himself.
As her soles reached the brown, patchy grass, her fingers tightened where they rested on his shoulders. He examined her uplifted face, taking note of her fuller lips, more pronounced cheekbones, creamy, dew-kissed skin. The years had been kind to her.
He’d recently passed his thirty-second birthday, which meant she’d soon be thirty. Thirty. It hardly seemed possible. In his mind, she’d remained forever seventeen—naive, optimistic, generous to a fault and completely unaware of her allure.
She took hold of his right hand and, snatching off his buckskin glove without permission, examined his palm. “I’m glad there’s nothing wrong with your hand.”
“Why would there be?”
“I thought you might’ve injured it and that was why you didn’t write to me.”
The arrow hit its mark. “I’m not much of a writer.”
Her jutting chin challenged him. “You wrote to my brother.”
“I couldn’t ignore his letters.”
“And yet you had no problem ignoring mine.”
Her crushed velvet gloves caressed his knuckles. He frowned at the pleasurable sensation. “I didn’t get any from you.”
“I wrote you. Once.” She released him.
“I’m sorry, Allison. I never received it.”
She reached past him and retrieved her leather satchel. “It’s all right. I doubt you would’ve answered me, anyway.”
Shane stood mute as she spun, her too-large cape scraping the ground, and marched to the porch. He’d wondered if she’d changed in the intervening years since he’d seen her. Here was his answer. The old Allison wouldn’t have uttered such a thing to him. She wouldn’t have voiced what they both knew—he treated her differently than everyone else.
It wasn’t fair. Or rational. The knowledge didn’t, wouldn’t, change his behavior. The reason he’d kept his distance and hadn’t initiated contact with her after he left was simple—the part of him that his father’s abandonment and mother’s reprehensible behavior hadn’t managed to blacken with disillusionment and pain, the part protected and nourished by hope, whispered lies whenever she was near.
The first lie had come the moment he met her. Here is a girl you can trust. She wants to be your friend. Let her in.
Thankfully, he’d recognized the untruth immediately and had taken action to thwart her efforts. More lies followed as the years passed, tempting him to relax his guard and give her a chance. He’d resisted. Better to hurt her feelings temporarily than to destroy her life with his cynicism and bitterness.
* * *
She was going to have to be more circumspect. Letting Shane know how his ongoing disregard had wounded her was not in the plan. It wouldn’t be easy, but she was determined to present a friendly yet indifferent front. She could be kind without being too personal...if she really, really tried.
Allison had a good life. A loving family. Wonderful friends. Satisfying work. A supportive church. He didn’t need to know that she ached for a husband and babies to love. He would never know that sometimes, when she was alone, she’d daydream about a different life, one in which he had top billing. Her favorite recurring dream featured Shane at Ashworth House, begging her forgiveness and professing his undying devotion. She especially relished the apology bit—finally hearing an explanation for his dislike would be most satisfying.
“Allison?”
She turned from the bench swing. By the look on his face, this wasn’t the first time he’d called her name. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”
He waited for her to enter first. Pulling her cape panels closer together, she wandered about the room, studying photographs of the elderly couple who’d built a life here. They looked like nice, hardworking people. Their home was tidy, the furniture in good condition, handmade rugs, curtains and a quilt thrown over the sofa back providing splashes of bright color. The window views were like paintings of pastoral perfection. She could easily envision the landscape’s beauty during spring, summer and autumn.
“When George told me you’d moved here, I purchased a book about Tennessee. The photographs don’t do it justice.”
Crouched at the fireplace, he arranged a pile of kindling. “You should see the mountains when it snows.”
“Is it likely to while I’m here?”
“Hard to say.” He lifted his shoulder, causing the brown duster to bunch between his shoulder blades. “The winters are unpredictable. Some years we hardly get any. Others we get snow and ice.”
“I hope it does. My niece and nephews would enjoy a white Christmas.”
“As would you,” he observed.
“I won’t deny it.”
She recalled the first winter he’d spent with them. He’d been walking alone in the estate garden, as was his custom, and had come upon her making snow angels. She’d implored him to join her. He’d gone so far as to lie in the snow beside her when he’d suddenly jumped up and stormed off. It was as if he wouldn’t allow himself to experience even a moment’s joy.
“Promise me something. If it snows before I leave, promise you’ll make snow angels with me. Just once.”
He pivoted slightly in order to stare at her over his shoulder. “I’m a grown man, Allison.”
“Are you immune to a little fun, Sheriff?”
He blinked at her use of his title. “Life isn’t about fun. It’s about duty and hard work and being a responsible citizen.”
“You don’t believe that.” Surely he didn’t.
The wood in the stacked-stone fireplace glowed orange as the flames took hold. Waving out the match, Shane discarded it. “It’s not a tragedy.”
“The tragedy is you don’t recognize what you’re missing.”
With a noncommittal grunt, he removed his wheatcolored hat and balanced it atop the caramel-and-white-print sofa. He finger-combed his short locks into place. His hair changed with the seasons—sun-kissed blond in spring and summer and dark honey in the colder months. She hadn’t seen him with a beard before. She wasn’t sure she liked it. The stubble made him seem even more stern, more remote, than she remembered. One side of his coat gaped open, and the badge pinned to his dark vest glinted. Considering his profession, looking dangerous and formidable was no doubt a good thing.
“What about you?”
Allison had drifted to the dining room threshold. Gripping the doorjamb, she turned back to find he hadn’t moved.
“What about me?”
“From what George tells me, you make little time for fun yourself.”
Astonishment arrowed through her. “What did he say?”
“That
