to sleep because of all the shadows on the walls and all the things out there that would get to a person, whether it was a trick of the nightlight making warped shapes near the closet door or even a nightmare about a train that went off the tracks.
Jared had learned early on to be tough, to close his eyes until his heartbeat smoothed out. To hold back the tears and take care of himself rather than call to his uncle for help, even though Stuart had told him that he could.
Yes, growing up, Jared had learned to distance himself from fear and love because both could disappear if you just closed your eyes.
But this time...shouldn’t he open them, just to see if there was something else out there besides the shadows, like the love Tony had recorded in his journal? What if Tony was related to him and it turned out that he didn’t really have much as far as “terrible sins” went?
Jared longed to find out, to maybe even believe that a good man like Tony might’ve welcomed him into the family more than his granddaughter, Jared’s birth mom, had.
He took his gaze off the book, tapping his fingers on his steering wheel. He could see the cluster of brick condo buildings through the dots of rain on the glass.
The complex they’d built on Tony’s old ranch property.
Annette had told Jared that she’d dug up the journal in her garden. What were the chances that old Tony had buried more there?
Family documents? Pictures? Another journal in which he actually let those terrible sins off his chest?
And what were the odds that Annette might have finished her early shift at the diner by now?
A burst of fire roared through his veins. That shiny moon-blond hair, her creamy skin, her lips...
Jared chuffed and wiped a hand down his face. His mind—or whatever it was—didn’t belong on a woman. He’d had his share of them in the past, both buckle bunnies and cowgirls, and he’d overstayed his welcome only once. It’d been a mistake he was still living with.
Yet, all he needed from Annette was access to that garden of hers.
He sat there for a while longer—time enough for him to turn on the radio for a marathon of country songs. Time enough for him to tell himself that he should probably just drop this and move on.
But then, through the dusk, he saw a bright red Pontiac pulling into the complex and passing the iron gates with a rustic arch that spelled out Heartland—the name of Tony Amati’s original ranch.
Jared rested a hand on his door latch. Didn’t Annette drive a Pontiac? He’d seen it in the parking lot every time she worked.
He blew out a breath.
This was crazy. Was he really thinking of going through with this ridiculous mission?
Then he opened the door. Hell, yeah, he was thinking of it. He hadn’t stayed in St. Valentine because of the meatloaf or ham sandwiches. Or because of the gorgeous blonde who served them.
Right?
As a niggling thought permeated him, he shook it off, pulled his dark shearling coat out of the truck cab, then shut the door. The air smelled as if the earlier rain had made everything new, and that made him think that maybe this was a better idea than he’d first thought.
He ambled to a rose-lined walkway that led to a gate in a brick wall. At the same time, he pulled up the collar of his coat, minding the threat of the moody sky. Up ahead, the walk was sprinkle-damp, and yellow lights from condo windows beckoned.
One of them was Annette’s.
As he shut the gate behind him, he corrected himself. I’m not looking for Annette, just a certain garden patch.
He came to a bricked cove with a bank of mailboxes, each with a last name posted on it. But there were no corresponding numbers for the condos.
Okay, then. No worries. He would just continue on his way, and he might run into Annette coming out of her garage or a parking space.
So he went right on ahead. But...
What would he say to her exactly?
How-de-do, I just happened to be in the neighborhood. And, really, I’m not a weird stalker. I’m only interested in doing some archeological work in your backyard.
How lame would that sound?
He almost turned around right then and there, except that’s when he caught sight of some movement in a lower-level window and saw...
My God—a silhouette half-hidden through the sheer mist of yellow curtains.
Jared’s heart slammed into his ribs, and he couldn’t take another step because he could feel it in his bones—it was Annette.
Yeah, he should’ve averted his eyes, but the light was coming from behind her, showing her in a haloed, curvy profile without that waitressing apron that had covered her belly today. Now, without it, there was very clearly a bump in plain view.
A baby.
After she took a step toward the window, apparently to draw the shades, she came into full sight.
She hesitated, then tenderly eased both of her hands over her tummy, sliding them beneath it to cup the child growing within it.
Jared’s chest felt pierced, lanced by an ache.
She obviously already loved that child. But where was the father?
Where were you when your own daughter probably asked the same thing?
Feeling shamed, both because he’d witnessed such a private moment and because of his failures, he fisted his hands and got out of there before she saw him.
* * *
Before work the next day, Annette took a moment to soak her feet, then massage them before she had to stand on them all day at the diner. She’d done the same thing last night before going to bed, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be craving a foot spa 24/7—and before she would have to significantly cut back on her hours at the diner or take a leave of absence altogether.
Rest, healthy eating and some pampering—that’s what the doctor had ordered when she’d gone to him early in her pregnancy. She’d chosen a practitioner in the new part of town because it was more modern, relatively more crowded and less personal there.
She meant to make good on all the doctor’s suggestions this morning, so she’d eaten scrambled eggs and a yogurt parfait with fresh fruit, granola and almond slivers for breakfast, then left her home an hour before her shift. That gave her enough time to run a couple of errands around the Old West streets of the Old Town portion of St. Valentine. The weather-beaten buildings contained things like a mercantile store and boutiques geared toward tourists. There were even burros roaming around—descendants of the beasts of burden owned by the silver miners who’d once lived here.
Now, of course, the silver mines were gone, along with the kaolin mine that had replaced them, and that’s what had put St. Valentine in the economic dumps. But matters were improving, she thought as she rested on a bench in the town square after dropping by the general store for a few necessaries. And judging from the decent number of tourists she knew would be descending on Old Town and the diner in about a half hour, St. Valentine was rising once again.
She lifted her chin, letting the crisp morning air tweak her cheeks. Truthfully, St. Valentine had Jared to thank for their resurrection. It’d been his appearance that had stirred up interest in Tony Amati and alerted Violet and Davis Jackson to his mysterious death, which had taken place on the same night old Sheriff Hadenfield’s home had been burglarized.
From the church, the sound of the recently restored bells tolled through the cleared-up sky, marking the hour. Outside, some people were decorating the trellises in the yard with white-flowered streamers.
A wedding.
Images crept back to Annette: reflections of a bride in