Colorado Christmas. C.C. Coburn

      ALTHOUGH SHE’D MARCHED off after their humiliating encounter, Becky’s legs weren’t as steady as she would’ve liked. The trip down unhappy-memory lane had rattled her, and she’d let down her guard. “Damn!” she said and swiped at her cheeks, hoping no one would notice the tears that refused to stop welling in her eyes.

      She turned down her street, head low as she avoided other pedestrians. She’d felt like a complete spectacle there in the middle of Main Street being held by Will O’Malley for the entire world to see!

      Nicolas wasn’t home—he was still at the hydrotherapy pool doing a session with his physical therapist. For once, she was home alone and could indulge in a bit of self-pity.

      After lighting the fire, she poured a glass of pinot noir and curled up in a corner of the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. The room was pleasantly furnished. She’d brought a few decorative pieces with her, but the quaint Victorian house was fully furnished. That meant Becky was able to rent out her renovated loft apartment in Denver for the six months they’d be in Spruce Lake. She’d bought it with part of her divorce settlement. The rest she’d invested in Nicolas’s college fund, although she’d have to dip into that to pay for the exclusive school for gifted children he’d be entering next fall when they returned to Denver.

      The wine’s warmth seeped through her, calming her nerves. The sooner she got out of this town, where everyone knew everyone else—and their business!—the better. Whatever had possessed her to accept the job here?

      The spectators today had brought back unwanted memories from her past. The only memories Becky cherished from that long-ago time were of spending every spare moment at Ben Solomon’s office learning about the law. The kindly lawyer had taken her under his wing and helped her apply for a scholarship to attend college and then law school on the East Coast—far away from her family. Sadly, Ben hadn’t lived to see her graduate.

      Her first job was with a prestigious Atlanta law firm where she’d met Graham Marcus, one of the firm’s high-flying partners. Urbane and charming, he had a wide circle of friends. They’d worked on several cases together, dated occasionally and a few months later he’d asked her to marry him.

      Flattered and desperate to have a family of her own, she’d agreed without seriously examining whether she loved him—or if, indeed, he really loved her. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The proverb’s words had come back to haunt her.

      Three months after their wedding, Becky was pregnant. Dreaming that at last she’d have the family life she craved—she failed to notice something amiss in their marriage. When she discovered Graham had a mistress, the betrayal was so devastating she’d nearly miscarried. Graham begged her forgiveness. He put their unborn son’s name on the waiting list for the same exclusive schools he’d attended and became the doting expectant father. But soon after Nicolas’s birth, it was apparent that all was not quite right with the baby. When they received the diagnosis that Nicolas suffered from cerebral palsy and might never walk, Graham’s interest in their son evaporated and he demanded Becky put him into permanent care.

      Bewildered that he could instantly turn from loving their son to despising him, she’d packed her bags and left with Nicolas, determined her dear little boy would know only unconditional love and support.

      She’d filed for divorce and custody of Nicolas—Graham contested neither—and she’d had no contact with her ex-husband since.

      Another man had let her down. She swore that would never happen again. She’d been a fool to forgive Graham his affair. She would never forgive him for rejecting their son.

      And she had no intention of opening her heart to pain ever again.

      Becky sipped her wine, allowing its warm glow to spread through her. But the warmth reminded her of Will O’Malley and how good his arms had felt around her. How safe she’d felt in his embrace. I need to get out of this town, because he makes me yearn for things I can’t have.

      She sipped more of the wine and thought, Now, there’s a man who’d head for the hills if he knew I had a physically challenged child.

      Chapter Four

      “Have you heard anything from your ladylove yet, dear?” Mrs. Carmichael asked as Will cleaned up after repainting her shop.

      He dried the paintbrushes and stored them. “Nope,” he said. “But she’ll come around.”

      He’d been doing odd jobs at the florist’s for the past few days in between fulfilling his community service obligations at the Twilight Years Home. In payment, Mrs. C. sent him off to the courthouse with a dozen red roses every day. But instead of being shown into the judge’s chambers, he’d had to leave them with the receptionist at the front desk. So far, he hadn’t received any acknowledgment of either the flowers or the notes requesting a date that he’d hidden among the blooms.

      “Maybe the judge doesn’t like roses?” she suggested. “I could do some lovely spring bouquets.”

      Will picked up a cloth and wiped down the counter in front of him. “You’re sweet, Mrs. C. One of Spruce Lake’s living treasures.”

      She flapped a hand at him good-naturedly. “Get on with you, Will O’Malley. Like your dear papa, you’ve inherited the Irish blarney.”

      “Nope, it’s true. Cross my heart.” He did so, then bent to kiss her goodbye. “Toodle loo, Mrs. C. I’m off to see the mayor and walk Miss P.’s boys. And don’t forget to call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll have to put you into the Twilight Years.” He shook his finger at her.

      “You’re so insolent,” she said with a laugh. “I always thought your mama was way too lenient with you. Good luck with the mayor. And don’t forget, you’re welcome to move into my upstairs apartment anytime, dear.”

      “Thanks, Mrs. C. I’m so done with Luke whining I’m underfoot at the ranch.” He’d told her about the details of his latest conflicts with his oldest brother.

      She shook her head, her voice full of compassion. “Ah, Luke. Like you, he has a heart of gold. Being the oldest of you boys, he takes on a lot of responsibility.”

      Luke was on the wrong side of thirty-five. Hardly a boy.

      “He needs a wife to help him with the ranch and those dear little girls of his.”

      Considering Luke’s unhappy marital history, Will didn’t have much faith in his brother’s taste in wives. He’d been cranky since the day he said, “I do.” Since it was a shotgun wedding, Will could understand Luke’s foul mood. Tory had set a trap for Luke that he couldn’t see through at the time. However, the doomed marriage did produce three sweet little girls.

      The shop’s doorbell rang and in stepped Frank Farquar with Louella at his heels, sporting a pink tutu. Mrs. C. sucked in her breath.

      “Edna.” Frank removed his best black ten-gallon hat. It was Frank’s prosperous rancher look. To Will’s knowledge, the only time Frank had been anywhere near a cow was when he was barbecuing beef.

      Will scratched Louella behind the ear, then busied himself with restacking some shelves out of Mrs. C.’s reach, figuring he should stay for a bit longer. After all, Frank might need his moral support.

      “What can I do for you, Mr. Farquar?” she asked.

      “I’d like a bunch of your most expensive flowers for someone very special.”

      Will was taken aback. Frank Farquar had a ladylove? Judging by the look on Mrs. C.’s face, that particular bit of gossip hadn’t made its