“How come you’ve never—”

Radar, intuition, whatever he wanted to call it, Leif knew exactly what she was asking. “Remarried? Because I can’t imagine ever replacing her. I don’t see how anyone can ever measure up. No woman wants to settle for replacement status.”

“So your alternative is to keep yourself locked up in this gorgeous prison of a house.”

He didn’t like where this conversation was going. “I have a job. I go out every day. I’m hardly locked up here.” Why did he feel so defensive?

“True, but not convincing.” Marta leveled her gaze to his, and he wanted to squirm out of it. “The difference between you and me is that I’ve never turned my back on love. Loving comes easily for me. It always has. Isn’t that the point of being on this planet? We’re here to share love with each other.”

He wanted to get angry for her broaching a tough topic at the drop of a hat, but instead he fought that constant urge to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and let her know she didn’t have to be alone.

* * *

Home in Heartlandia: Finding home where the heart is

Falling for the Mum-To-Be

Lynne Marshall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYNNE MARSHALL used to worry that she had a serious problem with daydreaming—then she discovered she was supposed to write those stories! A late bloomer, Lynne came to fiction writing after her children were nearly grown. Now she battles the empty nest by writing stories that always include a romance, sometimes medicine, a dose of mirth, or both, but always stories from her heart. She is a Southern California native, a dog lover, a cat admirer, a power walker and an avid reader.

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This book is dedicated to my readers. Thank you for giving a new author a chance. I’ve poured my heart and soul into the Home in Heartlandia series and loved writing the Whispering Oaks duo before that. I have felt so fortunate to be a part of this wonderful line over the past five books, and to be introduced to loyal readers like you.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The last place Leif Andersen wanted to be was the Portland airport. An avowed loner, he didn’t look forward to sharing his home—his sanctuary—with a stranger. But that was what he got for owning the biggest and emptiest house in Heartlandia, and it was the imposition he’d accepted on behalf of the town mural.

The absolute last thing he expected to find was this woman sporting a female version of a bolero hat, black gaucho boots and a sunset-colored wrap waiting beside the baggage claim. That had to be her—who else could it be? In all honesty, what should he have expected from an artist from Sedona? She was probably dripping with turquoise underneath that poncho, too.

Attitude adjustment, buddy. This is for the greater good. You volunteered.

Approaching the conspicuous woman, he called out, “Marta Hoyas?”

She turned her head and nodded demurely. All business, or plain old standoffish—he couldn’t tell from here. Maybe she thought he was a chauffeur, but he worried about a long and awkward ride home in either case.

He approached and, seeing her more closely, was taken aback by her appearance. The term striking came to mind. He offered his hand. “I’m Leif Andersen.” She’d already been notified by Elke Norling that she’d be staying at his home for the duration of her mural painting.

Marta had olive skin with black walnut eyes, the color of his favorite wood for woodworking projects. They tilted upward above her cheekbones, accented by black feathery arched brows. A straight, pointy-tipped nose led to her mauve-colored lips. Nice. Rather than smile she made a tense, tight line, jutting out a strong chin. Her raven hair was pulled back under the hat brim in a low ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She’d qualify for beautiful if she didn’t look so damn stiff.

“Good to meet you.” Marta said the words, but combined with her weak handshake, Leif had a hard time believing them. However, years in construction had left him unaware of his own power. Maybe he’d crunched her fingers too hard.

“Just point out your bags and I’ll get them for you,” he said, focusing back on the task at hand and not the unsettling woman to his right. Again, she nodded. Hmm, not much for conversation, and truth was, that suited him just fine. He wasn’t looking for a friend or female company. Having lived alone for the past three years in his five-bedroom, three-thousand-plus square foot home that he’d built, well, having another person around was going to take major adjustment. So far, she seemed as much of a recluse as him, and she’d probably get lost in that great big house just like he did. They’d probably never even run into each other. Good.

She pointed at a large purple—why wasn’t he surprised?—suitcase rounding the corner on the carousel and he pulled it off. Then another. And another. Had she moved her entire wardrobe?

“Let’s take these to the curb, then you can wait while I bring the car around. Sound like a plan?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

He rolled two suitcases. She rolled the third, plus her carry-on bag to the curb. Then he strode off, vowing not to feel compelled to get this one to talk. She wasn’t here to talk. She’d come to Heartlandia to paint a magnificent mural on the city college walls, one that would depict the city’s history and live up to the beauty of her great-great-grandfather’s beloved town monument.

Making the trek to his car, he decided Marta wasn’t exactly standoffish. He’d only just met her and shouldn’t make a snap judgment. She was definitely distant and quiet, but something in the way she carried herself portrayed pride. Maybe taking a mural-painting job for a small town was a step down for her?

He’d studied her website when the college had made their final decision. She had a solid reputation and did art shows across the country but mostly in her home state of Arizona. Some of her work hung in modern-art museums and at US universities. The kind of painting she did, as best as he could describe it, and he definitely wasn’t an expert, was Postimpressionism. She liked large canvases and big subjects. The style seemed well suited for their historical mural needs.

In a world of pop and abstract art, he appreciated her use of vivid colors and real-life subject matter. Hers were paintings where he knew what he was looking at without having to turn his head this way and that, squint to figure it out and then make a guess. What he liked most was her use of intense colors to make her point. In that way she was bold and unrestrained, unlike the quiet woman beneath the bold and unrestrained clothing he’d just met. Bottom line, this style would stand out on a wall at their local college, and that was all that was important.

As he drove toward the curb to pick her up, it occurred to him that beneath her cool exterior, deep under the surface, maybe all was not right in Marta Hoyas’s world. This was one of the traits he’d developed since he’d lost everything he loved—an uncanny ability to read people, especially in the pain and suffering department. He could spot sad people anywhere. Saw the same look on his own face every day when he shaved. Yep, he’d go easy on the woman, and maybe they’d work out a compromise for living under the same roof for God only knew how long it would take her to paint that mural. This, too, he would survive.

He stopped at the passenger pickup curb. She got in while he put all three bags in the bed of his covered pickup truck. Being in construction since he was eighteen—he still couldn’t believe it had been twenty-four years since he’d joined his father’s business—there was just no point in driving a nice car.

“You ever been to Oregon?” he asked once he got back into the cab.

“Not in many years.”

“Ever see your great-great-grandfather’s monument?”

At last, a little sparkle of life in her dark eyes. “Yes. When I was fifteen. Beautiful.”

She removed her hat, and he was struck again by her beauty. An uneasy feeling, one he hadn’t experienced in years, demanded his attention, and it rattled him.

You’re a man, damn it. You’ve always loved women. Quit thinking like a priest.

Too bad he was hell-bent on living with a dead heart. Didn’t matter what this woman did to his pulse. Losing Ellen to cancer had left him devastated. The thought of ever again going through anything close to that—loving someone with all of his heart and soul and losing them—had shut him down. Never again.

So how the hell could he explain the humming feeling under his ribs and down to his fingertips when he looked into her dark and mysterious gaze? She crossed one booted leg over the other and stretched forward to adjust the seat belt, jutting out her chest in the process.

“Can I help you with that?” he asked, trying his damnedest not to notice her breasts.

“I’ve got it. Thanks.”

He focused back on driving, vowing to only look straight ahead from that moment on.

Typical of Oregon weather in late September, it drizzled as he exited the Portland airport and headed toward the freeway. Being three o’clock, it would be after five before they got back to Heartlandia this Saturday afternoon. And because she had yet to utter more than ten words, and he didn’t exactly feel like playing twenty questions, Leif gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and hunkered down for what he’d expected since first laying eyes on her—an extralong drive home, punctuated by awkward and strained silence. Like right now.

He swallowed. Fine with him.

* * *

Marta stared out the window, struck by how green everything was. What should she expect from a place that got more than forty inches of rain a year? Compared to her red-rock desert home, anyplace would look green. She glanced at Leif’s profile. If he ground his molars any tighter, he’d break through his jaw. His weathered fair complexion, darkened by his outdoor work—she’d been told his was the construction company that had built Heartlandia City College—made him look in his midforties...like Lawrence. She shook her head, trying to ward off any more thoughts about her benefactor, and wasn’t that all he’d wound up being? Her ex-benefactor...and ex-lover.

For five years she’d given up everything for him. Five years she’d traveled with him, met the people he thought she should meet for her career. Respected his boundaries and accepted his terms. Evidently Marta was only worthy of being his significant other. It had suited their relationship well for the first year. Hell, she’d even set up the rules. She’d rebelled against her parents’ traditional marriage. Pooh-poohed her father’s favorite saying: “A love like ours only comes once in a lifetime.” Heck, she’d been through half a dozen boyfriends by the time she was twenty-two, and not a single one had been interested in anything beyond the here and now. That kind of love was passé. She hid behind her rebellious facade, the edgy artist, and tried to believe it didn’t matter that no man had come close to loving her the way her father loved her mother. But they were so old-fashioned. Old school. She was a modern woman.

It had worked well with Lawrence at first, what with her traveling and long hours in her art studio—the studio he’d financed and built for her. But surprise, surprise, she’d fallen for him anyway, and celebrating her thirtieth birthday had made her long for something permanent. Something that said he held her above all others, that she wasn’t replaceable. For three more years she’d settled for focusing on her art and waiting, but then her mother died and put a whole new perspective on love, one Lawrence could never measure up to. By then their relationship seemed more like a habit than a love affair. Even now with her leaving him, he hadn’t protested...much.

Think it over, my dear, he’d said. Nothing needs to change.

Wrong! Everything had changed eight weeks ago, and if he thought she’d hang around forever waiting for him to propose marriage, he’d been terribly mistaken.

She attributed her change of heart to losing her mother so suddenly last year. They’d been estranged over Marta’s chosen lifestyle when an aortic aneurysm had suddenly taken her life. She’d never even gotten to say goodbye. Losing her mother had cut to the core, and she’d been determined ever since to honor her mother’s memory with Lawrence. He, however, wasn’t on the same page—that was the phrase he’d used when she’d first brought up the subject.

Even now, with the new situation and her world turned upside down, he hadn’t budged in offering marriage.

She glanced at Leif again. Dark blond hair cut short, the kind that stuck up any which way it wanted, not the carefully styled spikes of younger men. His crystal-blue eyes had nearly drilled a hole through her head when he’d introduced himself. The guy was intense and focused on one thing—getting her where she needed to be for the next couple of months. That was fine with her. She needed this break, and the job had popped up at an opportune time. She needed the money. Granted, she’d been quite sure she had an edge in the final decision, being the great-great-granddaughter of Edgardo Hoyas, the Heartlandia town monument artist. This job would allow her to get away from home and her problems and regroup, to put a little money in her bank account so she could focus on the only thing important to her right now, the...

“You okay with staying at my house?” Leif broke into her thoughts.

She’d been told she would have her own wing in a large and beautiful home.

“Oh, yes, um, that should be fine. Thank you for offering.”

“Normally my guesthouse in the back is available, but I’m remodeling a house and the homeowners needed to store some things, and well, the woman had been renting the cottage from me for a couple of months—”

“I understand.” She cut him off, not needing to hear another word of his long and rambling explanation.

He glanced at her, then quickly returned his gaze to the highway. “I work long hours, so I won’t be around to bother you. And I keep to myself. So—”

More explanations. “We’ll work things out.” She should give the guy a break, since she could feel the sliceable tension in the cab.

She smiled, then noticed his poor excuse for a smile in return, but at least it softened his eyes. It also made a huge difference in his appearance. His wasn’t a bad face. Not by far. He had a ruggedness that appealed to her artistic instincts. The kind of face she’d like to paint, especially when he grew older. Craggy with character. That was what it was—he had character. She suspected that something besides working outdoors had stamped those premature lines in place. Being near him made her wonder—how would I depict this man on canvas?

The thought struck her. Even though Lawrence was profoundly handsome, she’d never desired to paint him. Photography was how she dealt with his classical good looks. The man belonged in pictures, not paintings, a subtle difference to most, but a deep divide in her right-dominant brain.

Why did Leif live in a huge house by himself? He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Was he yet another man unable to commit? But why the big house, then? A man wouldn’t build a big house without the intention of filling it with family, would he?

Quiet, brain. She’d been up since the crack of dawn to meet her driver to Flagstaff to catch her flight, then, because it seemed impossible to get a nonstop flight anywhere anymore, she’d spent more than six hours, including the layover, making her way to Portland. This highway was long and tedious, except for the lovely green pines. Her eyes grew heavy and she rested her head against the cool windowpane. She’d been far more tired than usual these past two months. Whirling emotions could do that to a person. And other things...

The silence in the truck and the vibration of the road soothed her, and soon she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Leif pulled into his driveway and around the side of his house to the circular portion where he parked. Marta had slept contentedly for the past hour, which was fine with him. It gave him the opportunity to look at her without being obvious. She was hands-down beautiful, but even in sleep she tensed her brows. What was bothering her? Having to live with him? She’d said it wasn’t a problem, and these days most thirty-four-year-old women, especially an independent artist like her, would be fine with that. He tilted his head, his hunch about all not being right with her world growing stronger by the moment.

Stopping the car woke her up, which was just as well because any second now his dogs would come barreling around the corner making a happy racket.

“We’re here.”

She stretched and shook her head to knock out the sleep. “Oh, thanks. Wow. This is lovely,” she said, glancing across the yard toward the house.

He opened his door and jumped outside, and just as expected, Chip and Dale, one blond and one black, came running full out to the fence, barking as if they’d seen a wild turkey. “Hi, guys. Hush now.” They didn’t listen, just kept tossing those loud Labrador barks into the wind.

Marta crawled out of the cab, squinted and smiled. Good. She was okay with dogs. Because chances were they’d eventually break into her room and lick the living daylights out of her. Though he planned to keep them out of her studio. What a mess that would be.

He pulled her baggage from the back and they made their way up to the back door. Entering through the kitchen, he asked, “Are you hungry or thirsty? I can make you a sandwich or something to hold you over until dinner, if you’d like.”

“Water would be great, thanks.” She held her hat in her hand, and because the house was warm, she took off her poncho and folded it over her arm. Form-fitting black, straight-legged slacks hugged her curves with a simple white blouse tucked into the waistline. He’d been wrong—there wasn’t a turquoise bobble in sight. As he filled a glass with filtered tap water, she pulled the clasp from her hair and down came thick black hair curtaining her shoulders. He looked away and swallowed quietly.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the water. “I’ll take these bags upstairs to your suite.” The sight of her standing in his kitchen made him need to put some distance between them.

* * *

Marta drank the water heartily and looked around. The kitchen was big enough for a staff of four. The huge granite-covered center island had a second sink in it, plus a food warmer and an enclosed temperature-controlled wine rack. Lawrence was rich and she was used to the finer things in life, but seeing this Architectural Digest–style kitchen in a contractor’s house surprised her.

She walked through a marbled entryway and into a grand room, again meticulously decorated, with a magnificent stairway and beautifully crafted, ornately carved dark walnut newel posts and railings. He’d made the wise decision to leave the matching hardwood steps uncovered, and the wood shone in what was left of the daylight radiating from the huge midceiling domed skylight.

Figuring she’d be sleeping upstairs, she took the steps and, once at the top, glanced around the wide and long upper-floor landing with accent tables and chairs, vases and paintings carefully chosen, not haphazardly picked from a decorator’s warehouse. Over the balcony a huge living room was tastefully furnished in relaxing sage and beige with pops of deep red and purple here and there. Wow. Impressive.

“I’m over here.”

She heard Leif’s voice coming from her left and followed it to the French doors filled with thick etched milky glass. Quality surrounded her.

“Here’s your room.”

He swung the doors open to reveal a huge bedroom complete with a fireplace in the corner with a chaise lounge in front of it, long sliding doors to an outside deck and several windows.

“But this is obviously the master bedroom. I don’t want to kick you out of your own room.”

“I sleep down there.” He pointed to the opposite end of the landing, to a single closed door. “Haven’t slept in this bedroom in three years.” He walked across the thick wool area rug to another set of French doors and opened them. “Besides, this can serve as your studio while you’re here. What do you think?”

It was an amazingly big studio with a high ceiling and three skylights, along with several other arched windows. It brought in as much light as the Oregon weather allowed in early fall.

“This space was used for quilting, reupholstering and furniture repair. You name it.”

Was?

Even with two long workstations and a sink area, there would still be plenty of room to sprawl out. The space was perfect for her planning and mapping out of the mural.

“It’s phenomenal—better than my studio at home. I love it.” She stared at him, searching for a reason for him to be so generous to a complete stranger. “Are you serious about this wing sitting empty?”

“Yes. I don’t even use three of the bedrooms. I probably should have sold and moved a couple of years ago, but I built this house, and it’s a part of me. I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind.” He stood, knuckles on hips the way men sometimes do. Masculine as hell. Thoughtful, too. “You probably think I’m crazy living in this big place all by myself.”

“I don’t judge.” Who was she to comment on his choice of living? “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

His almost white brows lifted and his chin came up, as if he had something further to say, but he didn’t make a peep. Okay, so he had his reasons, and he wouldn’t be sharing them with her today. Besides, if she pried into his life, he might want to pry into hers, and that was definitely off-limits for now. She was damned if she’d share her latest news with him. They were strangers living in the same house for a time. End of story.

Besides, he’d find out soon enough.

He studied her as she checked out the studio, but from the corner of her eye she noticed him, too. He looked to be around six feet tall, lean yet solid, the kind of body a man earned from hard labor. His hand had felt rough when she’d shaken it earlier, and the naturally cut muscles lining his forearm and bulging beneath his sleeves hadn’t gone unnoticed. There was a term for a guy like him—a man’s man. The kind many women went crazy for.

Not her. She had other things to concentrate on for the next several months, and men had been kicked to the bottom of the list.

“Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can unpack if you want. The dresser is empty, and there’s a walk-in closet.” He turned to leave, then swung around again. “I’m starving, so I’ll be cooking dinner. If you’d like to join me later, I’ll give you a holler.”

She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed to eat. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

With that, he left her standing in the center of a bedroom big enough for a princess, wondering what had happened in his life three years ago and assuming it had something to do with a woman. Didn’t it always with a man like that?

Probably a broken heart.

That was something Marta could definitely relate to.

* * *

Leif caught himself humming while he cooked dinner and sipped wine. Cooking was one of the few things that brought him contentment. Well, that, his dogs and building houses, oh, and his favorite pastime, woodworking. See, his life wasn’t nearly as empty as he’d thought. Building was the one endeavor that he felt came anywhere near to being creative in Marta’s sense. He wouldn’t dare call his woodwork artistic, but he liked what he saw whenever he finished his mantels and built-in bookcase projects. He’d done all of the woodwork for his home, right down to the posts, and was proud of it. Ellen had loved his special touches throughout the house, and her being an interior designer, he’d loved hers, too. He hadn’t changed a thing since she’d died.

He took another sip of wine, then used clean hands to mash together the fine bread crumbs, parsley, minced fresh garlic and ground chicken with egg. He formed it into small meatballs and put them into the frying pan lined with olive oil. Not knowing what Marta’s eating habits were, he’d taken the safe route and used chicken instead of ground beef for the meatballs.

He couldn’t get Ellen out of his mind, maybe because of the new woman in the house. A dozen years ago, when he’d worked for his father and was still a bachelor, he’d make excuses to go back into the model homes they’d completed, knowing Ellen would be there. Her job was to stage the homes before the open-house events. He loved her style, and, more important, he liked the way he felt whenever he was around her. The first time she’d smiled at him, well, his world had changed forever.

He washed his hands, tossed the diced mushrooms into another pan, began to sauté them and took another sip of wine.

He’d taken a shower and thrown on fresh clothes after taking the dogs for their long afternoon walk through the hills. He’d put on his broken-in nicer pair of jeans instead of one of the dozens of work-worn pairs in his drawers. In lieu of a sloppy sweatshirt, his usual go-to, he’d chosen a polo shirt, one without any visible holes in it.

And he’d said he wasn’t going to let having a woman in his house change how he lived. Right.

The dogs had been fed, but they still sat expectantly behind him praying for fallout, no doubt. He added the sliced zucchini and diced sweet red bell pepper to the simmering mushrooms, threw in some salt and stirred. The water had started to boil in the third pot, and after he moved the meatballs around to brown on another side, he put the angel-hair pasta in the boiling water. And took another sip of wine as he hummed another nameless song.

Moments like these were the only remaining shadows of joy he once knew. Feeling good, he tossed each dog a cooked chicken meatball after blowing on it to cool.

The table had been set and the pasta was about ready. He’d told Marta he’d holler when dinner was served, but somehow that didn’t seem right. He’d given her plenty of time to unpack and get organized, so he turned everything down to simmer, quickly covered the distance from the kitchen to the stairway and took the steps two at a time to tap on her door. The dogs followed and beat him there. Just as he was about to knock, he saw her shadow behind the thick milky glass and the door swung open.

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s time for dinner.” The dogs watched her curiously. So did he.

She’d changed clothes. Had put on lounging-type pants and a bright green patterned tunic over a black tank top, which dipped low enough to display cleavage.

“Thanks,” she said. “I could smell the cooking up here.”

As they descended the stairs he said over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.” He got a murmured response.

They entered the kitchen. She held back a little bit, but he pretended he didn’t notice.

“I’m having wine. It’s a blend of three whites and is pretty good. Would you like a glass?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Water will be fine. Actually, make that milk if you could.”

Okay, so she wasn’t a drinker. No problem. “Kent, my doctor, has me on fat-free milk. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Fine. Thanks. May I help with anything?”

“You can take the plates to the table while I get your drink. How much pasta?”

He used a pasta spoon to measure the cooked angel hair for her plate.

“A little less, please.”

They made eye contact so she could direct him on the portions for the sautéed veggies and meatballs. Either this one was a small eater, or she didn’t care for what he’d prepared. Either way, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Then he served his own plate with generous portions and handed that to Marta, as well. She carried them to the table as an idea popped into his head. He’d wired the entire house for sound and rarely used it anymore. So he flicked a switch, and they had music to dine by. But then he quickly worried she’d get the wrong impression—like this was a date or something.

“Is music okay, or do you prefer silence?”

She listened to the light classical sounds and nodded. “It’s fine.”

He poured her milk, topped off his glass of wine and brought them both to the table. The basket of whole-grain sourdough bread was already in place. So was the butter. It had felt dumb for them to sit one at each end of the long dining table, and he thought it would be too casual to sit at the breakfast bar for their first dinner together, so he’d sat her to his left, like he and Ellen used to do.

They ate for a few minutes with the soft music in the background but without conversation. After a bite of the chicken meatballs, she complimented him on his cooking. She seemed to mostly move her food around the plate, eating very little. She did drink her milk and managed half a piece of bread, though.

He enjoyed his meal and decided not to worry about this grown woman. She could and would take care of herself. Maybe she was nervous about this new project. Or, even though she’d said she didn’t have a problem staying here with him, maybe she was uncomfortable about the living arrangements. He could make guesses all night.

“You’re a good cook,” she said again. “I wish I could eat more, but my stomach has been giving me fits lately.”

She did look a little drawn, but because of her olive complexion it was hard for him to tell if she was paler than usual.

“Sorry to hear that. I’ve got antacids if you need—”

“No. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

There she went again cutting him off. His impression so far was she only tolerated being around him. He’d make a point to stay out of her way from now on.

But a meal was meant to be accompanied by conversation, and damn it, he couldn’t enjoy this delicious dinner—if he did say so himself—nearly as much in silence. Leif racked his brain for an ember to spark a conversation.

“So tell me about your work. Your studio. Your home in Sedona.”

She took a small bite of zucchini, then smiled. A genuine smile, and it almost pushed the wind out of his lungs. “Are you familiar with my work?”

“I’ve been to your website. You’re very talented. Obviously.”

“I’ve lived in Sedona for the past eight years, though I grew up in Phoenix. My father is still there. I was fortunate enough to acquire a benefactor who believed in my painting. Without him, I don’t know...well, I doubt I’d be nearly as successful.” She took a sip of milk.

“You seem to like to do landscapes. Do you paint outdoors?”

“Sometimes, but it gets terribly hot in Sedona several months of the year, so mostly I spend a few days taking photographs of what I want to paint at different times of day. I try to capture the perfect lighting, then I blow them up, cover my studio walls with the pictures and go from there.”

He thought of a few more questions to prod her along, but his mouth was full so he waited.

“I have an art showroom downstairs and I live upstairs where my studio is. I’m fortunate to have a small staff working for me so I can concentrate on painting.”

“You’re not married.” It sounded matter-of-fact, and maybe intrusive of her privacy, but he’d had a glass and a half of wine and just sort of blurted it.

“No.” She looked at her plate, but just before she did, the subtle crinkle of her brow made him wonder if he’d hit a sensitive nerve.

She was what, thirty-four? Did women these days still get touchy about being single after a certain age? What did he know? He’d lived in a cave for the past several years. At forty-two, he’d often felt his life was over in that department. Now, that was one hell of a pill to swallow for a perfectly healthy man, but, nevertheless, that was how he felt. He took another sip of wine; the glass was almost empty. He could save this sorry excuse for a conversation. He used to be good at it. Think back, Leif. Or, here’s an idea—pretend she’s a man.

“Well, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I think your painting will be perfect for the mural.”

“Thank you.” She still looked at her plate, moved some pasta back and forth.

“So walk me through this mural-painting process. I’m a novice.”

She popped a small piece of bread into her mouth and drank a sip of milk. Then she said, “I have to be honest and tell you I’ve never painted an entire mural before.”

Now, that was a surprise. Maybe that was what she was nervous about. Come to think of it, he’d only seen her huge canvas paintings at her website. She’d also submitted a preliminary mural design, which had helped the committee make their choice.

“But I’ve put a lot of thought into this project, and I’ve studied how it’s done. First, I lay my idea out on a grid. Since this is the biggest painting I’ve ever tackled, I’ll go about the process one step at a time. I’ve already started the grid and plan to paint it in the one inch to one foot scale first. After that I’ll transfer it to the wall one section at a time.”

So that was why she had three suitcases. One was probably filled with supplies.

“Will I need to prepare the walls for you?”

“Oh, good question. Yes, please.”

“Just tell me what you need and when and I’ll get her done.”

“Great, thank you. That won’t be for a while, though.”

They continued chatting about the steps to undertaking this project, both engaged and distracted from whatever other cares they had. He promised to take her to the college to see the outdoor walls soon. After she explained what needed to be done, he planned to remove the stucco and prep the walls to her specifications while she painted her smaller-scale grid.

After dinner she helped him wash the dishes, then she went on and on about how beautiful his house was and how extraordinary her living quarters were. Suddenly the day, and meal that had gotten off to a rocky start, was ending on a much better note.

Because she’d eaten so little, he showed her where the leftovers would be and several other choices for snacks, making sure she understood the mi casa es su casa philosophy they needed to agree on. It was called Scandinavian hospitality or the Viking code and the god Odin had originally laid down the law in the poem Havamal: “Fire, food and clothes, welcoming speech, should he find who comes to the feast.”

She thanked him again and said good-night, then quietly went up the stairs. He planned to take the dogs out for one last quick walk, but before he did, he watched her hair sway as she ascended the stairs and, to his surprise, he also noticed the twitch of her hips. But what man wouldn’t?

Having a woman in the house had already changed things. A life force was again coming from that end of the second floor. The often overbearing emptiness of the house seemed tamped back a bit, and it felt...well, it felt damn good.

Later, when he laid his head on the pillow, he tried to remember the last time he’d engaged a woman in a conversation for more than two minutes. Not counting women trying to engage him in conversation, like his guesthouse renter, Lilly, who was always full of questions about the town. But what could he expect from a reporter? Or little old ladies at the market with single daughters or granddaughters.

Nope, he’d initiated this conversation tonight, and somehow he’d managed to draw Marta Hoyas out of her shell, even if only for a little while. The thought made him happy, a foreign feeling for him. Well, he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, which probably helped that along.

Yeah, that had to be the reason for that goofy-feeling grin pasted on his face.

Not the beautiful woman from Sedona.

Chapter Two

“Ellen?” Leif rolled over in bed, mostly asleep. “Ellen?” No flash of a dream came back to him like usual. What had driven him out of deep sleep thinking of his dead wife? And what time was it? He looked at the bedside clock—quarter to five. Almost time to get up anyway.

Leif sat up, gave a quick shake of his head and pulled on his jeans for the short walk to the hall bathroom. Another inconvenience of having a woman in the house. As he woke he understood he must have been dreaming about Ellen, but usually when he did he remembered it. He didn’t remember anything about this dream. If that was what it was.

He heard a sound and stopped. It was very faint but undeniably a sound he remembered.

He stood quiet and listened harder. There it was again.

Retching.

The old and familiar heaving from when Ellen had suffered through chemotherapy came rushing back. He must have heard that unmistakable sound in his sleep.

Retching? What was up?

He squinted and listened. It had gone quiet again, but the puking sound had come from Marta’s room. Had she gotten food poisoning from what little she’d eaten last night? Damn, that would be horrible. He felt fine, so why would she get sick?

After he finished his quick pit stop and washed his hands he heard more retching and fought off a wave of terrible memories. Oh, God, Ellen, what you went through. He strode to the end of the hall, not wanting to be nosy but unable to let this lie. It was quiet again.

Marta was curvy—not ultrathin like anorexics or bulimics tended to be. What a crazy thought to even entertain, that she might have an eating disorder. That couldn’t be it. But she’d picked at her meal and looked queasy during dinner, even said her stomach had been giving her fits.

She’d also refused alcohol.

A lot of people didn’t drink. But a warning thought planted inside his brain and made him back off as he heard one more round of intense dry heaves. He wanted to help her out, but it could prove embarrassing for her, and that wasn’t his intent. She needed—deserved—privacy. If she was sick, he’d gladly take care of her, but not without an invitation. She was a grown woman and he assumed she wouldn’t hesitate to ask for help. Unless she was one of those superproud ladies who couldn’t ask for anything.

He ran his hand through his hair, torn. Let it be, Andersen. He listened to his intuition stemmed from the fact she’d refused any wine last night. A troubling thought of what a woman throwing up first thing in the morning usually meant made him step away from the door, then he headed back to his bathroom for a shower.

* * *

Later, Leif had eaten and was feeding the dogs, having decided to take them with him over to the job for the day. He’d promised to finish the add-on to Gunnar Norling’s house in six weeks, and Gunnar had offered to help as much as possible. That meant today, before the sergeant’s shift at Heartlandia PD, they’d install the triple-paned windows that had arrived yesterday. Even though he’d been driving his crew hard on this project, no way would Leif ask them to work on Sunday. The guys needed at least one day off. He and Gunnar could handle it.

After both dogs took a quick whiz, he whistled for them to jump into the bed of the truck. He’d removed the cover and had thrown in his window installation tools. Just as he finished closing the tailgate, he noticed Marta standing in the kitchen doorway in a robe that looked like a Native American blanket. With her hair parted down the middle and not brushed, it tumbled over her shoulders in a wild mess. The vision moved him in ways he hadn’t felt in years. It also bothered him to react so viscerally to a near stranger. She might be pregnant, for crying out loud.

“Where are you going?” Curiosity knit her brows.

“I’ve got a job today. I left you a note in the kitchen. Sorry, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh, okay.” She folded her arms. “That’s all right, then. I’ll wait to talk to you later.”

“Is there anything you need?” He thought back to the noises emanating from her suite earlier.

“Besides a good night’s sleep and peace of mind?” She offered a wan smile. Her pained look made him want to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, and what was up with that impulse? But other than having a pretty solid hunch, Leif didn’t know what her problem was. He really didn’t have a clue if things were okay in her world or not. Obviously, something had robbed her peace of mind.

“Do you want me to stick around? Take you anywhere?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll be fine. I’ll work on the grid.” She glanced down at her slippers, then quickly back up. “I would like to talk to you about something when you get home, though.”

“If it’s urgent, I’m all ears.”

“Not really urgent. I’ll talk to you later.” She started to back away from the door.

“Okay, then.” Leif opened the cab door and started to get inside.

“Oh, hey, what time will you be home?”

“Gunnar’s got to be at work at three, so I’ll see you before then.” It felt eerie having a woman ask when he’d be coming home after all these years. “Do you want me to bring some lunch or anything?” Saltine crackers?

“You’ve got plenty of food here. Thanks. We’ll talk later.” With that, the beautiful, straight-out-of-bed vision disappeared from the door.

As he backed out the truck, Leif was certain Marta was going to tell him she was pregnant, and he chided himself for having already developed a little crush on her.

On a pregnant lady. How desperate is that?

* * *

Seven hours later, Leif returned home and put the dogs in the gated backyard and pool area. He went in the back door, took his dirty shoes off in the laundry room, then headed to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough to hear a drip of water in the sink. As he turned the faucet completely off, he noticed a bowl in the sink. She must have eaten cereal, so at least that was something.

He headed up the stairs in his stocking feet. Not wanting to come off as a sneaky surprise, he cleared his throat and made a fake cough, preparing to hear her news—I’m pregnant.

“Marta?” he said, taking a turn for the studio.

“I’m in here.”

He entered the bright white room, thinking maybe he’d overdone it with three skylight panels, but Ellen had always loved it, saying it was the perfect natural lighting for intricate stitchery. Maybe Marta would like that, too.

She was hunched over a table, a long piece of white paper spread along the entire length. A second piece of paper was laid out on the other worktable.

“Come here and have a look,” she said. “Tell me what you think so far.” She glanced up, her hair pulled back into a low single braid, though a few wavy tendrils had broken free around her face. He fought the urge to tuck one behind her ear. She wore a teal-colored plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and holey old jeans. He couldn’t help but notice she still wore her slippers.

“You could have turned the heater on, you know,” he said, worried she’d been cold all day.

“I’ve been fine. The skylights bring in a lot of warmth.”

Good to know. He stepped closer, her dark eyes and olive skin quickly reminding him he was still a man. She used a graphite pencil and a yardstick to draw the final sections of grid over her mural sample.

“This is the tedious part,” she said, then stood. “Come and look at this. Let me know what you think.”

Long sections of Heartlandia history were sketched and laid out before him, beautifully depicted with her natural and flowing artistic style.

“Notice something?”

How beautiful you are?

Actually, something besides the fact she smelled like cinnamon and ginger did draw his attention. He pointed to a blank area at the beginning of the mural. “That?”

“I’ve been concerned about this project from the start. All the information the college provided me was exceptionally helpful, but when I began my sketches, I kept feeling blocked right here.” She pointed to the beginning.

“I wound up having to work backward because this strange sense of darkness stopped me from advancing. I got the Chinook and fisherman part just fine, but something—pardon me for sounding overly dramatic, but forbidding is the only word I can use to describe it—tugged at me to start even before then. Yet no one sent any information about before that point.”

Ah, jeez. Was this woman a psychic? Were artists more in tune with secrets?

For the past few months a private panel had been meeting at city hall to discuss this exact matter. Sleepy little Heartlandia hadn’t been founded by the Scandinavian fisherman with the help of the native peoples—the Chinook—as they’d always assumed, but by a scurrilous pirate captain named Nathaniel Prince, also known as the Prince of Doom.

The perfect little tourist town had been thrown into a dither over this newly discovered fact, in no small part thanks to Leif. While breaking ground for the new college, he’d dug up an ancient trunk filled with journals. The pirate captain’s journals. After authenticating the captain’s accounts and having Elke Norling, the town historian, decipher them, their worst fears had proved true. There had been a concerted effort somewhere back in time by the people of Heartlandia to suppress the truth, and now it was time to come clean.

Plans were in place for a town meeting, where the information would be revealed by mayor pro tem Gerda Rask, with Elke by her side. And Lilly Matsuda, the new journalist at the Heartlandia Herald, had agreed to run the entire historic findings in a three-part story. But that only solved the first problem; the second was even worse. Captain Prince had alluded to a second trunk filled with gold coins and jewels...buried at the Ringmuren. Which happened to be sacred burial ground for the Chinook. Even now, the thought of dealing with this town-wide problem made his head want to explode, and because he was the guy who’d kicked off the whole mess and he’d been on the secret panel from the start, he couldn’t avoid the predicament or the fallout.

The bigger question, right this moment, was how much should he tell Marta. And how crazy was it that she’d sensed a problem without knowing about Heartlandia’s dark side? One thing he did know—he’d wait a bit, feel things out more, before saying a word to her.

“The problem is—” Marta watched him as she spoke. Was she trying to read his reaction? He went still, willing his face not to give anything away, afraid he already had. “The problem is Elke gave me scant information before this shipwreck where the Scandinavian fisherman first arrived in these parts. I think that’s the issue. What about the native people, the Chinook? I need more information to do the mural justice.”

He inhaled, not having a clue what to say or how to handle things right this instant.

“I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. I assure you I’m not a woo-woo type at all. It’s just this dark feeling I keep getting has clouded my vision of the project from the start. Once I’m past this initial area, I’m fine.” She pointed to the beginning, the blank part of the mural, tapping her finger. “But this part right here, well, something isn’t right.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical reason, and we’ll find it while you’re here.” A cop-out for sure, but the best I can do right now.

The only thing Leif could think of at the moment was to distract her. Because he sure as hell couldn’t give her a truthful answer, not before the mayor made her official announcement about this very thing to the people of Heartlandia. And not before all hell broke loose. Man, maybe he should give her a heads-up first.

“So is this why you’ve been all keyed up? Not able to eat? I think I heard you throwing up this morning.” May as well come clean.

She took a quick surprised inhale, then nailed Leif with open, honest eyes. “I see I’m not the only one gifted with intuition.” She smiled. “Look, since you’re being direct, I will be, too. I’m pregnant. Eight weeks. Sick as a dog most mornings. Can’t wait for this first trimester to pass. It’s my first pregnancy, so all I can do is believe the books.”

Leif had been right, but hearing the words from her mouth took his breath away and made him suddenly want a drink. He strode to the sink, opened a cupboard and found a glass, filled it with filtered water, gulped a few swallows. “Would you like some water?”

She nodded, probably more to be polite than for any other reason. He filled a second glass for her, handed it over, then engaged her eyes. He saw questions in hers, and realized this moment would speak volumes about his character.

“You want to talk about it?”

Marta took a sip of water, apparently thinking, then sighed quietly. The expression on her face seemed to communicate, I may as well. “I’ve recently broken up with a man I’d been involved with for five years.” She looked resigned, not brokenhearted.

Leif was already stuck on the first sentence. Didn’t people usually get together when they got pregnant, not break up? Was she waiting for this guy to show up and take her home?

“I wasn’t trying to trap him or anything. The pregnancy was definitely an accident. But when I told him, I thought maybe he’d ask me to marry him.” She put the glass on the counter, folded her arms, paced toward one of the windows and gazed outside. “He wasn’t exactly happy with my news, but at least he didn’t say he didn’t want me to have it or anything.” She glanced at Leif over her shoulder, then back outside. “I got the feeling he just didn’t give a damn. ‘Things don’t have to change’ was all he said.” She swung around, suddenly animated, an accusing expression on her face, as if Leif was a representative for all of the lousy men in the world. “What was that supposed to mean? Of course things would change. Everything had already changed. We’d be parents.” Out of nowhere she’d found a tiny cuticle on her index finger to bite and went for it with gusto. “I’d given him five years of my life. I’d given him everything I had. And now I’m pregnant and he isn’t particularly interested in that part.” She used the back of her hand to brush the air. “‘Just take care of it,’ he said. ‘Get this pregnant part over with, then things will be back to us again.’ How selfish of him. How foolish of me to think he’d ever want to marry me.” Rather than say more, she curled her bottom lip inward and bit it.

At least she wasn’t crying. He wouldn’t know what to do if she started sobbing.

Leif had been right. He’d recognized a fellow traveler on the broken and hurting road. Turned out he wasn’t the only person in this house whose spirit needed some mending.

“I’m very sorry to hear this. Uh, not that you’re pregnant, but about your breakup. That things didn’t work out for you.”

“I understand. Thanks. I guess that’s life, right?” She lifted her chin.

Yeah, he knew about “that’s life.” It had kicked the spirit out of him, too.

“Maybe he’ll come to his senses while you’re here.”

“I no longer care if he does. It’s over.”

“What about the baby?”

“Look, I’m sorry to drag you into my problems,” she said.

His first response was to say, “That’s what friends are for,” but they were practically strangers. “For the record, I’m glad you opened up.”

She tossed a surprised glance his way. “Thank you.”

He needed to do something to change the mood, to move away from the heavy subject, to keep himself from walking over and taking her into his arms for a tight, long and comforting squeeze. He hardly knew her, yet he already felt the urge to protect her.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s only two-thirty. Why don’t we get outside and take in some fresh air? I’ll show you the City College and where your mural walls are located. What do you say?”

She glanced back again, as if his idea wasn’t half bad.

“Who knows, maybe it will help you get unstuck.”

Her face brightened at the suggestion. “You’re on. Just let me change my shoes.”

* * *

Marta enjoyed the distraction of driving around the quaint and colorful city of Heartlandia. She looked out the window, taking it all in.

“We’re heading north past Heritage, the main street in our downtown section. That’s the Heritage Hotel, oldest building in town. Now we’re heading toward our hill that we like to call a mountain, Hjartalanda Peak. It’s not exactly Saddle Mountain, over there—” he pointed eastward toward a large pine-covered mountain range off in the distance “—but it’s good enough for us.” He smiled at her, and a weird fizzy feeling flitted through her chest. Those eyes. Must be those crystal eyes.

“Heartlandia City College is halfway up the hill between the Ringmuren wall and downtown, which took a lot of campaigning to approve clear-cutting a large section of our pines. In the end we agreed that we needed the jobs, the incentive for our kids to stay home to go to college instead of leaving the area and the influx of new blood the school would bring into town. Plus, I promised not to cut down one more tree than necessary and to plant a whole lot of other trees somewhere else.” He looked at her and smiled again. “I’m not going to lie—I’m very proud of the college.”

“Your company built the entire college?”

He nodded. “My father started his construction company fifty years ago from scratch. He built half of the bungalows and sloping-roof Scandinavian log houses you see scattered across the hills. When he was fifty and I was twenty he developed rheumatoid arthritis and asked me to take on more responsibility for when the time came he couldn’t do the hard work himself. I learned the business from the ground up for the next ten years, and when my dad moved to Arizona at sixty, I took over. I’m glad to say the business didn’t fall apart when I stepped in.” He flashed a smile she could only describe as charming, and there went that fizzy feeling again. “I’ve actually brought the company to a new level but only because of the foundation my father laid down for me. And the work ethic he instilled in me.”

“That’s very impressive,” she said, meaning it.

“Thanks.”

They pulled into a large lot and parked close to a long and low building to the left of the main three-story administration center and a cluster of other one-and two-story structures. They’d gone the clean, midcentury modern route with a definite Scandinavian influence in architecture.

He opened the door for her, and she followed him toward the long, low bungalows.

“This is the history quad,” he said. “We thought this would be the best place to put your mural. See those walls over there?”

She nodded and sped up her pace to keep up with him.

“Those are your walls.”

She liked the sound of that—her walls.

“The mural will be visible to everyone as they enter the campus. Pretty good, huh?”

“Fabulous. Now I’m getting excited but nervous, too.”

“No need. You’re very talented. I’d say quit stressing about your artist’s block. Things will work out in their own way. You may be surprised. Just keep getting your grid together.”

She walked ahead of him and followed the long twelve-foot-high walls, imagining what her mural would look like when she’d finished. “Wow, this is great. See, I’m getting goose bumps.”

He politely took a look at the raised hair on her arms. “I’ll get right to work prepping these walls for you. When you’re ready to start, nothing will hold you back. I guarantee.”

“I wish I had as much confidence as you do.” What if she couldn’t break through the mental block about the beginning of Heartlandia’s history? What would she do then? She’d been hired based on two reasons, and she was sure the first carried the most clout. Her great-great-grandfather had designed and built the town monument. Also, the mural committee liked her style of painting. She’d only done extralarge canvas paintings so far and they were much smaller than these walls, but the committee had chosen her once she’d submitted her preliminary vision for these walls. They must have seen something they liked.

“Are you kidding? You’re a fantastic artist. Listen, if it will help I’ll arrange with the school librarian and the history department chair to get you more books and photographs from our town. We have a great Maritime Museum with loads of old pictures, but it’s undergoing renovations after a recent fire. There’s all kinds of stuff for you to look at right here.”

“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.” It meant a lot to her to hear Leif praise her work.

“I want to help in any way I can. I built this college and I want to see it at its full potential. Your mural will make all the difference in the world.”

If she could only believe in herself half as much as he did. She couldn’t let her personal circumstances and disappointment hold her back on this project, or let the insecurity of not being wanted by the father of her child spread to her art, and she silently vowed to make this mural her best work yet. She needed the job for financial security and the recognition it would bring for her and the baby’s future.

“So what will you need?”

Lost in her thoughts, she glanced at him blankly.

“For painting,” he said.

“You mean paints?”

“Yeah, and brushes and drop cloths and any other supplies.”

“Acrylic mural paints are a must, and I’ll be needing gallons and gallons of the colors. It might be tough on the city budget.”

“Do you have a list of your colors yet?”

“I have a good idea what I’ll need.”

“Then, let’s go shopping.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s four o’clock, so we better hurry because our hardware and paint store closes at six on Sundays.”

With that they rushed back to the truck and hopped inside. Marta hadn’t felt this excited and full of energy in weeks.

“Tell me about your family,” she said as they drove, deeply curious about the man, a near stranger, who had so much faith in her abilities.

“My people came here in the 1800s. They were fisherman, like most of the other Scandinavians in this area. I think my first relative might have been an indentured servant on a fishing boat from Denmark. I’m Danish, by the way. Well, I’m actually an American of Danish descent. I guess you’d say that is more accurate.”

She understood. “My ancestors are from Argentina, but like you, I think of myself as American with Latino roots.” Her mother had always been too traditional for her taste, and overprotective, but that was to be expected and it was her way of showing she loved Marta. But they’d argued constantly about her free-living lifestyle, and it had driven her away. Now she wished with all of her heart she could have mended their differences before her mother had died. Family had taken on a whole new meaning eight weeks ago.

Leif ran down his brief genealogy chart while they headed for the paint store, then he suddenly hit a bumpy patch in the story. “My father died eight years ago, so we moved my mother back here from Arizona where they’d retired. I’d originally built the guesthouse for both of them to come and visit whenever they wanted. Five years ago, Mom had a massive stroke and died on the way to the hospital.”

“I lost my mother last year and can only imagine how tough it must be to lose both parents.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes me an orphan.”

“I believe you’re right.” So who had he built that big gorgeous house for? “Were you ever married?”

“Yes.”

Of course he was a traditional kind of guy. The kind of man she’d never run into while living her sophisticated artist’s life.

“I built my future wife’s dream house as a wedding gift. I had to do something to get that woman to marry me.” He worked at a smile, but it came off as wistful and far from his eyes. “My wife was Norwegian, since we’re talking about Scandinavian ancestry.”

“Are you divorced?”

“No.” He grew quiet for a moment. “She died from ovarian cancer three years ago.”

Things suddenly added up—why he’d offered her the master bedroom and studio, why he hadn’t slept in that room for three years, why he stayed in the big house by himself rather than sell it. “I see. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Not only was he an orphan, but he also was a widower and had lost everyone he loved. “That’s a lot of people to lose in a very short time.”

“You’re telling me.” He inhaled as he parked and cut the engine. “But losing my wife was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through in my life.” He gazed solemnly out the windshield. “Ellen... She was the one who suffered the most.”

The thought sent a chill through her. “You don’t have children?” She turned toward him rather than move to get out of the car.

He faced her, too. “That’s how we found out about her cancer. We wanted to be a family. A big family. Decided to have a bunch of kids. We tried for that first baby for a couple of years and finally decided to go the fertility clinic route, first checking out my plumbing, then hers. That’s when they found her cancer. Already too late.”

His distant glance over her shoulder was tinged with agony. It nearly broke her already raw heart.

Overcome with compassion and respect for this man who’d lost everything he’d loved, making her own situation pale in comparison, Marta leaned across the bucket seat, reached for his forearm and squeezed. “You suffered, too, Leif. I can only imagine.”

Their eyes locked for a couple of moments. New understanding passed between them. He studied her as if he was trying to figure out if he appreciated her concern, or if he resented the pity. It wasn’t pity, as far as she was concerned. This connection was an honest desire to offer him comfort. She wondered how he’d managed to survive losing his entire family. How lost he must be all by himself. In such a short time, she’d already figured out he deserved much more than this lot in life. And she had nothing to complain about. She had her health, a baby on board and a profession she loved. She almost had everything...except a man.

“If it wasn’t for the business, I think I would have gone nuts.”

“You’re a survivor. A person can tell that about you right off.” She started to remove her hand, but he reached for it and squeezed, holding tight for a moment before releasing her. His warm touch surprised her. In twenty-four hours it had already changed from their initial mechanical handshake.

“What do you say we go shopping?” He’d obviously had enough of this heavy conversation. His story was probably the last part of Heartlandia history he’d wanted to dig up today, but she was glad he had. It helped put so many things in perspective.

“Let’s do it.” She smiled and he returned it, in obvious relief. They’d come to a realization—they’d both been knocked in the teeth by life. The major difference was his love had died, and though she’d broken off with the person she once thought was the love of her life, she had a new life growing inside her. She wasn’t about to complain about that, especially when all Leif had been left with was an empty house.

With masks firmly back in place, they got out of the cab and she followed him into the store for some major distraction.

* * *

An hour and a half later, ten minutes shy of the hardware closing time, they rolled two shopping carts filled to overflowing to the checkout. Gallon after gallon of top-quality mural paints in a dozen different colors plus protective clear varnish to ward off the effects of weather. Primer, which Leif would apply after preparing the walls for her. Every size and shape brush she could possibly need, drop cloths and plastic basins for mixing colors. Thinners. Thickeners. On and on and on the supplies piled up on the counter.

“Oh, we can’t forget these,” Marta said adding several packages of paint odor valved respirators to the pile.

When the total rang up, Leif didn’t blink. Marta tried to not look but noticed anyway and was surprised by the total. “Put it on my account,” he said.

Both pushing a cart back to his truck, she couldn’t ignore where her thoughts had been heading since they’d walked into the store. “So you’re the town benefactor for this project?”

He tried to look surprised but did a poor job of it and immediately came clean. “I made a bundle building that college,” he said while opening the tailgate and beginning to unload the supplies. “When the topic came up about the mural, the committee balked at the expense. I volunteered to see it through. That’s all.”

“I’m being paid very well. You must be a rich man.”

“Like I said, I’ve been blessed with a successful family business.”

“That you’ve obviously grown into a mega business.”

He nodded, playing down the blood, sweat and tears that must have gone into the process. “True.”

She tapped his chest. “You’re far too humble, Leif Andersen.”

He laughed. “Not that humble. Truth is, I want this mural to be a kind of legacy for my family. For my father, who added so much to this community, and my mother, who’d always been a patron of the arts. And for my wife, who believed in the community college from the start, when everyone said it was a crazy idea.”

“Like I said, you’re too humble.” As she handed him another can of paint, their gazes clicked with perception and they finished unloading in silence.

One more unsettling thought occurred to Marta as they emptied the carts. There was a huge similarity to his position of benefactor and her recent personal history with Lawrence. Hadn’t she vowed to never let that happen again? The difference was, this was a job. She’d been hired. There was nothing personal between them. Though they’d definitely reached a new understanding this afternoon. She’d opened up to him, and he’d opened up to her. They’d shared a special moment in the car.

Something had come over her after hearing his heart-wrenching story, and she couldn’t help herself. She’d reached out for him in the parking lot and they’d connected. Spending the afternoon with Leif had been the highlight of her day, and how crazy was that for a pregnant woman?

She was in Heartlandia for a job, and though the city had hired her, Leif was writing the paychecks. No matter how appealing he was, she’d keep everything between her and Leif from here on out strictly professional.

She had no choice.

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