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“I think we’d better put an Ace bandage on this to give you some support.”
Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “Whatever you think,” she said. “You’re the doctor.”
He gave her a pleased look. “I’m glad you finally think so.” He wrapped her ankle neatly, but not too tightly, replaced her sock and released her foot. “Would you like some breakfast? There’s some cereal or I could boil a couple of eggs.”
“This is fine for now, but thanks.” Her stomach wasn’t back to normal yet. He walked to the sink to wash his hands, and she angled a couple of sketches that lay on the table around to face her. They were all of the young boy in the larger drawing. She was curious and hoped he wouldn’t mind if she asked about him.
“The boy in the fireplace drawing and in these sketches, is he the Danny whose room I’m borrowing?” she asked, hoping she hadn’t overstepped some unseen boundary.
Sean topped off their coffee mugs, a muscle in the side of his cheek flexing for several moments before he answered. “Yes.”
“Your son?” The resemblance was too striking to be a coincidence.
He sat down heavily. “Yes.” He swallowed hot coffee and didn’t even feel the heat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask and I should have. Your wife is…”
“Gone, and so’s the boy.” The screech of the captain’s chair being shoved back on the wood floor startled Laura as Sean rose. In several long strides, he was across the room and pulling on his boots.
Laura reached for her umbrella cane and trailed after him. She’d learned part of it and she wanted to know the rest, but hesitated to ask more. Had they divorced and the mother had custody? Is that why he was so upset at the mere mention of Danny? “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
His mouth grim, Sean yanked on his sheepskin jacket, his movements jerky. “I’ve got to chop more wood before we run out.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t mention them again,” she said quietly.
Sean tugged open the door and stood gazing out for several moments. “Dead. They’re both dead,” he said in a flat, emotionless tone. He walked out and slammed shut the door.
Laura stared after him, drenched in regret. You couldn’t let it be, could you? she admonished herself. Feeling rotten, she hobbled back to the table.
Using more energy than necessary, Sean tossed a shovelful of snow off the porch, then bent to gather another. He couldn’t chop wood until he’d cleared a path to the stacked logs at the side of the house. He didn’t mind. Physical labor was what he needed just now. He needed to tire himself out so he wouldn’t have the energy to think, to remember.
Crossing to the other side of the long porch, he began clearing off the newly accumulated snow. Damn stuff was still coming down, though with not quite the intensity of yesterday. Nevertheless, his experienced eye calculated that at least three feet was on the ground now and would probably reach four before the storm blew itself away. Had it been any other week, he’d have enjoyed the weather as a huge change from the endless sunshine of southern Arizona. But not now.
He was a contradiction, Sean realized. He deliberately came here to remember, yet he was getting annoyed every time Laura’s innocent questions were forcing him to recall. Maybe it was because, after four long years, he still found it very hard to talk about his son, even to his own mother and Jonah. And Laura, being a stranger, knew none of the circumstances. He didn’t want to go into all that, yet he wanted her to know, to explain things to her.
Odd, because he’d never before wanted to confide in an outsider. It had taken him months to tell those closest to him all the details. Perhaps he felt he might be able to talk with Laura because she, too, was troubled about something in her past. Misery loves company, or so they said.
Finished with the porch, Sean paused to catch his breath. Gazing up at the sky through the nearby evergreens, it seemed as if the cloud cover wasn’t as dense today. A good sign for the snow to end soon. If only the wind would die down, he thought as he narrowed his eyes against a blast of snow-laden breeze.
His eyes were drawn to the incline leading to the gully where Laura’s car had landed. He could picture all too clearly that last morning when he and Danny had dragged his new sled up to the top. He’d turned three the month before and was a regular chatterbox. Sean had zipped him into his blue snowsuit and pulled a warm knit cap onto his blond head. His mittens had been red with tiny reindeers on them.
The hill wasn’t all that big, so Sean wasn’t worried. At the top, he’d settled Danny on the sled, put the rope handles into his gloved hands and given a big push. The sled had zigzagged down the hill, not too fast, just enough to thrill a little boy. Danny had laughed and laughed, the sound echoing through the trees. Laughing himself, Sean had followed him down where the excited child had jumped off and into his arms.
“Do it again, Daddy,” he’d begged.
And they had until both of them, tired but happy, had gone into the cabin where Kim had hot chocolate waiting. They’d all had some, even Kim’s father. Danny had gone down for his nap then, almost too excited to sleep because later that day, they were going to fly to Denver where Grandpa lived for a vacation.
By nightfall, the sweet little boy with the infectious laugh was dead, gone forever.
Sean let out a shuddering sigh that sounded more like a sob. And it was his fault, all his fault. Perhaps that was why he felt the need to come up to the cabin, the last place he’d seen Danny alive and happy. It was an atonement, a penance like wearing a hair shirt, for being blind to what had been happening in his own home. Perhaps if he’d been more aware, his son would be alive today. Not that he ever felt better afterward, but then, he had no right to feel better while Danny lay dead in a snowy grave.
It would have been best if Laura Marshall had picked another week to run away. He wasn’t fit company, and she had problems of her own.
Almost viciously, he grabbed the shovel and made his way around back so he could clear a path for Max.
Standing at the window, Laura watched Sean disappear around the side of the house. He’d been shoveling the porch like a man driven, then he’d stopped and stared off into the distance for the longest time, not moving, probably thinking dark thoughts.
She shouldn’t have brought up his son and his wife. Gone, both dead, he’d said. Dear God, how awful. When had it happened? she wondered. And how had it happened? Probably not very long ago since the mere mention of them affected him so deeply. But then again, she supposed a person never quite got over something like that.
Stepping back, she wandered back to the table and looked again at the charcoal sketches he’d left there. A couple of scenes that looked as if they might have been sketched outside around the cabin in warmer weather—the stream that ran behind the Marshall property, as well, and a woodsy area where two horses grazed. The rest were all of the same little boy—on a swing hanging from a sturdy tree limb, on a sled in a snowsuit, at the same stream bending over, his hands in the clear water. There were more, head sketches, indoor scenes, one of him asleep on a striped rug on the floor in front of the fire. Sean’s drawings were very good, and she wondered why he hadn’t sold some of them. Perhaps they were too personal.
Thoughtfully, Laura shuffled through all of them, something bothering her. Why were there no sketches of the boy’s mother?
Using her cane, she walked about the large room, thinking she’d run across one or two. Not even on the easel. Feeling as if she were invading his privacy, she hobbled down the hallway and peeked into the other bedroom, staying in the doorway. No pictures or sketches on the high six-drawer dresser or on the nightstand.
The closet door was open and, just as she’d suspected, no woman’s clothes hung alongside Sean’s. She’d assumed as much when he’d loaned her his mother’s clothes rather than his wife’s. She returned to the central room, her mind filled with questions.
Why had he removed all traces of his wife, yet kept his son’s room as it probably was when the boy had been alive? Interesting. Had they been divorced before the boy and mother died? Or had he loved his wife so much he didn’t want any reminders around?
Wandering over to the couch, Laura sat down, drawing her legs up in order to rest her ankle. Having finished eating, Max was already snuggled into several pillows at the far end.
No, the scenario about loving his wife so much didn’t compute because he obviously loved his son and kept lots of reminders around. She wondered if his home in Scottsdale also had some of the boy’s things in it, a room dedicated to Danny’s memory, but all traces of the wife erased. Probably not that unusual a thing to do, but it didn’t seem altogether healthy.
Stretching out, she decided that Sean’s problems were his own business and she was certain he wouldn’t appreciate her meddling in them. Glancing down, she saw her handbag on the floor, remembering that Sean had brought it in last night when he’d rescued Max. Maybe something inside would trigger her memory of why she’d felt compelled to leave Scottsdale in such a hurry.
Rummaging through, she found the usual things: her checkbook, her wallet, sunglasses, a small makeup case, which she really ought to make use of, a notepad with a couple of phone numbers scribbled on it. Her keys were missing, probably still in the ignition. There was a small bottle of aspirin, some tissues and two pens plus her birth control pills. Laura dry-swallowed one right away.
Still poking around, her fingers found a card, which she drew out to study. Marc Abbott, Sales Consultant, Commercial Division, Marshall Realty.
Staring at the card, Laura wondered how long it had been at the bottom of her purse. She felt a chill just looking at his card. She and Marc had divorced two years ago, so the card had to have been in there quite awhile. How peacock proud he’d been of his position at her father’s company. Leaning her head back, she wondered all over again how on earth she’d fallen for Marc’s glib charm.
Because she’d been needy. Because he’d been charming and attentive, and Laura had felt admired and desired for the first time in her life. He was a good con man, she’d give him that, and in her naiveté, she’d totally misread him. Even now, years later, she still chafed at how foolishly trusting she’d been. An easy mark for a man like Marc, a polished smoothie.
Despite the fact that she’d been graduated and out of college for two years when she met Marc, she’d been surprisingly innocent by today’s standards. He’d been handsome and funny with an engaging personality that made him fun to be with. He’d joined Marshall Realty, a very ambitious young man with big plans for his future that he kept under wraps as he started moving up the company ladder.
Laura ran into him at a company meeting, only later learning that he’d maneuvered the whole thing, that Owen Marshall’s only daughter and heir was very necessary to his plans. They started dating, and to say he overwhelmed her would be putting it mildly. She’d never had a serious relationship before, so quite naturally, she fell hard and fast. In short order, well aware that her father would disapprove, they eloped.
Eventually Owen came around, putting Marc in charge of commercial acquisitions, and he even began building a home for them in Paradise Valley not far from his own. Laura continued her work for the company, but her personal happiness was short-lived. It wasn’t long before Marc was seldom home in their small apartment, using business as an excuse. She began to wonder if she’d married a workaholic like her father.
The first night he came home quite drunk with lipstick on his collar was a harsh awakening for Laura. When he sobered up, she confronted him. Marc explained that he’d bumped into a married friend whose wife had kissed his cheek and missed. Because she desperately wanted her marriage to work, she’d forced herself to believe him.
But there was a second incident not long after, and a third truly ugly one that occurred when Laura went out to dinner with her two college roommates on a night Marc was supposedly closing a big deal. They were scarcely seated when they spotted Marc across the room sitting close to a curvaceous redhead, holding her hand, nibbling her ear. Oblivious to those around them, they sipped champagne and smiled at each other seductively. Hurt and humiliated, Laura threw him out of their apartment that same night, tossing all his belongings onto the lawn.
Marc approached her the next day, pleading and contrite. But her father had come through for her for the first and only time in her life in a way she hadn’t suspected he would. Owen informed Marc that Laura was filing for divorce and he was to clean out his desk. By the look on Marc’s handsome, crestfallen face, she came to the conclusion that losing his job at Marshall Realty hurt more than losing Laura. It wasn’t until the following week that she learned he’d cleaned out their two bank accounts.
By then, she was not even surprised, nor did she care overly much. It was worth it to get rid of Marc Abbott once and for all. She found it very difficult to go back to work where everyone knew of Marc’s betrayal, but she disliked cowardly behavior. So, holding her head up high, she’d shown up at her office, vowing never to be taken advantage of by a man again.
Trusting blindly had cost her dearly, and not just monetarily. The residual effects were still alive within her. As soon as the divorce was final, she bought a spacious condo in Old Scottsdale and took back her maiden name, wanting no reminders of her brief marriage.
Deliberately, she tore Marc’s former business card in half, then again and once more. No ashtray on the end table so she tossed the pieces into her purse and got up. A headache was beginning just above her eyes—perhaps from remembering such an unpleasant episode or maybe because she hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.
Using the umbrella cane, she went to the kitchen and made herself a piece of toast. Nibbling on it, she looked out the window and caught a glimpse of Sean at the side of the house splitting logs. She hoped the exercise would chase away the sadness she’d seen on his face at the mention of his son. Everyone, it seemed, had problems, some worse than others.
Peeking into the refrigerator, she found an assortment of vegetables and several cuts of wrapped meat in the drawer. Sean would undoubtedly be cold when he came in and maybe hungry. Laura loved to cook, much preferred a homemade meal to eating out. Setting the makings for soup on the counter, she hobbled about the kitchen, amazed at how convenient it was with all the latest new appliances. Sean had done a remarkable job.
She found a large pot and put it on the stove, then began cleaning vegetables. So the man was a doctor with an undoubtedly busy practice, a sketch artist who probably could sell his work if he put his mind to it, and he also built this house. There seemed very little Sean Reagan couldn’t do.
Impressive, talented and handsome, as well. Gazing out the window over the kitchen sink, Laura wondered what had gone wrong in his marriage, because she had a feeling something terrible had. He seemed more angry than grief-stricken. A story there somewhere, she was certain.
On the porch, his hands inside his gloves nearly numb, Sean stomped snow off his boots before going inside. The clock on the mantel told him he’d been out well over an hour. No wonder he was cold. He tugged off his gloves, hung up his coat and pulled off his boots. After slipping his feet into the moccasins he’d left by the hearth, he brushed snow out of his hair and stood warming his hands.
Pulling in a deep breath, he became aware of a delicious smell.
Glancing toward the kitchen, he saw Laura stirring a big pot on the stove. Had to be soup or stew, he decided. How long had it been since he’d had someone besides his mother cook for him? Four years now this very week.
Kim had loved to cook when they’d first gotten married. She’d collected cookbooks and experimented with herbs and spices. They didn’t have much money at first, but she always managed to make something tasty. How many meals had she made that had been ruined, dried out because he’d been tied up at the hospital? She’d tried to be understanding, but he knew his hours bothered her more than a little. He’d promised her things would get better, but he knew she didn’t believe him. Babies came when they were ready, not when it was convenient for the doctor.
Pretty soon, Kim stopped cooking except for Danny’s meals.
Sean had modernized the kitchen in his Scottsdale home, and the one here at the cabin wasn’t bad. Yet most of the time these days, he caught a meal on the run at the hospital cafeteria, seldom cooking himself. He ate out a good deal when his schedule permitted and occasionally at friends’ homes. Jonah’s wife, Sophie, was a great cook and was always asking him over to join them. But since Kim’s death, Sean mostly turned down invitations from married couples. He felt like the fifth wheel on a wagon at those dinners.
Then there were the matchmakers, well-meaning friends who’d invite him to dinner along with a single female “to round out the table.” He couldn’t seem to convince them that he simply wasn’t interested.
Inhaling deeply, he walked to the stove. “Sure smells good,” he told Laura.
He’d seemed angry when he left and more than a little sad, but his voice sounded all right again, Laura thought with relief. “I hope you like beef-vegetable soup.”
“I like most anything I don’t have to cook myself.” He went back to throw another log or two on the fire, stirred it up a bit, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. “You’re not overdoing, are you?”
Her ankle was throbbing a bit since she’d been on it quite awhile, and her bruised stomach ached, as did her shoulder. But she didn’t want him to think she was some frail, whining woman who couldn’t hold her own. He’d rescued her without knowing the first thing about her, taken her in, tended her wounds, given her a place to sleep. That counted for a lot in her book. The least she could do was cook for him even if it cost her a little pain. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” he said, drying his hands, his eyes roaming her face and catching the small, telltale signs of fatigue. The black eye looked sore. Though she’d insisted she had, he’d wager she hadn’t slept all that well, either. “Let the soup simmer. I want you to go lie down on the couch for awhile. Can’t have the cook passing out on us.” He smiled to take the sting from what had to sound like doctor’s orders.
She went, not solely because he told her to but because she was ready to rest. He followed her over, tucked the afghan around her, then glanced down at Max. “Should I let him out?” He’d rather there were no accidents.
“I did a short time ago. He’s set for awhile.” She settled into the warm folds of the pillows, feeling safe. Odd how being with this relative stranger wasn’t in the least alarming. Perhaps because he was a doctor. “Did you study medicine here in Arizona?” she asked, still curious about him.
He sat down near her feet, almost but not quite nudging Max aside on the long couch. “Yes, at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Interned at Phoenix General. How about you? Did you go to school locally?”
“I went to the U of A, too, mostly because I wanted to be on my own and away from Scottsdale. My mother died when I was twelve and my father was a stickler for rules, all kinds of rules. Still is. I wanted to get out from under and try my wings.”
“Overly protective, is he?”
No, that wasn’t what Owen Marshall was, not really. More like a control freak who wanted to run her life for her. Her only way out was to insist on going away to college, even if it was to a university just a two-hour drive from home. “My father likes having things his way,” was all she’d say.
“At least you got away somewhat. My father died when I was ten and my mother couldn’t bear the thought of me going away to college.” He shook his head, smiling. “She was nice about it, but firm. Very firm.”
She angled her head to one side, considering. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a mama’s boy.”
“I’m not, at least not anymore. But, like you, I was the only one, and my mother’s Irish. Need I say more? She can carry on with the best of them. She doesn’t usually have a brogue, because she was born in Boston, but let her get upset and you’d think she’d just stepped off a boat from Dublin. She’s a wonderful woman, but she can make me feel five years old with the raising of an eyebrow.”
Laura smiled at that. “How nice it must be to think of a parent with such acceptance, such warmth.”
Sitting back more comfortably, Sean stretched an arm across the couch back. “And you don’t?”
“I cherish my mother’s memory, but my father wasn’t around much. From the time I was very young, all I ever heard from him was, ‘Laura, you know I have to work.’ His reason for not being with us was always because he had to work. My father started Marshall Realty on a shoestring, built it into what it is today, by hard work, sacrifice, dedication. He repeated that to me like a mantra regularly.”
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