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  She’d been doing that all along, so why was it bothering him more and more?

  Why did he get irritated when she eased back if he reached out to touch her hand when she brought him his food?

  Why did he get pissed off if she wouldn’t lean over the counter to let him kiss her? If she pulled back when he tried to lean over and do it anyway?

  Why was he still feeling empty after he’d left her bed last night? It was getting harder and harder to pull away from her, but last night, it had been almost impossible. As he lay there, his face pressed to her hair, their hearts slamming together in unison, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, if he stayed there, right there, the nightmares wouldn’t be so bad.

  Maybe he could sleep, and not dream.

  Maybe he wouldn’t wake up with a scream half-choking him.

  He knew better. So he’d pulled away, kissed her cheek, and without saying anything, he’d dressed, then left.

  Every step of the way, he’d wanted to go back.

  He wouldn’t risk it, though. Wouldn’t risk waking up in her bed, wide-eyed and terrified, while screams rose in his chest.

  He wasn’t fit company for man or beast this time of year, much less the woman he—

  Stop.

  He couldn’t go down that road, because it was too dangerous. Those were thoughts he didn’t allow himself.

  Yet somehow, he realized he’d hurt her. The thought of it left him feeling empty inside and he tried to brush it off, but it wasn’t as easy as he’d like it to be. Of course, nothing with her was as easy as he’d like it to be.

  Hell, it wasn’t like he hadn’t left in the middle of the night. He never stayed.

  But last night …

  He closed his eyes, a fisted hand pressed to his brow as it played through his mind.

  He hadn’t said a word.

  His heart had still been racing when he pulled out of her.

  You fucking asshole.

  Guilt, raw and ugly, churned inside him.

  Lifting his head, he stared into the mirror over the counter, his gaze seeking Ali out. She was taking care of the young family in the booth just behind him.

  The woman was probably his age. She looked like money, while the boy at her side looked like mischief squared and he chattered with Ali like he’d known her most of his life. He shifted his gaze to the purse, the one that had made Ali sigh with longing.

  Then, because part of him hoped she’d turn her head and look at him, he let his gaze shift back to Ali.

  She didn’t look at him and that hollow ache in his chest spread. If he was smart, he’d walk away.

  He didn’t have the strength yet.

  Maybe in a few more months.

  He’d said that a year ago.

  * * *

  She was acutely aware when he left.

  The door shut behind him and she felt it echo inside.

  She’d felt the weight of his stare drilling into her.

  Part of her had hoped he’d come around, maybe come up to her and try to touch her. Even though she knew if he did, she’d just pull back. He wanted to be friends, right? She wasn’t going to let him keep blurring that line when there was only so much he’d give her. When he’d pull back from her in the night when she needed him the most.

  But he hadn’t come to her. He’d just stared at her, long and lingering. She’d felt the weight of that gaze and it had left her skin prickling and her heart racing. Then everything inside her turned to ashes as he left, without saying a word.

  Just like last night.

  She understood why. Maybe he wouldn’t talk about it, but she knew. After three years of being lovers, she understood him better than he realized. Even before they’d become intimate, they’d been friends and he was an idiot if he thought she didn’t know what this time of year did to him.

  It was hell on him and his sisters.

  He thought he kept it hidden, but nothing could hide that kind of pain.

  He spent hours at the cemetery, nights awake in his studio. There would be a lot of sleepless nights ahead for him, and then in six, maybe eight weeks, he’d start to shift back to his normal mode. The pain would ease back a bit, for a while. Come Christmas, it would rear its ugly head again, then he’d be himself again come the first week of January or so.

  Until summer rolled around.

  Then he’d be like this again. Sad, brooding.

  Lost.

  Pacing the floor while he brooded and wondered. The few hours of sleep he did get would be haunted by nightmares.

  Not that he’d ever told her about the nightmares.

  Jensen had been the first one to let it slip about those, but once or twice, he’d started to drift off to sleep on the rare occasions they’d been together at his place. Although she hadn’t mentioned it, she’d seen the evidence of the nightmares then.

  They chased him, haunted him.

  A hollow ache settled in her heart, but instead of letting herself dwell on it, she kept her mind focused on work. Noah Benningfield had just settled in at his normal spot in the back and she grabbed a Diet Coke for him.

  Forcing a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, she dropped into the seat across from him.

  “Heya, Preach.”

  He slid her an amused glance and then bent back over the plans spread out in front of him. “Hey, Ali.” His golden-brown hair glinted under the lights and his hands, big and strong, held the pages down as he studied … whatever it was. It looked like a house plan. Sort of. With little pictures on the side.

  “What’s that?”

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Louisa over at the coffee shop wants to make some changes on the work I’m doing over there.” Although his face was solemn, his blue eyes laughed at her as he glanced up. “We’ve only finalized the project three times now.”

  “Wow. Three? That’s pretty decisive … for Louisa.”

  Noah winked at her.

  “She asked you if you were going to give her a discount, seeing as how you’re a preacher and you’re not supposed to profit from worldly things?”

  Noah blinked. Then he put down the pen he was holding and leaned back in the chair. “Excuse me?”

  She grinned at him. “She was in here with her book group and was telling all of them how she thought it was just insane that a preacher would charge so much to renovate the coffee shop. You’re a preacher. You committed yourself to being poor and meek and mild and here you are, robbing people who only want to make an honest living.”

  “Robbing people. Yeah, I look like I live in the lap of luxury.” He lifted a brow. “I wonder what she’d think if she saw just how much it’s going to cost, material-wise, to do the work.”

  “I imagine she thinks you’re going to spread out your hands and turn the bread into boards, Preach.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I stopped preaching years ago. Even when I was preaching, I don’t recall ever having that divine power. I was just a youth minister, remember … maybe I got left out because of that.”

  “I remember.” She stood up, flicking her finger on the corner of the piece of paper. “You were my youth minister … Preach. So. You want your normal or are you going to live a little?”

  A grin tugged at his lips and she remembered the mad crush she’d had on this man. It had lasted a good long while, too. He’d been one of the few who hadn’t tried to totally make her feel worthless when she ended up pregnant in high school. In small-town America, it was still enough to make a girl feel ostracized, but Noah had been there, held her hand, let her talk, asked what she wanted to do.

  That had made her fall a little in love with him.

  She’d just been a girl then. What she felt now for him was nothing more than friendship.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, his blue eyes studying her, seeing clear through her.

  She sighed and looked across the half-empty restaurant. Cara was taking care of her side, just a few late-lunch stragglers. Other than the new family, Noah was the o
nly customer she had now that Tate had left.

  “Okay?” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Preach.”

  He reached out and covered her hand. “He’s a good guy.”

  A slow, sad smile curved her lips. “Well, at least I improved over Scott, right?”

  Noah ran his tongue across his teeth and gave a slow nod. He took his time before he spoke—that was Noah’s way. He took his time with just about everything. “Scott isn’t a happy man. He couldn’t have made you, or the boys, happy. The best thing you ever did was leave him, you know. Even if your life is a bit harder on your own.”

  “Oh, I know that.” She slumped back in her chair, checking on the table where the mom sat with her child. “It’s just … hell. Tate’s not really a happy guy, either, you know.”

  Noah was quiet for a minute. Then he squeezed her hand. “He’s happier with you.”

  What she wouldn’t give if she could actually believe that.

  She wasn’t making Tate happy. She was a distraction for him, a way for him to hide from the demons that chased him. That was it.

  “I don’t know about that. Maybe I should just simplify and fall for you.” She gave him a weak smile. “You’re a stand-up guy, right? You like kids. You work hard. Wanna get married?”

  He didn’t bat an eyelash. “Sure. I’m free tomorrow. Sound good?”

  She laughed.

  Falling for him wasn’t going to be any better than falling for Tate. He was just as unattainable. Noah barely seemed to realize women even existed. Maybe, though, an unattainable dream would be less painful than … what she had with Tate. She needed to quit brooding about this and get to work or she’d be in a funk all day. Clearing her throat, she forced a smile. “Why don’t you tell me what you want to eat, then? If we’re getting married, you’ve got to get your schedule cleared.”

  “I think I’ll stick with my usual. Make sure you pick out something pretty for tomorrow.” He winked at her. “I’ll look for my cleanest pair of blue jeans, okay?”

  She left the table laughing.

  After she’d put in Noah’s order, the pizza for the young family came up. As she made her way over to their table, she caught sight of the scowl on the woman’s face. Her name was Trinity—Ali couldn’t remember her last name.

  “Everything okay?”

  Trinity gave her a polite smile. “Yeah, I just…” Then her eyes popped wide as Ali deposited the pizza in front of them. “That … wow. Okay, that smells amazing. I had my doubts about the pizza. I’m going to be honest. We’re from New York and—”

  “That’s where the best pizza is,” the boy chirped up. “No place else can make pizza. They just pretend to.”

  “Micah…” Trinity said, her voice soft while an embarrassed smile settled on her face.

  “What? That’s what you said at home.”

  Ali laughed. “It’s okay. My dad is from New York. Originally. Met my mom years ago, and they got married, but she wanted to come back home … this is home. This might be the closest you’ll get to New York pizza outside of New York. Definitely the best around here.”

  She fished out napkins and passed them out. “Anything else?”

  “Actually…” Trinity slid her a look and pushed the phone toward her. “I have a meeting after we leave here and I can’t find the address.”

  Ali dipped her head to study the phone, as a grin crooked her lips. “Sure. I know where that is. I could probably save you a trip, though. The owner is right over there.”

  Then she glanced back and called, “Hey, Noah.”

  The guy glanced over his shoulder.

  It was weird, standing there as the two of them locked gazes for the first time. Just a few minutes ago, Ali would have sworn that Noah was all but immune to women. He never dated. Period. The tragedies he had behind him were enough to make any man leery about romance, that much was certain.

  But Ali stood there, half-caught between them, while sparks practically set the air on fire.

  It was like somebody had hit the two of them with a lead pipe. That was how stunned they both looked.

  Then the little boy leaned over, excitedly shoving a picture under his mother’s nose.

  The moment shattered.

  Ali turned away, silently mouthing to herself. Whoa …

  CHAPTER 2

  A hot wind blew off the river.

  He shouldn’t be here.

  If he had any kind of brains at all, he’d be back at the shop, working on the mayor’s prized BMW or maybe the Indian he was restoring. If not that, there were always cars needing their damn tune-ups and oil changes and shit. The stuff he had to do to pay the bills so he could spend his nights doing what he really wanted to do—locked up in his studio with a blowtorch and bits and pieces of metal that he twisted into endless, bizarre creations. They sold at some of the small places in town and a few were even in art galleries in some of the bigger cities in the region.

  Sometimes he’d get lucky and get a commissioned piece and he actually had one of those he could be working on.

  His heart had led him here.

  Tate knew, in his gut, he’d be spending a lot of time here over the next few weeks.

  There was no other place for him.

  Liar. There is one place you could be. If you’d just let it happen.

  Ali.

  Yeah. He could be with her and the voices that raged in the back of his mind would go silent. He could wrap his arms around her, find some small measure of peace from the demons that had chased him for the past fifteen years. The guilt that ripped at him. He could watch her boys play and maybe they could toss the ball around awhile. He could be there, be happy … except happy was the last thing he needed.

  The last thing he deserved.

  Pushing the thoughts of her aside, Tate knelt down and laid a single rose—yellow, his mother’s favorite color—down.

  “Happy birthday, Mom.”

  There was no body buried in the plot. A month after her birthday, she’d disappeared. She’d been thirty-eight years old and she’d left behind three children. Tate, Jensen, and Chrissie.

  It had taken years to even get a headstone erected in the small cemetery. Their dad, the bastard, had waited years before he even tried to get her declared dead. Maybe he thought it made him look innocent. Maybe he thought that giving them the money from her life insurance policy would make up for taking her from them.

  Tate didn’t know.

  The simple stone offered no closure, no comfort.

  He brushed his fingers down the curve of the stone and swallowed the knot rising in his throat.

  Closure.

  What the fuck was that?

  Anger, bitterness, grief, things that had remained rooted in his heart for fifteen years twisted inside him even as he tried to avoid letting his mind take that dark, winding road.

  “… trailer trash…”

  His mother’s stricken face, even as she tried not to let it show. The way she looked at her three children and then back at her husband.

  “We can’t do this right now, Doug. Not in front of the kids, okay?”

  The way his dad had laughed, that bitter, ugly laugh.

  “We’re doing it now, you. You always want to fight? Fine. Now we fight.”

  “I don’t want to fight in front of the kids, you son of a bitch.”

  A sound from behind him tore him out of his reverie and Tate rose, blinking back the burn of tears that threatened. Oddly enough, the grief that had been clogging his throat eased up as he saw who was on the path behind him.

  His dad.

  Son of a bitch.

  The monster who’d taken his mother away.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Douglass Bell inclined his head. “I’m here to see my wife.” He tried to smile but as Tate continued to glare at him, Doug just sighed and reached up, rubbing a hand across his head. “How have you been, Tate?”

  Ignoring his father’s question, he focused on the fir
st thing Doug had said.

  “Here to see your wife?”

  Disgust flooded him. Closing the distance between them, he glared down at the shorter man. He stood six foot three, a good six inches taller than his father. His height had come from his mother’s side of the family and he used it to good advantage just then, but Doug didn’t look away, didn’t back down. “You don’t get to call her your wife. You lost that right when you killed her.”

  “Tate…” Doug shook his head. “I didn’t kill your mother. I loved her.”

  Shooting out a hand, he closed it over the front of his dad’s T-shirt. The material was old and faded and it stretched under Tate’s hand. Jerking his father close, he glared down at him. “You loved her. Yeah, that’s why one of the last things I remember you ever saying to her was trailer trash. That’s how you talk to the woman you love, Dad?”

  “We had a fight,” Doug said, his voice rough. “You are never going to understand how much I regret that night. But it doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t kill her. I loved your mother.”

  “Stop it,” Tate said. “Just…”

  Without saying anything else, he shouldered past his father, trying to ignore the ghosts and demons shouting inside his head. Too many ghosts. Too many demons.

  * * *

  Ali came around the corner, her feet tired, her back aching. She practically stopped in her tracks at the sight of the man across the street, striding out of the small cemetery.

  Her boys, whooping and carrying on like a couple of miniature monsters, were already at the gate in front of their house and they didn’t see him.

  A good thing, considering the look on his face.

  The crack in her heart widened.

  Seeing him now, striding out of the cemetery, wasn’t a surprise.

  Nor was she surprised to see the older man, standing with his head bowed and shoulders slumped. Doug Bell looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Madison had more than its share of misery, and the Bell family was one of the sadder stories. Tate and his sisters had lost their mother, Nichole, almost fifteen years ago. Ali’s heart ached as she watched him walk away from his mother’s headstone, the grave empty, because her body had never been found.