The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice

never even said hello. She never said good-bye.

      Neither had ever returned. It was as though this house represented all that they once had valued and lost—or perhaps thrown away. This house that was filled with their heartiest laughs, their silliest dreams, their most precious confessions, and beloved possessions stood as a barren monument to their failed marriage.

      She couldn’t come back—until now. And now she never wanted to leave.

      Nora shivered and wrapped her arms tighter across her thin cotton gown. The cool air was moist and laden with dew. She leaned her head against the windowpane. Its touch was icy and seemed to pierce a third eye into the middle of her forehead. Dear God, she prayed as she closed the other two tightly, help me to forget. Help me to get past my anger and let me heal.

      From the valley she heard the broken call of sheep, then from the road came the faint sound of crunching gravel. She craned her neck to peer at the winding drive, and soon she saw the figure of C.W. emerge from the tunnel of foliage. He was trudging up the hill at a steady pace. Gasping, she quickly checked the time: nine o’clock already. She wasn’t even dressed—this was hardly the impression she wanted to give.

      Nora rushed across the cold plank floor to the antique cherry dresser and pulled open the heavy drawers. They creaked as they revealed their treasure of old sweaters and rolled wool socks. Most of them dated from her college days. She grabbed a pair of faded jeans and an old handknit sweater, scowling at the two small holes in the sleeve. Buy mothballs, she told herself as she pulled it over her head.

      On her way to the bathroom, she slipped her feet into worn loafers and peeked out the window. He was almost at the house now. She splashed freezing tap water on her face and ran a brush through her thick hair, wincing when she grazed the purpling bump along her hairline. With a groan of frustration she set down the brush and in minutes, braided her hair with practiced hands. A final check in the mirror reflected an aura of organization.

      “Looks can be deceiving,” she told herself as she flicked off the light.

      She reached the kitchen as C.W. walked in. His tall frame filled the doorway as he scraped his muddy boots upon the mat. In the morning light, his handsome features were staggering. Perhaps it was the layers of shirts and jacket he wore against the changing fall temperatures that gave him a broad profile. Yet underneath the layers she guessed the muscles were as solid as the mountain. Instinctively her hand went to smooth her hair.

      Nora always liked the look of a man in jeans. Men in well-tailored suits evoked an image of an intellectual power. Wealth. Theirs was a seductive lure, the hint of romantic dinners and intimate talk.

      Men in jeans evoked the image of a physical power. Raw and earthy. Like the jeans, they were tough, rugged—roughriders. C.W.’s jeans stretched taut from hip to hip, and she could follow the curved line of his thigh muscle up to the groin.

      He straightened, stretching his shoulders wide, and met her gaze. Nora blushed and looked down, wildly wondering if he’d caught her perusal.

      “Glad to see that you’re on your feet,” he said. “I was worried about you and wanted to be sure you’re all right.” His voice was low and he spoke with deliberate slowness.

      “I’m perfectly all right. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine, really.” She felt ridiculous, stammering like a schoolgirl and rubbing her hands.

      In contrast, C.W. seemed relaxed, leaning against the doorframe and barely concealing his amusement. This was her house, she told herself. Why was she on edge? She leaned against the refrigerator to appear equally casual, but immediately felt self-conscious and righted herself.

      An awkward silence fell between them. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. She tapped her foot, looked out the window, felt a blush creeping up her neck. Then, not able to withstand the silence or his watchful gaze any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

      “Thank you for leaving the coffee this morning. At least, I assume it was you.” She laughed, then felt childish.

      He straightened and headed for the hot coffee. “It was nothing.” Hand on the pot, he asked, “Mind if I have some?”

      “Not at all. It’s your coffee, after all. Oh, and thank you for the fire, too,” she added, walking in its direction. She stuck out her hands and made a show of warming them over the heat. “It was very thoughtful.”

      “No problem,” he answered between gulps, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You’ll have to keep that thing stoked up, not only for yourself but so the pipes don’t freeze. That would be a real mess. And expensive.”

      Nora made another mental note.

      “If you’re cold, why don’t you just turn on the heat up here?”

      “Because it costs a fortune to heat this white elephant with electric heat.”

      C.W. raised an eyebrow. Why would the expense bother her now, after all these years? MacKenzie should have left her set for life. Well set. What was going on here? His suspicions tingled but he dismissed them. For all he knew, she was one of those tightwads who was always flicking off lights and squeezing a penny, not because they didn’t have one, but because they were terrified of losing one.

      C.W. looked over at Nora as she warmed her hands. No, she didn’t look like the penny-pinching type. She was, in fact, his type. Simple, natural; a beauty so assertive it did not require a fashion statement. If she fattened up a bit, she’d fill out those jeans nicely, he thought. She had one of those bodies that looked great in jeans. Her thighs were long and her hips were small and firm. Soft mounds rose and fell under her baggy sweater, and beneath all that wool was the slender form that he had felt the day before. Knowing it was there, beneath all the layers, added to her quiet seductiveness. Even her feet were small and tucked in scuffed loafers. Where had she been all those years in New York? He’d have remembered her.

      “Are you settled in?” she asked.

      He shifted his gaze away. “More or less.”

      “Must be cold in that cabin.”

      “A bit.”

      “Perhaps you could stay here and—”

      “No,” he said emphatically.

      Nora blinked hard. “I… It was only a suggestion.”

      He paused, then sighed and leaned against the counter. “I realize that,” he said with a milder tone. “Thank you. But it’s better this way.”

      She nodded. It would only be a matter of time before the gossips guessed which room he slept in. “I’ll lend a hand fixing up the cabin. In fact, I have to go to town to buy supplies. What do you need?” She paused and put her hand on her forehead. “Come to think of it, I don’t have a car.”

      Her eyes met his over the rim of his mug. He didn’t sip, and his hesitancy revealed he anticipated her next question with dread.

      “Could you drive me to town? You could pick up what you need for the cabin while I do my own shopping.”

      C.W. set down his coffee and tapped his fingers on the counter. A small muscle twitched in his jaw and his tension crossed the room to grab her.

      “Is there a problem with that?”

      He took a deep breath. He rarely went to town, preferring a hermit’s life in the mountains. Although once an avid reader of the news, these days, he barely even scanned the Rutland Herald.

      “I can’t go to town.”

      “Can’t?”

      “I’m tied up at the barn,” he quickly added. “Besides, I wouldn’t be a very good guide. I’ll check with Frank.”

      Nora took in his nervous pacing. “No problem,” she said. “I’ll manage.”

      C.W. turned and looked out the window. Then, taking a final gulp of his coffee, he