A Man She Can Trust

Imagining that he wanted her out of the way in case of trouble, she hesitated, then waved goodbye. She shifted her car into Reverse, backed carefully around the patrol car and headed slowly up the two miles to her own home on Bitter Creek Road.

The Sable bucked through the drifts. She nearly buried it at the low spot where the bridge crossed the creek, but then the spinning tires gained purchase against the gravel beneath the snow and lurched forward. Jill exhaled in relief as she made it up into the timber, where the pines and winter-bare undergrowth of the forest blocked the drifting snow.

At the top of Chapel Hill, the trees gave way to a small clearing and the two-and-a-half-story, red-brick Victorian she and Grant had bought last summer. Back when they’d still imagined filling it with a half-dozen children someday.

Back when she’d still believed in her own fairy-tale ending. After growing up poor raised by her single mother, the house had seemed like a dream come true.

By day, the fanciful cupolas and explosion of gingerbread trim at every edge held their own drab charm. The paint was faded and curling, some of the pieces missing or sagging, but it was still possible to envision what it could become.

Though at night, the house loomed dark and forbidding, its narrow spires rising like daggers through the blowing snow, its windows black and empty.

She parked the car in the garage and scurried across the yard to the broad wraparound porch.

With cold fingers she fumbled her key into the front door lock, then let herself inside and flipped on the vestibule lights with a sigh of relief.

After tapping in her security code on the panel next to the front closet, she bumped the thermostat up to sixty-five and shucked off her boots and coat.

At the sound of something thundering down the curving, open staircase ahead, she grinned and crouched down. “Hey, Badger!”

Twenty pounds of sinuous fur launched out of the shadows and into her arms, nearly knocking her flat. “Pretty kitty,” she crooned, staggering upright with the cat slung over her shoulder. “Weird, but pretty. Have you been a good boy?”

On her way to the kitchen she flipped on the lights in the parlor, where the plants were all still upright in their pots.

And in the library, where she noticed with some relief that the flower arrangement on the coffee table—courtesy of her office nurse, in honor of Jill’s thirty-third birthday last week—was still arranged properly in its vase.

“Wow,” she murmured, pulling the cat away from her shoulder to look into his face. “Apparently you were still tired from the last time I left.”

He gave her a baleful look and wiggled until she put him on the floor, then stalked over to his empty food dish and lashed his plume of a tail, clearly put out by the delay.

She took a can of his favorite cat food from the cupboard and stirred in some dry kitty kibble, filled his water dish—from which he would drink only if it was full—then reopened the fridge and studied the contents.

Once upon a time, there’d been a hearty stock of provisions in there for the dinners she and Grant had prepared together. Now, the thought of cooking just made her tired. Straightening, she foraged in the freezer for a low-fat packaged dinner and tossed the first one she found into the microwave without bothering to read the label.

A chill swept through the kitchen, so heavy with sadness that she spun around, half expecting to see an apparition standing behind her.

No one was there. Nothing stirred, except the languid lashing of Badger’s tail as he chowed down on his dinner.

You’re imagining things again.

The security system was new, state of the art, and the house was surely secure. Still, uneasy, she slowly retraced her steps and cautiously peered into the library.

The old chandelier suspended from the pressed-tin ceiling bathed the center of the room in soft light, but left the corners in darkness. She sensed nothing amiss.

Reassured, she laughed at her overactive imagination as she moved to the parlor and rested a hand on the heavy, carved mahogany trim of the archway. Here, too, the soft light of an antique chandelier shadowed the nooks and crannies.

Though the house had been sold unfurnished, she and Grant had found some delightful old pieces up in the attic. A turn-of-the-century sewing machine with cast-iron filigree legs. An old, painted fern pedestal, which she’d refinished to its original deep-oak beauty. A warped rocking chair that—after a trip to a furniture repair shop—now fit nicely at the bay window overlooking the side garden.

They’d put all of the original pieces they’d found into this room, and then she’d added an old, towering secretary, intricately carved, and a lovely old oriental rug in deep jewel tones.

She stilled. When had she moved the rocker to the room’s front windows?

Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at it.

Almost imperceptibly, it appeared to be moving…as in those final, slow moments after someone has gotten up and walked away.

You really need more sleep. Next, you’ll be seeing apparitions in the hallway, and bogeymen in your closet.

It was only the wind, of course. Drafts found their way into the old house whenever the wind blew outside.

A faint sound echoed down the shotgun hallway leading to the front entry. She looked down, surprised to see her hands clenched.

It’s only my imagination.

Then again, it might be Sheriff Johnson, here to give her a logical explanation for the lights at Warren’s house.

She strode to the front door, already forming an apology when she pulled it open.

“I suppose it was n-nothing—” She stammered to a halt, her hand at her throat, and stared into the face of the man who’d sworn he’d never set foot on Chapel Hill again.

Snow glistened on the broad shoulders of his black wool coat. Clung to the deep waves of his windblown blond hair. His eyes met hers—stormy, compelling, still capable of sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the bitter wind swirling past him into the house.

“New approach, I take it. Intimidation by the law,” he said, his gravelly voice even deeper from the cold. “You could have just called the house, Jill. Saved the sheriff a trip out here on a night like this.”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I—I saw your father an hour ago. He didn’t say you were here, so I had no idea. I thought someone might be ransacking the place.”

“I wasn’t, and I’ll be there for some time. Just thought you should know.” Grant turned to go, then looked over his shoulder. “Your home phone’s out of order, by the way…and you didn’t answer your cell. That’s the reason I had to come up here.”

The cold, flat expression in his eyes chilled her. “I…must have left it in the car.”

He crossed the porch in three strides, descended the steps and disappeared. A moment later he was back with her cell phone.

“I still remember the key code to your car door,” he said. “I thought you’d better have this.”

She gratefully accepted it, then stood aside. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

For one brief moment, she saw the old pain and anger reflected in his eyes. “That would be a big mistake. I don’t think either one of us wants to go there again. Ever.”

“You’re right.” She stood at the open door and watched him walk away. A few minutes later, she saw a pair of headlights swing around out by the garage. Red taillights disappeared into the snowy darkness.

And he was gone.

Jill closed the door, shoved the dead bolt home and leaned her forehead against the leaded glass insert in the door.

Separation had been the right thing. Their divorce was inevitable, and she didn’t want him back. Yet a part of her missed the togetherness. The tenderness. The warmth of another person to snuggle against.

And, if she were honest, she missed the incredible passion she’d never felt with anyone but him.

But she and Grant had grown into two very different people over the years, with different goals, different priorities. Their love had faded…then ended in bitterness and accusations. And she needed a person she could trust, not a man who considered other women free game.