“Ask me,” April said softly, electricity jolting through her.

Patrick’s eyes jerked to hers. “What?”

“Ask me out.”

“April—”

“Nothing fancy,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. Because she wasn’t. Really. “Dinner at Emerson’s. Maybe a movie. If things work out …” Her heart thumped against her sternum. “Maybe a good-night kiss at the end.”

Oh, dear. Poor baby actually flinched. And not, she didn’t think, because he found the idea appalling. Strange, and wonderful, the feeling of power that gave her. Frowning though he was.

“I thought I made it clear—”

“What’s clear,” she said with remarkable calm, considering, “is that there’s something humming between us. Agreed?”

Dear Reader,

I was just starting to develop this story when I started watching Season 13 of Dancing with the Stars. And within minutes of “meeting” JR Martinez, the severely burned Iraq War vet who went on to win the coveted mirror ball trophy, I had my hero. JR’s drive to push himself past what some might have seen as limitations—and his undeniable sex appeal as a result—was a true joy to watch. And served as an incredible inspiration for my own Patrick Shaughnessy.

Not that Patrick’s quite in the same place JR is, attitudewise. At least not when his story starts. But that’s where cute little April Ross comes in. Because the brand-new innkeeper is determined to smack some sense into Patrick. To make him accept that her heart is far bigger than the three acres she’s hired him to landscape, big enough to love him and his little girl both. Add to that a huge Irish-American family, equally determined to see their Patrick return to a normal life after the combat injury that’s left him scarred, both physically and emotionally, and you have a story about giving and loving and never giving up that’s just perfect for the holiday season.

Enjoy!

Karen Templeton

About the Author

Since 1998, two-time RITA® Award winner and Walden-books bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.

A Gift for
All Seasons

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Jessica Scott,

who took time out of her own writing schedule

to help me get the army details right.

At least, I hope I have.

Thanks, hon!

Chapter One

A weeper by nature, April Ross was the type to keep tissues at hand in case a coffee commercial took her by surprise. And, granted, the past several weeks had been an emotional roller coaster ride of reunions and massive renovations and reassessments of what she wanted from life. But to find herself nearly in tears—April dug in the only real designer purse she’d ever owned for one of those tissues and blew her little ice cube of a nose—over a bunch of plants?

Beyond pitiful.

Especially since she’d been the one who’d said, “What’s the big deal? You go to a nursery, you pick out some trees, hire a couple dudes to stick ’em in the ground, done.”

No wonder her cousins had rolled their eyes at her.

Now, huddled inside her thick cardigan against the bay wind shunting through the garden center, she turned on the heel of her riding boot and marched past a mess of pumpkins to the checkout area, where the bundled-up, gray-bearded black man behind the register released a soft chuckle.

“Somebody looks a little overwhelmed,” he said in the relaxed Maryland shore drawl that immediately evoked memories of those childhood summers. “Not to mention half-frozen. So first off, step closer to the heater—go on, I’ll wait—then tell me how I can help. I reckon I know pretty much everything about whatever’s in stock. You got questions, you just go ahead and ask.”

April’s eyes welled again, both at his kindness and the lovely heat waves rippling from the nearby metal obelisk. “What I’ve got,” she said as she removed her gloves, stretching her cramped fingers toward the heat, “is three acres of dirt and renovation mess that needs landscaping. By the middle of December, when my first guests arrive.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “You the gal who’s fixing up the Rinehart place?”

“That would be me.” April tucked her wind-ravaged hair behind her ear, then extended her slightly warmer hand. “April Ross.”

“Sam Howell. It’s a real pleasure, young lady.” Sam shook her hand, then crossed his arms high on his plaidjacketed chest. “Three acres, you say—”

A child’s excited squeal cut through their conversation. Grinning, Sam hustled from behind the counter a moment before a tiny, dark-haired blur slammed into him. After a fierce hug, the little girl backed up, all pink-cheeked adorableness in bright blue tights and a puffy purple jacket, and April’s breath left her lungs.

“Daddy said I could pick out a punkin for Halloween!” she said, then planted a mittened hand against the front of the counter to awkwardly lift one glittery-sneakered foot. “An’ I got new shoes! See?”

“Those are some rockin’ shoes, Miss Lili. Your daddy pick ’em out for you?”

“Nope,” she said with a vigorous head shake. “I choosed ’em all by myself. Mommy’ll like ’em, huh?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m sure she will.…”

She turned her baby-toothed grin on April before letting her foot drop, twisting it this way and that to admire it. “Daddy says they’re my princess shoes.”

April laughed. “They certainly are,” she said, as a toe-curling chuckle behind her sent the breath she’d barely pulled back into her lungs whooshing out all over again. Especially when the man—tallish, nicely shouldered, his face partially obscured by one of those silly hats with flaps covering his cheeks—scooped up his daughter and pretended to munch on her shoulder, making Lili giggle and sending April into a free fall.

Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

Automatically her left thumb went to her wedding rings, twisting them around until the diamonds dug into her skin, the sensation oddly soothing. Steadying. Yes, she should take them off already. But they made her feel … safe. Like the sweetest, most generous man she’d ever known was still watching over her, standing in the wings and cheering her on.

“Miss Ross,” Sam said after the man untwined his little girl’s hands from around his neck and set her down to go check out the pumpkins, “This here’s Patrick Shaughnessy. And this young lady,” he said with a wink in April’s direction, “needs you bad.”

So much for being cold. Heat swept across her face as she gaped at Sam, who—clearly enjoying her discomfiture—chuckled. “The Shaughnessys run one of the best landscaping outfits in the county.”

“County, hell,” Patrick said, turning just enough for April to see his eyes, a bluer blue than hers, like lasers in a face still mostly hidden in the cap’s shadows. Eyes that dimmed inexplicably when they met hers. “On the whole Eastern Shore.” After a moment’s hesitation, he offered his gloved hand, giving hers a quick shake before slugging it back into his jacket pocket. Canvas, no frills. Not exactly clean. His gaze shifted, presumably to keep an eye on his little girl, who meandered along the rows of pumpkins, like a finicky customer in a used-car lot, her face scrunched in concentration. “So I take it you need some work done?”

Deep breath. “I’d thought I could, you know, just buy some trees and things, hire someone to plant them. Until I got here and remembered I can’t even grow a Chia Pet.”

She thought his mouth might’ve twitched. “So how big’s the lot?”

“Three acres or thereabouts.” Another nippy breeze speared through the heater’s warmth, making April wrap the sweater more tightly around her. She’d never been here in the fall, had no idea how brutal the damp cold could be. “I’m turning my grandmother’s waterfront house back into an inn, so it needs to look halfway decent.”

Another twitch preceded, “The Rinehart place?”

“Yes. How do—”

“Small town.”

It was beginning to bug her that he kept his gaze averted. Especially since, as Sam had wandered out to help Lili select her pumpkin, the child was obviously okay. Patrick straightened, his arms crossed. “Got a budget?”

“Not really.”

His eyes met hers and she felt like she’d been burned. All the way to her girly bits. So inappropriate, on so many levels—

“A couple hundred bucks?” he said, once more focused on his daughter. “A couple thousand …?”

“Oh. I see. Sorry, I honestly don’t know. Even though … money won’t be a problem.”

The shock still hadn’t completely faded, how well-off Clayton had left her. She’d had to have the lawyer reread the will three times, just to be sure she’d heard correctly. Clay’s accompanying letter, however, she’d read herself.

“Yes, it’s all yours, to do with however you like. As you can see, I kept my promise, too.…”

“And yet,” Patrick said, “you were thinking of handling the project yourself?”

She laughed. “I think it’s pretty clear I wasn’t thinking at all. So anyway—I’m almost always around, so … maybe sometime in the next week you could come out, take a look?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule. But sure.”

“Great. Here.” April set her sunglasses and gloves on the counter to dig inside her purse for a business card, handing it to Patrick. He studied the card as though memorizing it, then pulled his own from his pocket.

“And here’s ours—”

“Daddy! I found one!”

“Be right there, baby,” he said, and April saw the tension slough from his posture … only to immediately reappear when his eyes once more glanced off hers before, with a curt nod, he walked away.

Odd duck, April thought, hiking up her shoulder bag as she tramped back out to her Lexus, a car that only five years ago she couldn’t have dreamed would be hers. She’d no sooner slid behind the solid walnut wheel, however, when she realized she’d left her sunglasses on the count er. This was why, despite her much improved financial circumstances, she never paid more than ten bucks for a pair. Because she left them everywhere.

Shaking her head at herself, she trudged back to the nursery, plucking them—and her gloves, sheesh—off the counter as she heard Lili’s musical, and irresistible, giggle again. Curiosity nudged her closer to the pumpkin display, where Patrick teased his daughter by pointing back and forth between two of the biggest pumpkins, saying, “This one. No, this one. No, this one. On second thought … I think it has to be this one.…”

Fortunately, his back was to her so she could watch unobserved, finding some solace in the sweet exchange, even though it scraped her heart. He’d ditched that silly hat, so she could see his dark, barely there hair, almost a military cut—

He abruptly turned, his smile evaporating when he saw her, his gaze crystalizing into a challenge …

… in the midst of the puckered, discolored skin distorting the entire right side of his face.

And God help her, she gasped.

Mortified, she stumbled out of the nursery and across the graveled parking lot to lean against her car, trying to quell the nausea. Not because of his appearance, but because …

Oh, dear Lord—what had she done?

Expelling a harsh breath, April slowly turned around, her eyes stinging from the ruthless wind, her own tears, as several options presented themselves for consideration, the front-runner being to get in the car and drive to, say, Uruguay. Except … she couldn’t. And only partly because she didn’t have her passport with her. So she sucked in a deep breath, hitched her purse up again and started her wobbly-kneed trek back toward the nursery. Because those who didn’t own their screwups were doomed to repeat them. Or something.

Sam chuckled when she walked into the office. “Now what’d you forget?”

“My good sense, apparently,” April muttered, then craned her neck to see into the pumpkin patch. “Patrick still here?”

“Just left,” Sam said, adding, when she frowned at him, “He was parked out back.” At her deflated grunt, he said, “Need anything else?”

The name of another landscaper?

But since that would have required far more explanation than she was willing, or able, to give, she simply shook her head and returned to her car, hunched against the stupid wind and feeling like the worst person on the planet.

Yeah, that was about the reaction he expected, Patrick thought with the strange combination of annoyance and resignation that colored most of his experience these days. What he hadn’t expected, he realized with an aftershock to his gut—not to mention other body parts further south—was his reaction to the cute little strawberry blonde. Which, while equally annoying, was anything but resigned.

A humorless grin stretched across his mouth. Guess he wasn’t dead, after all. Or at least, his libido wasn’t. Dumb as all hell, maybe, but not dead. Because, given how she’d recoiled, he was guessing the attraction wasn’t exactly mutual. And even if it had been, those rocks adorning her ring finger may as well have been a force field against any wayward thoughts.

What he did have to consider, however, was whether to follow through on the job bid himself, or hand it off to his dad or one of his brothers. God knew he didn’t need the temptation. Or the frustration. On the other hand, he thought with another perverse grin, who was he to turn down the opportunity to get up the gal’s nose? Yeah, he was one ugly sonuvabitch these days, but you know what? The world was full of ugly sons of bitches, and the pretty little April Rosses of the world could just get over it.

At the four-way stop that had come with the new development south of St. Mary’s Cove, Patrick laboriously stretched the fingers of his right hand, the muscles finally loosening after four years of physical therapy and innumerable surgeries. But at least he had his hand—

“Daddy?”

And at least his little girl had a father, pieced back together like a cross between Frankenstein’s monster and Dorothy’s Scarecrow though he might have been. A lump rising in his throat, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the main reason he was still alive. Not that he wasn’t grateful for the dozens of burn specialists and therapists and psychologists who’d done the piecing. But whenever the physical agony had tempted him to check out, he’d remember he had a baby who still needed him—even if her mother didn’t—and he’d somehow find the wherewithal to make it through another day. And another. And one more after that …

“C’n we give the punkin a face tonight?”

Patrick spared another glance for his daughter, out of habit, taking care to avoid his reflection.

“Not yet, baby,” he said, focusing again on the flat, field-flanked road, the vista occasionally broken by a stand of bare-limbed trees. “It’s too early. If we do it now, it’ll get soft and sorry-looking by Halloween.”

“When’s that?”

“Five sleeps.” He grinned in the mirror at her. To her, he was just Daddy. What he looked like didn’t matter, only what he did. And what he’d done, since her mother left, was make sure his daughter knew that he wasn’t going anywhere, ever again. “Think you can wait that long?”

“I guess,” she said on a dramatic sigh that reminded him all too much of Natalie, which in turn reminded him of Nat’s brave-but-not expression after he was finally home for good, only to watch his marriage sputter and die. Not really a surprise, after what had happened. As opposed to his ex’s decision to give Patrick full custody of their daughter, which had shocked the hell out of him.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Grandma’s.”

The silence from the backseat was not a good sign. Patrick preempted the inevitable protest by saying, “Sorry, honey, I’ve gotta go back to work.”

Among the many blessings of being one of seven kids, most of whom lived within a few blocks of each other, was that there was always someone to take care of Lili. In fact, his mother and oldest sister Frannie—at home with four of her offspring anyway—usually fought for the privilege. His child was in no danger of neglect. But over the past few months, Lilianna had become clingy and anxious whenever Patrick left. Especially since his ex’s rare appearances only confused Lili, rather than reassured her.

He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ compact, two-story house in St. Mary’s. In her usual cold-weather attire of leggings, fisherman’s sweater and fleece booties, a grinning Kate O’Hearn Shaughnessy greeted them at the front door, hauling her granddaughter into her thin arms. If you looked past the silver striping Ma’s bangs and ponytail, the fine lines fanning out from her bright blue eyes, you could still see the little black-haired firecracker who’d rendered Joseph Shaughnessy mute the first time he laid eyes on her at some distant cousin’s wedding forty years before. What his mother lacked in size, she more than made up for in spunk. And a death-ray glare known to bring grown men to tears.

“Go see Poppa,” she said, bussing Lili’s curls before setting her on her feet. “He’s in the kitchen.” Then she lifted that same no-nonsense gaze to Patrick he’d seen when he’d come out of his medically induced coma at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. If there’d been fear or worry, he imagined they’d been kicked to the curb before he’d even been airlifted from Landstuhl. “I made vegetable soup, you want some?”

“Sure.”

Feeling like a burrowing gopher, Patrick followed her down the narrow, carpeted hall to the kitchen, careful not to let his wide shoulders unseat four decades’ worth of baby pictures, school photos and wedding portraits plastering the beige walls. Like most of the houses in St. Mary’s Cove proper, the house had been built in a time when people were smaller and needs simpler. That his parents had raised seven kids in the tiny foursquare was amazing in itself; that they’d never seen the need to upgrade to something bigger and better was a living testament to the “be content with what you have” philosophy they’d crammed down their kids’ throats right along with that homemade vegetable soup.

Not that flat-screen TVs, cell phones and state-of-the-art laptops weren’t in the mix with seventies furnishings and his grandmother’s crocheted afghans. His parents weren’t Luddites. But their penchant for shoehorning the new into the old had, over the years, shaped the little house into a vibrant, random collage of their lives.

This was also the home, the life, he’d returned to in order to heal, the safety and stability it represented restoring his battered psyche far more than the damn lotion he applied every single day to keep his skin supple.

Joe Shaughnessy glanced through dark-framed glasses perched on his hawkish nose, still-muscled shoulders bulging underneath plaid flannel. Like Ma, there was no sympathy in his eyes, ever. Or in his voice. At least, not now. But his brothers had told Patrick how, when Pop heard, he’d gone out into the postage stamp of a yard behind the house and bawled like a baby.

And for damn sure he’d hang them all by their gonads if he knew they’d ratted on him.

Already seated on the booster seat that had been a permanent fixture for years, Lilianna slurped her soup, dimpled fingers curled around her spoon. For her grandmother, she’d eat vegetable soup. For him, no way.

Patrick released a tense breath, then plopped beside her at the scarred wood table that had seen many an elbow fight over the years. Sunlight flooded the spotless room, gilding maple cabinets scrubbed so many times the original finish was but a memory, flashing off the same dented, decaled canister set that’d been there forever. Even the minimal updates they’d done ten or so years before—changing out the laminate counters, the cracked linoleum floors—had somehow left the comfortable shabbiness undisturbed.

Patrick pulled April’s card from his shirt pocket, handed it to his father. “Got a lead on a job.”

“Yeah?” Joe telescoped the card until it came into focus. Time for new glasses, apparently. “Where?”

“The old Rinehart place.”

His father’s eyes cut to his. “Somebody bought it?”

“One of her granddaughters decided to turn it back into an inn. Sam hooked us up.”

His forehead knotted, Pop returned the card, broke off a piece of homemade bread and sopped up the broth left in the bottom of his bowl. “Last I heard, Amelia Rinehart had let the place go to rack and ruin. I’m surprised the girls didn’t just unload it—”

“We had our wedding reception there, you know,” his mother put in, setting a bowl of soup and two thick slices of bread in front of Patrick, then sitting at right angles to him. “Back in its heyday.”

“Not to mention ours,” Pop added with a chuckle.

Patrick frowned. “You did?”

Ma swatted at him with a crumpled napkin. “Go look at the wedding pictures on your way out, that’s the Rinehart. Or was. It’d been in Amelia’s husband’s family for years, they turned it into an inn right after the war. Was quite the destination in these parts for some time. But after he died, she stopped taking in guests. Except for her three granddaughters, every summer—”

“May I be s’cused?”

Ma leaned over to wipe Lili’s soup-smeared face, then shooed her off. Only after they heard the clatter of toys being dumped out of the plastic bin in the living room did his mother say, “Old gal was a strange bird, no other way to put it. Rumor had it she rarely talked to her three daughters, even the one who stayed here in St. Mary’s. But she loved her granddaughters. In her own way, at least.” She leaned back, the space between her graying brows creased. More toys crashed. “You went to school with one of them, didn’t you?”

“Melanie, yeah,” Patrick said, spooning in a bite that was more potatoes and carrots than broth. “For a while. But she and her mother moved away before she graduated.”

“That’s right, they did—”

“You really think the gal’s serious?” his father wedged in, clearly done with the small talk.

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Because she’ll probably go bankrupt in the process?”

“I’m guessing that’s not an issue,” Patrick said, which got a brow lift from his father. “She more or less indicated that money’s no object. In any case, you got some time later this week?”

“Me? What do you need me for?”

Patrick had learned a lot since coming on board almost a year before, but he was still a rookie. And it was his dad’s business. “It’s looking to be a big job. I can design it, sure, but you’re the expert at discussing time frames and giving estimates. Besides, people trust you—”

“That’s a load of bull and you know it.”

“About people trusting you?”

His father gave him a hard look. “No.”

“Only trying to keep you in the loop,” Patrick said, focusing again on his lunch.

“That’s what cell phones are for—”

“I remember those girls as all being such pretty little things,” his mother said, rising to clear Lilianna’s bowl and cup. “The one who’s sticking around—she grow up okay?”

“For God’s sake, Kate,” his dad said with a heavy sigh.

“What? I’m just making conversation, honestly! And you’re the one pushing the boy to handle this on his own!”

Shoveling in another bite, Patrick let them bicker. Really, God love them for encouraging him to put himself back out there, to find a girl smart enough to appreciate him for who he was, for their refusal to accept his appearance as an impediment to that goal. Too bad he had no intention of following their well-intentioned advice. He’d taken enough risks—and suffered the consequences—for a lifetime, thank you. But it wasn’t until he’d stopped fighting so hard to prove to himself, and everyone else, that nothing had changed that he’d finally learned to accept that everything had.

And with that acceptance came a kind of peace, one that had barely begun to release him from the guilt and the self-pity, the nightmares he’d thought would choke him for the rest of his life. That first morning he’d awakened and realized he’d slept through the night he’d wept with gratitude. So for damn sure he’d hang on to that peace with everything he had in him. Not only for his sake, but for his daughter’s, who deserved at least one coping parent.

One with both feet firmly planted in what was, not what should have been.

Or might be—

Patrick’s cell rang. He dug it out of his shirt pocket, only to frown at the unfamiliar number before bringing the phone to his ear. “Patrick Shaughnessy—”

“Mr. Shaughnessy, it’s April Ross.”

His stomach jumped; there was more Southern in her voice than he remembered, something sweet and smoky that tried its damnedest to get inside him.

And letting his parents listen in to the conversation was not happening. He pushed away from the table to stalk out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“Ms. Ross. What can I do for you?”

“Would tomorrow morning work for you to come out? It occurred to me, what with it already being the end of October, we should probably get going as soon as possible. Don’t you agree?”

This said as though her bolting like a scared rabbit had never happened. Interesting.

“Tomorrow would be fine. Around nine?”

“Perfect. We’ll see you then.”

We.

Replacing his phone, Patrick continued into his parents’ jam-packed living room where Lili sat in front of the brick fireplace, holding a one-sided conversation with a bevy of beat-up dolls. At his entrance, she grinned up at him, and, as usual, his heart swelled. God, he loved this kid.

For her sake, he’d forced himself to smile again. To laugh. To appreciate the good in life and not give the bad the time of day. Trying to set a good example, like his parents had done for him. He squatted beside her, cupped her head. “Gotta go, munchkin. Give me a hug?” She scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. “You be good for Grandma, okay?”

He saw the flash of sadness in her dark eyes when she pulled away, but she only nodded and said, “‘Kay.”

Patrick called his goodbyes to his folks, then let himself out the front door, where the cold wind wreaked havoc with his face grafts, even for the short sprint to his truck. Sure, the idea of being around April Ross produced a kick to the gut the likes of which Patrick hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. But after the hell he’d been through? A little lust was the least of his worries. Especially since this was a nonstarter. What with her being married and all.

And thank God for that.

Chapter Two

“That’s not what you had on five minutes ago.”

Shooting daggers at her cousin Melanie, April selected a coffee from the carousel on the gleaming, brand-new quartz counter and plopped it into the Keurig maker. The old kitchen, although huge, had been so outdated it nearly qualified for historical preservation status. And not in a good way. Now it was a chef’s dream, with miles of countertops and cabinets, double ovens and a massive, stainless-steel-topped island, and—the pièce de résistance—a six-burner commercial-grade stove … in pink. Just for Mel. Who, now that true love had brought her back to St. Mary’s after more than ten years away, had agreed—after much haranguing on April’s part—to bring her mad cooking skills to the inn.

“I was cold,” April said. “So I put on a heavier sweater.”

“And changed your pants. And your headband—”

“Shut. Up.”

“And that’s your fourth cup of coffee this morning.” The brunette grinned, her own mug of coffee nestled against her generous bosom, not so generously covered by a hot pink velour hoodie. Underneath long bangs, her gray-green eyes glittered. “That much caffeine and you’re gonna sound like a chipmunk on speed. Although I do like that shade of purple on you.”

Their other cousin, Blythe, an interior designer in D.C. who was there for a few days to check on the remodel’s progress, wandered into the kitchen, yawning, a study in drapey grays and silvers. Tall, blond and impossibly chic, she frowned at April.

“Weren’t you wearing something different at breakfast?”

Melanie poked Blythe as she bit into one of her own homemade cinnamon rolls. “I remember Patrick Shaughnessy. If vaguely. Dude’s definitely worth the wardrobe crazies.”

Her coffee brewed, April grabbed the porcelain mug, watching the sunlight dance across her rings before she turned and caught sight of the clock, a big, old-fashioned schoolroom thing Blythe had found in some antiques store. Ten minutes. Sighing, she leaned against the counter and looked at Mel. Time to reveal a detail or two she’d left out when she’d told them he was coming to give the estimate.

“I take it he was pretty good-looking back then?” she asked her cousin.

“In a craggy, Heathcliffian sort of way, yeah. All the Shaughnessy boys were.”

“So his face … it wasn’t scarred?”

“Scarred? You mean, like … a cut that didn’t heal properly?”

“No. Worse. Like … I don’t know. Burned, maybe?”

“What? Ohmigod, are you serious? Is it … bad?”

April nodded. “Although it’s only one side of his face, so I didn’t notice at first. But when I did …” She grimaced. “I sort of … freaked out.”

Mel frowned. “Freaked out, how?”

“I ran. Like some frightened little twit who thought she’d seen the bogeyman. And yes, he saw the whole thing.”

“Ouch,” Blythe said.

“Exactly.” April’s gaze drifted out the new kitchen window, widened to take advantage of the shoreline view at the back of the property, the private dock jutting out into the glittering water. Her dock now. Her property. For a moment the thought made her feel all sparkly inside, until the guilt blotted it out again. “He has the sweetest little girl.…”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Blythe and Mel exchange a glance. Deciding to ignore it, April faced them again. “I actually went back to apologize, but he’d already left. So that’s my first order of business when he gets here.”

Blythe’s eyebrows dipped. “To apologize? You sure that’s a good idea?”

“You got a better one?”

“Yeah. Act like it never happened.”

“Oh, right—”

“I’m serious,” the blonde said, her short, spiked hair like frosted glass in the sunshine. “Look, I get you feel like crap, but he’s probably used to it—”

“So that makes what I did okay?”

“No. But the last thing you want to do is make him more uncomfortable, right?”

Conflicted, April looked to Mel. “So what would you do?”

“Me? I would’ve hired another landscaper. Maybe. Hey,” Mel said when April rolled her eyes, “all you can do is trust your gut. Do what feels right.”

The doorbell rang. Straightening, she set her mug on the counter and swiped her suddenly damp palms down the front of her jeans. “If I don’t throw up first,” she muttered, then headed toward the door, which, after a lung-searing breath, she opened.

Only to run smack into that crystalline gaze, boring directly into hers.

He’d never in his life seen someone blush that hard. April kept swallowing, too, like she was about to be sick. Patrick took pity on her and held up his clipboard, to remind her of his purpose there. Except she shook her head, making her red-gold hair swish softly over her shoulders and Patrick unaccountably irritated. Although about what, he couldn’t have said.

What he could say, though, was that she was even prettier than he remembered. As in, short-out-the-brain pretty. If a trifle too put together for his taste, what with her sweater, shoes and headband all matching. She was also obviously broken up about what she’d done, even before she said, “Before we get started … there is no excuse for how I acted the other day. And I’m sorry.”

Frankly, he was torn, between wanting to let her off the hook and wanting to see her squirm. His face took some getting used to, no two ways around it. So taking offense was pointless. People were just people.

But something about this one especially provoked him. Maybe because he wasn’t entirely buying the whole innocent act she was trying so hard to sell.

Patrick slid his hands into his back pockets, narrowing his eyes even as he realized she’d kept hers steady on his face. Like she was trying to prove something, probably more to herself than to him.

“How you acted?”

She swallowed again. And somehow turned even redder. Had to give her props, though, for not sending out her husband in her stead. Then again, for all he knew this was one of those projects where the wife handled all the design decisions and the man just signed the checks. They got a lot of those. “Yes,” she finally said. “At the garden center.”

“Can’t say as I noticed anything.”

“And now you’re messing with me.”

His brows crashed together. What was left of them, anyway. “I’m not—”

“The heck you aren’t. Because you know darn well what I’m talking about. Although if it makes you feel better, let me spell it out. I acted like a total dimwit when I noticed your scars. I don’t know why, I certainly wasn’t raised like that, and there’s no way I could live with myself without apologizing for my bad behavior. And no, you’re under no obligation to accept my apology, but I am obligated to give it. So. You ready to get started or what?”

For a good five, six seconds, Patrick could only gape at April like, as she put it, a total dimwit. Sure, her wanting to make amends probably stemmed more from ingrained good manners than anything else, but there’d been a fire behind her words that gave him pause. That, and that damned steady gaze, which was rattling him to hell and back.

“Apology accepted,” he heard himself mutter, then cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a coat or something, it’s pretty cold out here.”

She nodded, then vanished into the house, only to return a minute or so later with another woman, a tall blonde who looked vaguely familiar.

“This is my cousin, Blythe Broussard,” April said, wrapped up in an expensive-looking tan coat that fell well below her knees. “She’s overseeing the house remodel, but she’s also got some ideas for the landscaping.”

Still no husband. Interesting.

And maybe the guy simply isn’t here at the moment—

And this was nuts. He’d worked with plenty of female clients before, but this was the first time he could remember giving even half a thought to who they lived with, or were married to, or whatever. Mentally slapping himself, Patrick turned his attention to Blythe, who also met his gaze dead-on. Although, unlike her cousin, she’d probably been forewarned.

“Then let’s get started,” he said, waving the clipboard toward the gouged, muddy front yard—a fitting symbol for his life if ever there was one. “After you, ladies.”

She’d let Blythe do most of the talking that day. For many reasons, not the least of which was that Blythe had a far better handle on matters horticultural than April did. Or probably ever would. But for another, even though she’d gotten the apology out fine, the way Patrick had looked at her afterward had practically rendered her mute.

Although whether the condition was temporary or not remained to be seen, she thought as she pulled up outside the generic warehouse building on the other side of town, the unpaved parking lot littered with assorted trucks ranging in size from massive to gargantuan, not to mention all manner of digging and hauling equipment.

It’d been a week since the appointment. She’d assumed Patrick would send or drop off the plans and estimate at the inn, but the secretary who’d called had said he’d prefer she come to the office for the presentation. So here she was, clutching closed her Harris Tweed blazer as she trooped through the wind toward the door. At Clay’s urging, she’d gradually ditched her old wardrobe in favor of the classier—and more classic—items he’d kindly suggested would better reflect her new status. Hence the blazer. And the designer riding boots. But since moving back to St. Mary’s, she’d also reacquainted herself with jeans and the loose, comfy sweaters she’d once loved, even if she no longer had to rely on thrift stores or seventy-five-percent-off sales to buy them.

Instead of the middle-aged woman she’d heard on the phone, an older man in black-rimmed glasses sat behind the battered desk, his navy hoodie zipped up underneath a canvas coat as work worn as the desk. But his grin, set in a clefted chin, eased the nervousness she’d refused to fully acknowledge until that moment.

“Ms. Ross, right?” he said, rising and extending a rough hand.

“Yes—”

“I’m Joe, Patrick’s dad. He’s on the horn, but go on back to the conference room. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. You want some coffee?” He pointed to the standard-issue Mr. Coffee on the metal cart in front of the paneled wall. “It’s fresh, Marion made it before she ran to the bank—”

“Oh … no, thanks, I’m good.”

“Okay, then. It’s straight back, you can’t miss it.”

She heard Patrick before she saw him, his rich, deep laughter making her breath catch. That he could laugh like that made blood rush to her cheeks all over again. The conference “room” was nothing more than a collection of tables and folding chairs, no interior walls, with a big-screen TV—which probably cost more than the rest of the furniture altogether—mounted on the paneling on the far side of the space.

His cell phone clamped to his ear, Patrick lounged in the far chair with one work-booted foot propped on the table in front of him, his “good” side to her. Focused on his conversation, he didn’t see her at first. It was a nice face, April decided, although Mel was right—you couldn’t call it exactly handsome. Honest, though. Good lines. A man’s face, she decided, one befitting someone older than his late twenties, since she guessed he was about the same age as Mel. Which made him a year or so older than her—

She suddenly realized he’d noticed her, his expression downgrading to neutral as he lowered his foot, then stood, pocketing his phone.

“Sorry. Didn’t see you standing there.”

Her stomach fluttered, from nerves, from something much worse, as she smiled. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

He nodded, then waved her in. “Have a seat, then. This won’t take too long.”

The coolness in his voice made April cringe. For all his assurance the other day that he’d accepted her apology, there was no mistaking the change in his demeanor once he’d noticed her presence. Not that she expected everyone in the world to like her, but it killed her to think she’d done something, unwittingly or not, to hurt another human being.

Then again, she thought as she sat on one of the metal chairs, she’d been as sincere as she knew how when she’d tried to undo her gaffe. True, she couldn’t imagine what he’d been through, but despite this annoying quirk that made her want to resolve every problem life tossed in her path, she had to remind herself it wasn’t any of her business. Goodness, even Clayton had tried his best to convince her that, oddly enough, the entire world was not her responsibility. Breaking the habits of a lifetime, though—not so easy.

And keeping this relationship strictly professional would be one small, important step toward that goal. Contractor and client—this, she could do.

Then an image of what she realized could be the inn’s front yard appeared on the screen—a yard filled with stone paths and flower beds, blooming fruit trees and lush bushes. Of seating areas nestled into several outdoor “rooms.” A pair of evergreens flanking the porch steps, a hedge of roses alongside a low stone wall. And more, much more than she could take in.

“It could really look like that?”

“It really could,” Patrick said from several feet away, then began to explain what she was looking at, periodically adjusting the image as he took her on a virtual tour, his obvious enthusiasm for his work leaching past April’s not-so-hot-to-begin-with defenses. “The idea is to make it an all-season landscape—hence the evergreens. To decorate for the holidays, if you like.”

In the heat of the moment, their gazes met. Tangled. April quickly returned her attention to the screen. Not making that mistake again, nope.

“Oh … yes,” she said, willing her heart to stop pounding. “Perfect.”

“And in the back …” He clicked a few keys, and the backyard appeared. “A gazebo for weddings. Or whatever.”

Her throat clogged. “It’s absolutely amazing.”

“It also doesn’t come cheap.”

Ah, yes. Money. Business. Stay on track. “I wouldn’t imagine that it does.”

“Figured I may as well give you the full monty, we can always cut back if we have to.” He reached for a slim folder beside the computer, handed it to her. “Here’s the estimate, with a complete breakdown for materials and labor. See what you think.”

April pulled out the papers, scanned them, flipped to the last page, had a brief pang of conscience—considering all those years when she couldn’t even buy her mother flowers—then held out her hand. “Got a pen?”

Clearly, Patrick hadn’t expected that. “You sure? I mean, no questions—?”

“Nope.” She dug her checkbook out of her purse, discovered a pen already in it. “Never mind, I have a pen. I take it you’d like half down now?”

“Actually, we do it in thirds—”

She wrote out the amount, signed the contract, then handed it back to him with the check. “So when can you start?”

He separated the copies from the original, slipped hers into another folder, then set the folder in front of her. “Next week? The weather looks like it’s going to stay decent at least through the middle of the month.”

“Great,” she said, getting to her feet, then extending her hand, which he took. Another mistake, but too late now. And the sizzling would subside eventually.

The folder tucked against her side, she started out the door, wanting to get away from that intense, puzzled gaze. But he stopped her with, “I don’t get it.”

She turned, frowning. “Pardon?”

“Why you didn’t haggle.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“People … usually do.”

Somehow, she caught the subtext. “Rich people, you mean?”

She thought his cheeks might’ve colored. “Didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

“Okay. Yeah.” His crossed his arms, high on his chest. “In my experience the better off the client, the more they’re inclined to try to get a better deal. But you didn’t. Why?”

By rights, his borderline impudence—not to mention his assumption that all rich people thought and acted the same way—should have ticked her off. And probably would have, except for the genuine mystification underpinning his words. As well as her having to admit there’d been a time not that long ago when she might’ve been tempted to do some pigeonholing of her own. So she didn’t take particular offense. Nor, in theory, was she under any obligation to explain herself.

Except this little exchange had only illustrated what she’d already learned, which was that people treated you differently when they thought you had money. And not always in a good way. So if she was going to be judged, at least let it be on who she was, not on who Patrick thought she was.

Maybe it wasn’t up to her to right all the wrongs in the world, but she could at least address this one.

His mother had always said his big mouth was going to get him in trouble one day. Judging from the look on April’s face, Patrick figured that day had come. But she was like … like a little hoppy toad, never doing what he expected. Making him crazy.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was out of line.”

So of course she laughed. And, yes, he almost jumped.

“It’s okay, I’m used to dealing with people who say whatever’s on their mind. My mother-in-law was like that, and we got on like gangbusters. Then again, I get on with most human beings. I kind of see it like my mission in life. Anyway …” She waggled her left hand, the rings glinting in the overhead light, “the thing is, I didn’t always have money. To be blunt … I married into it.”

“Really. Another … mission?”

She laughed again, then glanced down at the rings, the light dimmed in her eyes when she looked up again. “No. Not at all. But what I’m saying is, this is still pretty new for me. Believe me I know what it’s like to try to make a living. To hopefully get an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work, and then—” she sighed “—to wonder if that’s going to be enough to meet the bills. So I can’t tell you what a relief it is to not worry about money any more. To be able to sign that contract without a second thought.”

Or any thought, apparently. “Did you even get other bids?”

“I considered it. Of course. But for one thing, your ratings on Angie’s List are through the roof. And for another, based on your discussions with Blythe, she gave me a ballpark figure for what it would probably cost. And you were right on target.” She pulled a face. “It also doesn’t seem fair to make other companies go to all that trouble when only one can get the job.”

“It’s just business, Mrs. Ross.”

“True. But sometimes you have to trust your instincts. This is one of those times.” Then she chuckled. “Unless you deliberately padded the estimate?”

“No!” he said, only to smile himself when she chuckled again. “Although it will be nice to make a halfway decent profit margin on a job, for once. Especially since Christmas is coming. Bonuses for our workers,” he said when she frowned. “They were pretty lame last year, although they all said they understood. At least we didn’t have to lay off anyone, but it was touch-and-go there for a while—”

What the hell? Talking about the business, especially with a client … he never did that. Ever.

Her expression softening, she shouldered her giant purse and pulled on her gloves. Good leather, he was guessing. As were the boots. And the purse. Maybe she hadn’t been born into wealth, but she wore it well all the same.

“Something tells me it’s going to be real nice working with you all,” she said, then looked around. Although God knew what she thought she was seeing. Then her gaze touched his again. “I know this is really pushing it, but … do you think it’ll be done by Thanksgiving? I’d love to have my parents come stay. My mother hasn’t been back to the house for nearly thirty years.”

His phone rang. But since it wasn’t his mother’s ring, or his sister Frannie’s, he ignored it, figuring it wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait five minutes. “The planting will have to be done in stages, some specimens don’t take kindly to establishing over the winter. But all the brickwork, the walks and walls … those, we can do. I promise, we’ll have it looking pretty good by then.”

She grinned. “No more mud?”

“No more mud,” Patrick said, nearly overcome, as he watched her walk away, with something that felt an awful lot like envy, that some other dude had it better than him. An indulgence he hadn’t allowed since he woke up in the VA hospital. And one damned if he was going to allow now.

Then he remembered to check his voice mail, only to feel his gut turn inside out when he heard Natalie’s voice, saying she wanted to see Lilianna that weekend, was it okay?

Okay? No. Since every time his ex blew into town and disrupted their daughter’s routine, it took a solid week to get Lili back on track. Four-year-olds weren’t good with change. Or understanding why Mama kept disappearing. But it wasn’t like he could deny either of them some time together. And, if nothing else, dealing with that would take his mind off pretty, married, out-of-his-league clients.

Although he had a good idea it would take a lot more than his ex’s shenanigans, or even his daughter’s inevitable bad mood as a result, to expunge April Ross from his thoughts.

***

“Yes, you need to leave,” Blythe had said. “And not return until I’ve finished your suite. Because you hover, that’s why. And I’ve already called Aunt Tilda, told her you’re coming. She’s thrilled.”

Hence, three days later, April found herself staring out of her parents’ Richmond condo at the bleak November sky hanging over a dozen condos that looked exactly like this one. Not that she had any right to turn up her nose, since she’d helped them pick it out. Only she’d never planned on spending any real time here herself.

And, as her mother bustled about in the open kitchen behind her, listening to talk radio at full volume as she made lunch, she remembered why.

She loved her parents, don’t get her wrong. Enough to freak out when her father became seriously ill, to worry when her mother had to quit her job to take care of him, enough to make sacrifices on their behalf she doubted few women her age would have dreamed of making. Even if, at the end, she’d didn’t feel she’d sacrificed all that much. But she’d forgotten how stubborn her mother could be. A propensity inherited from Mama’s own mother, most likely, since nobody could hold on to things—newspapers, margarine tubs, grudges—like Nana.

“It’s a simple invitation,” April said, swallowing down the irritation, the hurt. Fine, so maybe she’d led her mother to believe they were renovating Nana’s house to sell it. Meaning, yes, she’d deliberately kept her parents in the dark about buying out her cousins, about her plans, because April was having enough trouble convincing herself she could make a go of this without throwing her mother’s inevitable disapproval into the mix. So why she’d thought presenting it as a fait accompli would garner a better reaction, she had no idea. Because clearly it hadn’t.

“And you know I can’t set foot back in that house,” Mama said behind her. “I just can’t.”

April turned away from the window, thinking that—from a distance, anyway—with her ash-blond pixie haircut and still-trim figure, her mother looked far younger than she was. “Except it’s my house now—”

“It’s still tainted, April. With all those bad memories …” Her mother shut her eyes, shaking her head. “So many bad memories.”

Although how terrible her mother’s memories really were, April wondered. Lord knew Nana had been irascible and strict, and from all accounts had given her three daughters far less freedom than most children of their generation—prompting all three girls to rebel by marrying men Nana heartily disapproved of. And which, in turn, led her grandmother to cut all three of them off. Warm and fuzzy, Nana had not been.

But while her grandmother might’ve been a pain in the butt, April had no reason to believe she’d ever been out-and-out abusive. And weirdly enough she hadn’t let the rifts between her and her daughters tarnish her relationship with her granddaughters. Not when they were kids, at least. Those summers at the beach house with Blythe and Mel—summers when April could, for six or eight weeks, forget her own chaotic homelife—had been the high points of her childhood.

“I know you and Nana had your differences,” April said gently, “but she and I didn’t—”

“Why, April? Why?” Her mother squawked the last word like her neck was being wrung. “Even if the place weren’t a money pit, which you know it is, for you to, to do this without telling us, to throw away everything Clayton left you … I don’t understand, April. I really don’t. You could have bought any house you liked—”

“Because I don’t want any place, I want this one. I love the Rinehart, Mama,” she said when her mother pursed her lips. “I always have. And now, unbelievably, it’s all mine. My money pit.” Although what she’d spent on the house so far had barely made a dent in the inheritance. Of course, she knew she couldn’t coast on that forever, that if the inn didn’t turn a profit within a reasonable time she wouldn’t be able to keep it going. A worry for another day, however. “Besides, you wouldn’t recognize it now, what with everything Blythe’s done. And especially once the land-scaping’s complete.”

Which, unfortunately, wouldn’t be before April’s return.

Too bad, that. Since, now that April had put some space between herself and Patrick Shaughnessy’s lethal gaze and could look at things with something resembling objectivity, she had to admit two things: one, that she was seriously attracted to the man, which she supposed, given her … situation and the before mentioned lethal gaze, wasn’t really a stretch; but that, two, the timing couldn’t be worse for her to be attracted to anybody.

“No,” her mother said again, shaking her head, and it took April a moment to click back into the conversation. “When your grandmother threw me out, I vowed I’d never return. And I don’t renege on my promises.”

Yeah, back to that stubbornness thing. As witness her mother’s never giving up on April’s father, no matter how many times he’d propose yet another “brilliant” get-rich scheme that inevitably fizzled out, but only after blowing through whatever savings they had. A good man, a kind man, but with the business acumen—and sense—of a gerbil.

So her mother going on about April’s “throwing her money away” was just a trifle inconsistent. That said, at least her parents were still together. Yes, her mother’s intractability about never going near Nana’s house again was annoying as all get-out, but the woman sure knew how to stick to her guns … and stand by her man, no matter what. As she said, she didn’t break her promises.

And neither did April.

Mama carted a plate of sandwiches to the dinette table on the other side of the counter, calling April’s father before setting them down. “And what on earth put the idea in your head to be an innkeeper, anyway?”

“I suppose because I like taking care of people. Feeling useful.”

Her mother dusted her hands, then crossed her arms, censure softening into concern. An unexpected shift that caught April off guard. “I would have thought you’d already done that. More than enough for one lifetime.”

April’s forehead scrunched. “What? Oh. You mean, because of Clay?”

“Exactly. Because …” Mama glanced toward the hall, then lowered her voice. “Because after taking care of your father all those months, I know how hard that must’ve been on you. At the … at the end.”

“But this isn’t even remotely the same thing—”

“And for you to lose your husband so early,” her mother went on, clearly determined to keep this particular train off track, “it was so unfair, honey. Especially since … well.”

Especially since she and Clayton hadn’t had children. But then Mama wasn’t privy to the particulars. Probably never would be, either, it being a nonissue now. Because if she had known … oh, Lord. Woman would’ve had a fit and fallen into it.

And for somebody who considered herself an honest person, April had more secrets than a TV preacher.

Mama cleared her throat. “What Clayton did for us … I still thank him in my prayers every day. Thank God that he was in our lives, even if only for such a short time. He truly was the most generous man on earth.”

“Yes. He was—”

“Then, baby, don’t you think, after what you’ve been through, he’d want you to take things easy? To enjoy life?”

Laughing, April went to the kitchen for a pitcher of tea. “I’m only twenty-six, Mama. Not sure how I’m supposed to enjoy life without living it. To …” She swung the tea pitcher, making her mother suck in a breath. “Embrace unexpected opportunities.”

Her mother hurried over to rescue the hapless pitcher, clutching it to her stomach as she stared at April. “By running an inn?”

“By realizing my dream, of having my own business, doing what I love to do. That’s what Clayton would have wanted for me. And that’s the best way I know how to honor him,” she added before her mother could shoehorn in another protest. Which she did, anyway.

“But it doesn’t make sense—”

Mama clamped shut her mouth as Daddy finally shuffled in from their bedroom where he’d been watching TV, grunting appreciatively at the array of sandwiches before lowering himself into his chair with a contented sigh. Although thinner than he used to be, Edward Ross was otherwise remarkably fit for someone who’d all but rubbed shoulders with death not three years before, even if his entrepreneurial days were in all likelihood behind him. And praise Jesus for that. But what brought tears to April’s eyes was knowing that, thanks to Clayton, her parents’ needs would be met for the rest of their lives. That in exchange for putting her dreams on hold for a few years, he’d now given her the freedom to follow them.

Wherever they led her.

And however scary they were.

A thrill of anticipation shunted through her as she turned to her mother and said softly, “And you of all people should understand that what makes us happy isn’t necessarily what makes sense.”

Another moment or two passed before her mother muttered, “Then you’re as much of a blamed fool as the rest of us,” before carting the pitcher over to the table to pour her husband his tea. Only as April opened her mouth to refute her mother’s statement, she couldn’t seem to shove the words past a certain somebody’s lethal blue gaze.

Lethal … and, unless she was sadly mistaken, needy.

Yeah. What Mama said.

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