is frozen.”
Then, being Maggie, she went from the general to the specific. Specifically that kiss. Why had he done it?
She’d heard nothing from the man for ten years, then he shows up and kisses her. What’s she supposed to do with that? For one thing, she had to tell him the truth about Faith.
There was a soft tap on the front door and she figured her hearing must be as tired as her eyes. It was the crack of dawn—way too early for anyone to show up at her door. Even her daughter the early bird was still asleep.
Maggie padded barefoot to the front door. Standing on tiptoe, she peeked through the peephole and recognized Jack. Instantly she moved out of sight, as if he could see her, and pressed her back to the door, trying to control her hammering heart. What was he doing here? For several moments she toyed with the idea of not answering. He didn’t know her routine. For all he knew, she and Faith could be gone. Then she remembered the evidence of her presence was parked in the driveway. Real soon she was going to have to clean out her garage so she could get her car in there.
But she could still be asleep for all he knew. Then she sighed. Cowardice wasn’t her stock in trade. Sooner or later she had to face him. Wouldn’t it be best to get it over with?
She removed the chain lock and dead bolt and opened the door. Smiling she said, “Good morning, Jack.”
“Maggie.”
“You’re up early.”
He nodded. “I don’t need much sleep.”
“Wish I could say that.” She looked up at him—way up—and pulled her cotton robe more snugly across her bosom. For a man who got by on little sleep, he looked awfully good. His hair was short and she couldn’t tell if he’d combed it or not. She tried to picture him in uniform, but the thought wouldn’t focus. She’d only ever seen him dressed as he was now—smooth worn jeans and a white T-shirt. The sleeves snugly surrounded his bulging biceps, the soft clingy material molded to the muscles and contours of his impressive chest.
“How did you know I was awake?” she asked.
“Heard your slider open a little while ago.”
The man must have ears like one of those very perceptive wild animals whose survival depended on their keen sense of hearing. She’d have to remember that. “What can I do for you?”
Tell him, the good angel perched on her right shoulder insisted. He has a right to know.
The devil on her left shoulder chimed in, It isn’t your fault he never received your letter. He dropped out of sight.
True, she thought, very much liking that left-shoulder devil. The problem was, he was in her sight now, and he had a right to know.
“Can I borrow some coffee? If you’ve got extra?”
It would be so easy to give him enough grounds for a pot and send him on his way. But for the life of her, Maggie couldn’t do it. Before she thought it to death, or turned into one of those scary characters who answered the voices in her head, she made up her mind.
“I can do better than that. Would you like a cup of already brewed coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Come on in.” After he did, she closed the door and locked it again. “Follow me. The kitchen is this way.”
Feeling self-conscious in her flimsy night clothes, she led the way through her living room to her kitchen at the back of the house. Shorty pajamas barely concealed by a thin cotton robe wasn’t exactly proper attire for receiving gentle man guests. Then again, Jack had seen her in a lot less ten years ago. Did that really count now?
She reached into the cupboard, annoyed because she hadn’t arranged the cups on a lower shelf. She had the worst feeling that she was getting “cheeky” with the man from her past. In spite of it, she refused to give in to the sensation by pulling at the hem of her robe. But her cheeks—the ones on her face—burned.
With her back to him still, she busied herself with pouring steaming black coffee into a large mug. If she was lucky, by the time she was finished she’d have a cooling off period and could turn to look at him with her dignity shored up.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him the cup. “Do you need milk or sugar?”
He shook his head, then blew on the coffee. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He looked around her kitchen. “This is nice. Homey.”
She followed his gaze. Oak cabinets above and below a beige ceramic-tiled counter filled two walls. At the end closest to the family room there was a matching built-in desk holding her computer. Beyond that, was the open slider to her backyard, letting in air that was the coolest it would be all day. A tiny butcher-block island stood in the center of the room.
“I like it,” she said. “The best part is, I made it happen all by myself.”
Could she have sounded more defensive? she wondered. She looked at Jack to see if he’d noticed. He was watching her, but she couldn’t read his expression. Only once last night had she been able to detect a stirring of emotion in him, when she’d introduced her daughter. Maggie didn’t have any problem deciphering her own reaction to him.
Sooty shadows of stubble sprinkled his cheeks and jaw, clueing her that he hadn’t shaved yet. How intimate was this? Sharing coffee with a man in her kitchen before his morning shave, as if… Don’t go there, Maggie, she ordered herself.
She dated occasionally, but she’d be lying if she said she’d ever seen a more masculine man in her kitchen. Last night at the rodeo, her attraction had kicked in instantly and she’d chalked it up to a dream like quality connected to the night. But it was morning now and the sun was up. With his dusting of whiskers and hair tousled from sleep, Jack Riley was still the best-looking dream she’d ever had. The handsomest man she’d ever seen.
And she was the woman who had a secret he had a right to know.
Maggie stood with her back to the counter and Jack leaned a shoulder against the wall that separated kitchen and family room. As they sipped their coffee, an awkward silence developed between them. In the old days they’d had ways to fill the silence—ways having everything to do with mouths and tongues and frantic hands that couldn’t touch each other enough. Did he remember?
Jack met her gaze for a moment and stuck the fingertips of his free hand into his jeans’ pocket. “Maggie, I—”
“Hmm?”
“I want to explain what happened.”
“What? When?”
“Ten years ago. Why I didn’t come back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.”
She nodded, then blew on her coffee. “Okay. What about it?”
“You probably don’t remember the letter I wrote.”
Her
