Читать книгу The Midwife's Secret - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 9

Why did Amanda Ryan keep cropping into his mind? The next morning, Tom stood shaving above the washstand, twisting his jaw into the air to scrape beneath it, and while he should’ve been planning ahead to the day’s work, he thought of Amanda’s strength instead. Moving to Banff without a man, caring for her grandmother, hauling her well-worn treasures into the tumbling shack. Not four days in town and she’d already tended to her first two patients, Ellie O’Hara, and the tinsmith’s daughter.

In the barn, while he watered and fed his work horses, he thought of her independence. The sheer physical stamina it required to pedal a bicycle uphill when he was certain no other woman in town even owned a split skirt. Hell, no other woman in town lived alone in the countryside without a man to help her.

And while the early morning sunrise reflected into the sawmill and he listed instructions to his foreman, he thought of her again. He looked beyond her drab clothing, the hidden pile of thick hair, the pale, indoor complexion, and wondered how long ago she’d lost her husband. How had she lost him? Who had been the messenger who’d come to tell her he’d died? Had she wept for days? In whose arms had she sought comfort?

Questions he shouldn’t have been asking of a widow he’d only met.

He should have been thinking about his mortgage payments and his problems with Finnigan and Clarissa. He’d just lost Clarissa and he should’ve been thinking more of her. But then, what else was there to think about? Graham was checking on her in Calgary, and there was nothing Tom could do but wait to hear.

In the meantime, he had a cabin to build.

When he pulled up to Amanda’s shack in his horse and wagon, Wolf wagging his bushy white tail and Donald O’Hara sitting beside him ready to help, she was tossing a shovel of dirt onto the fire. Her hesitant smile brought color to her face and a youthfulness to her appearance.

She was ready to get started on the hard work, plowing ahead with her life, with or without her husband. It filled Tom with a healthy dose of respect.

“Top ’o the mornin’ to ya, ma’am,” said Donald, jumping off the wagon into the spring dew.

“Good morning,” she shouted as Tom hopped off. Wolf bounded through the trees, barking at a groundhog. There were plenty of mountain animals for him to chase, and he gloried in it.

At the sound of their voices, a flock of swallows—hundreds of them—rose from the trees, sailed into the air, stretched their pointed wings and in unison, tilted their bodies into the wind. A magnificent sight.

With a gloved hand, he readjusted his hat and glanced back at the other two. Donald was busy unloading pick axes and shovels. Amanda was cupping a hand over her eyes, gasping in delight at the birds. She looked like a washer woman, bundled in a long wool skirt, with gray collar peeking out of a checkered flannel shirt—obviously a man’s.

Her late husband’s? Her late grandfather’s? Something about her expression held Tom’s attention. Her oval face was pale but proud, her nose straight, her curved, parted lips turned upward. When she turned back and caught his eye, he noticed again the sky-blue clarity of her eyes, and the sadness trapped there. What was she so sad about?

Why should it interest him so much? He averted his gaze and got to work. It was getting warm and he removed his tan suede coat. The sheepskin collar and lining might be necessary during the nightly freezes and morning chill, but not in the soaring sixties and low seventies of the day.

“I’d like it built right over here.” She indicated the top of the property, at the edge of the one-hundred-foot clearing. Jagged mountains framed her intriguing silhouette.

He sauntered to where she stood and braced his hands on his hips. “It’s a good location. Rain will drain down to the river, so the cabin floor will remain dry. It’s close to the road for safety and convenience. And if we clear the six trees to the Bow River, you’ll have an unobstructed view of the water.”

He almost groaned as he said it, knowing at one time he and his father had planned a similar location. Pa no longer remembered. And as for Tom, well, he’d buy himself another pretty—prettier—piece of property.

Amanda gave such a huge sigh of contentment, his eyes followed the movement of her breathing down to her chest. A nicely rounded swell that she was hiding beneath shapeless clothing. He muttered to himself and glanced away.

After smearing the stinky concoction Amanda had given them on their skin for protection against the blackflies, Tom grabbed the two-man saw.

“Let’s start with the big cedar.” He indicated to Donald. Although Donald was a good ten inches shorter, he was a muscular man who walked with a spring in his step and who easily took direction.

Amanda pulled on her leather gloves and Tom moaned. So she was serious about helping. Glancing up, he caught Grandma exiting the shack, dressed in a workman’s shirt tucked over her dark dress. A quake of alarm bounced through him. Both of them planned on helping? It wasn’t women’s work, not even for younger Amanda, but certainly not a woman as old as Grandma.

Donald stopped. “Sweet Jesus O’Grady,” he muttered. “You’re hirin’ women now, are ya?”

“It’s not my idea,” Tom declared.

“And a good mornin’ to you, too,” bellowed Grandma in good humor. “You can both close your mouths now.”

How old must she be? Tom wondered.

“Sixty-two, since you’re lookin’ at me like that. But I’m not a weak old woman. I was splittin’ logs and cordin’ wood long before you arrived in your mama’s cabbage patch.”

“Don’t worry about us.” Amanda brought out her own shovel. “We’ll clear the raspberry bushes and the juniper shrubs. We promise we’ll stay out of your hair.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

Was he supposed to allow women to help him? He was ashamed to see them work so hard. They should be sitting out in the sun and knitting, or mending clothing. But as much as he ached to have the final word and say no, a deal was a deal.

So while the men cleared the clump of green cedars, the women transplanted raspberry bushes to the far side of the shack. Amanda seemed to take pleasure in the company of Wolf, scratching behind his furry pointed ears and patting his luxurious double coat.

“Why, you’ve got two different colored eyes,” Tom heard her murmur to the dog. “One blue, one brown.”

Near lunchtime, Grandma waddled off to the privy. Amanda slid off her gloves and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “It’s time for lunch. I’ve got some stew.”

Just then, Ellie strolled around the corner with a picnic basket, obviously thinking of lunch, too. “The children have eaten and the three oldest girls are hangin’ the laundry. I thought we might go fer a picnic by the river.”

Tom stumbled forward. For cryin’ out loud, this wasn’t a social call. This was difficult work, and if he accepted one invitation, the woman might appear every day. “I don’t think so. I brought an apple and a slice of ham, and I’ll enjoy sitting under that tree. Alone. You go ahead with Donald.”

Amanda wrung her hands into her shirt and tried to slide out of the invitation, too.

Ellie insisted. “I’m not taking no fer an answer. I’ve been cookin’ fer the last hour. Fresh bread. Fried-egg sandwiches and pickled peppers.” Spotting Amanda’s grandmother as she came out of the privy, she called out “You’ll join us, won’t you, Miss Clementine?”

Miss Clementine waved them off with a plump arm, like a queen waving from a balcony. “Go on without me. I’ll have my tea and toast sitting on a chair, thank you.”

It seemed there was no way out. But tomorrow, he vowed as he trudged through the aspens to the river, he’d come more prepared to say no. Around women, you always had to stay on your toes. How much time would this take?

Amanda found a seat on the other side of Ellie, by a large boulder heating in the sun. In the distance, the Banff Springs Hotel towered over the pines. While the women discussed babies and delivery, the men grunted a few words at each other about the snow melt. Tom was eating as fast as he could.

Amanda ate only half of his quantity. Her delicate lashes flashed over high cheekbones as she sipped cold tea. When Donald and Ellie nuzzled closer together, discussing something intimate, the silence between Amanda and Tom grew uncomfortable.

How did he get trapped in this awkward situation?

Finally, staring up the mountainside at the turrets and balconies of the big hotel, Amanda broke it. “Imagine being so wealthy you could afford to travel simply for the pleasure.”

Tom leaned back on the hard log, his long legs crossed in front of him. “I can’t imagine it myself. Starting at three dollars and fifty cents a room.”

Amanda choked on her drink. “Every night?”

“Ridiculous what tourists will pay, isn’t it?”

“Who are they, the people who come here?”

“Wealthy from the east. Some from the States. Most from England and the rest of Europe. Last year, we got almost three thousand visitors. This year, we expect five thousand. During the next three weeks, guests will be trickling into the big hotel. Hundreds of them, eventually, to fill the two hundred and fifty rooms. Some of the other boarding houses are full already. New restaurants are being built.”

He gazed at the huge monument, designed after a Scottish baronial castle. “They’re folks who want to dip their bodies in hot springs and explore uncharted mountains. Mountaineers, they call them in Switzerland. Only five miles on either side of this railroad has been surveyed, the rest is waiting for human contact. Have you ever been on top of a mountain?”

Their breathing came in unison. “No.”

“You should. It’s pretty.” He couldn’t miss the feminine, musky smell of her. “Have you ever tried the hot springs?”

She lowered her tin cup. “No,” she whispered. “It appears I haven’t done much.”

“The Cave and Basin have cabins set up, one for men and one for women.” He studied her. Clarissa had done it all—hiking, soaking in the hot springs, packing trails, fishing, hunting, ice-boat sailing in the winter. What would it be like to take Amanda to the springs? He was certain she’d be shy to remove her clothing, even if she were only surrounded by other women. Unlike Clarissa. “Did you know they accidentally built the hotel backward?”

She bit her lip. “Now you’re teasing.”

“Aye, it’s true,” Ellie piped in.

“Apparently,” said Tom, “someone misinterpreted the blueprints.”

“Blueprints?” Amanda asked.

“The drawing plans.”

“Oh.” As she turned to face him, her waist twisted, accentuating the outline of her breasts beneath the cloth. “But weren’t you involved in its building?”

He pulled up to a sitting position and tried to find something else to look at, rather than her unexpected contours. He spotted an elk lapping at the river’s edge. When he indicated the elk to her, she smiled, unaware of her allure.

“I supplied the lumber and one crew of finishing carpenters, but they hired their own framers. The front of the building is where the back should be, and the back is where the front should be. The kitchen staff got the best view of the river valley, so they’re not complaining. Luckily, the view is beautiful no matter what direction you turn the hotel.”

Donald plucked the checkered cloths from their laps and packed them. “I hear now they’re havin’ their troubles with burstin’ water pipes. Too much water pressure.”

“Even after piping the water sixty-nine hundred feet,” Tom said, “it still comes out strong. A hot one hundred and ten degrees. Amazing.”

“Tell us what it looks like on the inside,” said Donald. “Has the fancy furniture arrived fer it yet?”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, last week. In the ballroom, they’ve got mahogany dining chairs with ball and claw feet, look just like authentic Chippendale. Smooth as silk. As you enter the lobby, they’ve got tables with inlaid patterns of satinwood. Tapered legs and shield-back chairs to match, replicas of Hepplewhite.”

When they’d finished eating, Amanda wiped crumbs off her skirt. Was it his imagination, or was she squirming away from him? Tom wondered as they headed back.

As soon as she spotted them, Grandma tore off on her bicycle to visit the neighbors rather than help in the afternoon. Tom breathed a huge sigh of relief, but Donald frowned in disapproval.

He leaned in close to Tom’s ear. “Folks are sayin’ they’re a wee bit strange, ridin’ around on that thing.”

Tom kept chopping his cedar. “It’s their choice to do as they please. Timmm…bbber.” He watched the tree crash, being very careful of Amanda’s whereabouts. He’d been aware of her whereabouts the whole day. He didn’t want any injuries on his hands, he told himself.

But every time he looked her way or stepped closer to offer his help in dragging branches, she’d ignored him. Ignored him! He wasn’t used to being ignored.

In the late afternoon, loading up their supplies, Amanda removed her gloves and ran a hand over her mass of thick hair, tendrils that had escaped in the wind. She’d been bitten by blackflies, Tom noticed, along her slender neck and in the hollow of her throat. Even the tops of her hands. He shook his head. Her lotion must have rubbed off. If he’d noticed earlier, he would have sent her to sit in the shack.

Donald took the shovel from Amanda. “Why do you ride a bicycle and not a horse?”

She clapped the dust from her gloves. “The cost of oats for a bicycle is remarkably low.”

Tom laughed, but Donald wasn’t so sure.

Keeping his gaze on Amanda, Tom replied thoughtfully. “And you don’t have to water it, or shoe it, or ever file its teeth. Or worry that the wild hay you’re feeding it is lacking nourishment because there was too much summer rain.”

She made a quick, involuntary appraisal of his face. Her eyes softened. “That’s right.”

Yeah, she was a damn fascinating woman.

“I’ll need a well dug,” she said to Tom as they were leaving. “Can you set up a spring room in the cabin?”

“I could. I’ll bring my father before the week is up. He’s good at finding water. We’ll locate the well, then build the house around that. You should go in now, put something on those bites.” The last part came out more tenderly than he’d wanted.

She swallowed and nodded gently. Donald disappeared down the path that led to his home. Tom walked in the opposite direction to his wagon.

While the horse pulled out and clomped down the path, something made Tom turn to stare at the cabin window. She was watching him. A lantern glowed behind her, playing softly against her cheeks. When she pulled the curtain closed, his body sank with an unexpected feeling of…what?

Disappointment. He turned around and settled into the stiff wooden seat. So what if he was a little lonesome.

He certainly knew the cause. It had nothing to do with Amanda. With a weary sigh, he thought about what he’d lost with Clarissa.

During breakfast, Amanda found herself peeking down the path for signs of Donald and Tom more frequently than necessary. Their fourth day together, and they’d gotten into a rhythm.

“Is he here yet?” her grandma asked over porridge, scrutinizing Amanda.

“No sign of them.” Amanda knew what her Grandma was up to. What she’d been up to for the past year, trying to attach Amanda to every available, half-decent man who came calling.

“I’m just eager for the company of friends, Grandma. Good hard work, clear mountain air and sunshine is what both of us need after the year we’ve been through.”

“Why don’t you tell people the truth—”

“I think I hear a horse.” Amanda bolted out the door, happy to escape the unwanted questions.

Donald hadn’t arrived yet on foot, but Tom and Wolf were rolling in.

Tom’s breath could be seen in the chill air as he leaped off the wagon. Looking up as she approached, he swung his lean body over the back boards and in one fluid motion, lifted the heavy axes. The warmth of his smile echoed in his husky voice. “How’s everyone this morning?”

She stooped to pet Wolf’s head. “Very well.”

With powerful arms, Tom unhitched his horse. His shoulders filled the corners of his suede coat. He glanced at the stack of wood by the shack door. “I see you got someone to help you chop those branches we cut yesterday. That’s a neat little pile of firewood.”

When she didn’t meet his gaze, he glanced down at her, then at her fidgeting hands. Why hadn’t she put on gloves before she’d come outside? She hid her arms behind her back.

With a calculating eye, he took a long step forward and slid out her hands, holding them in his. His head dipped so close to hers, she could barely think of anything else. He stared at her blisters. “Don’t tell me you chopped the firewood on your own? By yourself?”

She gulped hard. “Who else is there?”

The question brought a twinge of compassion to his features.

After a moment of stumped silence, he nodded quietly, turned slowly, and began sorting through his tools. “We should be finished clearing the trees today. Tomorrow, I’ll bring the mules to dig the stumps.”

“When do you think your pa will be coming?”

“I asked him to come this morning. He lives just up the road and around the corner.”

Amanda glanced through the trees. A red wool coat and a white horse flashed through the leaves. “Is that him now?”

Tom swung around. “Pa?”

Wearing an old straw hat, a lumbering old man slid off his horse onto the road, but didn’t head down her path.

She could see the resemblance. But where Tom was a thick, solid oak tree, his father was a fragile bending willow. Still, the handsome resemblance of dark features, square chin, and sauntering gait was striking.

“Pa!” Tom shouted. His voice grew edgy and she wondered why. “Over here!”

Old Mr. Murdock petted the husky dog circling around his work boots. “Wolf? Is that you?”

Tom smiled in relief and with Amanda a few steps behind, bounded to his father. “Mornin’, Pa. Did you bring your divining rods?”

Mr. Murdock gazed at him with a blank expression.

Tom’s tender smile faded. A rush of color infused his neck. He lowered his voice, but the wind had stilled and Amanda could hear. Tom’s normally confident voice quivered as he bent to his father’s level. “It’s me. It’s Tom.”

“Tom who?”

Tom swallowed. “Your son. Remember? The oldest one. You’ve got Gabe and Quaid, too.”

Amanda’s heart spiraled. Father didn’t recognize son? He recognized the dog but not Tom? Oh…she slumped against the wagon boards and closed her eyes for a moment. She could barely watch the heartache in Tom’s face as he tried to explain his existence to his father.

Tom’s voice fell to a whisper. “Tom… I own the sawmill,” he explained, raw with emotion. “Remember? You taught me how to chop my first tree. We built this shack together three years ago, remember?”

Dazed, Mr. Murdock glanced to the shack and back, then to Amanda. Donald was strolling down the trail with Ellie and four children in tow, Willy with his scabbed-over blackfly bites, all approaching closer. Tom glanced frantically to them then back to his father, then back to them. He froze as Amanda watched.

Trying to spare Tom the anguish of Donald and Ellie’s witnessing the situation, Amanda sprang forward. “Mr. Murdock, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She shook Mr. Murdock’s hand, clasping her warmth over the wrinkles, desperately searching for words to help orient the man. “Tom told me you live up the road. That makes us neighbors. He said you’re good at finding water, and that’s great because I need a well dug, you see.”

Mr. Murdock gazed to the partially cleared area and something twinkled in his eyes. “Digging a well, that’s what I’ve come for. Tom,” he said with recognition, “come help me get the stuff off my horse. Sorry, I, uh, the dog…the dog caught me off guard.”

While the old man straightened, Tom’s watery eyes turned to Amanda. She pretended she hadn’t seen what had happened, but by the grateful look in Tom’s eyes, he knew the truth.

“Ellie, Donald, howdy,” Amanda said, giving Tom time to recover. She crouched to the children’s eye level. “Willy, how are those blackfly bites? Is the calamine helping? I’ve got some of my own to show you.”

As they exchanged pleasantries, Donald hollered to Mr. Murdock, “Mornin’, John!”

John Murdock waved back.

What must it be like to have a father who didn’t recognize you? Poor Tom. A parent’s decline was a big heartache to endure alone. Did he have any other family members who could help him through it?

Was his father suffering from early dementia? Tom’s brother Quaid was a doctor, and surely John Murdock was getting the best care possible.

While the others went to work, Amanda made the gentleman sit with her and have coffee. When he got up to do his work, he held his wooden sticks parallel to the ground and slowly walked the site, waiting for them to twitch when they passed over underground water. Amanda wasn’t sure how the set-up worked, but folks swore by it.

Grandma looked up from hauling branches, eyeing John Murdock with something on her mind. “You don’t happen to need a rag rug, do you? A pretty one for your cabin floor?”

Mr. Murdock put down his sticks. “I might. The floor’s awfully cold this time of year.”

“Well, I’ve got one for sale. Real cushiony. I made it myself from some of my prettiest scraps.”

The elderly man laughed, rich and warm, endearing him to Amanda. “Bring it out. Let’s see it.” He removed his straw hat, revealing a receding hairline, and squinted in the sunshine. “Just don’t make me lose my shirt on the price.”

Grandma chuckled. “Ten cents is what it costs.”

Amanda watched Tom noticing the exchange. Although he’d avoided glancing Amanda’s way while they worked, his rigid shoulders relaxed and the tenseness to his jaw dissolved. She wasn’t sure why he wasn’t looking her way, but it was just as well. She didn’t need any more complication in her life than she had already.

When the day was over, Ellie dropped by with the children to retrieve her husband. They offered to walk Mr. Murdock and his horse home. Grandma wanted to join them, eager to see how Mr. Murdock’s new rag rug would look in his house, so they all set out together.

Amanda gave Tom a curt nod. “Thank you for your hard work. Your father found two well locations for me to choose from, and I think we’re making good time.” She gazed up at the cloudy sky. “Hopefully, we won’t get any rain to slow us down.”

The red setting sun grazed the snowy mountain peaks, casting shadows on the rocky cliffs, and deepening the green timberline of pine trees.

The rays also shimmered off Tom’s dark hair. She thought he’d be quick to leave. But instead of harnessing his draft horse, he adjusted his leather gloves and picked up the ax.

“What are you doing?”

“You need someone to chop this wood.”

Stepping closer, she removed her apron. “Please don’t do that. You’ve worked hard all day.”

“So have you.”

“Please don’t make me say it.” Her voice lowered to a breeze. “I can’t afford to have you chop my wood.”

“There’s no charge.”

He was already chopping. With quiet dignity, she accepted his kind offer. She admired the gesture. Not many men had offered to do something like this for her. None at all, in the past eighteen months.

They worked side by side for an hour in the setting sun, she stacking wood, he pounding away. She grew warmer, feeling his proximity, every muscle that moved with every strike.

The air seemed hot and heavy. What was this thing between them? This ripe awareness that swelled and rolled, seeming as though it would burst?

When they finished, he turned to look at her. Drops of moisture clung to his temples. His eyes glowed with life. She found herself extremely conscious of his sensuality. Nervous under his gaze, she went to take the ax, but she shouldn’t have stepped so close. Beneath their work gloves, their fingers pressed together. She heard his sharp intake of breath. He slid out of his gloves.

She set the ax along the shack wall, but he bent closer and grasped her hand. With one erotically smooth motion, he peeled off her one glove, then the other. Standing alone with this potent man, surrounded by the scent of damp ferns and his clean sweat, she felt as if with this one intimate gesture he was peeling off her clothing. She could barely breathe. At his feathery touch, she trembled right down to her toes.

“You’ve got such beautiful hands,” he murmured. “Yet they work too hard.”

Stroking his way over the tiny little calluses, he rubbed and kneaded and massaged. Everything about him felt hot. His hands, his breath, his touch. Long, loose strokes as if he were stroking her entire body. No man had caressed her like this. Never. Not her hand, nowhere on her body.

It made a woman yearn for his exploration. Imagining him dipping down her bare shoulders, over her languid arms, gently exploring her soft breasts and down her belly. And lower….

She closed her eyes and gasped when she felt his kiss along the back of her palm. Sweet, tender lips grazing her flesh, the heat of his mouth kissing along the openings. Her nipples went hard. If she let him go any further, she’d be sorry….

This was mad.

She knew what it was. It was a thank-you for today, for coming to his father’s aid. She could never let it be more. She’d given everything she had to William, her heart, her body, her beloved baby, and she had nothing left to offer. Not to a potent man like Tom Murdock.

And what about his other woman?

As silently as it started, it ended. Without looking at him, she withdrew her hand. “You’ve got Clarissa to think about.” Escaping into the dark shack, Amanda pressed the door closed behind her. Getting caught up with a man was just too wretchedly painful.

She was right, he had Clarissa to think about.

Tom swore softly under his breath as he found his way from his cabin door to the sawmill. The full moon glinted over his shoulder. With a jangle of keys, he unlocked the side door and entered. He struck a match and lit the largest lantern.

What in heaven’s name had happened back there at the shack? Why had he completely lost himself in Amanda? Every time he looked into her heavy, blue eyes, he had to stifle his urge to touch her.

She didn’t have a father to watch out for her, no brother to ward off Tom’s advances. She had only herself to protect, and it wasn’t fair to take advantage of a lone woman if he wasn’t free to take it further. Was he free? Where did he stand with Clarissa? Where did he want to stand with Clarissa?

He dipped his brush in a pail of white paint, then swept it over a three-legged stool, more furniture designated for the big hotel.

“You in here, Tom?” Graham’s voice shattered the silence. “I’ve got some news for you.”

Tom rose. “What is it?”

Boots thudded across the floor. The fringes dangling from Graham’s coat swayed as he walked. “A warrant’s been put out for Finnigan’s arrest. Robbery, fraud and larceny. I’ve wired the information across the country. The last sighting of him was in the coal mines just east of here. He’s disappeared, but we’ll flush him out.”

Tom pulled in a long breath.

“I’ve had to ask some questions around town for Finnigan’s last whereabouts, but I don’t think anyone’s suspicious.”

“Good.”

“About Clarissa…”

“She’s not in Calgary, is she?”

Graham shook his head. “Can’t seem to locate her. She never showed up there. Bought a train ticket but never used it.”

Tom snorted in disgust. He started painting again, coating the stool’s legs.

Graham pulled out a chair, sat and scratched his curly blond sideburn. “Why aren’t you surprised?”

Tom’s spirits sank. “What would you say if I told you I think they disappeared together?”

“Aw, hell.”

Betrayed. Tom swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. What was worse? Losing his business to Finnigan? Or losing his woman to the man? Tom had been betrayed by two of the people he trusted most.

Clarissa wasn’t the dignified woman he thought she was. How could he have been involved with a woman who tore off with his partner?

Amanda wasn’t like her. She was as far removed from the word conniving as one could get. Amanda didn’t have the easy life that Clarissa had. Amanda was a tender, widowed woman trying to survive on her own. She didn’t have anything to do with Finnigan’s scam, either, because he’d overcharged her.

Amanda was an honest woman, and right about now, he held the virtue of honesty highest on his list.

“About Amanda Ryan.”

“Yeah?” Tom held his breath.

“I did some checking. You were right. She’s got a hell of a secret. She’s not widowed. The woman’s divorced.”