Fortune's Woman / A Fortune Wedding: Fortune's Woman. Kristin Hardy

happened?” he asked after a long moment.

      He sensed it was something traumatic. That might help explain her empathy and understanding of what Josh was dealing with. He braced himself for it but was completely unprepared for her quiet answer.

      “He shot himself.”

      Ross stared, trying to make out her delicate features in the dim moonlight. “Was it a hunting accident?”

      The noise she made couldn’t be mistaken for a laugh. “No. It was no accident. Chris was…troubled. We were married for five years. The first two were wonderful. He was funny and smart and brilliantly creative. The kind of person who always seems to have a crowd around him.

      “After those first two years, we bought a home in Austin,” she went on. “I was working at a high school there and Chris was a photographer with an ad agency. Everything seemed so perfect. We were starting to talk about starting a family and then…everything started to change. He started to change.”

      “Drugs? Alcohol?”

      “No. Nothing like that. He became moody and withdrawn at times and obsessively jealous, and then he would have periods where he would stay up for days at a time, would shoot roll after roll of film, of nothing really. The pattern on the sofa cushions, a single blade of grass. He once spent six hours straight trying to capture a doorknob in the perfect light. Eventually he was diagnosed as schizophrenic, with a little manic depression thrown in for added fun.”

      Ross frowned. He knew enough about mental illness to know it couldn’t have been an easy road for either of them.

      “You stayed with him?”

      “He was my husband,” she said simply. “I loved him.”

      “You must have been young.”

      “We married when I was twenty-four. I didn’t feel young at the time but in retrospect, I was a baby. I suppose I must have been young enough, anyway, that I was certain I could fix anything.”

      “But you couldn’t.”

      “Not this. It was bigger than either of us. That’s still so hard for me to admit, even seven years later. For three years, he tried every possible combination of meds but nothing could keep the demons away for long. Finally Chris’s condition started a downward spiral and no matter what we tried, we couldn’t seem to slow the momentum. On his twentyeighth birthday, he gave up the fight. He returned home early from work, set his camera on a tripod with an automatic timer, took out a Ruger he had bought illegally on the street a week earlier and shot himself in our bedroom.”

      Where Julie would be certain to find him, he realized grimly. Ross had seen enough self-inflicted gunshot wounds when he had been a cop to know exactly what kind of scene she must have walked into.

      He knew her husband had been mentally ill and couldn’t have been thinking clearly, but suddenly Ross was furious at the man for leaving behind such horror and anguish for his pretty, devoted young wife to remember the rest of her life. He hoped she could remember past that traumatic final scene and the three rough years preceding it to the few good ones they had together. “I’m so sorry, Julie.”

      He wanted to take it away, to make everything all better for her, but here was another person in his life whose pain he couldn’t fix.

      The unmistakable sincerity in Ross’s voice warmed the small, frozen place inside Julie that would always grieve for the bright, creative light extinguished far too soon.

      She lifted her gaze to his. “It was a terrible time in my life. I can’t lie about that. The grief was so huge and so awful, I wasn’t sure I could survive it. But I endured by hanging on to the things I still had that mattered—my faith, my family, my friends. I also reminded myself every single day, both before his death and in those terrible dark days after, that Chris wasn’t responsible for the choices he made. I know he loved me and wouldn’t have chosen that course, if he could have seen any other choice in his tormented mind.”

      He didn’t say anything for a long time and she couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking.

      “Is that why you work with troubled kids?” he finally asked, his voice low. “To make sure none of them feels like that’s the only way out for them?”

      She sighed. “I suppose that’s part of it. I started out working on a suicide hotline in the evenings and realized I was making an impact. It helped me move outside myself at a time I desperately needed that and I discovered I was good at listening. So I left teaching and went back to school to earn a graduate degree.”

      “Do you miss teaching?” he asked.

      “Sometimes. But when I was teaching six different classes, with thirty kids each, I didn’t have the chance for the one-on-one interaction I have now. I can always go back to teaching if I want. I still might someday, if that seems the right direction for me. I haven’t ruled anything out yet.”

      “Do you ever wonder if anything you do really makes a difference?”

      How in the world had he become so cynical? she wondered. Was it his years as a police officer? Or something before then? It saddened her, whatever the cause.

      “I have to give back somehow. I’ve always thought of it as trying to shine as much light as I can, even if it only illuminates my own path.”

      He gazed at her, his dark eyes intense, and she was suddenly painfully aware of him, the hard strength of his shoulders beside her, the slight curl of his hair brushing his collar.

      “You’re a remarkable woman,” he said softly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known anyone quite like you.”

      He wanted to kiss her. She sensed it clearly again, as she had earlier in the evening. She could see the desire kindle in his eyes, the intention there.

      This time he wouldn’t stop—and she didn’t want him to. She wanted to know if his kiss could possibly be as good as she imagined it. Anticipation fluttered through her, like the soft, fragile wings of a butterfly, and she caught her breath as he moved closer, surrounding her with his heat and his strength.

      The night seemed magical. The vast glitter of stars and the breeze murmuring through the trees and the sweet scents of his sister’s flower garden. Everything combined to make this moment seem unreal.

      She closed her eyes as his mouth found hers, her heart pounding, her breath caught in her throat. His kiss was gentle at first, as slow and easy as the little creek running through her yard on a hot August afternoon. She leaned into it, into him, wondering how it was possible for him to make her feel shattered with just a kiss.

      She was vaguely aware of the slide of his arms around her, pulling her closer. She again had that vague sensation of being surrounded by him, encircled. It wasn’t unpleasant. Far from it. She wanted to savor every moment, burn it all into her mind.

      He deepened the kiss, his mouth a little more urgent. Some insistent warning voice in her head urged her to pull away and return to the safety of the other side of the patio, away from this temptation to lose her common sense—herself—but she decided to ignore it. Instead, she curled her arms around his neck and surrendered to the moment.

      She had dated a few men in the seven years since Chris’s suicide. A history teacher at the high school, a fellow grad student, an investment banker she met at the gym.

      All of them had been perfectly nice, attractive men. So why hadn’t their kisses made her blood churn, the lassitude seep into her muscles? She supposed it was a good thing he was supporting her weight with his arms around her because she wasn’t at all sure she could stand on her own.

      In seven years, she hadn’t realized how truly much she had missed a man’s touch until just this moment. Everything feminine inside her just seemed to give a deep, heartfelt sigh of welcome.

      They kissed for a long time there in the moonlight. She learned the taste of him, of the wine they’d had with dinner