It couldnât be too comfortable for Adam to carry her son, with those metal braces bumping against his chest, but it didnât deter him.
Adam was looking up at Jamie, laughing at something, and the expression on Jamieâs face made Cathyâs heart stop.
A fierce longing swept through her to have that for Jamieâa strong man to carry him on his shoulder, to make him laugh, to show him how to grow up into a good man.
She pushed the thought away just as fiercely. It wasnât likely to happen. Just look at how Adam had reacted, stepping away so quickly after heâd kissed her. That should tell her all she needed to know.
But there was more to know.
has written everything from Sunday school curricula to travel articles to magazine stories in more than twenty years of writing, but she feels sheâs found her writing home in the stories she writes for the Love Inspired lines.
Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When sheâs not writing, sheâs probably visiting her children and her six beautiful grandchildren, traveling, gardening or relaxing with a good book.
Marta loves hearing from readers, and sheâll write back with a signed bookmark and/or her brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, e-mail her at [email protected], or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.
âWhat are you doing?â The womanâs soft Georgia drawl bore a sharp edge of hostility.
Adam Bodine took a step back on the dusty lane and turned toward the woman with what he hoped was a disarming smile. âJust admiring your garden, maâam.â
Actually, the garden was worthy of a second glance. By early September at the tail end of a hot, dry summer, most folks would find their tomato plants shriveled to a few leafless vines, but these still sported fat red tomatoes.
The woman rose from where sheâd been kneeling, setting a basket of vegetables on the ground, the movement giving him a better look at her.
She was younger than heâd thought in that first quick glance. A faded ball cap covered blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, its brim shielding her eyes so that he couldnât see what color they were. Light, he thought. Her slim shoulders were stiff under a faded, oversized plaid shirt, giving the impression that she braced herself for something unpleasant. Was that habitual, or did his appearance account for it?
âThese tomatoes are about ready to give up,â she said, still guarded. âDid you want something?â
He did, but it was far better if this woman didnât know what had brought him to the ramshackle farm deep in the Georgia mountains. At least, not until he knew for sure he was in the right place.
âJust passing by.â He glanced back down the winding lane that had brought him to what he hoped was the last stop on a long hunt. Please, Lord. âI donât suppose you get many strangers up here.â
âNo.â The tone said she didnât want any, either. âLook, if youâre sellinâ somethingâ¦â
A chuckle escaped him. âDo I look like a salesman?â He spread his hands, inviting her to assess him.
There wasnât much he could do to make his six-foot frame less intimidating, but he tried to ease his military bearing and relax his face into the smile that his sister always said was at its most boyish when he was up to something. At least the jeans, T-shirt, and ball cap he wore were practically a uniform these days.
âMaybe not a salesman,â she conceded. âBut you havenât explained what youâre doing on a private road.â She sent a quick, maybe worried glance toward the peeling white farmhouse that seemed to doze in the afternoon heat. âMr. Hawkins doesnât like visitors.â
Mr. Hawkins. The formal address might mean she wasnât a relative. A caregiver, maybe?
âActually, Iâm looking for someone. A man named Ned Bodine. Edward Bodine, to be exact.â He studied her as he said the words, looking for any sign of recognition.
The woman took the ball cap off, frowning as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of the plaid shirt, leaving a streak of dirt she probably hadnât intended. Her eyes were light, as heâd supposed, neither blue nor green but hazel. That heart-shaped face might have been pretty if not for whatever it was that tightened itâworry, maybe, or just plain dislike of nosy strangers.