said. Just…love.
“And so did you.”
The quiet words did cruel, cruel things to Meg’s heart. She opened her eyes and stepped back. Away. Couldn’t imagine anything she wanted less than to be standing in a field of bluebonnets making polite small talk with the husband she had not seen in two years.
“Your mother’s been calling.” And now Russell stood before her, a stranger in a painfully familiar body. The eyes…the mouth. The thick copper hair. As always, his shirt was open at the throat, revealing a hint of the dark springy hair she’d once loved to finger. Just to the right, she knew there would be a scar. “Is that why you’re here?”
The change was immediate. His flirty little Charlotte-inspired smile congealed into something harder—and much less readable. His gaze turned serious, and on a visceral level, Meg started to scream.
No.
She’d always known this day could come. Ainsley had left a will, but wills could be challenged. Technically, she was the outsider. If the Montgomery family was to challenge her for custody, she had a horrible feeling she knew what the outcome would be.
“Actually, it is,” Russell said, and as if a switch had been flicked, the lilt left his voice. “My parents wanted me to come and—”
Meg shifted to get a better grip on a suddenly squirmy baby.
“—settle Ainsley’s affairs.”
The breeze kept whispering. The bees kept buzzing. A few cars sped along the narrow highway. But Meg held herself very still. “Settle her affairs?” Her voice was barely more than a rasp.
Russell’s eyes met hers. Once, in what seemed like another lifetime, she’d known his every look, touch. Words had been a formality they’d rarely needed.
She’d never imagined how quickly silence could turn to poison.
Or how badly it could punish.
After he’d left, at first the days had been so much better. But the nights…
The nights had been another story.
And now they were reduced to awkward formalities. There was a searching in his gaze, the photojournalist hard at work, studying, analyzing. Seeking. And in response, she tucked all those nasty, tattered remnants away, unwilling to give him a story to work with. Two years was a long time. A lot had happened. Not all of it would please a judge.
The last thing she needed was award-winning journalist Russell Montgomery on a fact-finding mission.
His eyes narrowed, as if he was squinting against a bright glare. “Her house,” he said as Charlotte started to thwack her hand against Meg’s chest. “Her belongings.”
Caution prevented relief from stirring. “Everything’s still there. I…” Had been to the house the day Ainsley died only long enough to gather a few essentials for the baby. The next day, Lori’s husband, Trey, had brought over the crib and glider, the rest of Charlotte’s toys and clothes.
Meg had been unable to go back since.
“Between the paper and the Wildflower Festival I haven’t had a chance to sort through everything yet.” In truth, there wasn’t much. Ainsley had worked as a waitress. Funds had been tight. She’d been so excited when one of her customers had offered her the use of his mother’s vacant house. “Julia and Lori offered to help me, but it just doesn’t seem to happen.”
Probably because a very strong part of her wasn’t ready for that kind of closure.
“I understand,” Russell said, and from the thickness of his voice, she knew that he did. No matter what had gone down between the two of them, he’d always had a soft spot for his sister. “I don’t want to be here, either.”
Somehow she didn’t wince. She kept her expression blank, her voice neutral. “Come by the paper tomorrow,” she said as Charlotte tugged at the collar of her shirt. She nuzzled in, her mouth open and seeking.
Russell’s eyes followed, the green quickly taking on a dark glitter she’d worked hard to forget.
The quickening was immediate—and the final straw. Meg shifted the hungry baby from her chest and lowered her to stand on top of her own feet, Char’s chubby little legs wobbling like gelatin.
“I’ve got the keys there,” Meg said as if nothing had just happened. The baby clutching her fingers for dear life, she glanced back at Russell.
He looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
“A day or two tops,” she said, “and then you can be on your way.”
A harsh sound broke from his throat…the same sound he always made when he didn’t know what to say. “Is she walking?”
“Not yet,” Meg said, easing her right foot forward. “At least, not by herself.” Then, to the baby, “Such a big, strong girl!”
Charlotte giggled as if she understood. She leaned forward, urging Meg to keep moving.
Meg obliged.
“Ray’s back.”
Meg looked up. “What?”
Russell gestured behind her, where her mother’s friend stood alongside the swarm of bluebonnets where he’d first tried to take Charlotte’s picture.
“Oh, good,” she said, turning to start back. “Maybe this time we can actually get some pictures.” She wasn’t sure what made her twist toward Russell. He hadn’t moved a muscle, stood there as still as one of the old post oaks surrounding the field, watching.
And then she got it. The baby. His sister’s child. Charlotte was the spitting image of Ainsley, who was the spitting image of Russell. Seeing her was like seeing a ghost. Sometimes Meg still couldn’t believe her sister-in-law was gone.
“Here,” she said before thinking. She lifted her arms, bringing the giggling baby up toward her uncle. “You want to hold her?”
CHAPTER THREE
Two and a half years before
PINK BALLOONS BOBBED against the passenger window, straining to get free. Twelve of them, including a Mylar in the shape of little booties. The tulips lay on the front seat, beside the grape juice.
She was going to be upset. Russell knew that. She wasn’t even answering his calls. He’d tried to get away, but the meeting ran long, and as usual, he lost track of time.
Frowning, he was turning onto the narrow road that led to their house when he remembered to check his messages. He hadn’t checked before, hadn’t wanted to hear the news that way. He’d wanted to see her face, her smile. He’d wanted to be there.
Now, almost home, he wondered if she was somewhere else.
Five messages waited. The first three were hang-ups. The fourth was a former colleague. Finally, with the fifth, he heard her voice, and his heart started to slam.
“Honey…” Meg was a confident woman, vivacious, full of energy and life. But now… “I…I…” She never stuttered. She never stammered. “I…”
The sickness hit fast, spreading like a toxin in his gut.
“We need to talk,” she said, sounding so very, very far away. So small. “Come home…please.”
He was barely aware of his foot ramming down on the gas pedal, racing the last of the way home. He swerved into the driveway and threw open the door, strode toward the house. The balloons were in his hand. The tulips were not.
“Meg?” he called as he opened the door.
The shadows of early afternoon greeted him. There were no lights turned on. No music. “Meggie?”
The stillness deepened with every step he took. The kitchen,