“I’d like to get to know you again.”

His eyes turned serious when he added, “How about if we start fresh, pretend we just met? Could we do that tonight?”

She tried to speak but could get nothing past her throat, not even breath.

You can’t pretend that, her conscience protested. Tell him about his son. He needs to know.

“Nate,” she finally managed. “I think it would be best if—”

He touched her lips. “Think less. This one time.”

He pulled her chair closer, close enough for him to cup the back of her head. “On second thought, you should know my intentions before we set our plans in stone.” His voice was so soft.

Her heart beat so hard she could barely draw the breath to speak. “What are your intentions?”

Tenderly his lips settled on hers, soft as down. How could she have forgotten the feel of them, the scent of his skin? It was a homecoming.

She kissed him back with yearning and passion and a hunger she couldn’t satisfy on a neighborhood porch.

This is wrong, her conscience cried out.

If it was, it was an exquisite, magnificent mistake.

* * *

The Men of Thunder Ridge:

Once you meet the men of this Oregon town, you may never want to leave!

His Surprise Son
Wendy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

WENDY WARREN loves to write about ordinary people who find extraordinary love. Laughter, family and close-knit communities figure prominently, too. Her books have won two Romance Writers of America RITA® Awards and have been nominated for numerous others. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with human and non-human critters who don’t read nearly as much as she’d like, but they sure do make her laugh and feel loved.

For my daughters, Liberty and Elliana, beautiful through and through. Thank you for being my teachers, my miracles, and for having the best laughs in the world. I love you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Thunder Ridge, Oregon

Izzy Lambert considered herself an honest person, and she’d bet her last dollar that most people who knew her would agree. In her whole life, she’d told only two whoppers. And if you wanted to get technical about it, the first was really more a lie of omission than an outright fib.

She’d spent a whole lot of time afraid her secrets would be discovered and nearly a decade and a half on the lookout for the man from whom she’d withheld the truth. Sometimes she’d think she was seeing him...

...at the Thunderbird Market, reaching for a quart of creamer in the dairy aisle...

...in line at the bank...

...in the car behind hers at the Macho Taco drive-through in Bend...

And once she’d nearly choked on a Mickey Mouse pancake at Disneyland, because she thought he was there, pushing a double stroller.

In reality, it never had been him—thank you, God—but each time Izzy thought she saw Nate Thayer, her heart began to pound, her pulse would race, she’d feel hot and dizzy, and flop sweat drenched her in seconds.

Kinda like right now.

“Join us for lunch at The Pickle Jar. A joke and a pickle for only a nickel,” she said distractedly as she handed a flyer to a group of tourists. Her eyes darted from their sunburned faces to the tall, dark-haired man at the far end of the opposite side of the block.

One of the women waggled the flyer. “Is this a genuine New York deli?”

“It’s a genuine Oregon deli,” Izzy murmured, squinting into the distance. She remembered a headful of thick black hair just like on the man down the block. And broad, proud shoulders like his.

“Where is it?” one of the other women asked.

“About a hundred feet that way.” Taking several mincing steps, Izzy made a half turn and pointed. As she turned back, a tour bus pulled up, blocking the man from her view. Dang it!

“Is that why you’re dressed like a pickle?” asked an elderly gentleman who was perspiring in the sun almost as much as she was.

Admonishing herself to concentrate on the prospective customers, she forced a smile. “I’m not just any pickle—I’m a kosher dill.”

Yeah, she was dressed in a foam rubber pickle suit, the latest in her series of desperate attempts to scare up some new customers for the aged deli. “The Pickle Jar has quarter-done, half-done and full dill pickles, all homemade from a secret family recipe. You can take some home in a collector jar, too.”

According to her online class, Branding is Your Business, having a mascot emphasized the idea behind the product, built connections with customers and humanized the company. Although one could argue that a pickle was not human.

It wasn’t as if she enjoyed dressing as a giant briny cucumber. Once upon a time Izzy had imagined herself in college, studying business, then having an office of her own and wearing beautiful professional attire. Of course, once upon a time she’d imagined a lot of things that had turned out to be nothing more than fantasies. She’d learned several years back that you couldn’t move forward unless you were first willing to accept reality. So with The Pickle Jar losing potential customers every day to the newer, hipper eateries in town, Izzy had succumbed to desperate measures, even going online to purchase this warty green pickle suit, only “slightly” used.

It was swelteringly hot and dark inside the costume, and the cylindrical interior could use a good steam cleaning. None of the other deli employees would even consider putting it on. But she did, because the costume was a marketing tool and allowing the business to close was not an option.

The tourist to whom she’d been speaking, dressed in the same Keep Portland Weird T-shirt as his wife, crossed his arms. “Can we really get a joke and a pickle for just a nickel?”

“Absolutely.”

She spared one last glance across the street, but the tour bus was still in the way. With perspiration trickling below the wimple-style head of the pickle suit, she swiped her brow. The man she’d thought she recognized was probably gone, anyway. Believing she saw Nate Thayer was nothing more than a weird function of her overanxious mind. For some reason, it was almost always in times of personal stress that she would imagine she saw him. Probably because she could think of few things more stressful than having to confront him again.

Focus on business, she counseled herself. Business is real.

The Pickle Jar wasn’t only her place of employment; it was her home. It was where she’d discovered family for the first time in her life. She was the manager of a failing restaurant, but she could fix it. She would fix it.

Forgetting about everything else, Izzy returned her focus to the tourists and gave them her most gracious smile. “I’ve got a million jokes, but the pickles are even better. Follow me to the best little deli west of the Hudson.”

* * *

So far, Nate Thayer’s trip down memory lane was proving bumpier than anticipated. Seated across from Jackson Fleming, who’d quarterbacked for Ridge High back in the day, Nate listened with half an ear as his former teammate complained about...ah, pretty much everything, from the boredom of driving a milk truck for a living to the pressures of raising four kids who sucked up every penny he made, to the slowness of the service at The Pickle Jar, where, in fact, they hadn’t been seated for more than a couple of minutes and were currently perusing the plastic-coated menus.

In Thunder Ridge on business, this was Nate’s first trip home in fifteen years. It had been his suggestion to have lunch here, and while Jack griped about life post high school, Nate allowed his attention to wander around the deli. On the surface, not much had changed. He remembered sitting at that chipped Formica counter, studying for his final high school exams, nursing a drink and eating his fill of mouth-puckering pickles until Sam Bernstein started sending over free corned beef on rye. “Eat,” the older man, short of stature but huge of heart, had insisted when Nate refused the gratis meals at first. “I see you in here all the time, studying hard.” Sam had nodded his approval. “The brain needs food. I’m making a contribution to your college education. You’ll thank me by having a good career.”

He did have a good career, a great career actually, as a commercial architect based in Chicago. Over the years, when he’d thought of Thunder Ridge, he’d found himself hoping the Bernstein brothers would approve. Today Nate didn’t see either of the two old men who owned the deli. The force of his desire to find them alive and well surprised him. He had written once or twice after he’d left for college, but there’d been a lot of water under the bridge, too many complicated feelings for the communication not to feel awkward; soon it had fallen away altogether. Nate wouldn’t be in town long, but it would feel good to mend that particular fence.

His relationship with the brothers was not the only casualty from his past, of course, but the other issue was unlikely to ever be repaired. Isabelle Lambert had left town shortly after he had. In high school, he and Izzy had been in different grades and had run with different crowds; he hadn’t so much as heard her name in a decade and a half. More than once he’d thought about looking her up but had always talked himself out of it.

Nevertheless, it was impossible to return to Central Oregon and not think about the girl with the caramel hair, skin soft as a pillow and lake-colored eyes so big and deep Nate had wanted to dive into them.

When he noticed his fingers clutching the menu too tightly, he forced himself to relax. After fifteen years, his feelings still had jagged, unfinished edges where Izzy was concerned.

“Are you ready to order?”

Distracted by his thoughts, Nate hadn’t noticed the waitress’s arrival. She filled their water glasses, then set the plastic pitcher on the table and stood looking down at them. Her name tag read Willa, a good name for the petite, fair beauty whose long auburn waves and serene appearance made her look as if she’d emerged from another era.

Jack grinned at the waitress. “What’s special today? Besides you?” Despite being married and having a houseful of children, he was obviously smitten.

Nate winced, but the woman remained unfazed, her cool expression revealing nothing as she responded. “We’re serving a hot brisket sandwich on a kaiser roll. It comes with a side salad. The soup today is chicken in the pot.”

Quickly Nate ordered the sandwich, hoping his friend would do the same without further embarrassing himself, but Jack had other plans. “I’ll take the sandwich, and bring me a cold drink, too, gorgeous. ’Cause the more I look at you, the hotter I get.”

“Jack,” Nate began in a warning undertone, but the former Thunder Ridge Huskies football hero—emphasis on former—clearly thought he still had the goods.

Jack grinned at Nate. “You’re in town awhile, right? Maybe Willa’s got a friend, and we can double-date.”

Willa picked up the pitcher of water, murmuring, “I’ll get your sandwiches,” but Jack, who had clearly lost his mind, patted the woman’s butt, then reached for her wrist. The redhead tried to jerk away. Jack held on.

What came next happened so quickly Nate wasn’t sure exactly what had occurred. He was aware of a voice hollering, “Hey!” and the next thing he knew, a large green...cucumber?...appeared at the table concurrent with a tidal wave of ice-cold water washing over him and Jack. Mostly Jack.

Jack yelled, the cucumber yelled back, and then it slipped in the puddle of water, falling in a heap of flailing green arms and legs.

“Pickle down!” a busboy shouted.

Ah, it was a pickle.

Nate rose to help.

“You threw that water on purpose,” Jack accused.

“Shut up,” Nate suggested as he knelt next to what appeared to be a life-size vegetable mascot. “Don’t move,” he said, unsure of where to check first for injuries. At least there was an abundance of padding. “Let’s make sure you’re not hurt before you try to get up.”

Ignoring him, the irate dill pointed toward Jack. “You need to leave this restaurant. Now.” Then it turned back to Nate. “And you. You—”

She stopped—it was definitely a she.

Half a lifetime fell away.

“Izzy?” Her name escaped on a rush of breath.

It took her longer to say his name, and when she did, her voice crackled. “Nate.”

“You know her?” Jack glared. “She got water on my Wallabees.” He raised a leg, pointing to his boot. “These are suede, man, and I haven’t Scotchgarded them yet. I want to see the manager.”

Because he found it impossible to break eye contact with Izzy, Nate felt rather than saw the small crowd that was gathering around them. He heard someone say, “She is the manager,” and then people started talking over one another, their voices seeming distant and irrelevant.

Izzy.

That’s what was relevant. The fact that Izzy Lambert was here, right where he’d left her—despite her avowal that she would leave this town someday and head for a big city with opportunities that were bigger and better than anything she’d known in Oregon.

“What happened?” he murmured.

“I slipped on the water.”

He shook his head. Not what he’d meant. But he hadn’t intended to speak his thought out loud, anyway.

He’d been told she left town and recalled his tangled emotions at the time. It had taken some work, but he’d finally made peace with the fact that they’d been kids when they’d dated, that their relationship had been meant to last a summer not a lifetime and that, thankfully, the only people they’d truly hurt were themselves. Still, Izzy Lambert remained the big unanswered question of his life.

“Coming through. What happened here?”

Khaki-colored trousers appeared in Nate’s peripheral vision. He glanced up to see a sheriff, who stood with his hands on his hips, looking amusedly down at Izzy.

“Izz. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay. Up you go, then.” The lawman, a big, good-looking guy, extended a hand.

“Wait a minute.” Rising, Nate faced the sheriff. Now that he was standing, he realized the man was about his height...maybe a half inch taller...and roughly the same weight. Nate didn’t like the slight smile around the other man’s lips. “She shouldn’t get up until we know for sure she hasn’t broken something.”

To the casual observer, the sheriff’s smile appeared friendly, but there was a distinct challenge in the dark gaze that connected with Nate’s.

“Sheriff Derek Neel.” He introduced himself with a nod. No handshake. “And you are?”

Nate glanced at Izzy. Her eyes looked huge. “An old friend,” he responded, not above a twinge of satisfaction when the sheriff’s brow lowered a bit.

“Must be really old,” Sheriff Neel surmised. “I’ve known Izz twelve years. I can’t recall ever seeing you around.”

It was Nate’s turn to frown, and it felt more like a scowl. “Izz” must not have left Thunder Ridge for very long. She’d gone without getting in touch with him, without leaving a forwarding address. And back then she hadn’t had email or a cell phone. Nate had already moved to Chicago to attend college, was already deeply immersed in that life. Other than phoning Henry to ask if he knew where Izzy was—and Henry had claimed he had no information about Izzy—there had been no way, really, to track her down.

Out of nowhere, the feelings he’d had half a lifetime ago came rushing back, brief but surprisingly powerful. The tight throat, the sick gut, the confusion, even the desire to punch something when he’d heard Izzy was gone—all those sensations were there again, despite the years and the experiences between then and now.

Izzy seemed frozen in place, but his glance unlocked her, and she struggled to sit up. The bulky costume impeded her efforts.

The sheriff grabbed her beneath the left elbow the same moment that Nate’s fingers closed around her right arm. She looked at him, not at the other man, her eyes alarmed. Her soft, perfectly formed lips parted...and damned if he didn’t feel it again—the old desire, the possessiveness he’d never felt about anyone or anything except Izzy Lambert.

She seemed to be primed to say “thank you,” but no sound emerged. Instead, she stared back at him, breathing through her open mouth, silky brows arched, and he recalled the way she used to look at him, as if she’d been hungry for the very sight of him.

His glance dropped to her torso. Couldn’t help it. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew that beneath the bulky costume was the body he had gotten to know well. Too well, let’s face it. He had seen it in sunlight, moonlight and the stark light of a doctor’s office. He remembered it all.

Did she?

He shouldn’t feel a damned thing for Izzy Lambert after all these years. Their relationship was a cold case. It had begun as a summer love and ended the way most everyone had predicted it would—with Nate leaving for college in another state and Izzy...

Well, he wasn’t certain exactly what had happened to Izzy. All he knew for sure was that between the beginning and the end of their relationship, they had lived a lifetime, bonded in ways some couples never did. In one summer they had been forced to grow up, whatever innocence they’d once enjoyed gone for good. Maybe that was why the feelings weren’t completely dead, at least not for him. In all the years since, he hadn’t lived with that much intensity. Or passion.

With his blood feeling too hot for his veins, Nate wondered if he should have stayed away despite the passage of time. Then, just as suddenly, as if someone had turned on the air-conditioning, the heat of resentment cooled.

She’d planned to make a mark on the world, yet here she was: a pickle.

An angry pickle, coming to the defense of her coworker. Suddenly, he couldn’t prevent the quirk of his lips. Izzy, Izzy... Somehow, the ridiculous situation suited her. She’d always been unpredictable, always surprising.

Nate glanced again at the sheriff. Who was he? Friend? Lover? Something more? Maybe. But if she is, I wouldn’t want to be in your boots, pal. Izzy was still looking at him, not at the lawman.

Nate’s relationship with Isabelle Lambert might be fifteen years dead and buried, but he could feel the current running between them right now, and suddenly Nate knew in his gut: returning to Thunder Ridge was either a mistake or the best decision he’d made in a long, long time.

* * *

Gridlock. That was the state of Izzy’s brain.

Nate’s fingers were wrapped around her upper arm as he and Derek lifted her to her feet. It might have taken one second or ten minutes. All she could feel was Nate...and fear.

His touch ignited a flash fire of memory. The years disappeared and once more she was standing between his arms, her back against his truck, feeling his heartbeat and his heat, inhaling the amazing, perfect scent of his skin as he pressed against her, his whisper warm in her ear: “Do you know what the feel of you does to me?” He’d been the only person who’d ever made her feel truly special. More than a decade later, parts of her body that had been in hibernation a long, long time suddenly woke up. That was not good.

To regain her composure, she tore her gaze from his. She needed time to think. Even after all the years of looking for him, of fearing she might run into him somewhere, he’d still managed to catch her completely off guard now that it had actually happened.

And then, the worst...

Big Ken, the affectionately named clock tower in front of City Hall, struck two. Boom...boom...

Oh, dear Lord. She didn’t have much time at all. Seven minutes if she was lucky.

Her heart galloped as one thought rose above all others: Get rid of him!

“Nice to see you, Nate. I have to get back to work. Meal’s on the house.”

Izzy considered that a nice touch...friendly, but Nate’s blue eyes narrowed. “We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Oh. Not a problem. We’ll get you a sandwich to go.”

Nate’s frown deepened.

“You know what I’d like?” Jack, the jerk Izzy had seen groping Willa, stepped forward. “An apology for ruining my boots. Maybe even a reimbursement.”

Izzy stared at the man. She’d caught him fondling her employee, a woman so buttoned-up and proper that Izzy never told a blue joke in front of her.

Nate’s friend was a big hulk of a guy. Izzy didn’t recognize him, but she knew his type. Her mother had dated men like him: big, arrogant and dumb as rocks. Convinced you were as impressed with them as they were with themselves. Forget the jerk. Get rid of Nate, her brain counseled wisely. Her temper, however, which tended to get the best of her under stress, kindled.

“A reimbursement. Sure.” She nodded. “Check’s in the mail.”

“All right. That’s more like it.”

“I was being facetious.” Forgetting that from the neck down she was still dressed as a dill, she waddled up to the man to take him down a peg. “You know what I think? I think you need to apologize to Willa.”

“To Willa?” Derek was beside her in a flash. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” Twisting a ring on her right hand, Willa shook her head. “It was all just a misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again?” Derek squared off, ready for a showdown, which made Izzy realize instantly she should have kept her big mouth shut. Derek’s history was dotted with confrontation, and he tended to be even more mulish than she.

“The lady said it was a misunderstanding.” Nate stepped in. Unintimidated by Derek’s badge, his stature or his expression, Nate spoke in a tone at once mildly appeasing and strongly cautionary. “Let’s take her word for it. Jack, apologize to Willa.”

Jack spoke up from safely behind his friend. “Why should I apologize?”

“To save your life.” Nate tossed the wry reply over his shoulder while maintaining eye contact with Derek, who now directed his glower toward Nate.

“Who are you again?” Derek demanded, his hands on his hips. “And how do you know Izzy?”

Izzy’s heart began to pound. She and Nate had kept their personal business private. Because of her home life, Izzy had not socialized much, and because she and Nate had both had jobs, they’d reserved their limited time together strictly for each other. With the exception of Henry and Sam, who owned the deli and knew almost everything about her, most people had assumed she and Nate were just a fleeting high school crush. Here today, gone tomorrow. Which was exactly what she wanted them to assume.

I should use Gorilla Glue instead of lip gloss. If she’d kept her mouth shut, Nate and his friend might be out of here by now.

His gaze fell on her as he answered Derek. “Izzy and I are...old friends.”

Was it her imagination, or had Nate hesitated a hair too long before he said “old friends”? In addition to Derek, half her crew had rushed over to help when she fell. She did not want to court their curiosity.

Addressing herself to Jack, she said, “Never mind. You know what? Check is in the mail.”

“No, it’s not.” Nate turned toward her, his expression uncompromising. “He owes Willa—and you—an apology.” The steadiness of his gaze made her skin prickle inside the hot costume.

“Whose side are you on?” Jack complained. “She got water on you, too, man.”

Nate didn’t glance his friend’s way. His attention and low, intense words were all for Izzy. “Stand your ground, Isabelle. Don’t let some jackass push you around.”

“Hey!” Jack protested behind them.

Locked in a battle of gazes with Nate, anger blazed through Izzy like a brush fire.

Fifteen years ago, she would have given almost anything to have Nate Thayer on her side. To hear him stand up for her, stand up for them. But his supportive words were a decade and a half too late.

“You’re giving me advice, Nate? No, thank you. What I want is for you to take your friend and go.” She wasn’t a weak, starry-eyed girl any longer. “I want you to go right now.” The last words were so choked, so intense, Nate may have been the only one to hear them.

The surprise on Nate’s face offered a modicum of satisfaction. He seemed to be on the brink of saying something more before his expression shuttered, concealing his thoughts.

Slowly, he turned to his loudmouthed friend. “Apologize, and let’s go.”

“Apologize? For being friendly?”

“Do it,” Nate said. “I’m sure the sheriff would like to kick your ass, Jack, and if he doesn’t, I might. Stop arguing and start apologizing.”

“Fine. Who do I have to apologize to? The cucumber or the waitress?”

Hands resting just above his gun belt, Derek got in Jack’s face. “She’s a pickle.”

Nate shook his head. “Apologize to both of them,” he ordered.

Face reddening, Jack turned first to Willa. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He raised his hand to show off the gold band. “I’m married.” A resounding “ugh” circled through the small group of onlookers. Redder still, he looked at Izzy. “I apologize for making a big deal about the Wallabees. But they are new, and—”

Nate’s hand clamped down firmly on Jake’s shoulder. “I think you can stop there.” His gaze returned boldly to Izzy. He nodded. “Good to see you, Isabelle.”

With her heart pounding against the foam costume, she gave a jerky nod.

He seemed to hesitate a moment longer, which made her nerves flare, then apparently deciding there was nothing else to say, he turned and walked toward the deli’s glass door.

“Time to get back to work,” she muttered, feeling slightly out of breath.

Her busboy Leon, and Oliver, the cook, returned to their jobs. Willa hurried after them.

Derek watched the petite redhead for several seconds, then looked at Izzy. His eyes narrowed. “Explanation, please. Who was that guy? ’Cause your face is as green as that ridiculous costume.”

Chapter Two

“Shh.” Izzy waved her hand, indicating that Derek should lower his booming voice. “I’ll tell you later, I promise, but—” She stopped, her breath catching painfully in her throat.

As Nate and his friend reached the deli’s entrance, a teenage boy pulled open the door.

Izzy’s heart took off like a startled colt. For perhaps the second time in her life, she understood the term “blind panic.” A cold sweat covered her body.

She wanted to run to the door, but her bones felt weak and rubbery, and she wouldn’t know what to do once she got there. She watched helplessly as the boy held the door. Nate must have thanked him, because the teen smiled and nodded.

As Nate walked down the street, he glanced back through the broad window fronting the deli. Could he see far enough into the restaurant to note that she was still watching him? It seemed that he looked right at her before his friend drew his attention and they disappeared down the block.

“You look like you’re going to be sick.” Derek’s voice boomed beside her. “What the hell is going on here today?”

“Not now.” Her mouth was so dry, she could barely speak. “I’ll tell you later, but—”

“Mom!”

Eli, her beautiful son, nearly as tall as she was now, with the same fair skin and straight brown hair as hers, loped toward them. The sight of his gangly body and broad smile never failed to make her feel as if she’d taken a hit of pure oxygen. Today the sight of him filled her with anxiety, too.

“Hey, Uncle Derek.” Eli’s speech was somewhat marred by the hearing impairment he had suffered as a baby.

“Hey, buddy.”

“I’m staying,” Eli announced, then used his expressive hands to sign the question What’s for dessert today?

Instead of asking him whether he’d eaten lunch, Izzy both spoke and signed back, “There’s strawberry cheesecake in the walk-in fridge. Help yourself.”

Eli’s eyes, hazel-green, like his mother’s, widened in surprise. “Cool.” She never offered him dessert before a healthful meal or, at the very least, a snack. Eli taught swim classes at the local parks and rec. She was always harping on him about healthful refueling. Now he trotted toward the kitchen, stopped and looked at her. I had a sub sandwich with lettuce, tomato, spinach and pickles, he signed. In case you were wondering. With a grin, Eli said hello to a waitress, dodged around her, then rounded the counter and disappeared into the kitchen calling, “Yo, O!” to Oliver, the lead cook, who had once bought Eli a set of child-sized saucepans and played “chef” with him for hours.

Oh, God, how she loved her little family. Nate’s presence here could threaten everything she’d defied the odds to build.

“I’m on duty tonight,” Derek said, keeping his voice low, “but I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect a full debriefing.”

He had never asked about Eli’s father. Derek had too many of his own ghosts to request that Izzy dredge up hers, but once, during a vulnerable moment, she had told him a little bit about the summer she was seventeen.

“Tomorrow?” Derek had been a good friend for years, but would she be ready to tell him—or anyone—the truth by tomorrow night? Not likely. She needed time, time to find out how long Nate was going to be in town...time to figure out how to protect her son, because this wasn’t just about her. “I’m...not sure I’m free tomorrow.”

“What’s the problem?” Derek asked. “You close at sundown on Friday nights.”

“Yes, but I’m... I’ve got to... There’s a very important—”

“Cut it out, Izz. You’re a crap liar.”

That’s what you think. She chewed the inside of her lip.

Derek crossed his arms. “You’re making me so curious I might stop by tonight on my shift.”

“No.” Eli would be home tonight. “Tomorrow,” she relented.

Reappearing, Eli carried a plate of the deli’s mile-high cheesecake. “This is the bomb,” he said, pointing to it with his fork. Setting the plate aside so he had both hands free, he asked, Mom, is it okay if I sleep at Trey’s tonight? His dad said he’d drive us to Portland in the morning.

Eli and his friend Trey were attending the same summer camp in Portland. After tonight, she wouldn’t see him for two whole weeks.

“I can drive you.” Glad to think of something other than Nate, she focused on the plans she’d already made. “I took the morning off. I thought we’d stop at Voodoo Doughnuts for maple-bacon bars.” She smiled, for the moment just another mom trying to tempt her teenager into spending a little more time with her.

A flash of guilt crossed her son’s features. Typically more comfortable with signing than oral speech when he had more than a few words to say, he used a combination of ASL and finger spelling to explain, Trey’s dad was a counselor for Inner City Project when he was our age. He’s going to introduce us around.

“Ah.” For the past several summers, Eli had attended a camp for deaf kids. This summer, he’d insisted on “regular camp.” The fourteen-year-old was the one thing in Izzy’s life that had turned out absolutely, perfectly right. Refraining, with difficulty, from telling him he was already way, way better than “regular,” Izzy had spent more money than she should have to register Eli for the camp with Trey.

“Traveling with Trey and Mr. Richards sounds like a great idea,” she said. “You have a good time. In fact, I’ll take off early and help you pack.”

I’m already packed. I can sleep at Trey’s so we can get an early start tomorrow. His mom invited me to dinner.

“Oh. Well...great. Great, because I wasn’t even sure what to make tonight.” His favorite monster burritos, actually. Have a fabulous time, First Mate, she signed without speaking.

Aye, aye, Skipper, he signed back, playing along with the endearments they’d been using since he was in third grade and they’d eaten their dinners at the coffee table, watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. She probably ought to stop calling him cutesy names that would make a less patient kid gag.

I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, Mom. He looked at Derek. Take care of her for me, Uncle Derek.

Derek both signed and spoke back, “I’ll do that, buddy.”

Eli made a move toward his mother, then looked uncertain. I’m not sure how to hug you when you’re a pickle.

Solving the problem, she tossed her arms around her son, gave him a warm squeeze, then began to run through the list of safety precautions he needed to take at camp.

Eli nodded for a while before interrupting, Mom, I got the memo. Literally. He looked at Derek and splayed his fingers. “She wrote five pages.”

Izzy blushed. “It’s easy to forget things when you’re away.”

Mom, I’ll be safe, respectful and aware of my surroundings. I won’t lose my hearing aid, ’cause it’s really expensive, and I’ll be back in two weeks with all my body parts. And then, just so she would have a memory to reduce her to tears every day that he was away, Eli kissed her on the cheek and said with his most careful enunciation, “See you, Skipper.”

She refused to cry. Until he was out the door.

After exchanging a manly hug with Derek, Eli jogged out of the deli. Izzy didn’t start sniffling audibly until the glass door closed behind her only child, leaving her with her worries and a sense of loneliness that made her feel hollow as an empty tomb.

“Aw, come on, Pickle. He’ll be home soon.” Derek’s arm went round her in what turned out to be a kind of stranglehold. “Do you know pickles have no visible shoulders? Makes it hard to be friendly.” He adjusted his arm a bit more companionably. “If I wasn’t on duty tonight, I’d keep you company. I’ll bring pizza tomorrow. The works?”

“Sure.”

Willa walked by carrying a lox platter, and Derek’s attention instantly swerved to the petite redhead. “For pity’s sake, ask her out already,” Izzy whispered. “You stare at her every time you come in.”

“She doesn’t stare back.”

Izzy shook her head, content to focus on someone else’s fears instead of her own for a while. “Sheriff Neel, are you telling me a big, strapping lawman like you is afraid of a tiny, little woman who hasn’t uttered an unkind word since she’s been here?”

Derek grunted.

“When was the last time you went on a date?” she needled. “You can’t be a sheriff 24/7, buddy. You need a reason to wear street clothes once in a while.”

One of Derek’s brows arched. “Look who’s talking. You’re a pickle. How’s your date card these days, Isabelle? Do I need to find someone else to watch Shark Tank with?”

The last time Izzy had felt motivated to take a good hard look at her love life, she’d wound up alone in the back office, eating a quart of matzo ball soup and putting a sizable dent in a chocolate chip babka. “Fine. Never mind,” she muttered. “I was trying to be helpful.” She and Derek lapsed into grumpy silence for several seconds, disgusted far more with themselves than with each other.

Finally, Derek spoke. “If you need something before tomorrow, call me. I mean, with the kid leaving.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I better get back to work,”

“Me, too. Lives to protect and all that.”

“Yeah. Pickles to serve.”

With one last, not-very-subtle glance at Willa, he headed toward the coatrack at the front of the deli, where he’d hung his hat.

Izzy sighed. All right, so they were both terminally pathetic when it came to romance. At least Derek had a town to watch over, and she—

I have a restaurant and a family to save. Here in this dying deli were people she loved who loved her back. That was something. More, in fact, than she’d ever thought she would have. She intended to protect what was hers, no matter what.

First, though, she had to get out of this pickle suit, which felt like a personal sauna, and go somewhere alone so she could think clearly.

Waddling to the counter, she told Audra, who had worked at the deli longer than she had, “I’m leaving for a couple of hours. If you can hold down the fort, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the dinner shift.” Without Eli at home, she’d be better off working instead of worrying. Maybe if she took a break, she could figure out what to do about Nate Thayer and the child they’d made together.

* * *

“We can do this, no problem,” Izzy grunted, standing on the pedals of her bike. “Going uphill is good...for...us.” Her teeth ground together. Every downstroke was harder to come by than the one before as she pumped determinedly up Vista Road. “We’re going to start...doing this...every...day,” she panted to her beloved dog, Latke, a Shar-Pei rescue whose ambivalence toward physical activity gave credence to the distinction nonsporting breed.

Her heart and head both thudded painfully, but even that was better than the avalanche of questions that buzzed in her brain on the heels of Nate Thayer’s return. So far, she had not a single answer, not even a clue as to what was going to happen if and when her son discovered that his father was in Thunder Ridge...or vice versa.

Nausea and dizziness the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since she was pregnant overwhelmed her. Eli had questioned her about his father a few times, mostly during the tween years when his own identity was in minute-by-minute flux. The answers she’d provided hadn’t been satisfying, but at least they had cooled Eli’s incessant wondering about the man whose life goals had not included a pregnant teenage girlfriend.

“’Kay, I think I’m going to puke now.”

She had to stop pedaling, hop off the seat and close her eyes. Latke accepted the rest stop as an opportunity to prostrate herself in the bike lane.

Izzy leaned over the handlebars. “We’ll get going in a sec, baby, just as soon as Mama’s heart attack is done.”

“Would rehydrating help?”

On a fresh surge of adrenaline, Izzy’s eyes popped open. A clear plastic water bottle, icy cold with condensation dripping down the sides, dangled in front of her.

“Bike much?” Nate Thayer arched a brow, lips twisting sardonically.

Silently cursing fate, Izzy stared at him. She had deliberately ridden away from town and in the opposite direction from the dairy farm where Nate had grown up. “What are you doing out here?” The question sounded like an accusation.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He shook his head. “We need to polish our welcome committee skills. This is the second time in one day that you haven’t greeted me on my return home.”

“Home?” Izzy felt as if a giant fist were squeezing her stomach. “You’re here to stay?” Her distaste for that possibility was clear as a bell and drew a deep frown from Nate.

Unscrewing the top of the water bottle, he held it out again. “Take it. You’re about to keel over.”

“No, I’m not.”

A smile tugged his lips. “Take it anyway.”

Willing her fingers to stop shaking, Izzy plucked the bottle from his hand, careful not to touch him. Lowering the kickstand, she stepped away from her bike with Nate observing her every move. Even when she stopped looking at him, she could feel his eyes on her, the way she used to sense him watching her in the deli fifteen years ago. Back then her skin would tingle with excitement, even as she’d pretended not to notice. Today, anxiety made her skin prickle like needle pokes.

She bent toward her dog. “Here, sweetie.” Tilting Nate’s offering, she let Latke drink. The Shar-Pei’s heavy jowls flapped as she slurped with the grace of a hippo sipping from a martini glass.

During the summer that she and Nate had been a couple, Izzy had never truly confronted him. How could she? She had been so besotted, so damn grateful that the high school heartthrob had chosen her, a girl with an embarrassing family and no prospects for a decent future. Now, when her dog was finished drinking, she stood and met Nate’s gaze with challenge in her own. “Latke says thanks.”

He addressed her dog. “You’re welcome.”

Wearing the same clothes he’d had on in the deli—J.Crew jeans and a sea-blue V-necked T-shirt that matched his eyes almost identically (yeah, she’d noticed), his hair still ridiculously thick and shiny—he shrugged. “I only brought the one bottle. Come back to my room. There’s more water in the minibar.”

Izzy glanced in the direction from which Nate had come. The heavily shingled roof of the Eagle’s Crest Inn peeked through a grove of pine trees. “How did you even see me from the inn? ” she asked.

“My room faces the street. And my desk faces the window. When I saw you crawl by, I thought, ‘Well, what do you know? Fate must want us to have a reunion, even if Izzy doesn’t.’” His gaze narrowed. “It’s been a long time. You must have a few minutes to spare for an old friend.”

There it was, the liquid velvet voice that used to make her feel as if she were wrapped in the most comfortable blanket ever created.

“I haven’t, actually. I’m due back at the deli.” Shoving the empty bottle into the saddlebag on her bike, she climbed back on and tried to tug sixty pounds of wrinkled canine to a standing position. “Let’s go, girl.” No movement.

“I think she needs a nap.”

What her pet needed was a couple thousand volts. “She’s fine. She loves to run. Let’s go, Latke.” Izzy put her right foot on the bike pedal, intending to pull the dog into a standing position if she had to. She jerked with surprise when Nate clamped his fingers around the handlebars.

He leaned forward, his shadow looming over her. Humor fled his expression, replaced by curiosity and displeasure. “If I didn’t know better, Isabelle, I’d say you plan to avoid me until I leave town. Why?”

“That’s not my intention at all. I’m just very busy right now. I’m sure we’ll find time before you go. When did you say you’re leaving?”

“I didn’t say.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. And now I know where you’re staying, so...” She tried to back the bike up, but he was still holding her handlebars.

“So you’ll get in touch?” His voice grew quiet, penetrating. “I should expect a call? Like last time?”

“Last time.” Izzy’s stomach began to twist so hard she wanted to double over. “What do you mean?”

“When I went to Chicago, you and I agreed to talk once a week. Then suddenly you were gone, no forwarding address, no warning.”

Threads of anger wove through Izzy’s fear. “No warning? Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I should have told you all about my plans. Ten minutes once a week wasn’t a lot of time, though. I’d have to talk really fast.”

“I’m not following you.”

“You’re not? Every Sunday afternoon,” she reminded him, “from five to five ten Pacific Time? Nate Thayer’s obligatory check-in to the girl he’d knocked up back in Oregon. Very thoughtful, those calls, but you have to admit they didn’t leave a lot of time to talk about anything in depth.” Which, she had thought at the time, must have been the point.

Surprise hijacked Nate’s features, and Izzy took the opportunity to wrest the handlebars from his grip. He moved in front of the bike immediately. “That’s what you thought I was doing? Just fulfilling an obligation?”

“That is what you were doing. Look, Nate,” Izzy chided, “it’s ancient history, but let’s not rewrite it. When I got pregnant, you saw your college dreams flushing down the toilet. So, you and your parents came up with a solution—put the baby up for adoption and check in with the pregnant teenager once a week to make sure she’s still on board. Perfectly logical. Frankly, if I’d had a scholarship to a big university and parents who’d already picked out the frame for my diploma, I might have felt the same way.”

“You agreed that adoption seemed like the best solution.”

“I was seventeen, pregnant and dead broke. I wasn’t in a great position to argue.”

Nate’s brows swooped low. A muscle tensed in his jaw. “Are you saying you didn’t want to put the baby up for adoption?”

Her mind began to race like a machine that was out of control—couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop.

“You agreed we were both too young to be good parents,” he said, glancing at a car that whizzed by. “I don’t want to discuss this on the street. Why don’t you come up—”

“I don’t want to discuss this at all.” She made a show of looking at her watch. “I have to go.” When she tried to push the bike forward, however, Nate held on.

A sharp burning sensation rose behind Izzy’s eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry, not after all this time. But she remembered one occasion—just the one—when Nate had stopped being logical and reasonable about how they were too young and too uneducated and not financially able to raise a baby properly. On that single occasion, before he’d left for college, his brow had hitched in the middle like it was right now, worry muddying the usually clear and confident expression in his eyes, and he’d said, “Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?”

In that one moment, they had felt like parents, not two kids who had made a colossal mistake.

She swallowed hard.

“You know what I remember, Nate? I remember what your mother and father said—that our relationship was ‘a lapse in good judgment.’ And that we’d be crazy to throw our futures away.” They had meant their son’s future, of course. There hadn’t been many people around at that time who’d held out much hope for her future. “We shouldn’t blame each other for anything. It might have been different if we’d loved each other, right? But we were just kids.” Her sad smile was the genuine article. “You’re lucky you had parents who were looking out for you.”

“Izzy—”

“I really do have to go now.”

Using the heel of her running shoe to flip the kickstand, Izzy climbed aboard her bike and pushed forward toward Latke, urging her to fall into step. Nate watched her every move but didn’t try to stop her this time as she checked for traffic and made a U-turn on Vista Road.

Traveling downhill, Izzy went as fast as she dared push her trotting dog, desperate to outrun worry and the tears that, finally, would not be denied. She swiped the back of her hand across her nose and used her palm to wipe her eyes. Determined to keep the details of her home life private when she was younger, she’d kept to herself in middle and high school, flying as far under the radar as possible and even earning the nickname “Loner Chick.” After a while, she’d been largely ignored, which had been fine by her. She’d never traded one word with Nate Thayer until the summer after he’d graduated.

What a tangled web she had woven when she, a girl from as far over the wrong side of the tracks as you could get, fell in love with the golden boy of Thunder Ridge. And got pregnant.

That hadn’t been her biggest sin, though. No, not by a long shot. Her biggest sin had been believing Nate loved her back, that he would change his mind about the baby and that they would live happily ever after. Her biggest sin had been telling herself the lie that when you loved hard enough, all your dreams would come true.

Chapter Three

For Izzy, “home” was the one-word description of the blood, sweat and tears she had put into constructing not just a building but a family. The deli had been her first real home, and she had happily painted its aged walls, twisted new washers onto leaking faucets and waxed its linoleum tiles until the memory of their former luster glinted through the wear and tear.

It was the same with the cottage in which she and Eli made their home. When she’d first laid eyes on the 860-square-foot space, her heart had sunk. The tiny house was all she’d been able to afford and even then she’d had to borrow the down payment (paid back in full) from her boss Henry, who by that time had become more of a surrogate father to her.

The prospect of owning her own home, a place she and her son could call theirs forever, had pushed her to overlook the dark wood walls, the ugly threadbare carpets and the cracked enamel in the ancient claw-foot tub, not to mention the spaces in the roof shingles through which she could actually see the sky. Izzy and Eli, who by then had turned seven, dubbed the little house Lambert Cottage, and she’d learned all she could about repairs and improvements.

Today their home was a sunny, whitewashed space with a scrubbed pine floor she’d discovered beneath the carpets, and pale pear-green furniture she’d reupholstered on her own. She made Thanksgiving dinners in her tiny kitchen and hosted birthday parties in a garden filled with azalea, honeysuckle and lydia broom. It was no longer possible to see sky through the roof, but there were times late at night as Izzy lay in bed saying her prayers that she gazed into the darkness above her head and was sure she could see heaven. Coming home never, ever failed to soothe and reassure her.

Except this afternoon.

Unleashing Latke, she set out a bowl of fresh water, chugged a tumbler of iced tea, rinsed her glass and set it upside down on the wooden drain rack, just as she would have done on any normal day. The difference was that today her hands shook the entire time, and she thought she might throw up.

Since she’d pedaled away from Nate, memories had been buffeting her so hard she felt like a tiny dinghy on a storm-ridden sea. Some of the memories were good. So good that yearning squeezed her heart like a sponge. Others were more bittersweet. But there was one memory that rose above the others, whipping up a giant wall of emotion that threatened to capsize her: the recollection of the day she’d accepted that the boy she loved was never going to love her back, not the same way, and that she’d rather be alone the rest of her life than beg for a love that wasn’t going to come...

Fifteen years earlier...

Nate ran his fingers through his hair—that famously thick black hair—then remained head down, elbows on knees, hands cradling his forehead. “Damn it.”

Izzy winced at the frustration in his tone, wondering if he was directing it at her, at the news she’d just given him or at both. Probably both. What hurt the most, she thought, was that the best summer of her life was now quite clearly the worst of his. “I’m sorry.”

What a stupid thing to say! Plus, she’d whispered the words, which made the fact that she’d apologized even worse.

She was no wimp. But sitting next to Nate on a bench in Portland’s Washington Park, exhausted and freaking terrified, she figured that if I’m sorry was the best she could do, then so be it. Seventeen had felt so much older and more mature just a week ago. Tonight she felt like a little girl afraid of the dark and of the unknown.

“You’re positive?” Nate demanded. His voice, which had always made her think of soft, dark velvet, tonight sounded more like a rusty rake scraping cement.

Izzy nodded. She was “positive,” all right. She’d bought four early-pregnancy tests, which had sucked up three hours’ worth of income from her job waiting tables at The Pickle Jar deli. Every single test had turned up a thin pink line. She’d never liked pink.

“I’m pregnant,” she confirmed. May as well get used to saying it out loud.

“How?” Raising his head, Nate looked at the evening skyline beyond the Rose Test Garden, where they sat, rather than at her.

How? How was obvious, right? They’d been having sex since May. Nearly four full months of his waiting for her when she got off work at the restaurant and then whisking her away in his old Toyota pickup. It could have been a limousine or a horse-drawn carriage—that was how lucky Izzy had felt to be driving into the night with Nate Thayer.

“I mean, we used protection,” Nate said now, trying to reason out her news. “Every time.”

Hardly the words of comfort—and solidarity—she’d been hoping for.

Suck it up, Izz. He’s shocked.

A year older and already graduated from high school, Nate had plans for his life...so did she...plans that did not include becoming a teenage parent.

“Not every time,” she countered.

“What?”

“Protection. We didn’t use it every time. Not on the Fourth of July.”

“The Fourth? Yes, we—” He stopped. And swore again.

Her heart, which for the past few months had felt as if it were unfolding like one of the roses in Washington Park, suddenly shriveled around the edges.

They’d made love in the bed of his truck nearly two months ago on Independence Day, atop a thick pile of sleeping bags. With most of the people in their hometown watching the fireworks down at the river, she and Nate had agreed to keep their romance as private as possible. Izzy hadn’t wanted to invite prying eyes or unwelcome comments. So on that Fourth of July, they’d driven to the resort where he’d worked over the summer. Parked near a small lake, with Santana cranked up on the radio, Nate had gazed down at her. The lights in the distance had illuminated his face—so beautiful, so serious. Wondering at his expression, she’d touched his cheek, and he’d whispered, almost as if he was surprised, “I feel better with you than I do anyplace else.”

Her love had exploded like the fireworks.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

Sudden and sharp, the question plunged into Izzy’s chest with the force of a dagger. Her gaze fused with his and she saw the truth in his eyes, so obvious that she couldn’t catch her breath: he hoped another boy could be the baby’s father.

Suddenly, the scent of spent blooms from the end-of-summer roses became overwhelming. Running for the cover of the bushes, Izzy retched into the ground.

While her stomach surrendered its contents, her mother’s words from earlier this summer tumbled through her brain.

“Running off with that hottie? If you’re smart, you’ll get knocked up. Then maybe you can get him to take care of you.” Felicia had punctuated her advice by raising her beer can in a mock toast. “It never lasts, but it’s better than nothing.”

On her way out the door—yes, she had been going to meet Nate—Izzy had turned to give the woman who’d only sort of raised her a withering glare. “I would never do that. I’m not like you.”

Genuine laughter had erupted around the cigarette Felicia had put between her lips. “Oh, sweetie, you are exactly like me. The only difference is you think it’s classier to give it away for free.” As Izzy slammed the screen door, Felicia’s words tagged after her. “You’re going to wind up like me, too. Count on it.”

It took Izzy a while to realize that Nate was beside her, one hand smoothing her light brown curls from her face, the other supporting her shoulders as she bent over the ground.

“I don’t want your help.” With her forearm, she knocked his hand away. Nate reared back in surprise.

Of course he was surprised. Up to now, she’d never been anything but sweet and agreeable. She’d been so happy, so grateful to be with him.

“Hey!” He grabbed her arm when she attempted to rise on her own. “Stop. You’re going to make yourself sick again. Just relax a minute.”

“Relax?” Was he serious? “Good idea. Maybe I’ll sign up for prenatal yoga. I’m pretty sure Ridge High offers that senior year.”

Nate rubbed both hands down his face. “Okay, look, I was being an ass when I asked if it was mine. I’m sorry. I don’t... I don’t know how to do this, Izzy. No one has ever told me she was pregnant before.”

“Well, that makes two of us, because I’ve never said it before.”

He nodded. Then, ignoring her protest, he put his arm firmly around her waist and led her back to the bench. Finding a napkin in the picnic basket she’d packed for them, he wiped her brow. His touch and the fact that he insisted on helping her was sweet torture. She’d spent her whole life relying on herself, no longer daring to hope for one person she could lean into until she’d met Nate. When he collapsed against the bench, not making physical contact with her, she had to fight the urge to scoot closer.

He stretched his neck up, as if searching for an answer in the dark sky. “I’m supposed to leave for college in two weeks,” he said.

“I know.” He had told her from the beginning, and lately she’d hoped... Never mind what she’d hoped.

Don’t panic. Panicking won’t help.

“I’ve got to tell my parents.” He sounded as if he was about to tell them he’d found out he was dying.

“Maybe they’ll be supportive.”

Nate’s laugh told her otherwise. “Izzy, my father works twelve-hour days on a dairy farm and moonlights as a handyman so I can have a college fund. My mom taught piano and cleaned hotel rooms to pay for my after-school sports fees, because she thought it would help me get a scholarship. You think they’re going to enjoy hearing this?”

“Don’t yell at me, I didn’t get pregnant alone!”

“I know that!” His energy felt explosive as he rose from the bench. “I’m just saying this changes everything. Not only for us. For other people.”

“I can get a full-time job,” she said, hearing the desperation in her voice. “I can work while you go to school, so—”

“You can’t support three people.”

“You said you were going to work while you’re in college.”

He nodded. “I’ve got to help with tuition and books.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “If I’m lucky, I’ll have enough left over for living expenses.”

“I can pay my own way. I have for years. I don’t expect you to—”

“Izzy! Who’s going to take care of the baby while you and I are in school and at work and studying? I’m going to college in Chicago. We’d be two thousand miles away from anyone we know. No,” he said when she opened her mouth to protest. On a giant exhalation, he plowed both hands through his hair, then moved as if he were slogging through thigh-deep sand to sit beside her.

An anchor of fear pulled at Izzy’s heart. Looking at the Portland skyline, she blinked as the city lights blurred. No tears. Absolutely no tears.

They didn’t live in this sprawling city. Both she and Nate were from a Ridge community three and a half hours away. They’d come to Portland to soak up a view that was a taste of the bigger life awaiting them.

He was going to build skyscrapers.

She had planned to be the first person in her family to earn a high school diploma and go on to college.

Suddenly, Izzy felt as if nothing was holding her upright, as if she might slide off the bench. Stiffening her spine, she sat side by side with him—silently and with space between their bodies, which had not been their way this summer. The August evening felt hot and oppressive.

At the point where the silence was about to become unbearable, Nate spoke again. This time he sounded like someone who’d been running in the desert. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to my parents. There’s got to be something... We’ll figure it out together.” Nate’s large palm and beautiful long fingers curved around the hands she clutched on her lap. Chancing a look at him, Izzy saw that he was staring at the ground.

The warmth that usually flooded her body when he touched her did not come.

Not once in four months had Nate actually said the words I love you. Izzy had counseled herself to be patient. Told herself she didn’t have to hear the words to believe he felt them.

She shook her head. Stupid...stupid! How could a girl like her possibly know what love looked like?

With the rose-colored glasses off, the truth became painfully clear. Now, even though she was right next to Nate, even though he’d said they would find a solution together, she felt the heart that had warmed and softened this summer turn as cold and hard as stone.

* * *

“So the waitress says to the man at the counter, ‘We have two soups today, sir, chicken with noodles and split pea—both delicious. Which would you like?’ And the customer says, ‘I’ll take the chicken.’ But, after the waitress calls in the order, the man changes his mind. ‘Miss,’ he asks, ‘is it too late to switch? I think I’d prefer the split pea.’ ‘Not at all,’ the waitress replies, and she turns around and hollers to the cook, ‘Hold the chicken, make it pee!’”

Henry Bernstein leaned back in the guest chair in The Pickle Jar’s tiny office and smiled the sweet, mischievous smile that usually warmed Izzy down to her toes. Henry had told her at least one new joke every week for the past seventeen years. At seventy-six years young, he liked to claim he knew more jokes than a professional comic.

“Where’d you hear that one?” Izzy tried to smile, but she wasn’t up to her usual hearty laughter.

“I spent a week with two hundred senior citizens.” Henry shrugged. “It’s a laugh a minute in those retirement homes. Lots of company, three meals a day and all the Bengay you want. Not a bad life.”

Henry and his younger brother, Sam, had just returned from visiting their friend Joe Rose, who lived at Twelve Oaks, a senior residence along the Willamette River. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, but I’m even gladder you’re back,” Izzy told him sincerely. “It’s never the same around here without you. And I hope you’re ready to get back to work, because I’ve been putting together some marketing ideas. I think I know how we can pump up business.”

Raising the elegant, elderly hands that had scooped pickles out of an oak barrel back in the day, Henry said, “In a minute, in a minute. First, tell me what’s so awful that you haven’t been sleeping.”

“Who says I haven’t been sleeping?”

“Your eyes tell me. Is it business that’s keeping you awake, Izzy girl? Remember—” He raised a finger. “‘Tension is who you think you should be—relaxation is who you are.’”

Now she did laugh. “You heard that from someone at the retirement home. Only someone retired would say it.”

“It’s an ancient Chinese proverb.”

“Written by a retired ancient Chinese prophet.”

Henry grinned.

“Business isn’t all that’s keeping me up at night,” she admitted. In her life, she’d had only one person to whom she could turn with any problem, and that was the thin, wise, gray-haired man in front of her.

“Nate Thayer,” Izzy said, speaking the name aloud for the first time since yesterday afternoon. She’d avoided it, as if not saying his name might make his presence less real. “He’s here, in Thunder Ridge. He came to the deli yesterday. He saw Eli.”

Henry was rarely given to quick or exaggerated expressions, but now his brows arched above the line of his glasses. “He knows?”

“No. He didn’t recognize Eli. And Eli had no idea, of course. He held the door open for Nate. They smiled at each other.”

“But you and Nate spoke?”

“Yeah. I was wearing the pickle costume, and I fell on the floor, and— Never mind.” Shaking her head, she pressed her fingers to her temples. “It was awkward.”

Henry folded his hands above his belt line and nodded. “I thought he would come back someday.”

Too agitated to sit still, Izzy rose, wrapping her arms around her middle as if it was nineteen degrees outside instead of close to ninety. “He took his time. Not that I’m complaining. I wish he’d never come back. I wish I didn’t have to think about Nate Thayer again until Eli is an adult.”

“Did he come here looking for information?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t asked anything yet. But he’s not entitled to information.” Henry gazed at her. “He’s not,” she insisted before Henry could share some ancient wisdom about fathers’ rights—fathers who hadn’t wanted to raise their children to begin with.

“Nate and his parents wanted me to put our baby up for adoption. He was willing to wait until Eli was eighteen before he ever saw him. So let him wait a little longer.”

“You’re worried,” Henry said, nodding. “It’s understandable. But you’re speaking out of fear.”

“You’re darn right I am.” The tiny office didn’t leave much room for pacing, but Izzy made use of the space that was available. “You remember how Eli was a few years ago. His self-esteem was terrible. He hated everything about himself, including the fact that he had a father who didn’t want him.” She had never told Eli that, of course, never even hinted, but short of lying and saying that the man who had fathered him died or was living in Tunisia, what else could a father’s absence in his son’s life imply? She had told him only that his father was a boy she had known. A boy who hadn’t been ready to be a father and who had moved far away. Eli had never asked for a name, an act of self-control that seemed to give him a sense of power. He had referred to the man who’d fathered him once as “the guy with the Y chromosome.” Then he’d stopped talking about it all together.

“He’s on the right track now,” she said emphatically. “He’s a good student. Responsible and productive. He’s happy. I intend to keep him feeling good about himself. I won’t allow Nate to waltz in here and mess up my son’s life.”

Behind wire-rimmed glasses, Henry’s brown eyes watched her closely. “Eli is on the right track. And circumstances are very different now. Eli was also upset about being deaf in a hearing world. The cochlear implant made a great difference.”

“Yes. Because being able to hear took his mind off what he doesn’t have. He never talks about not having a father anymore. It doesn’t make him unhappy now. He has you, and Sam and Derek. He knows you love him.”

“And always will. That doesn’t mean he’s stopped wondering, dear heart.”

“Of course not. That’s not what I mean. I’ve never underestimated how much Eli would want a father. You know that,” she insisted. “But he’s finally focusing on what he does have, not on what he doesn’t.” She looked at Henry hopefully, seeking his consensus.

Sun-weathered brow puckering, Henry removed his bifocals and began to clean them with his shirttail. Izzy opened a desk drawer, withdrew a tiny spray bottle and cloth she kept just for Henry and Sam, then wiped the lenses until they were clear before returning them to him. “As far as Nate and his parents know,” she said quietly, “I went through with the adoption plan. Nate’s never gotten in touch to ask for information before. In all likelihood, he’s come back to town for a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with us. If he does find out about Eli, and still has no interest in contact or in being a father...” She shuddered, the possibility too awful to contemplate.

Growing up unwanted left scars you could hide but not heal. Izzy knew that from experience and would do anything to protect her son from the miserable feeling that he wasn’t good enough to be loved. It was far, far better to accept reality than to hope for a love that would never come.

“I still remember the day you told me you wanted to leave Thunder Ridge so you could have the baby somewhere else,” Henry said. “I didn’t want you to go. The thought of you being alone in a strange city...” He shook his head. “You were so young.”

“Well, I wasn’t alone. Joanne was wonderful.”

Henry and his late wife had had a friend named Joanne, who’d been recently widowed, and Henry had offered to contact the woman about Izzy. Joanne had been happy to have the company of a quiet, studious seventeen-year-old...even a quiet, studious, four-months-pregnant seventeen-year-old. Izzy had been able to leave Thunder Ridge with most people, including her own mother, unaware that she was even pregnant.

Joanne and Izzy had gotten along so well that Joanne had invited her to stay on in Portland after the baby was born. She’d watched Eli while Izzy had attended community college and worked. She’d taught a teenager how to care for a baby.

A little more than three years later, Izzy had returned with an associate degree, a baby and no one any the wiser that Nate was the father. People had seemed to accept her story that the baby’s father was someone she’d met in Portland.

“I’m still grateful that you introduced me to Joanne. She’s wonderful,” Izzy told Henry. She and the older woman were still in touch, and Izzy visited with Eli when she could.

“She’s grateful, too.” Henry nodded, but his brow furrowed, making Izzy wonder what was coming next. “Nate did call after you left for Portland,” he reminded her. “He sounded worried. He wanted very much to talk to you. In the back of my mind, I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I’d told him you changed your mind and were keeping the baby.”

“Nothing!” Izzy answered swiftly, her pulse speeding. “Nothing good would have happened. He’d already made his decision. If you had told him I was keeping the baby, he’d have sicced his parents on me again, so they could make me change my mind, and I was stressed enough without that.”

Insisting that adoption was the only sensible solution to the “problem” of Izzy’s pregnancy, Nate’s parents had argued their point of view convincingly. The Thayers were blue-collar folks who had worked day and night, literally, to ensure that their son’s life would be easier than their own. Wasn’t Izzy also eager for a better life? Didn’t she, too, want to attend college? And if she truly cared about Nate, how would she feel watching the plans for his future slip away? Those were some of the arguments they had used to convince her everyone’s life would be ruined unless she put the baby up for adoption.

At first Izzy had allowed them to persuade her, and Nate had gone to college believing Izzy agreed with the adoption plans and assured by his parents that they would “watch over” Izzy during her pregnancy. And they had.

Mrs. Thayer had accompanied her to an ob-gyn in Bend, far enough away that no one in Thunder Ridge would know what was going on. Then his mother had made an appointment with an adoption lawyer, too, and had sat beside Izzy, holding her hand, throughout the first visit. No “mother” had held her hand before.

And so Izzy had done what she had sworn to herself she absolutely would not do again: she had hoped. She had begun to believe the Thayers liked her, that the baby was becoming real to them, as it was to her. Surely this caring—this is what family did for one another.

And Nate’s weekly check-in calls...

At first, she had excused the fact their duration was brief and the content superficial. After all, the first weeks of college were busy and stressful. He would tell her a bit about his life when she asked him specific questions and he would ask her how she was feeling—whether she was eating right, if she was able to keep up with senior year homework. That, along with his parents’ interest, had been enough for her to begin dreaming again...

Maybe Nate would miss her and ask her to come to Chicago...

His parents would realize they couldn’t give up their first grandbaby...

She would prove that she could become a mother and support Nate’s studies and eventually his career, and someday the Thayers—and Nate—would look back and thank God that Izzy and her child were part of the family.

Welcome to fantasyland, Izzy thought now, where we pay no attention to pesky details like reality.

She had Mrs. Thayer to thank for setting her straight. With crystal clarity, she’d shown Izzy that Nate did not want her or her baby.

So in her fourth month of pregnancy, Izzy had left town, telling the Thayers she preferred to handle the adoption on her own, without their help, and that they could pass that information along to Nate, since she had no desire to see him again.

“I gave Nate’s parents exactly the out they were hoping for,” she said to Henry. “It was better for everyone’s sake to let them think they were getting what they wanted. The truth wouldn’t have changed the outcome anyway. It just would have created more tension and fighting.”

For a moment, Henry looked as if he wanted to argue, but how could he? They both remembered exactly how Nate’s family had felt about her. She had reminded them of everything they had worked so hard to rise above.

“Eli will be at camp for two weeks,” she reminded Henry. “I’m not sure how long Nate plans to be in town, but he is not entitled to any information that could hurt Eli in the long run.” As she spoke, she began to feel stronger. “Our policy has got to be don’t ask, don’t tell. Eli has me. He has you and Sam and Derek and everyone else at the deli. He knows you all love him and accept him exactly as he is. If he wants to look for his father when he’s eighteen, that’s his prerogative. Until then, it’s my job to protect him.” That had been her purpose all these years. “The Thayers wanted perfection—a son with a degree, six figures a year and a perfect family. Eli and I will never fit that mold.”

Henry shook his head. “You talk about what his parents wanted, but what did Nate want, dear heart?”

She smiled at the endearment. Dear heart. God had been good to her: despite her false starts, she’d been given a family. She answered Henry’s question honestly. “Nate wanted the life he planned before he met me.” She shrugged, way past the grief that had once consumed her. “We really were too young. If nothing else, the Thayers were right about that. Nate was a college-bound jock looking for a lighthearted summer romance, and I was a desperate, love-hungry teen.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

Izzy shrugged, unconcerned. “Maybe.”

Taking her seat, she fired up the computer. She had fought for the life she now lived, and it was a good one, built on hard work and a stern levelheadedness. She didn’t try to fool herself anymore.

Did she ever want more than she already had? Yes, sure. Sometimes. It was only natural that deep in the night, she would occasionally wish for a hand she could curl her fingers around, a bare foot to bump into, someone to hold her and make her feel warm again when life’s relentless everyday worries left her cold. But in those hungry, vulnerable moments, she would picture Eli as an adult—tall and strong, confident and self-accepting, pursuing a career he was passionate about and maybe starting a family of his own—and that would keep her on her path.

Right now, she needed to get back to business. Business was always a safe harbor.

She knew Henry would be pleased with some of the ideas she’d had while he was on vacation. Tapping on her keyboard, she said, “I’ve got some interesting advertising options to show you.”

In minutes they were talking about social media and mail outs and not mentioning Nate Thayer at all. Deep, deep in her gut, though, she wondered how long she could keep it that way.

Chapter Four

Nate hadn’t experienced small-town life for a long time, and while some things had definitely changed, others remained memorably the same. The Thunder Ridge Public Library was a perfect example.

Still a two-story structure with a basement and ground-level square footage, the seventy-year-old building had the same heavy wooden tables and chairs and ancient shelving Nate remembered. Still smelled the same, too—a little bit like old books and a little bit like the dogs that had always been allowed to accompany their owners indoors. The major difference as far as he could tell was the current librarian, Holliday Bailey.

Ms. Bailey looked and smelled nothing like old Mrs. Rhiner, who, as Nate recalled, had resembled George Patton and smelled faintly of cooked broccoli.

“I can place a hold on some of the books you’re looking for and have them sent here through our interlibrary loan system. The problem is you’re not a local, Mr. Thayer. How am I going to get you a library card?”

Holliday tapped shiny cherry fingernails on her mouse, her matching red lips pursed as she looked from the computer screen to Nate. “And you said you’re staying at the inn? All by your lonesome?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you any friends in town, Mr. Thayer? Of the very close variety?”

“None with library cards they want to loan me, if that’s what you’re getting at, Ms. Bailey.”

“That’s exactly what I was getting at.” When she shook her head, silky dark brown hair that looked like a shampoo ad brushed her shoulders. “We need to connect you with someone in a position of power...so you can get the books you need.”

Nate grinned. Holliday Bailey was one of the most physically stunning women he had ever met. Long neck, perfect bone structure and slender as a willow with spitting-intelligent eyes, she would require a man who could keep up with her. While Nate was pretty sure he could, he knew instantly that the woman was harmless, far more interested in playing with his mind than with any other part of his anatomy.

“Thanks for your help.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

Shaking his head in admiration, Nate walked away, heading for the nonfiction section and trying to remember if he’d ever dated anyone like her. His tastes had always run to women whose beauty was subtler, their attractiveness unfolding the more he got to know them.

That thought led inevitably to the woman who was trying so hard to ignore him.

When he’d first met Isabelle Lambert, he hadn’t intended to be anything other than polite. She’d been a high school student, one year behind him in school, and a waitress, and he’d respected that. In his senior year of high school, Nate had taken to spending part of every day at The Pickle Jar, where he could order a drink and, when he had the extra cash, a sandwich and study for a couple of hours without being interrupted, since his friends rarely if ever showed up at the deli. Izzy had waited on him a number of times.

She seemed to be there, working or studying at the counter, anytime he came in. Hazel-green eyes and sandy-brown hair she scraped back in a nondescript ponytail wouldn’t have drawn his notice necessarily, but her manner did. Calm, serious and almost deferentially polite, she was so different from the other teenage girls Nate knew that she became a puzzle to him, and he loved a good puzzle.

“You’re very welcome to stay and study as long as you like,” she’d told him when he’d asked if they needed the table during one lunch hour. Her eyes, free of makeup, had held his gaze steadily and all of a sudden he’d realized they were large and changed color—sometimes the color of an aspen tree’s leaves, other times the color of its bark.

“I see you studying at the counter,” he’d said in his first real attempt at conversation with her. “Whose classes are you in?”

He’d noticed her mouth then—pink, unglossed and bowed at the top as it formed a surprised O, as if she hadn’t expected him to ask her anything not related to his lunch.

“I have Billings for history and Lankford for Literature. I’m working on an essay about The Grapes of Wrath and how a current depression would manifest differently from the Dust Bowl Migration of the 1930s. Especially on a local level.”

He’d whistled. “Who assigned that as a topic?”

She’d hesitated a second. “No one. The Grapes of Wrath was assigned reading, but I chose the topic. It’s interesting.”

Her intelligent eyes had lowered as if she’d thought she’d said something she shouldn’t have, and he’d noticed a pulse beating rapidly at the base of her slender neck. In that moment she’d reminded him of a cross between a falcon and a hummingbird. And he’d had a surprising revelation as an eighteen-year-old, realizing that around most girls, his smiles started on the outside and sometimes worked their way in; with Isabelle Lambert, his smiles started deep inside.

He never did get around to flirting with Izzy. One day he’d found an eagle’s nest while on a hike and asked if she’d like to see it. She’d said yes, and...that had been their first date, which was weird, because he hadn’t planned to date anyone at all. He’d dated plenty in high school, and he hadn’t wanted the distraction or the drama so close to graduation.

Because he’d known he was leaving for Chicago at the end of summer, he and Izzy had agreed to keep things light. They had broken that agreement in a dozen different ways.

“Yum! It so pays to have friends in the right places.” Holliday’s naturally sultry voice carried clearly through the library. “Mmm, lunch. And at exactly the right time. I’m wasting away.”

On the heels of her exclamation came the aroma of food and a voice that responded, “I wanted to check on the availability of the Black Butte room for a class on ASL in the Workplace next week. I forgot to reserve the room, so I thought I’d bring a little lunch to butter you up.”

Nate heard the crinkling of a paper bag. “Pastrami, Swiss and coleslaw on rye?” Holliday sounded reverential. “I will give you anything your heart desires.”

“You’re so easy.”

“Is that rumor still circulating?”

Peering around the row of books, Nate let his eyes confirm what his ears and nose already told him: Holliday’s visitor was Izzy, bearing food from The Pickle Jar.

Shaking her head, Izzy admonished around a smile, “Holly, lower your voice. Don’t give the gossips anything else to complain about. Last week, Evelyn Cipes was in the deli grousing that we’re the only town between here and Portland with a librarian who wears stilettos to work.”

“Goody! I loathe stereotypes. Want to join me in my office while I do justice to this delicious meal? I’ll get Maggie to cover the front.”

“Sure.”

Nate sprang into action before he had time to think. “Talk about ironic.” He addressed himself to the librarian as his stride carried him toward her desk. “Isabelle keeps telling me she doesn’t have time to talk to me, and yet everywhere I go, there she is.” He leaned forward to speak confidentially. “I think she’s following me.” He raised a brow, hoping the unique Ms. Bailey would play along. “Do you think she’s following me?”

The brunette looked delighted. “I don’t know,” she whispered loudly. “Let’s find out.” She looked at her friend. “Izzy, have you been stalking this big, good-looking man?”

Izzy looked horrified. Nate would have laughed if not for the fact that he didn’t feel like letting her off the hook so easily. Why the devil was she treating him like a stranger—and a very unwelcome one?

“Of course I’m not stalking. I don’t stalk.” Trying hard not to glance at him, she told Holliday, “I better get back to work.”

“I thought you were going to have lunch with me,” her friend protested.

“I know. I forgot that I need to get back. There’s a big party coming in for...brisket.”

“Yeah, I heard brisket is trending today.” Nate leaned casually against the desk, still addressing himself to Holliday. “I don’t believe her. Do you?”

The brunette’s forehead creased. In lieu of answering, she asked, “How do you know Izzy?”

One glance at Izzy’s face told him she did not want him to answer.

“We knew each other in high school,” he said, watching her closely.

“No kidding.” Holliday looked at Izzy, whose expression gave her the appearance of someone standing in line to get a root canal. “Were you...good friends?”

Fifteen years after he’d first noticed her, Izzy still had skin like a porcelain doll. He could see the red flush beneath the creamy fairness and wondered why seeing him again was so hard for her. He hadn’t returned to Thunder Ridge expecting to see her but considered their reunion a bonus. They may have been kids when they were together, but they’d shared adult experiences he still hadn’t shared with anyone else. And there were questions, unanswered for fifteen years now.

“I thought we were good friends,” he answered Holliday’s question. “Certainly enough to merit a few minutes’ worth of catching up. That’s what old friends do when they meet again. Right?”

“I know I would.” Holliday’s red lips curled with humor, her heavily lashed eyes darting with rabid curiosity between Nate and Izzy, who frowned mightily at her friend.

Suddenly, the sheriff from yesterday flashed in Nate’s mind. Was he the stumbling block to their spending a little time together? Nate may not have expected to see Izzy on this trip, but now that they were together, he’d like some closure. Not that he was channeling Dr. Phil, but he had questions that were fifteen years old. Didn’t she? If nothing else, he’d like to know why she’d refused to be in touch with him after she’d miscarried their baby.

“Five minutes,” he said to Holliday. “That’s reasonable, don’t you think?”

“Take ten,” she suggested, ignoring Izzy’s expression.

“You’re right. Ten. Can we use the meeting room?” When Holliday nodded, he turned to Izzy. “One-sixth of an hour, Isabelle. My watch has a timer. I’ll even let you hold it, so you’ll know I’m not cheating.”

Maybe he didn’t know Izzy well anymore—maybe he never had—but he could see the wheels spinning in her head. She was trying to think of a way to reject his overture, again. And then—

“Ten minutes,” she said decisively. “And then I have to go.”

If Nate could feel the waves of curiosity rolling off Holliday, he was sure Izzy felt them, too, but she strode ahead of them toward the Black Butte room without a backward glance.

At the door to the meeting room, Izzy stopped, allowing Holliday to pass ahead of her. The librarian reached into her bra, of all places, to extract a set of small keys, one of which she used to unlock the heavy oak door. She flipped the light switch and stepped back, only slightly less provocative when she asked, “Do you need a chaperone?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.