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The Hero's Sin
Darlene Gardner


Murderer. That's what they call him. That's what he calls himself. It's nine years since Michael Donahue set foot in his Pennsylvania hometown, but they're all still pointing fingers. Even after he risks his life to save a young boy from drowning, everyone's ready to think the worst of him. Except attorney Sara Brenneman.The outspoken Indigo Springs newcomer doesn't judge, doesn't listen to rumors. Like the town, she's also made up her mind about Michael–only, she thinks he's a hero. Not even Michael himself can shake her unswerving faith. But when the accusations begin again, will she still believe in him? And when she realizes the truth, will he be able to let her go?









Awareness sizzled in the air


“I don’t normally do this.” Sara seemed to hesitate. “Okay, I never do this. But would you like to come upstairs?”

Michael’s body hardened, his mind leaping ahead to the two of them naked, entwined in her bed. He dropped her hand and stuffed both of his into his pockets. “This isn’t smart, Sara. We just met. You don’t know anything about me.”

She laid a hand against his cheek, her eyes asking him to trust her. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Here was his chance to do the right thing. She thought he was a hero. A hero! It was almost laughable.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. But all he managed to say was “I’m not the man you think I am….”


Dear Reader,

How much stock do we put in the opinions of others? That question led me to write The Hero’s Sin, about a man viewed as anything but a hero.

I got the idea to have a town newcomer, who has no preconceived notion of our antihero, witness him bravely churning through white water to save a boy from drowning. Once unflattering portrayals of him reach her, she has to decide what to believe. Her ears? Her eyes? Or her heart?

The Hero’s Sin is the first of three books set in the fictional Pennsylvania mountain town of Indigo Springs. But the beauty of the countryside, with the dramatic peaks and the tumbling river, is very real.

I hope you enjoy the visit to Indigo Springs as much as I enjoyed creating the town—and the heroine’s dilemma.

All my best,

Darlene Gardner

P.S. Visit me on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.




The Hero’s Sin

Darlene Gardner










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


While working as a newspaper sportswriter, Darlene Gardner realized she’d rather make up quotes than rely on an athlete to say something interesting. So she quit her job and concentrated on a fiction career, which landed her at Harlequin/Silhouette Books, where she’s written for the Temptation, Duets and Intimate Moments lines before finding a home at Harlequin Superromance. Please visit Darlene on the Web at www.darlenegardner.com.


To Lisa Dyson, Beth Fedorko and Diane Perkins,

because they’re wonderful




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


M URDERER .

The word resounded in Michael Donahue’s head. It had been years since anyone had hurled the accusation at him but he leveled it at himself every day.

He bent down and picked up a flat rock, throwing it sidearm so it skipped across the shimmering surface of the Lehigh River before disappearing from sight.

That’s what he felt like doing. Disappearing.

He’d come to the river straight from the Philadelphia hotel where he’d been staying since returning from West Africa, so nobody in Indigo Springs had seen him yet. He could get back inside his rental car and put in motion his vague plan to find a quiet place where he could unwind until he heard whether he’d been approved for his next assignment. It didn’t matter where he went, as long as it was far from here.

Except he couldn’t leave until Sunday morning and it was only Friday afternoon. He had a rehearsal dinner and a wedding to get through because he’d given his word to his boyhood friend Johnny Pollock that he’d show. At least Michael had had the foresight not to let Johnny talk him into being best man.

“Best man,” Michael muttered, picking up another rock and chucking it as far as he could.

How ironic was that?

He sat down on one of the large slate rocks that lined the bank of the river, took off his shoes and socks and dangled his feet in the cool water.

He used to come to the river when he was a kid, although Aunt Felicia had probably thought he was off raising hell. She’d had reason. Despite her good intentions, his great-aunt hadn’t been able to handle a teenage boy angry at his mother for dying. Neither could she shield him from the loud arguments with her husband, who didn’t want him in their house.

Michael sighed, his gaze moving to the opposite riverbank where he spotted a great blue heron. Its spindly legs supported a gawky body more gray than blue. The bird flapped its wings and ascended into the cloudless sky, transforming into a creature of breathtaking beauty in an instant.

He soon figured out the reason the heron had taken flight: a kayak appeared, followed by a string of bright-green rubber rafts heading for the white water slightly downriver from where he sat.

He read the writing on the sides of the rafts as they drew closer—Indigo River Rafters, one of the outfits that operated guided commercial white-water trips on the Lehigh. The companies catered mostly to tourists, also offering mountain bikes and tubes for rent.

Chrissy had been partial to tubing.

He tried to blot out the memory, but it took hold. His mind conjured up an image of Chrissy, her blond hair pulled back from her pretty, laughing face as they headed downriver on the inflatable rubber tubes. Not that either of them had paid a rental fee for their fun.

Getting a couple of truck-tire inner tubes from Jessup’s Automotive Store in town would have been easy enough, but that’s not the way Michael had rolled. He’d wait until the commercial guides were loading tubes back onto the truck, then lift a couple when their backs were turned.

Chrissy had been up for it, but then she’d been up for just about anything. That was one of the things he’d enjoyed about her. He’d liked the way she’d been on his side, too. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried too hard to talk her out of leaving Indigo Springs with him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing in vain that the breeze off the river could blow away his guilt.

The boats were closer now, the rafters following the guide in the lead kayak down the left side of the river where the rapids were easier to ride.

The current was swifter than usual for summer, when the commercial companies were usually relegated to running pleasure trips. He was familiar enough with the river’s nuances that he figured it was a dam-release day. Officials periodically released water from the reservoir to increase the flow and depth of the river. The deeper, faster-moving water made for better fishing, boating and rafting, leading to more tourist dollars.

The strategy was working, judging by the number of people on this trip. Michael watched the rafters in front of the pack take their wild ride down the rapid, glimpsing wide grins and smiling, carefree faces.

As he tried to muster the courage to return to the town where he’d never been welcome, he envied them.



M AYBE HER FAMILY was right and she wasn’t as adventurous as she claimed to be.

The closer her group of rafters came to the churning, frothing rapid, the more Sara Brenneman felt compelled to paddle against the current. Back the way they’d come.

She suspected the beads of moisture on her forehead were drops of cold sweat instead of water from the Lehigh.

She glimpsed a lone, dark-haired man sitting on a rock, watching the rafts go by as though he didn’t have a worry in the world. How she wished she could join him on dry land.

She should be back in Indigo Springs unpacking the boxes that still filled the three-story stone row house she’d recently purchased in the heart of the downtown. The building was zoned commercial, and she was transforming the ground floor into a law office she hoped to open officially a week from Monday.

Only ten days from now.

Everything had happened so fast. One minute she was an associate at the large corporate firm in Washington, D.C., where her father was a partner. The next she was “seriously disappointing” him by starting a new life in a picturesque Pocono Mountains town where she knew no one except an old friend from high-school and the Realtor who had mentioned the white-water-rafting trip.

Even the three people in the raft with her were strangers, although they’d introduced themselves after a pretty guide with a port-wine stain on one cheek had told Sara to form a foursome with an existing group.

The same guide had launched into a talk on what to expect, mentioning that the rapids they’d be riding were classified as Class II and III. That wasn’t particularly daunting in a ranking system that topped out at Class V, but the approaching rapid was reportedly the most challenging.

“Just follow the path the lead kayak takes, and it’ll be a breeze,” the guide had said.

Sara, buoyed by the same spirit of daring that had enabled her to leave her old life behind, had believed her.

Until this moment and this rapid.

If things didn’t go well, Sara might be tempted to believe her family knew her better than she knew herself.

The rush of blood pounding in her ears merged with the roar of the white water as she paddled along with the others in her raft through the rapids. Rocks jutted out from the river, their edges appearing as jagged as serrated knives.

The rubber raft ran the gauntlet, bouncing on the water as though navigating the bumps and turns of a roller coaster. Sara’s stomach pitched and rolled with every swerve of the raft, and she consciously had to remind herself to inhale. They shot through the final stretch, a film of spray sprinkling the air as exhilaration hit Sara like a splash in the face.

She turned to see how the rafters trailing them were faring, the sun temporarily blinding her before her vision cleared. The raft directly behind them had veered to the right, where the rocks were more numerous, the path more treacherous.

Worse, one of the five people in the raft—a tow-headed boy no older than ten or eleven—perched not on the edge of the raft but smack in the middle, the exact spot he’d been warned not to sit.

The ejector seat, the guide had called it during the safety segment of her pre-trip talk.

Sara spotted the massive rock at the same time as the rafters in the boy’s raft. A man and woman Sara presumed were the boy’s parents, plus two older kids, paddled furiously to avoid it, but their raft smashed into the unyielding surface of the rock with resounding force.

Horror gripped her heart as the boy went flying into the swirling water of the river. His companions kept paddling, trying to navigate the rapid, seemingly oblivious to what had happened.

“Man overboard!” Sara yelled, but the thunderous howl of the white water drowned out the sound to everyone except those in her raft.

The boy’s blond head and the orange of his life-jacket became visible above the white froth. His arms flailed wildly.

Sara frantically tried to remember what the guide had instructed them to do should a rafter fall overboard.

“Feet first!” she shouted, but the boy didn’t have a prayer of hearing over the angry rumble of the water. She couldn’t even hear herself. “Lie back!”

The boy remained upright, increasing the likelihood his foot would get wedged by a rock. If he got stuck, the water would rush over his head, overwhelming him. And nobody in her raft could reach him, not when they were downriver from the spot where he’d fallen in and the current was running against them.

“Somebody help him!” Panic welled in her throat but she kept yelling. “Oh, please God! Somebody help him!”

A commercial trip like this one should have no shortage of people who could come to the rescue, but the guide in the lead kayak had already moved on to the next stretch of river and a big gap existed between the boy and the rafts bringing up the rear. Even if the guide in the trailing kayak noticed the boy was in trouble, he’d arrive too late.

The boy bounced off a rock, and Sara prayed his vest had cushioned the blow, that his head hadn’t taken a hit.

The water swept him along a perilous few feet, but he managed to remain upright. Then abruptly his forward progress stopped, and Sara suspected the worst had happened. He was stuck.

“Help him!” Sara yelled, the sound swallowed by the white water that had turned from beautiful to deadly in an instant.

Panic squeezed Sara’s heart. The other people in her raft were also shouting now. The four of them paddled desperately against the current even though reaching the boy was hopeless.

And then she saw a second dark head in the water, moving toward the first. A man this time, but not the man who’d been in the raft with the boy. It could only be the man who’d been sitting on the side of the river.

The man shot through the hissing rapids feet-first, with no inflated rubber raft to protect his body from the merciless rocks, a Lone Ranger tactic that could get him killed. The froth rose up intermittently to obscure him from view, but he moved inexorably closer to his goal.

The boy was fifteen feet away.

Ten.

Five.

And then the water splashed violently against the rocks, spraying into the air so Sara lost sight of both man and boy. She pictured the current sucking them under the surface, their mouths gasping for oxygen, their lungs filling with water. Dread welled up inside Sara like bile, and she shut her eyes against the devastating disappointment.

But when she opened them again, man and boy were moving down the river as one. The man must have hooked his arm around the boy, dislodging him from whatever had pinned him in place. He was guiding the boy away from the rocks, away from the swirling froth, away from danger.

The relentless surge of the white water deposited the boy and his rescuer into the relative calm of the cool, clear pool below the rapids, not far from Sara’s foursome and the raft of people who’d only just discovered the boy missing.

The boy was gasping and his young face looked as white as the froth on the rapids, but he appeared to be unhurt. Thanks to the man.

Sara caught a glimpse of a thin stream of blood trickling down the side of a hard, handsome face before the man helped hoist the boy back onto the raft into the waiting arms of the couple Sara believed were his parents.

The current was already taking the rafts downriver from the scene of the rescue. The man swam at an angle to shore, his strokes sure and strong. Sara watched until he reached land and stepped onto the bank, his clothes hanging wetly on his tall, muscular body. He, too, appeared to be okay.

Who was he? she wondered as her raft drifted farther and farther away. But she already knew.

He was a hero.



H E WAS a coward.

Otherwise he’d hang up the hotel phone, change into something besides the faded jeans and T-shirt he wore and drive to the Indigo Springs restaurant where Johnny and his fiancée were holding their rehearsal dinner.

“Yeah?” It was Johnny’s voice, barely audible above the buzz of conversation and clinking of silverware.

“Johnny, it’s Michael.”

“Mikey Mike,” Johnny exclaimed, the ridiculous nickname making Michael smile. Only Johnny could get away with calling him that. “Where are you? We’re almost through with appetizers.”

Michael swallowed. “I’m not coming.”

“What? Hold on a minute.” The background noise gradually lessened, and Michael pictured Johnny walking away from the table to find a quieter spot. “What aren’t you coming to? The rehearsal dinner or the wedding?”

“The dinner.”

“So you’re in town?” Johnny asked, his relief evident.

“I will be,” Michael said, deliberately vague. There was no point in telling Johnny that, in another cowardly move, he’d checked into a cookie-cutter hotel near the interstate that was a full twenty miles from Indigo Springs. Especially since he’d led Johnny to believe he’d be staying with his great-aunt.

“Want to tell me why you’re not coming to dinner?”

Michael didn’t, but Johnny deserved an answer. Without Johnny’s friendship, life in Indigo Springs would have been even less bearable. Even after Chrissy’s death, Johnny had stuck by him, making the two-hour drive to visit him in Johnstown every few months. They hadn’t seen each other since Michael had gone to the West African country of Niger two years ago, but the bond they’d formed as teenagers never weakened. Johnny was more like a brother than a friend.

“I’ve got a nasty bump on my head.” Michael gingerly touched the spot where his forehead had come in contact with the edge of a rock. The hot shower he’d taken had washed away the river water and the blood but not the bruise. “I wouldn’t be good company, especially in a crowd.”

“What happened?” Johnny asked sharply. “Were you in an accident?”

“A minor one.” Guilt gnawed at Michael. His head ached, but not enough to keep him from anything he really wanted to do. “It’ll be fine by morning.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Michael said, then cleared the emotion from his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had been concerned about him. “You’d better get back to your guests.”

“And you better show tomorrow, buddy. I let you weasel out of being my best man, but I want you at my wedding, damn it. I’m only getting married once.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael promised.

After disconnecting the call, Michael ignored the nearly overwhelming temptation to turn on the television and switch on the Phillies. He’d gotten accustomed to the lack of electricity in the adobe hut where he’d lived in Niger, but enjoyed few things more than a beer and a baseball game.

Not giving himself time for second guessing, he rode the elevator to the hotel lobby, walked past the bored-looking clerk and headed for the black PT Cruiser he’d parked in the hotel lot. It was the last car he would have chosen but the only one the busy rental agency at the airport had available.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled the PT Cruiser to the crowded curb across from his great aunt’s house and set the brake to keep the car from rolling down the hill. Somebody on the street had company, but he doubted it was his quiet, reserved aunt.

His aunt’s charming Victorian house was much as Michael remembered it, with flowers hanging from baskets on her wraparound porch and planted in beds in the front yard. But as he trudged up the sidewalk, he noticed that the lawn needed mowing and the porch could use a coat of paint. Aunt Felicia’s husband—Michael never had been able to think of the man as his uncle—would normally have taken care of those chores, but he’d been dead for three months.

If Murray were still alive, Michael wouldn’t be here.

And then only a screen door separated Michael from the house where he hadn’t been able to find refuge. The doorbell didn’t sound when he pressed the button so he rapped on the frame and waited. He heard voices and laughter. It seemed he’d misjudged Aunt Felicia, but it was too late to turn back.

“Just a minute.” He recognized the gentle, slightly melodic voice of his great-aunt.

He held his ground, wiping his damp palms on the legs of jeans too warm for the balmy summer night. He smelled molasses and brown sugar and guessed she’d baked a shoo-fly cake, her specialty, for her guests. Time seemed to stretch before she came into view. Considerably grayer and smaller than he remembered, she moved slowly toward the door, then stopped as though she’d slammed into a barrier.

“Michael?” Her voice trembled. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Aunt Felicia.”

Her hand fluttered to her forehead to the exact spot where he knew his injury was, and he guessed he was black-and-blue. “Your head…”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged to underscore his words.

He waited for her to invite him inside, but she just stood there staring at him. His throat felt so thick he wasn’t sure he could speak. He hadn’t seen her since his eighteenth birthday, the day Murray had kicked him out. That had been nine years ago.

He squinted. The years had taken their toll. Through the screen of the door, she looked every one of her seventy-plus years.

“I thought you were in Africa,” his aunt finally said, her voice no steadier than before.

He swallowed. “I only just got back to the States. I thought you should know I’m in town for Johnny’s wedding.”

He owed Aunt Felicia that much. She’d taken him in during that dark time after his mother had overdosed. Even though his aunt hadn’t been able to stand up to her husband in the end, he still remembered her trying to explain.

“If it was just me, you could stay,” she’d told him, tears trickling down her papery cheeks. “But I’m worn out from arguing with him about you.”

Michael had claimed to understand but hadn’t. Not back then. Back then he’d wanted somebody to want him. That’s probably why he hadn’t protested too long or too hard when Chrissy insisted she was leaving Indigo Springs with him.

Nine years, he thought again. Chrissy had been dead for eight of them.

His aunt didn’t say anything now, her mouth working but no words emerging.

He cleared his throat. “Johnny told me about Murray. I’m sorry.” It was the truth. Michael didn’t wish anybody dead. Not even Murray.

“Felicia. It’s your turn.” A woman’s voice floated from the direction of the living room.

“Bridge night,” his aunt explained.

“Who’s at the door anyway?” A different, louder voice. One that sounded familiar.

“No one,” his aunt replied quickly, the answer stabbing through him like a jagged spear. She blinked a few times, shifted from foot to foot, her hand fluttering to her throat. Her eyes seemed to plead with him. “You understand I can’t invite you in.”

“I understand.” He gave the same answer he had years ago, but this time it was the truth. Aunt Felicia’s friends would be Indigo Springs long-timers. She had good reason to be ashamed of him. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you I was in town.”

Once he showed up at the wedding, the buzzing would start. It wouldn’t take long for word to reach Aunt Felicia.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“A hotel outside of town.”

“Felicia!” A different voice this time. “We’re waiting.”

His aunt’s face twisted with an emotion he couldn’t identify.

“You’d better go,” he told her and backed away from the door, chiding himself for expecting too much. He descended the creaky porch stairs and was almost to the sidewalk when her voice stopped him, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

“Michael.”

He turned around, trying not to hope. “Yeah?”

“When are you leaving town?”

“Sunday morning,” he said.

“Could you stop by before you go?”

He started nodding before she finished the question, a flame of optimism leaping inside him. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ve got some of your things in the basement,” she said softly. “Nothing valuable, but you might want them back.”

Somehow he managed to tell her good-night before making his lonely way back to his rental car. He wished like hell he hadn’t promised Johnny he’d come to the wedding.

Some people really couldn’t go home again.

It seemed he was one of them.




CHAPTER TWO


“I NEVER saw anybody cry so much at a wedding!”

Sara tried not to wince as she regarded the short, middle-aged woman in front of her in the receiving line at the VFW hall, which was decorated in soft pastels to reflect the varying colors of the bridesmaid’s dresses.

So much for creating a first impression of toughness, a quality most people sought in a lawyer.

Sara couldn’t even console herself with the fiction that few of the wedding guests had noticed her tears. Three women had offered her tissues. This woman—she’d introduced herself as Marie Dombrowski—hadn’t been sitting anywhere near her.

“Weddings do that to me,” Sara said as they passed through an arch of silk flowers interspersed with white netting and approached the receiving line. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

Marie patted Sara on the arm, sympathy practically oozing from her. “Don’t worry, dear. Someday it’ll be your turn.”

“You’ve got it wrong. That’s not why—” Sara began.

“Being a romantic is nothing to be ashamed of,” Marie interrupted. “But of course you know that. Only a romantic would wear an adorable dress like that.”

Sara smoothed a hand down the skirt of the paisley-print, triple-flounced sleeveless dress she wore with matching pink-and-red-satin sandals. She’d bought the dress on a whim while shopping for a new work wardrobe that wasn’t so stuffy. The look was ultra-feminine, a drastic change of pace from the structured suits she used to wear no matter the occasion.

“Thank you,” Sara said, “but nobody’s ever called me a romantic before. Especially not the men I’ve dated.”

“Then none of them must’ve been right for you,” Marie declared. She herself was wearing a pink knee-length dress with tiny appliquéd hearts on the bodice.

“I wasn’t right for them, either. Lawyers don’t generally make good girlfriends.”

“Now I know who you are!” Marie exclaimed, looking delighted with herself. “You bought that empty storefront on Main Street. Aren’t you an old friend of the bride’s from high school?”

“That’s right. But how did you know that?”

“Oh, honey. Indigo Springs may be turning into a tourist town, but among the locals nothing’s a mystery. Isn’t that right, Frank?” She nudged the stout, silent man at her elbow she’d introduced as her husband. He startled as though he’d been awakened from a nap even though they were among the last guests to arrive and the decibel level in the hall grew louder by the second.

“Oh, yes.” His smile included both Sara and his wife. “Whatever you say, dear.”

“In this case,” Sara said, “I’m hoping the story about me crying at the wedding doesn’t get around.”

“Are you kidding?” Marie exclaimed. “That’s the only thing people would be talking about if it wasn’t for Michael Donahue.”

Marie and her husband reached the front of the receiving line before Sara could ask who Michael Donahue was. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard the name. While she’d waited outside the church for the newly married couple to emerge, two elderly men had been discussing him.

“You’re sure it was Donahue?” one of the men had asked in a loud voice.

“’Course I am. Came in late and sat in the last pew. Slipped out before the ceremony ended, too.”

The loud man had whistled. “Wonder what Quincy Coleman will do when he finds out he’s back.”

Who was Michael Donahue? And who, for that matter, was Quincy Coleman?

Sara put her curiosity on hold as she approached the parents of the bride, who were first in the receiving line and whom Sara had met once before. But the question was still tapping at the back of her mind as she reintroduced herself to Penelope’s mother and father and greeted the groom’s parents.

Penelope could surely enlighten her about Michael Donahue, but it became apparent now wasn’t the time to question her when the bride squealed.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Penelope threw her arms around Sara, crinkling the bodice of her white gown against Sara’s chest and enveloping her in the scent of perfume. Penelope drew back and asked, “Is it true you cried through the ceremony?”

Sara laughed. “True. But it was your fault for looking so happy.”

“I am happy.” With her light-brown hair in an updo and eye makeup playing up her huge dark eyes, Penelope looked lovely. She beamed at her new husband, formally attired in a gray pin-striped tuxedo. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Johnny Pollock winked at his bride. He was neither tall nor short, his features neither ugly nor handsome, his hair color neither blond nor brown. He was average in every way—until he smiled, transforming him into something special. “Nice to see you again, Sara.”

Sara had barely returned Johnny’s greeting when Penelope captured both of Sara’s hands in hers. “I never thought you’d leave that big law firm, but I’m so glad you did. I hope you love it here as much as I do.”

Love was the reason Penelope had relocated to Indigo Springs. Weeks after she’d made a sales call to Johnny’s construction company peddling industrial piping, he’d asked her to marry him. She’d dumped the job and gained a husband.

“I’m already starting to,” Sara said.

“Now go circulate.” Penelope beckoned her close and whispered in her ear. “I’m trying to figure out who the eligible men are, but forget about Johnny’s best man. Chase is hot, but his girlfriend and her little boy are living with him and they have a baby on the way.”

Sara rolled her eyes. Weddings, like no other events, seemed to bring out the matchmakers. “I’m starting a career, not looking for a man.”

Penelope grinned. “Then I’ll look for you. Only not today. I’m a little busy.”

Sara moved down the receiving line, but before she got to the best man, who was indeed handsome, a redhead in a tight green dress pulled him aside. The redhead complained loudly that he wasn’t paying her enough attention.

The poor guy was trying so hard to get her to lower her voice that Sara pretended not to notice and stepped into the reception hall.

She was used to elegant weddings with sit-down dinners and soft music, perhaps from a classically trained pianist or a string ensemble. A quartet of middle-aged men, including a saxophonist and an accordionist, were setting up what Sara guessed was a polka band near a spacious dance floor. Waitstaff arranged steaming platters of food on a bountiful buffet table.

The VFW hall was loud and crowded, with wedding guests filling up long, skinny tables. Artificial flower arrangements added color to the tables, which were covered in white cloth like the chairs. As a finishing touch, oversized pastel bows had been tied to the backs of each seat. Sara skirted the periphery of the room, searching for a place to sit.

“Over here, Sara!” Marie Dombrowski beckoned her to a nearby spot, where she sat with her silent husband. “Come join me and Frank.”

Sara smiled, grateful for the invitation. Before she took a step, something made her look in the direction of the receiving line, which had started to break up as the wedding party made its way to the bridal table. Only Penelope, Johnny and his father remained.

Johnny grinned hugely before embracing a tall man with short dark hair who seemed vaguely familiar. Johnny held on to the other man for long seconds, patting him repeatedly and enthusiastically on the back.

“Are you coming, Sara?” Marie Dombrowski called.

“In a minute.” Sara held up a finger, her attention still riveted by the groom and the stranger.

The two men drew apart. Sara had judged Johnny to be five ten or eleven when she’d stood next to him. The stranger topped him by a good three or four inches. His posture was proud, almost defiant, and he wore a gray suit a few shades lighter than Johnny’s tuxedo that looked good on his athletic frame.

Johnny’s father came forward, embracing the stranger just as enthusiastically as his son had before somebody called him away. Then Johnny grabbed Penelope’s hand and pulled her close, no doubt to introduce her. The angle of the stranger’s head changed, and Sara got a good look at his hard, handsome face.

She inhaled sharply. If she hadn’t been sure of the man’s identity, the bruise on his forehead would have been a dead giveaway.

It was the hero from the river.



“Y OU’RE AS pretty as Johnny said you were.” Michael extended a hand to Johnny’s bride, a slender brunette with her hair piled high on her head, wisps of it falling charmingly about her face.

“Thank you.” Her eyes flew to his forehead, and she winced. “I see why you didn’t come to the rehearsal dinner. What happened?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” Michael said. Until she mentioned it, he’d almost forgotten he’d used the injury as an excuse. “Just glad I could be here to see my old buddy get married.”

“That’s right. You grew up with Johnny. He told me all about you.” Her smile seemed genuine, which meant Johnny hadn’t told her everything about him. “Will you be in town long?”

“I’m just here for the wedding.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t understand why anybody would ever want to leave Indigo Springs. I absolutely adore it here.”

Michael felt the muscles holding up his smile tighten. That confirmed it. Johnny hadn’t filled Penelope in on the whole story. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Johnny hugged her to his side.

“Okay, lovebirds, you’re needed at the main table.” A woman in a flowing floral-print dress called as she bustled toward them. She stopped short, gaping at Michael as though his suit jacket was stained with blood. He mentally subtracted the woman’s pounds and the gray in her hair and recognized Johnny’s aunt Ida. Before Michael could greet her, she looked past him to Johnny and Penelope. “Everybody’s waiting on you so the best man can give the toast and people can eat.”

She turned away without acknowledging Michael, not that he expected her to, not when he remembered her as one of Chrissy’s mother’s closest friends. Ida had pledged her allegiance years ago, and it hadn’t been to him.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Aunt Ida,” Johnny reassured him. “I’m glad you’re here. Maybe we can catch up later.”

Michael nodded, although there was little chance of that happening at a reception of more than a hundred people. Johnny knew it, too. He slapped Michael on the shoulder. “Good seeing you, man.”

“Always,” Michael said.

Dropping his hand, Johnny escorted his bride into the main part of the hall to a bridal table decorated with tall candles, fresh flowers and draped garlands.

Michael surveyed the wedding guests chatting happily to one another and knew what it felt like to be alone in a crowd. Most were strangers, but he recognized some of them, none of whom he felt comfortable approaching.

He waited a few beats, then headed for the exit and the parking lot, pretending he wasn’t in a hurry. He’d considered himself lucky to find a parking space, but a now a white van blocked his escape route. The scripted red letters on the side of the vehicle read Catering Solutions: We cook so you don’t have to. The driver’s seat was empty.

“Damn.” There was no getting around it. He needed to re-enter the hall and locate the caterers, no matter how much it might send tongues wagging.

Even as he lectured himself on the cold reality of his situation, he wished things were different. Wished, for instance, that the woman with the red highlights in her long brown hair was headed for him instead of the parking lot.

He’d noticed her at the church, partly because she wore a ridiculously feminine dress with high-heeled sandals that added inches to her tall frame and showed off a killer set of legs. With a slightly long nose and a wide mouth, she wasn’t classically beautiful as much as she was damn attractive. But it wasn’t only her looks that captured his attention. It was the poise with which she moved, the intelligence in her expression that told him he’d enjoy getting to know her.

Not that there was a chance in hell of that happening.

Then she smiled.

He checked behind him, but the parking lot and front sidewalk were deserted except for him. It wasn’t yet dusk so he’d clearly seen her welcoming expression.

He expected her to keep on walking, for her smile to vanish. But it widened, reaching large eyes the same light brown as the cream soda Aunt Felicia used to buy when he was a teenager.

When she stopped before him, there could be no mistaking it—the smile was for him.

“You’re my hero,” she said.

He felt the corners of his mouth drop. Was she someone from his past playing a sick joke? She was about his age. About the age Chrissy would have been had she lived. But, no. He didn’t know her. This was a woman he wouldn’t have forgotten.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

Admiration gleamed in her eyes, as easy to read as the red block letters on the white sign in front of the VFW hall. The members of the Veterans of Foreign Wars were heroes, not him.

“I saw you,” she said. “At the river. When you saved that boy.”

She didn’t know him. Didn’t know about the sin in his past. The tension slowly left him as he put together the pieces. She must have been along on the raft trip when the boy had fallen overboard into the white water.

“You were wonderful,” she added.

He frowned. “I didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.”

“Are you joking?” Her cream-soda eyes widened, disbelief touching her lips. “You rode that rapid without a raft. You could have drowned along with that boy.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with her exaggeration. He knew enough about the Lehigh to go feet-first down a rapid, which had substantially lessened the danger. “Yeah, well, both of us made it through okay.”

She reached up and traced her fingers lightly against his temple, the gesture kindling a warmth inside him even though her touch was as soft as the brush of a feather. “Except for this nasty bump.”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

Her fingers fell away from his temple, and he squashed a crazy desire to capture her hand and press it against his heart.

“The boy’s parents were asking about you. They wanted to know your name so they could thank you.” Her smile grew. “I’d like to know it, too, but I should introduce myself first.” She stuck out a slim hand. Like her other, it was ringless. “Sara Brenneman. I’m new in town. Haven’t been here a week yet.”

He folded her hand in his and again felt the warmth. The confidence he’d glimpsed in her walk was also evident in her grip. “Michael Donahue.”

He might not have picked up on the way her body tensed if he hadn’t been shaking her hand. Modulating the pitch of his voice to disguise his disappointment, he let go of her hand. “I take it you’ve heard of me.”

She didn’t avoid the question, which heightened his opinion of her. “I overheard some people talking about how you were back in town.”

She didn’t recoil, so that was probably all she’d heard. For now. She’d get the rest of the story soon enough.

The silence between them stretched a few beats, then she said, “I hope you’re back for good.”

That would be unthinkable.

“I’m leaving first thing tomorrow.” He didn’t tell her where he was going, but then his plan was hazy. He figured he’d head north on Highway 80 until he felt like stopping, possibly somewhere he could rent a place on a lake with access to a boat. The paperwork for his next assignment should come through any day, telling him which exotic nation he was headed to next.

He swore disappointment descended over her features before she brightened. “Then let’s make the most of tonight. Will you sit with me at dinner?”

He hesitated, surprised he wanted to say yes.

She grimaced. “Please tell me I didn’t make a faux pas and proposition a married man.”

Proposition? She’d used the word in a nonsexual context but his body stirred. “Not married, but I’m leaving as soon as I get the caterer to move the van. My car’s blocked in.”

“The caterer will be too busy to do anything until after dinner,” she said. “Besides, you have to eat, right?”

He’d intended to grab a burger at the fast-food restaurant near his hotel. That plan seemed even less appealing with Sara Brenneman waiting for his answer.

“If you say no,” Sara said, “I’ll have to spend the reception hiding out in the restroom because every matchmaker in the hall is eyeing me.”

He chuckled. “You’re making that up.”

“Am not. Even the bride has me in her sights.”

“In that case,” he said, going with his gut, “how can I refuse?”

“Good.” Her smile reached her eyes, which struck him as sexy as hell. “I want to know all about you.”

He braced himself for questions as they walked back inside the building, but she provided answers, telling him about the solo general practice law firm she was set to open and ticking off her specialties: real estate, foreclosures, wills, probates, small business matters.

The best man, a friend of Johnny’s who’d moved to town after Michael left, was just finishing the toast when they entered the crowded hall. Panic flashed through Michael as he felt the eyes of the curious bore into them.

Sara had claimed a desire to get to know him better. More than a few people in the reception hall could tell her she wouldn’t like what she learned.



T HE HERO was uncomfortable.

Sara sensed it in the taut set of Michael’s shoulders while she led him to the table where the Dombrowskis waited. Marie waved, flashing the same sweet grin as when she’d invited Sara to sit with them.

Michael’s step faltered. “I thought you were here alone.”

“I came alone but they invited me to sit with them.” She smiled at him. It seemed she couldn’t stop smiling at him. And why not? He was as modest as he was heroic. He smelled good, too. Like fresh air and warm skin. “You’ll like Marie and Frank. They’re new in town, like me. Retirees who like to kayak. And read. Marie wants to get me involved with Friends of the Library.”

His steps were still slow, causing her to stop dead. She knew nothing about him except he’d lived in Indigo Springs sometime in the past. She’d gotten the vague impression some residents didn’t welcome his return, but other guests had nodded at him in acknowledgement when they reentered the hall.

“I’ll understand if you’d rather sit with somebody else.” She grimaced. “Be disappointed, yes. But I will understand.”

He touched her bare arm, sending pleasure shooting through her. “There’s no one I’d rather sit with than you.”

Their eyes met, and she felt a connection that was tangible. Marie Dombrowski must have picked up on it, too, because she patted Michael on the hand after Sara performed the introductions. Once done making a fuss over the bruise on his forehead, she said, “Shame on Sara for not telling us she had a date. But where were you when she was boo-hoo-ing through the wedding?”

“I didn’t boo-hoo, I sniffled,” Sara protested. At this rate, she’d be known as the weeping lawyer before she opened her practice. “Weddings do that to me. And Michael isn’t my date. We just met outside.”

Marie’s mouth and eyes rounded comically. “You mean you left the hall and found a man?”

“Don’t knock it, Marie,” Frank Dombrowski interjected. “Some women know what they want when they see it.”

Sara laughed, even though Frank’s observation wasn’t far off the mark. “Michael’s not a complete stranger. I saw him res—”

“Our paths crossed yesterday.” Michael shifted in his chair, his broad shoulders rolling under his suit jacket. He had a naturally soft voice that made everything he said carry more importance. “Sara was nice enough to invite me to join her for dinner.”

“So you came alone, too?” Marie addressed Michael. “Don’t you live here in town?”

“Not anymore. I’m an old friend of the groom’s. How about you, Mrs. Dombrowski? Bride or groom?”

Sara got the distinct impression Michael didn’t want to talk about himself, but Marie seemed not to notice. “Groom. Frank and I contracted with Pollock Construction to redo our bathrooms, and we hit it off with Johnny. We just love him.”

Marie chattered happily on, taking a break only to fill her plate with kielbasa, pierogis and other Polish foods from the buffet table. The subject of home improvement was obviously a favorite topic. By dinner’s end, Sara knew a lot about the Dombrowskis but no more about Michael Donahue than she had when it began.

Sara was trying to figure out how to get Michael alone when the polka band struck its first chords.

Marie jumped up and extended a hand to her husband, who got obligingly to his feet. “I hope you two don’t mind if we desert you. Frank and I love to dance.”

“Have fun,” Sara said, then waited until the couple was gone to remark to Michael. “You don’t say much about yourself, do you?”

“When somebody likes to talk as much as Marie,” he said, “there’s no point in denying her the pleasure.”

She suspected there was more to it than that, but she played along. “I told you all about my law practice, but I don’t even know what you do for a living.”

“I’m in construction.”

She was about to ask him to elaborate when the groom’s father approached him from behind and clapped him on the shoulders. Smiling, Michael turned.

“I’m glad you’re still here.” Mr. Pollock was an older, stockier version of his son with an open, engaging manner that was extremely likeable. His twinkling gaze drifted to Sara. “Do I have you to thank for that, Sara?”

Impressed he’d remembered her name after the brief meeting in the reception line, she joked, “You know what they say about lawyers and our powers of persuasion.”

Twin dimples appeared on Mr. Pollock’s face, making him look boyish. “Then maybe you can persuade him to stick around for a while. Our boy here’s a world traveler. Did he tell you he just got back from Africa?”

Africa?

“I didn’t think so,” Mr. Pollock said before Sara recovered from the surprise. To Michael, he said, “Please tell me you’re staying in the States for a while.”

“Can’t do that,” Michael said. “I already applied for another assignment, probably in Ghana, but maybe in El Salvador.”

As they spoke, Sara was aware of other guests watching them. Watching Michael . But even though the reception was at least an hour old, only Mr. Pollock had approached him. She wondered why.

“If you ever decide to stay put, you know you have a job with me.” Mr. Pollock was about to say more when a willowy girl in her early teens with a mouthful of braces grabbed his hand.

“You said you’d dance with me, Uncle Nick,” she said, pulling him away as she spoke.

“Can you believe how shy this girl is,” he called to them over his shoulder, but he was laughing. “Catch you both later.”

Michael turned back around in his seat.

“Ghana? El Salvador?” Sara listed the countries. “I thought you said you were in construction.”

“ Overseas construction,” he said. “I go where the work is.”

“Isn’t all that moving around tough on you?”

“It suits me,” he said.

“Not me. My dad was a navy JAG so we never stayed in one place for long when I was growing up. I think that’s why Indigo Springs appeals to me. You can put down roots here.”

He was silent.

“How long ago did you leave?” she asked.

“Nine years.” He gave her a wry smile. “And it’s time I left again. That catering truck should be gone by now.”

“You can’t go yet!” Sara reached across the table and placed her hand over his, feeling electricity shoot right to her core. The orchestra began to play a lively tune. “Not until you teach me to polka.”

He arched one of his dark eyebrows. “What makes you think I can polka?”

“You and Johnny are friends, so you must have picked it up somewhere along the way.” Her hand still covered his, even though there was no reason for it. She withdrew it reluctantly and stood up, knocking over a half-filled glass of white wine that splashed over her dress. “Oh, no! I need to run to the restroom and blot up this mess. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

She grabbed his arm and looked into his eyes, which were blue-gray, like the color of the river water. He nodded, but didn’t reply. She reluctantly let go and hurried to the restroom, casting a glance over her shoulder.

Despite the connection she felt when she touched him, she wasn’t sure Michael would be waiting when she returned.



M ICHAEL WATCHED the couples on the floor, deliberately not meeting anyone’s eyes. As soon as he danced one polka with Sara, he was out of here. He wouldn’t have stayed this long if not for that catering truck.

He expelled a short breath. Who was he kidding? The driver had probably moved that truck an hour ago. The reason Michael hadn’t left yet was wearing a pink and red dress.

“What the hell are you doing here, Donahue?” The words were slurred, but Michael recognized the voice before he saw the speaker.

Kenny Grieb, the ex-high-school jock Chrissy had dated before Michael. He wasn’t as lean or as muscular as he’d been in high school, but the bitterness in his expression was the same.

“I was invited,” Michael said.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Kenny drawled, moving closer as he talked. His floppy brown hair was untidy, his shirt coming loose from his dress slacks, his face flushed.

Michael had never been afraid of Kenny and wasn’t now, but put his hand up like a stop sign. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late.” Kenny took another step and nearly tripped over an empty chair. It upended and clattered to the floor, drawing attention.

If Michael didn’t get out of here soon, Kenny would create a scene and cast an ugly pall over Johnny’s wedding day.

Michael glanced in the direction Sara had gone but didn’t see her. Regret seized him that he wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but it couldn’t be helped.

“I was just leaving,” he said.

“That’s right,” Kenny yelled, his voice competing with the polka music. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Michael’s hands fisted at his sides, but for Johnny’s sake he said nothing. He stopped only long enough to intercept Marie Dombrowski and ask her to give Sara his apologies.

Then he left, a prospect that no longer held the same appeal now that he’d met Sara.

Dusk had settled over the town, but the temperature had dipped into what felt like the sixties, downright cool compared to Niger’s heart. He removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, trying not to look back.

That was a problem of his. He usually couldn’t help looking back.

The catering truck was no longer double-parked behind his rental car, clearing a path for him to drive away from the reception. Away from Indigo Springs. Away from Sara, who had been a pipe dream anyway.

He took the keys out of his pocket and hit the remote. The lights of his PT Cruiser blinked on, sounding a short, shrill beep at the same time somebody called, “Not so fast, asshole.”

Great.

Kenny Grieb had followed him.




CHAPTER THREE


S ARA RUSHED BACK to the table, her dress damp from where she’d blotted up the wine. Her round trip had taken longer than expected because Johnny’s father waylaid her when she was exiting the restroom.

“Great to see you and Michael hitting it off,” Nick Pollock had said. “I get the feeling he doesn’t socialize much in the Peace Corps.”

“The Peace Corps!” Sara repeated. Why hadn’t she put that together herself when she learned of the far-flung places Michael had worked? “He never told me he was a volunteer.”

“Didn’t think he would. He’s sort of a serial volunteer. Been signing up for two-year assignments since he put himself through college. Holding down a full-time job at the time. He probably didn’t tell you that, either.”

“No,” Sara said. “But why are you telling me?”

“Because Michael’s a good man,” he’d said enigmatically, his expression suddenly serious. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“Why would anyone say differently?”

He’d sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Michael had it tough growing up. Did a couple of things he shouldn’t have. Angered some people. But he got through it and turned himself into somebody to be proud of.”

Stop talking in circles! she wanted to yell. Instead she thanked him for enlightening her, a sixth sense urging her to hurry back to Michael. His empty chair confirmed her intuition that he’d been about to bolt.

She surveyed the smiling couples twirling around the dance floor as the polka music played, hoping she was wrong, hoping Michael was among them. Somehow she knew she wouldn’t find him.

Marie Dombrowski spotted her and separated herself from her husband, her brows pinched together in what looked like sympathy. “Michael asked me to tell you he had to go.”

Sara must not have kept the dismay from her face, because Marie squeezed her hand. “I don’t think he wanted to leave, but another man—I didn’t recognize him but I do know he was drunk—was creating a scene. It seemed to me Michael left so there wouldn’t be trouble.”

Sara thought over what Nick Pollock had told her, but she didn’t have enough information about Michael’s past to figure out why somebody would accost him.

“He’s only been gone a few minutes,” Marie added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”

“Thanks.” Sara didn’t hesitate, heading for the exit as fast as her high heels would carry her. Before Michael disappeared, maybe forever, she at least wanted to say goodbye.

It wasn’t yet fully dark, but the outside lights were on, making it easy to spot Michael in the parking lot. Relief flooding her, she hurried down the sidewalk, then stopped dead. He wasn’t alone. A man who had at least thirty pounds on Michael was charging him. The man cocked his arm, drew his shoulder back and let his fist fly.

“No!” Sara yelled, rushing forward to stop the madness.

Michael lifted a forearm, deftly blocking the punch. Then in a lightning quick motion, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it around his back, effectively incapacitating him.

“Leggo,” the man groaned, obviously in discomfort, obviously drunk.

“Not until you understand me.” Michael’s low, firm voice carried toward Sara. “If you cause another scene at my friend’s wedding, I’ll make you regret it.”

He released the man’s arm and shoved him. The man stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching his balance.

“Go drink some black coffee,” Michael ordered harshly.

The man’s face, slack from too much alcohol, filled with what looked like hatred. “Go back where you came from,” he muttered. “No one wants you here.”

It looked as though the man was thinking about initiating another attack, but he rejected the notion, returning to the VFW hall on unsteady feet.

“You.” He pointed at Sara as he passed her, his finger shaky. “You should watch who you ’sociate with.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Without waiting for his response, she walked to where Michael was bending down to pick up his suit jacket from the pavement.

Michael straightened, his suit jacket in hand, and gave her a wry look. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

She looked toward the hall, confirming that the troublemaker had disappeared inside the building. “What I saw was you keeping that jerk from making trouble at your friend’s wedding.”

“I won’t argue with you there. Kenny Grieb’s bad news when he’s drunk.”

“What does he have against you?” Sara asked.

“A grudge,” Michael said, “which is why I’m leaving.”

She’d half expected him to be gone already when she came looking for him, but his declaration seemed to knock the wind from her. “What if I asked you not to go yet?”

“I wish things were different.” His eyes ran over her face like a caress. “But for your sake I should have left hours ago. I’m not exactly Mr. Popular.”

She couldn’t argue with that, but not everybody inside the hall had been hostile. Excluding the Pollocks, Michael hadn’t reached out to a single person. “You’re not exactly Mr. Congeniality either.”

He stared at her for a moment, then broke into a laugh. “Are you always this blunt?”

“Not always,” she said, “but usually.”

If she completely spoke her mind, she’d ask for details about why some people had a problem with him. Because she sensed the topic was a raw spot, she could wait until he was ready to tell her.

“Do you have a problem with an outspoken woman?” she asked.

“I have a problem with a woman jeopardizing her reputation in town by hanging out with me.”

“What reputation?” she retorted. “I just moved here. I don’t have a reputation.”

“You should be building one, and a wedding’s a good place to start.” He gestured toward the hall. “It’s not too late. Go network, make some new friends.”

“I can make friends tomorrow or the next day or the day after that,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. But you are.”

“That’s right.” He looked toward the parking lot, then at her. If she hadn’t read regret in his gaze, she might have let him go.

“You don’t have to go until tomorrow morning, right? You don’t have anything pressing you need to do tonight? Anywhere you need to be?”

He narrowed his eyes as though it was a trick question. “No,” he said slowly.

“Then you can walk me home, because I’m leaving the reception, too.” She headed through the parking lot to the sidewalk adjacent to the street, her stomach turning somersaults at the prospect he might refuse. She didn’t know why she couldn’t let him leave just yet; she just knew that she couldn’t. “Coming?” she called over her shoulder.

She reached the sidewalk before conceding that he wasn’t following her. She took a deep breath, then turned around. He stood with his jacket in hand, his face half in shadows.

This is it, she thought, a lump forming in her throat.

This is goodbye.

“I can’t leave my car here,” he said. “Kenny Grieb knows where it’s parked.”

She released the breath she’d been holding, alleviating the strain on her lungs. Without letting him in on the relief that made her legs feel weak, she strode toward him on her high-heeled shoes.

“Then let’s move your car,” she said.



M ICHAEL FELT as though he’d been transported to an alternate universe.

After Sara directed him to a parking space in a lot adjacent to a real-estate office, they’d taken a sidewalk that led through the heart of Indigo Springs. Despite architecture dating back more than a hundred years, he barely recognized the town.

“Tell me again why we didn’t park in the block where you live,” Michael said.

“I said you could walk me home, not drive me home,” she said. A woman who knew her own mind, he thought.

Restaurants, only a few of which were familiar, were doing a brisk business. Photographers, crafters, glass blowers and painters had taken over previously abandoned storefronts. A bike shop seemed to be on every block. People who looked like tourists strolled the sidewalks.

“What happened to the sleepy town I remember?” Michael asked as they passed the red and white awning of an ice-cream shop. “This hardly seems like the same place.”

“It woke up,” Sara said. “Mostly because of the mountain-bikers and the hikers. At least, according to my real-estate agent. She said prices are low enough here for people to afford second homes.”

Even with the evidence of change all around, Michael had a tough time accepting that the heart of the town was different. Especially when they approached Abe’s General Store, a place that seemed frozen in time, right down to the red door with the hand-painted welcome sign.

Memories of his arms being roughly wrenched behind his back and the police taking him away in handcuffs came stampeding back, and he wished he was anywhere but here.

Correction: He wished they were anywhere but here.

He couldn’t regret spending time with a woman like Sara Brenneman, even though their relationship couldn’t go any further than her front door.

“Are you a mountain-biker? Is that why you moved here?” He kept his gaze straight ahead as they passed the general store, unwilling to resurrect any more bad memories.

“I moved here because I fell in love.”

Jealousy hit him hard, a ridiculous reaction, especially because he should have known a woman like her was spoken for. “You have a boyfriend?”

“I meant I fell in love with the town,” she said, laughing, and he could breathe again. “At first sight, too. I stopped to visit Penelope on the way back to Washington, D.C., from another friend’s wedding. That’s all it took.”

He waited for a car to pass before they crossed a side street to the quiet of the next block, mostly consisting of businesses that were closed for the day. “Didn’t you like living in Washington?”

“It’s the fast track I didn’t like. I lived in this great neighborhood near Capitol Hill, but spent most of my time at work. The more hours I billed, the more money the law firm made and the more chance I had of making partner.”

“Was that important to you?”

“I used to think so. I told you my dad was a navy JAG, right? Now he’s a partner at the firm where I worked. My mom’s a pediatrician. I’ve got a sister in law school and a brother in med school. Everybody’s a high achiever.”

“So what happened?”

“I woke up one night to a pounding on my door.” Her steps had slowed and he matched her more leisurely pace. “I saw a bloody, wild-eyed man through the peephole so I called 911 but didn’t open it.”

“Smart move.”

“Not really. Turned out he lived two doors down and he’d just been mugged. That’s when it hit me that I worked so many hours I couldn’t even recognize my own neighbor.”

“Not necessarily a bad thing.”

She shook her head. “For me, it was. I was so busy doing what was expected of me I didn’t think about what would make me happy. That’s having a social life and feeling like I’m part of a community.”

Once upon a time, Michael would have said he wanted to belong somewhere. But then Murray had booted him out of his great-aunt’s house and he’d learned how dangerous it was to want.

“Sounds like you’re in the right place.” He kept his voice determinedly noncommittal.

“I think so, but nobody else in my family does. They keep saying I’ll come back to my senses.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Enough about me. How about you? You keep saying you’re leaving tomorrow, but where will you go?”

“To decompress,” he said.

A muscle in her jaw twitched, hinting she wasn’t satisfied with his short answer. It couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t understand that the destination didn’t matter as long as it was away from here.

“There it is!” she suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands like an excited child. “My law office.”

She indicated one of the stone row houses that lined the block. It was sandwiched between an insurance office and a dentist, across the street from a small city park that was in shadows.

“I thought I was walking you home.”

“I live on the two upper floors. It’s the coolest thing. The place is built on a hillside so the office is at street level, but the back of my second floor opens onto a private deck that has a catwalk leading to the woods.”

He glanced upward and saw a light shining in a second-floor window.

“Isn’t it perfect? Here, I’ll show you.” She took a key from her little pink evening purse, opened the heavy wood door and flipped on a light.

The setup was typical for a small office. A reception area in front with a pair of offices and a small supply room in the rear. Wood floors and crown molding ran throughout the first floor.

“I need to get it painted and buy some lamps and carpets and artwork. Oh, and get the phone company over here because the phones aren’t working. And hire an office manager. I’ve almost got it covered. I’m going shopping in Allentown tomorrow and I have a couple of job candidates coming in for interviews on Monday.”

Her words tripped over each other, and he tried to remember the last time he’d been that excited. He couldn’t. She grabbed his hand, leading him to an unusual oak receptionist’s desk shaped like a comma.

“Isn’t this great?” she asked. “The office furniture came with the place, but I was sure the previous owner would exclude this piece. It’s an antique, probably custom-made, too.”

“Beautiful,” he said, but he was referring to Sara instead of the desk. A light seemed to have switched on inside her as she showed him her office, transforming her from attractive to dazzling.

She turned to him, a sunny smile curving her lips. He tried to mask his attraction, but she must have seen it because the smile changed, its innocence fading. She looked down at their still-linked hands, then up at him. Her hand was silky and warm, the way he imagined the rest of her would feel. The air around them suddenly seemed charged.

“I don’t normally do this.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I never do this, but would you like to come upstairs?”

His body hardened, his mind leaping ahead to the two of them naked, entwined in her bed. He dropped her hand and stuffed both of his in his pockets. “This isn’t smart, Sara. We just met. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you risked your life to save a child you’d never seen before. I know you stopped a drunk from ruining your friend’s wedding.” She raised a hand when he would have protested. “And I know you’re in the Peace Corps.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Pollock.”

Tension gripped Michael’s shoulders. “What else did he say?”

“He said you went through a rough patch as a kid, but you’d rebounded. He said you were a good man.”

“He didn’t give you any details about my past?”

“Not really.” She laid a hand against his cheek, her eyes asking him to trust her. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Here was his chance to do the right thing. If he admitted responsibility for Chrissy’s death, she’d never look at him with respect and admiration again. She thought he was a hero. A hero! It was almost laughable.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. All he managed to say was, “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Then you don’t think highly enough of yourself,” she said and kissed him.

He had plenty of time to draw back, but he remained in place. Her breath was sweet, her lips soft, her hands at his nape electrifying. His pulse quickened, the passion he’d been keeping carefully in check soaring to the surface.

He should stop this. He’d spent only part of a night in her company, but making love with her wasn’t something he’d be able to take lightly.

She snaked her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, molding her body against his. She opened her mouth in a blatant invitation for him to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t refuse, his mouth mating with hers as he breathed in her scent.

His hands roamed over her hair, her back, her hips as he kissed her with as little control as the teenage boy he used to be. This was madness. Absolute madness. He hadn’t felt so out of control in years, not since he used to wait for Chrissy to sneak out of her house and come to him.

And look how that had turned out.

If Sara knew what had happened to Chrissy, she wouldn’t let him kiss her. She’d never again allow him to get close enough to touch her.

With a supreme act of will he broke off the kiss and pulled away from her, listening to the mingled sounds of their harsh breathing. She rested her head against his rapidly beating heart for a moment before stepping out of his arms. He felt immediately bereft.

She took a step toward a stairway that led to her home. To her bed. Her smile was shy. “Are you coming?”

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the tempting picture she made. But he could still see her, as though her image was imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. He’d probably always be able to conjure up the way she looked right now.

He swallowed, tasting regret, and opened his eyes. “I already told you, Sara. I want to, but I can’t.”

Her smile faltered but didn’t disappear altogether. “Sure, you can. I already know you’re leaving in the morning. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”

“This isn’t you, Sara. Didn’t you just say you never have one-night stands?”

“Maybe it won’t be just one night. You have friends in town. Maybe you’ll come back to visit.”

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t. I’m a big girl. I accept that. I know what I’m doing.”

Maybe so, but she didn’t know who she’d be doing it with.

Tell her about Chrissy, a voice inside his head urged.

In the end, all he could do was present an argument she couldn’t refute.

“I’ll probably kick myself for this, but I can’t make love to you one day and disappear from your life the next.”

She bit her lip, her disappointment as clear as his regret. “I suppose I should thank you for that, but I don’t think I can.”

“I understand.” He stepped forward, laid four fingers against the smooth curve of her cheek. “Goodbye, Sara.”

He was halfway out the front door before her voice stopped him. “Michael.”

He turned around. She looked almost ethereally beautiful standing in the empty office in front of the antique desk she’d enthused about.

“Mr. Pollock was right,” she said. “You are a good man.”

He didn’t even have the courage to refute that.



T HE NEXT MORNING Michael trudged up the narrow flight of stairs that led from Aunt Felicia’s basement to the main part of the house, carrying a cardboard box of things he didn’t want.

Old clothes that would no longer fit. High-school report cards and test papers that didn’t do him proud. A tattered baseball glove he’d found lying discarded in a field when he was a teenager.

He’d already decided to donate the stuff to a thrift store. He didn’t need any reminders of Indigo Springs when he was gone.

The steps ended at a cheerfully decorated country kitchen that smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. A plate of them sat on the counter near where Aunt Felicia stood between two rows of white cabinets. She hadn’t yet changed from the blue dress she’d worn to church.

“Did you find everything?” She wrung her hands, betraying her uneasiness. They’d barely exchanged two sentences when he’d arrived before he asked about his unwanted belongings and she directed him to the basement.

“I’ve got it all unless there’s more than one box.”

“No.” More hand-twisting. “Just the one.”

“Then I’ll get out of your way.”

“I made cookies after church,” she blurted, halting his progress. “Would you like one?”

It was well known his great-aunt liked to bake, but he was surprised she’d come straight home and made the cookies. Maybe she baked something every Sunday. The ultimate homemaker, she seemed to enjoy doing the things that made a house a home.

“Sure,” he said, because it seemed rude to refuse. He carried the box to the table and set it down before taking a cookie. He bit into it, the gooey, chocolate taste bringing back one of the rare pleasures of his childhood. “It’s good.”

She half smiled, the compliment seeming to please her. “How was the wedding?”

“Fine.” He finished off the rest of the cookie. “Johnny’s a lucky guy.”

“I heard…” She stopped, started again. “I heard you didn’t stay long.”

So the locals were already gossiping about him. He’d been up most of the night, second-guessing himself for not accepting Sara’s invitation. But he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t risk having somebody spot him leaving her house at an odd hour.

“I was at the wedding long enough.” He noticed the handle of a cabinet door was loose and thought about offering to fix it, then changed his mind, knowing that would only prolong a visit that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “I should get going.”

Aunt Felicia finally moved, only to cut off his exit from the kitchen. “Could you, um, look at something for me first?”

The loose handle?

“All right,” he said.

She picked up a manila envelope from her kitchen table and wordlessly handed it to him. The envelope was stamped Registered Mail and contained the return address of a local Indigo Springs bank. The first paper he pulled out was a Notice of Intent to Foreclose. A letter stated that Aunt Felicia was several months behind on her loan payments.

He flipped through the papers, trying to make sense of them. The house should be paid off. Aunt Felicia had inherited it when her parents died, and that had probably been twenty-five years ago.

His head jerked up. “It says here you took out a home equity loan.”

“I didn’t,” she said miserably. “Murray must have. I trusted he knew best about money matters. When he’d tell me to sign something, I would.”

Michael didn’t need to ask why Murray needed money. Even as a teenager, he’d been aware of her late husband’s gambling problem. And the bastard had put up Aunt Felicia’s house as collateral to finance it.

“I didn’t know about the loan until I got the letter,” Aunt Felicia explained. “It says the mortgage statements were going to a post office box.”

“You’ve been doing business at this bank for years. Why didn’t somebody tell you about this sooner?”

“They’re all strangers now. Even Quincy retired about a year ago.” She hugged herself. “I don’t know what to do. I didn’t even know Murray had a post office box.”

Michael swallowed his anger. Railing about her no-good late husband wouldn’t do Aunt Felicia any good. If he was going to help her, he needed to keep a level head. “When did you get this notice?”

“Friday,” she said.

“It says the entire mortgage is due in thirty days and if you don’t pay the amount, you’re in default. Can you cover it?”

She shook her head, her expression strained. “I used my savings for funeral expenses.”

“Didn’t Murray have life insurance?”

“He cashed in the policy before he died.” She blinked as though to keep from crying. “I’m going to lose my home, aren’t I?”

Michael wished he could pay off the money his aunt owed, but the Peace Corps didn’t pay a salary, just a stipend covering basic necessities. His meager bank balance reflected that reality. But lose her house? Not if he could help it.

“You should go to the bank Monday morning and try to straighten this out,” he advised.

“I already called the bank.” She sniffled. “They said I waited too long for them to help me.”

“Then you can hire a lawyer who knows foreclosure law.” He dredged up the name of the attorney who’d once threatened to file a civil suit against him on behalf of Quincy Coleman. “Doesn’t Larry Donatelli go to your church?”

“He had a heart attack last year and moved to Florida,” his aunt said.

That explained why Sara Brenneman felt as though there was room in town for another lawyer.

Sara. Who’d told him at the wedding that she counted foreclosures as one of her specialties.

“I might know someone,” he said.

“Really?” His aunt’s blue eyes, so like his own, filled with hope that extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. “But lawyers are expensive.”

“I’ll help with the fees.” Michael could swing that much.

“Oh, no,” his aunt said instantly, her back straightening. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You don’t even know what she’ll charge. She hasn’t opened her practice yet so you’d probably get a good rate.” Michael could possibly get Sara to quote his aunt a low hourly fee and let him make up the difference. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

She worked her bottom lip, deep worry lines appearing on her face and making her look older. “Will you call her for me?”

Too late he remembered Sara was having problems getting her phone service hooked up.

“Her phones aren’t working, and she mentioned she’d be out of town today,” he said, remembering her shopping trip. “I’ll show you where her office is and you can stop by Monday.”

He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. “Will you come with me?”

Self-preservation told him to refuse, but in truth he’d decided to help her as soon as he’d seen the foreclosure notice. She hadn’t stopped her husband from kicking him out when he turned eighteen, but she had housed and fed him for almost three years. He couldn’t let her lose the house.

Even if it meant seeing Sara again and being reminded of what he couldn’t have.

“I’ll be by tomorrow morning at about nine.” He lifted the box from the table.

“Wait.” The relief on her face mixed with confusion. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the hotel.”

“You can stay here,” she said. “In your old room.”

Trying to figure out whether the invitation was sincere, he shifted the box in his arms. It wasn’t heavy, but it was an awkward shape. “I’ll still help you if I stay in a hotel tonight.”

“But it makes no sense for you to go to a hotel.”

Yet she hadn’t even opened the door to him Friday night. He didn’t voice his reservation, but it must have been obvious.

“I can explain about Friday night.” Her lower lip trembled. “I would have asked you in, but my bridge group was here.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice monotone.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “Jill Coleman’s in my group.”

Jill Coleman. Quincy’s wife. Chrissy’s mother.

“I thought it would be…” She stopped, searched for a word. “…awkward.”

He almost asked her awkward for whom, but he wouldn’t like the answer. He started to refuse her invitation, but the prospect of another night in a hotel depressed him.

Besides, there was plenty at his aunt’s house to keep him occupied. The loose handle on the cabinet door, for starters.

“I’ll put this box in the car and be back with my bag,” he said. “You don’t need to show me the room. I remember where it is.”




CHAPTER FOUR


B ECAUSE OF a cardboard bakery box, Laurie Grieb decided returning to Indigo Springs might have been a mistake.

Not because of the apple turnover that was surely inside the small container, but because her resolve to refuse the delicious treat was wavering.

“C’mon, Laurie,” drawled the man holding out the dessert. Like Adam extending the apple to Eve, Laurie thought. It was after nine o’clock Monday morning and they were in the driveway of her mother’s house, which Laurie had moved back into a week ago. “We both know you love apple turnovers.”

He spoke in the same cajoling tone he’d once used to get her to make love with him when she was a teenager. Even though her resulting pregnancy had taught her how important it was to resist him, she grabbed the box.

“Okay, fine.” Her mouth watered at the sugary-sweet smell drifting up from the box. “But I’m only taking it because I skipped breakfast. It doesn’t mean I want you coming around, Kenny.”

“You’re welcome.” He managed to inject a touch of vulnerability in his slight smile.

She felt about two feet tall until she remembered the reasons she couldn’t let Kenny Grieb back into her life. His dark sunglasses illustrated one of them. She guessed he wore them more to conceal bloodshot eyes than as a shield from the sun. The Kenny she’d known wasn’t so much a big drinker as a reckless one, but then irresponsibility was the theme of his life. Too bad she hadn’t figured that out until she’d married him.

“You’re hungover.”

“You’re right. Say the word, and I’ll stop drinking. I’ve done it for you before.”

She closed her eyes at the pain that pierced through her at his casual remark. He’d stopped drinking when she was pregnant. Though her pregnancy, the reason he’d married her, had only lasted four months.

“I don’t want you to do anything for me.” She kept her tone clipped so he wouldn’t know she was touched by his gesture. “I mean it, Kenny. Leave me alone. No more turnovers. No more flowers. No more phone calls.”

“Now is that any way to talk to your husband?”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected sharply. “We’ve been divorced for seven years.”

They’d gotten married straight out of high-school almost nine years ago and hadn’t even managed to make their marriage last two years.

“A mistake.” He’d gained weight since they’d been together, but not enough to keep him from looking good. His brown hair was the length she liked, long enough that the ends curled and clipped the collar of the green T-shirt he wore with khaki shorts. “I never should have let you go.”




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