Carol Stephenson - Nora's Pride

Nora clutched his arm. “No! Don’t!” She wrapped her fingers around his and pried at the shards. “Ow!” She snatched her hand away and cradled it. Blood oozed from a jagged gash on the base of her left thumb.

Connor dumped the pieces on the sideboard. “Here, let me see that.” His hand cupped hers.

Blinking away tears, Nora bent her head to get a closer look at the damage. Her forehead bumped Connor’s. She bit back a curse as he gently probed the wound on her palm. The backs of his hands were broad and tanned, with a faint dusting of golden hair. She could feel the rough texture of his calluses as he wiped away the trail of blood. The hands of the boy were now the hard hands of a man. Whatever had happened to him, Connor still used his hands for a living.

Nora slanted a quick look at him through her wet lashes. His brow was furrowed as he checked her hand. Surreptitiously she leaned closer. Beyond the leather and soap, she could smell the sun and the earth clinging to him like an indelible part of his makeup.

Connor dragged a black bandanna from a pocket inside his jacket and wrapped it around the cut. “What was so important about that…” He glanced at the fragments and apparently couldn’t divine their former existence. He shook his head. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth slicing off a chunk of your finger. It’s not as if it were irreplaceable like The Sisters Three.”

No, it was only her daughter’s attempt to console Nora over Aunt Abigail’s death. It was every bit as precious to her as Abigail’s most famous work, which glowed in its place of honor on the mantel in the store’s rear alcove.

But Connor wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t know about anniversaries, birthdays or deaths. After all, he hadn’t been around for twelve years. Hadn’t cared to be present. And now he had the audacity to lecture her in her own shop, filled with people she knew. People he’d scorned. The moment he knotted the fabric, she jerked her hand free and stepped away from him.

Irritation flashed across his face. “If you’re worried about germs, that’s a clean bandanna.” He folded his arms. “I think you’ll live, but you’d better have Doc Sims take a look at the cut to make sure you don’t need stitches.”

“I’m fine.” And because Aunt Abigail had taught her better, she added, “Thanks.” She looked down at her wrapped hand and caught sight of her watch. Almost eleven. She needed to get him out of the store. Now.

Her sisters, Christina and Eve, crossed to her, and she drew comfort from their presence. She would get through this, just as she had every other obstacle tossed in her path.

Nora McCall, standing proud, was a bittersweet image branded in Connor’s memory. Once he had hoped to share his life with her, but that dream had never stood a chance. His pact with the devil, his mother, had seen to that.

Yet, over the years, doubt regarding his decision to leave town, to leave Nora, had snapped relentlessly at his conscience in the lonely hours when night met dawn. Now, seeing Nora and her sisters, a part of him felt at peace. The McCall girls were still together in a place they loved.

The devil had apparently kept her side of the bargain. She would not be pleased he was breaking his.

He nodded at the women. “Eve, Christina. Good to see you both.” But he kept his gaze on Nora, even though every muscle in his body wound tighter. Tense as rectitude, his mother would have said.

Nora was still a knockout. From her lustrous black hair to her pressed jacket, she was all trim and lovely. And he had this craving to touch her, to feel once more the jolt of her pulse. If he had succumbed to his urge to press his lips against the soft flesh of her thumb while he had tended her wound, would he have found heat still running deep beneath her cool exterior?

The jab of desire irritated him, but Connor absorbed it. His gaze strayed to Nora’s wrapped left hand. She wore no ring. If she hadn’t married, would things have turned out different for them?

She arched a brow at his stare. “Gee, Connor, other than the mileage on your face, you haven’t changed a bit. Very few older men can carry off that James Dean look. At least you’ve the good sense not to copy the hair.”

Connor stiffened. A muscle jerked along his jaw. “You always did have brass, kid.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m not a kid.”

He slowly looked Nora up and down. “No, ma’am. You’re certainly not.”

Nora colored fiercely, but he gained only a grim pleasure from her discomfort. Why should he care about her? She certainly didn’t care for him.

Shortly after he had left town, he had called his mother and said he couldn’t go through with the deal. His tormentor had been silent for a second before crisply advising him to keep moving.

“Your high-and-mighty McCall girl got married last week.” Even now, he could still hear the cold taunt that had ripped apart his soul.

Stunned, he had dropped the receiver and walked away from the phone booth. Nora had run into another man’s arms. She hadn’t waited. She’d never pined for him.

So he had kept moving, seeking to put as much distance as possible between him and his past.

“Connor?”

He realized Christina had spoken.

“What?”

“I said we were all sorry about Ed Miller’s passing.”

The dull ache whenever he thought about the loss of the old man who had been his surrogate father throbbed. “Thanks.”

Eve was brasher. “We figured you’d be there at the funeral.”

“I couldn’t get away.” His jaw tensed. Missing Ed’s service had torn him apart, but carrying out his promise to the farmer who had befriended him all those years ago had to come first. It wasn’t until he’d gotten Ed’s deathbed phone call that he’d learned he would finally get a chance to pay Ed back.

Nora accepted his statement without rebuke. “I’m sure you wanted to come, Connor. Ed was a good man.”

“Yes, he was.” More than anyone in the town would ever guess. Ed had been Connor’s remaining link to his past, keeping him bound despite Connor’s ending up in Florida. When Connor called Ed, the taciturn farmer had been circumspect about everything but his crops. Finally, desperate for news, Connor had asked the old man point-blank how Nora and her husband were doing. Ed had barked, “Husband. There’s no husband.”

Connor remembered his grim satisfaction in learning of her divorce. However, he never could ferret out any additional information in subsequent calls to Ed. All the farmer would ever mutter was that “the McCall womenfolk were doing just fine.”

He sure did miss the old coot.

Ever sensitive to other people’s emotions, Christina said softly, “Pastor Devlin must be thrilled you’ve returned.”

Pastor, not mother—Sheila Devlin would appreciate the distinction. She had certainly tried hard enough to distance herself from the role his birth had thrust on her. He hitched his shoulders. “She doesn’t know I’m here. Yet.”

Christina looked startled. “Oh.” She huffed out a breath. “Well.” Sadness flitted across her face. “Your mother performed a fine eulogy for Aunt Abigail.”

Connor realized he hadn’t offered condolences. He’d picked up the phone a hundred times when he had learned of their aunt’s death. He’d replaced the receiver a hundred times because he hadn’t known what to say.

He cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about Abigail’s death. She was a good woman.” He gestured at the shop. “She’d be proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”

Eve didn’t mask her curiosity. “Thanks, Connor, but how did you—” The doorbell chimed. Eve narrowed her eyes.

A wave of new arrivals crowded around Nora and Christina. Breaking the crowd apart, Nathan Roberts, a tall lean man, sauntered past Eve, brushing so close that she had to step back to avoid contact. Watching the familiar byplay had Connor fighting to keep his lips flat. Some things never changed.