Muriel Jensen - Man With A Message

She turned at the sound of her name and focused on…? The children. Of course. The children. She looked at them encircling the bed and remembered that they were not her children but the school’s. The kid fix she sought when she couldn’t have her own.

The euphoria of a moment ago collapsed, and with it came the bitter disappointment that always returned to take hold of her when she allowed herself to think about her marriage, her divorce, all the things she wanted that she’d never have.

She gazed into dark-lashed hazel eyes set in a handsome face crowned with short dark brown hair.

She put her fingertips to her mouth, recalling those nicely shaped lips on hers and the renewal she’d believed he’d brought to her life.

But he wasn’t Ben, her former husband. He was a stranger. And she didn’t care what he was doing here, or why she was in bed with the children gathered around her.

The only thing that mattered was that he’d led her to believe the pain was over and life was going to begin again.

It wasn’t, though. And it was all his fault.

She raised a hand and slapped him as hard as she could.

Dear Reader,

Don’t you love a man who knows what to say? “Honey, that tofu-eggplant-pasta casserole was delicious.” “No, harem pants do not make you look fat.” “I know the children are a handful, but you make motherhood look easy.”

Okay, I’m fantasizing. Most men think honesty is more important than hurt feelings. Many seasoned husbands do catch on eventually, but not before their wives learn to deal with bruised egos. And it’s not as though we don’t know the truth; it’s just that we’re hoping our men love us enough to see the capable, slender, clever image we want to project.

In Man with a Message, Cameron Trent is a hero filled with love and compassion for Mariah Mercer, who wants no part of him. Though she continually puts herself at odds with him, he always seems to know what to say to her, how to support and encourage her, and help her make her dreams come true. Maybe we should have him cloned.

Sit back and put your feet up. And you might want to get some chocolate. Cam and Mariah have a rocky road to romance.

All my best!

Muriel Jensen

P.O. Box 1168

Astoria, Oregon 97103

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CAMERON TRENT WALKED around the Maple Hill Common in the waning light of a late-May evening. Fred, his seven-month-old black Labrador, investigated bushes and wildflowers at the other end of a retractable leash.

The dog looked back at him, eyes bright, tongue lolling; he was out and about after sleeping in the truck for three hours while Cam installed an old ball-and-claw bathtub in a Georgian mansion near the lake.

Life is good, Fred’s expression said.

Cam had to agree.

Moving from San Francisco to Maple Hill, Massachusetts, situated on the edge of the Berkshires, had been an inspired idea. He and his brother and sister had spent a couple of weeks here as children every summer with their grandparents. It was the only time he could pick out of his childhood when he’d felt happy and safe.

As Cam wandered after Fred, he took in the colonial charm of the scene. A bronze Minuteman, his woman at his side, dominated the square. A colonial flag and a fifty-star flag were just being lowered for the night as Cam walked by. During working hours, the shops and businesses built around the green-lawned square bustled with activity, very much as they had two hundred years ago.

Many of the houses in Maple Hill were Classic Georgian, with its heroic columns, or the simpler salt-box style, with its long, sloping roof in the rear. In Yankee tradition, small boats hung from the ceilings of some porches, and many houses bore historic plaques explaining their history. And Amherst, where he was earning his master’s in business administration was a mere hour away.

He had everything he needed right here. Well almost. He missed his brother, Josh, but he was a chef in a Los Angeles restaurant and raising his wife’s four boys, and it was good to know he was happy.

Whitcomb’s Wonders, the agency of tradesmen Cam worked for as a plumber, had become his family. They were a cheerful, striving group of men who enjoyed working part-time for the company because it allowed them to pursue other endeavors—raise their children, go to school.

Fred came running back to Cam, his head held high so that he could hold on to a giant branch that protruded at least two feet out of each side of his mouth. His tail wagged furiously.

They were in the middle of a serious tug-of-war over the branch when Cam’s cell phone rang. Cam tossed the branch, then answered.

“Mariah Mercer from the Manor says they’re sinking!” Addy Whitcomb told him urgently. “A pipe in the bathroom burst.”

Cam reeled in the dog, who’d just headed off to chase the branch. Repairing the Maple Hill Manor School was a lucrative job for Whitcomb’s Wonders. One of the oldest buildings around, it was a plumbing and wiring disaster. They’d just been contracted to replumb the kitchen in the main building as part of a remodeling project.

“The bathroom in the main building?” he asked.

“No, the dorm. You know, the old carriage house.”

“Okay. I’m in town. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“I’ll call and tell her. And just to reward you, Cam, I’ll find you a really wonderful girl.”

“No favors necessary, Addy.” Addy was Hank Whitcomb’s mother. Whitcomb’s Wonders was Hank’s brainchild, and the men who staffed it provided the source for much of Addy’s Cupid work.

“But I want to!”

“No. Got to go, Addy.”

Fred was disappointed at no more play but enjoyed the sprint across the common toward the truck. Cam let him into the passenger side, then ran around to climb in behind the wheel. The truck’s tires peeled away with a squeal as he headed for the Manor. He’d outfitted his somewhat decrepit old truck to hold his tools and supplies so he was always ready to report to a job.

He tried to imagine what could have caused a pipe to burst. Pipes often froze and broke in the winter, but this was spring. And the Lightfoot sisters, who ran the school, had told him that they’d renewed the carriage house plumbing about ten years ago.

He knew that only a small number of children still boarded at the school, and did so only because of long relationships with the Lightfoot sisters, who’d taken over running the school from their mother in the fifties, after she’d taken it over from her mother, and so on all the way back to pre-Civil War days.

Letitia and Lavinia Lightfoot, who both charmed and intimidated the crew working on the renovation, were in their late seventies and still took pride in the bastion of civility they managed in a world they considered both fascinating and mad.

Cam refocused his attention on a series of curves, then exited onto Manor Road, which led through a thick oak, maple and pine woods to a clearing where the school stood, one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in western Massachusetts. He turned left toward the carriage house, instead of right toward the main building.