by Abby Gaines
“Mr. Granger.” Her voice was frosty, with none of the compassion she’d directed at Sam.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
She leaned forward and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t blow it.”
ON MONDAY, SOMEONE from the Justice Department called Cynthia and told her this was her last week in Stonewall Hollow. An interim judge had been found to replace her. She called her father, only to find he’d heard already.
When she told Melanie, her assistant’s eyes swam in a pool of tears. “Cynthia, honey, I’m gonna miss you.” They hugged.
“I’ll miss you, too,” Cynthia said honestly.
When Melanie left, she got back to her paperwork. But she found herself, yet again, rereading the document she kept hidden in her briefcase. The transcript of Ethan’s trial from sixteen years ago. She’d ordered a copy from the state court in Atlanta.
She didn’t need the pages—she’d memorized the most important parts. Ethan had found a minimum-wage job in a café in Atlanta, a place he’d eaten with his mom and his stepfather a few times over the years. His stepfather, Wayne, discovered Ethan working there, and took to lunching there when he was in town. Mainly so he could taunt and provoke Ethan with stories about how much happier his mom was now that Ethan was gone.
One day, Ethan snapped. He lashed out at Wayne, punching him. As his stepfather went down, his head struck the corner of a table. What turned the fracas from simple assault—a misdemeanor—to aggravated assault was Ethan’s yelled “I’ll kill you.” The D.A. took one look at Ethan’s record of misdemeanors and decided he was a danger to society. Justice Pearson had agreed that Ethan had “intent to murder” and jailed him.
Cynthia had wept the first time she’d read about the man she loved, then only eighteen years old, being manipulated by his sick stepfather. It reminded her of Ethan’s comment the day they met that justice wasn’t always served by the law.
At lunchtime, the door to Cynthia’s chambers was pushed open, and a delegation entered without knocking. The mayor, the sheriff, Jackson Bream and Mrs. Baker.
“A moment of your time, Judge,” the mayor said.
“Of course.” Cynthia didn’t have enough chairs for them all to sit, so she stood out of courtesy.
“We’ve come to ask you to consider staying on as Stonewall Hollow’s judge,” Jackson Bream said.
“Really?” It was the last thing she’d expected. “But…why?”
“You understand this town,” Mrs. Baker said. “You have guts.”
“You do a good job, Judge,” the sheriff said, dispassionate as ever. She’d taken that for coolness when they’d first met. Now she knew better.
“And we like you,” the mayor said. “Most everyone does. Maybe not Tania from the Gazette, or Paul Dayton, but the rest of us do.”
We like you. Simple words that meant so much. Cynthia’s laugh came out shaky. “I’m honored, truly honored.” And she was. To be chosen because people liked her and because she fit in was more precious than any trial victory. She was almost tempted to accept. Almost. “But my family is in Atlanta, and right now, I need to be with them.”
“Ah, you’re upset about breaking up with Ethan,” Mrs. Baker said sagely.
Cynthia laughed out loud. Why not just shout it from the rooftops?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CINDY HAD BEEN GONE two weeks, and Ethan missed her so much it hurt. Things were going better at home—he and Linnet were making an effort, and Sam had calmed down. But nothing was quite right.
It was no use telling her she couldn’t get access to his heart. She was already there, opening the place up, airing it to the world. She’d been in town a month, one lousy month, but she’d burrowed so deep it was as if she’d always been there and always would be.
There had to be something he could do, he just didn’t know what.
But it involved telling her he loved her. And he’d figured out how to do it, too. He didn’t have a great track record with saying the words, and his troubles with Sam proved he wasn’t as good as he’d like to be at showing it, but there was one more way.
“Dad?” Sam said.
“What?” Ethan had spoken too sharply. “Sorry, son, I was miles away.” In Atlanta, with Cindy. Where his brain spent most of its time these days.
“No kidding.” But Sam’s rejoinder didn’t come out the way it would have a few weeks ago, wrapped in attitude.
“What’s the problem?” Ethan went to where Sam was attaching a fence wire to its post—a quick Sunday afternoon job.
“This damn thing won’t friggin’ reach.” They were working on Sam’s cussing. Ethan decided to be grateful for the friggin’, milder than Sam’s usual choice, and let the damn slide. A man had to pick his battles.
“Let’s take a look.” Ethan reveled in his closeness to Sam. The whiff of teenage boy was powerful on a hot day like this, but he loved it.
Together they pulled the wire taut. Sam hammered in a staple to hold it in place.
They got back to the house as Linnet arrived. She’d dressed up for the occasion in a frilly pink blouse and deeper pink skirt.
“Happy birthday, Ethan.” She kissed his cheek, then handed over a small rectangular package.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll open it inside.” He took the casserole dish she got out of the car. “What’s for dinner?”
“I made chili,” Linnet said. It had been his favorite as a kid. They were trying, all of them.
“Great.” In the kitchen, he set the casserole down on the counter, then moved to the dining table to open his present.
“I didn’t get you anything,” Sam warned. “I’m still paying off my court fines.”
“Pleased to hear it. That thing on the wall is enough for me.” That thing was a commendation for bravery awarded to Sam for saving the little boy at the rodeo. Ethan grinned at his son, unable to hide his pride, then he tore off the silver paper, aware of Linnet’s fidgeting. It was a pen, chunky, brushed steel that would sit comfortably in a man’s hand. He laughed. “Are you psychic, Mom?”
“Why?” she said anxiously.
He leaned across and kissed her cheek. “I’ve decided to take up letter-writing.”
“Really?” she said, pleased.
“Yep. In fact, I’ve written a couple already. Sam, if you look in that drawer in the desk where I keep all the bills, you’ll find them.”
Curiosity had Sam obeying. He returned from the den holding two envelopes. “There’s one for you, Gram, and one for me.” He gave Ethan a nervous grin.
“What’s this about?” Linnet asked.
“Kind of a birthday present from me to you,” Ethan said. “Open them while I put the chili on to heat.”
He washed his hands and began to putter in the kitchen. No noise from the dining table, other than the rustle of paper.
He forced himself to relax as he turned on the gas burner and gave the chili a stir. He’d done what Cindy wanted—opened his heart and told his son and his mother his deepest feelings. Not out loud, because he wasn’t that kind of guy. But on paper, he’d said everything they needed to hear.
I was a brat, Mom, and then a jerk, he’d said in Linnet’s letter.
Yes, Wayne was a jerk, too, but with him making your life miserable there was no need for me to do the same. I don’t blame you for throwing me out. I hated you for it for a long time, but I don’t anymore. You’re my mom, I love and respect you, and I don’t ever want anything to come between us again.
He glanced at his mom, saw tears sliding down her cheeks. She looked up, saw him, smiled. A tender smile. Then she bent to the letter again.
He heard a smothered sound from Sam—probably he was up to the part where Ethan told him about his time in prison. About the kind of guy he’d been.
I’m sorry, Sam, he’d written toward the end of the letter.
Sorry I was such a loser your mother couldn’t tell you about me, couldn’t tell me I had a son. Sorry I missed those early years of your life, and when I did get to know you
, I screwed up. Most of all, I’m sorry it took you trying to start a fire and Cindy hauling me up in court for me to tell you to your face that I love you. Well, you know now, and I’ll make sure I say it more often. Or maybe I’ll write it—seems easier somehow. But please trust that no matter what happens, no matter what you do, you’re my son and I’ll always treasure you and love you.”
“Friggin’ hell, Dad.” Tears streaked Sam’s cheeks, too. He wiped them away irritably. “Did you have to say all this freakin’ stuff?”
Ethan walked over to the table, slung an arm around his son’s shoulder, pressed what would probably be his first and last kiss to Sam’s hair. “My son, practically a PG-cusser,” he said proudly.
And they were all laughing.
It wasn’t until they sat down to eat that Linnet asked the question. “So, Sam,” she said slyly, “were there any other letters in that desk drawer?”
Sam grinned. “Matter of fact, there was one. To Cindy.”
“Ah,” Linnet said.
“I’ll say the blessing.” Ethan bowed his head and prayed, which shut them up.
Not for long.
“Why haven’t you sent Cindy her letter?” Linnet asked as she spread her napkin on her lap.
“I’m not sure I’ve got it right,” he admitted. Cindy’s had been both the hardest and the easiest letter. Easiest because they didn’t have a huge history to get over. Hardest because he was scared he’d screw up and he wouldn’t get another chance. Hell, he wasn’t sure he had any chance at all.
Sam spoke up. “Cindy came to see me the day I…you know.”
“The day you tried to set fire to the hall,” Ethan said firmly. “We have a new policy around here, folks, nothing gets swept under the table. We acknowledge what happened, then we move on.”
“Whatever.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Cindy told me a lot of stuff about you—the kind of stuff that was in your letter.” Sam blushed to his ears. “I couldn’t handle it, man, what the hell was I meant to do?”
“We are all aware what you decided on,” Linnet said tartly, buying into the new openness.
“I went to see Jacko and the other guys,” Sam said. Jacko Wallace, aka Trouble. “I kind of told them what Cindy said.”
“I’ll bet they had some good advice.” Ethan didn’t hold back the sarcasm.
“They reckoned you and her were, like, messing with my head. That’s why I decided to start the fire—I wanted to prove you couldn’t manipulate me.”
Ethan thumped his hand down on the table. “For crying out loud, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. If Jacko Wallace told you to set fire to your hair would you do that?”
Sam reddened. “Shut up, Dad, you sound crazy.”
“You are crazy,” he snapped. “A certified nut job.”
They glared at each other, bristling like two hedgehogs, until Linnet said mildly, “Boys, boys.”
They turned to her.
“You don’t have time for this argument, Ethan. Cindy told me she always has dinner at her dad’s place on Sunday nights.”
“I’m not sure Cindy’s ready to be a stepmom.” He said it for Sam’s sake.
“Dad, I already have a mother.” Sam looked down at his place mat, then at the phone on the wall. “I guess I should call her.”
“Great idea,” Ethan said. “Now’s good.”
“I’ll do it later,” Sam said. Before Ethan could argue, he added, “After you leave for Atlanta.”
There was one other reason Ethan was hesitating to give Cindy the letter. In it, he’d said everything he felt. Put himself on the line, no going back.
Could he give Cindy his whole heart?
I already have.
Could he convince her to accept it?
Ethan pushed his chili away. “You’re right, Mom.”
It seemed it was destined to be a night of firsts.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE DOORBELL RANG AS Sabrina poured the coffee. Jonah put down the glass of red wine he insisted was good for his heart. “Are we expecting anyone?”
“I’ll get it.” Megan left the room.
They were still at the dining table, with the windows open—it was a muggy night. Cynthia glanced at her watch and wondered how soon she could excuse herself. Nine o’clock. Not yet.
“Cynthia, sweetheart, did you get enough to eat?” her father asked.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
He’d been worried about her since she returned from Stonewall Hollow. She’d accepted the offer of an interview for the judgeship, but she’d told Jonah she wasn’t certain she wanted the job. He’d immediately assumed she was still suffering from stress, and was being solicitous toward her in a way he’d always been with Sabrina, seldom with her. She allowed herself to enjoy it, rather than see it as a sign of weakness in herself.
She wasn’t going to rush into anything. She loved the law, she couldn’t envisage any other career, but maybe she didn’t want to be a superior court judge.
Megan sashayed back into the room. “Someone to see you, Cindy.”
Cynthia looked up as her sister stepped aside.
“Ethan!”
He looked incredible in jeans and a black shirt, open at the neck, his hat in his hand. Her love for him surged, undiminished.
“You!” Jonah thundered.
Ethan gave him a patient nod. “Mr. Merritt, everyone, I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need to talk to Cindy.”
Jonah balled his napkin and threw it down. Hands on the table, he levered himself to his feet.
“Would you like coffee, Ethan?” Sabrina asked unfazed, the perfect hostess. “Jake, darling, could you go bring another cup?”
Ethan grinned at her. “Maybe later, thanks.” He walked around the table.
Questions streamed through Cynthia’s mind. He’d come for her, of course—the smile in his eyes told her that. But what was he offering?
When he reached her, he held out a hand. She stared at it. She’d missed him so much, she didn’t want to hope.
“Come back to me, Cindy.”
“Now look here,” Jonah began.
“I love you. I should have said it weeks ago, but I was an idiot. But since you’ve been gone—hell, Cindy, without you I don’t fit in my own skin.”
Sabrina sighed.
Skin. A vital organ. Cynthia put her hand in his, let him draw her to her feet.
“Cynthia,” her dad said sharply, “the man is a felon.”
Indrawn breaths around the table. Thanks, Dad.
“Wrong,” Ethan said. “I used to be a felon. Life gave me a second chance, and now I’m hoping Cindy will do the same.”
Megan’s face was a study in mixed emotions.
“My daughter has an exceptional career in the judiciary,” Jonah said. “If you really love her…”
“Dad,” Cynthia protested. “Be quiet.”
Her father gaped.
“Does this place have a broom closet?” Ethan asked.
“By the front door,” she said.
“Let’s go.”
He led her from the room. As she passed Sabrina, Sabrina murmured, “Way to go, Cyn.”
When they reached the broom closet, Ethan opened the door and pulled her inside.
“What are you doing?” Her dad would have her certified.
He turned on the light. “Wow, this is the Ritz of broom closets—it’s enormous. We could live in here.” He closed the door.
She giggled, her heart growing lighter by the second. “I’m borderline crazy, remember? Don’t encourage me.”
“Oh, I intend to encourage you. I plan to encourage you to be anything you want, as long as it involves spending your life with me.”
She grabbed his hands. “I want that, but I can’t be with a man who can’t figure out his feelings and make them plain.”
“Weren’t you listening out there? I love you, Cindy, to the bottom of my heart.”
He wrapped his arms around her and lowered his mou
th to hers. She’d missed this, wanted this, hungered for it. She kissed him back, until they both shook with desire.
“Marry me,” he said.
“Yes.” Then she thumped him. “No!”
He laughed. “Why doesn’t this surprise me?”
“You make it sound simple, but you’ve got a lot to sort out. What makes you think you can handle the kind of all-encompassing relationship I want?”
Ethan sighed. “Let’s sit down, this might take a while.” He nudged a bucket aside with his foot. A broom clattered to the floor.
“Cynthia, are you all right?” Her father was outside the closet.
“I’m fine, Dad, I’ll be out in a minute.”
They waited. A minute later, Cynthia heard the murmur of Sabrina’s voice, then two sets of fading footsteps.
Ethan sat on the floor, his back to the wall. Cynthia sat between his legs, her back to his chest. His hands caressed her waist, her thighs. It wasn’t enough; she twisted to reach his mouth, then she ended up facing him, kneeling between his legs.
“Kissing in a broom closet.” Ethan sounded dazed when he surfaced. “Can’t think why I never tried it before.” He nuzzled her neck. “Have you ever made love in one of these?”
She stifled a shriek of laughter.
“I’m serious.” He reached for the zipper of her dress.
She slapped his hands away. “Talk first, before you get your hands on me.” As if she was about to make love with him in her dad’s broom closet. But she didn’t want to discourage him, so she held off on mentioning that. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Tell me more about this loving me from the bottom of your heart.”
“Here.” He fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You can read all about it.”
She examined the envelope. “You wrote me a letter?”
“Every last, sappy feeling in black and white,” he confirmed. “I wrote letters to Sam and Mom, too, but yours is the only one that’s X-rated.”
She felt herself blush. “How are things with Sam?”
“Great, or getting there. We’re not bosom buddies yet—the only bosom I really want to get close to is yours.” He peered down the deep V of her dress.
