Sweet Home Colorado. C.C. Coburn
of giving her baby away bit deep. But the real sin she’d committed twelve years earlier was in not telling Jack—of not giving him a chance. That was the one she really needed to answer for. How she could even start to do that, Grace had no idea.
Jack scratched his elbow again. She knew that what he was suffering from was something she could easily cure. With no chance of Jack dying.
“What do you want from me, Jack?” she asked.
His eyebrows rose speculatively.
“Apart from that.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Did I say anything?”
She grinned. That would doubtless be very nice. She wondered what it would be like to have a young, virile man like Jack make love to her. Instead of a selfish older man like Edward who was also a lousy lover.
Wondering what sort of lover Jack would be, now that he was a man—not a fumbling teen—Grace felt her face heat.
“Are you okay?” Jack asked. “You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she said, working to recover her equilibrium. “But can we negotiate? I’d very much like you to restore this house for me.”
“Then you’ll have to help with it,” he said, and glanced pointedly at her manicured nails.
“You’ve got to be joking! You have a foreman, so I assume you have a crew of workers. How would I be able to help?”
“You can sweep up, run down to the hardware store for supplies. Make lunch for the gang. Paint walls. Stuff like that.”
“And my trip to Europe?”
“You and I both know you just made that up.”
Grace chewed her lip. Jack was pretty shrewd. “I’d like to go to Europe sometime.”
“Then you can. When we’ve finished this project.”
We. The word scared her, especially in relation to Jack. They’d dated for two years but had only made love once—the night before Jack headed off for the peace corps and she left for college. Jack had excited her far more that fateful night than Edward ever did the entire time they were married.
And Jack had given her what Edward never could.
Why they’d waited so long to make love, she had no idea. But six weeks later, feeling as if she had a bad case of the flu but suspecting worse in spite of their use of birth control, Grace had purchased a pregnancy test.
When it came back positive, Grace knew she had only two options. Since the first went against her beliefs about preserving human life, she started making inquiries about adoption. If she’d known Jack was in town, Grace would never have come back to Spruce Lake. Her fear that he would discover her secret was too great. She was sure her guilt was written all over her face.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Your face is flushed again.”
To prevent Jack from asking any further questions she stuck out her hand. “If I agree to your outrageous terms, do we have a deal?”
What was she saying? She couldn’t get out of town fast enough to prevent Jack from somehow discovering the truth, yet here she was agreeing to stay and help. Then again, it wasn’t like she had anything else to do for the next few months—so why not stay? She owed him that for making time in his schedule and she really needed to have the house restored before it completely fell to pieces. She couldn’t live with that sort of disgrace.
And besides, how hard could it be watching Jack working under the hot sun? Seeing him again, she couldn’t get rid of the notion they had unfinished business. Business that had nothing to do with the child they shared, but a whole lot to do with sex.
She’d kept her secret safe this long. She could keep it to herself a bit longer.
Jack took her hand and held it. “Deal.”
His hand felt warm and strong. Grace didn’t want to let it go. Where was Jack when she’d broken down at the hospital the other day? She was sure if she’d had his strong shoulders to lean on, she wouldn’t have had such a public meltdown.
Chapter Three
“Boss!”
They jumped apart at Al’s shout.
“I’m done with the estimate for the outside. I’ll leave the rest to you, okay?” he said. “Maria’s giving me hell about getting home for dinner with the kids tonight.”
“Sure, sure,” Jack said. “Stop by Mrs. Carmichael’s and pick up a big bunch of flowers for that wonderful wife of yours.” Jack drew his cell out of his pocket. “I’ll call Mrs. C. She’ll be waiting outside her shop.”
Al’s face broke into a wide smile. “I knew there was a reason I worked for a slave driver like you!” He saluted Grace. “Bye, ma’am.” A moment later he disappeared through the front door.
Grace listened while Jack called the florist. He seemed to be close to her since he could order flowers over the phone without credit card details. And have the woman waiting outside her shop to hand Al a bouquet as he drove by!
Jack hung up and said, “Now, how are you going to cure me of this itching? And please don’t say it’s bedbugs!”
* * *
GRACE LAUGHED. JACK LOVED the sound of it, deep-throated and sexy as hell. He’d been a hormonal teen when he’d first laid eyes on Grace in his English class fifteen years ago. He fell for her hard. After they started dating, he’d assumed they’d eventually marry, stay in Spruce Lake, have kids. He made a face at the memory of his teenage delusion.
Turned out she’d had other plans, ones that didn’t include him in her future.
During his time in the seminary, he’d worked hard to suppress his memories of her, his desire to hold her and make love to her again.
Grace touched his arm and he reveled in the warmth and silkiness of her fingertips on his skin.
“If I suspected you were suffering from bedbugs, trust me, I’d have hightailed it back to Boston.”
He tried to smile, but the thought that Grace might leave again filled him with dread.
“You have eczema.” Her voice became serious as she examined the angry red rash. Her hands felt warm on him. Too warm. Too good. “It’s not contagious and it’s easily curable. Do you suffer from allergies?”
“None that I know of. Why?”
“Because it’s often due to an allergic reaction, either to grasses or something you’ve been eating. Stress can set it off, too. Does asthma run in the family?”
“Mom has it, but nothing severe.”
“Uh-huh. Do you drink acidic juices, like orange, pineapple, stuff like that?”
“Not usually, but lately I’ve been swigging OJ as a pick-me-up.”
She nodded. “That’s about the worst thing you can do. I’ll make a list of foods to avoid and write you a prescription for a medicated cream. That should take care of it.”
“How can a Massachusetts doctor write me a prescription?”
“I took the precaution of getting licensed to practice in Colorado a couple of years ago, in case Aunt Missy was ever moves to a care home in Denver and needed me around for a while.”
He considered this, then said, “Doc Jenkins has given me creams before.”
“Probably not the right ones. Has he ever talked to you about your diet?”
Jack shook his head, tongue-tied because Grace was absentmindedly stroking the inside of his arm. Didn’t she know what it was doing to him?
“Doesn’t