on a woman he wasn’t married to! He knew his lack of memory of what precisely had happened that evening proved just how irresponsible he had been.
His second inclination was to run. To turn tail, head out the door and never come back.
But Sam Fletcher did not run. He’d never run in his life.
From the time he was a boy he’d been groomed to face his responsibilities, to take charge, to exert leadership, to do what was right.
He’d come to Dubuque today expecting to do what was right. He’d expected to have to cope with the mare’s nest that usually comprised Hattie’s affairs. He’d expected to have to find a buyer for the inn and even—because Hattie wished it—to find homes for three cats, a dog and a bird.
He’d envisioned showing up and, once the awkwardness of his apology was out of the way, laughing with Josie about Hattie’s having left him a woman.
It didn’t seem funny at all now.
He hadn’t expected a child.
The will had clearly been Hattie’s way of doing what Josie had not done—of bringing him back and making him aware of the facts.
He supposed he ought to thank her for that. He would, if he weren’t so rattled.
He was going to be a father?
That was rattling enough. What was worse was the idea that, without Hattie’s will, he might never have known.
It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
All the while Josie was putting flowers in the rooms, checking in the guests, delivering champagne to the newlyweds, making dinner reservations and answering questions about local attractions, she was looking over her shoulder, expecting Sam to appear.
He hadn’t been in the kitchen when she got back.
“Left,” Cletus had said.
“Poleaxed ’im, did you?” Benjamin had said.
Josie had denied it, but she’d seen the look on his face. She wondered if they had seen the last of him. But, no. His rental car still sat by the curb. So, wherever he’d gone, he’d walked. She remembered he’d used to walk down to the yacht basin or along the river whenever he’d come here to think before.
“He needs space,” Hattie had explained to her. “Perspective. He has to step back to understand his responsibilities.”
Was that what he was doing now?
Whatever he was doing, Josie wished it didn’t involve her.
She didn’t know whether she wanted him to come back so they could get it over with—or whether she wished he’d stay away so she could pretend he never would.
Probably the former, she decided, unless he agreed to do the latter for the rest of her life!
But the rest of the afternoon passed—the guests checked in, the flowers got delivered, the guests got settled, the questions got answered and the reservations made—and there was still no Sam.
Good, she thought. No. Not good.
Damn. She didn’t know what she wanted—except to tear her hair. She paced the front parlor. She peered out the windows. She even went out on the front porch and craned her neck to look down the road to see if she could see him, determined not to let him surprise her again.
But afternoon turned to evening and evening turned to dusk and eventually the cool of the mid-April evening made her retreat indoors. She paced some more in the parlor, then retreated to the kitchen, but the kitchen reminded her too much of their encounter this afternoon.
She headed down the steps to the basement laundry room. There were loads of towels and sheets to be folded. And if he came looking for her there, the stairs would creak and at least she’d hear him coming.
It was stupid to fret so much. Nothing was going to change even now that he knew. She would still be pregnant. Her love would still be unrequited.
She asked herself for the thousandth time why she couldn’t have been satisfied with Kurt? Certainly he was a little too righteous and unbending for her taste. Certainly he thought his mission was more important than a wife.
But was he wrong?
He hadn’t had to point out how foolish she’d been to taste forbidden fruit
She made her way down the basement steps carefully, hanging on to the handrail. She’d used to trip down them thoughtlessly, light and easy on her feet. But with her new bulk and unaccustomed center of gravity, she had to move more cautiously.
Pity she hadn’t moved more cautiously seven months ago.
She bent and fished a load of towels out of the bin, dumped them on the countertop and began to fold them. She made neat stacks and ran her hands over the soft terrycloth. It was mindless, mechanical work, soothing. She finished one stack, then bent to get another.
The baby kicked.
Josie smiled. Even when she was fretting most, this child could always make her smile. Perhaps it was silly to feel as if she had a confederate within, but she did. It was no longer Josie apart from the rest of the world. Now it was the two of them.
“Awake, are you?” she asked it softly. She set the towels down, rubbed a hand on her belly and was rewarded with another soft tap. She tapped back and smiled again. Sometimes she felt as if she was communicating in Morse code with this person who inhabited her body.
“Had a rough day?” she asked it. “I have. And it’s going to get worse,” she confided. She shook out a towel and gave it a snap before folding it.
The baby kicked again. Hard. So hard Josie winced.
“What’s wrong?”
She nearly jumped a foot. She knocked the pile of freshly folded towels onto the floor and spun around to stare with equal parts horror and consternation in the direction of the wine cellar at the far end of the basement. Sam stood in the shadows.
“Now look what you’ve done!”
“That appears to be the least of what I’ve done,” he said dryly as he stepped forward.
Instinctively Josie stepped back.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head numbly. “No. It...it kicked, that’s all.”
“Kicked?” He looked blank.
“The baby.”
He looked at her belly. She couldn’t read his expression. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something. But then he just ran his tongue over his lips and shook his head. He bent to pick up the towels.
Josie watched him, dry-mouthed and silent, and wished she could push him aside and do it herself. She couldn’t. There was too much baby between her and the ground. “What were you doing skulking in the wine cellar?” she demanded, indignant.
“I wasn’t getting another bottle, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Sam straightened and set the towels on the counter.
“You might as well put them in the wash again,” Josie said crossly. “I can’t use them now.”
Obediently he dumped them in the washing machine. Then he answered her question. “I was thinking.”
“In the wine cellar?”
“It seemed appropriate.”
Josie pressed her lips together. She turned away and closed the lid of the washing machine, then reached past him to add soap, taking her time to measure it precisely. She set the dial to the right program. She had nothing to say.
Sam didn’t move away. She continued to fuss with the dial, then opened the lid again and