His Montana Sweetheart. Ruth Logan Herne
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spend all her time with her head in books. Or so I was told.”
A curl of anger poised alongside the other feelings Jack worked to contain. The look on her face said wrath was unneeded, but old-fashioned sympathy? He squeezed the hand that felt so familiar—and so good. “The guy’s a jerk.”
She didn’t agree. Did that mean she still had feelings for her ex-husband? That she still loved him?
Well, why not? It had been over eight years since Jack cut Olivia loose.
Seeing her raised a wealth of memories. High school dances. Trips to the river. Hiking. Fishing.
Kissing.
She’d been his first date. His first kiss. His first love.
Then he’d blown it in a fit of infantile “why me?” temper.
And here she was, in Jasper Gulch, standing by his side on the worn, neglected bridge over Beaver Creek, and she was in love with someone else. He deserved no more, but for just a second he wished for more.
“Do you have kids?”
She shook her head, and he thought her eyes went moist, but the old-style lanterns at either end of the bridge cast her gaze in silhouette. “No kids.” She turned his way. “How about you? Married? Kids?”
He dropped her hand and shook his head. “Nope.”
“And you worked in the city for years,” she continued, looking up at him, straight at him, as if trying to decipher who he was from who he’d been way back then. “But didn’t go back after—”
“Losing my mother.” He stared into the night, wondering why talking with Livvie Franklin loosened his tongue. “You know, it’s strange, when someone’s so sick, Liv. You help, you care for them, you do all the little things you know are right, you try to be the good person, and no matter how sick they are, no matter how long it takes, when they’re gone, you still have this feeling like you didn’t do enough. Never enough.”
“And that would be the last thing your mother would want you to feel,” countered Livvie. “She loved you, Jack. She’d never want you to beat yourself up over her death, especially when you already tend to beat yourself up over things. Your mother knew that.”
She leaned against the bridge, but Jack pulled her forward. “I don’t trust these supports. The bridge has been let go for too long, and I’m not about to let you be the second Jasper Gulch tragedy.”
“Not fixing the bridge is a foolish lack of tribute to an old accident,” she replied. “I’m sure Lucy Shaw would be appalled to think it, if she’d lived.” She pulled her arm free with a speed that warned him off, and rightfully so, he supposed.
But being there? On the bridge they’d walked across so often as a young couple? The bridge that marked so much of their town’s history?
The surroundings, the trees, the thin-lit night and the sound of rushing water below made him feel as if anything was possible, and he hadn’t felt that way in a very long time. But here, with her?
He did. And it felt good.
It took every ounce of strength for Olivia to keep her cool when Jack took her hand, but she did it.
And when he talked about his mother’s death, about losing Mary Beth McGuire to cancer three years before, she longed to reach out. Hug him. And maybe never let go.
Residual nonsense from long ago, don’t you dare. You prepared for this possibility the whole drive down. Stay tough. Stay strong. Maintain a distance at all costs and, whatever you do, Do Not Stare Into Those Amazing Green Eyes.
Olivia’s gut recognized the sensibility of the mental tirade, but there was a spot around her heart, a fairly big spot, that longed to make everything right for Jack McGuire. Which meant she was a pushover for that cleft chin and crooked smile, even after all this time. She erected an internal Danger Zone sign and kept her voice calm, her face serene, but inside?
She wanted answers. She wanted love. She wanted something functional out of the past eight years of study, work, marriage and building a home.
And here she was, jobless, homeless, divorced and sleeping in her old room in her parents’ house, as dysfunctional as you could get. She’d become the statistic she abhorred, the failure-to-launch young adult who crept back to the nest. How had this happened?
The sweet rhythmic toll of a bell interrupted her funk.
She turned, surprised, and Jack pointed northwest. “First Monday prayer service at the church.” When she frowned, he continued, “Our new pastor started this. It’s an evening prayer service to mark the first Monday of each month. A call to worship. Ethan says he wants folks to pause and think about things now and again, and there’s nothing like an evening prayer service to do that.” He directed his gaze back to town in a silent invitation to retrace their steps, then added, “It’s kind of nice, though I’ve only been to one so far.”
The thought of Monday-night church seemed odd enough, but the idea of Jack leaving the ranch, getting cleaned up and rolling into town for a prayer service surprised her even more. Work had always come first on the Double M. School. Baseball. The ranch. Chores. Church had fallen well down the list of Jack McGuire priorities, but the look on his face said that might have changed.
She fell into step beside him, thoughtful, letting the recorded bells’ chime call them back to Main Street. They drew near to the corner as the bell went silent. An awkward quiet rose around them until Jack motioned west toward the quaint stone-and-wood church. “Would you like to go? We wouldn’t be all that late.”
She wouldn’t, no, but she didn’t know how to say that and not sound like a jerk. She hemmed and hawed, and let Jack draw his own conclusions.
He did. Quickly. He gave her a glimpse of that endearing smile, then doffed his hat, cowboy to the core. “Nice seeing you, Liv.”
“Nice, yes. You, too, Jack.”
He watched as she climbed into her car, ever the gentleman, except when he tossed her aside like yesterday’s news.
And then he watched as she drove away, his gaze following her until she turned left on River Road and headed home.
Did he turn and go to the church service? She had no idea and wasn’t sure she cared to know, because she used to pray all the time. About life, about love, about Jack, her family, her sister, her dog. Her latest prayers had centered on her marriage and the family she’d longed to have, a couple of cute kids running around, wreaking havoc, making her smile.
She’d lost Jack, her sister had moved away years before, the dog had passed on while she was married to Billy and she’d watched her marriage and dreams of a family go up in a puff of divorce-petition smoke.
So if there was a God...? If He existed somewhere other than the pages of an often-interpreted book? She hadn’t seen much evidence of it, and right now didn’t care to search anymore.
She’d count her blessings, the human ones, and move on, heart guarded, because fewer people got hurt that way. Mainly her.
Bright windows welcomed her back to her parents’ home on Old Trail Road. The house, set into the edge of a wooded grove, looked happy and natural, at peace with its surroundings. The front screen door slapped shut as she exited the car, and the scent of fresh-baked cookies hit the evening air like a gift. “You baked? In this heat?”
Her mother’s smile said yes as she nodded toward the second porch rocker. “I figured evening time would be fine. We’ve got fans in the bedrooms and the cool night air will chase off the oven’s heat by morning.”
“True enough. I know it’s the beginning of August, but the thick morning dew says fall isn’t far off.”
“I won’t