“No reason.” He found, surprisingly, that he was feeling pretty good. He didn’t know if it was because of Cassie Warren, or the unexpected turn of the day. Cassie, however, didn’t appear to share his optimism. She gazed at him for another moment, and then her expression grew shuttered. She might as well have put up a warning sign: Keep away. Don’t get too close.
She called to her son. “Zak, the car’s over here. We’re going home.” And then she turned to Andrew one more time. “At least—it’s home until Zak and I find an apartment. We’ll clear out just as soon as we can.”
Andrew felt a stirring of disappointment. And that, too, was unexpected.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHY IN HELL did I have to be right-handed, anyway?” Andrew grumbled. He was attempting to undress himself, and not doing a very good job of it. His splint kept getting in the way of things like buttons and buckle. At last he was down to the basics—not that sitting around in his underwear was ordinarily his idea of a well-spent afternoon.
After the encounter with Dr. Gwen, he’d had Cassie drop him off at his hotel. He’d had in mind getting cleaned up and taking care of business here in Billings. Only, his hand had started to hurt again, and all he really felt like doing was stretching out and catching a game on TV. The childproof container on the pain medication proved even more of a challenge than his pants. But finally he managed to down a couple of the big white pills and flick on the remote. The Rangers and the Dodgers—baseball perfection. He had box seats for all the Texas home games, but rarely had time to go.
He smiled a little grimly to himself as he lowered the sound with the remote. His grandmother had often accused him of using his career to avoid solving the personal problems in his life. Problems—according to Hannah—such as his lack of a wife and children. Those were the only things that really mattered, she’d told him. Love…family… What was he afraid of? she’d asked him. Did he think there was too much potential for hurt, too much possibility of loss? But the past doesn’t have to repeat itself, she’d told him.
The irony of her remembered words made Andrew restless. He clicked off the game, stood up and began to pace around the hotel room, a space too small and confining. He’d had the option of staying at his grandmother’s house, where the surrounding acreage gave a sense of openness and freedom. So why hadn’t he stayed there? Was he really still running away from all the old memories?
“Crazy,” he muttered to himself. He’d hit the far end of thirty-five. After all this time, he should have gained some perspective. Some peace.
In Texas, at least, the shadows always seemed more remote. A background of darkness always there, but muted somehow. Distanced, as if he was watching a storm from very far away. In Texas it was easy—much easier—to go about his life. Keeping busy with work that mattered to him, seeing women he genuinely liked even if the relationships never went anywhere.
In Montana it was different. Time seemed to play tricks on him here. He’d be thinking about something inconsequential, and then, without warning, the years would seem to vanish, falling away and leaving him unprotected. Leaving him a kid again. And he would see the whole damn thing play over again in his mind, every detail as vivid as if it were happening right at that instant. Every sound, every whisper of pain.
So he’d stayed away. It had been up to Hannah to fly out and visit him. Sometimes she’d complained about it, but he knew that deep down she’d loved all the fuss and bother and adventure of her trips. She’d arrive in Dallas with far too many suitcases, take over his apartment and deluge him with the everyday dramas of her own life. On her last trip, she’d been full of stories about the boarder she’d taken in at her guest house. A vulnerable, redheaded woman who had a seven-year-old son.
Now Andrew stretched out again on the hotel sofa and clicked the game back on. Usually baseball could keep him occupied for an hour or two. But the image of lovely Cassie Warren kept intruding. The guarded look in her eyes, and then the dismay on her face when she’d fallen—quite literally—into his arms. Dislocated finger and all, it had been a rather intriguing experience. He smiled a little…a real smile this time.
The painkillers were making him drowsy, and he closed his eyes. The sound of the game drifted over him. And, for the moment at least, the old memories faded away.
WHAT WAS IT you were supposed to do with spaghetti? Throw a piece at the wall to see if it would stick? Ridiculous, of course, but Cassie never had been a whiz with pasta. Whatever help she could get…
She eyed the piece of spaghetti dangling from her fingers, and considered the wall beside the stove. Exasperated, at last she shook her head. Maybe she just should have chosen a frozen casserole and been done with it. But when you’d inflicted bodily harm on a man, you needed to make it up to him somehow—a home-cooked meal seemed a good way to go.
Cassie stirred the sauce simmering on the stove. There didn’t seem any way she could mess that up. All she’d had to do was open the jar. A familiar guilt stirred in her. She’d never been much of a cook, which was fine when you were on your own. But when you had a son to raise, surely you ought to provide him with nourishing, lovingly prepared meals. You shouldn’t rely on the local fast-food joint and the freezer section at the grocery store. But Cassie, usually so exhausted from her job, did exactly that.
So maybe this evening would help motivate her. If the spaghetti was successful, maybe she’d try a lasagna or a pot roast next. Feeling inspired, she went to the base of the front stairs and called up to her son.
“Zak…Zak! Dinner’s almost ready. Wash your hands and come down.”
The guest house remained determinedly quiet. Cassie waited another minute, and then climbed the stairs. She poked her head into Zak’s room. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an oversize book spread in front of him. Cassie knew which one it was—an illustrated history of medieval castles that he’d chosen from the public library. Lately he seemed fascinated by stories of knighthood. At any time, Cassie could find him carefully turning the pages of that volume, and studying the pictures. Maybe she ought to feel grateful that Zak liked books at such a young age. Except that a book was like everything else in Zak’s life these days—another excuse to retreat, to hide. Cassie longed for disorder, chaos, noise…all the ordinary signs that a little boy lived here.
“Zak,” she said now. “Mr. Morris will be here any minute. I want you to get ready and come down.”
Zak continued to turn the pages as if she had not even spoken. She battled a growing frustration.
“Zak—” She heard the way her voice sharpened, and she tried again. “I think we’ve caused Mr. Morris enough trouble for one day. Let’s at least provide a pleasant evening for him.”
Zak finally raised his head and stared solemnly at her. “I’m not the one who fell on top of him,” he said.
“A mere technicality. If it hadn’t been for you taking off with the ladder, I never would have fallen…” She gave Zak a stern glance. “And, by the way, you haven’t had your punishment for taking the ladder.”
“Okay. I’ll skip dinner,” Zak said, and he buried his head in the book again.
Cassie gazed at her son. “You don’t get to choose your punishment,” she said firmly. “You’ll wash your hands, and come downstairs, and you will be exceedingly polite to Mr. Andrew Morris when he arrives.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched downstairs before her son could respond—or ignore her.
Back in the kitchen, Cassie found that the sauce had splattered. Cursing under her breath, she wiped the stove and then checked the spaghetti. Now maybe it was too soggy. The casserole in the freezer was starting to seem like a very good idea.
But then the doorbell rang. Cassie felt suddenly, unaccountably nervous. She hurried out to the hall, glancing in the mirror as she went. Perhaps she should have worn something less casual than jeans and her