In His Wife's Name. Joyce Sullivan

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СКАЧАТЬ she opened a cupboard to show him where she stored her reversible electrical drill and bits, Luke could hear via the monitor Samantha noisily sucking on a bottle.

      “Are these your husband’s tools?” he asked mildly. He had noted the absence of a wedding band yesterday when he was changing the truck’s tire.

      She looked startled. “No. They’re all mine. I took up crafting after Samantha’s father died.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      She waved away his sympathy with a flustered smile, setting the baby monitor on the workbench beside a plastic file box filled with manila files. She pulled some patterns from two of the files. “Basically I’ve got forty-plus designs in my Garden Patch collection that I sell to retailers in the area. About half my designs are seasonal items. My busiest periods are Christmas, Halloween and Easter, though business is brisk in the summer with the tourists. The files here contain all the patterns you’ll be using. The patterns clearly indicate how many pieces must be cut per finished item. And I usually make a note on the inside of the file folder how many pieces can be cut from a particular dimension of lumber.” She pointed to a pile of lumber stacked on a couple of sawhorses. “These pine one-by-eights are for a rush order of letter boxes and welcome signs.” She laid the patterns out on two of the planks, her quick fingers minutely adjusting the placement of each pattern piece. “I’ll need a dozen signs and eight letter boxes as soon as possible.”

      Luke slid his hand over the surface of the raw wood and tried not to be so aware of the scent of this woman, like an exotic hothouse flower, mingling with the aroma of the sawdust and the cedar shingles as she positioned a pattern piece along the grain of the wood. He’d hung up his toolbelt and sold the house when Mary had died, afraid that he might destroy, rather than create, in his grief. Finishing the house would have been a constant reminder of all that he’d lost. The condo he lived in now, with its neutral color scheme and barren walls, was blessedly free of memories of Mary. Someday Luke thought he might hang pictures on the walls and empty some of the boxes that filled the spare bedroom. “I think I can handle that.”

      She nodded approvingly. “You’ll find sandpaper in a plastic bin beneath the workbench. I’d like the pieces sanded and ready for finishing. I do most of the painting in the house.” She paused awkwardly, her face blanching beneath the smattering of freckles. “You’re welcome to come inside to use the facilities, have a coffee. I always keep a pot on. Since we’re a ways out of town, you might want to bring a lunch and keep it in the refrigerator.”

      “Thank you.”

      Shannon hoped she was doing a good job of hiding her nervousness. Even though she’d checked Luke’s references and knew he was who and what he purported himself to be, warning twinges ignited inside her like firecrackers when they’d stepped into the garage. He was so male. So tall. And those competent blunt-tipped fingers had seemed so large as he’d stroked her tools.

      Shannon told herself she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t live in fear of every man who entered her life.

      Her ex-husband had robbed her of too much already. She wasn’t going to give him the power to make her distrust Luke. It was perfectly reasonable to allow Luke inside the garage and access to her home to use the washroom.

      She tilted her head and caught his unwavering gray-blue gaze. “Are you going to be staying at the Orchard Inn in Oliver for the time being? I’d like to know where I can reach you. Sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep to a schedule, something happens to throw me off.”

      “Are there any motels in Blossom Valley? That would save me some driving time.”

      “There’s one motel outside of town, though it’s usually full this time of year because it’s on the highway. It might be more affordable for you to rent a place by the week. I can guarantee you steady part-time work for the next two weeks—it’ll take me at least that long to find someone permanent. You can ask at the tourist-info center in town for a list of local rentals, or you might try asking Bill Oakes. I rent this place from him. He owns the blue house with the butterflies as you turned onto Shady Pines Road. Prices are reasonable because it’s not on one of the more popular lakes. The cottages along this road belong to his family, most of whom have moved to other parts of Canada. They don’t want to sell, it seems, so Bill rents them out and calls the place Shady Pines Resort.”

      Those blue-gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re not from around here, either? Your accent sounds more Eastern.”

      Shannon blinked. “Who me? No I—”

      A cry pierced the air in the garage, followed by a thump and a plaintive wail.

      Shannon gave Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Luke, I have to go.” Before he could say a word, Shannon hightailed it out of the garage.

      Luke stared after Mary, his mind churning with speculation. She’d been frustratingly evasive when it came to answering personal questions. Was she truly a widow or was she lying?

      He’d bet coffee and a doughnut she was lying. Had the person who’d slit her tire been an ex-spouse angered over a custodial dispute? Or was there more to it than that? Had she taken her daughter without the father’s consent? That might explain why she’d stolen another woman’s identity, if she had. But Luke had no proof that this Mary Calder wasn’t whom she claimed—only unscientific hunches.

      Luke studied the pattern pieces she’d arranged on the pine board, then rearranged them to make a better fit. Somehow he’d make all the pieces of this case fit together, one at a time.

      When, suddenly he heard Mary’s voice in the garage, speaking in soothing tones to the baby, Luke realized she had forgotten to take the baby monitor with her. “Oh, Samantha, come here, baby,” she crooned. “It’s okay. Everything’s all right. Mommy’s going to take care of you. Always.”

      Was it Luke’s imagination or did he detect an air of desperation in her voice?

      SHANNON WAS IMPRESSED when Luke brought her a stack of the finished wood for the welcome signs at the end of the afternoon.

      “This ought to get you started,” he said with a gruff smile that made her chest feel strangely tight as she opened the screen door to him. “I’ll do the letter boxes tomorrow.” His face was beaded with a fine film of perspiration, and his clothes were speckled with sawdust. And he looked sexier than a pinup boy in a tuxedo. Raw and elemental.

      Shannon took a firm grip of her hormones and reached down to scoop up Samantha, who was chewing on a biscuit. She’d had a productive afternoon. She’d painted two-dozen crow plant pokes. Tonight she could start on the welcome signs. “You look hot, Luke. Could I offer you a cold drink? Iced tea? Soda?”

      “Water will be fine, thank you.”

      Shannon motioned toward her worktable. “You can put the signs there and have a seat at the counter. Feel free to wash your hands at the sink if you like.”

      He nodded wordlessly. As he stepped into her cottage, what she had always considered an airy space seemed to shrink enough to barely encompass his shoulders. Shannon fought the ripples of panic swelling in her.

      Forcing a bright smile, she marched to the refrigerator and yanked open the door, reaching inside for a pitcher of water. One-handed, she poured him a drink and circled to the other side of the counter before presenting it to him. She felt safer with the width of the counter between them. But as he sat down across from her and she met his СКАЧАТЬ