Chapter Three

      Jenn sat on the porch swing in the dark, enjoying the quiet night sounds. It was so comfortable in the house she’d grown up in, and so different to what she’d become accustomed to, living in the city.

      Miranda and her second husband, now referred to by the sisters as Roger the Rat, had moved in a few years ago after their mother died. Miranda had, surprisingly, changed very little about the house. In fact, Jenn thought, the entire neighborhood had changed very little since she’d been away.

      A light went on in the house across the street. She could see the rooster wallpaper in Mrs. Kincade’s kitchen. She smiled at the sight.

      Her neighborhood in Dallas was so impersonal. She hardly knew the people who lived on either side of her and had never been in their homes. A week ago she hadn’t thought anything about the fact that her neighbors weren’t a part of her life. Now, with memories of a different lifestyle pressing in on her, she wasn’t so sure her neighborly distance was a good thing.

      If she was already questioning her choices, then she’d obviously needed this time to unwind. She took a sip of her lemonade and watched headlights turn into the driveway.

      Whatever peace she’d hoped to find tonight was gone. She knew it was Trace even before she saw the light rack on top of the sheriff’s car.

      He’d always been a bulldog when it came to seeing things through to the end. It was one of the qualities about him she’d always admired, and one that had made the pain eight years ago even worse.

      Wouldn’t a man as determined as Trace have come after her when she’d left without saying goodbye? Since she’d been the one to leave, it had been childish of her to feel hurt. But back then she’d expected him to come after her—if he’d truly loved her. He must have been relieved when she’d left. He was off the hook. No more playing at husband or father.

      But that was eight long years ago. Now all she felt was an odd ambivalence. She didn’t want to dredge up the past. She’d buried it, and she intended it to stay that way. No one in Blossom knew of her less-than-two-week marriage to Trace. The secret had died with her mother.

      Jenn had told Miranda about losing the baby, but couldn’t bring herself to mention the quick trip over the state line to get married. It had been a childish mistake she wanted to forget.

      The night they’d married, Trace had dropped her off at her house, then made the long drive back to San Antonio to his summer job. They’d agreed she’d live with her mother and keep the marriage a secret until he’d earned enough to rent an apartment. Then he’d come home and find a job in Blossom.

      But everything had changed when she’d lost the baby a few days later.

      Her mother had found out what they’d done. They’d forged a note saying Jenn had her mother’s permission to wed, then snuck over the state line and gotten married in New Mexico. Jenn’s mother had insisted she get an annulment, and, in the emotional aftermath of the miscarriage, Jenn had agreed.

      Now Trace’s car pulled up to the front of the house. He killed the lights, but didn’t get out. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was staring at her. She could feel his eyes. He knew she was in the shadows of the porch, just as she’d known it was him in the car. They’d always had that kind of connection. It seemed they still did, in spite of everything.

      He opened the door and unfolded his tall frame from the driver’s seat. He walked slowly up to the porch.

      She recognized his rolling gait. He had grown taller and filled out since high school, but she’d know his walk anywhere. To her annoyance, her heart speeded up.

      He stopped at the steps without walking up.

      “Hey, Trace,” she greeted him in a soft voice.

      “Jenn.”

      Just her name, that was all. From the way he said it she could tell he was angry.

      He continued to stand there, staring at her. In the old days he would have taken the stairs two at a time, sat down beside her, pulled her into his lap and kissed her breathless.

      The thought made her breasts tingle, and a stab of yearning went through her. She had to fight the urge to invite him to sit down beside her.

      No one had ever made her feel like Trace had. But she didn’t want or need the feelings, and she hadn’t, not for a long time.

      Finally he cleared his throat. “Is he mine? Is Zack my son?”

      Jenn nearly fell off the swing in surprise. “No. Why would you think that?”

      He ran his hand over his face. “He’s about the right age, isn’t he?”

      The fact that he was right about Zack’s age didn’t stop the hurt welling up inside her. Did he really think she could do that to him? Have his child and not tell him?

      “I lost our baby, Trace,” she said in a shaking voice.

      She saw his shoulder lift in a tired shrug. “I hoped—I had to know. He looks like me.”

      Her anger fizzled, leaving her feeling tender and bruised. Zack did look like Trace. Jenn had noticed that about the little boy immediately. She’d had to admit, even at the time of the adoption, it was one of the reasons Zack had quickly become so dear to her.

      He let out a soft huff of breath. “Your mother told me about the baby, but she never liked me. I couldn’t trust—When I came back to Blossom you’d already gone. She told me she was taking care of the annulment, too, because you were underage.”

      Only now, as an adult, did Jenn realize how much it must have hurt him, that she’d left without an explanation. “I’m sorry.”