A Man She Can Trust. Roxanne Rustand

the art, and the house was surely secure. Still, uneasy, she slowly retraced her steps and cautiously peered into the library.

      The old chandelier suspended from the pressed-tin ceiling bathed the center of the room in soft light, but left the corners in darkness. She sensed nothing amiss.

      Reassured, she laughed at her overactive imagination as she moved to the parlor and rested a hand on the heavy, carved mahogany trim of the archway. Here, too, the soft light of an antique chandelier shadowed the nooks and crannies.

      Though the house had been sold unfurnished, she and Grant had found some delightful old pieces up in the attic. A turn-of-the-century sewing machine with cast-iron filigree legs. An old, painted fern pedestal, which she’d refinished to its original deep-oak beauty. A warped rocking chair that—after a trip to a furniture repair shop—now fit nicely at the bay window overlooking the side garden.

      They’d put all of the original pieces they’d found into this room, and then she’d added an old, towering secretary, intricately carved, and a lovely old oriental rug in deep jewel tones.

      She stilled. When had she moved the rocker to the room’s front windows?

      Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at it.

      Almost imperceptibly, it appeared to be moving…as in those final, slow moments after someone has gotten up and walked away.

      You really need more sleep. Next, you’ll be seeing apparitions in the hallway, and bogeymen in your closet.

      It was only the wind, of course. Drafts found their way into the old house whenever the wind blew outside.

      A faint sound echoed down the shotgun hallway leading to the front entry. She looked down, surprised to see her hands clenched.

      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.

      CHAPTER TWO

      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