In His Wife's Name

She wasn’t exaggerating. Luke examined the collection of power tools she had skillfully crammed into the one-car garage, which was little more than a shack constructed of decaying cedar siding. At least it had a window, albeit a small one, to bring in some light and ventilation.

It wasn’t every day he met a woman who knew a jigsaw from a scroll saw, much less wasn’t afraid of the whine or the ten-inch gleaming blade of a miter saw. Luke was frankly impressed that this Mary Calder seemed totally in her element, ankle-deep in sawdust. His wife had always tiptoed into his workshop as if getting sawdust on her three-hundred-dollar shoes and tracking sawdust into the other parts of the house were indictable offenses.

But why would someone want to hurt this Mary?

Luke detected an unmistakable wariness in her hazel eyes as she spoke to him, the same wariness he’d glimpsed fleetingly yesterday. It was the same hunted look perps wore when he questioned them on the street. Gut instinct told him there was something lurking here behind Mary’s bright smiles. He hoped, with time, that he could convince her to share her fears. Meanwhile, he’d provide protection for her and her daughter. Not that he was armed. Only federal police officers could transport firearms from one province to another.

As she opened a cupboard to show him where she stored her reversible electrical drill and bits, Luke could hear via the monitor Samantha noisily sucking on a bottle.

“Are these your husband’s tools?” he asked mildly. He had noted the absence of a wedding band yesterday when he was changing the truck’s tire.

She looked startled. “No. They’re all mine. I took up crafting after Samantha’s father died.”

“I’m sorry.”

She waved away his sympathy with a flustered smile, setting the baby monitor on the workbench beside a plastic file box filled with manila files. She pulled some patterns from two of the files. “Basically I’ve got forty-plus designs in my Garden Patch collection that I sell to retailers in the area. About half my designs are seasonal items. My busiest periods are Christmas, Halloween and Easter, though business is brisk in the summer with the tourists. The files here contain all the patterns you’ll be using. The patterns clearly indicate how many pieces must be cut per finished item. And I usually make a note on the inside of the file folder how many pieces can be cut from a particular dimension of lumber.” She pointed to a pile of lumber stacked on a couple of sawhorses. “These pine one-by-eights are for a rush order of letter boxes and welcome signs.” She laid the patterns out on two of the planks, her quick fingers minutely adjusting the placement of each pattern piece. “I’ll need a dozen signs and eight letter boxes as soon as possible.”

Luke slid his hand over the surface of the raw wood and tried not to be so aware of the scent of this woman, like an exotic hothouse flower, mingling with the aroma of the sawdust and the cedar shingles as she positioned a pattern piece along the grain of the wood. He’d hung up his toolbelt and sold the house when Mary had died, afraid that he might destroy, rather than create, in his grief. Finishing the house would have been a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. The condo he lived in now, with its neutral color scheme and barren walls, was blessedly free of memories of Mary. Someday Luke thought he might hang pictures on the walls and empty some of the boxes that filled the spare bedroom. “I think I can handle that.”

She nodded approvingly. “You’ll find sandpaper in a plastic bin beneath the workbench. I’d like the pieces sanded and ready for finishing. I do most of the painting in the house.” She paused awkwardly, her face blanching beneath the smattering of freckles. “You’re welcome to come inside to use the facilities, have a coffee. I always keep a pot on. Since we’re a ways out of town, you might want to bring a lunch and keep it in the refrigerator.”

“Thank you.”

Shannon hoped she was doing a good job of hiding her nervousness. Even though she’d checked Luke’s references and knew he was who and what he purported himself to be, warning twinges ignited inside her like firecrackers when they’d stepped into the garage. He was so male. So tall. And those competent blunt-tipped fingers had seemed so large as he’d stroked her tools.

Shannon told herself she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t live in fear of every man who entered her life.

Her ex-husband had robbed her of too much already. She wasn’t going to give him the power to make her distrust Luke. It was perfectly reasonable to allow Luke inside the garage and access to her home to use the washroom.

She tilted her head and caught his unwavering gray-blue gaze. “Are you going to be staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver for the time being? I’d like to know where I can reach you. Sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep to a schedule, something happens to throw me off.”

“Are there any motels in Blossom Valley? That would save me some driving time.”

“There’s one motel outside of town, though it’s usually full this time of year because it’s on the highway. It might be more affordable for you to rent a place by the week. I can guarantee you steady part-time work for the next two weeks—it’ll take me at least that long to find someone permanent. You can ask at the tourist-info center in town for a list of local rentals, or you might try asking Bill Oakes. I rent this place from him. He owns the blue house with the butterflies as you turned onto Shady Pines Road. Prices are reasonable because it’s not on one of the more popular lakes. The cottages along this road belong to his family, most of whom have moved to other parts of Canada. They don’t want to sell, it seems, so Bill rents them out and calls the place Shady Pines Resort.”

Those blue-gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re not from around here, either? Your accent sounds more Eastern.”

Shannon blinked. “Who me? No I—”

A cry pierced the air in the garage, followed by a thump and a plaintive wail.

Shannon gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Luke, I have to go.” Before he could say a word, Shannon hightailed it out of the garage.

Luke stared after Mary, his mind churning with speculation. She’d been frustratingly evasive when it came to answering personal questions. Was she truly a widow or was she lying?

He’d bet coffee and a doughnut she was lying. Had the person who’d slit her tire been an ex-spouse angered over a custodial dispute? Or was there more to it than that? Had she taken her daughter without the father’s consent? That might explain why she’d stolen another woman’s identity, if she had. But Luke had no proof that this Mary Calder wasn’t whom she claimed—only unscientific hunches.

Luke studied the pattern pieces she’d arranged on the pine board, then rearranged them to make a better fit. Somehow he’d make all the pieces of this case fit together, one at a time.

When, suddenly he heard Mary’s voice in the garage, speaking in soothing tones to the baby, Luke realized she had forgotten to take the baby monitor with her. “Oh, Samantha, come here, baby,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right. Mommy’s going to take care of you. Always.”

Was it Luke’s imagination or did he detect an air of desperation in her voice?

SHANNON WAS IMPRESSED when Luke brought her a stack of the finished wood for the welcome signs at the end of the afternoon.

“This ought to get you started,” he said with a gruff smile that made her chest feel strangely tight as she opened the screen door to him. “I’ll do the letter boxes tomorrow.” His face was beaded with a fine film of perspiration, and his clothes were speckled with sawdust. And he looked sexier than a pinup boy in a tuxedo. Raw and elemental.

Shannon took a firm grip of her hormones and reached down to scoop up Samantha, who was chewing on a biscuit. She’d had a productive afternoon. She’d painted two-dozen crow plant pokes. Tonight she could start on the welcome signs. “You look hot, Luke. Could I offer you a cold drink? Iced tea? Soda?”

“Water will be fine, thank you.”

Shannon motioned toward her worktable. “You can put the signs there and have a seat at the counter. Feel free to wash your hands at the sink if you like.”

He nodded wordlessly. As he stepped into her cottage, what she had always considered an airy space seemed to shrink enough to barely encompass his shoulders. Shannon fought the ripples of panic swelling in her.

Forcing a bright smile, she marched to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, reaching inside for a pitcher of water. One-handed, she poured him a drink and circled to the other side of the counter before presenting it to him. She felt safer with the width of the counter between them. But as he sat down across from her and she met his gaze, she could have sworn he understood her actions. Shame seared her. Was she that transparent?

Luke noted Mary’s uneasiness and the emotions shifting in her eyes, as well as the pink tide of color that rose from her neck and seeped into her cheeks before she turned away from him to examine his work. With her head lowered and her body pressed against the table as she held her daughter protectively on her hip, she reminded him of a hunted animal burrowing into its surroundings to escape the notice of a passing predator.

Compassion squeezed his heart. Just what or who was she running from?

He took a sip of water and let his gaze travel around the room. It exuded the whimsical touches of Mary’s creativity. Wreaths, bouquets of dried flowers and dozens of decorative hand-painted crafts dangled from pegs. Pegged racks painted a country blue were mounted at eye level on the pine-paneled walls. On one wall a narrow shelf was installed above the rack and held an assembly line of crafts in various stages of completion. Pencils, markers and brushes were carefully arranged in glass canning jars on the cottage’s dining table—an antique harvest table waxed to a soft mellow gleam—that obviously served as her worktable. A pine cupboard wedged into a corner held small plastic bottles of acrylic paint and cans of stain and varnish.

On the other side of the table was a playpen filled with stuffed toys and activity sets. He couldn’t see any photos of family and friends. No deceased husband. Like him, had she put the photos away because the memories they evoked were too painful? The room perfectly summed up what he already knew of Mary’s life: work, motherhood and a blank past.

He watched her run a finger along the sanded edge of a sign. “These look great, Luke,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Expertly cut. Perfectly sanded. I’ll be begging you to stay on permanently if you keep this up.”

Luke was oddly pleased by her compliment. It had felt good to see the shapes emerge from the wood. “Thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. We both agreed this was temporary. I took the liberty of looking at some of the other patterns. I like your designs. How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’ve been designing and painting things for years. I finally decided to be brave and turn my hobby into a job.”

Her breezy reply was characteristically vague. Luke dug in his heels, determined to peel back a layer or two. “I admire your initiative. It must not be easy running a business and being a single mom.”

He saw the muscles in the arm that circled her daughter tighten perceptibly. Still hovering over the worktable, she plucked a paintbrush from a jar, examined the bristles as if checking to make sure it was clean, then tucked it back into the jar. “It hasn’t been easy,” she admitted faintly, her back still to him. “When I was a teenager complaining about homework and studying, my mother used to tell me that if it wasn’t hard, then it wasn’t worth doing.” She turned toward him fully, her eyes glowing with steely determination. “I didn’t understand what she meant until I started this business. Now I’m glad my mother made me pay attention to algebra and geometry.”

Luke laughed dryly. Samantha stopping chewing on her biscuit at the deep unfamiliar sound and looked at him in sudden interest, her delicate bow-shaped brows lifting as if questioning what her mother was doing conversing with this strange man in their home. Luke gave her an amused grin.

“She’s a cutie. How old is she?”

“Almost ten months.”

“She’s walking early. My brother’s kids were closer to a year old when they started walking. His son could crawl up bookcases and cabinets.”

“Thankfully Samantha isn’t that adventurous. She never quite got the hang of crawling, but I think her natural curiosity to touch things out of her arm’s reach propelled her into standing, then walking. She loves brightly colored objects, especially flowers. Right, baby?”

Eyes gleaming, Samantha gave her mother and Luke a coquettish smile.

Luke laughed. “I’ll bet she just likes mischief. With a smile like that, she’s going to break a lot of hearts when she hits high school,” he predicted.