie.

Through the café’s windows, he saw Kat laugh with the Quinlan woman. As a Ph.D. in San Francisco, her nails would be clean and filed, even polished, her clothes fashionable, her hair styled.

Sighing, he reached for the ignition. He had to be hard up, squandering priceless time on a woman like Breena Quinlan. If he wanted a woman, why not someone like Peggy Whatshername? Or was it Kathy? No, Katie.

He couldn’t remember. Two, three years loomed as a century when it came to placing a woman he’d walked home once or twice.

For reasons he’d rather not contemplate, he knew he wouldn’t forget Breena’s face so easily.

He shoved in the clutch and maneuvered the stick shift to Reverse. She stepped through the door of Kat’s. Immediately, the sun sneaked into the blue-black curls of her hair.

Holding his breath, he watched as she slipped the receipt into the small athletic bag at her waist. She zipped it closed and lifted her head. Wide, violet eyes pinned him where he sat behind the windshield. Then she smiled.

Inside his chest, his heart did a goofy, schoolboy somersault. Ah, hell.

A brief clip of his head and he released both clutch and breath. Fast as the speed limit allowed, he fled Main.




Chapter Three


Memo To Self:

Memories are not always what you want them to be.

Sometimes you have to improvise for survival.

Breena studied the note she’d written in her personal agenda prior to dialing her father this Sunday afternoon.

“Good God, child,” Arthur Quinlan boomed. “I’ve been worried sick. You tell me you’re leaving town, but won’t say where. They tell me at your office you’ve taken a leave of absence. A month goes by—”

“I’m fine, Daddy. Honest.” Cradling the receiver against her neck, she sank onto the lumpy cot that served as her bed and relieved her sore feet of their Reebok Classics. Four hours of walking, of checking out apartment ads from the Misty River Times. Paige would scold her if she knew—and double the argument about sharing her tiny house. Breena shoved aside weariness, offered truth. “I needed some time alone.”

His sigh rattled the air waves. “I suppose you’re right. So…where are you?”

“In Misty River.”

Pause. “I’ll be damned. It’s been years since—well. Misty River, huh? Why there, honey?”

Because it’s the one place we were a true family. “I remembered the bullfrogs at night.”

“The bullfrogs.” She visualized his grin. “They could croak up a storm there, couldn’t they?”

In peaceful, star-scattered nights.

“You seen Aunt Paige, yet?” he asked.

“I’ve seen her.” And bought part of her business.

“How is the old girl? Must be pushing ninety, if a day.”

“Eighty-four.” Why haven’t you been back to visit, Daddy? You could have phoned once in a while over the years.

The brother Paige lost two and a half decades ago had been Arthur’s dad.

For five days Breena, Arthur and Lizbeth had stayed in the old man’s house. Five days, while birds chirped in Grandpa’s backyard and ten-year-old Breena walked each morning to Aunt Paige’s little country shop. While balmy evenings met the night and Arthur sat in the willow rocker on the porch, smoking his one cigarette of the day.

Remembering boyhood days.

A real family in real grief.

Among casseroles and condolences, Paige had taken charge of Breena and Lizbeth, made cookies, walked to the little post office each day and concealed her pain.

Breena cried at night for the grandpa she would never see again. Even sixteen-year-old Lizbeth spent a night secreting tears under the covers. For Paige it had been longer. A quarter century of no family visits.

“She remember you?” Arthur asked, shooing off the memories.

“I’ve phoned her off and on over the years.”

“You have? Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t think you were interested, Daddy.”

“Aw, Bree…”

“Anyway, she recognized Great-Granny’s black hair.” Breena freed its likeness from a scunchie.

“And likely her violet eyes.”

Her heart warmed. “Yeah.”

“Hmmph. What did she do?”

“Just stared, then gave me a huge hug. Or, as huge as a woman in her mid-eighties can.” Yet Paige, suffering from arthritis, kept her independence, tackling the narrow, wooden stairs to the second floor daily with the aid of a cane. It hurt Breena to watch her aunt struggle up each step but the old gal would not sit or rest.

“I’ll rest enough when I’m dead,” were her exact words.

“What’s she selling now?” Arthur asked.

“This and that. Some antiques. Mostly knickknacks, birch wreaths, candles, that sort of thing. There’s even an old toilet stuffed with dried flowers. Quite artistic and unique.”

Arthur chuckled. “I can imagine. Any artwork?”

“Some homegrown stuff.” Clay pots, tobacco lath totes. Birdhouses.

“I mean paintings.”

She knew what he meant. “Yes. Oils, acrylics. No watercolors.”

“Get yours in there, then.”

“Maybe someday.” She fingered the hoop of embroidery—a field of prairie grain she’d brought into the bedroom—studying the intricate stitches. She took a breath, plunged ahead. “I bought into her store, Dad.”

“Good God. Why?”

His thunder had Breena holding the phone six inches from her ear. “I need a change.”

“A change? Breena! What about your practice?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know that I’ll ever do therapy again. My heart isn’t in it anymore.”

Silence. “You’re letting them win, you know.”

“It’s not a case of win or lose. It’s a case of happiness. This shop makes me happy. I like meeting and talking to the customers. I like ordering merchandise, displaying it. I like the feel of the place, Daddy.” And I like the way Seth Tucker makes my heart thump.

“Does this mean you’re relocating?”

“Possibly.”

“Ah, Bree.” Pain in his voice.

“I’ll be fine. Aunt Paige is wonderful, a darling, really. As a matter of fact, I’m having supper at her house tonight.”

He grunted. “Well, at least you’ll have family around. If I could get away, I’d come up myself.”

“I know you would,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t. Dear as he was, Arthur Quinlan liked his home and his garden too much. “I’ll be fine.” After about a hundred years.

“I take it you’re not staying with Paige?”

“I’m temporarily living in one of the storage rooms while I look for my own place.” When he remained quiet, she continued, “I need to do this, Dad. I need time away from…”

“Relatives.”

“Yes, but not in a bad way, just until I rediscover Breena Quinlan.”

“Leo will pay for this, you can count on it.”

“Let it go, Daddy. He’s not worth it.”

“Then she’ll pay. God help me, the girl always chased boys.”

My husband is not my tenth-grade boyfriend.

Not that her father had ever stopped Lizbeth even then. Her sister had merrily chased the opposite sex for years while Arthur stayed home and wrung his hands. Like now. A man of talk and no action. But Breena loved him.

“It takes two to tango in a relationship.” She laid aside the embroidery hoop. “Ours was short about four steps.”

“That’s utter hogwash. You’re a good, loving wife. A wonderful life partner. The guy’s a complete doofus. I never realized how much.”

Tears stung her throat. She pressed an arm against her stomach. “That’s a father’s bias talking,” she said softly. “Leo was my husband, after all.” And she’s still my sister. Her stomach took a sick roll.

Arthur harrumphed. “Far be it from me to denigrate your feelings toward the man. However, if he was standing here in this den, I’d be hard pressed not to kill the SOB.”

Damn drippy tears. “She’s as much at fault.” So am I for not seeing it, for not noticing the looks, the touches. Not wanting to notice.

Her father sighed, a shivering, mournful sound in her ear. “She is at that, sweetheart. Damn her soul. If your mother had lived…”

Breena had heard it all before. “If your mother had lived, Lizbeth wouldn’t be so wild. If your mother had lived, your sister would’ve been different. If your mother had lived, she wouldn’t’ve felt abandoned…”

But her mother had died giving birth to Breena.

Another hurdle on her track of life.

Quietly, her father said, “I love you.”

“I know.” Breena pressed her lips together. “You’re always there, though thick, thin or trim.”

“I’m here now, too.”

“I know.”

“When will you be coming home?”

“In a few months, probably December.”

“For Christmas?”

“I can’t say. It wouldn’t be…” The same. She swiped her cheek. “I’ll see.”

“Will you let me come there?”

“Daddy…”

“Okay. I won’t push.”

She knew him well. “Thank you.”

“You’ll phone again?”

“Yes,” she promised. “I’ll phone again.”

“If you need anything, anything at all…”

“I know. I have to go now.”

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t blame yourself. Ever.”

The tears came in earnest now. “Love you, Daddy.” She punched off the receiver and lay back on the bed. Not blame herself? She’d been in the other half of a marriage for almost a decade. A woman didn’t live with man that long and not know what made him tick to some small degree.

What made Leo De Laurent tick was Lizbeth Quinlan.

Her forty-one-year-old sister.

Breena set an arm over her eyes, blocking the memory of that night she’d confronted her husband. Top store manager who became a CEO of the food conglomerate where he’d worked. A master manager.

Who could not manage a marriage with her.

She heard her voice again, hurt, accusing. “You were with her twice today.”

Her mind’s eye saw him spin around, coat winging at his calves. “She was at Alphonse’s already, okay? I saw her, went to say hello, and she asked me to sit. End of story.” He’d picked up his briefcase, then headed toward the curved stairs, to the spacious room that once might have been a nursery but had been streamlined into an office. His office.

Breena had hurried after him. “You also took her to Ocean Beach—where I jog.”

“Nothing happened. I swear.”

“You kissed her. For a long time.”

The beach was, after all, a public place. People kissed there all the time—-but not with their sisters-in-law.

Breena shot off the bed. Enough! Mopping her face with a sleeve, she stood trembling, unable to move. Slowly, slowly, her breathing calmed. She glanced around her tiny bedroom. How could you, Lizbeth? He was my husband. Mine!

“Have there been others?” she had asked him.

“No others.”

Just Lizbeth.

She should be glad the house, Frisco and her unhappiness had forced her to request a year’s leave of absence, buy an ’89 Blazer, load it with her essentials and drive north to Misty River. To Great-Aunt Paige. To that little dream house and marmalade cat sunning itself on the rail…

Lizbeth could have Leo.

Breena stepped into the diminutive washroom. Off came her clothing: the black slacks, the tunic sweater, the cotton underwear. When she was naked, she inspected the body her husband had viewed hundreds of times. Seven years, seven pounds.

Nothing to complain about, Leo, damn you.

So, what had he wanted? A woman without flaws? With youth?

Lizbeth had neither.

But she can have kids.

God. How could she? How could her own sister betray her? Leo, Breena could almost forgive. Almost. But her sister? A woman whose unconditional—





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