leaves. The leaves, yellow and orange, crunched under her feet, sending up clouds of tart aroma.
Morgan came to a white house, cozy and cottagelike, amongst a grove of trees. It was evident to her that while once it had been well loved, now it looked faintly neglected. The flower beds had not grown flowers this year, but weeds, now depressingly dead. Indigo paint, that once must have looked lively and lovely against the white, was peeling from the shutters, the window trim and the front door that was set deep under a curved arch.
Despite the fact light was leeching from the late-afternoon autumn air, there were no lights on in the house.
Morgan knew Cecilia was at the after-school program.
The road continued on to a building beyond the house. It dwarfed the house, a turn-of-the-century stone barn, but a chimney belched smoke, and light poured out the high upper windows. Morgan realized it was the forge.
She drew nearer to it. A deep, solid door, under a curved arch that mirrored the one on the house, had a sign on it.
Go Away.
That was the kind of unfriendly message, when posted on a door, that one should probably pay strict attention to.
But Morgan hadn’t come this far to go away. She drew a deep breath, stepped forward and knocked on the door. And was ignored.
She was absolutely determined she was not going to be ignored by this man anymore! She knocked again, and then, when there was no answer, turned the handle and stepped in.
She was not sure what she expected: smoke, darkness, fire, but the cavernous room was large and bright. What was left of the day’s natural light was flowing in windows high up the walls, supplemented by huge shop lights.
In a glance she saw whiskey-barrel bins close to the door full of black wrought iron fireplace pokers and ash shovels, an army of coat holders, stacks of pot racks. Under different circumstances, she would have looked at the wares with great interest.
Nate Hathoway, she had learned since coming to Canterbury, had a reputation as one of the finest artistic blacksmiths in the world.
But today, her gaze went across the heated room to where a fire burned in a great hearth, a man in front of it.
His back was to her, and even though Morgan suspected he had heard her knock, and even heard her enter, he did not turn.
From the back, he was a breathtaking specimen. Dark brown hair, thick and shiny, scraped where a leather apron was looped around his neck over a denim shirt. His shoulders were huge and wide, tapering perfectly down to a narrow waist, where the apron was tied. Faded jeans rode low on nonexistent hips, hugged the slight swell of a perfect masculine butt.
Even though his name was whispered with a kind of reverence by every single female Morgan had encountered in Canterbury, she felt unprepared for the pure presence of him, for that masculine something that filled the air around him.
She felt as if the air was being sucked from her lungs and she debated just leaving quietly before he turned.
Then she chided herself for such a weak thought. She was here for the good of a six-year-old child who needed her intervention.
And she was so over being swayed by the attractions of men. A bitter breakup with her own fiancé after she’d had the audacity to consider the job—her own career—in Canterbury still stung. Karl had been astonished that she would consider the low-paid teaching position in the tiny town, then openly annoyed that his own highpowered career didn’t come first. For both of them.
Morgan was making a new start here. No more stars in her eyes, no more romantic notions.
Her mother, whom Morgan had thought liked Karl, had actually breathed a sigh of relief at Morgan’s breakup news.
Darling, I do wish you’d quit looking for a father figure. It makes me feel so guilty.
Not guilty enough, however, to postpone her vacation to Thailand so they could spend Christmas together. In lieu of sympathy over her daughter’s failed engagement her mother had given her a book.
It was called Bliss: The Extraordinary Joy of Being a Single Woman.
Surprisingly, given that she had initially resented the book being given to her in the place of some parental direction about how to handle a breakup, Morgan found she was thoroughly enjoying Bliss.
It confirmed for Morgan the absolute rightness of her making the break, learning to rely only on herself to feel good. Not her boyfriend. And not her mother, either.
Two and a half months into her teaching career and her new location in Canterbury, Morgan loved making her own decisions, living in her own home, even buying the groceries she liked without living in the shadow of a nose wrinkling in disapproval—Do you know how many grams of sugar this has in it?
Just as Bliss had promised, every day of being an independent woman who answered to no one but herself felt like a new adventure.
But now, as the man at the forge turned to her, Morgan was stunned to find she had no idea at all what the word adventure meant.
Though something in the buccaneer blackness of his eyes promised he knew all about adventures so dark and mysterious they could make a woman quiver.
One who wasn’t newly dedicated to independent living.
Morgan fervently reminded herself of her most recent joy—the absolute freedom of picking out the funky purple sofa that Karl, and possibly her mother, too, would have hated. Amelia Ainsworthy, author of Bliss, had dedicated a whole chapter of the book to furniture selection and Morgan felt she had done her proud.
But now that moment seemed far less magical as this man, Nate Hathoway, stood regarding her, his eyes made blacker by the flicker of the firelight, his brows drawn down in a fierce lack of welcome that echoed the sign on the door, his stance the stance of a warrior. Hard. Cynical. Unwavering.
One hand, sinewy with strength, held a pair of tongs, metal glowed orange-hot at the end of them.
Morgan felt her breath catch in her throat.
Cecilia’s father, Nate Hathoway, with his classic features, strong cheekbones, flawless nose, chiseled jaw, sensuously full lips, was easily the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on.
“Can’t you read?” he growled at her. “I’m not open to the public.”
His voice was rough, impatient and impossibly sexy. It shivered across the back of Morgan’s neck like a touch.
Ignoring her, he placed the hot iron on an anvil, took a hammer and plied his strength to it. She watched, dazed, at the ripple of disciplined muscle as he forced the iron to his will. His will won, with ease.
“Um, Mr. Hathoway, I can read, and I’m not the public. I’m Cecilia’s teacher.”
The silence was long. Finally, his sigh audible, he said, “Ah. Mrs. McGuire.” He shot her a look that seemed uncomfortably hostile and returned his attention to the metal. He doused it in a bath. It sizzled and hissed as it hit, and he turned his eyes back to her, assessing.
Maybe
