Stretching his arms over his head, Oliver grabbed his duffel from the rear. Strudel joined him on the weathered porch as he dug in among his clothes for the key. Miracle of miracles, his hand closed over it on the second dip. Moments later he was inside, walking around flicking on lights and opening windows to relieve the stuffy, musty smell. He passed quickly through the living room filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture, and the two bedrooms with their stripped-bare beds, ending his tour in the kitchen.
Aunt Marion had died over a year ago now, but neither he nor his brother, Brent, had been in a position to do anything about their joint inheritance until now. Traveling south to put things in order had seemed like the perfect excuse to be out of Sydney so he could lick his wounds and get his head together.
If that was even possible.
Of course it’s possible. Edie was your wife, not your whole life.
Logically, he knew it was true, but it didn’t feel true at the moment. Six years of his life had been exposed as a lie. His whole marriage. He didn’t know how to deal with the anger and grief and humiliation he felt.
Strudel whined, drawing his attention to where she was sniffing and scratching around the base of the oven. No doubt she’d found a nest of mice or something equally unpleasant.
“Good girl, Strudel. Good girl.” Strudel came to his side and lifted her head for a scratch. He obliged, rubbing her behind the ears where she liked it. Some of the tension left him as he looked into her big, liquid eyes.
For the next five weeks, he had no one but himself and Strudel to please. Edie and Nick were a thousand miles away, his job was on hold. This time was all his and he could use it to rage and be bitter and brood—or he could start putting himself back together again.
He really hoped it would be the latter.
He walked to the back door and stepped onto a broad porch that overlooked a yard thick with grass and overgrown garden beds. A shed huddled in the left-hand corner. He considered it briefly, then decided he would inspect it later.
His gaze shifted to the cottage next door. It occurred to him that he should probably go introduce himself to his new neighbor, since they were more or less isolated at this end of the street. His aunt’s place had been vacant so long he didn’t want some old dear with three cats and a hearing aid freaking out because a strange man had moved in.
Then maybe he’d head into town to grab some food and other supplies.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would get him through the next few hours.
* * *
MACKENZIE RETURNED THE reformer carriage to the starting position and let her hands drop to her sides. She was officially done for another day, every exercise on her chart completed and ticked off. Even the ones that made her want to curl into a ball and cry, they hurt so much.
She reached for her towel and blotted her sweat-dampened face and chest. The sharp taste of bile burned at the back of her mouth, a sure sign that she’d overexerted herself again.
Well. A little nausea was a price she was willing to pay if it meant she made a faster recovery.
She stood, running the towel over her cropped hair. Mr. Smith stood, too, tail wagging as he looked at her expectantly.
“Yes, little man, it’s time for breakfast.”
If she could stomach it.
She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a cape and headed for the kitchen. A sharp noise stopped her in her tracks before she’d gotten halfway. It had been so long since anyone had come to the door that it took her a full second to recognize the sound as a knock. She glanced over her shoulder. A dark form filled the pebbled glass of the door. She frowned. Who on earth would be visiting her at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning?
Her first thought was that it was Patrick, but she dismissed it instantly. He was hardly going to drive an hour out of town to visit her—not when he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone in more than four months. No, she had a better chance of finding Elvis on the other side of that door than her ex-husband, and an even better chance of finding a complete stranger who probably wanted to sell her something.
The joy. Just what she wanted to deal with when she was shaky with fatigue and nausea.
She swung open the door, ready to give short shrift to the cold-calling salesman on her porch.
The man on her porch was definitely not a cold caller. Nothing about this man was cold, from the deep chestnut of his wavy, almost shoulder-length hair to his cognac-brown eyes to his full, sensual mouth. Then there was his body—nothing cold there, either. Broad shoulders, a chest Tarzan would be proud of, flat belly, lean hips. All wrapped up in faded jeans and a moss-green sweater that was the perfect foil for his coloring.
“Hey,” he said in an easy baritone. “I’m Oliver Garrett. I moved in next door.” He gestured toward the house on the other side of the fence. “Wanted to give you a heads-up in case you saw me moving around and thought I was a burglar or something.”
He smiled, so warm and vibrant and alive it was almost offensive. His gaze slid down her face, scanning her body in a polite but thoroughly male assessment. She tightened her grip on the towel, glad it was draped over her shoulders and arms. Managing a stranger’s shock then polite sympathy once he got an eyeful of the impressive scars on her left arm was not part of her plan for her morning.
“Mackenzie Williams,” she said briskly, offering him her hand.
They shook briefly, his much bigger hand dwarfing hers. She made a point of keeping her grip firm and looking him in the eye, a habit she’d acquired early in her career and one that had always alerted her about what kind of man she was dealing with.
Oliver Garrett held her eye and didn’t seem surprised by the firmness of her grip. More importantly, he didn’t try to grind her hand into dust with his superior strength. Both marks in his favor.