Sharon Swan - Husband In Harmony

“So it doesn’t get any better than this,” he said at last with a gusty sigh, clearly intimating that the cabin had seen few changes during the past several decades.

“That’s right,” she replied.

In fact, it got worse. Many of the cabins, including the one she occupied a stone’s throw away, had a single bedroom and a roof sporting at least a few holes. Still, the place she called home these days suited her, leaks and all. Like her great-aunt before her, she happily traded the comforts many considered a part of everyday living for the chance to experience another sort of life entirely. But this man…

“If you decide to stay,” she told Adam, “you can have this cabin. It’s not the Ritz—”

“You can say that again,” he muttered.

“But,” she said, forging on, “it has hot water, thanks to an electric water heater, and the stove, refrigerator and all the lights around the place work fine.”

She didn’t bother to point out that the appliances were downsized versions, a necessity rather than a choice with space at a premium; or that the overhead light fixtures and scattered lamps were a lot more functional than fancy. Not to mention that the rest of the cabin’s furnishings, including the sturdy pine living-room chairs with the faded plaid cushions, could be termed “old-fashioned rustic”—a definite emphasis on old. But Adam Lassiter had taken note of all of that, she recognized, though he started for the porch without saying as much. Or saying anything.

Once they were outside again, Jane resumed her role of tour guide with dogged determination. “Quail Lake is this way,” she said, and began to stride down a winding path through the trees. “A creek that feeds into it circles through the middle of the resort before it ends at the lake,” she explained. Moments later they came to an arched wooden bridge just wide enough to allow two people to cross side by side.

“I assume this is the creek, even though it doesn’t seem to be feeding water into anything at the moment,” Adam said, looking over a short, slatted railing at a hollowed-out patch of rocky ground.

“That’s why it’s called Dry Creek,” she told him. “It’s only wet when it rains enough higher up in the mountains to fill it with some of the run off. Then it can hold anywhere from a trickle to several feet of water. I even recall Aunt Maude saying that it overflowed its banks once.”

More cabins lined the path on the other side of the bridge. “Jackrabbit Junction,” Adam murmured, reading the sign on the first cabin they came to. Behind it, another was barely visible at the top of a small hill. “What’s that one called?” he asked.

“Eagle’s Nest.” Jane matched her stride to his, something she had to work at since her legs were nowhere near as long as Adam Lassiter’s.

“I suppose that fits,” he allowed.

The last cabin on the tour was Angler’s Lair, located only yards from Quail Lake. A bird whistled high overhead as Jane led the way down to her favorite spot at Glory Ridge, and in a matter of moments they were standing close enough to hear the gentle slap of water against a winding, grassy shore.

“Well, this is another plus for the place,” Adam acknowledged as he stared out at the deep blue lake sparkling in the sunshine.

He hadn’t spared more than a glance at the rickety dock and the old rowboats tied there, some with outboard motors. No, right now the quiet lake, looking much as it probably had when the first settlers arrived, drew his attention, as it always drew hers.

“Quail Lake is a long way from being the biggest body of water in the region,” she said, “but it’s got to be the most beautiful.”

“You could be right,” he told her. “Is it part of the resort property?”

“Yes. The fact that the lake is privately owned has always been a plus, because fishermen don’t have to invest in a license to try their luck here.”

“Still, a lot of them have decided to try their luck elsewhere,” he said, shifting his gaze from the lake to her. And who could blame them? an ironic slant of his chiseled mouth seemed to add.

Refusing to bristle again, Jane opted for the simple truth. “Several other resorts targeting not only the fishing crowd but hikers and other outdoor types have opened in the area during the past several years, and since their facilities are newer, it’s taken its toll.”

He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair. “But you still want to make a go of this place.”

Although it was a statement rather than a question, Jane answered. “I do. I have some of Aunt Maude’s life insurance money left, plus what I’ve managed to save by taking whatever work I could find in Harmony, in addition to working here. It’s a considerable sum—or it is to me.”

Because tiptoeing around any subject had seldom been her style, Jane went on to disclose her current balance at the town’s largest bank. It was probably nowhere near a successful consultant’s bank account. Nevertheless, it had one of Adam’s eyebrows lifting.

“I guess you know how to save money,” he said.

She dipped her head in a brisk nod. “I don’t usually spend much on myself.”

For an instant, his eyes raked her from head to toe. She could all but hear him thinking, That’s obvious. However, he said only, “Well, it’s definitely enough to give you a good start on making some changes around here.”

Changes Jane was ready to make. Finally. Maude, for all her talent at plain talk, had put off discussing any improvements, even though her great-niece had pressed her more than once. The delay had served no purpose but to send still more outdoorsmen off to other places to spend their money. It was time—past time, Jane knew—to act.

“What I need now is some savvy advice on what changes would appeal to the most customers,” she said. Her gaze met Adam’s. “Will you take me up on my offer?”

He studied her for a long moment. “I just might…provided you can meet my conditions. One, actually.”

A condition? That was the first she’d heard of anything along those lines. “And what would that be?” Jane asked carefully.

“If I decide to act as your consultant, I want to bring my son with me when I come back to stay here.”

She was surprised and knew it showed. Somehow, she hadn’t imagined this man with children. Or a wife, for that matter. Despite telling herself on first seeing him that she wasn’t interested one way or the other, she’d noticed that he wore no wedding ring. He’d probably noticed the same thing about her—and not that he cared, either.

Jane arched a brow. “How, uh, old is your son?”

“Eight. His name is Sam.” Adam shoved his hands into the pockets of his crisply pressed trousers. “Although I share custody with my ex-wife, Sam stays with her most of the year and spends his summers with me. After Ariel and I divorced a few years ago, she moved back to Boston, where she grew up.”

He had—or used to have—a wife named Ariel? Talk about fancy, Jane thought. Then again, it only made sense that this man would have chosen a far-from-average woman as his bride. “How did your son wind up being called Sam?” she had to ask. Bestowing such a simple name seemed out of character for parents who were hardly ordinary.

“Actually, it’s Samuel Lawrence, after both his grandfathers,” Adam explained.

“I see.” She paused. “Is he here in Arizona now?”

Adam nodded. “He’s spending the day with my folks, who live in Scottsdale.”

Oh, right. Jane did a mental eye roll. Of course his parents would live in Scottsdale, one of the ritziest sections of Phoenix. She’d never been to Scottsdale. Or anywhere else, she had to admit. But that didn’t mean she was pining to see the world. She truly wasn’t. She was content—more than content—where she was.