Where He Belongs

A heavy feeling weighted her heart. Norm was her grandmother’s closest friend and the most generous person she knew. She couldn’t bear to think of him dying.

“At least Wade made it here in time,” Lottie said.

Wade. Erin froze and for long seconds struggled to breathe. Lottie couldn’t know, she told herself desperately. No one knew, aside from herself and Wade. Lottie was just making conversation.

“That’s good.” She carefully hung the hot pads on the hook beside the stove and prayed that her voice sounded normal.

“And Norm said he’s staying with us.”

“What?” Erin’s mind blanked. “Who’s staying with us? Norm?”

“No, of course not. Wade is.” Lottie pulled out the silverware and closed the drawer. “Norm asked about the room the other day, but I forgot to tell you. I assumed it was fine since you keep running that ad.”

Erin’s heart tripped, then careened through her chest. Wade would be in her house? Renting her room? Wade?

“In fact, he’ll probably be here soon,” Lottie added. “I’ll set an extra place in case he’s hungry.”

Erin gaped at Lottie. Wade was on his way here?

Lottie cocked her head to the side. “Are you okay, hon?”

She blinked. “I’m fine. I just…I mean, I’d better check the room. Make sure the vent’s open so he’ll get heat. Do you mind helping Grandma?”

Lottie waved her off. “Go on. I’ll get Mae.”

Erin whirled from the kitchen. She took the stairs two at a time, rushed into the master bedroom and slammed the door. Then she leaned against the wall and gasped for breath.

Wade Winslow. Here. In her house.

Oh, Lord.

She placed her palm over her heart and dragged in a steadying breath. She had to get a grip. Wade had happened years ago. Twelve long years ago. One incredible, passionate night that had meant the world to her and nothing to him.

Not that she’d blamed him. She’d always known he wouldn’t stay. Even though she had hoped….

But she wasn’t the type to delude herself. Not then, and certainly not now. Especially when it came to Wade Winslow.

She straightened and crossed to the bed. Reaching up, she removed a picture frame from the wall. Then, for an endless moment, she gazed at the wrinkled paper inside and let herself drift to the past. Wade’s poem. That night. The sound of him driving away.

A huge ache lodged in her chest, that painful mix of longing and passion, sympathy and desolation that comprised her feelings for Wade.

Then she sighed. More than a decade had passed since then, and Wade was just an old friend now, a former high school classmate. A houseguest, whose rent would help pay her bills.

And she could handle him. She could. She marched to the dresser and stuck the frame beneath the quilt in the bottom drawer. She opened the heating vent, straightened the bedspread, and hung clean towels in the bathroom. Satisfied, she walked to the bedroom door.

And stopped. Handle him? Wade Winslow? Who was she fooling?

Oh, Lord. She’d better hold tight to her heart.

Chapter Two

Wade raced along the road that fronted the Potomac River, banking hard into the corners and venting the anger that simmered in his gut. By the time he slowed to cross the one-lane bridge at Mills Ferry, his temper had subsided into frustration.

Why had Norm hidden the truth from him? Why hadn’t Max told him how sick Norm was? And how in the hell could he fix it now?

His stomach knotted, he pulled into the turnout in the woods below Mills Ferry and cut the engine. Then he tugged off his helmet and scowled out at the leaden river. A ribbon of sparrows dipped over the water, twisting, contracting, and finally swooping away until the black specks merged with the tombstone-gray sky—the same damn color as the rocks, river and everything else in this blasted town.

A fierce ache cramped his throat and he tipped back his head and shut his eyes. Hell. The place even smelled like death-parched earth and rotting leaves. The same stench as when his mother died, and later Rose.

Fighting back the painful lump in his throat, he forced his mind to the bare branches creaking against the moan of wind in the pines, the weariness seeping through his body. When the cramp in his chest eased slightly, he again opened his eyes.

He needed to sleep. That was his problem. He was just too drained to think straight anymore. In the morning, when his head was clear, he could find a way to help Norm.

He cranked the key in the Harley’s ignition and felt it rumble to life. Not bothering to put on his helmet, he pulled back onto the road and drove the quarter mile to the ridge. He still couldn’t believe Norm wanted him to stay at Mills Ferry. Since when did Mrs. McCuen rent rooms? And what if he ran into Erin?

His gut clenched at that possibility, but he pushed aside the thought. No way was he dwelling on Erin. He had enough on his mind without going down that road tonight.

He stopped at the mansion’s iron gates and idled the engine, then scanned the small, hand-lettered sign advertising a room. So Norm was right. But why was Mrs. McCuen taking in renters? He never thought she’d need the money.

Still mulling that over, he turned onto the long gravel drive lined with oak trees and threaded his way toward the house. Potholes and dangling branches threatened to knock him off his bike, and he felt more off kilter. Growing up, Mills Ferry had represented everything he didn’t have: history, tradition, old-world society and wealth. And it was a showcase. The trim was kept freshly painted and flowers bloomed everywhere. But dried leaves blew across the rutted driveway and heaped against the stone fences now.

He parked his Harley at the end of the driveway beside a faded blue Honda Civic. With a groan, he rolled his shoulders and stretched, then climbed off the bike and hefted the saddlebag over his shoulder.

God, he was tired. And his knee had stiffened up again. He limped slowly around the giant azalea bushes spilling over the gravel and climbed the front porch steps. The warped boards bent and creaked beneath his feet.

Shaking his head, he crossed to the massive front door and pushed the bell. When it didn’t ring, he braced his hands on his hips. What was with this place? He couldn’t imagine Mrs. McCuen letting it go like this. Unless she’d sold it? But that was even less likely.

Frowning, he looked across the sagging porch to a broken tree limb in the yard and a sick feeling rose in his gut. All these years he’d kept a picture in his mind of Erin standing here on the porch—beautiful, secure in her elegant mansion, untouched, except for that night at the river. But what if she wasn’t so safe? What if he had been wrong?

Guilt surged, but he shoved it aside. He was definitely not going down that track, he reminded himself. Erin and Mills Ferry were none of his business. The only thing he needed to worry about tonight was sleep.

He turned back to the door, lifted the clawed knocker and slammed it down. Then he leaned his forearm against the doorjamb to wait.

The sharp rap on the door jerked Erin’s heart to a halt. For several long seconds she clutched her napkin, unable to move, unable to think.

“That must be Wade,” Lottie said cheerfully. “I’ll get it.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay.” Her heart suddenly hammering, she scraped back her chair and rose from the kitchen table. “I’ll let him in. I’ll need to show him the room, make sure he knows where the towels are, explain the meals…”

She was rambling. Avoiding Lottie’s perceptive gaze, she set her napkin beside her plate and squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “I’ll be right back, Grandma.”

She exited the kitchen and walked quickly down the hall to the foyer, her heart drumming louder than her footsteps on the wood floor. This was silly, she told herself firmly. She could act normal for the short time he was here. After all, he had nothing to do with her life anymore.

Summoning an image of herself as calm, friendly neighbor, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Her breath jammed in her throat.

Wade dominated the doorway, one leather-clad forearm braced on the frame, the other hand propped on his hip. He was taller than she remembered, broader through the shoulders and chest, and far more muscular than he’d been as a teen. But his short, shaggy hair was the same chestnut-brown, along with the stubble that lined his hard jaw.

Her gaze collided with those familiar, whiskey-colored eyes and her pulse fluttered madly. They were the eyes of a man who’d expected nothing from the world and gotten less. Bleak, cynical eyes set in a face etched with pain and exhaustion.