Книга - Sealed With A Kiss

Sealed With A Kiss
Mae Nunn


It had to be a mistake. Tara Elliott's grandmother had bequeathed the family office building to Tara - jointly?Her co-manager was Sam Kennesaw, the abrasive but still-handsome man who'd broken Tara's tender teenage heart nine years before. The will stated they needed to make business decisions together. At first the two couldn't agree on anything, but as the building's opening day drew near, the caring, generous man who'd stolen Tara's heart began to emerge.But Tara still couldn't believe she'd thought God meant for them to be together. It would take divine help to get them past a decade of pent-up bitterness…and into each other's arms.









“Even if you can sell a few motorcycles, it’s only a matter of time before you get bored with this place and want to leave again,” Tara blurted.


“I can see where a city woman like you might think that,” Sam reasoned, “but there’s still plenty for me in Beardsly. Have you considered that folks might be a bit suspicious of your staying power?” The deep crease between his brows softened as he indulged in a patronizing smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she bristled.

“I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. The folks here know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they’ll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

Sam’s insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? She might have accepted her grandmother’s challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary, but thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.




MAE NUNN


grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman who lived in Atlanta, Mae hung up her spurs to become a Southern belle. Today she and her husband make their home with their two children in Georgia. Mae has been with a major air express company for twenty-five years, currently serving as a regional customer service manager. She began writing four years ago. When asked how she felt about being part of the Steeple Hill family, Mae summed her response up with one word—“Yeeeeeha!”




Sealed with a Kiss

Mae Nunn








But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven,

where moth and rust do not destroy, and where

thieves do not break in and steal. For where

your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

—Matthew 6:20–21


This book is dedicated to my father, Ward Cooper,

and to the memory of my mother, Ruth Snyder.

I love you, Daddy. You are inspirational proof

that with hard work, my personal goals can be

achieved and my dreams can come true.

I miss you terribly, Mama. You taught me

to believe in myself and to understand the

power of my words. I owe this success to you.

My parents planted seeds of faith early in my life

and for that I will be forever grateful. They gave me

roots to keep me grounded and wings to let me fly.




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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Letter to Reader




Chapter One


The rumble of a motorcycle distracted Tara Elliott from her grandmother’s graveside service. Her eyes, formerly fixed on a soggy tissue, glanced up. She peeked through damp lashes to see if others were reacting to the noise.

“Miriam Elliott will be sorely missed by the townspeople of Beardsly.” Pastor Ryan raised his deep voice over the disturbance. “Her generosity and commitment to the community were unparalleled.”

Tara had heard little else in the two days since her return to the east Texas town of barely five thousand residents. Condolence cards by the dozens sat on the kitchen counter in the little space not occupied by deep-fried chicken, potato salad and buttermilk biscuits. Among the locals, grease and starch still abounded as edible symbols of sympathy.

“Though Miriam celebrated her eighty-eighth birthday in April,” the pastor continued louder, “she was still a vital presence at Mount Zion Church, as well as a member of the Beardsly College Board of Regents.”

The leather-clad rider cut the powerful engine, the sudden silence drawing even more attention from the crowd of mourners who surrounded the green canopy. Tara squinted to make out the man’s face, hidden by the dark-visored helmet. Whoever the intruder was, he would get a piece of her mind once the service ended.

“As we lay our sister in Christ to rest, may we all meditate on the ways in which she touched our lives and made our community stronger.” The preacher crossed his hands before him and dropped his chin in silent reflection as recorded music filled the air.

Tara smiled through her tears at the selection her grandmother had insisted be played at her interment service. A Texan through and through, Miriam was determined to pay honor, even in death, to the state she loved.

The female country singer’s husky voice drifted across the quiet cemetery, singing about her desire to go to Texas if Heaven wouldn’t let cowgirls in. Tara’s dear friend Lacey placed a comforting arm across the back of the chair and together she and Tara tapped their toes to the familiar chorus.

The final notes of the song were lost in thunder as the bike roared to life once again, its tires crunching the ancient road. Through a cloud of red dust kicked up from dry Texas clay, Tara watched the man square his well-defined shoulders beneath the fringed jacket and offer a nearly forgotten gesture as he disappeared through the cemetery gates.

Years ago, the snappy salute followed by a thumbs-up sign ended every economics lecture by Sam Kennesaw, the college’s most popular teaching assistant. Tara covered her mouth to hide what she hoped sounded like a choked sob. In truth, it was a gasp of recognition. Understanding, Lacey squeezed Tara’s hand.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” The gleaming silver casket was lowered into the grave.

Grief and confrontation often go hand in hand, and this would be no exception. On the heels of burying her only relative, it appeared Tara was destined to come face-to-face once more with the man whose academic career her grandmother had ruined nine years ago.

The man Tara had once loved with all her young heart.



Sam arrived at Wade Latimer’s law office the next morning earlier than required and parked at the busy grocery across the street. Hidden among the minivans, he straddled his favorite bike and considered the meeting to come.

Why was his presence required for the reading of Miriam Elliott’s will? He scrubbed a hand over a three-day growth of whiskers, exhaled and folded his arms across his chest.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., a gas-guzzling sedan pulled into the parking spot in front of the offices marked Wade Latimer, Attorney at Law. The woman who emerged was one of the black-draped mourners at yesterday’s service. At first glance he almost didn’t recognize her. She’d filled out, quite a lot.

She swung the massive car door closed and made her way up the fieldstone walk. The familiar auburn hair was caught back into a tight French braid, which hung past the shoulders of a conservative, black suit. The gangly girl etched into his mind’s eye was gone, replaced by an impeccably dressed full-figured female with graceful curves.

He appreciated the changes. A smile of satisfaction curved his lips.

She wasn’t the only one who’d changed.

Ten minutes later, a door chime inside the reception area signaled Sam’s arrival.

“Good morning, sir. May I help you?” The young blonde, college intern written all over her fresh face, glanced up from her textbook.

He drummed his fingers on the counter before her. “The name’s Kennesaw. I have an appointment with Mr. Latimer regarding the Miriam Elliott estate.”

The girl’s eyes lit up with interest. “I’ll see if they’re ready for you, Mr. Kennesaw.” She stood, smoothed her hands over her cashmere sweater and disappeared down the hallway.

He removed the dark shades and caught sight of his image in the beveled glass behind the reception desk. His departure from Houston had been rushed, allowing no time for a manicure or close shave. Not that anyone in this small-minded town would expect it.

With one glance at his shaggy hair they’d cluck their tongues and judge him a failure, no better than a latter-day hippie. Now, with a like-I-care smirk at the mirror, he ran the fingers of both hands through his thick mop, ruffling the curls free from the effects of his helmet.

Around his neck on a braided cord hung expensive eyewear, in stark contrast to his old T-shirt and frayed jeans. He’d intentionally chosen a well-worn shirt with the phrase Don’t Mess with Texas emblazoned across the chest.

“Mr. Kennesaw?” The intern was back. “Mr. Latimer will see you now.”

Sam had more important places to be and, beyond mild curiosity, he really didn’t care about the reason for today’s meeting. But the shock value of this unexpected encounter would make the trip worth his time.



“What do you mean, show Mr. Kennesaw in? I thought today’s meeting was only for the two of us.” Tara gripped the arms of her chair and pushed herself halfway to a standing position. Her gaze darted around the room seeking any avenue of escape other than the door that stood as the only barrier between Tara and her past.

“I’m sorry to startle you like this, Miss Elliott, but your grandmother’s will gives very specific instructions about Mr. Kennesaw.” Sympathy filled his brown eyes. “I feared you might be upset.”

Tara’s heart pounded at the mention of her former teacher’s name. Knowing the object of her lifelong dreams stood a few feet away threatened to send her into a panic. She relaxed with effort into the leather chair and brushed nonexistent lint from the lap of her silk suit.

“I admit I’d have preferred some advance notice, but I’m far from upset.” Aware her smile was probably unconvincing, she lifted her chin.

The door creaked open behind her, and the attorney rose. She stared at the opposite wall and occupied herself with a sip of water.

“Good morning, Mr. Kennesaw.” Wade Latimer extended his hand graciously. “We spoke on the phone. It’s so good of you to come on such short notice.”

As the two men clasped right hands in her peripheral vision, a breath caught in her throat at the sight of a bare, muscular arm.

“Well, it was the least I could do to repay Miss Elliott for her kindness all those years ago, don’t you reckon?” Sam’s question dripped with icy sarcasm.

Unsure whether the mocking words were directed at her or at the memory of her grandmother, Tara glanced toward the voice for confirmation.

“Ms. Elliott, Mr. Kennesaw, I don’t believe introductions are necessary,” the lawyer stated the obvious.

Sam’s head jerked a curt acknowledgement.

She locked eyes with a virtual stranger.

He’s changed, she thought with relief. Thank goodness.

She would melt on the spot if the kind, gray eyes that haunted her sleep even now had stared back. Instead, she felt his cold, steely gaze wander across her face. Not to be outdone, she returned the once-over.

As a twenty-five-year-old teaching assistant, he’d been thin and studious. He’d worn the required button-down collar shirt and geeky horn-rimmed glasses that made him all the more endearing to his female students.

All these years later, he had a shape honed by physical labor. A man’s body. The long legs were trim, his shoulders and torso well developed beneath the dingy T-shirt. The pale hand that had once offered a jaunty salute at the end of each class was now work-roughened, fingertips and short nails darkly stained.

More striking than any other changes were the deep tan and five o’clock shadow that gave him a bad-boy look. Even in worn-out clothes, Sam carried an air of distinction thanks to the gray flecks in his loose roguish curls.

“Have a seat, please.” Latimer gestured toward a chair, took his own behind the cherry desk, then turned to face Tara.

“As you well know, the value of your grandmother’s property holdings in Beardsly was once considerable. However, in recent years, she made significant donations to charitable institutions, which lessened her overall holdings. I have them itemized for you here.” He handed a sheet of figures across the desk.

Tara scanned the list, unable to prevent her eyes from bulging at the scandalous amount of money her grandmother had given away. Other than the century-old house on Sycamore and its well-known collection of antiques, there couldn’t be much left.

“Were you her attorney of record when she made these contributions?” Tara hadn’t counted on an inheritance from the grandmother who had taken her in at three when her own mother had died of breast cancer. However, having her only relative give away a fortune to strangers was deflating.

“Yes, but Miss Elliott was quite capable of making these decisions. Her mind was sharper than mine, right up to the end. Do you have reason to question her?”

“No.” Embarrassed, she glanced at her watch. “Let’s move on, please. I have a conference call with my New York office in an hour.”

The lawyer cleared his throat and squinted at Sam Kennesaw. She followed his gaze. Sam slouched in the burgundy leather chair, fingers laced across his abdomen, an arrogant air of detached interest on his face.

“In that case, I’ll get right to the most important portion of Miss Elliott’s will.” Wade Latimer perched wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his Roman nose.

As regards the disposition of my remaining holdings: I bequeath the contents of my home to my beloved grandchild, Tara Elliott, to dispose of as she chooses. Furthermore, Tara may occupy Sycamore House for as long as she accepts all terms of my will.

Concerning my first and favorite commercial property, the Elliott Building, it is my wish to leave this ten-thousand-square-foot structure to be co-owned, co-managed, and co-maintained by Tara Elliott and Samuel Kennesaw.”

Tara sputtered on a sip of water and choked behind her hand.

Sam shifted in the chair, his interest locked on the legal document.

“What was that again?” She reached for the page. The attorney pulled it to his chest, well out of reach.

“I will give you each a certified copy of the will as soon as we finish.” He nodded toward two yellow legal-size envelopes on the corner of the desk. “Now, please, allow me to continue.”

Effective immediately, Tara Elliott and Samuel Kennesaw must commit their full attention, resources and energy to filling the space with profitable enterprises that will serve the financial interests of Beardsly, Texas. The two must work together in a cooperative manner at all times. If either should refuse the conditions of this gift, or fail to meet their portion of the conditions, the Elliott Building and Sycamore House will become the full possession of the other.

I know many people will find this to be an odd bequest. Let them think what they will. My granddaughter will understand why I’m doing this and that’s all that matters. May God richly bless Tara and Sam.

The benediction echoed against the high ceiling.

Needing a moment to compose herself, Tara stood and turned away from the men. She stepped to the inviting warmth of the window, folded her arms and stared out at the shady street.

The town hadn’t changed a bit since the afternoon college sophomore Tara Elliott announced to graduate student Sam Kennesaw that she intended to marry him one day. To cap off her bold behavior she’d stood on tiptoe to plant a chaste kiss on his unresponsive lips.

After all these years, his polite rejection was still painful. Her grandmother had stoked the pain burning through Tara’s teenage heart by insisting life held too much promise to settle at nineteen for the son of their housekeeper. No amount of pleading and tears could stop Miriam from ensuring Sam would no longer be a distraction.

So, Tara thought, this is the surprise you warned me about, Grandmother. Your brilliant plan to get me and Sam to come home. Nice try, but a little too much water’s run under that bridge. You’ve made your point. You win. Sam didn’t love me then and from the blank expression in his eyes, I’d say nothing’s changed.

“Mr. Kennesaw,” her voice was husky with emotion. She cleared her dry throat and turned to stare into the charcoal-gray eyes.

“Please, call me Sam.” He smiled insolently. “Thanks to your granny, we’re business partners. No point standing on formality now.”

Tara uncrossed her arms, sweeping back the black knit jacket, positioning a fist on each hip. “You can’t be taking this seriously. My grandmother never intended for you to accept her gift. This was her way of forcing us together for a few moments as a lesson to me.”

Sam lifted a dark eyebrow as he glanced from Tara to the sixty-something attorney, who tapped a fountain pen on Miriam Elliott’s last will and testament.

“So, what do you say, Latimer? Is this a legal document or just therapy for the little lady?”

Wade Latimer stopped tapping and struggled to suppress a smile. “It most certainly is legal. Miriam discussed her wishes on this subject with me at great length. The economy of Beardsly has been suffering for years and she believed your combined expertise is just what the town needs.

“However,” Latimer continued, “she intended this to be a collective gift, requiring a partnership effort. Her conditions are firm. If you’re unable to honor the terms of the will, Tara, the Elliott building and your family home will become the property of Mr. Kennesaw.”

She felt the flood of familiar heat and knew she was about to blush from collarbone to hairline. All her life she’d hated the terrible affliction that made her seem as if she were burning up from the inside out. A pale face and deep auburn hair already set her apart from the tanned residents of east Texas. Every time her skin flushed red, she resembled a cartoon character about to explode.

Humiliated by the embarrassing display of emotion, she felt fine perspiration break through the skin around her nose and lips. She fought the urge to swipe it away. Instead, she closed her eyes, indulging in a deep-breathing technique and a silent prayer to get past the confrontation. She dropped her arms to her sides and expelled a pent-up breath, then fixed her eyes on Sam’s expressionless gaze as he spoke.

“Are you gonna honor the terms of the will or is the property mine, lock, stock and barrel? What’s it gonna be, Rusty?”

“Excuse me?” She bristled at the nickname twelve-year-old Sam had used for her on the days when he accompanied his mother to clean Sycamore House. Others had picked it up and it had stuck like bubble gum on hot pavement.

“From what I’ve seen, it’s no wonder the town’s in trouble. It could use some modernization.” Sam nodded, approving of his own idea. “I’ll enjoy knocking down those old places.”

“That’s nothing to joke about and you know it,” she sputtered. “The Elliott Building is a town icon and Sycamore House qualifies to be registered as an historical landmark.”

“Not for much longer. I’ll have them both bulldozed by the end of the week unless you have a better plan.”

She shoved the jacket sleeves to elbow length and once more folded her arms across her chest. “I believe the terms of the will require the property to be used for profitable enterprise. What could you possibly have to offer this town?”

Sam untangled his long legs and stood. He reached for the legal envelope that contained his copies and tucked it beneath a strong arm.

“Well, let’s see.” His eyes narrowed as though he were thinking it over. “I’m male, I’ve lived in this state for thirty-four years and I have a master’s degree in economics. I think that qualifies me to have an idea or two on how a Texan might spend his discretionary income. Don’t you reckon?”

Her heart raced. He was serious.

If she didn’t do something to end this farce, what was supposed to be a brief encounter would turn into a full-blown crisis. The owners of The Heritage, one of New York’s premier auction houses, were meeting in less than a week to discuss her future with the family-owned firm. Being a no-show would not bode well for the junior associate.

She turned to Wade Latimer. “Can we at least put this off for a few months? I have a job and an apartment in New York, and I’m expected back at work by the end of the week. I’m sure Mr. Kennesaw must have obligations, as well.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Sam drawled. “I’m between projects at the moment and the timing is perfect to start a new business venture.”

“In other words, you’re out of work and willing to jump on my grandmother’s generosity like a chicken on a june bug.” Tara surprised herself with how easily she slipped back into Southern colloquialism.

He smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Her breath caught at the sight of his even white teeth. She recalled the boy whose bicuspids had been crowded and crooked. Clearly, he’d invested whatever money he’d earned in expensive orthodontia. It was worth it. His smile, even surrounded by the scruffy whiskers, was packed with appeal.

“Besides,” Sam continued, “your granny’s will says ‘effective immediately,’ and last time I checked that meant right this minute. I don’t have any intention of waitin’ a few months.”

“He’s correct, Tara.”

Incredulous, she swung around to the lawyer who continued to ruin her day.

“It was Miriam’s desire that you both remain in Beardsly to assume joint development of the Elliott Building. If Mr. Kennesaw is prepared to do so, I’m afraid you have no option other than full cooperation.”

Wade Latimer would not be her ally. If anything, he seemed to be goading her into accepting the challenge.

“Is there another office where I can have some privacy to use the phone?” Her mind churned over the growing list of details that would have to be handled right away. She seemed to have no choice but to submit to this bizarre arrangement in order to protect her grandmother’s beloved properties from destruction.

And how was Tara to interpret this twist of fate? Was it just her meddling grandmother or the hand of God on her life?

Latimer moved from behind his desk and gestured toward the door. “Of course, Miss Elliott. Come with me.” He nodded at Sam. “Excuse us, please.”



Sam watched the heavy door close after them with a solid thud. He pulled the envelope from beneath his arm and withdrew the document inside. A quick scan of the pages confirmed he was, for all intents and purposes, Tara Elliott’s new business partner.

Tara Elliott. She’d always be Rusty to him.

He’d admired the enchanting, bashful girl most of his life, but, at his mother’s insistence, always from afar. Stubborn as a child and strong-willed as a college student, Rusty had been the one to cross the line, with no concern for his precarious position.

A teaching assistant could hardly show romantic interest in a student and expect to remain on staff. But thanks to her spoiled-brat determination to have everything her way or no way at all, she’d destroyed his opportunity to finish his Ph.D. at Beardsly College. He had no proof, but he was certain the Elliott women were behind the turn of events that had suddenly eliminated his teaching position. And his livelihood.

It was a betrayal he’d never forgive.

Every day he thanked his lucky stars for his boyhood inclination to tear down and rebuild his bike when it broke down. In Houston he’d hit pay dirt with a marketable skill at motorcycle repair.

He glanced toward the papers clutched in his fist. As the shadow of an idea took shape, he grinned at his stained fingernails. Wouldn’t Tara cringe when he removed the Elliott Building’s back entrance to accommodate wide, overhead doors? And wouldn’t her flawless complexion bloom with red blotches when he knocked out the front wall to install showroom windows?

Persuading his business manager to oversee his organization in Houston while he moved back to Beardsly to pose as Miriam Elliott’s needy beneficiary was going to be a pain. But it would be worth it.

The day Tara Elliott had convinced her grandma to avenge a schoolgirl’s hurt feelings was the day his life had changed. Forever.

Dealing back a bitter taste of the rich girl’s medicine would be sweet revenge.




Chapter Two


The walnut armoire, one of Tara’s favorites, was an elegantly carved, Louis XIV cabinet with paneled doors and original nineteenth-century hardware. As a youngster she’d always suspected her grandmother’s furnishings were valuable. After earning a degree in art history and serving for several years as an appraiser’s apprentice, her suspicions were confirmed. Miriam Elliott had left behind a small fortune in antiques.

Tara’s hand slid across the cool, shining wood as she inhaled the pleasant, musky scent. Stacked on the shelves of the treasured piece were fragments of her childhood. Primitive artwork, English assignments, class photos and the remains of a shattered porcelain vase. Items that should have been thrown away years ago. She was grateful for the tender sentiments it revealed about her no-nonsense grandmother.

Their relationship had been turbulent since Tara’s show of independence had taken her to New York City following Sam’s departure from Beardsly. She deeply regretted confiding in her grandmother and couldn’t bear to stay in the town where Miriam Elliott’s influence had cost an innocent man his career.

At first, her grandmother had refused to support Tara’s desire to live so far from home. Once she proved able to make it on her own, financial help was offered to smooth the way. But she rejected any encroachment on her freedom.

Waiting tables seven days a week forced Tara out of her introverted shell. The work paid for a tiny sublet apartment and covered tuition for the remaining classes she needed at NYU. She embraced city life, shunning even brief visits to Beardsly. The two women talked often on the phone, but saw one another only during her grandmother’s trips to New York.

Tara stood before the open armoire, acknowledging that even in death, the wily old woman had left many messages before going to her grave. She had always had the last word. She’d hinted that a reunion for the young people was inevitable, but Tara hadn’t dreamed that Miriam would do something so outrageous.

After several hours of reading and rereading the papers, and finding no confusing legalese to dispute, Tara prayed for wisdom on how to meet the challenge. The choices were limited: dive into the project or lose the last of her family ties.

She considered giving it all to Sam. Her grandmother’s determination to ensure nothing developed between them had upended his conservatively mapped-out life. Maybe he deserved the remainder of Miriam’s property as compensation. Then Tara recalled his cavalier threat to demolish the landmark buildings.

She closed the carved walnut cabinet. She owed everything to the generosity of her grandmother. She had risked a carefully crafted reputation to offer hope to a frightened child. Tara could never let the town of Beardsly forget the sacrifice that was bigger than the scandal.

Miriam had willingly dispelled her “old maid” image and opened her guarded past to scrutiny when she’d come to the rescue of the illegitimate daughter Miriam had given up at birth. The unwed stranger, who was dying of breast cancer, had sought out her birth mother as a final act of love. She pleaded for a home for her painfully shy toddler, determined that her child would know her true roots. The unselfish agreement between the two women had changed a carrot-topped girl’s otherwise tragic future.

There was no choice at all. Tara set her sights on preserving what was left of Miriam’s reputation. The life of service to others was marred only by an action against Sam Kennesaw that she seemed determined to correct with this crazy partnership.

The French mantel clock chimed four times and resumed its soft ticking. Tara hurried through the entryway to the front door, giving a last glance at her appearance in the mirrored hall tree. As usual, wavy red wisps managed to escape the somber braid. Attempting to plaster them into submission, she licked fingertips and brushed moisture across the errant curls.

She slammed the heavy door of the huge luxury vehicle and muttered, “I thought these things were illegal.” She fumbled with the ignition and the navy blue beast purred to life. It eased out of the driveway and lumbered through the streets of town.

Passing the tired old five-and-dime store next door to the boring grocery market, she grimaced at the work of community elders who clung to traditional ways, voting down proposals that might usher in expansion and change. Frustrated young people graduated from the respected college and fled for the nearest big city, depriving Beardsly of their talent and energy. What kind of business would bridge the obvious generation gap?

“Hmm,” she fell into her old habit of thinking aloud. “What can I possibly bring to the town-time-forgot that will stand out and fit in at the same time?” Having felt like a misfit most of her life, Tara knew how important it would be for her idea to seem more like part of the scenery than something entirely new. Then there was that other pesky issue.

Sam Kennesaw would be her partner.

As the brown-brick two-story building came into sight, her stomach churned. Heat crept up the back of her neck.

“This is ridiculous.” She dropped her right hand from the wheel and spread her fingers across her abdomen while she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through parted lips.

“I wasn’t this nervous when I asked for the summer off from work to settle Grandmother’s estate. If placing my future at The Heritage in jeopardy didn’t send me into a panic, a twenty-minute meeting with Sam should be a piece of cake.”

She steered the land yacht into the alley and slammed on the brakes to avoid a two-wheeled chrome-and-leather monster angled across the drive. She poked her head out the window.

“Only an idiot would stop there. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she shouted over the car’s engine. “Didn’t you see the parking spot out front?”

Eyebrows raised, he glanced over his shoulder regarding the ostentatious sedan.

“Yeah, I noticed it, but I figured you might need it for your limo.”

She squashed down the desire to smile at his wise-guy tone and familiar drawl. Instead, she switched off the ignition and pushed open the door. Since he hadn’t budged from his comfortable spot, she’d be forced to go to him.

With one leg slung over the seat of the bike and muscular arms folded across his chest, there sat the man she’d idolized since they were kids. Her heart drummed a frantic beat. Beneath the five-o’clock shadow and shaggy dark hair was a glimmer of the serious boy who had done his homework at her grandmother’s kitchen table.

Obviously unaffected by her arrival, Sam resumed his apparent study of the building’s rear wall. It would take the patience of Job for her to readjust to this town. Life moved at a snail’s pace and the uniform of the day was jeans and a T-shirt bearing an advertisement. Sam seemed to be no exception.

“I suppose I should thank you for your consideration.”

“Forget it,” he assured her. “Being considerate of you is pretty low on my list.”

She winced as the comment hit its mark.

“Actually,” he continued, “I wanted to see the condition of the alley side first.”

“That’s a good idea,” she recovered, glancing down the length of the building. “I have the keys to the back entrance.”

A fast rifle through the black clutch produced the cluster of keys.

She stepped toward the security door, then hesitated as Sam shifted his weight off the bike. He gestured for her to continue the lead.



He followed, his nose detecting a delightful scent as he watched with genuine approval. He noted how the afternoon sun glinted off her copper hair. Here and there, strands had worked free and the natural curls leapt to life.

Uninvited, the vision of a little girl’s curly red hair against a kitchen’s sunny window invaded his mind’s eye. He heard the spray of an aerosol can and smelled lemon furniture polish as his mother dusted in the next room. She checked on him from time to time, making sure he finished his homework while she completed her cleaning duties.

Homework wasn’t half as much trouble as Miriam Elliott’s pesky granddaughter, but she’d grown on him as a kid and invaded his heart as a teen. He shrugged off the familiar moment and refocused on the steel door where his flame-haired nemesis struggled to throw the heavy bolt.

“Here, let me.” He reached for the keys, tapping Tara’s hand in a signal to move.

She jerked her fist against her body as if he’d soiled her.

So that’s how it’s gonna be. You probably think I’m just a dirty mechanic. Okay, Rusty. Works for me.

He turned the bolt, pushed the door wide and stepped through first. A few feet inside the building he paused while his pupils adjusted to the darkness. Though the place was swept clean of the former tenant, spiderwebs indicated many months without attention. Possibility permeated the cavernous, empty space.

He faced Tara, interested in her reaction to the building.

“This place always reminded me of a dungeon,” she complained. “The best light exposure is upstairs. There should be more to work with on the second floor. Maybe we’ll use this main floor for storage.”

“And what is it you plan to store in here, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“Well, inventory mostly. Since my expertise is in antiques, I naturally want to sell vintage furnishings.”

“Is that so?” He crossed his arms and waited, amazed at her new air of self-confidence. “And how does that meet the requirements of a ‘profitable enterprise that will serve the financial interests of Beardsly, Texas’?” He quoted from the will.

“A lot of consumers stay away from antiques either because they think they can’t afford them, or they don’t know anything about them.”

Tara’s eyes flashed a spark of excitement in the dark room. “If you know where and what to search for, Southern collectibles are quite valuable.”

He couldn’t resist squashing her idea like a bug. “Before you wear your arm out patting yourself on the back, you might want to consider selling something besides old furniture in an old town. Not exactly a commodity that’s in short supply.”

The slight droop in her shoulders said he’d driven home the supply-and-demand theory he’d taught hundreds of college freshmen.

“I hope the second floor works for whatever you sell. Just don’t get any ideas about keeping your inventory down here. I have a business plan of my own.”

“But I’m sure I’ll need this space, too,” she insisted.

“Now listen.” He fixed her with a narrow stare. “You just called this place a dungeon and said yourself the real potential is upstairs.” He had her there. “I’m willing to take the ground floor and approve of whatever you want to do with your half of the building, as long as you afford me the same courtesy. The old lady’s will says we have to cooperate. If you don’t plan to comply, right out of the gate, you might as well pack up and head back to New York.”

He admired the determined curve of her jaw, tensed as she clenched her teeth at his intentional rudeness.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Reckon I would.” He smiled. “I didn’t ask for this opportunity, but I’m going to make the most of it. Nobody’s ever given me anything in my life. I’ve worked hard for what I have. If you’re not willing to do the same, I’ll be happy to take your inheritance, princess.”

Even in the darkened building he could see Tara’s face begin to color. She closed her eyes and started that deep-breathing business again.

“So, what do you say?” He rushed her out of the moment of concentration. Her eyes flew wide in the middle of an openmouthed exhale. She resembled the flame hawkfish in his salt-water aquarium.

“For your information, I know quite a lot about hard work myself. Since I moved to New York, I haven’t accepted a dime from my grandmother.”

“Why start now and spoil your independence?” he challenged. “It’s not too late to get out of Smallsville and back to your real life in the big apple.”

“However twisted her logic may be, she had some purpose for what she’s done and I intend to respect her wishes.”

“Respect her money, you mean.” He stroked his chin, pretending to consider something. “Speaking of money, why don’t we sell both places, split the profits and be done with it.”

“I don’t plan to sell anything,” Tara insisted. “That house is the only home I’ve ever known and I couldn’t bear to part with it.”

His slow applause echoed in the empty space. “I see you haven’t lost your flair for melodrama. You almost had me feelin’ sorry for you.”

“I’m trying to tell you that whatever I figure out to do here I’ll do it with all my heart. I’ll put what money I have saved and all my time and energy into making it a success.”

“Good, then we don’t have a problem.” He moved away from her to walk the first floor’s perimeter, checking for any obvious plumbing or electrical-repair needs. He heard Tara’s hesitant footsteps as she climbed the wide stairs leading to the second story.

“Hold on a minute and I’ll get you some light.” He returned with a halogen flashlight that illuminated a wide arch on the wooden staircase. “Do you want me to go up with you?”

Her gaze followed the steps upward to another heavy security door. She held out her hand for the cluster of keys. “No, thanks. I’m fine on my own,” she insisted, swiping at a spiderweb dangling over her head.

“Oh, come on.” He stomped ahead of her. She followed without argument.

As she’d predicted, the rooms on the second floor were in fair shape. With paint, elbow grease and some luck, Tara could make a go at whatever she came up with.

Watching her pace off the dimensions of the rooms, he became conscious of the traitorous way his mind found her spicy scent tempting. She, however, seemed unaware of his presence, making notes on the small pad she pulled from her purse.



Engrossed in decorating ideas, she penciled on the walls indicating possible paint colors and several wallpaper styles. Light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west side of the building. Once those windows were cleaned, the old shutters replaced by modern wooden blinds, the place would be warm and inviting during the day.

At night, any lighted activity inside would beckon to citizens crossing the square. But what would attract college students? Hardly antiques. As much as she hated to agree, Sam was right.

There was a shuffling sound behind her. He’d been waiting quietly while she made her notes. She turned to find him still standing in the wide doorway, watching her.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me.”

“I can take a hint.” His hand on the knob, he turned away.

“No, wait. I wasn’t trying to run you off.” She groaned inwardly at the poor choice of words.

Sam chuckled without humor and shook his head at the irony. “We both know you don’t have to try at all when that’s what you have in mind.”

The past hung between them, as obvious as the dust motes that floated through the shaft of light from the dirty windows. The need to tell Sam what had happened all those years ago pounded like a migraine in Tara’s head. They’d never make peace until it was done and he understood this bizarre arrangement was Miriam’s way of putting things right.

She crossed the empty space separating them.

“Listen, Sam, we need to talk—”

He stopped her by holding up both hands, palms outward, his face unreadable.

“I don’t want to hear it. It’s been too many years and there’s nothing you can say now that will make a difference in my life. So don’t try to soothe your guilty conscience at my expense.” Sam pushed his way through the metal door and let it fall shut behind him with a loud clang.

She stared at the cold metal surface, suddenly understanding. He blames me. He thinks being forced out of Beardsly was all my doing.

With nine years of bitterness built up, she’d never convince him otherwise.



Tara leaned against the oak griffin dining-room table, her notes and figures spread across the polished surface. Her one faithful friend, Lacey, sat with a leg folded beneath her, raising her short torso enough to reach the bag of chips in the middle of the table.

“Sam thinks what happened was entirely my fault,” Tara blurted out.

Lacey’s curls tossed as her head popped up. “And you didn’t tell him the truth?”

Tara shook her head hard enough to rattle her senses.

“Listen,” Lacey placed her hand over Tara’s, “you owe Sam the truth, and then you two can begin to put all the hard feelings behind you. Maybe even start over. Together.” Her smile was full of hope.

“Even if he did believe it, he’d only transfer his anger from me to Grandmother. I won’t give him the ammunition to do or say anything to soil her reputation.”

“After the second chance she’s given him, he’ll forgive her anything, don’t you think?” Lacey insisted.

Forgive anything? Tara hadn’t mastered that herself.

No matter how distant, she would never forget the angry words that still resonated in her grandmother’s elegant dining room.

“How could you hurt him that way? How could you do this to me, Grandmother?”

“Listen to reason, child. You have your whole life ahead of you and I won’t have you waste it on the son of my housekeeper.”

“That’s so unfair! He’s respected in his position at the college. The kids love him and I love him, too. But you’ve ruined everything.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve simply steered you both in different directions. If, as you insist, it’s God’s will for you to be with Sam, you’ll find one another again one day. But you’ll both spend time growing up first.”

“I’ll never forgive you for this!” Tara had swept her arm across the oak sideboard, sending silver and porcelain crashing to the hardwood below. She’d stared through hot tears at the shattered treasure, turned and run up the stairway.

Now Tara’s gaze sought the gouged floor where the hand-sculpted Asian vase had met its demise. “How can I expect Sam to forgive her when I spent the last nine years punishing her myself?”

“You have to find it in your heart, Tara. I watched Miss Miriam volunteering so much of her time, giving away so much to charity, trying to atone. And I was the one person in town who understood why she did it. Don’t let regrets steal your joy, too. Promise me you’ll pray about it, okay?” Lacey asked.

“I’ll put that on my prayer list along with the funds for the books I have to order.” Tara changed the subject.

“Is that what you decided to add to the antiques? Books?” She narrowed her eyes as she thought it over. “I like it.” Her head bobbed agreeably.

“Thanks.” Tara smiled, grateful for some encouragement. “I stopped at Shoppers’ Mart to get some magazines this afternoon. Standing in that dark little aisle it suddenly occurred to me it was the only place in town to buy something to read.”

“There’s the campus bookstore,” Lacey reminded.

“And as long as I want a textbook or a paperback those two places are fine. But to thumb through a special-event cookbook or a gardening guide or a biography of a musician I’d have to drive to Dallas,” Tara pointed out.

“What do you think Frieda Walker will have to say about you taking business from the college?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare compete with the textbooks and classics she sells on campus. I’ll carry contemporary genres, popular magazines and international newspapers. Maybe even a computer or two for research and online chatting.

“And here’s something else I’m considering.” She clasped her palms together beneath her chin in nervous anticipation of her only friend’s reaction. “What if I set up a coffeehouse in one corner of the store to give the students someplace new and trendy to hang out?”

“That’s perfect! They’ll love it.”

Tara’s heart lifted at the thought of something that would bring the younger crowd into her business. “We’ll serve all those great flavored coffees and they can visit with their friends like the kids do in the big chain stores. I’ll use the antiques as display background for the books and collectibles and everything will be for sale.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, girl, you’ve thought of something for everybody,” Lacey enthused.

“Now I’ve just got to think of a way to make up the difference between my savings account and the cost of inventory.”

“You ought to consider selling some of the antiques Miss Miriam left you.” Lacey surveyed the room. “Your own auction house could find you a buyer, Rusty.”

“First, promise you won’t call me that anymore?” Tara pleaded. “That name belongs to another lifetime, agreed?”

Lacey nodded.

“And second,” Tara continued, “I’m not interested in selling anything in this house.”

“This stuff is the only solid collateral you have.”

Tara leaned elbows on the table and rested her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do, Lacey,” she mumbled through her fingers. “If my grandmother thought for a minute I’d sell her things, she’d have donated them to charity herself.”

Lacey shook her blond head in disagreement and thumbed through the will. “She didn’t have any problem placing restrictions on your ownership of the Elliott Building or Sycamore House. If she hadn’t meant for you to sell the antiques she’d have done the same with them. It says right here ‘to dispose of as she chooses,’ and that means she gave you her permission and her blessing to do whatever you have to do.”

“What if I borrow against some of the most rare pieces? If I fail I can always sell them. But if my idea is a success, I’ll still have my grandmother’s things.”

Lacey munched a potato chip and wiped the barbecue residue on her jeans. “Makes sense. Okay, let’s make a few calls and see who’s offering the best line of credit against collateral. By the time your inventory starts to arrive you’ll have the money to pay for it.”

Tara felt a smile of relief curve her mouth for the first time since learning of her grandmother’s death. Already organized, she reached for her folder marked Stock and thumbed through the publishing printouts. Tomorrow she’d order books, place ads in surrounding counties for antique consignment pieces and begin the marketing research on coffee houses. Remodeling and advertising came next if she intended to meet the self-imposed grand opening in four weeks.

“What’s going in on the first floor?” Lacey asked.

Tara froze. She’d been so wrapped up in her own plans that she had no idea what Sam had in mind for the ground floor of the Elliott Building. She tried to recall their conversation. He had said he was going to make the most of this opportunity, but she’d never asked him how he intended to do it. He’d agreed to anything she wanted to do and now she was committed to doing the same for him.

“Tara?” Lacey nudged her. “I said, what are Sam’s plans?”

“He didn’t tell me.” A chill ran up Tara’s spine at her vulnerable position. “But Sam knows this town and we’re right on the square, so it’s bound to be something conservative.” She hurried on, trying to sound convincing. “He may appear rough around the edges, but he comes from a respectable background. Surely he won’t do anything foolish and risk this chance to make something of himself….” Her speech faltered as she caught sight of her friend’s eyes rolling upward. “Would he?”

Lacey took a short break from popping chips into her mouth. “Better hang on to your fancy pants, city girl. I think you’re in for a wild ride.”




Chapter Three


“Motorcycles!”

“Not just any motorcycles. The best American-made bikes ever.” Sam glanced up from the makeshift drafting table, savoring the moment and the site of Tara’s lovely face contorted in disgust.

“It doesn’t make any difference what kind they are. They’re all foul-smelling and noisy. You might as well sell kerosene and chain saws down here.” Tara swept an arm toward the empty first floor, soon to be occupied by Sam’s Cycles. “Come on Sam, you can’t be serious about this.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“Then you’re doing it to spite me.”

He rolled his eyes and snorted. “You need to get over yourself, Rusty. Not everything’s about you. Did you consider consulting with me about any of your plans?”

She drew a breath to speak, but he ignored it and continued.

“No, because you want to do what interests you. Well, bikes are what interest me. Since it’s a subject I know a little something about, I intend to make a living selling them right here in the Elliott Building. By the way,” he paused, considering a new subject, “I’d like to talk to you about changing the name to the Kennesaw Building.”

“How dare you.” Her azure eyes bulged.

“I dare because it’s time to bring this town into the new millennium. Modernize. Move with the times, don’t you reckon?”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Honey, I’m just gettin’ started.” Sam smiled and looked her up and down. Instead of shrinking from his gaze, she stood taller and squared her shoulders beneath the solid black ensemble. He expected a battle and it seemed she wouldn’t disappoint.

“Grandmother wanted us to come back here and do something to help the community. I can think of a hundred reasons why you’re wasting your time trying to sell motorcycles.”

“Name three,” he challenged.

“Well, first of all, nobody around here rides those things.”

“Yet,” he countered. “And that’s because they don’t have a local dealer or service center. Once that objection is eliminated, you’re gonna see bikers everywhere.”

Tara grimaced at the suggestion. “And secondly, you’ll never make any money at it. How are you going to afford all those greasy parts, let alone new stuff?”

“I have connections.” He gave Tara a conspiratorial wink. “I happen to have a very successful contact in the business who can front me the stock as long as I can meet the, um, payment arrangements.”

“And if you can’t?” Her forehead wrinkled with apparent concern.

“I’d sooner not think about that.” He dismissed the subject with an exaggerated shudder. “Besides, I have a hunch Sam’s Cycles will be a hit.”

“Well, a hunch is not sufficient reason to go into business. You need something sensible to draw customers.”

“Like expensive antiques, huh? I reckon that’s just what we need to get this depressed economy back on track.”

She held up a hand to slow his argument. “You made that point with me yesterday and I’ve reconsidered my original plans. Thanks to your comments there will be a variety of products in all price ranges. So, I guess I owe you one.”

“That’s the understatement of the decade.”

She ignored his jab. “I’m also going to sell a wide range of books and other reading materials, and there will be a modern coffee bar. I intend to have something for every level of spending.”

“And you’ve done extensive market research to confirm that adding books and coffee will attract buyers by the score, I presume?” He enjoyed the flicker of annoyance in her stormy blue eyes.

“You only ask that because you think you know the answer. However, I have years of study and experience in appraisal and sales. I’m studying the markup on the merchandise I expect to carry, I know what the folks around here can afford to spend and I have a marketing strategy to draw shoppers from other towns.”

“Well, it’s nice to know my days as a teaching assistant weren’t completely wasted. Sounds like you didn’t spend all your time in Economics 101 daydreaming about being my bride.”

He was never going to let her forget her uncharacteristically bold confession and the subsequent kiss. And, it seemed, he would use it against her.

“If you intend to humiliate me at every turn, this has no chance of being a cooperative effort.”

“If you’re waiting for an apology, don’t waste your time or mine. I have a lot to do in the next few weeks.” Sam dipped his head and resumed drawing on the large pad of graph paper, which lay atop his makeshift desk, a sheet of plywood balanced over two saw-horses.



Tara’s eyes followed the movement of his thick mahogany mane as his head dropped forward. The devastating appeal of his clean-shaven profile was undermining her determination to remain calm. Against her better judgment, she admired the tanned arms stretched forward across the drawing. Her attention was drawn to the white paper where Sam was positioning windows and doors against a solid wall.

“How about number three?” she asked.

“What?” He glanced up, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

“You told me to name three reasons. Don’t you want to hear number three?”

The confusion left his face, replaced by a look of expectation. Sam sat tall on the stool he’d fashioned from concrete blocks, folded his arms and cocked his handsome head to one side as he waited.

She had his full attention and no idea what to say next. “Even if you can sell a few motorcycles, it’s only a matter of time before you get bored with this place and want to leave again,” she blurted.

The deep crease between his brows softened as he dropped his arms to his sides and indulged in a slow shoulder roll followed by a patronizing smile.

“I can see where a city woman like you might think that,” Sam reasoned, “but there’s still plenty for me in Beardsly. But have you considered that folks might be a bit suspicious of your staying power?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She bristled.

“I was forced to relocate when my opportunity here dried up. But you had every advantage and every reason to stay. These folks may talk slow but their minds work just fine. They know the difference between being left behind and being dumped. I think they’ll give me another chance. You, however, might have some charred bridges to rebuild.”

Sam’s insight was a punch to the solar plexus. Had she been a fool all these years, unconcerned about how the hometown folks would react to her refusal to visit? Suddenly she envisioned her grand opening with no one to sample her fancy cappuccino, no kind face to purchase her hardbound books, no supporters to guide well-heeled shoppers her way.

She knew a thing or two about changing. She might have accepted her grandmother’s challenge without seeing all the relationship repairs that would be necessary but, thanks to Sam, the blindfold was off.

She had a name for her store. Bridges to build.

Literally.



Five days after her loan application was accepted, Tara was still without funds. Buying on credit and scrimping to cover her few personal needs brought back memories of her early years in the city, years she’d sooner remember with distant nostalgia than with familiar clarity.

Sam made building an exterior entrance for the second floor his top priority. By the end of today she would no longer need to bother him for passage upstairs. The thought of not seeing him at his homemade drafting table made her heart sink a bit. But it was just as well, since he goaded her at every turn.

Sitting behind the scarred secretarial desk she’d picked up at a local thrift shop, Tara’s best sales voice echoed in the otherwise empty room.

“Miss Frieda.” Tara tried to sound confident. “I assure you Bridges will pose no threat to the campus bookstore traffic. If anything, we’ll work in concert with you to fully meet the needs of the students.”

“Young lady, as you may recall, I’ve been ‘fully’ meeting the needs of my students for almost forty years, now. Did you ever lack for anything during your school days in Beardsly?”

Her fear was confirmed. The woman at the other end of the telephone line had an ax to grind.

“No, ma’am, of course not. I wanted to tell you myself about the opening of Bridges and let you know my intention is not to compete with your sales, but rather to offer literary alternatives.”

“Well, you’re a few days late. I’ve heard all about your literary alternatives.”

Tara smiled to herself. So, word was out. There must be some buzz on the street.

“That nice young Sam Kennesaw already told me all about your plans.”

Nice? Young? Well, by Frieda Walker’s standards Tara supposed he might be.

Her smile flipped upside down. Was he secretly going behind her back to poison everybody’s opinion? Was he planning to drive her out of town and keep everything for himself?

“Um, I see. So Sam gave you a call already then?” Maybe with some careful questioning she could find out what the big sneak had been up to.

“Sam? Gave me a call? Not hardly. He knows how to do things the proper way. He’s been in the bookstore and student center every day this week. How else is everybody supposed to find out about his bike shop?”

Careful questioning of the college bookstore manager was not going to be necessary. Miss Frieda was in a chatty mood.

“And I saw him down at the Varsity Theater, too. The poor boy can’t afford advertisement, but I always say word of mouth is the best mode of communication, anyway.”

Tara began to suspect she was the one person in town who hadn’t been the target of Sam’s one-man ad campaign.

“Which is another reason for my call. I wanted to let you know the grand opening of Bridges is scheduled for—”

“I know, June first, the same day as Sam’s place, Sam’s Cycles. He’s already told everybody.”

Everybody but Tara.

So that’s what he’s up to. He plans to overshadow my special day with a little excitement of his own, huh? We’ll see about that.



“He’s living with the students? Over in those tiny apartments?” Tara questioned.

“That’s what I heard.”

She and Lacey filled their plates from the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Ruthie’s Kitchen. They ladled creamy dressing atop greens and choice veggies, tossing raisins and croutons on for good measure. Neither woman was inclined to pass on lunch in favor of squeezing into designer jeans. Tara’s all-black, figure-minimizing wardrobe had become infamous about town. It had also become unbearably hot as the mercury rose into the nineties before noon each day.

They slid into an empty table as Lacey continued. “You know the older boys don’t want to live in the dorm anymore. So, three or four of them get together and share one of those little efficiencies that have less square footage than a dorm room, go figure. Well, Sam’s living in the smallest one of all, which makes sense, seeing as he doesn’t have a pot to cook in or a window to throw it out of.”

Lacey paused to collect a getaway crouton and pop it into her waiting mouth. “Anyway, they have a new evening ritual of sitting out behind the apartments, drinking sodas and asking Sam for advice on keeping life simple. He’s becoming their mentor.”

At this new piece of information, Tara sucked in a surprised breath and, along with it, a raisin. Heads turned toward their table while she sputtered and coughed in an effort to dislodge the fruit. She struggled to free her airway, tears trickling over her lashes.

“Honey, are you gonna be all right?” Lacey pleaded.

Tara nodded, swiped at her running nose and continued to struggle for breath.

Strong arms grabbed her from behind, hoisted her to her feet, positioned clasped hands against her chest and gave a powerful tug in and upward. A whoosh of breath was forced from her lungs. A small projectile shot across three tables and into the trash can by the exit door.

The lunch crowd burst into cheers. She didn’t need eyes to confirm what her intuition already suspected. The conquering hero was at it again.

Lacey stuffed a wad of paper napkins in Tara’s hand, motioning she should wipe her face.



Sam released his grip and stepped around the table, his concern turning to amusement as Tara smeared navy mascara from one temple to the other. On the tips of her auburn lashes, he found the blue color enchanting. But by the time she’d finished wiping her eyes and nose, the streaks had given her the appearance of a masked character from the comics.

“Thank you for your help,” she sniffed. “I should go to the ladies’ room and freshen up.”

“No, that’s not necessary. You’re fine, considering you were almost done in by a dried grape.”

“Tara, I agree you should make that trip to the ladies’ room,” Lacey cautioned, gesturing toward her own eyes.

“Nonsense.” Sam took Tara’s hand as he sat and drew her down into her chair. “Now, finish your salad. Oh, by the way, my mama taught me to chew each bite twenty times before swallowing.”

“That must be my problem. I didn’t have a mama.”

“No, you had a rich old grandma and I’m sure she gave you the same lecture.”

He motioned for Tara to continue her meal.

“Since you mentioned your mama, how is she, Sam?”

“Fine. She married a nice retired guy a couple of years ago. They own a condo on South Padre.” He crunched a crouton that he snagged from her plate.

“Aren’t you having anything?” She stabbed a forkful of spinach.

“I’m waiting for the guys.”

“The guys?” Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, you mean the students. Yes, I hear you’ve managed to worm your way into their living quarters.”

“If you call keeping my expenses low by renting the cheapest apartment in town ‘worming my way into the student quarters’ then I guess you’re right. Too bad Grandma didn’t leave us the house together.”

“But she didn’t.” The menacing glare was wasted in the swirls of navy that stained her eyelids and cheeks.

“That’s a shame, too. Instead of rocking on your veranda at night I’m sitting on lawn chairs in the parking lot, enjoying the smell of simmering asphalt.”

“Somehow, I think it suits you.”

He was grateful for the excuse to smile at the ridiculous picture she made in her severe black jacket and skirt, straitlaced hairdo and birdman mask.

A mechanical roll of thunder overwhelmed the clinking of stainless on Melamine as three choppers pulled to a stop near the entrance of Ruthie’s Kitchen. Burly men clad in leather removed their helmets to reveal colorful do-rags over balding heads.

Sam scooted the chair back and pushed to his feet. “Gotta go. The guys are here.”

“Those men? I thought you were talking about some of the students.”

“I know. You assume way too often, Rusty. And you know what they say about people who assume.”

“Save your clichéd pearls of wisdom for the college boys, Sam.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that. I value the guidance of a woman who drinks in my every word and memorizes the lines on my face.”



Tara was mortified. The man must have gone home after her humiliating teenage soliloquy and made notes. All these years she’d prayed he’d forgotten her passionate profession of love. Of the millions of forgetful men in the world, she’d had to fall for one with a razor-sharp memory.

And Sam wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon. As long as she took the bait, he’d keep setting the trap.

She considered tossing her glass of ice water in his insolent face. Instead, she took a long drink to cool down the heat that threatened to rise in her throat and cheeks. She stood, picked up her black clutch and turned away.

His strong hand shot out, grasping her forearm with surprising speed. As if sensing the unnecessary pressure, Sam loosened his grip. She fixed the offending hand with a hot stare and he released his hold.

“Wait, we need to talk,” he insisted. “This involves structural changes to the building that I think you should know about.”

He angled his dark head toward the sound of the bikes. “Those guys are my demolition crew. Tomorrow morning their equipment will arrive and we’ll begin knocking out the alley side of the building to accommodate overhead doors. The day after that we’ll take out chunks of the front side and replace it with showroom windows. It’ll be noisy and dusty. I didn’t want to get started without showing you the drawings and explaining it all first. And I need your signature on a couple of permits.”

The heat creeping up her neck couldn’t be stopped by a barrel of ice water. “When did you start planning this ‘demolition’ as you call it?”

“About fifteen minutes after the reading of your grandma’s will.”

“And you’re just now asking for my permission?”

Sam threw his head back and laughed. Not like you’d laugh out loud at a funny joke. More like you’d laugh with hysterical relief if you won the lottery. The lunch crowd at Ruthie’s had stopped watching the commotion out front and were all staring at Sam when he caught his breath and wiped away the tears of mirth.

“You still don’t get it, do ya, Rusty? I’m not asking for your permission. Not today. Not ever. I have as much right as you do to make changes to that building and if you want to drop by this afternoon, I’ll give you a preview of the coming attractions. If not, I suggest you work from Sycamore House tomorrow, because it’s going to be dusty when those bricks fall.”

He retrieved his helmet and headed toward the exit, but he didn’t exactly make a beeline for the door. Instead he worked the crowd as if he were running for office. He smiled and complimented the ladies and glad-handed all the men. If there’d been a baby in the place, he would have kissed it.

Along with everyone else, Tara found herself mesmerized by the vision of Sam and the other men beyond the plate-glass windows. Then, she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny pane. As Tara’s hands flew to her face, Lacey’s blond reflection joined that of the wretched blue-faced creature in the glass.

“You have to admit, I did try to get you to go to the ladies’ room.”

Tara opened her black clutch and withdrew a small canister of pepper spray. She handed it to her friend.

“In the future, if I ever refuse to follow your instructions, use this.”




Chapter Four


By noon the next day, a hole big enough to accommodate a fire engine gaped in the back wall of the Elliott Building. Each time a sledgehammer met with the antique structure, Tara shuddered from the impact, but she was intent on watching the entire operation.

The hems of her black silk-knit slacks were coated in dust. Fine particles of baked clay clung to the tail of the matching knee-length tunic, a sign of her dogged determination to retrieve as many undamaged bricks as possible. Surely, she reasoned, some quaint and nostalgic collectible could be fashioned and sold at Bridges from the hundreds of otherwise useless blocks.

“Why don’t you leave that to the crew? They’ll be just as careful and you won’t be picking bugs out or your hair for the rest of the day.”

Sam removed a leather work glove and touched the top of her head. Waving his fingers in front of her face, he dangled a shriveled granddaddy long-legs.

She yanked off her own gloves, tossed them on the pile of rubble and brushed frantically at her crown, further dislodging hair from the already beleaguered braid.

“Oh, I hate spiders!”

“Don’t get excited.” It was obvious from the chuckle in his voice he was enjoying her discomfort. “The thing’s been dead for ages.”

“It doesn’t matter. The very idea of a spider touching me makes my flesh crawl.”

“I know.”

“That’s right, you sure do.” She looked up into his dark sunglasses and, instead of obsessing over her dirty reflection, she noted the mischievous grin on his face. As a child she’d seen that smile many times, often accompanied by a silly prank.

“I figured you’d toughen up and get over that.”

“I thought I might, too. Then I moved to Manhattan into an apartment that had to be the spider capital of the world. And I don’t mean a few here and there that you manage with a can of bug spray. I mean millions of the creepy things spinning webs faster than I could knock them down with a broom.” She shuddered from the memory.

“You wouldn’t exaggerate, would you?”

“No.” She swatted at the top of her head again, certain the drop of sweat that slipped down her once-careful part was an errant arachnid. “Working with antiques, you run into all kinds of insects nesting in forgotten corners. I can live with moths and carpenter ants and I don’t mind the odd beetle now and again. But spiders…”

“I remember when you first came to live with your grandma.” Sam removed his glasses, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I was eight and my mama told me to be nice to you because you were Miss Elliott’s granddaughter. It took me six years to work up the courage to ask how Miss Elliott came by a grandchild when she’d never been married herself.”

Tara nodded, understanding the circumstances surrounding the sudden appearance of a three-year-old in spinster Miriam Elliott’s life. As small as she was, even Tara could sense the heads and tongues wagging behind their backs. By the time she’d started school the scandal was old news and most of the whispering had stopped.

“Anyway, you wouldn’t give me any peace till I came up with a deterrent.”

“How did you know I was afraid of spiders?”

“What little girl isn’t?” He smiled at the recollection of his plan. “It was worth a few minutes under the front porch to find out.”

Tara grimaced at the long-buried memory. “You were bad to bring that jar of spiders into the kitchen.”

Sam tilted his head back and laughed. Again, she was struck by the appeal of his smile, her mind sweeping back to the one tender kiss she’d given him years ago.

“Hey, Sam, you want to measure this cased opening one last time to make sure we’ve got it wide enough to suit you? Then we’re gonna knock off for lunch.”

Sam turned his back, striding away without so much as a nod. She shook off the dismissal and returned to the salvage operation. Reaching for another brick, she noted the hopelessly chipped state of once well-maintained nails.

“Oh, well,” she mused aloud, “the first time I strip a cabinet with five layers of paint you’ll be history anyway. Might as well throw out all my polish and trim you short.”





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