This Time For Keeps

The soft, buttery-yellow glow stopped her. He worked quietly, deliberately—just as he did everything. His chest and feet were bare, his jeans faded and low-slung. Together, man and paintbrush moved in symbiotic rhythm, the muscles of his bare arms and shoulders bunching and releasing with each smooth, even stroke.

The night before, the room had been boring builder-beige. Now the nursery-to-be beckoned like morning sunshine. That had been their intent.

The symbolism appealed.

“Looks good,” she murmured, her voice still thick from sleep.

Russell turned, and despite the familiarity between them, her breath caught. His dark copper hair was mussed, his strong jaw in need of a razor. And his smile…it was slow, languorous. “You caught me.”

The words were playful, but she knew her husband well enough to see the fatigue in the dark green of his eyes, the sharp glint of something he clearly did not want her to see. Three walls were painted, including trim. Even working at a brisk pace, he couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or two.

He’d been acting oddly ever since the phone call that had jarred them from sleep a few days before. He’d left the bed, talked in hushed tones. Told her there was nothing to worry about.

She was trying to believe him.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, changing the subject the way he always did when he sensed she was about to prod too close to something he wasn’t ready to share. He put down the brushes, crossed to her.

“You didn’t.” She took his hand and drew it to her belly. “Your son did.”

Almost instantly, a twinkle came into Russ’s eyes. “You mean my daughter.”

Pushing up on her toes, Meg brushed her lips across his. “Maybe,” she murmured indulgently, loving the soft scrape of his whiskers. Most men were obsessed with having sons, but all Russell talked about was having a little girl.

“With eyes of blue like her mum’s,” he said, lapsing into the brogue of his childhood. They’d known each other for six years, been married four. The echo of a Scottish accent shouldn’t still inspire that quick little rush. But it did. It was such a disconnect coming from a man who always looked ready to tackle the great outdoors.

“Blond hair,” he added while his fingers wove through hers.

Somehow, his touch was as gentle as his words.

“A sweet little smile—”

“Careful what you wish for, Montgomery,” she teased, grinning up at him. “You really think you can handle two of us?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Watch me.”

She planned on it.

“Wee one must have gone back to sleep,” he said, but Meg wouldn’t let him take his hand from her stomach. She loved the warmth of his palm against her chemise, loved looking down to see his fingers splayed against her belly.

“Just wait,” she whispered.

His frown caught her by surprise. “Can’t,” he said. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting over at the Manor.”

She stepped back. “Everything okay?”

“Just somebody I used to work with.”

“From New York?”

“London,” he said, returning to pour the remaining yellow paint back into the can.

Questions surged like the floodwaters that had almost inundated their home the month before, but like a makeshift dam, Meg held them back. They’d been through this before. He’d made his choice, made a clean break, walked away. He didn’t miss his old life, didn’t want to go back.

Still, curiosity needled through her. As publisher and editor-in-chief of the Piney Woods Gazette, that was her job, after all. To ask questions.

It’s how they’d met.

“Anyone I know?”

“No.”

The vagueness of his answers was not lost on her. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about this old colleague—or what they would be discussing. But she knew. A photojournalist, Russ had been at the top of his field when he’d turned his back on it all—the acclaim, the travel. The freedom.

For her.

Someone was always trying to lure him back. “Well, give her my—”

“Meggie.” He was across the room in a heartbeat, leaning down to take her face in his hands. “Sean. His name is Sean. We—”

“Russ—”

“—did a few ride-alongs together in Iraq. He’s with the BBC—”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m here.” The ferocity in his voice made her heart slam. “With you, Meggie. It’s where I want to be.”

She swallowed hard. She knew that. She did. And if she ever had any doubt, she had only to look at the gallery of framed photographs lining the hallway. From their honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands to an afternoon picnic among the Texas bluebonnets, the moments were all there, captured. Preserved.

The surge of raw emotion was new to her. Hormones, she figured. Her girlfriends told her it was perfectly normal, but she’d cried more since becoming pregnant than she had in the past few years, combined.

Her cousin Julia promised this was just the beginning.

“I know,” she whispered.

Russ slid his hand back down to cup the newly formed bump. “And at eleven o’clock I’ll be with you at Dr. Brennan’s.”

Meg smiled. At the last sonogram, their little one had waved, then gone right back to sleep. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he said with a long, hard kiss. “I’ll be there.”

CHAPTER ONE

Two and a half years later

WHISPERS OF MORNING SUN leaked through the blinds, casting the small room in an ethereal glow. A cloth doll sat in the rocking chair. A soft pink towel lay on the changing table. And in the far corner, the crib stood in shadow. That was by design. Meg wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking, putting a baby in the room that was first to greet the morning. Actually she was pretty sure she hadn’t been thinking at all.

Pure emotion, much like pure adrenaline, had a way of sending logic straight out the window.