He led her out the back door, telling himself that once they talked, once she saw the way he lived, that would be the end of it. But he couldn’t help being curious about her. Especially why she was so convinced he was her husband, Danny. But first he had to know about her fiancé.
“That man with you. He’s your fiancé?” he asked as he pushed open the cabin door and stood back to let her enter.
“We only recently became engaged,” she said and stepped in. “I’ve been a widow for twenty years. Sorry, I think I already told you that.”
“You must have married young,” he said as he followed her inside, slipping past her to go into the tiny kitchen area.
“Seventeen,” she said. “My husband was eighteen. We’d been in love since we were kids growing up in Houston Heights. We would have been married twenty-two years this coming summer.”
He slowed but didn’t turn around as he entered the small kitchen. “So you’re thirty-nine. Coffee?”
“I will be. Yes, coffee, please,” she said behind him.
“Have a seat. That rocker’s pretty comfortable by the stove.” He realized that he hadn’t spoken this many words in years. His throat hurt as it always did from lack of use and from the fire he’d breathed in that had burned and scarred him inside and out.
“Did you make this?” she asked.
He turned to see her stroking the sanded-smooth back of the rocker. “Yes.” He felt uncomfortable, but then again he had since the first time she walked into his workshop. She thought she knew him. The way she looked at him was with such love that it embarrassed him. Because of her misplaced adoration, he didn’t like her seeing the way he lived. Even though he’d never cared before what anyone thought.
But this woman wanted him to be someone he wasn’t. Someone he’d never been. Surely she could see that now. He couldn’t imagine though why she could ever think he was her dead husband. A man like him hiding out in an isolated town in Montana? Couldn’t she see by looking at him that he had nothing to offer—even if he’d once been her husband?
That’s why he’d wanted her to see the cabin, even as much as it hurt him to show her. She needed to see the way he lived, see him with all his scars in the bright light of the winter sun coming through the window. She needed to know that he was no one’s savior. Anyone woman could do better, especially this one.
She sat down in the rocker as he brought out two chipped, mismatched mugs, filled them with coffee and handed her one. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at him, then quickly down into the coffee as if embarrassed.
He watched her cradle her hands around the mug, still staring down into it, and felt a strange sense of intimacy. Maybe bringing her to his cabin had been a mistake. He worried that anything he did would be a mistake as he took a seat on the only other chair in the kitchen, one he kept pulled up to the small table. He didn’t need another kitchen chair because he never had company. That too she must see.
When she looked up, he met her green eyes and thought he’d never seen anything so wide and bottomless, so beautiful, so trusting, so loving. He felt sick to his soul that he couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. He could see the shards of her broken heart in those eyes when she looked at him. His heart ached to take away that hurt, knowing it wasn’t his place even if he could.
“I wanted to ask about your husband,” Jon said to break the unbearable silence. Normally, he loved the quiet. When Earl Ray stopped by, they often didn’t talk, both comfortable without words.
But with this woman sitting in his cabin, he felt anxious. The sooner they got this cleared up, the sooner she could get on with her life. Also the sooner everyone’s focus would be off him. He just hoped it would be soon enough. “He died in an explosion?”
“A refinery in Houston.”
“I’m sorry.” He took a sip of his coffee. It tasted bitter, but that was nothing new. “You never got to identify his body?”
She shook her head and looked around his cabin for a moment as if she knew where he was headed with this, since that would explain why she was convinced her husband was still alive. She’d never gotten the closure she needed.
“That must have been hard for you. You have two kids you said?”
“Two girls, Mia and Danielle. Mia was one and a half, Danielle just a few months old at the time. They’re both adults now. Mia has her own graphic-design business and is very successful. Danielle is finishing college at Rice University. She wants to teach elementary school.”
“I’m sorry, you did tell me that.” He shook his head. “How did you manage by yourself? Did your husband have insurance?”
“No insurance, but there was a settlement from the refinery. I never touched that money, though.”
He stared at her, his next words coming out too sharp. “Why not?”
She looked down again. “Because I always believed that Danny wasn’t dead and that when he came back, we’d have to return it. I did invest it, though.”
Smart lady. “So how did you live?”
“We had to move back in with my parents for a while, but I got a job editing and ended up a ghost writer.” She looked embarrassed. “Apparently I have a talent for telling other people’s stories.”
“You can make a living doing that?” He couldn’t help his surprise. Everything about this woman came as a surprise, however, especially the depth of her love for her husband and her faith that he had somehow survived. He wished he were that man more than she could ever know.
“It wasn’t easy, but we’ve done fine. The girls are strong, independent young women now.”
“Like their mother,” he said, thinking of how much she had accomplished and how little he had. Both of them had gone through their share of pain, but she hadn’t let it defeat her. He reminded himself that now she had a chance for happiness. He couldn’t bear that she might miss it because of him.
“You’re engaged.” He noticed that she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring and swore silently.
“We were. I thought I could move on. I can’t.”
He didn’t know what to say. This was not going the way he’d hoped. “I’m sorry about that. He says he loves you and wants to marry you.”
She looked away again. “Can you tell me how you got your scars?” she asked quietly.
He’d known the question was coming. It always came up eventually. “Car fire.” Those were just his visible scars. They both fell silent again. “Look, I’m sorry about your husband, but I’m not him. He sounds like he was a nice guy. I know he would want you to spend that death benefit, marry this man who obviously loves you and write yourself a happy ending.”