by Lori Wilde
Her new town.
Jillian drew in a deep breath. This was where she was going to be living. Salvation, Colorado. Population 876, according to the sign she’d just passed.
She’d never lived in a small town.
A warm gush of sudden panic swept aside her stubborn resolve. Anxiety hunkered on her shoulder. What in the hell was she doing? Yanking up her life to relocate to a place she’d never been. She was jumping the gun. Blake’s will wasn’t even probated yet, and she’d moved all her earthly possessions up here. She’d quit her job, given up her condo, and taken on a dog.
What if the townsfolk didn’t like her? What if she didn’t like them? Was she crazy? Was she having a midlife crisis twenty years early? Was this all just a knee-jerk reaction to losing Blake?
What’s done is done. Make the best of it.
Resolutely, she shrugged off her doubts and reached for the hand-drawn map on the seat between she and Mutt. The map that she’d found in the envelope Hamilton Green had given her. According to the directions, Salvation Lake was a half mile outside of town. She would be there soon.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
“This is it,” she told Mutt. “Our new home. What do you think?”
The dog put his paws on the side of the door and licked his lips as they passed by the Bluebird Café. Apparently, whatever they were serving for breakfast smelled tastier than the kibble he’d just eaten.
The houses on the road to the lake were just as adorable as the buildings circling the town square. The place was a fairy-tale town. Like something from the books she’d read when she was a kid and dreamed about but was too afraid to hope such places really existed. Honestly, it was too perfect for words.
“I don’t trust perfect,” she muttered under her breath. “There’s no such thing as perfect.”
Mutt looked at her.
“I know what you’re thinking. Okay, so I’m not the most trusting person in the world. Especially when it comes to men. Consider yourself very lucky I adopted you.”
Mutt barked.
“You’re welcome.”
A garbage truck rumbled past. The driver waved.
Jillian didn’t wave back.
Mutt’s ears dipped.
“What? Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. Get to know the garbageman, maybe he’ll throw you a bone. But you don’t know this guy. He could be a serial dog killer. He could throw you poisoned meat. Best motto—trust no one.”
Okay, it was official. Too many days on the road with only a dog to talk to had made her nuts. Once she got settled in, she simply had to introduce herself around town.
And maybe see if she could hire someone to help her unload the U-Haul.
Off to the right, she spied the lake in between gaps in the pine trees, the deep blue of the water melding with the orange cream sky. The lush evergreens were dusted with powdered-sugar snow. The paralyzing beauty took her breath away, and she fell instantly in love.
“It’s incredible,” she murmured, and her earlier misgivings were swept away by the azure majesty of the early morning sun shimmering off the lake.
“Maybe we can go fishing in the spring,” she told Mutt. “You’d like that. Lots of sitting in the sun.”
One of the few memories she had of her father was when he’d taken her fishing. She’d been quite small, three or four at most, and all she could remember of the trip was the tiny pink plastic tackle box with yellow daisies on it and the way her little hand had felt in his big palm as they’d walked to the water.
“Oh, oh, here it is. Enchantment Lane.” She made a right. “Is that a corny name or what?”
Mutt yawned.
“Are you bored already? But we’re only three weeks into this relationship, buster.” She carefully navigated the twisty one-lane road. “Hey, be on the lookout for number 1414.”
Most of the summerhouses appeared shuttered and locked for the winter season. She expected number 1414 to be boarded up as well.
It wasn’t.
However, the hedges were long past the point of needing a trim, and the cottage begged for a fresh coat of paint. Several pickets in the wooden fence had rotted out, and the rainbow-hued wind sock on top of the house was tattered. Dead tree branches littered the yard, and the mailbox was dented and rusting.
Home sweet home.
Jillian let out her breath. When had Blake last visited here? She’d known him for eight years and had never heard him once talk about his summer house or even taking a vacation. And why hadn’t he hired someone to see after the place?
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, Mutt. You up for it?”
Disappointment anchored her to the seat, car keys in her hand. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping for. Hamilton Green had warned her the property wasn’t in the best of shape.
“But, hey, let’s look at the bright side. We’ve got a killer view.”
Mutt whined.
“I know, I know, you gotta pee.” Jillian sighed and shrugged off her disenchantment with the house on Enchantment Lane. “Let’s go.”
She got out and walked Mutt around the side of the house so he could take care of business. From this angle, Jillian could see the redwood dock leading down to the water. The sight of the lake cheered her up a bit. This was her place. She owned it. Or at least she would as soon as Blake’s will was probated.
Home.
“Home,” she said out loud. She’d never had a real home.
Yeah, okay, the place needed work, but she wasn’t afraid of manual labor. On that score, her stepmother had trained her well. Who knew a childhood spent as an indentured servant had an upside? A coat of paint, trimmed hedges, new boards in the fence and the place would be good as new.
“In nice weather, we can have breakfast on the dock and watch the sun come up,” she told Mutt. “Would you like that?”
The dog paid her no mind; he was too busy sniffing the ground, exploring his new surroundings.
“Gird your loins. It’s time to see the inside.” She tugged on Mutt’s leash and led him up the cobblestone walkway to the front porch. There she found a porch swing with a busted chain, the back corner resting on the ground. “Add that to the list.”
She took the key from her pocket and slipped it into the lock, but before she ever turned the key, the door eased opened.
“It wasn’t locked,” she murmured. “Why wasn’t it locked?”
She hesitated, not sure if she should go in or not. Everything was unnervingly quiet, but Mutt didn’t seem alarmed. Jillian wasn’t a coward, but neither was she a fool. Should she call the sheriff? She didn’t want to look like an idiot on her first day in town. Maybe some teens had broken into the place and were using it as a make-out spot.
That thought sunk her spirits. She had to investigate. If someone was inside, she had Mutt to raise the alarm. Tentatively, she pushed the door all the way open and stepped over the threshold.
Hamilton Green had told her the summerhouse was furnished, but she hadn’t expected it to look as if someone was living here. A pair of men’s muddy work boots sat on a newspaper in the tiled foyer. Mutt sniffed them. A brown all-weather men’s coat hung on a hook above the boots. The small foyer table held a blue glass bowl filled with pocket change, car keys, and breath mints. Not to mention an inch of dust.
A sudden thought occurred to her. What if she had the wrong place?
Nervously, Jillian stepped back out on the porch to double-check the numbers on the house. Yep. 1414. This was it.
“Why do I feel like I’m suddenly in a Stephen King novel?” Jillian asked.
Tongue lolling, Mutt looked up at her.
“Right, I got it, you have no idea who Stephen King is. But let me assure you this is seriously spooky.”
Jillian hauled Mutt back inside, shut the door, and unclipped the leash from his collar. Then she edged into the living room.
Water stains dotted the ceiling, letting her know the roo
f leaked, and she noticed the walls needed painting even worse than the outside of the house. The back of an oversized brown leather couch faced the foyer. A red and white crocheted afghan was draped over it. Across the room sat a stone fireplace. There were a couple of flat-bottomed chairs, both heaped high with newspapers and magazines. An empty pizza box lay open on the coffee table.
Someone was living here.
Had Blake been renting the place out and neglected to inform Hamilton Green? Or had some vagrant wandered in and made himself at home?
She skirted the edge of the couch, looked down, and saw the most gorgeous naked male back she’d ever seen. Startled, Jillian slapped a hand over her mouth and jumped backward.
Her gaze focused on every minute detail. The tanned spine disappeared into the waistband of a pair of black briefs barely covering a firm gorgeous ass. The delineation of his taut musculature, the slope of the small of his back, the masculine thickness of his thighs all served to shove her libido into hyperdrive.
Mutt growled low in his throat, pricked up his ears, and cocked his head.
The guy snored, oblivious to the fact he had company.
Jillian’s gaze tracked from the exquisite butt, up the curve of the small of his back, to his broad shoulders that barely fit on the couch, to the shaggy thatch of wheat-colored hair sticking out all over his head and back down again. His muscular calves were tangled in a blue quilt, and a pillow without a case lay on the floor beside the couch.
That was some kind of body.
A skitter of excitement ran through her. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have minded waking up to find a backside like that in her bed. But since Alex, she’d sworn off men. The creatures did nothing but cause misery and heartache.
She didn’t know what to do. If he was a vagrant, she should call the police and have him evicted. If he’d rented the place, then she needed to wake him and tell him about Blake dying and leaving her the house.
Either way, he had to go.
But how to rouse him? If she tapped him on the shoulder, he was sure to turn over, and she really didn’t want to see what was on the flip side.
Or did she?
Mutt was still growling at the guy in a low menacing tone she’d never heard the dog use.
Jillian cleared her throat. Loudly.
Nothing.
Apparently, the interloper could sleep through an avalanche.
Okay, she was going to try the tapping-on-the-shoulder thing. But first she had to cover him up so she would stop staring at him. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, dropped her purse on the floor, and tiptoed toward the couch.
She leaned over, going for the red and white afghan, intent on tossing it over him, when a strong hand reached up and grabbed her wrist.
Jillian shrieked.
He had a vise grip like the Incredible Hulk.
In one fluid motion, he rolled off the couch onto the floor, taking Jillian with him. He made a guttural noise as his butt smacked against the rug.
The red afghan had fallen over Jillian’s head, and she couldn’t see a thing. All she could do was feel. Everything about him was hard. His grip, his chest, his thigh, his … his … oh God.
Jillian fought, shoving the afghan from her face, batting back the hair that had fallen into her eyes, and sputtering and struggling against him.
“Let go of me,” she howled.
“Who in the hell are you? What do you want? Why are you in my house?” He peppered her with questions in a voice as deep as a scattergun blast.
Jillian was in his lap, and he wasn’t letting go. She finally got her vision cleared and found herself peering straight into whiskey-colored eyes, fringed with long dark lashes. His silky, wheat-brown hair was rumpled, his jaw shadowed with beard stubble. His entire face bespoke bone-deep sadness.
His gaze met hers.
All the breath left her body. Her heart leapfrogged into her throat. Her stomach dropped to her knees, and her jaw unhinged. Panic bulleted through her veins.
Impossible. Unbelievable. This simply could not be happening.
It was him.
In the flesh.
The rugged, hunk of a man from her wedding veil– induced sex dream!
TUCK STARED into the eyes of the woman from his vision quest and felt the earth shift beneath him.
This was impossible, illogical, but here she was.
Dream. Gotta be a dream.
But it sure as hell didn’t feel like a dream with her warm, firm ass parked in his lap.
Was there such a thing as vision-quest flashbacks? He’d have to ask Ridley.
Her eyes were bright, her lips so temptingly close. He couldn’t help but think about kissing her. He slid his arms around her waist and she—
Slapped him.
“Ouch!” He raised a hand to rub his stinging cheek.
Okay, neither a dream nor a flashback. If it was a flashback, she’d be kissing him, not smacking his face.
So if it wasn’t a dream or a flashback, that meant … Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, this was real.
There was a strange woman in his house—and not just any strange woman but one whom he’d had sex with in a sweat lodge vision. And she was far more beautiful in real life than she’d been in the dream. Her hair was blacker, glossier. Her eyes more intelligent. Her skin creamier. Her scent spicier.
“Let go of me.” She splayed a palm against his bare chest and shoved him.
Hard.
Tuck tipped backward and his head hit the floor.
Her stare fixed on his lower anatomy, and she let out a squeak of surprise at the sight of his cock burgeoning against the seams of his undershorts.
Quickly he grabbed the afghan and flung it over his lap. Just as quickly, she jumped to her feet and ran to the opposite side of the room. He secured the afghan around his waist with his fingers and scrambled onto the couch, placing a pillow strategically over his lap.
They were both breathing like marathon runners at the twenty-fifth-mile marker.
“Who the hell are you?” they asked in unison.
“I’m Jillian Samuels,” she said.
At the very same time, he said, “Tucker Manning.”
And then they both said, “What are you doing here?”
It was a very strange moment. It wasn’t every day that a man met his fantasy woman.
She’s not your fantasy woman. You just had a dream about her.
Except that apparently hadn’t been just a run-of-the-mill dream but a portentous vision, just as Ridley had claimed. Flippin’ freaky.
“This simultaneous talking isn’t getting us anywhere. You go first, Jillian,” he said, being polite. “You’re the visitor here.”
“Actually, Tucker …”
“Call me Tuck. Everyone calls me Tuck.”
“Actually, Tuck …” She drew herself up to her full height, which had to be close to six foot. She was almost as tall as he was. “I’m not.”
“Excuse me?”
Her expression grew somber and her voice softened. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this …” She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath.
He couldn’t help noticing her chest rise with the inhalation. If the vision he’d had of her was in any way accurate, she had a great pair of breasts underneath that fluffy red sweater. “Yeah?”
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she snapped.
“Like what?” Tucker forced his eyes off her breasts and onto her face. She was the kind of woman who made a man think about midnight skies and four-poster beds. And for a guy who hadn’t thought about any woman like that since his wife, it was damned disconcerting.
“Like you know what I look like without any clothes on.”
“Sorry, nasty male habit.” He wasn’t about to let her know about his sweat lodge vision. If he did, he had no doubt she’d slap him again. Probably even harder this time and he would deserve it for the lascivious thoughts circling his brain.
“Well, knock
it off and pay attention. I’m delivering bad news here,” Jillian said.
“Oh.” He straightened on the couch, stabbing his fingers through his mussed hair. “I’m listening. Whatcha got?”
“There’s no other way to break the news than to just say it. Blake Townsend’s dead.”
“Huh?” Her words didn’t register.
“Blake’s dead.” Tears glimmered in her eyes.
“Blake’s dead?” he repeated, hearing his own words come out hollow and strange. Her words still weren’t registering. “How …” Tucker’s chest tightened and his brain fogged. “When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
Jillian sank down on the fireplace hearth. He saw her bottom lip was trembling, and he realized she’d cared deeply about Blake. “It was all so trite. One minute Blake was mundanely ordering a grande soy latte at Starbucks just like it was any other morning, and the next minute he was on the floor dead from a brain tumor. Turns out he’d had it for months. Inoperable. He never told anyone.”
The pain written on her face told him that Blake keeping his illness a secret hurt her deeply. “That’s awful. How come …” Tuck broke off, unsure of what he was feeling. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried again. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“No one knew you were living here. Blake’s lawyer thought the place was vacant. He told me the place hadn’t been occupied in years. Who are you, by the way?”
“I’m his son-in-law.”
Jillian sucked in her breath. “Aimee’s husband.”
“Yeah.”
“I … I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Their eyes met and damn if Tuck didn’t see empathy in her gaze. That pissed him off. She had no right to look as if she understood his pain. “I know what it’s like. Blake was … We were close.”
“Ah …” So that was the lay of the land.
“Not ah.” She glowered. “There’s no ‘ah.’ ”
“You and Blake were lovers.”
“God no!” she exclaimed as if the thought horrified her. “We were friends. He was my mentor. A father figure.”
“Lucky you.” His turn for sarcasm. This woman had usurped Aimee’s father.
