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A Difficult Woman
Jeannie Watt
“I want to apologize for last night.
I was rude and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”
Her words came out in a staccato rhythm, sounding more rote than sincere.
“You haven’t apologized much, have you?”
Tara frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re not very good at it.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“You have most of the words right,” Matt explained, “but the delivery’s wrong. You see, you’re supposed to sound like you mean it, not like you’re saying whatever’s necessary to get me to do what you want.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, guess what? At this point I would say whatever it took to get you to do what I want.” Her voice was low. “I was afraid—”
“Yeah.” She’d been afraid he wouldn’t come back. Probably because he’d told her he wouldn’t. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” Her expression grew serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”
Dear Reader,
Building and rebuilding—isn’t that what life is all about? I’ve lived in many old houses, and therefore I’ve worked on many old houses. I am a renovator and builder at heart and it seemed natural to incorporate these aspects of my life into my debut book.
When I first got the idea for this story, I envisioned an independent woman who does things on her own because she’s always had to. She’s never depended on anyone, except for a few close childhood friends, until she’s forced to by situation. My hero, on the other hand, is in the process of rebuilding. His career has been shattered by a devastating revelation and he is determined to make things right again, regardless of personal cost. He, too, is learning to reach out and accept help. While they work on their lives, they’re also renovating the kind of house I’ve always wanted to live in. And they do it well.
I hope you enjoy my book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would love to hear from you. Please contact me at jeanniewrites@gmail.com.
Happy reading,
Jeannie Watt
A Difficult Woman
Jeannie Watt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeannie Watt lives with her husband in rural Nevada. She collects horses, ponies, dogs and cats. Her son and daughter both inherited the math gene that skipped her generation and are studying to be civil engineers. When she isn’t writing, Jeannie likes to paint and sew and work on her house. She has degrees in geology and education.
To my parents, for their love and support over the
years, and for teaching me the meaning of tenacity.
To Gary, for believing in me and for cooking
when I was busy writing.
To Jamie Dallas and Jake, who grew up with their
mother writing—and rewriting—and encouraged her
to venture beyond Chapter Three.
To Mike Allen and Charlie Hauntz,
who always asked, “How’s the book?”
To Roxanne, Tim and Echo—
the best proofreading team ever.
To Victoria Curran and Kathleen Scheibling,
without whose direction and help this book
would not have been possible.
My heartfelt thanks.
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 FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
TARA SULLIVAN, as a rule, did not watch men, but this one was proving to be an exception. She leaned her shoulder against the kitchen doorframe and, for the umpteenth time that morning, paused to watch her carpenter nail the front porch back together. It had been a while since she’d had someone capable working around the place, and somehow she felt compelled to keep an eye on him.
Probably because I half expect him to disappear.
Tara smiled grimly, as she pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the worn linoleum to the pantry, where she still had half a dozen shelves to wash before she could paint.
If he quit, he quit. There wasn’t much she could do about it. Luke had said his friend would stay for at least two weeks or until Luke’s shoulder healed, whichever came first. Tara sincerely hoped that was true because it was the only way she was going to get this place done in time for the reunion.
She sloshed her sponge into the soapy water and started to scrub. At least this man was from out of town, so Martin Somers had no influence over him.
When she was done with the shelves, she carried the wash water to the big kitchen sink, awkwardly dumping the basin before turning it over to dry. She glanced at the clock as she wiped her hands on a towel and realized she didn’t have much time before her appointment. It was a routine matter, just a few signatures to finalize things, but routine or not, Tara was in no hurry to get to the bank. Too many bad memories.
She went through the door to the mudroom, hung the apron she’d been wearing on a hook and then carefully made her way out onto the side porch, where the sun tea was brewing. The boards creaked under her feet, but she knew the safe spots and managed to retrieve the jug without crashing through the old flooring. The carpenter continued to work, keeping his head down, concentrating on the boards he was hammering into place. Muscles flexed beneath his thin white T-shirt with each blow.
“Hey,” Tara called. The dark head came up. Sunlight reflected off his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Want some?” She hefted the jar a little as she spoke. It was getting hot outside and she didn’t want the man passing out from heatstroke.
He hesitated, then nodded, getting to his feet.
“I’ll bring it to you,” Tara said. She nudged the side door open with her toe and disappeared into the mudroom. Her reluctance to have him in the house drinking tea with her had nothing to do with fear or caution, and everything to do with boundaries. Because Tara had boundaries. And she let very few people cross them. It seemed that whenever she did, pain and disappointment ultimately followed.
MATT CONNORS hadn’t been certain what to expect the first day on this job, but he had not expected his new boss to be beautiful. Even dressed in baggy jeans and a loose tank top that read Night Sky Night Hawks across the chest, and with a smear of pale blue paint across her forehead, there was no denying her beauty. Her long, very dark hair was pulled back into a thick braid, accentuating the shape of her face, the slightly aquiline line of her nose, the high cheekbones. Her eyes were startlingly blue and more businesslike than friendly, so he had been surprised by the offer of tea. She’d given him a cool nod as she delivered the icy beverage, complete with lemon wedge and sprig of mint, and Matt accepted the tall glass with an equally impassive expression. He’d made a perfunctory stab at conversation when he first arrived that morning, more to try to regain a sense of normality in his daily life than for social reasons, but the boss had quickly made it evident that she wasn’t looking for pleasantries. She wanted her porch rebuilt and that was just fine with him.
Matt studied her striking profile for another moment as she inspected his work, and then he took a long, grateful drink of tea. It was hot for the end of May and it had been a while since he’d put in so many hours under the Nevada sun. Ten years, in fact, since he’d worked his way through college on his stepfather’s construction crew before attending the police academy.
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I reinforced the two bad joists, but I have some work ahead of me here.” He gestured to the boards he was replacing.
“Another day on this porch?” Tara asked.
“Probably more like two.”
Disappointment crossed her face.
“All right,” she agreed, as if she had a choice in the matter. She pushed the long braid over her shoulder. “I have to go to the bank. Do you mind being here on your own?”
“No.” To him the bigger question would have been, did she feel comfortable leaving him alone at her house? She must’ve guessed the direction of his thoughts.
“Luke trusts you.” The simply stated fact seemed to be enough for her. “Did you bring any water?”
“In the truck.”
“Good.”
Her very blue eyes held his for a moment and then she turned and went back inside, the old wooden screen door banging shut behind her.
Matt took another swallow of tea, his eyes still on the door. Tara Sullivan was a woman of few words. He set down the glass and picked up his hammer. It didn’t really matter to him—if anything it made things easier. He was not there to make friends with her. He was there as a favor to his uncle, his former construction boss, a man who thought he was saving Matt’s life.
TARA ALWAYS HAD the feeling when she crossed the threshold of the bank that every eye in the place was on her. The problem was that it wasn’t entirely her imagination.
The manager of the Night Sky branch of U.S. Trust and Savings had been one of the tellers on duty at the Reno branch when her father had made his brazen attempt at easy money fifteen years ago. He never let her, or anyone else in Night Sky, forget it.
Damn but she wished that when her aunt Laura had finally realized the house was falling down around her she’d applied for the renovation loan with an out-of-town bank. But no. She’d conducted her business locally and Tara had inherited both the house and the debt to a bank she never wanted to set foot in. And it was a huge debt. Tara’d been astounded by the amount, wondering at first how her aunt had managed to secure it at her age on such a dilapidated house. But then she’d realized just how much property values had gone up over the past decade, and decided that maybe it was the land and not the house the bank had counted on for security. The only blessing was that the interest rate had been low enough to make the payments manageable, and after today Tara hoped to continue with her low-interest payments for a very long time.
“Miss Sullivan. Have a seat.” The manager pulled his gold pen a little closer as he spoke.
“You are here regarding the balloon payment on your loan, due October first.” The manager raised his eyes from the paper to meet hers. Tara did her best to look friendly. He did not.
“I met with the assistant manager last week. We talked about refinancing the last payment. I submitted my request in writing.”
“Yes. I have it here.” The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, giving Tara the feeling that this was not going to be the slam dunk the assistant manager had indicated it would be.
“He said that it was very common to refinance a balloon payment. Practically expected.” His exact words had been “just a technicality.”
“That is if circumstances are the same as when the loan was secured.”
“The circumstances can hardly be the same, since my aunt is now deceased,” Tara pointed out.
“Exactly,” the man said. “And according to the information here, you are not currently employed.”
His information was correct, thanks to the statewide cut in the education budget. The Elko community college now had one less English instructor on its payroll. But that didn’t mean she was without income.
“I’m freelancing. Technical writing. I have two projects scheduled to begin next month. I’ve brought you copies of the budget. I’m certain I’ll have more work after that.”
The manager barely glanced at the papers she set on his desk.
“Freelancing.” From his tone, she may as well have said she was panhandling.
“Yes. And as soon as the funding situation at the college is rectified, mine will be the first position hired back. It’s written into my contract, which I have right here.” She pulled a paper out of the stack on her lap.
“And when might that be?”
Tara sucked in a breath. “The HR director expects it to be within the year.”
“I see. And, when you get your job back, is there any guarantee that it would not again be downsized in the next round of state budget cuts?”
“No, but I will be getting another job as soon as my house is refurbished and the reunion is over.”
