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“I want to apologize for last night.
I was rude and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”
Her words came out in a staccato rhythm, sounding more rote than sincere.
“You haven’t apologized much, have you?”
Tara frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re not very good at it.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“You have most of the words right,” Matt explained, “but the delivery’s wrong. You see, you’re supposed to sound like you mean it, not like you’re saying whatever’s necessary to get me to do what you want.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, guess what? At this point I would say whatever it took to get you to do what I want.” Her voice was low. “I was afraid—”
“Yeah.” She’d been afraid he wouldn’t come back. Probably because he’d told her he wouldn’t. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” Her expression grew serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”
Dear Reader,
Building and rebuilding—isn’t that what life is all about? I’ve lived in many old houses, and therefore I’ve worked on many old houses. I am a renovator and builder at heart and it seemed natural to incorporate these aspects of my life into my debut book.
When I first got the idea for this story, I envisioned an independent woman who does things on her own because she’s always had to. She’s never depended on anyone, except for a few close childhood friends, until she’s forced to by situation. My hero, on the other hand, is in the process of rebuilding. His career has been shattered by a devastating revelation and he is determined to make things right again, regardless of personal cost. He, too, is learning to reach out and accept help. While they work on their lives, they’re also renovating the kind of house I’ve always wanted to live in. And they do it well.
I hope you enjoy my book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would love to hear from you. Please contact me at [email protected].
Happy reading,
Jeannie Watt
A Difficult Woman
Jeannie Watt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeannie Watt lives with her husband in rural Nevada. She collects horses, ponies, dogs and cats. Her son and daughter both inherited the math gene that skipped her generation and are studying to be civil engineers. When she isn’t writing, Jeannie likes to paint and sew and work on her house. She has degrees in geology and education.
To my parents, for their love and support over the
years, and for teaching me the meaning of tenacity.
To Gary, for believing in me and for cooking
when I was busy writing.
To Jamie Dallas and Jake, who grew up with their
mother writing—and rewriting—and encouraged her to venture beyond Chapter Three.
To Mike Allen and Charlie Hauntz,
who always asked, “How’s the book?”
To Roxanne, Tim and Echo—
the best proofreading team ever.
To Victoria Curran and Kathleen Scheibling,
without whose direction and help this book would not have been possible.
My heartfelt thanks.
CONTENTS
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 ONE
TARA SULLIVAN, as a rule, did not watch men, but this one was proving to be an exception. She leaned her shoulder against the kitchen doorframe and, for the umpteenth time that morning, paused to watch her carpenter nail the front porch back together. It had been a while since she’d had someone capable working around the place, and somehow she felt compelled to keep an eye on him.
Probably because I half expect him to disappear.
Tara smiled grimly, as she pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the worn linoleum to the pantry, where she still had half a dozen shelves to wash before she could paint.
If he quit, he quit. There wasn’t much she could do about it. Luke had said his friend would stay for at least two weeks or until Luke’s shoulder healed, whichever came first. Tara sincerely hoped that was true because it was the only way she was going to get this place done in time for the reunion.
She sloshed her sponge into the soapy water and started to scrub. At least this man was from out of town, so Martin Somers had no influence over him.
When she was done with the shelves, she carried the wash water to the big kitchen sink, awkwardly dumping the basin before turning it over to dry. She glanced at the clock as she wiped her hands on a towel and realized she didn’t have much time before her appointment. It was a routine matter, just a few signatures to finalize things, but routine or not, Tara was in no hurry to get to the bank. Too many bad memories.
She went through the door to the mudroom, hung the apron she’d been wearing on a hook and then carefully made her way out onto the side porch, where the sun tea was brewing. The boards creaked under her feet, but she knew the safe spots and managed to retrieve the jug without crashing through the old flooring. The carpenter continued to work, keeping his head down, concentrating on the boards he was hammering into place. Muscles flexed beneath his thin white T-shirt with each blow.
“Hey,” Tara called.
