wounds. She knew them well. She knew the terror, the pain that tore through the flesh, and with it the knowledge that she had lost something more precious than her own life. She laid a hand over her abdomen where another heart had once beat with the quick expectancy of the very young.
Her child. Her son that would never be.
The emptiness rose like bile to her throat. Her arms, her heart, her home—empty of that sweet life that should have been.
Dear God, she silently pleaded, seeking relief from that terrible, terrible memory. She couldn’t go back to thinking about what might have been. With control learned at a price, she forced her thoughts to the guests in her kitchen.
Like Jess Fargo, there were scars on her flesh, but they didn’t compare to the ones in her soul.
“Come,” she said, standing abruptly, “I’ll take you to the apartment and let you get settled in.”
“I’ll get your cane, Dad,” Jeremy volunteered. He ran out, leaving a wake of silence behind him.
He was back in less than a minute. She headed out the door, leaving father and son to follow at their own pace.
Coolness eddied around her when she opened the door to the apartment. She turned on the refrigerator and hot water heater. After opening the sliding glass doors on to the deck over the garage, she stood there, letting the breeze blow over her as she gazed at the peaceful scene.
The deck commanded a wonderful view of the stock lake to the south of them, where cattle had gathered for an afternoon drink, and of snow-tipped Medicine Bow Peak to the southwest of them. Walnut trees shaded the area from the afternoon sun.
Hearing the hesitant step and the thump of the cane on the stairs, Kate again felt a tug of pity. The handsome, brooding Jess Fargo would once have bounded up those steps two at a time with the ease of a mountain elk.
Turning from the view, she noted the brief clenching of his teeth as he maneuvered up the final step and across the threshold, his grip on the cane evident. She wondered if he would ever move easily and swiftly again.
He paused, taking in everything about the apartment—the roomy kitchen, the living room through an archway, the homey furniture that had been handed down for generations.
There were also two bedrooms down a short hallway. The bathroom was tucked under the eaves at the end of the hall.
“It’s small,” she said, feeling a need to apologize.
“It’ll do.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the pine table that had belonged to her great-grandmother, his legs extended out in front of him.
“There are dishes, but I’ll have to bring you towels and linens—”
“We have sleeping bags and towels,” he cut in.
His lips were crimped at the corners, indicating pain or anger or both. She hadn’t thought about the difficulty of the steps for an injured person until he’d had to climb them.
“There’s a motel closer to town that’s reasonable in price. You wouldn’t have to go up and down steps.”
“I can handle the steps,” he informed her.
She recoiled from the bitter anger that flashed in his eyes, eyes that were the color of shadowed oak leaves, their muted green rimmed with a dark circle of gray.
“Then I’ll leave you to get settled. My number is on the pad beside the wall phone. Call if you need anything.”
“A key,” he said.
She was puzzled briefly, then she smiled tightly. “It’s on the hook by the phone. Folks rarely lock up around here.”
“That’s foolish. It can even be deadly. You don’t know who might come around.”
The disgust of the professional crime fighter at the willful stupidity of people grated over her nerves.
“Well, now that I have a police officer on the premises, I’m sure I’ll be safe.”
She flicked a glance at the son and was sorry for the tone she’d used. The boy was watching them warily, a young creature caught between two larger, opposing forces. As he’d probably been between his parents. Just a hunch, but Kate was pretty sure the parents were divorced. No wife had been mentioned.
“The fish start biting at first light,” she told him with a real smile. “The path to the lake starts at the end of the garden. Just go through the rose trellis and follow the trail. There’s a pier. Feel free to use it. Fishing poles are in the garden shed near the roses.”
“Thanks,” Jeremy said politely.
She left them to their own devices. Later that evening, sitting on the swing, she observed the light in the windows over the garage. Jeremy and his father had made several trips to the pickup truck with the camper shell. Foolish man, to torture his leg that way. She and Jeremy could have managed to bring everything up on their own.
Pride. Stubbornness. A chip on his shoulder. He was a man who needed to come to terms with life, a man who needed to reach out to his son, who had his own unfulfilled needs.
Foreboding rippled through her. A wise woman would stay out of the way of both father and son.
Chapter Two
But when had women ever been wise when it came to growing boys who, in their eyes, needed nurturing? Kate chided herself as she carried a basket of hot muffins and just-picked strawberries up the steps to the apartment. She had a mug of coffee and a pitcher of milk with her.
The door to the apartment was open when she arrived at the landing. Jess stood there, his face expressionless, but she sensed the scowl.
“I brought Jeremy some hot muffins,” she said.
A flicker of suspicion darted through his eyes, then was gone, replaced by an implacable wall of distrust that made her angry. He had levied a judgment against her for no reason, and she didn’t like it.
After an eternity he opened the screen door and let her in. “He isn’t up yet,” her new tenant informed her.
The scent of his aftershave stroked her senses. He was apparently just out of the shower, his dark hair still damp, his face smooth from a shave. He seemed as fresh as the crisp morning air that cascaded down from the lofty peaks overlooking the long, broad valley. The strain she’d noticed yesterday had eased somewhat from around his eyes. He looked rested, although not completely restored, and she realized how tired he must have been when he and his son had arrived.
Against her will, pity stirred as she stepped past him into the apartment. He had been injured in the line of duty and asked for nothing except a place to recuperate—and maybe a chance to reestablish a closeness with his son.
He wore a T-shirt and khaki shorts. His feet were bare. The bruises, the scars, the tightly stretched skin, all told of unremitting pain that had to be endured because there was no other way. The crimped lines at the corners of his mouth spoke louder than his fierce denial of need.
It
