CHAPTER EIGHT
Ten days later
R UBY FINISHED HER SECOND DELIVERY OF THE NIGHT, LEFT HER plane with the ground crew, and settled on the front porch step to wait for her ride back to town. By now the sun was rising. Meadowlarks were calling from the weedy, abandoned fields that surrounded the old house. A pair of ravens rose from a dead tree in the front yard and flapped into the sky.
She was getting better at her job, the landings and takeoffs smoother, the business concluded and the cargo unloaded with cool efficiency. She had cultivated an impersonal manner with her clients, avoiding questions and eye contact. Since she could be sending them to prison, familiarity would only make things more painful.
She had passed on any and all information she picked up to Agent Hargrave, her contact in the Bureau of Investigation. What they did with that information was beyond her control. But if they’d taken anyone into custody, she hadn’t heard. Maybe they were waiting for her to earn more trust from her employers, or hoping for a bigger cache than what a small plane could carry.
She had yet to make a second delivery to Mason Dollarhide’s ranch. But she’d noticed that the place was on the docket for the next shipment. She would have to report it, of course. If it got him caught, it would serve him right. One would think that a man who’d served five years for bootlegging would have learned his lesson.
But she couldn’t help remembering her body’s response to their contact as he helped her check the stalled engine, and how his piercing green-eyed gaze had stirred a sensual heat in her—a heat she hadn’t felt since her husband left for the war.
What did it mean? Only that she would need to be on her guard with him. Her future and her father’s life hung on her ability to freeze her emotions.
“How about some coffee?” The young man handed her a steaming cup and sat down beside her. Mack, whose last name she’d chosen not to learn, was the new pilot. Younger than Ruby, he’d barely gotten into the war before it ended. His flying skills were above par, but he had a lot to learn about the business. He was just beginning to make deliveries.
“Thanks.” Ruby sipped the strong, black coffee while Mack lit a cigarette. He had sandy hair and a good-natured, freckled face. She knew that he wanted to be friends, but how could she warm to him when, at any time, she might have to betray him to the law?
“The cook told me what happened to your father,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry, too.” Art’s plane had been found wrecked and burned, the incinerated body in the pilot’s seat presumed to be his. Ruby had put up a convincing show of grief and moved on.
“It could happen to any of us,” she said. “Tomorrow it might be me, or it might be you. This is a dangerous business, Mack. You’re young and smart. You didn’t ask for my advice, but I’ll offer it anyway. Get out now, while you can—leave town if you have to—before you’re arrested or killed.”
He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift upward. “I don’t plan to do this forever. As soon as I have enough money to buy some land with a house, I’ll be done here. There’s a girl I want to marry as soon as I have something to offer her.”
Should she tell him the truth—that if he stayed, even if he wasn’t killed in a crash, Colucci and his cohorts would never let him walk away? Would he listen?
“I have a question,” he said. “If it’s as dangerous as you say, why are you still here?”
“That’s easy,” Ruby replied with a half-truth. “I’m here because I have nothing to lose.”
* * *
Later that morning, Ruby was driven back to Miles City to rest and wait for the next big shipment. Mack had stayed behind to help the ground crew overhaul the planes, including the Jenny they’d bought to replace the one that Art had flown.
Colucci had insisted that she move from the boardinghouse to a room on the third floor of the Olive Hotel. The food was better, and the private bath was heaven, but the change made it harder to stay in contact with Hargrave and his fellow agents. Outgoing calls from her room phone could be monitored—the operators could easily be paid off. She’d taken to calling from a pay phone in the lobby or slipping into vacant rooms to use the phones there. The agents rarely called her. Most of the incoming calls were from Colucci or others at the farm.
The driver let her off at the hotel’s front entrance on Main Street. Tired and dressed in her rumpled flight clothes, she headed straight upstairs to her room. She would bathe and get a few hours of sleep, then maybe order a sandwich from room service before she checked in with Agent Hargrave.
The key was pinned inside her pocket. She fished it out, used it to open the door, and walked into the room. There she stopped cold.
On the bed lay a large, rectangular box from an exclusive women’s wear shop here in Miles City. The first possibility that sprang to mind was that it had been delivered by mistake. The second possibility was one she didn’t even want to think about. But as she raised the lid on the box and saw the card with her name on the envelope, Ruby had no more questions. Heart sinking, she put the card aside and lifted away the tissue paper that covered the box’s contents.
The fragrance that rose to mingle with the stale air in the room was subtle and sophisticated, whispering of money and the elegance it could buy. One by one, Ruby lifted up the layers in the box. On top was a dress of beaded beige silk, cut in the latest knee-length fashion with a flirty row of fringe along the hem. Under it was a matching silk slip, and tucked beneath were underthings so fine and sheer that they seemed to float—lace-trimmed drawers and silk stockings with satin garters. Tucked into the corners of the box were high-heeled satin slippers in her size and a beaded headband to match the dress.
The card lay on the bed. Feeling vaguely ill, she forced herself to pick it up, open the envelope, and read the message inside.
Dinner tonight at 7:30. Command performance with a special guest. I will call for you. Can’t wait to see you looking the way you were meant to look.
Leo
Ruby couldn’t recall having called Leo Colucci by his first name, and she wasn’t inclined to start. What she wanted to do was throw the box and its contents out into the alley below, then catch the next train out of town.
But she couldn’t do that. Not while her father was a prisoner and his welfare depended on her. And not when she had a chance to pick up some vital intelligence. She would do her job—wear the clothes, go to dinner, and take mental notes on everything she saw and heard.
She could only hope that Colucci—and his guest—expected nothing more than a dinner companion.
* * *
The woman in the full-length mirror was a stranger in a glittering wisp of a dress that skimmed her body and showed off her silk-clad legs. She’d twisted up her hair, secured it with the headband, and added the dangling earrings she’d found in the bottom of the box. They were cheap rhinestone imitations, thank goodness. She could wear them with a clear conscience.
Only her work-worn hands and bitten, grease-stained nails betrayed the person she really was—but also her eyes, perhaps, their depths reflecting the trepidation that made her stomach clench at the knock on the door.
Colucci stood framed in the doorway. Dressed in his usual three-piece suit and tie, he loomed above her, his size making her feel overpowered, like a gazelle face-to-face with a lion. His handsome, fleshy face wore a confident smirk.
“My, don’t you look stunning,” he said. “I hope you’re enjoying my gift.”
Ruby bit back a too-clever retort. “It’s nice,” she said. “Hardly what I’m used to—a bit like playing dress-up.”
“A woman as beautiful as you deserves more playtime.” Colucci placed a possessive hand at the small of her back and guided her out into the hallway. “I’m going to see that you get it, starting tonight.”
The implication of his words sent a shudder all the way to Ruby’s knees. How far was she prepared to go in her role as an undercover informant? Not that far, she was certain.
He offered his arm as they descended the carpeted stairs. Wobbling a little on her high heels, Ruby took it. Together, they went down to the lobby and crossed it to enter the dining room.
The man at the corner table who rose at their approach was no stranger. As before, Capone took Ruby’s hand and brushed a courtly kiss across her knuckles. “How lovely you look, Mrs. Weaver. Please sit down. I hope you won’t mind—I took the liberty of ordering the leg of lamb for all of us.”
“That’s fine. It’s good to see you again.” Ruby took the chair that Colucci held for her.
Capone’s sharp eyes studied them as Colucci took his seat. What was the man thinking? He was almost certainly evil, but he hadn’t gained the power he enjoyed by being stupid. And he could be charming. For all his reptilian heart, Ruby found herself liking him more than she liked Agents Hoover and Hargrave.
“I heard about your father, Mrs. Weaver,” Capone said. “Such a loss. I’m so sorry. A great pilot and a fine man.”
“Yes, he was,” Ruby said. “I miss him every day. And how is your family, Mr. Capone?”
“In good health, by the grace of God. And what about you, Leo?” Capone fixed Colucci with a penetrating look. “I understand your wife is about to deliver number four. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get a boy this time.”
“God willing.” Color flooded Colucci’s face. Clearly he hadn’t expected his boss’s revelation. Capone’s meaningful glance toward Ruby told her he’d spoken deliberately to give her a warning. Whatever her relationship with Colucci, if it was to be more than business, she needed to know that she was dealing with a married man. Beyond that, the choice was hers. But Capone had respected her enough to do her a favor, and she was grateful.
She returned his look with the slightest nod as the waiter arrived at the table with their meals. The roasted lamb, served with baby potatoes, asparagus tips, and a minty sauce, was hot and well prepared. The dark liquid in Ruby’s glass, which she assumed to be fruit juice, turned out, at the first sip, to be wine. Capone chuckled at her startled expression.
Ruby’s gaze scanned the dining room, which was crowded at this hour. At each of the three entrances stood a thuggish-looking man with a telltale bulge under his suit jacket. Capone, it appeared, had brought along his bodyguards, something he hadn’t done the last time he’d come here. Evidently, he was moving up in the organization, high enough to have acquired some enemies.
“To what do we owe this visit, Mr. Capone?” she asked, remembering her mission. “Is there something special going on?”
“Actually, I’m passing through on my way to Seattle.” Capone speared a small potato with his fork. “I thought I’d take a break from the train, stop off here, and see how your air-delivery operation is going.”
“You’ve seen the numbers,” Colucci said. “Aside from the crash that killed Ruby’s father and cost us a plane, it’s going well. All we need to ramp up the business is a couple of bigger, newer, and safer airplanes—like those De Havillands the post office has bought to carry the mail.”
“You’ve got the pilots you need?”
“You’re looking at the best one. And the new guy, Mack, is going to be a cracker once he learns the ropes. Besides, we can always hire more if we need them. There are plenty of barnstormers who’d be interested in the money.”
“If you can trust them.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” Colucci said.
“Well, if it turns out you can’t, you know what to do.” Capone sipped his wine. A chill passed down Ruby’s back.
“We were talking about planes,” Colucci said.
“Yes, the planes.” Capone sliced his meat into bite-sized pieces. “Go ahead and do some shopping. If you find something that will work, send me the specs and prices, and we’ll take it from there. How does that sit with you, Mrs. Weaver? Would you like a new plane?”
“Of course. But I’ll need some training to pilot it.”
“That can be arranged. Meanwhile, keep those Jennies flying. We’re counting on you.”
The talk drifted to plans for new markets and more product, as they called it. Ruby pretended to focus on her meal, but her ears were alert to every spoken word. She would have plenty of new intelligence to pass on to Hargrave—maybe enough for the feds to make some arrests.
Could she trust them to free her father when she’d done what was asked of her—or would the agents walk away and leave her to deal with the situation? Even the signed release document from Agent Hoover might not be honored. She could no more count on him than she could on the likes of Capone and Colucci.
After dessert, Capone excused himself and went out to his private railroad car, flanked by his bodyguards. Ruby allowed Colucci to escort her back upstairs to her room. Braced for a confrontation, she faced him at the door.
“Thank you for a lovely evening and for your generous gift,” she said. “Keep me posted about the new planes. I’ll see you when the next shipment comes in.”
She took the key out of her bag and slipped it into the lock. Colucci leaned into the door frame.
“You can thank me by inviting me in, Ruby,” he said.
This was the moment for strength. “I know what you’re expecting, Mr. Colucci,” she said. “And I realize you’re my boss. But you have a wife who’s expecting a baby. And I have a firm rule against crossing the line with a married man.”
Colucci didn’t move. “That’s not how it works. Men like me and Al Capone, we have our wives and families. They’re like, sacred, untouchable, apart from the lives we lead. And then we have our girls—girls we pet and pamper and play with. They’re treated like queens. I could give you everything a woman might want, Ruby—clothes, jewelry, an apartment, a nice car . . .”
“So you’re asking me to be your mistress—is that it?”
“There are worse things to be. Look at you—you’ve got nothing. I could give you a world you’ve only dreamed of.”
“It’s a world I don’t want,” Ruby said. “Find yourself another woman. I’m your pilot, not your girl.”
He leaned closer, trapping her between the locked door and the frame. His breath was hot and damp against her face, his voice a throaty growl. “I’m not a man to take no for an answer,” he said. “You’ll change your mind. When you do, let me know. Just don’t make me wait too long.”
She braced herself to fight off his kiss, but he turned away with a rough laugh. “Sleep tight, Ruby. I’ll see you in your dreams.”
As he walked away, Ruby unlocked the door, slipped into the room, and secured the lock behind her. Knees shaking, she leaned against the door. In the silence, she could hear heavy footfalls going back down the hall toward the stairwell.
At least he’d walked away like a gentleman, she told herself. But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she heard the crash of a giant fist slamming into the wall, followed by a splintering sound.
The urge to open the door and look out swiftly fled. There could be just one explanation for what she’d heard. Leo Colucci had expected a different outcome to the evening. He was giving vent to his frustration.
Once the noise had faded, she moved away from the door and began pulling the dress over her head, fighting the temptation to rip it off. She never wanted to wear it again. One by one, she laid the gauzy garments in the fragrant, tissue-lined box and placed it on the dresser bench. Maybe, with luck, one of the maids would steal it.
Colucci had just shown her who he was—a dangerous, mercurial man who could become violent if he didn’t get what he wanted. Not that she was surprised—she’d never felt at ease around him. Now that he’d made his intentions clear, the safest course would be for her to run—change her name, leave Montana for someplace where Colucci would never find her. But her situation gave her no choice except to stay. Until Colucci and his like were under arrest, and her father set free, she was trapped.
The worst of it was the guilt. As Colucci’s mistress, she’d be privy to secrets that could bring down the whole Montana bootlegging operation and free her father. Was she being selfish, saying no to a man who made her skin crawl? Maybe Colucci was right. Maybe she would be forced to change her mind. But not yet. Please, God, not yet.
She would have a few days’ rest until the next shipment came in—maybe time to make a furtive trip to Deer Lodge to check on her father. But what was she thinking? Art was supposed to be dead. If it became known that he was alive, she would be exposed and probably killed. So would her father.
For now, unless she chose to sleep with Colucci, there was little she could do except perform her job as expected, keep her eyes and ears open, and report on what she learned. But she was walking a tightrope—a rope that was getting more fragile with every step. Sooner or later it would break—and she would have no one she could depend on, no one to save her. Her life would count for nothing. She was alone.
* * *
After the loss of her sister and her parents, Britta Anderson had sold the family home in town. She had moved into the quarters that were built onto the old log schoolhouse as a residence for the teacher. The rooms were small, and there was no plumbed-in bathtub. But conditions were no worse than they’d been when she was growing up on the family farm.
Tonight, she sat on the back porch in the rocker she’d brought from her old home. Her father, a skilled carpenter, had made it for her mother when their first child, her late brother, Alvar, was born. There was no way Britta could have left it behind, even though it was unlikely she would ever rock a baby of her own.
When the weather changed, she would take the chair inside. But for now, it was a pleasure to sit in the peace of the late night, with the stars overhead and the town slumbering around her.
On the next street over, stood the sheriff’s office and the city jail. Like the school, the facility had been built with attached living quarters. Sheriff Jake Calhoun lived upstairs from the jail with his little girl.
Tonight, with most of the block in darkness, she could see a distant light in the upstairs window. Did the handsome sheriff have company? she wondered idly. Could something be wrong, or was he just restless? Not that it was any of her business. She’d had a few dreams about the man, but she’d sworn off any interest in him when he’d married pretty Cora. Even with Cora gone, that hadn’t changed. There were younger, more attractive women waiting for Jake to pick and choose. She had missed her chance, and she had too much pride to try again.
A coyote streaked across the schoolyard and vanished into the shadows. Britta rose and moved the chair back under the shelter of the porch roof. It was getting late. She would change into her nightgown and read in bed until she got sleepy. That was one of the luxuries of being single. She could do whatever she wished.
She’d gone inside, put on her nightgown, let down her braids, and was about to switch off the parlor light when she heard an urgent rapping on the door. A woman alone couldn’t be too careful. Britta disliked guns, but she kept a baseball bat propped next to the door frame. Holding it ready, she called, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Jake. I need your help.” The voice was familiar, but its worried tone was nothing like she’d heard before. Pulse racing, she opened the door.
He stood on the threshold, dark hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, as if hastily pulled on. His four-year-old daughter, Marissa, lay like a golden-haired doll against his chest. She was wrapped in a light cotton blanket, her breathing labored, her eyes closed. “She’s burning up with fever,” he said. “I can’t reach the doctor, and I don’t know what to do. You were the first person I thought of.”
One look at the child and Britta forgot her awkward past relationship with Jake. She forgot that she was wearing nothing but her thin cotton nightgown. There was nothing on her mind but a sick little girl who needed help.
“Bring her in. Lay her on the bed. I’ll have a look.” Britta had no medical training except her own practical experience. But right now, there appeared to be no one else available.
Blue Moon’s only doctor was Blake Dollarhide’s sister, Kristin. She lived on a ranch with her family, nearly an hour’s distance on a rough road. She came into town three days a week to see patients. But now she was out of reach, and this child needed help.
“I tried to telephone the doctor.” Jake followed Britta into the bedroom. “There was no answer. Either she’s away, or the phone line’s down.”
Britta turned down the coverlet on her narrow single bed, grateful that she’d changed the sheets that morning. Marissa’s sky-blue eyes fluttered open, then closed again as her father laid her on the pillow. Britta filled a basin with cool water, unwrapped the cotton blanket, raised the child’s nightgown, and began sponging her hot skin with a washcloth in an effort to make her more comfortable.
Resting her ear against the small, hot chest, Britta could hear the rasp of congested breathing. It could be bronchitis or even pneumonia. Whatever it was, it was serious and might be deadly.
Jake laid his hand on his daughter’s forehead to check her fever. “There has to be something we can do.”
Britta could understand the anguish in his voice. He’d lost his wife two years ago. This precious little girl was all he had left.
“I’m no doctor,” she said. “But I was raised on a dirt farm by a mother who doctored us with whatever she had. Willow bark tea was the thing for fevers. I’ve got aspirin—it’s the same thing, salicylic acid. But I don’t know how much is all right to give her. We could start with a small dose. But maybe the tea would be safer. Our mother used to give us all we’d take, and it never harmed us. We’ll need some fresh bark.”
Jake smoothed his daughter’s hair back from her face. She whimpered at his touch. “There are willows growing behind the jail. If you’ve got a knife, I’ll cut some bark.”
“There’s a knife in the kitchen. I’ll get some water boiling. Meanwhile, I’ll break up an aspirin tablet and crush a piece with some sugar. Maybe she’ll take that—and maybe we can steam her for the congestion.”
Jake was already on his way out. Britta fired up the stove and put a pan of water on to heat. Then she tried getting Marissa to swallow a bit of the crushed aspirin and sugar mix. It was a struggle, with the little girl pushing away and trying to spit it out. Britta had no idea whether she’d swallowed enough to help. At least she was familiar with the tea and how her mother had used it. But would scant knowledge, based on childhood memories, be enough?
She was sponging the feverish little girl again when Jake reappeared with his hands full of bark strips. “I tried phoning the doctor again. No answer.” He laid the bark and the knife on the kitchen counter.
“Here.” She handed him the cool, damp washcloth. “You can do this while I brew the tea. Talk to her, or even sing to her. She’ll be less frightened if she knows you’re close by.”
“You didn’t have much cut wood. I brought some from my place. It’s piled outside the back door in case you need it.”
“Thank you.” It would be like Jake to notice that something was needed.
On her way to the kitchen, Britta passed her flannel robe, which hung on its hook by the bathroom door. She slipped it on over her nightgown and tied it at the waist. At least now she’d be covered. Not that modesty mattered much at a time like this.
The water had begun to boil. Britta rinsed a handful of bark and dropped it into the pot, then added more. Would it be strong enough? She remembered the bitter taste of it. That would tell her she’d made it the way her mother used to. She raised a spoonful of the boiling liquid, gave it a moment to cool, and tasted it cautiously. Still too mild. She added more bark.
From the bedroom, she could hear Jake singing an old-time lullaby to his little girl. His muffled voice was gruff and slightly off-key. She still loved the sound of that voice. For a time, back when she’d hoped that he would wait, she’d imagined him tucking their children into bed and singing them to sleep.
But she was a fool to think of that now. Jake had been looking for a wife. Buried in grief for her family and the burden of responsibility, Britta had turned him away. So he’d wed pretty, loving, Cora, who had filled his heart and given him this beautiful child.
She dipped another spoonful of tea, blowing on the surface to cool it. This time the taste was as strong and bitter as she remembered. She might want to add some honey, something her mother wouldn’t have done. Inga Anderson hadn’t believed in making anything easier for her children. Life wasn’t like that, she’d always said.
Inga had been right, especially about her own hard life. But this was different, Britta told herself as she poured some tea into a cup, stirred in a few drops of honey, and gave the mixture a moment to cool. She said a silent prayer before carrying it into the bedroom. If Marissa didn’t take it willingly, she would have to be forced, and even then, the tea might not be enough to help her.
Jake sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his daughter in his arms. His worried expression tore at her heart—a painful reminder that she still had feelings for him. But that was water under the bridge, as her mother used to say. Nothing mattered now except saving this little girl.
“Hold her steady. Let’s hope she’ll take this.” Britta waited until Jake had cupped his daughter’s chin in his palm, his free arm cradling her body. The little girl’s face was flushed, her skin dry and feverish. Her eyes opened wide as the spoonful of tea neared her mouth. She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“This medicine is to make you better, Marissa,” Jake said. “You need to swallow it.”
She pulled a face. “No,” she muttered. “Medicine is nasty.”
“It’s fine. Look, I’ll show you.” Glancing up at Britta, he nodded. Understanding, Britta spooned the tea into his mouth. He hid a grimace as he forced himself to swallow. “See, it’s all right. And it will make you feel better. Now be a brave girl and drink it.”
Her eyes closed, then opened again, their look drowsy and feverish. “Sing to me some more,” she murmured.
“Will you drink the tea if I sing to you?”
She nodded.
“Promise?”
“Uh-huh.” Her gaze shifted to Britta. “Her, too.”
“You want me to sing with your father, Marissa?”
The girl nodded.
“All right, as long as you keep your promise.”
Jake began to sing the lullaby again.
“Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry. Go to sleep, my little baby.”
Britta joined him in the old song. She didn’t have a great voice, but she could carry a tune.
“When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses . . .”
As she sang, Britta gently spooned the warm tea into Marissa’s reluctant mouth. The child resisted some at first, letting the tea dribble down her chin onto the clean towel that had been laid over her. But then she began taking each spoonful as it was given. Her small face wrinkled in distaste, but she did as promised and emptied the cup.
“Good girl.” Her father gave her a gentle squeeze. She was still feverish; the home-brewed medicine would take time to work—if it worked at all. “Do you think she’s had enough?” Jake asked Britta.
“For now. We can give her more later if we need to. If the fever breaks, she’ll start sweating—that’s a sure sign. But it might take time—it could be hours.”
“I feel so damned helpless—she’s never been this sick before. I always assumed I’d know what to do. Thank you, Britta. Maybe you can give me some of that tea in ajar. Then I’ll take her home and watch her so you can rest.”
“She’ll be better off here, where we can both watch her. The doctor is scheduled to be in town tomorrow. You can take her in then. Meanwhile, we can at least try to keep her stable. There’s a rocking chair on the back porch. I’ll bring it in so you can sit with her.”
“I’ll get it.” He laid his daughter back on the pillow, stepped outside, and was back in a moment with the chair, which he placed close to the bed. When he leaned over her, Marissa opened her eyes. Her arms reached up to him. He gathered her close and settled into the rocker with the little girl across his lap.
“You might as well lie down and get some sleep,” he said to Britta. “I can wake you if anything changes.”
“I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. Would you like some coffee? You have one free hand.”
He yawned, supporting his daughter against the curve of his left arm. “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. Maybe it’ll help keep me awake.”
In the kitchen, Britta measured the coffee and put the pot on the stove to boil. When it was almost ready, she prepared a tray with two cups and a small plate of oatmeal cookies she’d baked earlier. The memory lingered that Jake drank his coffee black. Leaving both cups the same, she carried the tray back to the bedroom.
Stopping in the doorway, she sighed. How long had she been gone? Fifteen minutes? That was all the time it had taken for Jake to drift off. Marissa lay curled in the curve of his arm, her small, golden head resting against his chest. Her eyes were closed.
Setting the tray atop the bureau, Britta stole around the bed and brushed a fingertip down the little girl’s cheek. Still hot. Still dry. There was still a rumble of congestion in her breathing. But at least she’d drunk the tea, and now she was getting some rest.
As she stood looking down at the pair, a hopeless love welled in her. Jake Calhoun was the only man she’d ever wanted. But he hadn’t cared enough to wait for the end of her mourning. True, he’d made her no promises. Their romance had barely begun before it ended. But she’d already begun to dream of a future when he stopped coming to her door.
The fact that he’d chosen a girl who was Britta’s complete opposite only deepened the sting. Petite, feminine, and fragile, Cora had been made for adoration. What man could have resisted her?
Now Jake was back—but only because he needed her. When he found another woman to marry, it would be someone like Cora. Britta’s doorway to forever was closed and tightly locked.
Turning away, she picked up the tray and carried it back to the kitchen.