stupid little girl she’d been three years ago had actually believed that Cain couldn’t have kissed her that passionately unless he felt for her what she felt for him: pure, unstoppable, undying, romantic love. And clearly he hadn’t felt anything of the sort. After he’d kissed her, she’d never seen or heard from him again. Not an apology. Not a postcard. Not a visit. Not a word. For three years, nothing. And logic demanded she concede that his feelings for her had to be so inconsequential that she meant nothing to him. A little girl from back home. Not so much as a bean on his hill, while he’d been the sum and total of hers.
It had taken months to make her heart believe the truth. It had foolishly hung on for almost a year, hoping for a phone call or letter, praying that he’d show up with Woodman when his cousin came home for leave. But a year turned into two, turned into three, and no word from Cain meant that Cain had never cared for her and, by now, had probably forgotten her. So she buried her memories of him and did her utmost to forget about him too.
And now? Well, if he was back in Apple Valley, certainly she’d run into him sooner or later. God’s sake, his mother had moved away, and his father lived at McHuid’s. But she was no cow-eyed fifteen-year-old anymore. No, sir. She had graduated from high school, she attended college, and she lived, practically, on her own. Would she give him the time of day? Of course, she bristled. She was raised a lady, after all. But after kissing her and raising her hopes and standing her up and breaking her heart? Well, other than a polite hello, the most he could expect from her was exactly nothing. Screw Cain Wolfram to hell and back. She just hoped that he’d avoid her as absolutely as she planned to avoid him.
Getting out of the car, she walked purposefully up the wide steps of the mansion that had been in the Woodman family for two hundred years, and rang the doorbell. A moment later Miz Sophie appeared at the door.
“Why, Ginger!”
“Evenin’, Miz Sophie,” she said, her nose twitching from Sophie Woodman’s strong gardenia scent. Miz Sophie reminded her of Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoons, only instead of being surrounded by dirt, she was surrounded by a cloud of strong flower smell.
“Well, don’t you look simply precious in those work clothes,” she said lightly, with a disapproving smile.
Ginger glanced down at her outfit—a lavender V-neck scrub smock over matching, loose-fitting, drawstring pants, and white Keds. Miz Sophie didn’t approve of young ladies calling on young gentlemen, though she’d issued an invitation via Ginger’s mother and overlooked that convention in this case because her son was incapacitated and their families were such old friends. That said, the delicate sniff of her nose made it clear that Ginger should have changed before stopping by.
“I came right from work,” she explained, feeling her cheeks warm up.
“Of course you did. Always so busy. Not even a moment to . . . freshen up,” said Miz Sophie, shutting the door behind Ginger. Finally she shrugged lightly, and her expression warmed the slightest bit. “No matter. Woodman’s so tired, I bet he can’t see straight. Don’t stay long, now, lest you wear him out.”
Leading the way through the elegant front hall, Ginger followed Miz Sophie by the twisting spiral staircase, through a solarium, and out to the back patio, where the Woodmans enjoyed cocktails every evening. And there, with his white plastered foot up on a cushion, sat Woodman.
She stopped in the doorway, waiting for him to look up, and when he did, she knew he didn’t see her sneakers or scrubs, her hair in a ponytail, or her tired eyes. He looked at her face and beamed, and she couldn’t help but answer his smile with one of her own, because he was one of her favorite people in all the world, and she would always—always—be happy to see him.
“Woodman,” she sighed, her voice filled with warmth. “Woodman, it’s so good to . . .”
Looking more closely at him, she concealed a flinch. He looked awful. His face was gaunt and his color was bad. A thin sheen of sweat covered his brow, and when he tried to take a deep breath, it hitched, she guessed, from the pain.
“Where are your meds?” she asked, worry sluicing through her veins.