A Man She Can Trust

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 the girl was cupping a hand over the receiver. “There’s…um…someone here to see you. She wants directions to your home.”

“You know the policy, Beth. We never give out phone numbers or addresses.”

“Of course. But…” In the background, Grace could hear raised, angry voices, and then Beth came back on the line. “She says her name is Ashley, and that she’s your niece. She…um…has a teenage son with her who isn’t very happy with her right now. I already notified security…but should I call the police?”

Grace tossed the brochures aside, launched out of her chair and headed for the coat closet. “Is the boy’s name Ross?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Beth sounded worried.

“They’re my relatives, but they might have trouble finding my house in the dark. Tell them to calm down, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Remembering Ashley’s volatile temper and her great-nephew’s rebellious nature, Grace made it to the hospital in eight minutes, despite the six inches of snow already on the ground and the deepening drift at the corner of Maine and Oak.

Instead of braving the staff parking lot, where the wind had piled snow into dunes near the building, she pulled up into the crescent drive at the front.

Inside, she stamped the snow from her boots, shrugged out of her coat and gave Beth a nod. “Quieter, now?”

The girl tipped her head toward the waiting area. “I brought the woman some coffee, and gave her son a Coke,” she said. “Are they really relatives of yours? I mean—well—” She blushed.

“Yes, they are,” Grace said, frowning. At twenty-two, Beth brought fresh enthusiasm to the job, but she was also prone to being a bit too personal. “I’ll take them back to my house once we get things settled down.”

Beth’s blush deepened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thanks for calling. I imagine the trip was stressful for them, coming all this way in such bad weather.” Grace smiled at her, then headed for the corner of the waiting room where Ross had pulled a chair up in front of the TV. Only the top of his black, curly hair showed over the backrest.

Ashley sat on the edge of a chair near him, her hands knotted in her lap and her eyes revealing both her tension and exhaustion. She looked up as Grace drew closer, clearly relieved.

“Aunt Grace—I’m sooo happy to see you!” She stood and hurried over for a quick hug, then a much longer, second embrace. “I never expected all this snow. The roads were so slick—and the tires on my friend’s car aren’t all that great. We nearly went in the ditch twice.”

“It’s good to see you again, honey.” Grace rested her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and took a half step back to look at her. She had to be twenty-nine by now, but deep lines bracketed her mouth and fanned from the corners of her eyes. She looked forty, and from the stiffness in her spine she was here with news that wasn’t good.

Ross twisted around and glared at his mother, then slumped back down and continued watching the sitcom on television.

“Please—can we talk over there?” Ashley pleaded, motioning to a far corner. “I-it’s important.”

Ross slumped farther down in his seat and cursed under his breath. “Like I don’t know everything you’re gonna say?”

Ashley’s eyes filled with tears. “Please. He’s just upset right now, and so am I. It’s not what you think.”

But Grace already had a pretty good idea, as she led Ashley over to a sofa and loveseat arranged for greater privacy. The girl had led a troubled life, starting with her own rebelliousness at school and a pregnancy at fourteen, then the loss of both parents the year after she graduated from high school.

Ashley seemed to melt into the soft cushions of the loveseat as she stared down at her tightly clasped hands. “We were doing okay, Ross and me. I’ve held a good job as a teacher’s assistant, and I’ve been going to night school. By summer I’ll be done with a whole year of college credits. But then…” Her eyes filled with renewed tears. “Ross started cutting class, and he got in some other trouble at school. He got suspended twice this year. The county says it will file charges against me if I don’t make sure that he goes to school every day. But I’m working, and going to school…”

“So he’s home alone.”

“He’s got a key,” Ashley snapped. Her gaze met Grace’s for a split second, then dropped back to her hands. She lowered her voice to a ragged whisper. “It isn’t good, I know. He’s only a sophomore, and he’s already got friends who’ve dropped out. Friends who…use.”

“Sounds like a bad situation.” Grace thought back to some of the troubled teenagers she’d taken in over the years. She’d been younger then, able to cope and keep up, but some of those kids had been a full-time job unto themselves. Even so, the drug scene hadn’t yet swept into this part of the world.

“I can’t be at work and school, and know where he is every minute. He’s getting an attitude like his daddy had, the just-try-and-make-me sort of sneer teachers hate. And…” She shifted uncomfortably. “He and his buddy were caught shoplifting in December.”

“Oh, dear.” Grace glanced over at the boy slouched in the chair. He was probably a good five foot nine already, much taller and heavier than his diminutive mother.

“A caseworker got involved,” Ashley added hastily. “Ross isn’t being sent away. Not this time. But if he messes up again, the judge will send him to a detention center. He’s only got one more chance, and I’m scared he’s gonna blow it.”

Grace gave one fleeting thought to those travel brochures on the coffee table back home, then dismissed them without regret. “If you need money, I do have some put by.”

A man in his early thirties appeared at the entryway of the hospital, jingled a set of keys and fixed Ashley with an impatient look.

She nodded to him, then turned back to Grace. “I don’t want your money. Come this fall, I should have some student loans set up—me and Ross will be fine.”

“Then…”

“I won’t even have him by then, if he screws up any more. I need to get him out of Chicago, away from his friends—until the end of this school year.”

Ashley leaned forward and took one of Grace’s hands into both of her own. “Please. Will you take my son?”

“PRETTY SLICK, HUH?” Ross slouched on the couch in Grace’s living room, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “Five-minute intro, and you’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck isn’t the word I would use. Not at all.” Grace propped her elbows on the armrests of her recliner and steepled her fingertips under her jaw.

“Like you really wanted to find yourself saddled with a kid you barely know.” He turned his head to look disdainfully at her from the pile of crocheted pillows. “I bet you woke up this morning thinking, ‘Geez, I wish I had a fifteen-year-old hanging around. For months.’”

“It honestly hadn’t crossed my mind. But, that doesn’t mean you aren’t welcome—or that I don’t look forward to getting to know you better.”

“Ri-i-ight.” He drew out the sarcasm.

“I still think your mother and her…friend should have stayed overnight. Chicago is over six hours away in good weather. Tonight, it might take twice as long.”

“Tony owns a bar. He’d never miss being there on a weekend. And Mom wouldn’t miss her tips.”

Surprised, Grace cocked her head. “She said she works as an assistant teacher.”

“Part-time. Nights Thursday through Saturday, she tends bar and hangs out with Tony. She usually turns up at home on Sunday.”

So Ross was unsupervised on weekends. Not a good thing, for a boy his age. Especially one who’d already been in trouble.

“First thing, we’ll have to get you enrolled in school,” Grace said briskly. His jaw stiffened, and despite his bravado, she knew it had to be scary, thinking about walking into a strange school midyear. A place where he knew no one at all. “I remember there used to be quite a few families coming or going over winter vacation, so you probably won’t be the only new face.”

“Whatever.”

“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 lawyer—a fine and caring man. How could things have gone so wrong between them?

Grace took one last look at the rate on the IV pump and started for the door to give them privacy.

“How’s he doing today?” Jill asked, stopping Grace.

It was a question intended to keep her there—perhaps as a buffer—because every last detail of Warren’s day was clearly documented in the interdisciplinary notes section of his chart.

“Quite well,” Grace murmured. “His vitals have been normal for the past twenty-four hours. I’d like you to take a look at his IV site, though. I think we’ll need to restart it sooner than scheduled.”

Jill moved to the bed and smiled in greeting, then inspected his arm. “She’s right, Warren. Vanco is hard on the veins. We’ll have to change your IV at least twice before you’re done.”

Warren scowled. “Do whatever you damn well please and then leave me alone.”

“Dad—”

“It’s okay,” Jill said, sparing Grant a chilly glance and then turning her attention back to Warren. “No one likes being here. Right?”

He fixed his stony gaze on the wall just over her head.

The similarity between Grant, Jill and Warren almost made Grace smile. They were strong, intelligent people—and all of them had definite opinions. When the three got together, sparks flew.

Grace silently commiserated with Jill above the patient’s head, then gathered her tray of supplies and slipped out the door.

GRANT LEANED BACK in his father’s ancient, leather-upholstered desk chair and smiled. “So you’re saying you want to rewrite your will again, Mr. Walthan?”

Hal pursed his lips and studied the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. “Mebbe.”

“You’re not sure.”

“I’m thinking about it. My fool grandson…” The old man’s heavy neck wattle jiggled as he shook his head in disgust. “Tattoos.”

“Tattoos.” Grant drummed a forefinger on the thick client folder he’d pulled. It held at least four other versions of the man’s will, all drafted within the past year, all disinheriting one family member or another. “You want to disinherit him because he got tattoos? They’re pretty common these days.”

“He’s got snakes crawlin’ up one arm. A black widow spider crawling down the other.” Hal drew his bushy white eyebrows together. “Not the kind of appearance the town expects of a Walthan.”

“Pretty soon you’re going to run out of relatives. And, if it appears you’ve been capricious, unduly influenced by anyone or have made some…unusual…decisions, there could be family members who try to contest.”

“Your job is to make sure that can’t happen.” The elderly pharmacist set his jaw. “Then just let ’em try.”

Grant jotted a few more notes on the legal pad in front of him. “I’ll write up a new draft, then. When you come back in, I’ll ask you to go over each of your wishes—with a witness present—and I’ll videotape proof that you appeared to be of sound mind. I’ll also ask you for a handwritten summary.”