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“You handled Wilbur well—right up until the end where he gave you the brush-off.”
Nora’s heart shot into her throat and performed a back flip at Connor’s rough voice. She slowly turned her heart pounding again. Connor stood with one shoulder braced against the gray clapboard front of the store.
Keep it light and general, she told herself, and maybe he won’t ask why she was interested in a girls’ soccer field. She shrugged and smiled in a what-can-you-do manner.
“An old community issue that he continues to ignore.”
“What a shocker. Wilbur Ames’s not seeing anything beyond his own self-interest. Some things never change.” Connor folded his arms. “I guess I should thank you for your spirited defense of me.” He studied her, his piercing gaze bright with speculation.
No. She couldn’t afford to have Connor think she still harbored any feelings for him. “It’s why I became an attorney. I enjoy a good verbal challenge.”
Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment?—but when he straightened, it was gone.
“Looks like your store’s a big hit.”
Satisfaction shone in Nora as she surveyed Kilning You Softly. After months of backbreaking scrubbing, refurbishing and polishing, she and her sisters had succeeded in making their tribute to their aunt a reality. Last night, as the final touch, they had placed Three Sisters on the gray marble mantel over the fireplace. There, under soft recessed lighting, the glazed pink figurine of three small hands glowed serenely in testament to all that Abigail McCall had given.
Now it was Nora’s duty to ensure her home remained intact. She gnawed on her lower lip.
A muffled groan startled her. A dismayed Connor stood beside her.
“Are you all right?” Nora asked.
He smiled ruefully, but he only nodded at the building. “I take it Christina picked out the colors.”
Both the shutters and the lettering on the sign over the doorway were a jaunty purple. Nora winced. “I missed the appointment with the painter.”
“I hear Christina’s going to run the place.”
Unease prickled across the nape of Nora’s neck. “You’ve heard an awful lot in a very short period of time.”
His response was an enigmatic smile. Nora’s unease ripened into panic. Why was he here?
She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from his piercing stare. What did he know? Was he playing a cruel game of hide-and-seek with her?
When Ed Miller had died a month ago, she had been certain that Connor would return. After all, the farmer had been like a father to him. Her tension in the days leading up to the funeral had been worse than any trial nerves. But Connor never came. A lavish arrangement of yellow roses and a simple card delivered to Ed’s grave had been Connor’s only acknowledgment of the man’s passing. The townspeople had branded him for his disrespect, but Nora had been relieved.
Ed Miller. Nora thought of the sealed envelope in her briefcase. It contained documents for the unknown Miller heir, given to her by her boss, Charles Barnett, to deliver at noon today. She’d gathered from Barnett’s hints the new owner was a wealthy businessman and a lucrative new account. But Charlie had been tight-lipped about the heir’s identity.
Nora stole a glance at Connor’s worn jeans and jacket. It looked like the success he had hungered for had eluded him, but the roses for Ed’s service couldn’t have been cheap.
Roses. Abigail’s funeral. A memory tugged free. Two dozen sweetheart roses, each blossom a perfect deep-red velvet, had graced her aunt’s church service. The accompanying card had borne no signature, just the typed words “To a great woman.”
Nora swung around. “Connor, did you send flowers—”
He interrupted her. “I have to be going.”
Disappointment sliced through her.
Ridiculous. His leaving was what she wanted. She mustered a cool, professional smile. “How long will you be staying in town?”
Connor tucked his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and rocked on his heels. “Well, now. That question implies I’m only visiting.”
Nora stiffened, her heart hammering wildly, the blood humming in her ears. “What do you mean?” she asked as casually as she could manage. “Aren’t you just passing through?” She almost shrank back under the burning challenge in his eyes.
His tone, though, was chillingly calm. “No. I’ve come back to stay.”
The humming became a roar. He was staying.
The door to the shop slammed.
A tall slender girl, poised on the edge of her teens, rushed outside. “Hey, Mom! Do you know where my jersey is? I’ve looked everywhere.” Close behind her were Eve and Christina, both looking anxious.
Nora’s gaze locked with Connor’s. “Have you tried the laundry room? It’s folded on top of the dryer.”
Her daughter threw her arms around Nora’s neck and gave her a quick peck. “Mom, you’re the best.” Turning, she noticed Connor and immediately trotted out her practiced smile, designed to slay the male population. “Hi, I’m Abby.”
Nora saw the stunned but puzzled look in Connor’s eyes as he shook the proffered hand. Relief flowed through her. Her sisters gripped her arms, keeping her from sagging.
He didn’t know.
He had not known.
Standing before Connor was Nora, a girl again. But not Nora.
Her daughter. He could barely form the word mentally. The girl was the spitting image of her mother, all coltish long limbs. Connor blinked and took a closer look at Abby. No. There were some physical differences. Abby’s black hair was wavy; a hint of a dimple winked at the right corner of her mouth when she smiled; her eyes were the blue of a tropic sky, not the wintry gray of her mother’s.
Did she have her father’s eyes? Jealousy sliced through Connor. Nora had a child by another man. During all those long Florida nights, filled with restive dreams of Nora, he’d never once envisioned her as a mother.
Weary from fending off all the emotional punches he’d sustained in the space of thirty minutes, Connor rotated his shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to cut his losses and move on, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The memory of the special gift Nora had given him was only that—a memory.
Connor realized Abby was studying him with the same intense concentration that her mother displayed, right down to the identical furrowing of dark brows. Despite himself, he smiled. The girl’s responding grin yanked loose one of the knots in his stomach.
“I’m Connor Devlin. I knew your mother when she looked just like you.” He waited a beat. Yep, here came the trademark McCall rolling of eyes. No one else had ever been able to do it with the same expressiveness as Nora. “And she was the prettiest girl in her class,” he smoothly continued. “So were your aunts. All major babes. Boys stumbled over themselves to catch sight of a McCall in the hallway.”
Abby turned and looked incredulously at the woman standing behind her. “My mother? A babe?”
Grimacing, Nora stepped away from her sisters and ran a hand over her daughter’s cheek. “Connor, hush. You’ll spoil my daughter’s image of me as a proper old woman.”
He looked at Nora’s open jacket, revealing her subtle curves. If she was old, then someone needed to put him out of his misery right then and there. The sudden need to feel the cool silk of Nora’s shirt against his chest before he explored the warm flesh beneath left him on edge. He’d thought his need for Nora had died years ago, yet the slow heat in his groin had him shifting his stance.
“Oh, Mom!” Abby straightened, all teenage righteous indignation. “Come on!”
Eve’s mouth curled. “Babes, huh?”
Connor stepped forward and pulled on one of Eve’s curls. “Babes then, babes now.” Eve flushed and jerked her head away. He winked, and Eve’s jaw dropped.
Pleased, Connor moved to Christina and lightly pressed her hand. “Good to see you, Christie.” His reward was a lightening of the haunted shadows in her eyes.
He next tugged Abby’s ponytail. “Nice to meet you.” Warmth unfurled in him when she smiled.
Connor then stood before Nora and took her injured hand. A test, for old time’s sake. Just a harmless test. When he turned it over and kissed the pulse at her wrist, the soft flesh jolted. Hot triumph burned through him—she still reacted to his touch.
Unfortunately his body reacted in kind.
Stepping back, he nodded. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He turned and strolled down the sidewalk.
He had reached the next line of stores when Nora called out, “You weren’t serious about staying here permanently, were you?”
His step almost faltered. Everyone’s anxiousness to see him gone, especially Nora’s, angered him. He should set the record straight.
He looked over his shoulder. Did he imagine the flicker of panic in her eyes? He still felt contrary enough to let the half-truth stand—for now. “Very serious.”
He reached his pride-and-joy, a gleaming Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle, and straddled it. As he cinched on his helmet, he delivered his parting shot. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
Nora gaped.
After a careless salute, Connor revved the bike’s engine and roared off down the road. Next up, his meeting with the devil.
Chapter Two
The old church hunkered on the windswept hill at the west end of Maple Street. A third-generation building, it stood on the foundation of its predecessors. When the first two structures had succumbed to fire, no one had dared to move the location of the First Community Church of Arcadia Heights.
No minister had guarded the First Community Church tradition more zealously than its current minister: the town’s first female pastor.
The first thing that struck Connor as he sat on his motorcycle in front of the church was how little it had changed. Its clapboard still glared pristine white under the late-morning sun. Its steeple was a stark pillar thrusting upward to pierce the blue plane of the autumn sky. The steeple could be seen for miles. When its bells clanged on Sunday morning, few could escape their imperious summons.
Connor kicked down the bike stand and slung his helmet over the handlebar. He ran his fingers through his hair and tucked in his T-shirt. He walked along the bricked sidewalk. At the path’s split, rather than taking the steps to the church’s entrance, he veered to the right. At this time on Saturday, if the keeper of the faith maintained her ritual, she’d be polishing her Sunday sermon in the cottage’s study. His practiced eye noted the stern, cropped lines of the viburnum hedges along the perimeter of the church. He knew the shrubs weren’t pruned just for the oncoming winter. Come spring, no twig would be permitted to sprout its spectacular white flowers.
He turned the corner and faced the place where he had grown up. Reaching the pine-green-painted door, he opted to rap his knuckles rather than use the imposing brass knocker. He counted the seconds it would take the resident to rise from her chair and cross the hallway.
The door swung out, and a tall woman with a smile that didn’t quite mask her annoyance stood in the entrance’s shadows. “I’m sorry, but could you please come back later when…” Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Connor. What are you doing here?”
Because he knew it would irritate her, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across the woman’s cheek. “Hello, Mother. Nice to see you, too.”
She grimaced and, with her hand on the knob, retreated a step into the dim shadows of the entryway.
“Don’t bother inviting me in.” Connor leaned against the doorjamb, keeping one foot extended in case she tried to shut the door in his face.
Sheila Devlin folded her hands in front of her body and studied him. “I see you haven’t changed. Still look like a third-rate hooligan.”
Her disapproval, though expected, was a painful reminder of the abuse she once inflicted. “Thanks, Mom. I wish I could say the same for you.” He returned the survey. Gray hairs, like shards of ice, speared through her auburn hair. This sign of mortality only served to enhance his mother’s air of authority. Her aquiline nose and frosty blue eyes bespoke her Irish heritage, but the fine lines radiating from her full lips signaled rigid self-control. She wore her uniform of black tailored slacks, crisp Oxford buttoned-down shirt and polished black loafers.
She arched a well-shaped patrician brow. “I assume your return has to do with Ed Miller’s death, but you’re a little late. His funeral was a month ago.”
He shrugged. “There are other ways to pay one’s last respects.”
“What?” His mother was the only person he’d ever known who could snort with elegance. “Uproot a flower in his honor?”
Her barb, as intended, sliced deep, but Connor merely rubbed his chin. “What a great idea. Thanks, Mother.” He straightened. “I came by to let you know I’m here and will be staying at Ed’s farm.”
His movement allowed a shaft of sunlight to stream into the hallway and fall short at his mother’s feet.
“Why?”
“Because Ed left me the place, and I have plans for it.” Motes danced in the sunbeam. Funny, when he had been growing up, Sheila had kept the rooms white-glove clean. He didn’t recall her allowing even one speck of dust to occupy the same space with her. She certainly hadn’t permitted a young boy’s toys.
“What plans could you possibly have?”
He jammed his hands into his pockets. Better than ramming one into the wood frame. “Nothing to interest you. Just a landscaping business.”
“Still into dirt.” The motes scattered as if they could sense the derision emanating from her. “Have you seen her?”
Trust his mother to get right to the point. Connor set his jaw. “Yes.”
“We had a deal.”
And he had never been able to sweat off the weight of his wretched promise under the unrelenting sun of Florida. His voice was rough. “Never fear, Mother. It’s over for both of us. I met Nora’s daughter.” He doubted if he would have any success of working this particular ache out of his system this afternoon.
His mother laced her fingers. Despite the fact she couldn’t hurt him anymore, the gesture sent a chill racing along his spine. As a child, he’d learned that the linking of her fingers signaled her more violent outbursts. His gaze flicked up to her face; some emotion darkened her eyes momentarily. Then her face resumed its expressionless mask. “Good.” She hesitated. “I do hope your ‘plans’ won’t take you long.”
Connor removed his foot from the opening. “Your welcome is overwhelming.”
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his mother’s posture became even more rigid. “I’m up for a promotion to a higher office. A much more affluent parish.”
His smile was rueful. “And you’re worried that my return will screw up your chances for ‘exalted-dom.’”
Her chin lifted. “Crude as always, but accurate.”
He turned on his heel. “Not to worry, Pastor Devlin. I’ll try not to lay too many sins at your door. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep with Nora about legal matters.”
He went down the porch steps.
“Connor!” The unfamiliar note of anxiety brought him around in surprise. Sheila’s emotions normally lay dormant, except when she preached. His mother ventured into the sunlight. “There’s nothing for you here. Certainly not that McCall girl. If you try to take up with her, you’ll just ruin her life.”
His hands clenched in his pockets. Keep them there, he warned himself. “How do you figure that?”
“She’s seeing Lawrence Millman’s son.”
“David?”
“Yes. The whole town’s expecting the engagement notice any time now.”
Her words only made his flame of longing for Nora burn brighter. He hitched his shoulders. “Good. I’m happy for them.” He moved. He needed to get to the farm and weed through his tangle of thoughts and emotions.
“Connor!”
He paused again, but didn’t turn around this time.
