My Montana Home. Ellen James

that he untaped the blasted splint and tossed it into the garbage. So what if his finger still hurt like blazes. He was through being a spectacle. Without the splint, running his new table saw was a glorious experience. It had been nearly twelve years since Andrew had had time to work with his hands. After finding that Hannah’s lawyer had unexpectedly been called out of town for most of the next week, Andrew had done some serious soul-searching about what to do with the hole in his schedule. Of course, he could fly back to Dallas to catch up on the Connell casework. But somehow, jumping back into his workaday grind hadn’t seemed so compelling. What had seemed compelling was the cupped and twisted decking on his grandmother’s back porch. Couldn’t let that go untended, if he wanted to help the resale value of the house.

      Sunday afternoon, then, and he was having a fine time chalking lines and surveying and measuring those water-damaged boards. Time stretched out in front of him. The shadows of the past had receded, even here in Montana. He felt the late-summer sun warm on his back as he knelt on the porch.

      The sound of a car turning into the driveway disturbed his reverie about wood screws and planking. He looked up, surprised to see Cassie Warren’s little hatchback. She climbed from the driver’s seat, and her son bolted out the passenger side. He was dashing away from her when she called his name in a warning tone.

      “Zak!”

      He skidded to a halt. She went over and talked to him in a low, intent voice. Mother and son faced each other. Both had their arms crossed, and both wore stubborn expressions. After a moment, the kid gave a shrug, followed by a reluctant nod. He whirled and sprinted to the oak at the back of the yard. In a matter of seconds he’d clambered up the now-replaced rope ladder and disappeared into the tree house.

      Cassie shook her head wearily. Head bowed, she walked toward the guest house. But then she happened to glance up, and saw Andrew. She stiffened, the look on her face revealing that she’d much rather avoid him. He couldn’t say he liked having that effect on a woman.

      After a moment she came toward him. “Hello,” she said too politely.

      “Hello.”

      She studied his right hand. “Amazing,” she commented. “Your finger healed overnight. Why, you don’t even need that splint anymore.”

      The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “Miracles do happen,” he said agreeably. He sat back and took a long, enjoyable look at her. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse, a skirt that swirled pleasingly around her legs and sandals that showed she’d painted her toenails a bright cherry red. Her toes made him smile.

      She crossed her arms and gave him a severe look in return. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said.

      “Do what?” he asked.

      She flushed. “Check me out,” she said. “You seem to be…considering possibilities.”

      He thought about the kiss they’d started last night. That was what it had been—the merest of beginnings. Too bad he’d be in Montana only another week or so…

      Once again the flush was making her freckles stand out in a very alluring manner. “Andrew,” she said in a repressive tone, glancing toward the tree house at the end of the yard.

      “He can’t hear us from all the way up there,” Andrew said helpfully.

      “Nonetheless…” She took a step away, as if about to leave. He didn’t want her to go. But something told him he shouldn’t feel this way. Something told him to put some distance between them, as he always did with women.

      “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” he said, straightening.

      Her face got a closed look. “Let’s just say that things didn’t go as expected with my family.” She stopped, as if thinking over her statement. “Actually, things did go as expected—only more so.”

      “Sounds mysterious,” he commented.

      “Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about the almighty Maxwells,” she said a bit grimly. “They have a long history of thinking they own the world, and everything in it.”

      “Interesting,” he said. “You talk about them as if you don’t belong to them at all, as if you’re not a Maxwell yourself.”

      She looked disconcerted, but then recovered. “I suppose that’s one of the hazards of being a lawyer,” she said dryly. “You pick up on the subtleties other people miss. Well, I’ll let you get on with whatever you’re doing.”

      He definitely didn’t want her to go.

      “Those are some pretty comfortable deck chairs over there,” he said. “And I’ll even make you some of my grandmother’s famous lemonade.”

      She almost smiled at that. “Right. You’ll open a can of the frozen stuff, add some water and stir. Hannah always made her cookies from scratch, but not her lemonade.”

      “So, are you game?”

      She hesitated, glancing once again toward the tree house.

      “Who knows,” Andrew said, “maybe some lemonade will lure him down.”

      That seemed to do the trick. “All right,” she said. “I’ll stay…for a little while.”

      A little while was fine.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE LEMONADE WAS COLD and tart. Cassie cradled her glass in both hands, telling herself she’d already spent enough time here on the porch with Andrew. Five minutes, to be exact. She glanced at her watch again.

      “Relax,” said Andrew.

      Relax…that was the one thing she didn’t seem able to do. Not with her family, not with her job, not with her son—and certainly not with Andrew Morris.

      All she had to do was look at him to find her heart rate quickening, her skin heating up. If being calm was her goal, she’d chosen the wrong company. But that didn’t stop her from looking. He sat in the chair across from her, legs stretched out casually, the Montana breeze once again playing with his thick dark hair. Faded jeans suited him. So did his Texas Rangers T-shirt.