âWhen did you try to tell me?â Hank demanded
He took several paces away from Jackie, as though he found her distasteful. âWhen? I donât remember once in seventeen years.â
âYes,â she replied. âI did⦠That day.â She struggled to maintain control, as everything inside her shook with emotion and old pain.
And new pain.
âI tried to explain why I couldnât go with you,â she went on, âbut youââ
âYou said you thought itâd be better if you stayed behind,â he interrupted, taking several angry steps back to her. âYou never once mentionedââ
âYou talked over me,â she told him quietly. âYou didnât give me a chance. Then you stormed away.â
âWell, what about the seventeen years since?â he roared at her. âWhy didnât you call or write?â
Oh, God, she thought, steeling herself. Anguish squeezed her lungs and made air escape in a painful sound. She had to pull herself together. The hard part was comingâ¦.
Dear Reader,
Some women respond to the dreamer hero in romance novels, while others are attracted to the footloose wanderer. Many have an affinity for bad boys, and some want to make a home for the wounded man in need of a woman with just the right antibiotic.
Personally, I have a thing for the hero with purpose. I like the man who knows what he wants in a woman and goes after her with confidence, determination and just enough vulnerability to leave me wondering whether heâll get her or not. In real life, Iâd be offended if my husband behaved as though he had all the answersâparticularly because I never seem to have any. Life is a mystery that confounds and confuses me every day. But in my dreamsâor in my romantic fantasiesâI love to think thereâs a man out there to whom life is a clear, straight path to the woman he cherishes, and heâll let nothing, including her confusion, get in his way.
This is your introduction to Hank Whitcomb, just such a man.
I wish you all good things.
Muriel
Muriel Jensen
P.O. Box 1168
Astoria, Oregon 97103
HANK WHITCOMB STARTED backwards down the stairs in his office building, supporting one end of a heavy oak table that served as his desk. Bart Megrath, his brother-in-law, carried the other end.
âWhose idea was it to move your office anyway?â Bart asked. âAnd why is everything oak? Donât you believe in light, easy-to-clean plastic?â
âThe move was my idea.â Haley Megrath, Hankâs sister, brought up the rear with an old oak chair. âIf heâs going to bid on City Hall jobs, he may as well conduct business from one of their new rental spaces in the basement instead of in this derelict old mill a mile outside of town.â
Hank was counting. Twelve stepsâeight to go. âIt was my own idea,â Hank insisted. Thirteen. Fourteen. âYou just agreed that it was a good one.â
âIâm the one who told you the City had decided to rent spaces.â
âAnd when you told me, I told you that Evelyn Bisset had already called me about it.â
âSo, the suggestion had more punch coming from Jackieâs secretary.â Haleyâs voice took on a deceptively casual but suggestive note. He refused to bite. He would not discuss Jackie Bourgeois. Heâd neither forgotten nor forgiven her. It was unfortunate that she was mayor at this point in time, but she was. Still, there was little chance theyâd have to deal with each other. The city manager handled the bids on city hall repairs, so Hank would be doing business with him.
âHey,â Bart said with a grunt. âLet Haley take the credit. Electrical power comes and goes in that ancient building, and the roof leaks. When the time comes that you regret moving Whitcombâs Wonders out of Chandlerâs Mill and into City Hall, you can blame your little sister.â
âHey!â Haley complained. âHowâd you like an oak chair upside your head?â
Hank had reached the bottom of the stairs, but the hallway was too narrow for him to put the table down so they could catch their breath. He turned the bulky piece of furniture onto its side and aimed himself carefully out the door, angling the table so that Bart could follow with the legs at his end.
Snow flurried from a leaden sky, and Hank was instantly assailed by the cold of a western Massachusetts March afternoon, its harshness blunted by the delicious freshness of the air. Old snow crunched underfoot as he headed for the dark green van heâd bought to start his new life.
âIs this going to fit in there?â Bart asked, their pace considerably quickened now that they were outside.
âI measured it.â A former engineer for NASA, Hank checked and rechecked even the smallest detail of any project he undertook. He put down his end, climbed into the van, then reached out to pull the table in. Heâd removed all the vanâs seats to make room and now backed his way toward the driverâs seat as Bart lifted up on his end and pushed the table under the hatch door.