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He looked back at the living room window. The drapes hung open. A small reading lamp beside the cushiony sofa called to him. He pictured himself seated there, looking over files. Ginny beside him, head on his shoulder. Like years ago.
Jeez, what was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned back to the stars. Night air chilled his skin under the damp fabric of his clothes. He enjoyed his life. He enjoyed the liberty it allowed, when he wanted, with whom he wanted.
Right. And what had it gotten him? An empty house, empty friends and a lot of empty years.
Again, he glanced over his shoulder at the window.
You owe Ginny, man.
Busting up her leg like that.
Busting up their marriage.
Yeah, he’d been a real big-shot lawyer then, hadn’t he? Gotten exactly what he’d wanted. Big name, big firm, big partnership. All for what? To prove his drunk of a mother wrong? That he had brains, had guts, had what it took to be somebody?
Ah, hell.
He should call his brother and ask if Hallie could return, stay the night with Ginny. She’d never manage those stairs.
Not fair to the teenager. Tomorrow was a school day.
Okay. So he’d stay. For tonight. In case of…of…in case of fire. Not because he wanted to see Ginny in her nightie.
Not because he wanted to see her in the morning with those sleepy eyes and grumpy smile and mussed hair….
Idiot. That was then. She’s a mother now.
Who said mothers couldn’t be sexy?
She’s got a broken leg, for Pete’s sake!
Behind him the door opened.
“Thought I’d find you out here.” Her soft voice geared his heart rate into fifth.
A silhouette in the muted light, she stood with one crutch positioned under her left arm.
“Where’s the other crutch?” he asked, coming forward.
“It’s easier to maneuver around the furniture with one.” She limped toward the railing, the crutch’s rubber tip thudding softly on the wood.
He felt helpless in the face of her pain. Pain he’d caused. He wanted to pick her up, hold her close to his heart.
She wasn’t his to protect anymore.
Stepping beside her with a cool distance of a foot between them, he asked, “How’re you feeling? Did you take your meds?”
She turned, leaned against the wood. “I’m feeling fine and yes, Doctor, the meds are digesting. Scout’s honor.”
He grunted.
“Seems Joselyn got more water on you than herself. If you want, I can dig out a shirt for you.”
Luke had no intention of wearing her dead husband’s clothes. Truth be told, he didn’t want to think about her with Boone Franklin’s wardrobe hanging in her closet.
“Nah, these will dry, but thanks.”
They were silent for several long seconds.
She said, “I love Oregon nights. It’s so quiet here you could hear a butterfly’s wings. I remember how we used to…”
“Try counting the stars,” he finished for her.
She scanned the night. Venus courted the treetops. Somewhere near the water, three hundred yards hence, a mosquito hawk cried. Closer by, bullfrogs blew tuba notes to their lovers.
She said, “We’d count to eighty then get confused and have to start again. I haven’t tried since…”
The divorce.
His heart pounded. “Me, either. Ginny—”
A sigh. “You need to go home, Luke.”
“No.” He turned his head and looked directly into her green eyes. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
She shook her head. “That isn’t necessary—”
From his mental hat, he pulled the worst scenario. “What if there’s a fire?”
“A fire?” she asked, amused.
“This is an old house. Everyone in this town knows the Franklin place was built in 1921. Sure, you got a new roof and siding, but the structure is old.”
“The structure is sound,” she argued. “Boone had four inspectors in here before he decided to renovate. They listed everything that needed work. They also said the foundation is as good as when it was built.” She held up a hand to stop his protest. “It has new insulation, wiring, plumbing, furnace and a forty-gallon water tank.” Her fingers ticked off the additions. “As well as new fire barriers and smoke and carbon monoxide alarms. This house is probably safer than yours.”
He blew a long breath. “Even new ones can burn to the ground,” he said quietly. “I’m staying, Virginia. What if one of the kids gets sick in the night? Starts throwing up all over the bed or something?”
He had no idea if kids did that sort of thing. Kids weren’t part of his life, unless they came as a package in a family dispute before a court of law or because of an accident or some other traumatic legalese, and he might see them in his office while he talked to their parents or guardians.
His condo wasn’t kid-centered.
His home with Ginny hadn’t been kid-centered.
He pressed on. “What if you get sick or dizzy?”
Suddenly she ran a palm across her forehead. “All right.” A weary sigh. “Come inside. I’ll get you some blankets.”
He held open the door. “Show me where they are and I’ll get them myself.”
Her eyes were cool as moonlight. “This will stop. Tomorrow.”
This. His desire to be with her. She knew him well—even with all the years between. Focus on your responsibilities, Luke.
He simply nodded and followed her inside.
Deep in the night, he awoke to voices murmuring and little feet pattering above him.
Ginny. Sick.
The thought drove him from the blankets. A chilly moon in the window outlined his pants draped over the coffee table. He struggled into them. The pup growled softly from the kitchen.
“Go back to sleep,” he mumbled to the dog. “It’s just me.” As he stumbled his way in the dark, his bare foot crushed a sharp object, and he grunted in pain. “Son of a—”
A toy, no doubt. That Alexei hadn’t picked up. The kid needed a lesson in organization, as well as personality.
His arch throbbing like a piston, Luke headed for the stairs, checking the time on his illuminated wristwatch en route: 3:43. Lucky him. He’d gotten about three hours sleep. Too many memories. The worst, no, the sweetest, happened when he’d carried Ginny up these stairs to bed six hours ago.
She’d argued—stubborn woman—then finally agreed to let him pick her up, do his duty.
See, he’d told her. I do have a reason for staying over.
Hmph was all she’d replied. But her arms had been around his neck, her mouth inches away, her scent in his nostrils.
Upstairs in Alexei’s room a lamp glowed on the night table. Bedsheets tossed aside. Boy gone.
Except for a Mickey Mouse night-light, the baby’s room remained dark. Luke crept to her crib. She slept on her back, face turned his way. Little mouth agape, thumb tipped