The Long Road Home by Mary Alice Monroe Page A

walked together, at this house that they had happily designed and worked on together, he’d remember, notice her, perhaps love her once again.
    That dream fizzled as abruptly as the uncorked champagne. A surprise was what she had planned, and it was exactly what she got when she found Mike in the arms of another woman. In their home. In their bed.
    He never even said hello. She never said good-bye.
    Neither had ever returned. It was as though this house represented all that they once had valued and lost—or perhaps thrown away. This house that was filled with their heartiestlaughs, their silliest dreams, their most precious confessions, and beloved possessions stood as a barren monument to their failed marriage.
    She couldn’t come back—until now. And now she never wanted to leave.
    Nora shivered and wrapped her arms tighter across her thin cotton gown. The cool air was moist and laden with dew. She leaned her head against the windowpane. Its touch was icy and seemed to pierce a third eye into the middle of her forehead. Dear God, she prayed as she closed the other two tightly, help me to forget. Help me to get past my anger and let me heal.
    From the valley she heard the broken call of sheep, then from the road came the faint sound of crunching gravel. She craned her neck to peer at the winding drive, and soon she saw the figure of C.W. emerge from the tunnel of foliage. He was trudging up the hill at a steady pace. Gasping, she quickly checked the time: nine o’clock already. She wasn’t even dressed—this was hardly the impression she wanted to give.
    Nora rushed across the cold plank floor to the antique cherry dresser and pulled open the heavy drawers. They creaked as they revealed their treasure of old sweaters and rolled wool socks. Most of them dated from her college days. She grabbed a pair of faded jeans and an old handknit sweater, scowling at the two small holes in the sleeve. Buy mothballs, she told herself as she pulled it over her head.
    On her way to the bathroom, she slipped her feet into worn loafers and peeked out the window. He was almost at the house now. She splashed freezing tap water on her face and ran a brush through her thick hair, wincing when she grazed the purpling bump along her hairline. With a groan of frustration she set down the brush and in minutes, braided her hair withpracticed hands. A final check in the mirror reflected an aura of organization.
    “Looks can be deceiving,” she told herself as she flicked off the light.
    She reached the kitchen as C.W. walked in. His tall frame filled the doorway as he scraped his muddy boots upon the mat. In the morning light, his handsome features were staggering. Perhaps it was the layers of shirts and jacket he wore against the changing fall temperatures that gave him a broad profile. Yet underneath the layers she guessed the muscles were as solid as the mountain. Instinctively her hand went to smooth her hair.
    Nora always liked the look of a man in jeans. Men in well-tailored suits evoked an image of an intellectual power. Wealth. Theirs was a seductive lure, the hint of romantic dinners and intimate talk.
    Men in jeans evoked the image of a physical power. Raw and earthy. Like the jeans, they were tough, rugged—roughriders. C.W.’s jeans stretched taut from hip to hip, and she could follow the curved line of his thigh muscle up to the groin.
    He straightened, stretching his shoulders wide, and met her gaze. Nora blushed and looked down, wildly wondering if he’d caught her perusal.
    “Glad to see that you’re on your feet,” he said. “I was worried about you and wanted to be sure you’re all right.” His voice was low and he spoke with deliberate slowness.
    “I’m perfectly all right. Thanks for checking on me. I’m fine, really.” She felt ridiculous, stammering like a schoolgirl and rubbing her hands.
    In contrast, C.W. seemed relaxed, leaning against the doorframe and barely concealing his amusement. This was her house,