broad shoulders and a wide chest. In spite of all this darkness, he had hair the color of shaded wheat—earthy, begging for a hand to skim through its bounty. The ends curled up, as if in need of a good trim.
Most acutely of all, Meg again noticed his faded blue jeans, how he wore them like a badge of apathy, obviously not concerned that the raggedy hole allowed her a taunting peek of one tanned knee. The patch of skin against the threadbare denim nudged at Meg’s imagination. It was a chink in the rest of his armor—a heart-tugging flaw. She pictured herself sliding her hand into the frayed hole, running her thumb over his kneecap, skimming her fingers over the skin behind his knee.
He lowered his shaded gaze to meet hers, seemingly sensing her scrutiny. The black-ice mask of his sunglasses revealed no emotion. Meg pulled back from the window, her blood pounding so hard it crashed in her ears.
Nick backed up a step, then ambled down Main Street to disappear behind a red-and-blue Welcome Home, Chad banner that hung with a lopsided sneer between the side of the Mercantile Department Store and Darla’s Beauty Shop. He moved with the purpose of a gunslinger, slow and easy, with the sleekness of a knife’s edge.
Gone, from her life again, just like that.
She wondered what he wanted in a dinky one-horse town like Kane’s Crossing, what he wanted with Chad Spencer. If she didn’t have so much at stake here, she would’ve tipped her own hat to the place months ago. Before all the trouble. Before she’d made a complete and utter disaster of her life.
Meg sighed. Men in dark clothing with an equally dark posture—the stuff of fantasy. A safe flirtation locked inside her. Grown-up Nick had been a man to strike fear into every good-girl cell of Meg’s body, not that there were many of those left. She’d spent the last of her innocence five months ago and, yet, here she was, lesson unlearned, salivating over the hole in a man’s jeans.
Meg mixed the ingredients into a bowl, frustration making her stir a little too zealously. And if she was miffed by Nick’s return, Deacon Chaney would no doubt feel a million times worse. It was hard enough for the elderly man to live through all the slings and arrows of town without having to face the man who’d been accused of destroying his store sixteen years ago.
She was getting to be pretty good at shouldering the town’s gibes, as well. But the sharp-tongued speculation about who the father of her baby might be still smarted. And it scared her to death. If anyone found out who’d fathered her unborn child, she’d lose her expected family for certain.
But Meg wouldn’t let that happen.
What are you afraid of? she asked herself. Was she afraid her child would someday reject her, much like her own family had? Would she feel as much pain as she had when Aunt Valentine had died? Or would it be a dull ache, like she’d felt when the baby’s father had told her she hadn’t meant anything to him? That she’d be a memory once he’d left for the far corners of the world the next morning?
Chad Spencer will have no part of this child, she promised herself.
She’d die before that happened.
Two hours later Meg locked up the bakery and wrapped her sheepskin coat around her to ward off the autumn’s night chill. Fire smoke puffed from chimneys just off Main Street, making the air heavy with loneliness. When she got home, nobody would be there waiting for her. After Aunt Valentine had succumbed to a heart attack five months ago, Meg had realized that she’d probably be alone for the rest of her life. But then, she’d gotten pregnant, and she knew she’d always have someone, if Chad didn’t come back to town and claim the baby for himself.
Once again, Nick Cassidy entered her mind. What did he want with Chad?
She reached into her coat pocket, fisting the wad of twenties he’d flipped on the counter to pay for his barely touched coffee. It was enough to get her through a month or two of groceries. How did he come by so much money that he could afford to flick it around as if it were confetti?
Pride tapped her on the shoulder. She couldn’t keep this so-called tip. If she saw him again, she’d have to give it back.
If she saw him again.
Her body warmed just thinking about Nick. Boy, he’d grown up good. She’d always loved being with him, climbing trees, eating snowcones as they watched stream water ripple over their shoeless feet. The summers she’d visited Kane’s Crossing had been some of the best times of her life, but when Nick had come to live in town… Those had been the glory days.
He’d been gracious about allowing a pip-squeak like her to run around with him for a couple of months. Then again, he’d been “the new boy,” friendless. But they’d clicked automatically that day when Chad had been trying to lift her skirt with a stick. Nick had walked right up to him and defended her. No one else had done that before. He was her instant hero.
She’d returned the next summer, and they’d fallen into a daily groove together, experiencing everything Kane’s Crossing could offer two lonely kids.
But now… Now he was so different. Edged with bitterness, his eyes almost empty with disappointment.
Her body warmed with the very thought of his eyes, the way they’d roamed over her body with the heat of a falling star. Ever since he’d left the bakery, she’d wondered what it’d feel like to have his hands follow the paths his gaze had taken, to have his hands slip under her sweater, rub her skin, push her against his hard chest.
Stop it, Meg, she thought. It was no use. She’d never even see him again. The thought left an empty place inside her. If only they could’ve been friends again. She was in need of someone to talk to.
She shivered and started walking past the closed boutiques and stores that lined the street, Halloween colors trimming the displays. As she passed the barbershop, she held back a wave of nausea. A picture of Chad in his high school football uniform graced the window, his slick smile adding to the image of blond perfection.
How could she have been that stupid?
She was so lost in thought that she’d all but ignored the sound of footsteps behind her. Meg clutched at her coat and purse, ready to belt whomever was trailing her.
One, two, three—
As she whipped around, purse flying, Gary Joanson jumped away from her.
“Ah! Wait, Meg!”
She stood, legs apart, ready to defend herself. “What do you want, Gary? Didn’t you and your friends hurl enough insults at me this afternoon?”
He hung his head. “Sorry about that. You know how Sonny and Junior get when they’ve been drinking.”
Yes, she knew. She’d experienced the lash of their taunts several times over. “What do you want?”
“Well, you closed up shop before I could catch you there.” Shuffle. “I was just wondering if you could fix the missus one of your baby cakes?”
The urge to roll her eyes consumed her. “Gary, I’ve told you guys—”
“I know. But she believes all that hooey about your spells and magic. She says Valentine passed on her witch skills to you, Meg. And last time Jemma Carson ate one of your baby cakes, she got pregnant the next week. Just like Judy Henry and Sheri Duarte and…”
The
