If only he had something to give her...besides love

He’s only looking for a room and a fresh start, but Zach finds more than he’d bargained for when he checks into Fay Lindemuth’s bed-and-breakfast. The single mom intrigues him with her quiet strength and gentle beauty. He knows he should keep his distance from Fay and her young sons. Not only is she still hung up on her ex-husband, but as an ex-marine, Zach Castro has no idea what he can offer them. No matter how much he begins to feel for her...

Fay smiled, warm and relieved.

As if getting him to come inside the bed-and-breakfast was some sort of personal victory... Glad he could help her put a check in the win column.

“Thank you,” she said. A car drove past, the driver giving them a friendly beep of the horn. She waved without looking away from Zach. “I promise to do everything in my power to make your stay with us pleasant.”

He thought again of how pretty she’d looked sitting in the sunshine. How good she smelled. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s soft skin. How long since a woman had touched him in a nonplatonic, nonmedical or nontherapeutic way.

A long time. A long, long time.

Yeah. Probably not what she meant by making things pleasant.

“I’ll just check out the room,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. Inappropriate thoughts would do that. Especially ones of him rolling around on the front yard of a residential street on a bright, sunny day with a woman who, moments before, had hauled her screaming kid inside. “No promises I’ll be staying.”

Dear Reader,

I read my first Harlequin romance as a teenager and from that point on, I dreamed of becoming a Harlequin author. Now here I am, releasing my eighteenth book for Superromance, and I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you so much for allowing me to share my stories with you. Here’s to many more happy endings!

If you’ve read my books before, it’s probably clear that I’m a big believer in second chances. I believe that if a person sincerely wants to overcome their past, they will—but it won’t be easy. A point that was very much brought home in The Marine’s Embrace.

Fay Lindemuth and Zach Castro are both at turning points in their lives. Fay, who was introduced in the very first In Shady Grove book, Talk of the Town, is a single mother struggling with depression trying desperately to overcome past mistakes and move on. Zach comes to Shady Grove to work for his brother so he can figure out what his future holds after losing his arm and leg while serving in the marines. They don’t complete each other so much as they help each other heal. Zach gives Fay the strength to see herself as so much more than her illness and her past choices. Fay and her sons accept Zach into their hearts and show him how much brighter his future will be once he includes love and family into his plans.

I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed writing Fay and Zach’s story—especially being able to bring Fay’s story full circle and give her a well-deserved happy-ever-after. I’ve loved writing the In Shady Grove series and being able to return to Shady Grove time and again. This series has been very near and dear to my heart—thank you for being a part of it!

For more about future releases and a listing of all my books, please visit my website, www.bethandrews.net, or drop me a line at beth@bethandrews.net. I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading!

Beth

The Marine’s Embrace
Beth Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

During the writing of The Marine’s Embrace, the eighth book in her popular In Shady Grove series, Romance Writers of America RITA® Award–winner BETH ANDREWS became an empty nester, discovered the joy (and pain) of spin class and was given the best gift of all, a new grandson! When not writing Beth can be found looking at pictures of her grandbaby, printing pictures of her grandbaby or sending other people pictures of her grandbaby—yes, he’s that cute. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, bethandrews.net.

For Andy

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

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 SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

HER PILLOW SMELLED of him.

Caught in that wonderful, hazy time between asleep and fully awake, Fay Lindemuth sighed and pressed her face against the soft fabric. Inhaled the familiar, tantalizing scent of her husband’s aftershave. Hugging it close, she wanted nothing more than to hold this perfect moment in her memory forever. To draw it out, make it last as long as possible.

But these perfect moments didn’t last. Not for her.

So she had to make the most of it. Happiness, so long sought and even longer fought for, suffused her. She used to dream of having Shane back in her life. They were soul mates, destined to be together, bound by the vows they’d made to each other and the two sons they’d created.

For the past three years, circumstances and their own choices had kept them apart. But never for long. He always came back to her.

He always left her again.

And in those times, when the heartbreak and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her, she turned to her dreams for comfort, to feel close to Shane. It was the only time she was free of pain.

Oh, she was careful. She didn’t nap during the day, didn’t sleep in until noon or go to bed before 10:00 p.m.—no matter how badly she wanted to. She refused to let the promise of oblivion lure her into backsliding. Into forgetting the progress she’d made.

She was better. Everyone said so.

Maybe, one day, she’d believe it herself.

And this was a step in the right direction. A step closer toward being whole once again. She had Shane back. Everything was how it used to be. How it was meant to be.

Smiling, she reached for her husband...

Only to encounter emptiness.

Her eyes flew open, her fingers curling into the cool sheet as panic reared its ugly head. Whispered to her that he was gone. That she was alone. That she’d always be alone.

Lies, she assured herself, but her fingers went numb with cold, her chest ached. She had her two precious boys and her parents. She had Neil, her older brother. She had Maddie, who, besides being Fay’s best friend, was also Neil’s girlfriend and the mother of his fourteen-year-old daughter, Breanne. And she had Shane. For good this time.

He’d promised.

Sitting up, she pulled the sheet over her bare breasts. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but once they did, she noticed movement by the dresser. Was that a rustling sound?

Someone was in the room with her.

Shane hadn’t left her.

Leaning across the bed, she reached for the lamp, the ring she wore on a delicate chain around her neck sliding out from under the loosened sheet. She stopped. The rustling could have been the wind blowing through the trees. The movement a shift of shadows.

After all, she did have a bad habit of letting her imagination get the best of her. Of believing only what she wanted, no matter how solid the proof against her fantasies were.

Face your fears.

That’s the advice Dr. Porter always gave during their weekly sessions. The psychiatrist loved spouting platitudes about how Fay was capable of controlling her emotions. Of handling any situation. Strong enough to get through disappointment or heartache. Strong enough to survive.

Which was laughable, but it made him—and her family—feel better, so she went along.

Pretend to be strong and eventually you’ll be strong. Act as if—as if you’re confident. Clever. In control. Brave.

Act as if, she repeated silently to herself, her fingers tightening on the lamp’s switch. Act as if...act as if...

She turned the light on and sagged against the headboard.

Shane was still here.

Thank you, God.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she smiled, but he turned back to finish tugging on his jeans.

Her smile fading, she told herself not to read into things. He’d never been big on mornings, had always preferred keeping to himself for the first few hours of the day. Plus, she probably looked awful, the eye shadow and mascara she’d carefully applied last night streaked and smudged, her hair a tangled mess.

Shane liked pretty things. Had always hated when she didn’t do her hair or makeup. Said he preferred her all sparkly and shiny.

Act as if...act as if...

She wiped her fingers under her eyes, noted the eyeliner and mascara on her fingertips, before smoothing the sheet and tucking it under her arms. She allowed herself a moment to just take in the sight of her husband. He was so handsome, tall with a lean, wiry build.

And he was all hers.

“Good morning,” she whispered, conscious of their sons sleeping in the room next door. She didn’t want to wake them this early.

She wanted a few more minutes alone with her husband. So they could talk. Make plans. Starting with their living arrangements. Since she was manager of Bradford House, the bed-and-breakfast Neil owned, she and the boys were able to live in the third-floor apartment rent free, but she doubted Shane would want to stay here permanently.

Doubted Neil would let him.

They just had a few things to work out. Then they’d wake the boys together, tell them the good news—that they were going to be a family again.

It would be perfect. Just like she’d always dreamed.

Shane sat on the bed next to her, and she leaned forward, reached for him, but he bent over and put on one of his work boots.

Fay frowned. That wasn’t right. He was supposed to pull her into his arms. Kiss her. Tell her how much he loved her. Reassure her he was finally coming home for good.

“Are you...are you leaving?” she asked.

He yanked on the second boot, his head down as he tied the laces. “Yeah.”

“Did I do something wrong?” She hated how thin and reedy her voice sounded. How pathetic.

Hated how small and stupid she felt for saying anything at all. For worrying.

He shot her a glance, his hazel eyes narrowed, irritation tightening his expression. “I have a job interview.”

He’d told her all about the interview for a position with a heating and cooling contractor in Pittsburgh. It was why he’d come back to their hometown of Shady Grove, Pennsylvania, just forty miles outside the city. Well, the job plus her and the boys, of course.

“But it’s not even five thirty,” she said, shifting onto her knees. She rubbed his bare shoulders, trailed her fingers through the soft strands of his dark blond hair. He’d grown it out this past year, the ends now brushing his collar. She preferred it shorter. Not quite so shaggy. Or young looking.

Contrite at the traitorous thought, she kissed the back of his neck. It was only hair. He could wear it however he liked. “You don’t really have to leave right now, do you?” she asked.

She could wake the boys, fix them all a quick breakfast. Elijah and Mitchell had been asleep when Shane arrived late last night, and she was sure they’d want to see him.

Even if a change in plans meant her having to deal with a couple of cranky little boys the rest of the day.

Shaking his head, Shane stood. “Sorry, babe, but I need to prepare for this interview. You want me to get the job, right?”

She sat back on her heels, hands in her lap, duly chastised by his words, trying not to let his gruff tone bother her. Everyone said she was too sensitive. Always taking things others said too personally.

“Of course I want you to get the job. And you will.”

He was smart and had lots of experience, having worked the past two years for a company that installed heating and air-conditioning units in large office buildings, schools, hospitals and prisons. But that job had meant traveling across not only Pennsylvania but also into Maryland and New Jersey. Taking him away from her and the boys.

And while others might think Shane had been running from them, running from his responsibilities and the promises he’d made, she knew the truth. He’d been lost.

She could relate.

Which was why she could also forgive.

After untangling herself from the sheets, she got to her feet and crossed to him. He was checking his phone, so she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and laid her cheek against his shoulder blade, hoping the feel of her naked body would entice him to at least turn around. “Come back after the interview. You can see the boys and we’ll celebrate you getting the job.”

“Not sure I can,” he said, stepping forward, forcing her to let go. He pulled on his shirt then checked his reflection in the dresser mirror, smoothing his hair before facing her. “I’m already down to half a tank of gas and I don’t know how long it’ll be before my last paycheck catches up to me.”

“I have money,” she assured him quickly, reaching for her robe on the end of the bed. “In my purse in the living roo—”

“I’ll get it.” He stepped toward her and she lifted her arms in relief—only to lower them when he brushed past her to pick up his wallet from the nightstand. “I’ll call you.”

He left, without a goodbye kiss or a backward glance. Without the words she needed to hear—that he loved her.

That he needed her.

Like she needed him.

He just...walked away. Walked out on her like he had so many times before.

Feeling more exposed than she could ever remember, she started shivering violently. From the chill in the air, she was sure. The chill and her nudity. But when she put on her robe, the tremors continued. She sat on the corner of the bed and rocked back and forth. Back and forth.

Her eyes stung, but she fought the tears. She wouldn’t cry. Not today. Today was a good day. A turning point in her life.

Today she got back everything she’d lost.

She wouldn’t speculate about what Shane hadn’t said or why he’d acted so distant. He was stressed, focused on acing the interview so he could come home for good, that was all.

But...oh, God...what if it wasn’t? She leaped to her feet, began pacing as she chewed on her pinkie nail. What if he was mad at her? She’d been clingy. Needy. What if...what if she’d said something she shouldn’t have? What if she’d upset him or...or disappointed him in some way? What if he’d found her lacking last night?

No, everything was fine. She was fine.

Except she didn’t feel fine. She felt anxious, as if her skin was too tight. Wound up and terrified, her heart pounding, her stomach churning.

She had to talk to him. Apologize for whatever she’d done. Promise to do better, be more adventurous in bed, give him more space. To give him whatever he needed. Whatever he wanted.

She burst out into the short hallway, peeked in on the boys—still asleep, thank God—then hurried down the stairs, her fingers trailing over the banister, the wood steps cool beneath her bare feet.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, she chanted silently. She had to get to him in time, had to apologize for overreacting.

She hit the second floor and slowed. Tried to quiet her breathing. Only two of the guest rooms were occupied and their doors were shut, the entire floor silent. She rounded the corner and took the back stairway down to the kitchen. Why did she have to upset Shane? She was so stupid. She should have been more understanding. Should have kept quiet and just let him go with a smile and a kiss.

She’d make it up to him. First with her apology and then, when he came back tonight, with her body. She’d go downtown that afternoon, pick up some slinky lingerie. Reaching the kitchen, she raced across the tile floor to the back door and whipped it open.

“He’s gone,” a deep, male voice said from behind her.

She whirled around, her hand at her throat. “Damien,” she breathed, noticing Bradford House’s chef at the six-burner stove on the other side of the room. It was a testament to her focus on getting to Shane that she hadn’t seen Damien. Huge, bald and heavily tattooed, the man had presence.

Not to mention his yellow do-rag and matching T-shirt were bright enough to rival the rising sun.

She glanced out at the small parking lot, but Shane’s truck was nowhere to be seen. She was too late. She’d pushed him away.

Again.

The darkness inside her head grew, pressed against her skull, thick and insistent, tempting her to give in to it. A sense of sadness, of hopelessness overcame her so swiftly, so sharply, it took her breath. She wanted to collapse right there on the cold floor, lay her head on her knees and weep.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She no longer gave in to the thoughts whispering in her mind, telling her she was useless, that no one loved her. They were horrible, terrifying lies, and she refused to listen to them.

Most of the time.

Swallowing the despair rising in her throat, she shut the door, knowing Damien watched her, ready to catch her if she fell. Ready to tell Neil if she slid into one of her moods—as her mother had deemed them when Fay had barely been ten and would slip into quietness, curl into herself.

When she’d all but disappear.

“You okay?” Damien asked.

She hung her head for a moment then inhaled deeply. Forced a light laugh as she faced him. “Yes. You just...surprised me.”

“I’m sorry.”

His gentle tone and the sympathy in his dark eyes told her he was sorry for a lot more than nearly giving her a heart attack. He was sorry for her. Because she couldn’t hold on to the man she loved. Because she was weak. Damaged.

Curling her fingers into her palms, she pulled her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Everything was her fault. Her fault Shane left. Her fault her family treated her with kid gloves. Her fault she couldn’t get rid of the dark feelings. Couldn’t live in the light. Couldn’t be whole.

Suddenly exhausted, her legs heavy, her body aching, she shuffled toward the stairs, wanting only to go back to bed. To sleep and sleep and sleep.

Small steps count.

She frowned. How did Dr. Porter’s voice always know when to pop into her head? It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Small steps count, the voice repeated stubbornly. Take enough of them and you get where you’re going. Win enough small victories and you’ll eventually win the war.

Well, the man did make sense. And while she wasn’t sure she’d ever be completely cured, she could get better. Dr. Porter told her all the time that she was smart enough, strong enough to take her life in a new direction. She just needed to work harder at living up to his confidence in her. To making it true.

And she’d start today. Right now.

It took willpower—surely more than it should have—but she turned to the right instead of heading upstairs, then skirted around the huge center island and crossed over to the coffeepot next to the industrial-sized stainless steel fridge.

“Honey,” Damien said softly, “what are you doing?”

Winning the battle.

“Getting a cup of coffee.” She poured some into a mug, added a small amount of cream and sipped it before grabbing a napkin and helping herself to one of the cranberry–white chocolate scones cooling on a wire rack.

Even small victories deserved to be celebrated.

“No, I mean what are you doing with Shane?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, all faux serenity and innocence, popping a bite of scone into her mouth.

Damien frowned, which, for some reason, brought out his dimples. “You’re not fooling me. I know a walk of shame when I see one.”

It was then she realized that she was still in her robe and hadn’t even bothered to wash her face or brush her hair.

Heat washed up her neck and into her cheeks. With her fair skin, there was no way Damien could miss her blush. Hoping she could ride it out—at least until she wasn’t glowing red—she ducked her head, pretended great interest in pouring more coffee into her already almost-full cup, adding a drop of cream and stirring.

Damien inhaled deeply then heaved a long, drawn-out sigh—as if sucking in patience before huffing out the weariness that came along with dealing with her.

Her mother often did the same thing. It was a wonder they didn’t hyperventilate.

“Ignoring me won’t work,” he said as he took eggs out of the fridge. “Neither will pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not ignoring anything.” But it took a moment before she was able to meet his eyes. “And I’m not on a walk of shame—I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She and Shane were husband and wife.

Sort of.

Even if they weren’t technically married at the moment, being with him could never be wrong.

Damien shook his head. “He left you. He divorced you.”

Though his voice wasn’t unkind, the words still had the power to make her head snap back.

“Thank you,” she managed, but had to stop and clear her throat before continuing. “But I don’t need to be reminded of those facts.”

If she did, she’d only have to ask Maddie. Lord knew her best friend had never held back when it came to listing Fay’s mistakes or telling her how she should live her life. She loved to remind Fay what Shane had done.

As if Fay didn’t remember the pain each and every day.

“Then why did you sleep with him?” Damien asked, taking a large ceramic bowl down from an open shelf.

She broke off a corner of the scone, raised it to her mouth, only to set it down again. “Things are different now. Between me and Shane. He’s changed.”

Damien cracked an egg into the bowl, then another. “If he’s so different, why did I catch him sneaking out—”

“He wasn’t sneaking out.” But she couldn’t help but think of how she’d discovered him getting dressed in the dark, as if he was going to leave without waking her. Without saying goodbye. Like a one-night stand eager to escape.

“It’s barely daylight,” Damien said, adding another egg to the bowl. “And you were running after him.” He nodded sharply as if he’d just cracked the case along with his eggs. He grabbed a large whisk from the crock next to the stove and pointed it at her. “He snuck out.”

“We said our goodbyes upstairs. And the only reason he left so early is because he has a job interview.”

“Before 6:00 a.m.?”

At her friend’s incredulous look, Fay stared into her coffee, wishing she could somehow dive in there and swim away from this conversation. “He had to go back to his hotel. Shower and change and...and prepare for it.”

Another sigh, this one of the you-poor-thing variety. “Honey, he crept out of here like a thief. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he came down and realized he wasn’t alone.”

“I’m sure he was just surprised to find anyone awake so early. Anyway, we’re getting back together,” she continued, though why the words came out so quickly, why she sounded so tentative, she wasn’t sure.

She licked her lips. Linked her hands together at her waist. It was only a matter of time before people knew she was seeing Shane again. They’d need to understand that Shane was back in her life for good.

“Shane and I are back together.”

There. That was better. Direct and to the point. A statement of fact and not some wishy-washy hope.

Damien stared at her, narrow eyed, mouth tight. “What?”

“He wants us back—me and the boys. He wants us to be a family again.”

“Uh-huh. I see. And did he say this before or after you had sex?”

“I don’t see why that matters.”

“Before? Or after?”

She squirmed. Forcing her body to remain motionless, she said, “Before.”

Damien looked at her as if she was some brainless idiot. “Don’t you see? He just said that to get what he wanted.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Damien hadn’t been there last night. He didn’t see how Shane looked at her. “He meant it this time.”

“I know you want to believe that, but he’s using you. It’s the same thing every time. He calls in the middle of the night—”

“It wasn’t that late.”

“No? What time was it?”

Well, she’d set herself up for that one. “A little before midnight. He missed me and didn’t want to wait until morning to see me.”

“He didn’t think to call you earlier? To let you know he was coming to town?”

She blinked rapidly. “He...he probably wanted to surprise me.”

“He wanted what he always wants,” Damien muttered.

“He wanted to see me,” she insisted, hugging her arms around herself.

She wouldn’t let Damien or anyone else tarnish what had happened between her and Shane last night. Wouldn’t let them take away her happiness. Not when she was already terrified of it slipping away.

“It’s the same thing, time after time. Shane just happens to be in town—a spur-of-the-moment trip—and calls in the middle of the night, telling you how much he misses you, how much he wants to see you. He shows up, a little or a lot drunk, says what you want to hear, gets you in bed then takes off before the sun comes up.”

“He wasn’t drunk.” Yes, maybe she’d tasted beer when Shane kissed her, but his movements had been steady, his gaze clear. And last night wasn’t like those other times. Last night was different.

It had to be.

Damien set the whisk down and rounded the island to take both her hands in his large ones. Squeezed gently. “You can’t keep sleeping with him. You’re going to get hurt.”

She tugged free of his hold. Told herself he was only trying to help her. That he didn’t mean to be cruel. But she was tired of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt when they were all so quick to doubt her intelligence, to judge her decisions.

“You don’t understand.” No one did. They couldn’t comprehend what the past three years had been like for her. How hard she’d had to pretend that she was fine without Shane in her life.

“I understand he’s a user and a liar and that he cheated on you—left you for a nineteen-year-old.”

“He made a mistake,” she said hoarsely. “One he regrets. I’ve forgiven him.”

She clutched the ring hanging from the chain around her neck. Her wedding ring. She had to wear it under her clothes like some secret, like a personal sin. But soon, soon she’d put it back on her finger for the world to see. Then they’d all know she wasn’t some fool, hoping and wishing for a fantasy to come true. They’d all see how wrong they were about Shane.

How wrong they were about her.

Damien shook his head sadly. “I know you think you need him, but you don’t. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you start to believe in yourself and put yourself first, the better off you’ll be.”

Fay’s bottom lip trembled. She bit down on it. Hard. There was nothing more to say and certainly nothing more she wanted to hear, so she swept past him and went up the stairs. As much as she’d like to believe she did so as calmly and as regally as a queen, by the time she reached her apartment she was sweating and out of breath, having raced up the two flights like a teenage girl in the throes of a major pity party.

In her bedroom, she shut the door and leaned back against it. Damien was wrong. They were all wrong. She did need Shane.

She didn’t know who she was without him.

CHAPTER TWO

HE WAS LOST.

In Shady Grove, Pennsylvania.

How the hell was that even possible?

Not lost, Zach Castro amended. He knew where he was. At the corner of Main and Kennedy Streets, downtown Shady Grove, surrounded directly by squat buildings, most of which looked to be one hundred years old, the outer area nothing but rolling green hills. The sun warmed his head, but the cool breeze ruffling the empty right sleeve of his T-shirt reminded him that though it was late April, this small town was a world away from Houston in more ways than one.

Yeah, he knew exactly where he was. He just didn’t know where he was going.

Story of his freaking life.

The cab driver had dropped him off, insisting this exact spot was the address Zach had given him. Lying bastard.

He pulled out his phone, opened the maps app and typed in O’Riley’s. Two blocks away. He could do that.

He hoped.

He shifted his weight onto his left leg, but the ache in his right thigh remained and would no doubt grow in intensity. Pain was his new normal. There was nothing he could do about it except grit his teeth and bear it.

His right leg had stiffened up during the plane ride from Houston to Pittsburgh and had only gotten worse in the forty-minute cab ride that had brought him here. Moving would help. Eventually. But first, he knew, it was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

New normal, he reminded himself. Bending at the waist, he grabbed his duffel from where the cabbie had dropped it at the curb and slung the strap over his left shoulder. Following the directions on his phone he turned—slowly and carefully—to the east and began walking.

Pain shot from just above his knee up to his hip. Sweat formed on his upper lip. He breathed through his mouth, fighting the nausea rising in his throat, and kept going, his stride awkward, his limp heavy, his gaze straight ahead. He felt people staring at him, scurrying out of his way, watching him as they passed. Wondering who he was. What he was doing there.

Their curiosity rolled off him, but their sympathy—and worse, their pity—grated. He didn’t want it. Didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for him, for what he’d lost. He was getting through it, wasn’t he? He’d already made progress, had gotten himself out of that wheelchair and on to a prosthetic leg. The surgeries, the grueling physical therapy, learning how to walk again had all been worth it. Each step he took, no matter how small, was a victory.

One that would be easier to celebrate if it didn’t hurt so goddamn much.

He passed a hardware store with a row of colorful, decorative flags waving in the breeze, then a bookstore’s bright and cheerful window display. At the corner he turned right. Halfway there, he told himself, squinting against the sun.

By the time he reached the next corner, his shirt was damp and sticking to him and his breaths were coming in gasps. He leaned against a street lamp and looked across the street at O’Riley’s.

It wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

Thank Christ.

Knowing the bar was owned by Kane Bartasavich, of the Houston Bartasaviches, Zach had pictured an upscale place, all sleek lines and plenty of glass. A place where the country-club set went to drink their lunch or stopped by after work for a fancy cocktail that cost as much as a decent meal.

He hadn’t pictured a two-story gray building that seemed to list to one side, a parking lot that needed repaving and neon beer signs in the windows.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong. Wouldn’t be the last.

Unlike certain members of his family—namely his father and eldest brother—he didn’t get bent out of shape when things didn’t go his way. Didn’t carry the illusion that he had all the answers. He liked to think the arrogance that ran in his bloodline, the huge egos that had been handed down generation to generation, had somehow skipped him, but the truth was, he’d worked damned hard to be as different from them as possible.

He had spent his entire life pushing them away. Keeping them all at a distance.

Now, here he was—not quite broken, but a far cry from being whole—and who was the only person he could think to turn to?

A Bartasavich.

Fate was a coldhearted bitch with a twisted sense of humor.

Readjusting his duffel bag, he crossed the street, then made his way past a number of vehicles in the parking lot. Something else he hadn’t counted on or, to be honest, considered when he’d decided to come here—that there would be people inside a small-town bar in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.

All there to witness his humiliation.

He’d faced worse, he reminded himself as he stopped in front of the door, the muted sounds of music and conversation floating through the wood. Had faced much worse than public embarrassment and survived. Was still surviving it.

That wasn’t to say he looked forward to what he had to do. He was just realistic enough to know he didn’t have many other choices.

Jaw tight, shoulders back, he reached out to open the door—only to realize he was lifting his right arm to do so. He quickly dropped it. His arm, like his right leg from above the knee down, wasn’t there anymore, but unless he consciously thought about an action—opening a door, brushing his teeth, signing his name—his brain still wanted to use it. Call it habit, instinct or just the fact that he’d been right-handed his entire life—whatever the reason, it wasn’t that big a deal.

Just a reminder that even the simplest tasks were now anything but simple.

He grabbed the handle with his left hand, swung it open and stepped inside before he changed his mind. Beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that bullshit.

And that’s what he was. A freaking beggar, come to plead for scraps.

He rolled his head a few times, trying to ease the tightness in his shoulders, then moved forward. The bar was like any other dive he’d ever been in. Dimly lit with wooden floors that needed refinishing, tables and chairs that had seen better days and walls decorated with more of those neon beer signs. The scents of grilled meat and barbecue sauce filled the air. People occupied a few of the tables and the booths lining the walls, eating a late lunch or getting an early start on their evening drinking. There was a pool table in the back along with a dartboard, and the bar ran the length of the room to the left.

A waitress with a neck tattoo, her dark hair cut in a weird, uneven style, wove her way through the tables, delivering drinks and food. And behind the bar pulling a beer was none other than the owner himself. Kane Bartasavich, second son of Clinton Bartasavich Sr.

One of Zach’s three older half brothers. And the man Zach had come to see.

He made his way to the bar and noted how Kane momentarily stilled when he caught sight of him, saw the surprise in his brother’s eyes. But by the time Zach reached him, Kane’s expression was clear, his posture relaxed.

“What’s this?” he asked, shutting off the beer tap. “Slumming?”

“Looks like.” He nodded at the beer Kane set on a tray next to a soda. “I’ll take one of those.”

The waitress came, picked up the tray as Kane got a clean glass. Drew Zach’s beer.

Older than Zach by more than five years, Kane still looked like the hell-raiser he’d once been, in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, his dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, the edges of his tattoos visible just below both shirtsleeves.

His leg aching, Zach shifted, but that didn’t take enough weight off it. He eyed the empty stool next to him, feeling as if he was going into battle once again. He should have sat at a table or a booth, let Kane come to him. Too late now. There was no easy—or smooth—way to do it, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t try. He dropped his bag at his feet, laid his left hand on the bar and lifted with his arm while he pushed off the floor with his left leg.

His ass hit the edge of the seat and he slid off, coming within an inch of knocking a few teeth loose against the bar before catching his balance. Kane reached toward him, but Zach shook his head and Kane eased back. There wasn’t anything he could do from the other side of the bar, anyway.

And Zach was already there to ask for a favor. He wasn’t about to add insult to injury by having his brother help him do something as simple as sitting down.

Zach glared at the stool. He didn’t need to look around to know he’d attracted attention. He could continue standing there, pretend nothing had happened, act as if he’d rather drink his beer and have the upcoming conversation with Kane on his own two feet—one real, one not. He could give up. Could give in and take the easy way out, just this once.

But he was afraid that like any temptation, one time wouldn’t be enough.

He took hold of the bar again, bent his left knee and hopped onto the stool, wiggling fully onto the seat.

Breathing heavily, he shut his eyes for a moment. It might not have been pretty, and yeah, he’d just made a fool of himself in front of at least thirty strangers, but he’d done it.

Best of all? He’d done it all on his own.

Kane set his beer in front of him, and Zach grabbed it. He was pathetically grateful when Kane’s expression didn’t change in the least, even though Zach was sure his brother had noticed how badly Zach’s hand was shaking.

Hard not to, since he’d slopped beer over the shiny bar.

Kane wiped up the spill then tossed the towel over his shoulder. “You’re a long way from home.”

Sipping his beer, Zach grunted. He wanted to down the entire glass and ask for another. When he’d first been injured, he hadn’t touched any alcohol, had known that it would have been all too easy to rely on it to ease the pain. As the months passed, as he’d survived surgeries and physical therapy, he’d continued to stay away, wanting to be able to say he’d recovered on his own, by his own strength and nothing else.

Now, every once in a while, he allowed himself a drink. Just to prove to himself that he could stop at one.

Kane’s gaze flicked to Zach’s empty sleeve, his mouth a grim line. Zach’s fingers tightened on his glass. He slowly lowered the beer, waiting for Kane to say something. To offer him sympathy or ask him something idiotic like how was he feeling.

“Get you something to eat?” Kane asked, his tone almost bored.

Zach could have kissed him.

Instead, he settled on shaking his head. Took another sip of beer before setting it down again.

He hated this. Hated what he’d been reduced to.

But he wouldn’t hide from it. Would do what he’d done with every obstacle, every hard time or unpleasant task he’d encountered in his life.

He’d face it head-on.

“I need a job,” he said, his quiet tone still somehow defiant. Belligerent.

Pissed off.

If Kane was surprised, he didn’t show it. Then again, the man had been a ranger. Not in league with the marines, of course, but he could at least be respected. Zach had come to Shady Grove and sought Kane out due to that shared connection of serving in the military.

He held Kane’s gaze while the other man studied him, trying, he knew, to read Zach’s thoughts. To gauge what was really going on inside his head.

Hell, over the past eight months, Zach had been poked and prodded by dozens of doctors, analyzed and questioned by shrinks, therapists and counselors. Let Kane look. He wouldn’t see anything Zach didn’t want him to see.

“You ever tend bar before?” Kane asked.

Zach’s mouth thinned. “No.”

“Wait tables?”

“I joined up right after high school.” Which Kane damned well knew. “Not sure how the army works,” he continued, “but the Marine Corps is too busy teaching us how to win wars to focus on mixing drinks and carrying plates.”

Kane took the towel off his shoulder with a snap then put it over his other one. “No summer jobs working in food service?”

He shook his head. He’d spent three summers working on building sites. Had even considered, those few times he’d thought about his future outside the corps, pursuing a career in construction. Maybe running his own business.

Back when he’d thought he’d leave whole.

“I can clean,” he said softly, hating that he had to beg for the most meager of jobs. Especially from a Bartasavich. He cleared his throat. Leaned forward. “I can stock the bar, wash dishes—” Probably. “Or if you know of any local business that could use someone...”

Someone. Right. More like a one-armed, one-legged man who suffered from headaches, flashbacks and PTSD. Christ, there were probably tons of job opportunities out there just waiting for him.

Maybe coming here was a mistake, but he hadn’t known where else to go.

All he’d known was that he couldn’t stay in Houston.

Kane pursed his lips. “I could always use an extra set of hands around here.”

Zach raised his eyebrows. Lifted his empty sleeve. “Will half a set work?”

Kane’s wince was so slight, Zach doubted most people would have noticed it. “Poor choice of words. You want an apology?”

“If you give me one, I’m going to lose what little respect I have for you.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Kane said so drily Zach was surprised a puff of dust didn’t come out of his mouth. “You can start tomorrow.”

Zach finished his beer, hoping to wash away the sudden tightness in his throat. “I appreciate it.”

“Tough getting those words out, huh?”

“Only when saying them to a Bartasavich.”

Kane’s grin was sharp and appreciative and not the least bit insulted. Best of all? He didn’t point out that Zach was a Bartasavich, too—in blood if not in name.

“You know, the apartment upstairs is empty,” Kane said. “If you need a place to stay.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You could bunk with us,” Kane suggested. “We have a guest room on the first floor.”

His brother obviously thought Zach was refusing due to the apartment being on the second level. That wasn’t it. He could handle a few steps. It might even be good for his recovery, climbing up and down a bunch of stairs each day.

But he didn’t want to owe Kane for anything more than the job.

“Does Charlotte know you go around collecting strays?” Zach asked of Kane’s wife.

Kane lifted a shoulder. “You’re not a stray. You’re family.” As if reading Zach’s mind, he quietly added, “Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t like it, but that wasn’t news. “I don’t need a handout. I make my own way.”

“It’s a place to sleep, not the account number to my trust fund. It doesn’t have to mean you like me or that you suddenly want to change your name to Bartasavich and come over for Christmas dinner.”

“I’ll find a place. On my own.”

Maybe.

The only other time he’d been to Shady Grove, he’d stayed at a Holiday Inn off the highway, but that had to be at least five miles away. And he didn’t think there was any public transportation in town. Not exactly a great setup for a man who needed to relearn how to drive.

“King’s Crossing has rooms,” Kane said, writing something on the back of a cocktail napkin. “But it’s on the other side of town. Bradford House is closer. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, though, not a real hotel.” He handed Zach the napkin. “I put my cell number on there, too. On the off chance you can’t find a room tonight and would rather ask for help than sleep on the street.”

Easy for Kane to say. He had this place, his pretty little wife, probably a house with a white picket fence. He had Estelle, his eighteen-year-old daughter and the only Bartasavich Zach actually cared about.

He had everything.

The only thing Zach had was his pride. And he’d choked down enough of it today.

Zach had to lay the napkin on the bar to fold it with his one hand. When he was done, he stood—getting off the stool was considerably easier than getting on the damned thing—and dug his wallet from his front left pocket.

“How much for the beer?” he asked, putting the napkin in with his money.

“On the house.”

“Don’t,” Zach said, holding Kane’s gaze. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”

“Yeah, I get it. You make your way,” Kane said mildly, pulling another beer. “It’s one beer. You going to insist I work you twelve hours a day? Pay you minimum wage and not one cent more?”

“How. Much?”

Kane served his customer then wiped his hands on the towel. “Ten should cover it.”

Zach narrowed his eyes. “Ten bucks for a draft? What’d you do, lace it with gold?”

“The drink was four dollars, but I figured you’d want to leave your friendly bartender a nice tip.”

He handed him a five. “You figured wrong. What time should I come in tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here at noon.”

“Noon? What’s the matter? Need your beauty sleep?”

“That’s why I’m the fairest of us all,” Kane said, pouring tequila into a blender.

Zach scratched the scar at his right temple. Had to admit what Kane said was true.

Especially now.

“I can be here earlier. I don’t need special treatment. I’ll put in a full day’s work.”

“I come in at noon,” Kane said, slicing a lime, “because I’m behind this bar most nights until 2:00 a.m. then I spend another half an hour cleaning up. I’ll need you to come in when we open for lunch, so you’ll work the early shift, 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Monday through Thursday, and 7:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. either Friday or Saturday night. I know math has never been your strong suit, so I’ll save you from having to count on your fingers. Each shift is eight hours.”

“Hard to count to eight,” Zach said, waving the fingers of his left hand at Kane, “when you only have enough for five.”

Kane sent him a bland look, not the least bit of sympathy in his gaze. “Take off your shoe, then, and use your toes.”

Apparently Kane wasn’t going to coddle him like a child.

Or worse, treat him like an invalid.

Zach bent and picked up his duffel bag. Put it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“I don’t suppose you want me to drive you to a hotel?”

“Nope.”

“Right. If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” He wouldn’t. Not about anything.

He turned and skirted the stool, his leg hurting worse now than when he’d first come in, but he kept going. His entire focus on taking the next step. Then another.

He’d just passed the end of the bar when Kane’s voice reached him.

“Hey,” his brother called. Zach stopped but didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. It took all he had just to remain upright, and would take extra effort to get him out the door. No way was he risking falling on his face in front of all these people by trying something as fancy as a turn without anything to hold on to.

“Before you come in tomorrow,” Kane continued, “do me—and the world in general—a favor and see about getting that stick dislodged from your ass.”

Several customers laughed; a few watched him to catch his reaction. Nope. No special treatment on Kane’s end.

Guess he shouldn’t have been worried about that.

Zach’s answer was to walk away—arm raised, middle finger extended.

He didn’t smile until he stepped outside, the door shutting behind him.

Maybe coming here hadn’t been a mistake after all.

CHAPTER THREE

“MAMA?”

Checking her phone on the bottom porch step outside Bradford House, Fay didn’t even glance up. She heard the words Mom, Mommy and Mama at least a thousand times a day. Both of her sons seemed to start every single sentence with one of them. They were like the background music to her life.

“Hmm?” she asked, closing out her text messages to check her emails.

Mitchell, her three-and-a-half-year-old, crouched in front of her, peered up into her face. “Mama?” He shook her free arm. Repeatedly. And hard enough to have her head wobbling along. “Mama? Mama?”

With a half laugh, half sigh, she smiled at him. “What-a? What-a? What-a?”

“Mama, are you mad at me?”

“What? No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”

He shrugged. Rubbed her arm, his hand warm and clammy and covered in potting soil—which now streaked her skin from elbow to wrist. “I asked if I could plant the daisies and you didn’t answer me.”

She flushed. Guilt, so easily induced, twisted in her stomach. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t hear you. I was checking my phone.” Standing, she put her phone in her pocket. Took hold of her son’s hand. “Of course you can plant the daisies. We’ll put some in here,” she continued, picking up a sunny yellow ceramic pot and carrying it out to the grass. “Why don’t you pick out the colors while I open another bag of soil?”

“Okay!” He raced over to the flat of colorful gerbera daisies and knelt down, studying them intently.

She dragged the potting soil into the sunshine, the grass thick and green under her sneakers, then used a pair of scissors to open the bag. Knowing how much Mitchell liked to “help,” she waited for him to bring the flowers over so he could fill the pot.

“Mama,” he said, running back to her to tug on her jeans. “How many?”

“Let’s start with three and go from there.”

He nodded, then hurried back to the flowers.

Her baby didn’t like to venture too far from her. Every few minutes he’d come back to her side, touch her leg or arm, make sure he had her attention, that she was still there, and then wander off again.

Elijah would have just yelled at her, as if he was a half a block away instead of across the brick sidewalk that bisected the yard. Then again, Elijah was more likely to take off down the street than stand still long enough to pick out daises, let alone plant them. That boy had energy to spare.

While she so often felt as if she had none.

But not today. Today she’d taken control. As much as she’d wanted to curl into a ball after her conversation with Damien, she hadn’t. She’d showered, dressed, put on fresh makeup and straightened her naturally curly hair.

Just as Shane liked it.

She’d gotten the boys up, cooked pancakes in their tiny kitchen while they got dressed, then sent Elijah off to school before greeting her guests downstairs. She’d put in a few hours in her office, letting Mitch watch TV before heading to WISC, an upscale clothing boutique downtown. It had taken her close to an hour, but she’d finally chosen a deep purple lace chemise and matching panties for tonight. Mitch had been so patient and well behaved, she’d taken him to Panoli’s for lunch. After pizza, they’d stopped at the garden center on the way home.

She eyed the flats of flowers—over a dozen perennials and annuals of all shapes, sizes and colors littered the space between the driveway and sidewalk, plus two azalea bushes, a rosebush and three different kinds of decorative grass.

She chewed on her pinkie nail. Perhaps she’d gotten a tad bit carried away, but there was nothing better than tending a garden, caring for it so it flourished. Bloomed. Cullen’s Greenhouse had just received a new shipment, and she’d had a hard time reining in her enthusiasm.

And, it seemed, her business credit card.

Not that Neil would complain. Or even question the purchase. He never did. Her brother trusted her to run Bradford House as she saw fit, and encouraged her to make every decision, from what sort of linens to use to whom to hire. Whatever she wanted, he made sure she got.

But sometimes she wondered if his being unable to refuse her anything had less to do with trust and more to do with him thinking if he denied her something she’d break into a million pieces. Pieces he’d be unable to put back together.

“I got three, Mama,” Mitch said, his little arms around three plastic containers as he headed toward her. “See?”

“I do see,” she said, crossing the short distance to take two of the flowers from him. “These will look very pretty together.”

“Yeah. I got yellow ’cuz it’s your favorite color and red ’cuz it’s mine and orange for ’Lijah. It’s for all of us. They’ll be a family like we are.”

She hated that he didn’t remember a time when they’d been a real family. That he’d never had his father in his life full time.

She brushed his hair back. The once almost-white strands were now darker, with a definite reddish tint, but it was still baby fine and stick straight. “You know,” she said, wanting to ease Mitchell into getting used to having Shane around, “Daddy’s favorite color is red, too. Just like you.”

Mitch seemed more curious by the idea than happy over it. Then again, he was shy around strangers, especially men. And that his father was a stranger broke Fay’s heart.

Thank God all of that was about to change.

“It is?” he asked.

She nodded. “So maybe these flowers could be for all of us. You and me and your brother and your daddy.”

“Do you want them to be?”

She knew what she should say. That she wanted him to make that decision. That he didn’t have to include Shane in anything he did, not after Mitch had spent only a handful of days with Shane since he was a baby.

But that wasn’t all Shane’s fault. She bore some responsibility for the problems in their marriage. For not being strong enough to weather the tough times. For wanting too much. For needing too much.

“I do want that,” she said, unable to hide what was in her heart. “Very, very much.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly.

“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”

He grinned, so eager to please. So thrilled to be praised. Even when it was obvious he was only doing it to make someone else happy.

Just like she did.

“Can I put the dirt in?” he asked.

She couldn’t speak, her throat was too tight, so she nodded. Worried now that she’d made a mistake in speaking the truth. That she’d somehow tainted him with her fears.

“But not too full, right?” he asked, hopping from foot to foot, either in excitement or because he had to pee. “’Cuz there has to be room for the flowers’ roots. Right?”

“Right.” But the word came out a whisper, so she cleared her throat. Tried again. “That’s right.”

He dived at the bag of potting soil, using his hands to scoop some out. Most of it drifted to the ground before it reached the pot, and even more clung to his pants and shirt, covered his arms.

She was surprised he didn’t climb into the bag and just dig it out like a dog.

He stopped jiggling, which meant his little dance had been excitement. Best of all, he was smiling, talking cheerfully, a running commentary about what he was doing. He was, in this moment, happy.

Maybe she wasn’t ruining him after all.

Still, she only had so many bags of potting soil, and at this rate, more than half of it was going to feed the yard.

“Wow, great job. If you want,” she said, as if just coming up with the idea, offering to do him a huge favor, “I could finish filling it. Then you can dig the holes for the flowers.”

She held out a small garden shovel. His eyebrows drew together into an adorable frown, as if he wasn’t sure whether this new development was to his advantage. She could almost see him weighing his options: play in the dirt or get to use the potentially lethal tool.

He grabbed the shovel. Lethal it was.

Using an empty flower container, she scooped the soil into the pot. “There you go.”

“Three holes, right?” he asked, his pudgy hand gripping the shovel tight. His tongue sticking out, he stabbed the pointed edge of the shovel into the pot then flung it up in an explosion of dirt that showered his hair and clothes.

“Yes. But maybe not quite so hard?”

He nodded. And showered himself with even more dirt.

Oh, well. No harm in getting dirty. Clothes—and little boys—were washable. Though she might have to hose him off before getting him into the tub.

“Look! I did it,” he said. “I made a hole.”

“Yes, you did. Good job. Two more to go.”

She thought she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Covered it with her hand, holding her breath. Yes, that was a vibration. Wasn’t it? She pulled it out and exhaled heavily at the blank screen. She quickly unlocked it just to double-check. But there were no texts, no emails, no missed calls.

Where was Shane? Why hadn’t he called her? Or better yet, stopped by?

She’d practiced her apology to him in the shower, had it memorized and perfected only to have her call—all five of them—go straight to voice mail. Which was understandable. She was sure he’d been busy preparing for his interview, showering and shaving and getting dressed. So she’d texted him, had poured her heart out to him, told him how sorry she was, let him know how much last night had meant to her. How excited she was for the future.

That had been hours ago. It was now past two and she hadn’t heard from him yet. She just didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. If he’d tell her, she could fix it. She could change.

“Mama, are you sad?”

She looked down to find Mitch frowning up at her. He was so like her—from his coloring to his blue eyes to the shape of his mouth. They both hated peas, burned easily in the sun and hummed constantly. He’d inherited her sensitivity, too. Was always wondering how others were feeling. Worried if they were sad or upset or angry with him. Needed to be told constantly that the people in his life would always be there. That they loved him—would always love him.

She didn’t know whether to hug him tight and reassure him that everything was fine or demand that he snap out of it. That he not be like her.

She wanted him to be stronger than she was. More confident, capable of facing challenges. Able to live without constantly worrying.

All good life skills. She wished someone would teach them to her someday.

Crouching, she smiled at him. “I’m very happy. It’s a beautiful day, I’m planting flowers with my best helper and after we pick up your brother from school, we’re going to stop at City Creamery.”

Eyes wide, he started doing his happy dance again. “We’re getting ice cream? Can I get two scoops?”

City Creamery was known not only for its homemade ice cream but also its huge portions. “You can have whatever you want, baby.”

So what if he’d be full before he finished one scoop? There was no harm in making sure he was happy.

He pumped his fist—a move he’d picked up from Elijah—then gave her a hug. “I love you, Mama.”

She squeezed him carefully, knowing she had a tendency to hold on too tight. “Love you, too, baby.”

When he let go to finish digging his holes, she straightened. Brushed at the dirt on her shirt. She hadn’t lied. Not really. She was happy. It was just that she’d be happier if Shane was there.

She was sure of it.

What if he stopped by while she and the boys were out? She hadn’t planned on going to City Creamery after getting Elijah, but she’d wanted to do something for Mitch, to prove to him that she was fine.

She’d better call Shane. So he wouldn’t come over and be disappointed they weren’t here.

It went directly to voice mail. Again. “Hi. It’s me. I hope the interview went well. I mean... I’m sure it did. I’m sure you were great.” She stopped. Inhaled deeply then blew it out as quietly as possible, strolling to the other side of the yard. “I wasn’t sure what time you planned on coming over, but the boys and I are going to City Creamery after school. Why don’t you meet us there? The boys would love to see you. You can call me back if you get time or just meet us. Whichever is easier. Okay? ’Bye.”

She clicked off before realizing he might not know what time Elijah got out of school. Ugh. She lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged, holding her head in both hands. Should she call him back? Send him a text?

No. She’d bothered him enough. He hated it when she was too persistent. When she didn’t give him enough space. He’d call her back or show up here. So she’d wait.

She’d waited for him for three years. She could wait a few more hours.

This time she and Shane were going to work. They’d both made mistakes, yes, but they’d also grown and learned from those mistakes.

After making sure Mitch was still occupied, she shifted around to kneel on the grass. The sun warmed her face and arms, and she shut her eyes. Focused on that warmth, that light. Imagined absorbing it into her skin, her body glowing as the rays shot out of her fingers and toes.

She smiled at the fanciful thought. Pressed her palms against her jeans, her body relaxing. Her mind quiet, if only for a moment.

A shadow briefly blocked the sun. Her scalp prickled with apprehension. She was being watched.

Guess that moment was up.

She turned her head to the side as she opened her eyes but Mitchell was still happily occupied, his back to her. She caught movement to her right and noticed a man walking up the sidewalk, the sun behind him, his features undistinguishable from her vantage point.

Scrambling to her feet, she ducked her head to hide her blush, pretending great interest in slapping at the soil on her clothes.

Though they weren’t expecting any guests today, they did, at times, get a walk-in, so she lifted her head and smiled as he approached, then felt that smile slipping.

Dark. That was her first impression. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, a wide chest. Dark hair that reached his collar, the ends lifting in the breeze. A dark, full beard, just beyond the point of trimmed and heading into scraggly. Dark eyes surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, the lids heavy.

Eyes she couldn’t look away from. Eyes that seemed to assess—and dismiss—her before he even blinked.

She shivered. Hugged herself.

Dangerous.

Not exactly the most reassuring—or kind—assessment, but there it was, born of some inner knowledge she hadn’t even realized she possessed.

Which was ridiculous. She could hardly claim to know whether he was dangerous or not based on being in his company for a few seconds. Just because he had a hard expression, hooded eyes and was in serious need of some professional grooming didn’t mean he wasn’t a perfectly nice man.

And no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, some primitive, maternal instinct had her glancing at her son to make sure he was safe. Had her edging to the side, putting her body between Mitchell and the stranger coming toward her.

The man turned, too, his hard gaze flicking behind her to see who she was protecting. Beneath the beard his face was lean, almost gaunt, his complexion sallow, as if he’d recently been sick. It was then she noticed the scars, pink and angry looking, along his temple and high on his cheek.

It was then that she noticed the empty sleeve on his right side.

She jerked her gaze back up to his face as he reached her. Cursed the fairness of her skin, knowing her blush was not only visible but probably neon bright.

“Hello,” she said, trying that smile again. He nodded. She waited a moment, but that gesture seemed to be his response, so she forged ahead. “May I help you?”

“Is this Bradford House?” he asked.

“It is.”

“I’m looking for a room.” He paused, his expression tightening. “One that’s accessible.”

She stared at him blankly, trying to figure out why his deep voice tugged at her subconscious, the cadence and the way he said Brad-ferd instead of Brad-ford strangely familiar. “They’re all accessible.”

How else would people get in and out of them?

He looked at her sharply, as if she was a few petals short of a full bloom. But it wasn’t until he set a large duffel bag on the sidewalk, the movement causing him to wince and fight to remain balanced, that realization dawned.

She really was as dim as everyone thought.

He hadn’t just lost an arm and suffered injuries to his face, he’d hurt his leg, as well.

“You mean handicap accessible?” she blurted out.

Another nod, this one short and sharp. “Do you have one available?”

His words were clipped. A challenge. As if she’d refuse him.

She wanted to. She wanted to tell him they were fully booked, recommend King’s Crossing or the Holiday Inn.

The thought shook her. Shamed her. Refusing to rent him a room was illegal. Not to mention immoral and hateful.

But her wanting to turn him away had nothing to do with his physical disabilities and everything to do with her instincts. They were shouting at her, begging her to please, for once, listen to them. To trust them. To believe them when they said that while the man before her might not be a con artist, thief or murderer, she still had to protect herself from him.

Dangerous.

Thank goodness she always followed her heart and not her gut. Or her head.

The breeze picked up, blew her hair into her face. A strand stuck to the gloss on her lips and she hooked it with her pinkie, pulled it aside. “We have a room on the first floor that should work for you.”

It had been her idea, she thought with no little amount of pride, to add a handicapped-accessible room off the library. And just in time, it seemed, as the addition had been completed only a few weeks ago.

“Mama!” Mitchell called, racing over to her, his hands black with dirt, his clothes covered in it. He grabbed her hand, started tugging. “Mama, come look. I’m done!”

She stumbled, caught herself. How someone so small could be so strong was beyond her. “Just a minute, honey. Mama’s talking to someone right now.”

Mitch sidled closer and wrapped his arm around her leg above her knee. Then he lifted his head to take in the stranger.

And burst into tears.

* * *

HE’D FLOWN HALFWAY across the country, almost fell on his ass in front of a bar full of people, humiliated himself by begging for a job and made a kid cry.

Yeah. He’d say his day was now complete.

Zach scratched the underside of his jaw. The beard itched like hell, but at least it hid the scars scattered across the side of his neck and jaw. Not that he’d grown it for vanity. He just hadn’t mastered using a razor with his left hand, and as much as his life might suck, he wasn’t so bad off that the idea of slicing his own neck held any appeal.

The kid sent up a high-pitched wail that probably had every dog in the neighborhood cowering. He pressed his face against the woman’s leg, his little body shaking.

Christ.

The woman knelt, said something to the kid—her son, if the resemblance was anything to go by—who quieted for a moment. Until he glanced at Zach again and cried louder than before. Kid had some pipes, Zach would give him that.

“Maybe I should go,” Zach said.

Color washed up the woman’s neck into her face, the red contrasting with her strawberry blond hair. “No, no. Please. I’m really sorry for this. Just...give me a moment.” She picked up the boy. Zach was surprised she could lift him when it looked like a stiff breeze would knock her over.

“It’s okay,” the blonde murmured, and he could have sworn she was talking to him as well as the kid. “Everything will be all right.”

The thought irritated him. He didn’t need her reassurance, didn’t need anyone spouting off about how he should look on the bright side and be hopeful for the future. He needed a damn room.

And she wasn’t doing her kid any favors, either, lying to him. How did she know everything would be all right?

She pressed a kiss against the side of the boy’s head and jiggled him the same way he’d seen his aunts, cousins, mom and grandmother do with the countless babies and kids in his family. As if bouncing the hell out of them would impart some comfort or maybe shake some sense into someone who couldn’t even tie their own shoes.

Then again, he was having some difficulty with that task himself. Maybe his mother was right about not casting stones.

The kid clung to the woman, his pudgy arms around her neck, all but squeezing the life from her. At least the jiggling and murmuring were working. His cries quieted. Though they didn’t stop.

She sent Zach a tight, embarrassed smile over the kid’s head as she rubbed the child’s back. “I’m so sorry. Really. Let me just get him settled down,” she continued, walking backward. “It’ll only take a minute. You can wait in the entryway if you’d like.” She turned, took a step then paused long enough to look at Zach over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

And she took off, speed walking down the sidewalk then jogging up the porch steps before disappearing into the house—hotel...bed-and-breakfast...whatever—leaving the door open behind her.

Leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

He started to rock back on his heels only to remember that wasn’t such a good idea given the pain in his leg, the unsteadiness of his muscles. The walk from O’Riley’s to here hadn’t helped, nor had carrying his duffel, which all went back to not having a choice.

His current life motto.

There used to be a time when he could run for miles at top speed in full combat gear with fifty pounds of supplies, weapons and ammunition on his back.

Now he could barely make it a mile carrying what little clothes he owned, his toothbrush and a few personal items.

New normal.

Leaning to the left, he picked up his duffel. His head swam. Ached. Nausea rose, but he swallowed it down. Headaches were just one of the lingering effects of the severe concussion he’d suffered during the blast that had taken his arm and leg.

He needed to sit down, preferably someplace dark and quiet. He stared at the doorway. No sign of the blonde. She expected him to follow her, to wait while she tried to convince her kid Zach wasn’t some monster. Good luck with that.

He turned slowly, started back toward the street. Tidy houses with lush, thick lawns lined the road. Birds chirped. A dog barked.

He never should have come up the walk, never should have spoken to the blonde. As soon as he’d seen Bradford House, he’d known it wasn’t for him. The Victorian was too cute, with its tall windows, huge wraparound front porch and neatly trimmed lawn.

A place where couples came for romantic weekend getaways. Where groups of women stayed when they ditched the men in their lives. Somewhere for people who wanted to be charmed by the manager, who wanted to sit with other travelers, chat, learn about their lives.

It was not a place for someone who spent most nights wide awake, watching TV or limping around his room, avoiding sleep and the nightmares that came with it. Someone who only wanted to be left alone.

Bradford House wasn’t for him.

The kid had known that right off.

He’d noticed the boy first—hard to miss that beacon of bright hair. The kid had been digging in a pot of dirt, flowers at his feet, his hands filthy, his clothes stained as he talked a mile a minute to no one, his joy obvious.

Then Zach had caught sight of the woman and he’d just...stopped. Froze right there on the sidewalk, his heart slamming in his chest, his mind hazy. She’d sat back on her heels, her hands tucked primly on her bent knees, her head turned up to the sun, a small smile playing on her mouth.

That dreamy smile had captured him. She’d seemed so peaceful, the bright sun catching the fiery strands of gold in her hair, her expression soft. She seemed to glow, to have been lit from inside, her pale skin almost translucent. He’d started moving toward her before he’d even fully realized his intent, drawn to that warmth, that sense of serenity. Longing for a way to somehow bask with her in that peace.

Except when he moved, he’d blocked her light, casting her in shadow. Touching her with darkness. She’d frowned, but that had been nothing compared to the unease in her eyes when she’d first seen him. The vulnerability.

Or the flinch when she’d noticed his empty sleeve.

He gave an irritable shrug, felt like he had an itch he couldn’t reach between his shoulder blades, even if he’d still had two hands. No, Bradford House was definitely not for him.

Feeling as if he’d just lost something he’d never even had, he turned onto the main sidewalk, heading back toward town.

“Wait!” a female voice called, followed by the sound of running feet. “Wait!”

He kept walking. Not that it mattered. It took her ten seconds to catch up with him.

“Where are you going?” she asked breathlessly from beside him.

“I hear there’s a Holiday Inn off the highway.”

He could buy a car, hire someone to drive him everywhere, to drop him off at O’Riley’s, take him to whatever restaurant he wanted to eat at. Hell, he didn’t even have to work—he could buy a house somewhere, anywhere, sit there day in and day out. He had money. More than he’d ever be able to spend in two lifetimes.

But he hadn’t earned it. Had been given it because he was Clinton Bartasavich Sr.’s bastard son.

He hadn’t earned it, so he wouldn’t use it.

She scooted in front of him, forcing him to stop. Her cheeks were pink. Whether she was still embarrassed or if it was from her quick jog, he wasn’t sure. “Why would you go there?”

“For that room I mentioned?”

Her eyebrows drew together in a confused frown. She lifted her pinkie to her mouth only to drop it and link that hand with her other one. “But...but we have an available room here. It’s on the first floor. It’s very nice.”

She spoke slowly, her tone calm and clear. As if she’d somehow figured out he’d suffered a head injury. Then again, some people did that. Saw you were missing a piece of yourself and automatically went into nurturer mode, wanting to take care of you, offering their endless patience and sympathy.

And wouldn’t that be fun, being exposed to that every day? “I figured you wouldn’t want me hanging around. Traumatizing your kid.”

The color that had been fading from her face came back with a vengeance. “I’m so, so sorry about that,” she breathed. “I...I don’t know what got into him.”

“I scared him.”

“No. I mean...it wasn’t you. Really. Mitchell’s very, very shy. He’s not comfortable around any strangers.”

Zach snorted softly. Yeah, that was the kid’s problem. Shyness. “It’s probably best for both of us if I go somewhere else.”

“Oh, no, please, come in. Just for a few minutes. I’ll go over our amenities and rates and you can look at the room. See if it suits your needs.”

How the hell was he supposed to refuse when she was looking at him so expectantly? When she stood so close he could smell the soil dusting her clothes, and under it something sweet and light and flowery? He wanted to close the distance between them, breathe in that sweetness.

Yeah, staying here, even long enough for her to give her sales pitch, was a bad idea.

Seemed to be his day for those.

“Lead the way,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

AT HIS ACQUIESCENCE, she smiled, full and warm and relieved, as if getting him to come inside was a personal victory.

Glad he could help her put a check in the win column.

“Thank you,” she said. A car drove past, the driver giving them a friendly beep of the horn. She waved without looking away from Zach. “I promise to do everything in my power to make your stay pleasant.”

He thought again of how pretty she’d looked sitting in the sunshine. How good she smelled. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s soft skin. Since a woman had touched him in a nonplatonic, nonmedical or nontherapeutic way.

A long time. A long, long time.

Probably not what she meant by making things pleasant.

“I’m just checking out the room,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. Inappropriate sexual fantasies would do that. Especially ones of him rolling around in the front yard on a bright, sunny day with a woman who, moments before, had hauled her screaming kid inside. “No promises I’ll be staying.”

“Of course. But I think once you see the room, you’ll want to.”

Right now all he wanted was to sit down. Or at least get out of the sun. His head was starting to ache, a pounding to match the throbbing in his leg. He shifted to the side, gestured for her to go ahead.

She brushed past him, then waited at the end of the walkway. When he reached her, she moved onto the grass and walked with him toward the house. Took tiny, slow steps so as not to outpace him.

“Bradford House has a long and rich history in Shady Grove,” she said. Seemed this tour came with a guide. “Built over one hundred years ago by local timber baron Reginald Bradford, it was a gift to his third wife, Marjorie, a socialite from Boston thirty years his junior.”

She went on. And on. And on some more. Reginald died of a heart attack in a hooker’s bed... Marjorie passed the house down to their only child, a daughter, who married some guy with a gambling habit...yada, yada, yada...the house was lost in a high-stakes poker game and turned into an orphanage...

He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the house’s history or its past inhabitants, but he let her talk. It helped knowing she was occupied with giving her spiel and not focused on trying to catch him should he fall. Plus, he liked the soft lilt of her voice, the way she spoke so slowly, carefully, as if reciting a memorized piece for school.

“The house stood empty for over five years,” she said when they finally reached the porch, “at which point NHL star Neil Pettit purchased the house and property.”

Neil Pettit. Zach had never heard of him. Then again, he didn’t follow hockey, preferred watching baseball or basketball rather than a bunch of guys on skates. But he was curious—not about the house or its current owner. About her.

“Is that your husband?” he asked as they reached the porch.

She started, as if shaken out of her tour-guide trance. Glanced around, doing a full spin. “Where?”

He looked around, too, but they were the only two people out there. “Neil Pettit.”

“Oh. No.” She checked the street again, then her phone before looking Zach’s way. “Neil’s my brother.”

“You and he are partners?”

“Partners?”

He nodded toward the house. “Business partners.”

Something crossed her face, a flash of resentment gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “I’m not an owner.” Now her eyes widened. “I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, obviously horrified by her oversight. “I’m so sorry. I’m Bradford House’s manager, Fay Lindemuth.”

And she held out her right hand.

Hell.

He shrugged the duffel bag’s strap off his shoulder. As it hit the ground with a dull thud, she seemed to realize what she was doing and started lowering her arm, her eyes wide and distressed. He stabbed his left hand out, took hold of hers in an awkward, upside-down squeeze. “Zach Castro.”

He held on for a beat. Then two. Longer than necessary, but it was nice, having her warm, soft palm against his. When she started pulling away, he immediately let go. But could still feel it, that warmth. Softness.

He curled his fingers, tried to hold on to both for as long as possible.

Her hands fluttered, touching her chest again, then brushing at her hair before floating down to her sides. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Castro.”

“Zach,” he grumbled. Mr. Castro. Like he was her elder when, if he had to guess, she was around his age—thirty.

Another smile. She had an ample supply of them. “Well, let’s get you that tour, Zach.”

The sound of his name in that soft voice blew through him. He should have let her stick with Mr. Castro.

He eyed the four porch steps. Wide and deep, he’d be able to step up, get his balance before moving on to the next. But there was no handrail to hold on to.

And he had to climb them all under the watchful eye of the pretty woman next to him.

Resigned, he leaned to the side for his duffel.

“Oh, I can take that,” she said, reaching down across his body. The back of her hand brushed his knee, and he froze for a moment, her hair tickling his chin, the scent wrapping around him, while she tugged at the bag’s strap.

“I’ve got it,” he said tightly and felt her look at him, her face close enough that her soft exhale warmed his cheek.

He kept his gaze down, on the sight of their hands wrapped around that worn, rough strap, her fingers long and narrow with shiny pink nails. Her skin pale next to his, the bones of her hand delicate. He raised his eyes to hers, felt a pull of something—interest, attraction or, hell, plain old lust—deep in his stomach. Any of them would be understandable, he told himself. All of them were natural reactions. She was a pretty woman with her bright hair and clear blue eyes. Sweet with her many smiles, easy blushes and that hint of vulnerability. And he was just a man. A man who hadn’t had sex in over eight months.

Didn’t mean he had to act on those feelings. Didn’t mean he wanted to.

But he did want her to leave him with some self-respect.

“Let. Go.”

At his quiet, rough command, she jerked upright. Blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Those pretty hands were back to flapping uselessly, her throat working as she swallowed.

He jutted his chin toward the porch. “After you.”

No way was he going first and having her hovering behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell.

She went up the stairs, crossed the wide porch to the front door, her movements quick. Easy.

Envy pinched him, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for himself now. He’d get back to 100 percent. Eventually. It would take time, patience and hard work. He had plenty of the first, not nearly enough of the second. And the third? He embraced it. He wasn’t afraid to push himself, was actually looking forward to it. To proving he was more than his perceived limitations. To overcoming the odds and living a normal life—whatever that new normal turned out to be.

He climbed the steps slowly, carefully, leaning to the right to compensate for the weight of his duffel bag on his left. It couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen seconds to reach the top, but it felt like an eternity. Especially knowing Fay watched him, cataloging his every move, nervous and on edge that any moment he might tumble to the ground.

Used to be a time, before his injuries, when women checked him out as he went by, the look in their eyes appreciative. Interested.

Now they either looked at him with pity or their gazes skittered over him, as if it was too painful for them to see him.

He crossed the porch, didn’t miss how pleased and relieved Fay looked, as if he’d successfully scaled Everest instead of conquering a few porch steps.

He reached past her and pulled open the door.

“Thank you,” she murmured, stepping inside. He followed, closing the door behind him.

The foyer was large, bright and airy with a high ceiling, a curving wooden staircase to his left and a set of French doors leading to what looked like a den to his right. The woodwork gleamed, dark and ornate, and wide planks of aged oak covered the floor. Some sort of antique stand with drawers and carved scrolls in the wood was against the far wall, a glass bowl of chocolates on it along with a Welcome to Bradford House sign. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It still took some getting used to—the missing arm, the long hair. The beard.

He rubbed his chin. He really needed to work on his shaving skills.

“You can leave your bag here,” Fay said, indicating the corner under the stairs. “Or you can bring it,” she continued quickly, as if wanting to cover all her bases. “If you’d like.”

He left it. Then followed her down a short hallway that opened up into a sitting room on the right—more French doors—and a library to the left. “Through here is the dining room and kitchen,” she said, gesturing ahead of them. “We serve breakfast each weekday from seven until ten, weekends from eight to eleven.”

She turned into the library, a huge room with floor-to-ceiling windows and three walls of built-in shelves housing what had to be thousands of books. Cozy, plump chairs were tucked into corners, and a few round tables were scattered throughout. “We offer snacks in the library every afternoon and wine and cheese in the den in the evenings,” she continued, leading him through the room and down another short but wide hallway, this one bright with open glass on one side overlooking a patio, a handrail on the other. “We offer basic laundry services, dry cleaning drop-off and pickup, cable television and free Wi-Fi in each room.”

She stopped at the end of the hall, pulled a key—an actual key, not a swipe card—from her pocket and unlocked the door, the width enough for a wheelchair to get through. She went in, flipped on the light, then stepped aside so he could enter.

The room, and the hall, had obviously been built at some point recently, or at least redone, if the lingering scent of paint was anything to go by. But they blended seamlessly with the rest of the building, the floors new but still hardwood, the ceilings high, the windows long and narrow.

It didn’t look like any hotel room he’d ever stayed in, or how he’d expected a room at a charming B&B to look. It had vaulted ceilings and a large four-poster king bed, again, with enough space for a wheelchair to get around. The walls were neutral, with pencil sketches of Shady Grove hanging in thick frames, the color scheme deep greens and pale creams with some gold thrown in.

Other than the bed, there was a flat-screen TV on the wall, a large dresser, a small writing desk and chair under one window and a fat armchair next to the other window. It was a decent blend of masculine and feminine, traditional and contemporary.

She showed him the closet before opening the door to the bathroom. Spacious, with a tile floor and double vanity, there were handrails in both the walk-in shower and jetted tub, and also next to the toilet.

“This is the only guest room with its own external entrance,” she said, leading him out to the French doors—they must have gotten a deal on them—that opened up to a small patio accessible by either stairs or a ramp. To the right there was another ramp, this one longer and wooden, leading to a back entrance of the building.

“We’ll put an awning up in a few weeks,” Fay said, “and set a table and chairs out here, maybe a seating area?” He had no idea if she was telling him her plans or asking for his permission. “Anyway, this room is not only our largest, but it also affords the most privacy.”

It would definitely work, and having his own private entrance would be a hell of a lot better than having to traipse through the entire building every time he came or went.

“Does Shady Grove have a YMCA?” he asked.

“A YM—” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to stay at the Y? Because I don’t believe they have rooms anymore. Not the one here, anyway.”

“I don’t want to sleep there. I need a place to work out.”

“Work out?” Her gaze flicked to his empty sleeve. “The Y is at least three miles from here, near the river. But if you want to...to exercise, we have a fitness room in the basement.” She crossed to the desk, picked up a brochure and flipped it open. “It’s actually much nicer than anything the Y has,” she said, sounding almost apologetic. “Being a professional athlete, Neil made sure it was top-notch. He even designed it. It doesn’t get much use, though. Most of our guests prefer to relax rather than lift weights while they’re here.”

She handed him the brochure. It listed not only the amenities of Bradford House but also local tourist attractions and restaurants. And the picture she pointed at was of a state-of-the-art gym, complete with everything he’d need to get back in shape.

To get his life back.

He set the brochure down. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

FAY’S FACE HURT from smiling so much.

The cost of always proving to everyone around her that she was mentally and emotionally healthy and just so darn happy. All. The. Time.

She couldn’t let that smile slip, not one bit. Not now.

I’ll take it.

Mr. Castro, of the dark eyes, grim mouth and deep, flat voice, was going to rent a room here. All because she’d chased him down and given him her best sales pitch.

Oh, Lord, what had she done?

“That’s...wonderful,” she managed, cheeks aching, lips stretched wide. And it was wonderful. They were in the business of renting rooms, after all, and they weren’t booked full until the July Fourth weekend. “We’ll go to my office and get you registered.”

As much as she wanted to let him go ahead of her, she knew better. She’d tried that outside and it hadn’t worked so well for her. And despite what Neil and Maddie thought, she really could learn a lesson.

It was just that sometimes it took six or seven times for that lesson to stick.

Not today, she assured herself.

She led him back the way they’d come, sensing him behind her like a dark, limping ghost, silent except for the heavy fall of his footsteps. The sound of his soft breathing.

He’d unnerved her—more than once, actually. Which in and of itself wasn’t unusual. She was often jittery and anxious, especially around strangers. Too often more concerned about what they were thinking about her than what they were saying. Too worried about making sure they liked her.

It was exhausting. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to stop.

But her nervousness around Zach was...different. More acute. As if her skin was too tight and itchy. Her stomach knotted. She didn’t like how he seemed to see right through all her smiles and cheerful chatter. She’d almost stayed in the kitchen when she’d left Mitchell there with Damien. She’d wanted to hide. All because her inner voice had continued screaming at her to let Zach walk away and find another place to stay.

But her heart had overridden it.

She really needed to start listening to her instincts.

“Here we go,” she said, gesturing for him to enter her office. Following him inside, she shut the door.

And realized her error immediately, as the room seemed to shrink. He had a presence that took up a lot of space. He made her feel small and slight in comparison. It was because he was so broad. Wide through the shoulders and chest. So dark and intense and unsmiling.

Nothing at all like her tall, rangy, golden husband.

She pushed Shane from her mind even as her fingers twitched to check her phone again. For some reason, she didn’t want to think about him now. Didn’t want him arriving and finding her in this cramped space with another man. This man.

And she really, really didn’t want to delve too deeply into why that was.

She certainly didn’t want to remember that weird jump in her belly when she’d tried to take Zach’s bag and he’d lifted his head, their faces inches apart. Or how, for a moment, her breath had caught in her throat and she’d had the strangest sensation of...longing.

Only she had no idea what for.

Didn’t matter. Soon, she’d have everything she wanted. Now she had a job to do.

She shifted, only to realize there was no way to get around Zach. Everywhere she turned, she risked brushing against him. And that would not do. She considered leaping over her desk, but good sense prevailed, forcing her to do a shuffling side step around him, making sure to leave a good six inches between them.

“Have a seat,” she blurted out, practically jumping into her own chair behind her tiny desk. She watched, motionless, while he eased himself into one of the two chairs facing her, grimacing slightly, noticeably favoring his right leg.

“Breathe,” he commanded softly and for a moment, she thought he was talking to himself.

Until her lungs burned and she realized she was the one holding her breath.

And he’d noticed.

Exhaling as quietly as possible, she pretended to be very, very busy booting up her computer. But her face was hot—again. And though she was, indeed, taking in oxygen, the air seemed heated. Stifling. As if he was using it all.

Selfish of him, really.

Ridiculous, she told herself as she opened a new registration form on her computer. There was plenty of air in the room. Air tinged with the scent of sunshine and spring and something spicy—his aftershave? She sneaked a glance at his face, most of it hidden by either his shaggy hair or his beard. Okay. Not his aftershave. And he didn’t seem like the type to use cologne. Whatever it was, it was...nice. Clean and masculine.

And she had absolutely no right to be thinking about the man’s scent. Or liking it. She was a married woman.

She touched her wedding ring, the slight bump of it under her shirt reassuring. She would be a married woman again soon.

Clearing her throat, she forced a smile. “Let’s get you registered.” She bit back a grimace. Well, that had come out quite...enthusiastically. And loudly.

She tried again, softening both her tone and expression. “Is it Zachary?” At his nod, she typed it in, followed by his last name. “Address?”

He hesitated and shifted in his seat. Both actions so subtle, done so quickly, that as he gave her an address in Houston, she wondered if she’d imagined his unease.

“How many nights will you be staying with us?” she asked.

“How many nights are available?”

She felt her brows drawing together at the odd question. Smoothed her expression as she checked future reservations. “That room is open until mid-May.”

“That’ll work.”

Her hands stilled. “You want to stay here for four weeks?”

“Is that a problem?”

She wasn’t sure. “No problem at all.”

But it was strange. Most guests booked Friday to Sunday with the occasional weekday visit thrown in by a rare business traveler or day-trippers wanting to immerse themselves in the local flavor.

Unless...

Unless he wasn’t looking for a place to stay. He was looking for a place to live, for however long he could get it.

He was homeless. That had to be it. And the reason he’d been so uncomfortable when she’d asked for his address was because he didn’t have one. So he’d made one up.

Her heart went out to him. How had he gotten here? What had happened to him? She was curious, as anyone would be, about how he’d gotten those scars and lost his arm. Had it happened a while ago, long enough for him to be used to his limitations? For acceptance?

Maybe it had happened recently and he was still railing against the unfairness of it all. Did he curse his fate? Or blame himself for the choices he’d made that had led to that one moment when his entire world had changed?

Like she blamed herself for her choices. For her world imploding.

Whatever had happened to him, he was here now. Giving her the opportunity to help him try to put that world back together.

Or at least give him a place to stay.

It would be nice to give back. To be the person giving help instead of needing it. To be someone else’s strength. Maybe then she’d be able to figure out how to be her own.

“I’ll need to see photo ID,” she said, adjusting the room’s rate on the form to give him a significant discount. Bradford House wasn’t the most expensive place to stay in Shady Grove, but even their reasonable rates would stretch someone of limited resources.

He handed her a Texas driver’s license along with a second card.

She frowned at it. “What’s this?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “A credit card.” When she stared at him blankly, he added, “To pay for the room.”

She typed in the card information and printed out the form for him to sign. He had a credit card? How was that possible? Where would the bill be sent? Confused, she did what she did best: second-guessed herself.

Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t some homeless drifter in need of help. The address on the driver’s license was different from the one he’d given. And while the man in the photo had dark hair, it was short, the face clean shaven, showing an angular jaw and sharp cheekbones. So different from the man in front of her now.

What if her instincts had been right and he really was dangerous? A criminal on the run or a con man out to fleece his next victims, or an identity thief, using Zach Castro’s license and credit card for his own gain? What if he was a serial killer, here to murder them all as they slept?

Control your thoughts. Don’t let them control you.

Dr. Porter’s voice was so loud in her head, Fay glanced around the cramped room, just to make sure he hadn’t somehow appeared out of thin air, his ever-present notepad in hand.

Fay sighed. Control your thoughts. Control your thoughts.

Easier said than done, Dr. Porter. Much easier said than done. But she’d give it a go.

“This is wrong,” Zach said, his low voice dragging her back to the present before she could put the whole controlling-her-thoughts theory into practice.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to the paper she’d printed out, specifically, the room rate. “This isn’t the price listed in the brochure.”

Caught. She hadn’t realized he’d checked out the prices when she’d shown him the pictures of the fitness area.

“Oh. Yes, well, that’s...that’s a special we’re running.”

“Is that so?” he murmured, his quiet voice doing odd things to her nerves. To her pulse rate.

She nodded. Swallowed. “April is slow—not much going on around here this month, what with skiing season being over—and May isn’t much better, so we decided to offer a discount.” She waved her hand in what she’d wanted to be a casual gesture but ended up being more of a frantic, flopping motion. “To draw in more guests.”

He studied her and she squirmed. Rolled up the corner of an invoice she had to pay. Unrolled it. Rolled it again. She didn’t like to be the center of attention, didn’t like to be singled out or watched with such...intensity.

And she really didn’t like how this particular man watched her. As if seeing through her was no challenge at all.

Finally, thankfully, he shifted forward, and she thought he was going to sign the agreement, only to slowly, deliberately crumple it in his hand. “I’ll pay full price.”

She opened her mouth and immediately wished she hadn’t when she made a squeaking sound, like a mouse caught in a trap. “But...the sale...”

Her words trailed off as he leaned forward to lay the crumpled paper in front of her. “Full price.”

Embarrassment swept through her, a wave of heat that flowed from her toes to the top of her head. Honestly, she might as well just stay red, as often as she blushed in front of this man.

Her own fault, she was sure. But part of her wondered if he couldn’t accept some of the blame, as well.

She fixed the room rate and printed out a new form. Handed it to him wordlessly.

He read it then took a pen from the ceramic holder on her desk, his grip on it awkward. “You’re not very good,” he said, head down as if having to concentrate on signing his own name.

Her first instinct was to apologize for...well...whatever it was she’d done wrong. To beg for another chance.

But something held her back, kept the words stuck in her throat. Something that, if she didn’t know better, she would claim was irritation.

Maybe even the slightest bit of anger.

She pushed it aside. She had no right to be angry. Hadn’t she thought the same thing herself, many, many times? That she wasn’t good enough. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Never enough.

Which was exactly why she didn’t need him pointing it out. She did an excellent job of questioning her abilities on her own.

She tried to flatten the corner of the invoice she’d rolled. Smoothed it and smoothed it and smoothed it with her thumb. “You’ll find a guest survey in your room.” She sounded a bit...put out...so she softened her tone. Forced her hands to still. “You can fill it out and let us know if you’re unhappy with any aspect of your stay here—including my job performance.”

He lifted his head, eyebrows raised. “I’m not unhappy with your job performance.”

“You said I wasn’t very good at it,” she reminded him, working to keep the hurt, the offense, from her voice.

He put the pen back. “I wasn’t talking about your job.”

She frowned. Don’t ask, she told herself. What other people think about you is none of your business. It’s what you think of yourself that matters.

Not true. It did matter what others thought, how they felt about you. If they liked you. If they loved you. If they were going to stay with you, be by your side no matter what.

It was all that mattered.

“What were you talking about then?” she asked, telling herself the only reason she did so was to prove she was strong enough to handle the truth. Brave enough to ask for criticism. Even as she braced for both.

He hesitated, but then he lifted his right shoulder, shrugging his hesitancy off. “I was talking about you not being a very good liar.”

She frowned. And what was wrong with that? Shouldn’t she want to be known as someone honest and trustworthy?

So why did his words sting?

“I didn’t lie,” she told him, keeping her voice calm as she took the paper from him. “I just hadn’t...advertised the discounted room rates yet.”

She checked his signature. It didn’t match the one on the back of his credit card. Not even close.

What should she do?

Neil would know. He’d do whatever he needed to get to the truth. His competitive nature wouldn’t settle for anything less than getting his own way.

Maddie wouldn’t question her instincts or the proof before her. She’d be laying into Zach, pestering him until she got answers.

Fay was sure there was a simple explanation for it all—the change in address, the different signatures, the differences between him in real life and the picture on his license.

And it was her job as Bradford House’s manager to find that explanation. She had to protect her employees and the other guests. Had to protect her sons.

She couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t make a mistake.

“Your address is different,” she rushed out, her words loud in the quiet room, shocking her and, if the slight widening of his eyes was anything to go by, surprising him, as well. To hide her nerves, she stood, the height advantage giving her the ability to look down at him.

“On your license?” she continued, hating that she’d made it sound like a question. Like she was begging for his response. “The picture on it doesn’t look like you, either. I mean, not exactly like you... And your signature doesn’t match. On your credit card.” She licked her lips. “If...if it is your credit card.”

He stood, wobbling a bit and having to lay his hand on her desk to catch his balance, making her think once again that he’d hurt his leg. “The address is different,” he said, “because I recently moved and, as I’m not sure exactly where I’m going to be, I didn’t bother changing it with the DMV. The picture was taken over three years ago—” He gestured to his hair, his beard. “Long before either of these grew.”

It made sense. It all made perfect, logical sense. But there was still one thing that felt off... “And the signature?”

“I used to be right-handed,” he said simply.

Used to be...

She shut her eyes on an inner groan. Oh, God, she was such a complete ninny, scared of her own shadow. Wasn’t Dr. Porter always saying Fay had the ability to choose her thoughts? Her reactions?

She could have chosen to believe the best in the man in front of her. Instead of giving in to her fears.

He wasn’t even the only person to want to rent a room for longer than a few days. Just last summer Clinton Bartasavich Jr. had stayed here for over a week and returned every weekend while trying to convince Ivy—then working as Bradford House’s chef and pregnant with his baby—to give him a chance.

Fay blinked several times as her brain worked, things clicking into place.

C. J. Bartasavich, of the extremely wealthy Bartasavich family of Houston, had succeeded. He and Ivy were now married and living in his Houston penthouse, raising their infant son together. C. J. Bartasavich, whose brother Kane owned a bar right here in Shady Grove. Another brother, Oakes, had spent a weekend at Bradford House just this past Christmas while in town for Kane’s wedding to local ER nurse Charlotte Ellison.

But she now remembered that there was another brother, the youngest, who hadn’t attended that wedding, who’d been unable to come due to being injured in Iraq while serving in the marines.

Her gaze flew to the man watching her silently. A brother who’d lost his arm and his leg. A brother named...Zach.

“You’re a Bartasavich.”

His response to her blurted statement? The slightest wrinkling of his brow. No denial. No affirmation.

The man sure knew how to do the whole not-all-that-tall-but-still-dark-and-very-silent thing. She envied him—at least the last part. Silence made her nervous. Made her feel as if she had to do her best to fill it. As if she’d said or done something wrong to cause it.

“I mean, you’re not a murderer.”

She winced. Wished the words back, but if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that all the wishing in the world couldn’t turn back time. Couldn’t erase your mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I...I have a wild imagination. My mom says I have a tendency of letting it get the best of me.” Before she could make this entire scene worse, she took his room key from her pocket and held it out to him along with his credit card and driver’s license. “I hope you find your stay with us enjoyable. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me or anyone on staff.”

Not her usual happy welcome-to-Bradford-House spiel, but right now, she didn’t want to be polite—she just wanted to send him on his way and forget this entire humiliating episode ever happened.

She wanted to get back to her life. To waiting for Shane.

Whom, she realized with a jolt, she’d rarely thought about since the man in front of her walked into the yard.

Zach took the items and she quickly pulled her hand back before their fingers had a chance to brush. “Thanks.”

Touching her necklace, reminding herself of her ultimate goal, she sidled past him to the door and opened it.

“Oh,” she said to the very beautiful, very pregnant, very young woman who stood on the other side, her hand raised as though she’d just been about to knock.

She was stunning, her short cap of dark glossy hair accentuating her long neck and high cheekbones, her full mouth slicked red, her eyes a dark green. She wore black leggings, high-heeled black ankle boots and a knit light gray sweater that molded to her breasts and bulging belly. Her dangling silver earrings swayed as she tipped her head and raked her gaze over Fay before giving Fay a tight, mean smile, like a cat about to pounce.

Unease prickled Fay’s scalp. Had her wanting to take a step back—but Zach was there, behind her, close enough to sense. To touch if she moved more than a few inches.

“Hello,” she said, using her most professional, warmly welcoming innkeeper tone. “May I help you?”

“That depends,” the younger woman said, her low, husky tone a soft purr. She set her hand on her bulging belly, a small, plain diamond ring winking on her ring finger. The move should have been maternal. But somehow it came across as less protective and more arrogant. As if she’d done something singular and spectacular that no other woman in the history of the world had ever accomplished. “Are you Fay?”

“Yes,” Fay said slowly, wondering at her own hesitancy.

“Then you can definitely help me. You can help me,” she repeated, her eyes gleaming with what could only be described as malice, “by not screwing my fiancé anymore.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ZACH RAISED HIS EYEBROWS. Glanced at Fay—who, for all her blushing earlier, had gone completely white.

It was like he’d walked onto the set of one of Abuelita’s stories, the Mexican soap operas she watched religiously every afternoon. The ones he might have caught a glimpse of once or twice while recovering from his injuries at his mother’s house. Enough of a glance to know they were filled with beautiful people and intrigue, and pregnancies, infidelities and secrets reigned supreme.

Enough to recognize the lead-up to a hair-pulling, face-slapping catfight when he had a front-row seat. Looked like more fun on TV.

Fay shook her head, her hair swishing against her shoulders, the sweet scent of her shampoo releasing into the air. “You have the wrong idea,” she rushed out, eager, it seemed, to state her case. “I’m not...” She gestured between herself and Zach. “We’re not having an affair. We just met.”

Upgraded from the front row to smack-dab in the middle, Zach thought.

“Not me,” he said, but if Fay’s frown was anything to go by, she wasn’t getting it. “I’m not her fiancé. I’m not in the habit of proposing to teenagers. Or getting them pregnant.”

That would be following a little too closely in his old man’s footsteps.

The brunette’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m twenty-one.”

Zach smirked. “Not even if you showed me a birth certificate.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

Right. Like his younger sister, Daphne, had been almost twenty-one when he’d found out she’d been bar hopping as a college sophomore.

Nineteen and a half wasn’t almost twenty-one no matter how you did the math.

“Who...who is your fiancé?” Fay asked the brunette, her voice unsteady. Her expression made it clear she was not only lost in this little unfolding drama, floundering for a way back to somewhere safe, but that she was out of her element, too. Uncomfortable with confrontation.

Unable to stand up for herself.

The brunette snorted out a laugh. “What’s the matter? Are you screwing so many engaged men you can’t keep track?”

“I’m not...sleeping with any man. With any engaged man,” she added, her voice getting stronger.

“You’re a liar.” The brunette raised her chin. “And a slut.” She edged forward and Fay shrank back. “I know he was here last night. Don’t bother denying it. He admitted the whole thing. How you called him, begging him to come over. How you threw yourself at him. Well, I’m here to tell you that Shane is mine.”

At the name, Fay’s head snapped back and she seemed to crumple into herself. “You’re not... Shane’s not your...he’s not getting married.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose. A new twist to this drama. But one thing was clear. Shane—whoever he was—was a lying, cheating bastard.

“This ring,” the brunette said, holding her hand up to show off what had to be the smallest diamond in history, “and the fact that I’m carrying his baby, say otherwise. You need to stay away from him.”

“No,” Fay repeated louder. “You’re lying.”

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Yes, because I don’t have anything better to do than track down my fiancé’s ex-wives and pretend to be engaged.”

Zach ducked his head to hide his grimace. Mystery solved. Shane was Fay’s ex-husband. And she didn’t want to let him go.

“I’m Shane’s wife,” Fay said, and Zach was surprised to hear a bit of steel in her voice. “His only wife.”

“You’re forgetting the ex part. The part that leaves him free to move on with his life. With me.” The brunette patted her stomach. “With us. So quit calling him. Stop chasing him. And for God’s sake, stop being so freaking pathetic.”

The brunette whirled on her high heels and walked away, shoulders back, head high, belly leading the way.

Leaving him and Fay once again alone in the too-small room.

Fay covered her face with her hands, murmuring under her breath. Zach glanced at the door. At his escape. Wished like hell he could take it.

But he’d never been good at walking away when someone was in trouble.

He really needed to work on that.

“Are you all right?” he asked, harsher than he’d intended, but damn it, he’d thought his superhero complex had died in that blast in Iraq, along with his arm and leg.

Looked like he was putting the cape on once again.

“I’m sorry...” Fay gasped from behind her hands, and he waited for the rest of her apology. Waited for her to say she was sorry for the drama. Hell, she apologized so much, he wouldn’t be surprised if she took the blame for global warming, the price of gas and his injuries.

“I’m really sorry, but...I can’t...” She lifted her head, her gaze terrified. “I can’t seem to breathe...”

Shit.

Her hair was damp at the temples, her face pale, her body trembling. She was at the start of a panic attack. He should know—he’d had more than a few since waking up in the military hospital in Germany three days after the explosion. Times when the fear was so real, he wanted to run, if only to escape his own thoughts.

But he wouldn’t leave her. Couldn’t.

She needed him.

He gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”

She remained rooted to her spot, her eyes wide, her body rocking slightly, her fingers curled into her palms.

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