Authors: Marin Thomas
“How's Maddie doing?” She followed him to the door, where he had his supplies stacked and ready to go.
“I'm taking her to the doctor tomorrow. She doesn't complain, but I can tell she's getting weaker.” He brushed a hand over his forehead. “Used to be she'd walk her dogs every morning. Lately all she manages to do is move from her bed to the reclining chair in the sitting room.”
Thinking of all the hours Jackson had put in on her project, Winnie felt guilty. “I shouldn't have asked for your help. She needs you more.”
“You never asked. I offered.” Jackson opened the door and stepped out into the icy winter air.
She took a step after him, shivering as the wind cut through her sweater and slapped her cheeks, watching as he started down the stairs with his equipment. “Thank you for building Bobby his bedroom. It's perfect.”
Jackson gave her a final nod. And then she shut the door against the freezing wind. Leaning her back against the door for support, she listened to the pounding of her heart and wondered what the hell was the matter with her.
Jackson was practically Brock's brother.
And she had no business at all thinking about him this way.
* * *
W
OMEN
PUZZLED
J
ACKSON
sometimes. Like the clothes they wore when they expected to get dirty or stained. Such as the jeans and T-shirt that Winnie had on right now.
He supposed in Winnie's mind they were old and expendable.
But they were pretty much the sexiest things he'd ever seen her wear.
He dipped the roller into the tray, waited for the excess paint to drain away then resumed painting.
He'd dropped by at eight-thirty that evening.
“Happened to be in the neighborhood. Want a hand?”
She'd pretended to be annoyed, but he could tell she wasn't.
“You don't have to do this.”
“No. But with two of us, the room will be finished tonight.”
She'd tied her dark curls back in a ponytail. Her jeans were so faded, they'd worn away at the knees, belt loops and back pockets.
It was those back pockets that were going to be his downfall. She filled them out so nicely...and damn it, he wasn't supposed to be looking.
She was playing a Taylor Swift CD, volume low so the music wouldn't disturb Bobby. He concentrated on the wall in front of him. She'd chosen a soft gray with blue undertones. He liked it.
“Jackson, what was your life like before you went to live with the Lamberts?”
He supposed she was making conversation, but her question reminded him that they really didn't know much about each other. Probably because he'd always made a point of avoiding her.
“We moved a lot when I was a kid. I was born in Great Falls, but we also lived in Butte and Helena, and for a few months, Bozeman.”
“The big city life, huh?”
“The biggest Montana has to offer,” he agreed, going along with the joke because the most populated city in this state didn't even come close to half a million people.
Which, in his opinion, was one of the many great things about Montana.
“What did your mom do for a living?”
“She worked nights as a cocktail waitress. We got by okay, until she met a cowboy who got her hooked on crack cocaine again.”
“Again?”
“She quit after she had me. Or so she said.” He sighed.
He'd skimmed over a lot of territory with that summary. Like the years he'd spent sleeping in the backseat of their car while his mother worked, because she couldn't afford a sitter.
Or the nights she'd bring home some drunk cowboy, and he'd blast the radio in his room so he wouldn't have to hear those embarrassing sounds.
“How did you end up being taken in by the Lamberts?”
“Good question. I never did figure out how that happened. I was thirteen at the time and my mother let herself get dragged into her boyfriend's stupid robbery scheme. The money was going to be for drugs, of course.”
Winnie stopped painting for a second, her eyes soft with sympathy. “Where were you when this was happening?”
“At home. Mom hadn't told me about the plan. I thought they'd gone out to party. Next thing I knew, a social worker and a cop were knocking at the door.” He shrugged. There'd been some confusing weeks after that, but then one day a big rancher with broad shoulders and kind blue eyes had shown up at the transitional housing center where he'd been placed.
“Did they take you to see your mother?”
“Eventually. She was so ashamed she wouldn't even look me in the eye. I felt bad for her.” But even more he'd been angry. He'd been old enough then that he'd wanted to help look after his mother. He worked two part-time jobs after school and on weekends, making enough to buy his own clothes and contribute to their expenses.
Why hadn't that been enough for her?
Why had she turned to that jerk boyfriend instead?
He'd been really pissed. For a long time.
“So how did you end up with the Lamberts?”
“The judge who put my mother in jail happened to be a friend of Bob Lambert's. I'm not sure how it happened exactly. But he asked Bob and Olive if they would take me in. And they did.”
Jackson would never stop feeling grateful for the opportunity to be a part of a real family. True, Olive had never warmed up to him, but the relationship he'd had with Bob and the Lambert children had more than made up for that.
“And your mother?”
“She died a couple of years into her sentence. I didn't even know she had AIDS until after the funeral.”
He had regrets there. Though he'd been allowed to visit his mother, he'd still been angry at that point and had barely concealed it during the short hours they'd spent together. He wished he'd been mature enough to forgive her while she was still alive. For all her faults, she'd been kind to him always. And he knew she'd never meant to hurt him.
“Gosh, Jackson. That's so sad.”
“It was a long time ago. I've had a good life with the Lamberts.”
He couldn't remember the last time he'd talked about his past. Usually he sidestepped personal questions. But tonight he hadn't minded opening up to Winnie. Maybe it was the painting. It was easier to talk when you didn't feel the other person watching you. Judging you.
He ran the roller in the tray of paint, up and down, until the excess had been shed, then returned the roller to the wall. It was satisfying seeing the dull drywall take on the new, fresh color. He let his gaze slide toward Winnie who was up on the second rung of the stepladder now, painting the line where the wall met the ceiling. Her expression was earnest as she concentrated on keeping a steady hand.
Suddenly she stopped and glanced at him. “Did I mess up?”
He realized he'd been staring again. Damn. He had to stop that. “Nope. You're doing great. Have you done a lot of painting?”
“Sure. Brock and I did all the painting in the café after I bought the place. Before that, I used to help my mom paint on the farm. Not just the house, but the barn, too.”
“And what was home like for you?” He'd been doing too much of the talking. “You didn't have any brothers or sisters, did you?” At least none had shown up for the wedding that he could remember.
“I was a spoiled only child,” she agreed.
No. She wasn't. Spoiled children could be self-centered and full of entitlement. Winnie was none of those things. She did have a peaceful strength about her, though, that he thought must have come from a happy, trauma-free childhood.
“I hope I haven't been boring you,” he said. “Can't remember the last time I blabbed so much.”
“You should blab more often. I like hearing you talk.”
And maybe he'd like hearing her talk, too. “Fair is fair. It's your turn.”
“But I don't have much to say. You met my mother and father at the rehearsal dinner.”
The rehearsal for the wedding that never happened. “I did. Nice people.”
“Yes. I was lucky.” She climbed down the ladder so she could move it to a new position. When he saw what she was doing, he hastily put down his roller to help her.
While he repositioned the ladder, she stretched her neck and back, then surveyed the walls. In an hour, maybe less, they'd be done the first coat.
“It's looking good, isn't it?”
“It's an improvement,” he conceded. But no amount of decorating would ever make this more than a nine-by-ten-foot room that Bobby would soon outgrow. “But not exactly your dream home, I bet.”
“The days of having a dream home are far in my future.” She thanked him for moving the ladder, then climbed back up to resume painting.
“If you had one...what would you want?”
“Oh, a walk-in closet. Not that I have such a big wardrobe. Still, it would be fun to have a closet with lots of space. A big tub for soakingâthat would be a priority. And a bedroom and a playroom for Bobby. That's just for starters,” she laughed.
He wished he could give her all that.
And more.
Damn, he was doing it again.
Keep your eyes on the paint,
he warned himself.
And your thoughts on the job.
Chapter Six
A kid didn't get into the state foster-care program because they had great parents. Winnie understood this. Still she was stunned at how difficult Jackson's early years had been.
She found it strange that Brock had never told her the full story, but then, he hadn't talked much about any of the members of his family. At the beginning of their romance, whenever she had asked for more details about his siblings or his parents he'd just laugh, shake his head and say, “You'll meet them soon enough.”
And she had. Over the months of their engagement she'd grown to know each of them a little better. B.J. she saw rarely because until he married Savannah he was almost always on the rodeo circuit. But she'd been around him enough to realize that he was the kind of guy who liked to take charge, a strong man with a good heart.
Having so many brothers who liked to tease and play practical jokes, Cassidy had learned to protect her heart. Only recently had she given it to Dan Farley, who was a real sweetheart in Winnie's opinion. Farley frequented the Cinnamon Stick Café
a lot.
He put in hundreds of miles every week as a large-animal vet and needed the caffeine to stay alert during his very long workdays.
Corb was easy to get to know because he was the most like Brock: easygoing and charming, plus, since he was Laurel's husband, she saw him the most.
It was only Jackson who had remained an enigma. Jackson who eluded her attempts to talk to him at family gatherings and who
never
patronized her café, either.
She was actually very surprised that he'd opened up so much tonight.
But there was still one subject he hadn't broached.
She dipped her paintbrush into the can, dabbed off the excess, then carefully continued along the edge of the wall avoiding making even the smallest mark on the ceiling.
“What about your dad?” She was watching her paintbrush, not Jackson, as she asked this. She suspected that not having to make eye contact with her was why Jackson was talking more than usual tonight. “Was he part of your life?”
“Nope. I've never even met him.”
“So, on your birth certificate...” She'd recently filled out the form for Bobby and could picture it in her mind, especially the line where she'd had to write down the father's name. Tears had blurred her vision as she'd printed
Brock Lambert
on that page.
“My mother put
unknown
where my father's name should have gone. I always thought she was keeping his name from me, though she claimed he was just some cowboy she met at the bar one night.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, she had to stop painting. So many times since Brock's accident, she'd worried what effect his death would have on their son.
Her heart ached every time she thought about it.
Just as her heart ached now for Jackson.
Because he'd grown up without a dad. Because he'd tried to take care of his mother and felt as though he'd failed. And most of all, because he felt responsible for Brock's death and the fact that Bobby didn't have a dad, either.
That was why he had spent the past week building this bedroom and now helping her with the painting.
She wondered when, if ever, he was going to feel as if his debt to her and Bobby had been paid.
She took a deep breath, then went back to something she could controlâher painting.
And when she was finally done cutting in the walls, she climbed down the rungs and set her brush on the tray. “Done,” she said with more fatigue than satisfaction.
“Great. I'll just move the ladder out of the way so I can get at this last section.” It only took Jackson a couple of minutes and then he was finished, too.
After setting down the roller brush, he pointed at her arm. “You'll want to wash that off before it dries.”
“What?” She twisted her arm, but couldn't see what he meant.
“This.” Gently he took her by the wrist and rotated her forearm a few inches. With his other hand, he rubbed away a blotch of paint.
Waves of pleasure spread out from the places where he was touching her. Winnie felt the aftershocks multiplying in her body. Her heart rate zoomed; she even felt breathless.
When she looked up, for once Jackson met her gaze head-on. She marveled at the warmth in his blue eyes, the lushness of his mouth, the manly strength of his jaw and chin.
He was insanely good-looking.
How had she been so oblivious before?
“Win, don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Look at me like that.”
There was actual pain in his voice, but there was something else, too. Something hot and desperate. And she felt it, too.
Don't kiss him
was her last coherent thought. But she was already leaning in. Closing her eyes.
God only knew what he was thinking. Or not thinking.
Because he leaned down as she leaned up, and it was happening, the thing that shouldn't happen.
They were kissing, or was it drowning?
He had his hands around her face now, holding her like a precious, wonderful thing.
And she reached out to shoulders that were so broad and strong she felt that they could carry her anywhere she wanted to go.
His lips on hers. It was like magic. To think he felt these things for her, the same things she'd begun feeling for him.
And then, it was over.
They weren't kissing anymore, not even touching. And Jackson was shaking his head, even as she was reverberating with aftershocks of pleasure.
“Damn it. I was afraid this would happen.”
He stepped back from her, as if she was a dangerous, uncontrollable person and he had to be careful not to spook her.
“I don't know what it is about you,” he said. “I've tried. God knows I've tried....”
Her arms dropped to her sides and hung there. They'd never felt so...empty. “I'm just a woman. An ordinary woman.”
“Not to me. You were never that.”
She felt as if he had her heart on a string and was playing with it. “Then why are you walking away?”
“Are you kidding me? Tell me you don't think this is wrong.” Jackson's eyes, glowing with warmth a minute ago, were dark with misery now. “And while you're at it, how about explaining it to Olive, too, and the whole bloody Lambert family? And if that's not enough for you, imagine telling Bobby one day how you ended up kissing the guy who killed his father.”
“Damn it, Jackson. You
didn't
kill him.”
“If he were
here.
If he saw
this.
” Jackson pointed from her to himself. “It
would
kill him. Trust me. It would.”
What could she say to that? An ugly shame began to seep over her, staining what had momentarily felt lovely and good.
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans. She felt small. Dirty. Bad.
“You better leave.” She was looking at her bare feet as she said this. She'd taken off her socks so she wouldn't slip on the ladder. Now she curled her toes under. Her feet were cold. All of her felt cold.
Jackson didn't answer. But she felt his absence as he moved away from the door. She heard him exit out the front way. The sound of the door latch catching. Then the distant thud of his boots on the stairs.
* * *
T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
,
Winnie discovered a new universal law. It went something like this. The day you wake up grouchy because you couldn't sleep because you'd kissed your dead fiancé's brother will be the same day your normally happy little boy wakes up grouchy, too.
“What's the matter, Bobby? This is your favorite cereal, right?”
“No.” He frowned at her, then pushed away the cooked-rice-and-banana cereal he usually loved.
Did he have a fever? She pulled out the thermometer to check. Normal.
Was that molar bothering him? She took a look at his gums. No sign of inflammation.
Finally she tried offering him toast with jam. Slices of apple.
These he gobbled up. Hoping he'd gone back to being her usually sunny boy, she let him play while she got ready for work. When it was time to dress him in his snowsuit and boots, he got stubborn again.
“No,” he said to his snowsuit.
“No,” he said to his boots.
Winnie stared at her son. “Is this national no day or something?”
He couldn't
possibly
be upset over what had happened last night, could he? He was only a toddler. He'd been in a different room. The door had been closed.
Winnie decided to phone her mother for a professional opinion. The answer wasn't encouraging.
“Bobby might be entering the terrible twos a little on the early side.”
Terrible twos.
Oh, no. She hadn't read that far in her
Parenting For Dummies
book yet. And she didn't have time now. Bobby was due at the babysitter's in ten minutes, and she had to be at the café five minutes after that.
“Do you want to ride in your new sled, Bobby?”
He looked up from the toy cars he'd been pulling from his toy chest.
It was one of the items Olive had given him in the present frenzy of two weeks ago. Winnie removed the wooden sled from the closet. She could see he was curious.
“It's an outside toy, Bobby. You have to put on your snowsuit and boots.”
He eyed the sled. He eyed the boots and snowsuit lying on the floor where he'd tossed them.
Then he sighed and went to his outdoor clothes. He picked up the snowsuit and gave it to her. “Help.”
A new word. He'd just said a new word. Plus, her little psychological ploy had worked. Winnie wanted to give her son a big hug and kiss, but decided it would be smarter to play it cool.
“Sure, I'll help you, Bobby. I'm glad you want to give this a try. You're going to love your new sled.”
And he did. He laughed the whole way to Linda's house. The faster Winnie pulled him, the louder he laughed.
I think I've found my new workout.
In less than five minutes Bobby was happily ensconced with his new sitter. Winnie left the sled in Linda's backyard and made it back to the café five minutes before ten.
She said hi to Vince, who was in the kitchen putting his last batch of buns in the oven. His day started early and ended shortly after lunch. Then she slipped on her apron and joined Dawn behind the counter.
The place was quiet and Dawn had her laptop open. She wasn't working on her correspondence courses, however, but doing a little internet shopping.
“Look at these boots.” She scrolled down, then clicked to enlarge the image.
“Pretty.” Winnie peered at the black leather boots with stacked wedge heels. “Not very practical for Coffee Creek, though.” The town only had sidewalks on a few streets. And you could never count on them being clear.
“True.” Dawn sighed, then closed the laptop. “I guess I should make some fresh coffee.”
“Good idea.” Winnie had already noticed the pot was low and had been about to make the same suggestion. She started preparing tuna salad for that day's sandwich special and soon more customers came in and the place was hopping.
Bert from the post office showed up, like usual. He and his ex-wife were always careful not to come to the café at the same time. Winnie didn't have time to do more than give him a smile and a friendly hello.
She should have been too busy to think about anything but work.
So why did she keep having flashes from last night? The way Jackson's hand had felt on her arm.
The look in his eyes before he'd kissed her.
And then the kiss. Oh, wow, that kiss... Her knees went a little weak every time she thought about it. And him.
And she thought about both way too much. Was she going crazy?
She had to talk to someone. To Laurel. Her best friend would help her get some perspective on this.
But it was three and a half hours before Winnie had time for a break. She ran up to her apartment, using the inside stairs, intending to call Laurel in private.
But someone was in her apartment. She could hear the floorboards creaking and the radio playing quietly, even though the connecting door from the stairs to her apartment was closed.
There was only one person who could be in there. Jackson still had the keys she'd loaned him when he'd started the project. He must have gone in the back way, as usual. Probably he was planning to be gone before she returned home at quarter past two.
Last night she'd told him she didn't need his help anymore. But she wasn't surprised that he'd ignored her. He was noble to a fault, where she was concerned.
She ought to back down the stairs quietly and let him finish the painting in peace.
But what she really wanted was to go inside and force him to talk about what had happened between them last night.
Two options. Retreat. Or advance. Which one was smarter?
Before she could decide, she felt her cell phone vibrate. Pulling it from her back pocket, she saw the call was from Laurel. She decided to take it.
“Hello?” Despite the poor soundproofing in the building, she doubted if Jackson could hear her over the sound of the radio.
“Hey, Winnie. Sorry to bother you while you're at work, but Corb just left for town and he forgot his phone. If he stops in for a coffee, would you tell him we're almost out of diapers?”
“Sure.” Winnie hesitated. “Actually I was just about to call you. I need to talk about something.”
“Are you and Bobby okay?”
“Yes. Well, Bobby is. Me, I'm not so sure. You're going to think this is crazy, but there's something weird going on with me and Jackson.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I'm around him I feel so...strange.”
“Is this about Brock's accident? Because if you're feeling angryâ”