A Husband Worth Waiting For

Emma was already walking ahead into a large foyer decorated with sleek, pale oak furniture and graced by an elegant curving staircase. Rain dripped from her daughter’s slicker, leaving a trail of dime-size stains on the taupe Berber carpet.

“Wait!” Sarah called softly.

“Let’s find the kitchen, Mom.”

Sarah glanced at Jamie and saw he’d fallen asleep. She bit her lip undecidedly. She knew she ought to go over to the staircase and shout, ‘Helloooo?’ But if she did, she’d waken Jamie. Besides, it was obvious nobody was at home; she’d hammered the door loudly enough to waken the dead.

And the house had that unmistakably ‘empty’ feel to it.

Emma sat down and tugged off her pink rubber boots. Scrambling to her feet, she tossed her wet slicker on top of the boots and padded determinedly along a corridor to the left that led to the back of the house.

Sarah expelled a wry sigh. From the moment Emma Jane Morgan had drawn her first breath, she’d gone doggedly after what she wanted and tonight was apparently to be no exception!

Following in her wake, Sarah flicked on another light, revealing an open doorway at the far end of the corridor.

“It’s down here, Mom!” Entering the room, Emma rose on her tiptoes and had just hit the light switch when her mother caught up with her.

If Sarah hadn’t been so tired, she knew she’d have drooled over this kitchen. It could have been lifted straight off the glossy cover of Fabulous Homes.

Black. White. And chrome. Everything sparkling, spotless and dazzling. From the white-tiled floor, to the granite countertops, to the state-of-the-art appliances.

The recessed dining area was furnished with black leather–cushioned banquettes and a granite-topped table, while sleek white miniblinds on windows and patio door closed out all sight of the storm raging outside.

The shiny black fridge was zero clearance.

And Emma had already opened the door.

The child’s gaze widened as she stared inside. “Mom!” Her voice cracked. “You were right. It’s loaded!”

Sarah unwrapped Jamie from his slicker and settled him on one of the banquettes before moving to join Emma.

The fridge was, indeed, ‘loaded.’

Sarah’s stomach felt hollow with hunger and the knowledge that Emma’s probably felt the same squashed her qualms as she rummaged among cheeses and packaged meats, cartons of milk and bottles of orange juice.

She found a bowl of homemade soup, rich with carrots and tomatoes and rice. In a chrome bread bin, she found a whole-wheat loaf.

Minutes later, she and Emma were seated at the table, the homey smell of toast and savory soup filling the kitchen as they tucked in voraciously.

“What time is it, Mom?” Emma talked in a whisper to avoid waking Jamie.

“Almost midnight!”

“Holy moly!” Gray eyes round as saucers, Emma asked, “Have I ever been up this late before?”

“Not that I recall.” Sarah’s gaze flitted to a calendar on the wall just above Emma’s head. It was bare of notations except for one on the last square of the month, where someone had hand-printed: MINERVA LEAVING.

“Mom, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”

Sarah directed her attention back to Emma. “We’ll find a room with a sofa—armchairs—somewhere we can sleep.”

“Can’t we sleep in a bed?”

“No. Your uncle might not like that. But I’ll go upstairs and look for some blankets so we can be cozy.”

“How come Daddy never brought us here?”

“I don’t know, honey.” Which was, and was not, the truth. She knew that Chance had kept away from Morgan’s Hope because he and his brother were estranged, but she had no idea what had caused the estrangement because Chance had always refused to discuss it.

“Where is our uncle?” Emma tugged free a strand of rain-damp hair that was stuck to her cheek.

“He can’t be far away.” The front door had, after all, been unlocked. Although that could have been an oversight. The man could be in Timbuktu! But no, if he’d gone on a trip, he’d have gotten rid of the perishables in his fridge.

Emma licked the last drops of soup from her spoon. “Maybe he went for a walk.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Not in this storm.”

But if he hadn’t gone for a walk, reflected Sarah—and it would be crazy to think he had!—then where in the world was Jedidiah Morgan?

Jedidiah Morgan swept his palm smoothly across the woman’s alabaster-white shoulders. Running a caressing fingertip over her collarbone, he let it linger in the valley between her breasts. And then, eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the breasts themselves. Tilting his head, he examined the voluptuous curves before moving his gaze to the peaks.

An ironic smile played around his mouth as he flicked an erect nipple with his thumb pad.

“Perfect,” he said.

And finished. At last.

He stretched, yawned, and squinted at his watch.

Midnight.

He’d lost all sense of time. It was always the same when his work was going well.

“Hey, Max.” He whistled to the black Lab snoozing on the mat by the woodstove. “Time to go.”

The dog lifted his head, fixed his golden-brown eyes on his master. Then he stretched, yawned and pushed himself up. Black tail wagging, he trotted to the studio door.

Jed could hear the rain drumming on the roof as it had been doing all day. Shrugging on his anorak, he scooped up his heavy-duty flashlight from the bench.

When he stepped outside, needles of rain spiked his face. Ducking his head, he made for the path through the forest. Max snuffled away into the bushes. He’d catch up soon enough, Jed reflected as he played the beam of the flashlight ahead to light his way over the muddy path. And sure enough, by the time he got to the house a few minutes later, Max was panting impatiently on the front stoop.

“Right, boy.” Jed opened the door. “Snack and then bed.” He flicked on the foyer light…and froze as a couple of things hit him like a punch on the jaw.

First…the sight of dark, wet tracks on his carpet.

Second…the smell of toast from his kitchen.

Max growled.