Going outside to retrieve another box, Jeff squinted into the bright afternoon sunlight while recalling his determination to make a decent life for himself. He’d finished high school and joined the army, becoming a Ranger. However, nothing had turned out quite as planned.
A car turned into the lane leading to his place, interrupting the relentless flow of memories. A woman was at the wheel. Putting aside the lingering worries, he left the workshop and started for the house as the woman parked and headed for the front door.
She stopped on the new sidewalk made of rosy-toned pavers and lined with flowers planted by the kids, surveying the place as if thinking of buying it.
Wariness caused him to pause.
Her attire was all business, but there was something youthful, even graceful about the way she stooped to sniff a particularly aromatic rose.
He assumed she was there on business, probably referred by one of the local building contractors or interior designers who used his salvage services, but for an instant he wished she were there for him.
He frowned at the odd sensation and attributed it to spring fever or whatever had caused the mixed emotions of the morning. “Hello,” he called.
She straightened and pivoted toward him. She was older than he’d first thought. Probably around his age, he decided as he came closer, noting the faint lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes.
“You looking for someone?” he asked politely.
She removed her sunglasses and looked at him. Her eyes were light green with gold flecks in the center. For a strange second, he felt as if she were gazing into his soul…and wasn’t impressed by what she saw.
Caileen Peters glanced at her notebook. “Jefferson Aquilon?” She gazed at the man who approached her with only a hint of a limp. He matched the description given to her.
Except the file hadn’t mentioned he was a man straight out of a Brontë novel—dark and brooding, wary and watchful, interesting as only a mature man could be—one who was experienced and confident of his place in the world.
An odd shiver danced over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps along her arms and scalp.
Get a grip, she advised, reining in her imagination and concentrating on the business at hand. She raised her eyebrows as the silence spun out between them. In Family Services parlance, this was known as “taking charge.”
“You found him,” he said, a question in his eyes and no smile of welcome on his angular, attractive face.
He was a bit over six feet, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. The laugh lines radiating from his eyes nicely balanced the frown line across his forehead.
He had dark hair, a shade between brown and black, and his eyes were so dark they, too, appeared black. Looking into them was like staring at a blank wall. There was a closed aspect to him, as if he didn’t allow anyone into his inner thoughts.
He was a year older than her own forty years—forty years!—and a veteran who’d had his foot blown off by a land mine while in Afghanistan. He’d also had some problems with the people at Family Services down in Boise last year, so she hesitated in telling him the purpose of her visit. No one liked to be poked and pried at by strangers.
“You have the advantage,” he finally said. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”
She introduced herself and added, “I work for the county. Family Services.”
His frown line deepened. “What do you want?”
A new life might be nice. “I’ve been assigned to this case. Now that you’ve completed your move,” she added when he didn’t respond.
“I thought we already had a case worker.”
“Not in this county. I’ve spoken to the counselor in Boise and to Lyric Dalton up here, so I think I have a pretty good idea of your situation.”
“Do you now?”
The tone was more than a little cynical, with an undercoating of sarcasm and suspicion. Exactly like most of her clients at the first meeting, only more so.
Her counterpart in Boise, Mrs. Greyling, had been a tired, bitter woman who should have retired before she reached burnout. She’d been instrumental in removing the children from this man’s care and had been humiliated when they ran away from the foster home she’d recommended.
Caileen smiled at the man who’d taken the orphans in. That the children had asked to stay with him was in his favor, and Lyric had assured her he was a truly caring person. His present attitude wouldn’t influence her impression of him. Only time would do that, and she would have lots of time to get to know him and his family well.
Well, maybe not. She’d turned forty last week. Her daughter had informed her she was middle-aged and didn’t understand anything about the younger generation.
“I’m so glad your place here is finished,” she said, focusing on the silent man. “The children have settled very well into school and the community, from all reports.”
“So you’ve checked them out and now you’ve come to do the same with me,” he stated.
She held her smile in place. “Yes. I need to see the house, if you don’t mind.”
“Would it do any good if I did?” His unexpected smile was heavy with irony, but it did nice things for his face.
Not believing in evading the issue, she said, “Not if you want to keep the children.”
He took one step and was in her face. “Let’s get one thing clear from the beginning. Those kids have been pushed around enough. The judge said they could live with me and this is where they will stay.”
“I think that would be best, too,” she said in the calmest voice she could muster. She inhaled deeply.
A scent like wild thyme and balsam filled her, along with the clean odor of sweat and soap and aftershave lotion. The pure male aroma did something to her insides, and for a moment, she remembered being young and in love.
She sucked in a harsh breath and brought herself back to the present.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his chocolate eyes narrowing as he studied her.
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Moving on, she mentally made notes on the flowers, the neatly mown grass on each side of the walkway, the rocks used to outline and separate each space. Beyond the small lawn, the ground was mulched or graveled for low maintenance and conservative water use.
From the files, she knew he was a sculptor as well as a salvage expert. Feeling they needed to find neutral ground, she asked, “Did you do those?” and pointed to a birdbath covered in bright ceramic pieces that held two sculptures made of copper wire. One was a bird perched on the edge of the basin and the other was a dog with its front paws on the opposite side while it peered at the bird.
His gaze followed hers, and he nodded.
The pleasing diorama was centered in a circle of river gravel. A wooden bench nestled close by under a copse of silver birch trees. The sky formed a perfect backdrop of blue with a few puffy white clouds to add contrast.
She wondered what it would be like to sit there on a warm summer evening and watch the stars come out.
“If we could go inside?” she suggested, shaking off the spurious notion.
He nodded and led the way to the front door, opening it and gesturing for her to go in first. She stepped into the modest home and stopped abruptly, unprepared for the lovely welcoming decor of the room, the warmth that seemed to reach out and grab her heart.
His hands settled on her shoulders as he came to a halt after almost crashing into her. Through her somber business suit, her skin prickled with awareness