“Um, yeah. It’s a military thing. Nicknames, you know?”
The explanation sounded lame, even to him, but she appeared to buy it without blinking. In fact, she gifted him with a particular sweet smile. “All right. Max it is. You may, of course, call me Anna.”
He absolutely was not going to let himself get lost in that smile, no matter his inclination, so he forced himself to continue with his subtle interrogation. “Are you from around here?”
She shook her head. “I grew up in a small town in the mountains of Utah.”
He raised an eyebrow, certain he hadn’t unearthed that little tidbit of information in his research. “Utah seems like a long way from here. What brought you to the Oregon coast?”
Her eyes took on that evasive film again. “Oh, you know. I was ready for a change. Wanted to stretch my wings a little. That sort of thing.”
He had become pretty good over the years at picking up when someone wasn’t being completely honest with him and his lie radar was suddenly blinking like crazy.
She was hiding something and he wanted to know what.
“Do you have family back in Utah still?”
The tension in her shoulders eased a little. “Two of my older brothers are still close to Moose Springs. That’s where we grew up. One’s the sheriff, actually. The other is a contractor, then I have one other brother who’s a research scientist in Costa Rica.”
“No sisters?”
“Just brothers. I’m the baby.”
“You were probably spoiled rotten, right?”
Her laugh was so infectious that even Conan looked up and grinned. “More like endlessly tormented. I was always excluded from their cool boy stuff like campouts and fishing trips. Being the only girl and the youngest Galvez was a double curse, one I’m still trying to figure out how to break.”
This, at least, was genuine. She glowed when she talked about her family—her eyes seemed brighter, her features more animated. She looked so delicious, it was all he could do not to reach across the table and kiss her right here over his aunt’s French toast.
Her next words quickly quashed the bloom of desire better than a cold Oregon downpour.
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you have family somewhere?”
How could he answer that without giving away his identity? He decided to stick to the bare facts and hope Abigail hadn’t talked about his particular twisted branch of the family tree.
“My father died when I was too young to remember him. My mother remarried several times so I’ve got a few stepbrothers and stepsisters scattered here and there but that’s it.”
He didn’t add that he didn’t even know some of their names since none of the marriages had lasted long.
“So where’s home?” she asked.
“Right now it’s two flights of stairs above you.”
She made a face. “What about before you moved upstairs?”
Brambleberry House was the place he had always considered home, even though he only spent a week or two here each year. Life with his mother had never been exactly stable as she moved from boyfriend to boyfriend, husband to husband. Before he had been sent to military school when he was thirteen, he had attended a dozen different schools.
Abigail had been the rock in his insecure existence. But he certainly couldn’t tell that to Anna Galvez. Instead, he shrugged.
“I’m career army, ma’am. I’m based out of Virginia but I’ve been in the Middle East for two tours of duty. I’ve been there the last four years. That feels as much home as anywhere else, I guess.”
CHAPTER FOUR
OH, THE POOR MAN.
Imagine considering some military base a home. She couldn’t quite fathom it and she felt enormously blessed suddenly for her safe, happy childhood.
Her family might have been what most people would consider dirt-poor. Her parents were illegal immigrants who had tried to live below the radar. As a result, her father had never been paid his full worth and when he had been killed in a construction accident, the company he worked for had used his illegal immigrant status as an excuse not to pay any compensation to his widow or children.
Yes, her family might not have had much when she was a kid but she had never lived a single moment of her childhood when she didn’t feel her home was a sanctuary where she could always be certain she would find love and acceptance.
Later, maybe, she had come to doubt her worth, but none of that stemmed from her girlhood.
And now she had Brambleberry House to return to at the end of the day. No matter how stressful her life might seem sometimes, this house welcomed her back every night, solid and strong and immovable.
It saddened her to think of Harry Maxwell moving from place to place with the military, never having anything to anchor him in place.
“I suppose if you had a wife and children, you would probably be recovering with them instead of at some drafty rented house on the Oregon shore.”
“No wife, no kids. Never married.” He paused, giving her a careful look. “What about you?”
She had always wanted a big, rambunctious family just like the one she’d known as a girl but those childhood dreams spun in the tiny bedroom of that Moose Springs house seemed far away now.
Her life hadn’t worked out at all the way she planned. And though there were a few things in her life she wouldn’t mind a do-over on—especially more recent events—she couldn’t regret all the paths she had followed that had led her to this place.
“Same goes. I was engaged once but...it didn’t work out.”
Before he could respond, Conan lumbered to his feet and headed for the door.
“That’s a signal,” she said with a smile. “Time for him to go out and if I don’t move on it, we’ll all be sorry. Excuse me, won’t you?”
Though he had a doggie door to use when she wasn’t home, Conan much preferred to be waited on and to go out through the regular door like the rest of the higher beings. She opened her apartment door and then the main door into the house for him and watched him bound eagerly to his favorite corner of the yard.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found Lieutenant Maxwell clearing dishes from the table.
“That was delicious. It was very kind of you to invite me. A little unexpected, but kind nonetheless.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll be honest, it’s not the sort of thing I usually do but...well, it is the sort of thing Abigail would have done. She was always striking up conversations with people and taking them to lunch or whatever. I had the strangest feeling this morning on the beach that she would want me to invite you to breakfast.”
She heard the absurdity of her own words and made a face. “That probably sounds completely insane to you.”
“Not completely,” he murmured.
“No, it is. But I’m not sorry. I enjoyed making breakfast and I suppose it’s only fitting that I know at least a little about the person living upstairs. At least now you don’t feel like a stranger.”
“Well, I appreciate the effort and the French toast. It’s been...a long time since I’ve had anything as good.”
He gave her a hesitant smile and at the sight of it on those solemnly handsome features, her stomach seemed to do a long, slow roll.
Oh, bad idea. She had no business at all being attracted to the man. He was her tenant, and a temporary one at that. Beyond that, the timing was abysmal. She had far too much on her plate right now trying to save By-the-Wind Two and see that Grayson Fletcher received well-deserved justice. She couldn’t afford any distractions, especially not one as tempting as Lieutenant Harry Maxwell.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, forcing her voice to be brisk and businesslike.
Conan came back inside before he could answer. He headed straight for the lieut
enant, who reached down to pet him. The absent gesture reminded her of another detail she meant to discuss with him.
“I’m afraid I’m going to be tied up in Lincoln City most of today. Some days I can take Conan with me since I have arrangements with a kennel in town but they were full today so he has to stay home. I hope he doesn’t make a pest of himself.”
“I doubt he’ll bother me.”
“With the dog door, he can come as he likes. I should probably tell you, he thinks he owns the house. He’s used to going up the stairs to visit either Sage when she lived here or Julia and the twins. If he whines outside your door, just send him back downstairs.”
“He won’t bother me. If he whines, I’ll invite him inside. He’s welcome to hang out upstairs. I don’t mind the company.”
He petted the dog with an unfeigned affection that warmed her, though she knew it shouldn’t. Most people liked Conan, though Grayson Fletcher never had. That in itself should have been all the red flags she needed that the man was trouble.
“Well, don’t feel obligated to entertain him. I would just ask that you close the gate behind you if you leave so he can’t leave the yard. He tends to take off if there’s a stray cat in the neighborhood.”
“I’ll do that.” He paused. “Would you have any objection if I take Conan along if I go anywhere? He kind of reminds me of a...dog I once knew.”
At the sound of his name, the dog barked eagerly, his tail wagging a mile a minute.
Conan would adore any outing, she knew, but she couldn’t contain a few misgivings.
“Conan can be a little energetic when he wants to be. Are you certain you can restrain him on the leash if he decides to take off after a squirrel or something?”
“Because of this, you mean?” he asked stiffly, gesturing to the sling. “My other arm still works fine.”
She nodded, feeling foolish. “Of course. In that case, I’m sure Conan would love to go along with you anywhere. He loves riding in the car and he’s crazy about any excuse to get some exercise. I’m afraid my schedule doesn’t allow me to give him as much as he would like. Here, let me grab his leash for you just in case.”
She headed for the hook by the door but Conan had heard the magic word—leash—and he bounded in front of her, nearly dancing out of his fur with excitement.
Caught off balance by seventy-five pounds of dog suddenly in her way, she stumbled a little and would have fallen into an ignominious heap if Lieutenant Maxwell hadn’t reached out with his uninjured arm to help steady her.
Instant heat leaped through her, wild and shocking. She was painfully cognizant of the hard male strength of him, of his mouth just inches away, of those hazel eyes watching her with a glittery expression.
She didn’t think she had ever, in her entire existence, been so physically aware of a man. Of his scent, fresh-washed and clean, of the muscles that held her so securely, of the strong curve of his jawline.
She might have stayed there half the morning, caught in the odd lassitude seeping through her, except she suddenly was quite certain she smelled freesia as she had earlier during breakfast.
The scent eddied around them, subtle and sweet, but it was enough to break the spell.
She jerked away from him before she could do something abysmally stupid like kiss the man.
“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
A muscle worked in his jaw, though that strange light lingered in his eyes. “I’m not breakable, Anna. Don’t worry about it.”
Despite his words, she was quite certain she saw lines of pain bracketing his mouth. With three older brothers, though, she had learned enough about the male psyche to sense he wouldn’t appreciate her concern.
She let out a long breath. This had to be the strangest morning of her life.
“Here’s the leash,” she said. “If you decide to take Conan with you, just call his name and rattle this outside my door and he should come running in an instant.”
He nodded. For a moment, she thought he might say something about the surge of heat between them just now, but then he seemed to change his mind.
“Thanks again for breakfast,” he said. “I would offer to return the favor but I’m afraid you’d end up with cold cereal.”
She managed a smile, though she was certain it wasn’t much of one. He gazed at her for a long moment, his features unreadable, then he headed for the door.
Conan danced around behind him, his attention glued to the leash, but she managed to close the door before the dog could escape to follow him up the stairs.
He whined and slumped against the door and she leaned against it, absently rubbing the dog’s ears as that freesia scent drifted through the apartment again.
“Cut it out, Abigail,” she spoke aloud. Lieutenant Maxwell would surely think she was crazy if he heard her talking to a woman who had been dead nearly a year.
Still, there had been that strange moment at breakfast when she had been almost positive he sensed something in the kitchen. His eyes had widened and he had seemed almost disconcerted.
Ridiculous. There had been nothing there for him to sense. Abigail was gone, as much as she might wish otherwise. She was just too prosaic to believe Sage and Julia’s theory that their friend still lingered here at Brambleberry House.
And even if she did buy the theory, why would Abigail possibly make herself known to Harry Maxwell? It made no sense.
Sage believed Abigail had played a hand in her relationship with Eben, that she had carefully orchestrated events so they would both finally be forced to admit they belonged together.
Though Julia didn’t take things quite that far, she also seemed to believe Abigail had helped her and Will find their happily-ever-after.
But Abigail had never even met Harry Maxwell. Why on earth would she want to hook him up with Anna?
She heard the ludicrous direction of her thoughts and shook her head. She had far too much to do today to spend any more time speculating on the motives of an imaginary matchmaking ghost.
She wasn’t about to let herself fall prey to any beyond-the-grave romantic maneuvering between her and a certain wounded soldier with tired, suspicious eyes.
* * *
MAX RETURNED TO his third-floor aerie to be greeted by his cell phone belting out his mother’s ringtone.
He winced and made a mental note to change it before she caught wind of the song one of his bunkmates at Walter Reed had programmed as a joke after Meredith’s single visit to see him in the six months after the crash.
His mother wouldn’t be thrilled to know he heard Heart singing “Barracuda” every time she called.
When he was on painkillers, he had found it mildly amusing—mostly because it was right on the money. Now he just found it rather sad. For much the same reason.
He thought about ignoring her but he knew Meredith well enough to be sure she would simply keep calling him until he grew tired of putting her off, so he finally picked it up.
With a sigh, he opened his phone. “Hi, Mom,” he greeted, feeling slightly childish in the knowledge that he only used the word because he knew it annoyed her.
She had been insisting since several years before he hit adolescence that he must call her Meredith but he still stubbornly refused.
“Where were you, Maxwell? I’ve been calling you for an hour.” Her voice had that prim, tight tone he hated.
“I was at breakfast. I must have left my phone here.”
He decided to keep to himself the information that he was downstairs eating Abigail’s French toast with Anna Galvez.
“You said you would call me when you arrived.”
“You’re right. That’s what I said.”
He left his sentence hanging between them, yet another st
rategy he had learned early in his dealings with her mother. She wouldn’t listen to explanations anyway so he might as well save them both the time and energy of offering.
The silence dragged on but he held his ground. Finally she heaved a long-suffering sigh and surrendered.
“What have you found?” she asked. “Have those women gutted the house and sold everything in it?”
He gazed around at the apartment with its new coat of paint and kitchen cabinets and he thought of the downstairs apartment, with its spacious new floor plan.
“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”
“Brambleberry House was filled with priceless antiques. Some of them were family heirlooms that should have gone to you. I can’t believe Abigail didn’t do a better job of preserving them for you. You’re her only living relative and those family items should be yours.”
Since she had backed down first, he let her ramble on about the injustice of it all—as if Meredith cared about anyone’s history beyond her own.
“I was apparently mistaken to let you visit her all those summers. When I think of the expense and time involved in sending you there, I just get furious all over again.”
He happened to know Abigail had paid for every plane ticket and Meredith had looked on those two weeks as her vacation from the ordeal of motherhood but he decided to let that one slide, too.
“She must have been crazy at the end,” Meredith finally wound down to say. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Why else would she leave the house to a couple of strangers when she could have left it to her favorite—and only—nephew?”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” he said slowly. “I can’t answer that, Mom.”
“What do you intend to do, then? Have you spoken with an attorney yet about contesting the will?”
“It’s been nearly a year since Abigail died. I can’t just show up out of nowhere and start fighting over the house.”
He didn’t need Brambleberry House. What did he care about some decaying old house on the coast? He certainly didn’t need any inheritance from Abigail. His father had been a wealthy, successful land developer.
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