Читать книгу The Wrong Man - Laura Abbot - Страница 7

CHURNING WHITE-WATER rapids, treacherous black slopes, amateur bronc riding. Until recently, Trent Baker had dared much, accustomed to triumphing over obstacles. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the reality of being a single father.

“Kylie, honey, you’ll be late for school.”

“I’ve got to find it, Daddy. Mommy said it looks pretty.”

Curbing his impatience, Trent slumped against the wall of the pink-and-white bedroom while his seven-year-old daughter emptied the contents of her musical jewelry box, hunting for the elusive barrette she insisted was the only one that matched her outfit—pink leotards and a purple-and-pink flowered turtleneck. They’d already searched her dresser drawers, the floor of her closet and the bathroom cabinet.

“Here it is!” She pirouetted to face him, her corn-flower-blue eyes alight. She handed him her hair-brush, then plopped onto her bed. “Fix me.”

Her innocent words stabbed him. Doing his daughter’s hair was challenge enough. Other things, regretfully, went far beyond “fixable.”

Kylie sat quietly as he drew the brush through her straight, silky blond hair, so like her mother’s. Fumbling with the barrette clasp, Trent wished for the umpteenth time that little girls came with instruction manuals. His clumsy fingers could scarcely wrap around the purple plastic bow. “How’s that?” he said at last.

She jumped up to inspect herself in the mirror. “It’s crooked.”

Trent sighed. Ashley would have done it perfectly. “Get your coat, honey.”

Her look let him know he’d failed as a hairdresser, but to his relief, she walked to the hall closet, where he helped her into her parka, careful not to disturb the all-important barrette.

Dragging her book bag behind her, she followed him from their first-floor condominium to his extended-cab pickup, engine and defroster already running. After settling Kylie in the back seat, Trent scraped the remaining ice and snow from the windshield. “Warm enough?” he asked as he climbed behind the wheel.

Kylie merely shrugged, folding her arms around her body and ducking her head, her lower lip thrust out.

With slight variations, the same thing happened each morning. Today the delaying tactic was the lost barrette. Other times she complained of a stomachache, refused to eat breakfast or gave him the silent treatment, as she was doing now. He fought the familiar panic. He had no idea what to do for her—with her.

Ashley had always known. But Ashley wasn’t here. Would never be here. And back then… Kylie had been a model child.

Her behavior was natural, the school counselor had told him. Children handled grief in different ways, an aversion to school being one of them. Or withdrawal. Controlling behavior. Acting out.

Trent glanced in the rearview mirror. Eyes downcast, Kylie stared at her clasped hands. She looked fragile, defenseless, lonely.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. It wasn’t fair. Vibrant, beautiful Ashley wasting away, ravaged by the relentless leukemia he’d been powerless to stop. Nearly a year had passed, and still their condo echoed with her absence. The leukemia had sent a message loud and clear. Trent Baker no longer controlled his life. Hell, he couldn’t even find a way to help Kylie. Some kind of father he was.

A sullen voice from the back seat jarred him. “I’m not going.”

He struggled for a neutral tone. “We’ve discussed this, Kylie. You are going. It’s the law.”

“I hate you!” He couldn’t bring himself to glimpse in the mirror once more and see the belligerence that he knew sparked in his daughter’s eyes.

“That’s too bad. I love you.” Pulling in to the driveway of the school, he noted that most of the children had already been dropped off. While Kylie unbuckled her seat belt, he spoke soothingly. “Try to enjoy yourself. Give school a chance. You just might like it.” He mustered a grin, which was met with the withering scorn of a pint-size cynic.

Kylie scrambled from the car, and without a backward glance trudged toward the school entrance. By afternoon, her teacher had told him, Kylie would be fine, but with a fatalism born of experience, he knew that the cycle would repeat itself tomorrow morning.

It didn’t help that after school she would be bussed to a day-care center and then picked up by her grandmother until he got off work. Or that the cold Montana winter kept her confined to the condominium much of the rest of the time. Or that his rental agreement prohibited pets.

But even if he could have addressed all those issues, he still wouldn’t be able to provide the one thing she needed most—her mother.

LIBBY CAMERON shrugged into her goose-down coat, gathered the tote bag loaded with graded papers, locked the door and carefully made her way down the ice-covered steps of her house toward the Suburban SUV waiting at the curb. “Brr,” she said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Cold morning in Whitefish.”

Doug Travers grinned. “What’s a little bracing Montana air?” He picked up her gloved hand. “Especially when I’m with such a pretty woman.”

The scent of expensive after-shave and new-car leather mingled with the welcome warmth from the heater. “Thanks for taking me to work. One of the other teachers will drop me off at the garage after school to pick up my car.”

“Sure I can’t help?” The eagerness in Doug’s voice was unmistakable.

She studied his profile—firm chin, full lips, Roman nose, high forehead, prematurely receding hairline. Handsome in a successful-executive kind of way. A good man. Dependable. Family-oriented.

Libby had been surprised when Mary Travers, principal of the elementary school where she taught, had suggested the blind date with her son. Initially Libby had resisted, reluctant to consider dating after several dead-end relationships. And she most certainly did not want to entertain that ridiculous fantasy called romance. In fact, living alone was a bargain compared with hooking up with the wrong man. She was no fool, and experience had been a powerful teacher. Yet slowly but surely, Doug had ingratiated himself with her. He had been a total gentleman in the six months they’d been dating, and much as she hated to admit it, having an escort for movies, community functions and faculty parties was pleasant.

“Lib, I was able to get tickets to the symphony in Missoula this weekend. I thought we could run down there, have a fancy dinner, take in the concert, stay at the new bed-and-breakfast I heard about.”

Her palms moistened in her suddenly overwarm gloves. Was it her imagination or had he deftly slipped in that last part about the B and B? She found herself stammering, “I…the concert… Who’s the guest artist?”

He gave her a puzzled look before answering. “A cellist from Prague.”

“Oh.” Say something, she urged herself. “Which night?”

“Saturday,” he said evenly as he pulled into the faculty parking lot.

She scrambled to hook her arm through the handles of her tote. “Let me think about it.”

He stayed her departure with a hand on her forearm. “Lib, are you worried about the B and B?”

Her mouth went dry as week-old chalk dust. “I didn’t quite know what to think.” She must sound ridiculous. Any thirty-plus woman in northwest Montana would jump at the chance to spend a weekend with Doug Travers. By any standards, he was a catch. A successful insurance agent accustomed to nice things, generous with his money, a doting son and uncle. She wished…

“I’ll book separate rooms,” he said, his wistfulness implying he had hoped for something else.

Libby swallowed. “That would be nice.” She stepped from the car. “All right, then. I’ll look forward to it.”

As she stood in the overcast early morning watching him drive off, an unsettled feeling lodged in her stomach. Up to now their relationship had been…comfortable.

The cold December wind whipped the ends of her scarf, mocking the word. What normal, red-blooded man wanted to settle for comfortable?

Why couldn’t she offer more?

She knew the answer. Don’t go there, she muttered as she sought the sanctuary of her brightly decorated classroom, where the giggles, hugs and infectious enthusiasm of second-graders made her come alive in a way nothing else had since…

Idiot! Absolutely do not go there.

TRENT RESTED on his haunches, surveying the French doors he’d just installed in the monstrous family room. Through the glass he could see the city of Billings, then, across the Yellowstone River, the sweep of prairie shadowed by dark, heavy clouds. Behind him in the kitchen, his father-in-law conferred with the demanding home owners, who were belatedly requesting yet another change in the specifications. Trent groaned. He didn’t understand how Gus stood it, but as his father-in-law frequently reminded him, building a custom house meant exactly that—fulfilling the customer’s expectations, no matter how inconvenient or frivolous.

Tool chest in hand, Trent moved to the guest bedroom, out of earshot. Plugging in his sander, he worked on shelves for a built-in bookcase. Even before his friend Chad’s phone call last week, he’d wondered how much longer he could last as a home builder. Not that he hadn’t appreciated Gus Chisholm’s employment offer at the time. When Trent had met Ashley, he was coming off a series of jobs that included ski instructor, rafting guide, ranch hand and carpenter. He’d known he had to settle down if he wanted to marry her. Up to that point, though, he’d concentrated on fun and adventure, unwilling to commit to the hazy notion of “career.”

Soon after, it was no longer a question of wanting to marry Ashley. He needed to marry her. Her pregnancy had caught both of them off guard. So much for the infallibility of condoms.

Gus’s offer to have Trent join him in his business building luxury homes had been a godsend, and he didn’t want to think about what he and Ashley would’ve done without the company medical insurance when Ashley got sick. But more and more lately, Trent realized he didn’t have the patience for the construction business or the diplomacy to massage the egos of wealthy, demanding clients.

Was now the time to make a change? Chad Larraby, his best friend since boyhood, needed a partner in order to buy out Swan Mountain Adventures, an outfitter in their hometown of Whitefish that offered seasonal excursions—rafting, hunting, fishing, hiking, backpacking and mountain biking. It was the perfect job opportunity. He and Chad had always made a great team, whether it was pulling off a spectacular high-school prank or combining their scoring talents to win the league basketball championship. There was no one Trent trusted more.

He pinched his nose, permanently crooked from an opposing center’s elbow. Back then, he and Chad were convinced the world had been invented for pleasure, and they had taken every opportunity to test that belief. Now? Chad was married with a son and a daughter, and both men took fatherhood seriously. Although miles apart, they’d tried to stay in touch, but since Ashley’s death, Trent had especially missed his friend’s ready laugh and common sense. Chad’s was an offer he had to consider. The work would satisfy both his zest for adventure and his need to secure the future.

But what would a move back to Whitefish—or anywhere for that matter—do to Kylie? Was it fair to uproot her from her grandparents?

It wasn’t a question of finances. He and Ashley had set aside considerable savings, hoping to buy a house, and Gus had been generous with bonuses. There was also the money from Ashley’s life insurance policy, which he hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch. But if it bought him and Kylie a better future?

With the palm of his hand he tested the newly sanded shelf, then nodded with satisfaction. Chad’s offer seemed perfect for him.

Except for one thing.

If he moved back to the Glacier Park area of Montana, inevitably he would run into Lib. Why subject himself to a past he’d moved beyond?

Liar! You haven’t moved beyond anything.

Ever since Chad’s call, Trent could hold back neither his thoughts of Libby nor the powerful emotions those memories churned up. What did philosophers say about first love? You never quite get over it? Trent leaned against the wall, wishing life could be simple. Yet the mental pictures of Libby—her dark, thick ponytail flying behind her as she skimmed over a mogul, her warm body pressed against his, firelight turning her skin to flame—halted him in his tracks. Stop it, Baker. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why was he thinking of Lib? That was in the past and needed to stay there.

Yet despite his resolve, he had another sudden image of Libby, who nurtured every small creature she met, enfolding his daughter in her arms.

Jeez, when you lose it, you go all out.

From the hallway he heard Gus call his name.

“Coming,” he said, gathering up his tools. Even if he couldn’t picture himself as a career home builder, did he dare leave a secure job? Move Kylie? Bet on a future that held a great deal of promise but no guarantees? The alternative was spending a lifetime doing work he didn’t enjoy. The last thing Kylie needed was an unhappy father.

At Gus’s direction, he moved to the dining room to install wainscoting. Yet as he worked, his thoughts were a million miles away.

Chad needed an answer. Soon. Trent could rationalize all he wanted, but the truth reverberated with every blow of his hammer. His decision was a resounding “Yes!”

BY THE END OF THE DAY, Kirby Bell had mastered addition of two-digit numbers, Heather Amundsen had gum snarled in her hair, and Josh Jacobs had upchucked his lunch. Libby had a kink in her back from helping little feet into boots, but as the last second-grader left the room, throwing his chubby arms around her waist in a fleeting hug, she smiled with satisfaction and relief.

Straightening the rows of desks, she relished the smells of glue, markers and modeling clay that lingered in the classroom. Almost daily she thanked her lucky stars that she had found the work she was born to do and that it paid enough for her to live simply and comfortably in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

In preparation for the upcoming visit from master storyteller Louise Running Wolf McCann, Libby removed the photographs of plants of the Northwest from the bulletin board, replacing them with those of indigenous animals. “Weezer,” as the Blackfoot woman was known to generations of Whitefish children, would share Native American animal legends with the class.

Returning to her desk, Libby gathered the day’s worksheets. She frowned when she noticed that little Rory Polk had left half the answers on his reading sheet blank. Bless his heart, he tried so hard to hide, burrowing into his desk and making himself even smaller, hoping to escape observation. Libby couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that something might be wrong at home.

A glance at her watch told her it was time to meet Lois Jeter, her best friend and colleague, in the office if she wanted a ride to the garage.

She hurried down the hall, noting with pleasure the red and green links of construction paper making a merry border for various holiday art projects. Mary Travers stood outside the office, her hands resting on the shoulders of a scrawny fourth-grader. “Jeffrey, we’ve talked before about snowballs. Are we going to have to have another conversation?”

The boy hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. I know throwing snowballs is fun, but it can also be dangerous, especially with so many little ones in the area.”

Libby watched Mary turn the boy around, pat his back and send him on his way. The principal, a short, bouncy woman with youthful skin and salt-and-pepper hair drawn back into a simple chignon, ran a tight but loving ship and was universally respected.

Libby approached her. “That went well.”

Smiling, Mary shook her head. “Boys. It’s so hard for them to resist temptation.” She accompanied Libby to the office. “How was your day?”

“Almost perfect. Just like all of them.”

“You can say that even after the Josh Jacobs caper?”

“That goes with the territory. Poor little guy. He was so embarrassed.”

Mary’s voice lowered. “We couldn’t reach his mother until just before school was out.”

“Let me guess. She was irritated he was sick?”

“That would be an understatement. Some people should simply never have children.”

Libby winced. Why were people like Mrs. Jacobs given the gift of children when she wasn’t? Quickly, she controlled her emotions. “That’s one reason we’re here. To pick up the pieces.”

“Lib,” a voice rang from down the hallway. “I’ll be right there.” Redheaded Lois Jeter, the physical education teacher, scrambled into her all-weather coat and hurried toward them. “Sorry, the gym was a disaster area today. I just now got the mats hung up.”

“We really appreciate you,” Libby assured her with a grin. “On these wintry days, the kids need to work off all the steam they can.”

Mary turned toward Libby. “I understand you and Doug are going to work off some steam this weekend in Missoula.”

Hearing “steam” and “Doug” in the same sentence caused butterflies to converge in Libby’s stomach. It didn’t help that Mary was beaming approval that had nothing to do with Libby’s skillful handling of a second-grader’s intestinal upset.

“Missoula?” Lois cocked an eyebrow.

“We’re going to the symphony.”

Lois threw up her hands in playful despair. “And here I thought you were going to hit the wild club scene.”

Libby did her best to match the mood. “What? And miss Mozart? I’m looking forward to a bit of culture.”

“So is Doug, my dear.” Mary patted Libby’s shoulder. “So is Doug.”

On the ride to the garage, Libby was grateful that Lois’s chatter prevented her from dwelling on the expectant look in Mary Travers’s eyes. Worse yet, she didn’t want to consider why Mary’s approval bothered her.

TRENT SAT at the table in the kitchenette alcove, poring over figures. In front of him was Chad’s printout of estimated start-up costs, profit-and-loss statements from the last three years, and a breakdown of income generated by the various services Swan Mountain Adventures offered. Because of recent forest fires in the area, the current owners were making them a heck of a deal. Chad had the people skills and the business background to handle accounting and marketing, and Trent knew equipment and maintenance. They shared knowledge of the outdoors and expertise in guiding. With hard work and a bit of luck, the venture looked like a winner.

Setting down the pencil, he stared into the living room, where Kylie sat on the floor, Barbies positioned around her in a protective circle. She mumbled dialogue as she picked up first one and then another of the well-endowed dolls. “Mommy doesn’t want you to wear orange with red,” he heard her chide the platinum-blond figure. She shook her head disapprovingly. “They don’t match.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Ashley had been a clotheshorse, occasionally straining their finances with her need to look bandbox perfect, but he had to give it to her. Heads had turned when she walked into a room. Kylie’s prissiness, on the other hand, worried him. It was as if she’d seized on her appearance as a means to…what? Control her world? Keep Ashley’s memory alive?

“Daddy?”

Trent’s eyes snapped open. “What, baby?”

“Are you doing homework?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

She set down the doll and approached him, her forehead wrinkled. “You don’t go to school.”

“No, but I work.”

Sidling up to him, she put her thin arm around his neck. “With tools. You’re a carmpenter.”

Her mispronunciation of the word never failed to amuse him. “Car-pen-ter.” He ruffled her hair, then drew a deep breath before launching the subject he’d been avoiding. “What if I didn’t want to be a carpenter any longer?”

Eyes widening, she looked at him as if he’d just emerged from a UFO. “Not be a carmpenter? What would you be then?” Before he could begin his carefully reasoned explanation, she hurried on. “I know! You could be the boss, like Grandpa Gus.”

He pulled her up on his lap, snuggling her against his chest. “No, honey, I couldn’t. Even if I were the boss, I would still miss doing all the things I love.”

“You don’t love carmpentry?” She sounded surprised, as if fathers weren’t supposed to change—ever.

“No, honey, I don’t. I love hiking and skiing and fishing and being out-of-doors.”

“Oh.” She nodded her head in understanding.

“You want to play, not work.”

Play? Was that what this was? An immature need to recapture his adolescence?

“What if my work felt like play?”

She giggled. “That’s silly, Daddy.”

“What if I could be—” he hesitated, his mouth dry “—happier?”

Lifting one small hand to his cheek, she studied him. “We’re sad, aren’t we? We miss Mommy, right?”

“But Mommy would want us to be happy again, to laugh and play.”

“Okay,” she said, as if the matter was settled.

Okay? If only it could be that simple. He had gone back and forth about the best way to break the news to Kylie, but now that the time had come, the words stuck in his throat. He licked his lips, cuddled her closer, and then, with a deep breath, began, “I have something important to tell you, and I want you to listen carefully.”

“It’s about Mommy, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

She rubbed her nose. “I know. About your carmpentry.”

“Yes. Yesterday I told Grandpa that I won’t be working for him anymore.” Much as he’d dreaded telling Gus his plans, Trent had been relieved when, despite his obvious disappointment, his father-in-law had claimed to understand. Now he said to Kylie, “I’ve accepted a job in a place called Whitefish that will make me much happier. I think you’ll really love it there.”

“We’re moving?”

Swallowing hard, he nodded.

She jumped from his lap and stood glaring at him, her fingers working the lace trim of her sweatshirt. “No!”

“But, honey—”

“I’m not going.” Her protruding lower lip sent a powerful message.

“Just now you said it would be okay for us to learn to laugh and play again.”

She stamped her foot. “But right here.”

Tension knotted Trent’s gut. “You’ll like Whitefish. It’s where I went to school.”

“I don’t like fish!”

“There are lakes and mountains. You can learn to ski and snowshoe and—”

“No.” She shook her head back and forth, her straight blond hair fanning the air. “We can’t leave.”

Trent tried desperately to see the situation from his daughter’s point of view. She’d had too many changes lately. Did he have any right to inflict one more on her, even one that would free him in ways that made him light-headed with relief? “Why not?”

Kylie stood stock-still, looking at him as if he had just asked the world’s most ridiculous question. “Because Mommy’s here.”

His chest ached. “Sweetie, we’ve been over this so many times. Mommy is dead. Even though she is never coming back, she is always with us in spirit, but she isn’t in Billings.”

He watched, thunderstruck, as Kylie’s face screwed up into a red ball before she screamed at him, “She is too! She’s at that place with the stone. The c-cemcementery!”

“Oh, honey.” Although Kylie struggled against him, he gathered her back into his arms, where she remained stiff and unmoving. “The decision has been made.”

She stared at the far wall. “I’m not going.”

This was harder than he’d imagined. “Where else would you live except with me?”

“With Grandma Georgia and Grandpa Gus.”

Trent bit his lower lip, knowing full well his in-laws would welcome that plan. “Wouldn’t you miss me?”

She shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “You could visit me.”

It was time for a dose of reality. “I wouldn’t be able to visit very often. I’ll be working.”

She didn’t move.

“I’d really like you to come with me. In Whitefish there’s a big lake and a ski slope. You could go to the same school where I went as a little boy.”

Her lips quivered and she wrung the hem of her shirt.

“Looks like we have a problem, doesn’t it? I’m not happy being a carpenter. You don’t want to leave Billings. What do you think we should do about this?”

“What would you do there—in that place?” she mumbled.

Patiently he explained about the adventure-outfitting business. About his love of the out-of-doors, which he wanted to share with her. About how lonely he would be without her.

“Where would we live?”

“To start with, in Weezer McCann’s guest cabin.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Weezer? Who’s that?”

“I’ve told you about her. Remember, she’s the lady who helped Grandma Lila and me when I was a little boy. She was like my second mother. You’ll love her. She tells the most wonderful stories.”

Kylie twined her fingers around his wrist. “What about?”

Good Lord, had he actually succeeded in capturing her interest? “Native American legends about birds and fish and animals. Why they’re named what they are. Why they do what they do.”

“Like beavers and bears and stuff?”

“Exactly.”

Just when he thought he’d convinced her, she scowled. “No,” she said, adamantly shaking her head. “I have to stay here.”

Gently he ran a hand over her soft hair. “Can you tell me why?”

She sniffled against his shirt. “Mommy.”

He held her close, feeling her fists curl against his chest. “Mommy is in heaven. Don’t you suppose she wants us to be happy?”

Seconds passed. Then she looked up at him. “I ’spect so.”

“Our love for Mommy and our memories of her can go with us anywhere in the whole wide world, right?”

A teary nod.

“So whaddya say we take Mommy with us to a place where you and I can be happy? She would love it. It’s beautiful country filled with wildflowers, big green trees and gurgling streams.”

She squirmed to the end of his knees and regarded him thoughtfully. “Did you say mountains?”

“Spectacular mountains.”

“Ice cream?”

The non sequitur made him laugh. “Scoops and scoops of it!”

She looked directly into his eyes. “Daddy, I like it when you laugh. Do you think you can laugh again when we go to that fish place?”

Laugh again? Dear God, had he been that out of touch? He reached for her and enfolded her in a huge bear hug. “Yes, sweetie, I’ll laugh again—lots more. And so will you.”

“Okay, then.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

“But there’s one thing.”

At this point he would gladly have presented her with the entire state of Montana had it been within his power. “What’s that?”

“I know Mommy’s with us in spirit, like you said, but what about that cementery? Could we go say goodbye before we move?”

Trent’s heart shattered. “Tomorrow, honey.”

With the wisdom given only to children, she had hit upon the one act he now realized he, too, needed to perform.

LIBBY DUCKED her head as she and Doug climbed the steps of the bed-and-breakfast following the symphony. Brahms and Mozart had done little to soothe her nerves. Instead, she’d spent most of the concert thinking about whether her insistence on two rooms had jeopardized her best chance for love and family.

“Feel like a nightcap?” Doug asked in the lobby as he removed her coat. “There’s a wonderful gas fireplace in my room—and a bottle of Amaretto.”

Doug, always considerate, deserved her enthusiasm. “It’s hard to turn down a cozy fire and an after-dinner drink.” She smiled. “Not to mention one very nice man.”

“Good,” he said, his eyes warm with affection.

The fireplace cast light and shadow over Doug’s room, which was decorated in deep burgundy and green tones. Settling her on the love seat, he filled two goblets, then sat beside her, raising her glass in a toast before handing it to her. “Here’s to you, Libby.”

The toast was definitely more than a casual “Here’s to ya.” Libby watched him sip from his glass, then sit back in satisfaction, before she took a swallow, letting the almond sweetness linger on her tongue.

To fill the silence, she started a discussion of the concert. She’d always loved music, even as a tiny child. A dim memory returned, a long-lost vignette. Her mother sitting in the corner of the high-ceilinged living room, the sun falling on her dark curly hair as she bent to the harp, the melody of the plucked strings sending a thrill through Libby’s small body. How old had she been? Four? Five? Gazing now into the dancing flames, she treasured the immediacy of the image before recalling the dark days that followed. When she was six, her mother died, and the silenced harp gathered dust in the corner until her stepfather had finally sold it.

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Doug said, taking her half-empty glass and setting it on the coffee table beside his.

“Just remembering.” His arm settled around her shoulder. “Music does that for me.”

“Evocative,” he said quietly.

“Very.”

“Feel like telling me about it?”

She shrugged.

“You don’t talk much about the past.”

What was the point? Talking didn’t change anything. “No.” She tried a cheery smile. “The present and future are so much more compelling.”

She observed a question in his eyes, but he didn’t press her, for which she was grateful. “I could get interested in discussing the present and the future,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “Starting with tonight.” He lowered his head and began kissing her.

Libby’s awareness hovered somewhere above and beyond the pressure of his mouth, the tingle of his fingers running through her hair. He’d kissed her before, of course, but this was different. Not unpleasant, but no longer merely platonic.

She tried to relax, to give in to the sensation of being held, of arousing a man again. He cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking hers. Involuntarily, an erotic response flared within her, irritating her. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time, she did. It was the best thing that could happen. Doug made her feel desirable. Safe.

When he withdrew, he framed her face with his hands, and his eyes were glazed with desire. “You’re sure about the two rooms?”

She bit her lip. Was she? Sooner or later… Suddenly it all seemed too pat, too contrived—a seduction scene. Then, out of the blue, another memory hit her—this one about spontaneity, blood-pounding need and the frantic urge to bare her body in a mindless frenzy. She froze.

“Libby?”

“Not tonight.” The words sounded like a parody of every bored, headachy housewife.

“Soon?” he asked hopefully.

She ducked her head. She wanted a husband. A home. Tears darted to her eyes. Children. Especially children. “We’ll see.”

Doug would make a wonderful father. Sadly, she knew from bitter experience that the same could not be said about some men.

One in particular.

Almost unconsciously, she pressed her hands over the flat of her womb, sensing the emptiness within.

From somewhere outside her, she heard Doug’s voice. “I care about you, Libby. I can be patient.”

She dissolved against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, his body radiating a heat that slowly thawed the chill in hers.

It was well after midnight when she finally roused from his embrace and went to her room.

Alone.

GEORGIA CHILSOLM PAUSED in the doorway of her immaculate living room. A single dust mote fluttered and settled on the polished surface of the sofa table. She moved forward, wiping the cherry wood with the tissue she held in her hand. Then, walking briskly across the room, she aligned the pillows on the damask sofa, which were off by a fraction of an inch. The latest issues of Architectural Digest and House and Garden lay fanned on the coffee table. She checked to see that the large crystal vase of carefully arranged gladioli held sufficient water. Satisfied that all was in order, she permitted herself to stand before the fireplace, studying the pastel portrait hanging above the mantel. Ashley.

Every afternoon she spent time with her daughter, studying the serene blue gaze that followed her wherever she sat in the room. Remembering the silky feel of those white-blond tresses. Hearing in her mind Ashley’s laughter, bright and sparkling. She longed to trace once more the smooth, pale pink skin of her daughter’s cheek, to watch her lips form a small O of surprise and delight.

It was cruel, too cruel.

Georgia stepped backward, then eased into an armchair, her eyes never leaving the portrait of her daughter, frozen in time at twenty-three. Just before she met Trent Baker.

It was too late for if-onlys. Georgia had entertained such grand plans for her daughter. She closed her eyes now and pictured the shabby shotgun house in the company mining town in which she’d grown up. She could still remember how her mother hoarded the few dollars she could cajole from Georgia’s miner father before he headed for the tavern. Georgia steeled herself against the memories of nights she went to bed cold and hungry. When she’d married Gus, his thriving construction company promised a better life and a respectable standing in the community. Because of that, Ashley could have married any number of young, attractive, professional men.

Georgia worried the arm covers of the chair with her restless fingers. So why Trent? It had made no sense. A rough-and-tumble young man, no more at home in a museum or theater than a lumberjack would be. He was handsome, she’d give him that. But she’d raised Ashley to be more discriminating than to be won over by physicality and raffish charm. A twinkle in the eye was scant measure of a man’s ability to provide and protect.

Ashley had been a delightful, tractable child. A thoughtful and affectionate teen. Nothing in her experience as Ashley’s mother had prepared Georgia for her daughter’s reaction to Trent Baker. Ashley had dug in her heels, deaf to her mother’s pleas, determined to marry the man.

Then, thanks to his carelessness, the issue had been rendered moot. Ashley was pregnant.

Not wanting to alienate her daughter, Georgia had done her best to coexist with Trent. He knew she didn’t like him and would have preferred someone else for Ashley. Only the birth of Kylie had softened her stance. He was a loving father to the child, who slowly and inexorably grabbed hold of Georgia’s heart in a way no one except her daughter ever had. Georgia could almost forgive Trent as she marveled over the exquisite little girl.

Then had come the diagnosis. Abrupt. Devastating. Terminal. Georgia lifted her eyes to the portrait, where Ashley sat poised as if to speak, a smile softening her features. What would you tell me if you could, my darling daughter?

Through the long months of Ashley’s illness, Trent had remained devoted, exhausting himself with the care of both his wife and daughter. It was as if he’d wanted to graft himself to them in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.

Now he was taking her granddaughter away. It would have been kinder had he taken a knife and carved out a section of her heart. This loss, on top of the other, was unbearable.

The shadows lengthened on the thick Persian rug, but Georgia was oblivious, her eyes trained on the portrait, where Ashley seemed to nod her head imperceptibly as she always had when her mother over-stepped her bounds with Trent. Whether Georgia understood it or not, Ashley had loved Trent to the end. And, in his own way, he had loved her.

How could he even think of taking Kylie and moving away?

It was when she turned her thoughts to her granddaughter that the tears began to trickle in earnest down her powdered cheeks.