Roxanne Rustand - A Man She Can Trust

It’s only my imagination.

Then again, it might be Sheriff Johnson, here to give her a logical explanation for the lights at Warren’s house.

She strode to the front door, already forming an apology when she pulled it open.

“I suppose it was n-nothing—” She stammered to a halt, her hand at her throat, and stared into the face of the man who’d sworn he’d never set foot on Chapel Hill again.

Snow glistened on the broad shoulders of his black wool coat. Clung to the deep waves of his windblown blond hair. His eyes met hers—stormy, compelling, still capable of sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the bitter wind swirling past him into the house.

“New approach, I take it. Intimidation by the law,” he said, his gravelly voice even deeper from the cold. “You could have just called the house, Jill. Saved the sheriff a trip out here on a night like this.”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I—I saw your father an hour ago. He didn’t say you were here, so I had no idea. I thought someone might be ransacking the place.”

“I wasn’t, and I’ll be there for some time. Just thought you should know.” Grant turned to go, then looked over his shoulder. “Your home phone’s out of order, by the way…and you didn’t answer your cell. That’s the reason I had to come up here.”

The cold, flat expression in his eyes chilled her. “I…must have left it in the car.”

He crossed the porch in three strides, descended the steps and disappeared. A moment later he was back with her cell phone.

“I still remember the key code to your car door,” he said. “I thought you’d better have this.”

She gratefully accepted it, then stood aside. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

For one brief moment, she saw the old pain and anger reflected in his eyes. “That would be a big mistake. I don’t think either one of us wants to go there again. Ever.”

“You’re right.” She stood at the open door and watched him walk away. A few minutes later, she saw a pair of headlights swing around out by the garage. Red taillights disappeared into the snowy darkness.

And he was gone.

Jill closed the door, shoved the dead bolt home and leaned her forehead against the leaded glass insert in the door.

Separation had been the right thing. Their divorce was inevitable, and she didn’t want him back. Yet a part of her missed the togetherness. The tenderness. The warmth of another person to snuggle against.

And, if she were honest, she missed the incredible passion she’d never felt with anyone but him.

But she and Grant had grown into two very different people over the years, with different goals, different priorities. Their love had faded…then ended in bitterness and accusations. And she needed a person she could trust, not a man who considered other women free game.

Badger sauntered down the hall and wound around her ankles, purring loudly.

“Guess it’s just you and me,” she murmured. “At least you’re honest.”

Picking up the cat, she headed back to the kitchen…and felt the aching loneliness of the house close in around her.

FROM WHAT SHE could see, retirement was going to be a taste of hell.

Grace flipped through the pages of her kitchen calendar and counted the months. Seven…eight…nine…

In ten months she’d turn sixty-seven. Once, she’d considered celebrating with a bonfire of her sturdy white shoes and the wardrobe of uniforms and lab coats that hung in her closet. Now, she couldn’t imagine taking that final walk out the hospital’s front door.

What did people do, once they didn’t have a daily destination? Didn’t have a busy schedule, or staff who counted on their competence and vision to make everything run smoothly?

Without the adrenaline rush of emergencies, the need to think fast, she could imagine her heart slowing down like an old, forgotten windup toy.

Cradling a cup of apricot tea, her gaze drifted to the refrigerator door festooned with photographs. Newspaper clippings. Wedding and baby announcements—remnants of her decades as a foster parent.

Once, her kitchen had bustled with three or four youngsters at a time; eating hurried breakfasts, making sack lunches, hurrying off to school or sports practice. There’d been crayon pictures taped to that refrigerator, along with reports cards and notices of parent-teacher conferences.

Once, she’d been needed here at home as much as she was still needed at the hospital, but soon this last chapter of her life would end, too, leaving her…with nothing.

Snorting aloud at her self-pity, she grabbed the file folder of cruise brochures propped behind the coffeemaker on the counter and took her tea into the living room.

Old people took trips. Saw the things they’d never had time to see when their families were young and careers were going full swing. It wouldn’t be so bad, finally getting to see Europe. Nova Scotia. Oregon.

For years, she’d heard people talk about Banff, too, and before she died she definitely had to go see those beautiful lakes up there, that were—supposedly—like lovely pots of paints, in shades of emerald and sapphire.

Life would soon be very peaceful. Quiet. And blast it, she was going to enjoy every minute.

The cordless phone rang on the end table next to her. Her heartbeat picked up when she read Blackberry Hill Memorial on the caller ID.

Marcia Larsen was the nurse in charge tonight. Highly competent, she wouldn’t be contacting Grace unless third-shift staff had called in sick…or there was a major emergency.

But it wasn’t Marcia’s voice on the line when Grace picked up.

“Um…I’m real sorry to bother you, Ms. Fisher,” stammered Beth, the receptionist. She lowered her voice, and Grace imagined that the girl was cupping a hand over the receiver. “There’s…um…someone here to see you. She wants directions to your home.”

“You know the policy, Beth. We never give out phone numbers or addresses.”

“Of course. But…” In the background, Grace could hear raised, angry voices, and then Beth came back on the line. “She says her name is Ashley, and that she’s your niece. She…um…has a teenage son with her who isn’t very happy with her right now. I already notified security…but should I call the police?”

Grace tossed the brochures aside, launched out of her chair and headed for the coat closet. “Is the boy’s name Ross?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Beth sounded worried.

“They’re my relatives, but they might have trouble finding my house in the dark. Tell them to calm down, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Remembering Ashley’s volatile temper and her great-nephew’s rebellious nature, Grace made it to the hospital in eight minutes, despite the six inches of snow already on the ground and the deepening drift at the corner of Maine and Oak.

Instead of braving the staff parking lot, where the wind had piled snow into dunes near the building, she pulled up into the crescent drive at the front.

Inside, she stamped the snow from her boots, shrugged out of her coat and gave Beth a nod. “Quieter, now?”

The girl tipped her head toward the waiting area. “I brought the woman some coffee, and gave her son a Coke,” she said. “Are they really relatives of yours? I mean—well—” She blushed.

“Yes, they are,” Grace said, frowning. At twenty-two, Beth brought fresh enthusiasm to the job, but she was also prone to being a bit too personal. “I’ll take them back to my house once we get things settled down.”

Beth’s blush deepened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks for calling. I imagine the trip was stressful for them, coming all this way in such bad weather.” Grace smiled at her, then headed for the corner of the waiting room where Ross had pulled a chair up in front of the TV. Only the top of his black, curly hair showed over the backrest.