A Man She Can Trust. Roxanne Rustand

      “Your mother,” she added with a smile, “must have been pretty sure this would all work out. She said she’d already requested that your school records be sent up here.”

      He snorted. “If you’d said no, she probably would’ve just taken off. You never had a choice.” He raised a brow. “She and ole Tony had it figured out before they ever left home.”

      Grace bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a tart reply. Had Ashley been that cunning? As an example to her son, it would be terrible. As an example of her love for him, it was even worse. He was young enough that it had to hurt. Deeply.

      “I think it’s good that you’re here,” Grace said simply. “So tell me, how much trouble were you in, back in Chicago?”

      “What—you gonna try to send me back?”

      Grace stood and moved an armchair next to the sofa, where she would be in his direct line of vision. “No, I’m going to enjoy your company. This place used to be a madhouse, with all the kids who grew up here. And now, it’s way too quiet.”

      She picked up a tapestry bag of knitting she’d left by the sofa and pulled out a pair of needles and a ball of soft, navy-blue mohair yarn. After casting on a row of stitches, she started knitting.

      “This will be a sweater,” she said over the soft clicking of her needles. “I could go out to a discount store and buy just any old blue sweater. Maybe pay twenty or thirty dollars. It wouldn’t mean anything to me, but it would be cheap and easy.”

      He stared up at the ceiling with a look of utter boredom.

      “Or, I can choose to do something really special. Something that takes a lot of time, a lot of hard work. Sometimes, I’ll make a mistake, and I’ll have to go back to make it right.”

      He didn’t say anything, though she could tell he was listening.

      “But in the end, I have something to be proud of, because of all the love and time that went into it. And in the years to come, I’ll remember all the good things that happened in my life while I was working on it.”

      She finished another few rows, then settled the yarn in her lap. “I can’t be your momma, Ross. I’m just your great-aunt. But I promise you that we’ll do well together, you and me.”

      “She dumped me here—away from my friends, my school,” he said bitterly.

      Grace studied him, wishing she could give him the comfort and reassurance he needed. He was fifteen, though, not five—on that cusp of youth between childhood and independence where one had to tread softly.

      “You’ve been up here twice? Three times? Only for brief visits, though.” She dropped her gaze back to her knitting and started another row. “I suppose we should be upfront with each other, so there aren’t any misunderstandings. As with all the other kids I’ve raised, I expect you to work hard in school, to keep my curfews and pitch in. I won’t tolerate drugs, alcohol or smoking. I expect simple respect, and that’s what I’ll give you, along with a home as long as you need it.”

      She looked up at him over her half-glasses. “Now, you tell me your feelings about all of this. Fair enough?”

      He levered himself off the sofa and grabbed for his duffel bag—surely not big enough to hold much. For a moment he seemed ready to flee, then he sagged back down, dropped his forearms on his thighs and bowed his head. “I got no choice, do I,” he said flatly.

      He didn’t, unless he chose to run…and that could only lead to more trouble. Grace said a quick, silent prayer for the right words. “Honey, your mom is my niece. That makes me your flesh and blood. I care about you. Let’s do our best, here, all right? Summer will be here before you know it. In the meantime, maybe you can consider this a bit of a vacation…an adventure, in the most beautiful place on earth.”

      He glanced up at her, and for just a moment she saw beyond his tough shell.

      “Have you ever been snowmobiling? Ice fishing? Cross-country or downhill skiing?” Grace mentally catalogued every person she knew in town who could help her out. “Fly fishing? Canoeing?”

      “You do all that?” he sneered.

      “Cross-country, but my bones are a little too stiff for downhill. Fishing. As for snowmobiling, I know lots of people who are into it, big time.”

      He stood up and shouldered his duffel bag. “Where do I sleep?”

      Grace set aside her knitting, crossed the living room and opened the door leading to the second floor. “Either room up there. You’re welcome to rearrange the furniture any way you’d like, and I’ll bring up some linens in just a few minutes.” She glanced at her watch. “Are you hungry? Do you want something before you turn in?”

      He jerked his head no, and tromped up the stairs.

      Grace sighed. She’d had many teenagers under her wing. Emotionally damaged, surly, some of them had been homeless or had come from abusive situations, and most of them had chafed against the restrictions of a disciplined household. They’d all come around, with love and patience.

      But she’d been much younger then. She’d had the energy and the determination to help those children the best she could, and had sent them out into the world with much greater chance of success.

      Now, she felt old. Tired. With the aches of arthritis keeping her awake at night, how was she going to keep up this time? But there was no way she could refuse.

      Ross and Ashley needed her, and she was going to make sure she didn’t fail them.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “I CAN’T HELP it, Warren. You’re stuck here—with me.” Grace frowned at him over her half-glasses. “Just be glad your infection hasn’t spread past the surgical site. If all your cronies had to wear gowns, slippers and masks in here, you’d probably have a lot less company. This way, it’s just the person changing your dressings who has to gown up.”

      “Seven more days,” Warren grumbled, glaring at the IV pole looming above his bed. “I could be in Florida golfing.”

      “Or you could be six feet under.” Grace double-checked the bag of vancomycin she’d brought in, then hung it with the bag of saline and started the dose. “Not long ago, an antibiotic-resistant staph infection like this one would have killed you.”

      “No one ever accused you of tact, Gracey.”

      “I’ve got plenty of tact, Bugs.” She grinned. He’d always hated that nickname. Probably hoped he’d left it behind in grade school, when he gave Billy Alderson a black eye. “I just know it doesn’t work with you.”

      Warren snorted.

      “But I’ve got some good news for you—I saw your son talking to Dr. Jill out in the hall, just a few minutes ago. It must be wonderful to have him back, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, yeah. And it’s good to see you. Are you my nurse this shift?”

      “Just until Marcia gets here. She had some car trouble.”

      “Stop back again, would you? It’s nice…just talking about old times.”

      The past couple of days had been more hectic than usual, with a spate of mid-winter injuries and illnesses—influenza, broken legs and ankles from winter sports, bronchitis and pneumonias—and until today she hadn’t given him more than a quick greeting.

      The loneliness in his eyes touched her heart. “Of course I will.”

      Grant knocked lightly and walked in, following Dr. Jill. From the strained expression on Jill’s face and the rigid set of Grant’s shoulders it was all too clear that they still barely tolerated each other’s presence.

      It was such a shame. Jill was one of her closest friends in the hospital and her ex-husband was still Grace’s