family—and her doctors—had ever done. He was looking right at her scar, without flinching, without skittering past it. He didn’t try to ignore it, as most people did. Instead, he traced it from end to end—at least what he could see of it beneath the wide, protective brim of her hat. She wanted to turn away, wanted to hide her face. But there was a compelling expression in his eyes that held her motionless.
“I also want you to know that I’m sorry for whatever happened to cause that.” His voice was gentle, his eyes kind. “And that I’m sorry for whatever trauma you’ve had to endure since then. If I added to your pain in any way, I ask your forgiveness.”
The man’s direct approach, along with his sincere remorse, left Jill speechless. Not only was he looking at her scar, he was talking about it! She had no idea how to respond.
When the silence between them lengthened, he shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I better be off. I wonder if you could direct me to the nearest place to get some breakfast?”
Food. The man was asking about food. It took Jill a few moments to collect her thoughts, but when she did it occurred to her that he must be starving. He’d had no dinner that she was aware of, and there wasn’t a dry cracker to be found in the cabin. She started to open her mouth to direct him to Olga, the closest village, when that persistent little voice in the back of her mind spoke once more.
You could feed him instead.
Again, though she tried to suppress it, she met with little success. The man had fixed her siding, after all. And from the looks of him, he could use a good meal. His jeans sat low on his lean hips. Too low. And she didn’t think it was a fashion statement. Rather, she suspected his spare frame was the result of too many missed meals. It wouldn’t hurt her to give him some food before sending him on his way. It was the hospitable thing to do. The Christian thing. Didn’t the Lord feed the multitudes with loaves and fishes when they were in need?
Besides, there was something about him that drew her, that made her want to find out more about what made him tick. To discover why this stranger seemed able to look past her scars, past the brokenness, and see the whole person underneath. And giving him a meal would buy her a little time to do that.
Taking a step back until she hovered on the edges of the interior shadows, her fingers tightened around the door. “I can give you some breakfast.”
Now it was Keith’s turn to be shocked. The last thing he’d expected from this woman was an invitation to dine. But if the aromas that continued to waft through the door were any indication of her culinary abilities, he was in for a treat. That alone would compel him to accept.
Beyond that, though, he knew that her invitation also meant she’d accepted his apology. And that fact, even more than the thought of a good meal, lightened his heart.
“Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
“Come back in twenty minutes. I’ll have it ready by then.”
As Jill shut the door, cutting her off from the man on the other side, she drew a long, shaky breath. Already she was having second thoughts. Why on earth had she impulsively offered a stranger breakfast? It could be a huge mistake. One she might very well live to regret.
Yet even as that dire warning flashed across her mind, in her heart she somehow felt that she’d made the right decision.
Chapter Three
What in the world was she going to feed the man?
Hands on her hips, Jill scanned the contents of her refrigerator. Too bad she hadn’t gone to Olga two days ago, as she’d planned, to stock up on perishables. She was down to her last two eggs, and there was no breakfast meat of any kind. Nor much of anything else. At one time, she’d enjoyed cooking. But solo meals held little appeal. These days she got by on cold cereal, sandwiches, dairy products and fruit. Homemade soup represented her sole foray into the culinary arts, and she almost always had some on hand—like the pot of chicken-rice soup now simmering on the stove, flavored with the herbs she’d plucked from the pots on her kitchen windowsill. But even though it had once earned rave reviews from family and friends, it didn’t qualify as breakfast fare.
Closing the refrigerator, she turned her attention to the cabinets. At least she had all the basics on hand—flour, sugar, salt, spices. When a bottle of maple syrup—a leftover from her sister’s last visit—caught her eye, she thought of the blackberries she’d picked last season at their peak of juicy sweetness, preserved in her freezer. Inspiration hit…blackberry pancakes!
In no time, Jill was whipping up a batch of batter. Though she seldom made pancakes anymore, the recipe was etched in her mind. Sam and Emily had loved them so much they’d become a Saturday-morning tradition.
Her hand slowed. Funny. She hadn’t thought about that once-a-week ritual for months. Hadn’t let herself think about it. Like so much of her previous life that was gone forever, it was too painful to remember. And now wasn’t the time to start, she reminded herself, resuming her measuring and stirring.
Once the batter was ready and she’d poured three generous circles on the griddle, Jill set a single place at the small table on the back porch, adding a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. Then she returned to the house to flip the fluffy pancakes. When her unexpected guest reappeared at the far end of the meadow, she transferred the pancakes to a plate. After dusting them with powdered sugar, she tilted the maple syrup that had been warming on the stove into a small crockery pitcher and arranged everything on the table. By the time he arrived, she was back inside, working at the sink where she could catch a glimpse of him through the large window in front of her.
In the past hour, the morning had warmed quite a bit, and the northeast-facing back porch was bathed in sunlight as Keith ascended the two steps. In spite of his hunger, he stopped when he saw the carefully set table and the appetizing plate of food waiting for him. It had been a long while since anyone but a fast-food worker or a short-order cook in some diner had prepared a meal for him. Longer still since anyone had cared to provide him with any of the niceties of dining. Like a cloth napkin, with crisp, precise folds. Or a woven placemat. Or the cushion on the wooden chair, added since his earlier visit. Not to mention the small vase of wildflowers that now graced the center of the table.
All of those touches registered in a flash as Keith scanned the setting. So did the single place setting. But it was the plate of mouthwatering pancakes that caught and held his attention.
“Go ahead and eat before they get cold.”
The woman’s husky voice came through the open window in the kitchen, and Keith moved forward. He didn’t need a second invitation. “Thanks.”
Seating himself at the small wooden table, he dived in, making liberal use of the maple syrup and washing down the feather-light pancakes with long swigs of strong, black coffee. In minutes, the plate was empty.
“Would you like some more?”
Glancing up, Keith saw his hostess hovering at the back door. A smile tried to lift the corners of his mouth but his lips balked at the unaccustomed tug, as stiff and resistant as a painter’s brush that had gone too-long unused. “Do I look that hungry?”
“I expect you could manage another serving.”
“You’re right. Thanks.”
While Keith waited, he sipped his coffee, noting that the little boy had returned, still hiding behind the boulders on the other side of the field. When the woman reappeared a few minutes later with another overflowing plate and hesitated at the back door, he figured she wanted him to come and get his food. That way, she could stay in the shadows. Instead, he inclined his head toward the rocks. “Your friend is still here.”
That caught her attention. Jamming her hat farther down on her head, she pushed through the door. As she focused on the far side of the field, she gave him a shaded view of her classic profile. “I don’t see him.”
“He was there a minute ago. I have a feeling he’s been watching the house for