This Time for Keeps

  Russell moved first

  At least Meg thought he did. He stepped toward her, forcing her to tilt her face to maintain eye contact. In some vague, barely functioning corner of her mind she saw him lift a hand. Felt the warmth slide against her face.

  This was Russell. She’d built so many dreams on him. Had pinned so many hopes on him. And for a while they’d been so good together. That’s what she remembered now. Those good times…

  She was moving then, toward him, pushing up on her toes with a longing that seeped through her like water from a ground spring.

  “Meggie,” he murmured, and then she wasn’t thinking anymore. Was only feeling. And remembering.

  Wanting.

  Dear Reader,

  Like most girls, I grew up dreaming of my wedding day: my dress, the music, my bridesmaids…and of course, the man I would marry. But my dreams pretty much stopped with that big day, as if it were the end rather than the beginning. Sure, I dreamed of becoming a mother, but it was an abstract idea.

  What I’ve learned—as a veteran of a two-decade union!—is that marriage takes work. All that wonderful passion from the beginning eventually settles into routines. Life happens. People grow. Dreams don’t always come true. And that’s where the real challenges begin. That’s where love meets its ultimate test.

  What happens, I sometimes wonder, when two people lose each other along the way? Lose themselves? Can love survive? Can you get it back?

  Out of these questions came Russell and Meg Montgomery, a couple on the brink of saying goodbye forever when life throws them a major curveball. Now, with the future of a young child in the balance, they must discover if the life they once dreamed of is still within their reach…this time for keeps.

  I love to hear from readers! Please contact me through my Web site at www.JennaMills.com.

  Happy reading,

  Jenna Mills

  This Time for Keeps

  Jenna Mills

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenna Mills doesn’t remember a time when she wasn’t playing matchmaker. From Barbie and Ken to the Professor and Mary Ann, Jenna always wanted love to prevail. It was only natural that she turned this obsession into a career—and her own happily-ever-after. A Louisiana native living in Texas, Jenna lives with her husband of two decades and their two young children.

  Books by Jenna Mills

  SILHOUETTE ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  1461—THE PERFECT STRANGER*

  1468—A LITTLE BIT GUILTY*

  1482—SINS OF THE STORM*

  Every book has its own tone and texture, and its own path to creation. This book would not be without two majorly wonderful people: my husband, Chuck, for all the raw material; and my awesome editor, Wanda, for the chance…and the wise counsel.

  You’re both incredible!

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  EVEN IN SLEEP, SHE KNEW he was gone.

  Megan Montgomery opened her eyes against the hazy light of early morning and reached beside her. The soft cotton sheet and down comforter, both a rich tartan plaid of navies and reds, lay flat. The feather pillow was fluffed. There were no wrinkles, no indentations, no warm places. Absolutely no evidence of the destruction Russell Montgomery could wreak on a bed.

  After all this time, the chill on her skin made no sense. Especially now.

  With a drowsy stretch, Meg drew a hand to her stomach, where beneath the cool silk of her nightgown the swell made her heart sing. Four years in the making; four months until her arrival. Or his.

  After today, she would know.

  They would know.

  On cue, the little one fluttered, and Meg smiled. As much as she wanted to savor the moment, even more she wanted to share it. With a quick glance at the clock, she slipped out of bed and padded from the big bedroom.

  Music drifted through the century-old, but newly renovated, house. Soft, lilting strains drew her down the hallway, to the small, east-facing room that had sat empty for years.

  The soft, buttery-yellow glow stopped her. He worked quietly, deliberately—just as he did everything. His chest and feet were bare, his jeans faded and low-slung. Together, man and paintbrush moved in symbiotic rhythm, the muscles of his bare arms and shoulders bunching and releasing with each smooth, even stroke.

  The night before, the room had been boring builder-beige. Now the nursery-to-be beckoned like morning sunshine. That had been their intent.

  The symbolism appealed.

  “Looks good,” she murmured, her voice still thick from sleep.

  Russell turned, and despite the familiarity between them, her breath caught. His dark copper hair was mussed, his strong jaw in need of a razor. And his smile…it was slow, languorous. “You caught me.”

  The words were playful, but she knew her husband well enough to see the fatigue in the dark green of his eyes, the sharp glint of something he clearly did not want her to see. Three walls were painted, including trim. Even working at a brisk pace, he couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or two.

  He’d been acting oddly ever since the phone call that had jarred them from sleep a few days before. He’d left the bed, talked in hushed tones. Told her there was nothing to worry about.

  She was trying to believe him.

  “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, changing the subject the way he always did when he sensed she was about to prod too close to something he wasn’t ready to share. He put down the brushes, crossed to her.

  “You didn’t.” She took his hand and drew it to her belly. “Your son did.”

  Almost instantly, a twinkle came into Russ’s eyes. “You mean my daughter.”

  Pushing up on her toes, Meg brushed her lips across his. “Maybe,” she murmured indulgently, loving the soft scrape of his whiskers. Most men were obsessed with having sons, but all Russell talked about was having a little girl.

  “With eyes of blue like her mum’s,” he said, lapsing into the brogue of his childhood. They’d known each other for six years, been married four. The echo of a Scottish accent shouldn’t still inspire that quick little rush. But it did. It was such a disconnect coming from a man who always looked ready to tackle the great outdoors.

  “Blond hair,” he added while his fingers wove through hers.

  Somehow, his touch was as gentle as his words.

  “A sweet little smile—”

  “Careful what you wish for, Montgomery,” she teased, grinning up at him. “You really think you can handle two of us?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Watch me.”

  She planned on it.

  “Wee one must have gone back to sleep,” he said, but Meg wouldn’t let him take his hand from her stomach. She loved the warmth of his palm against her chemise, loved looking down to see his fingers splayed against her belly.

  “Just wait,” she whispered.

  His frown caught her by surprise. “Can’t,” he said. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting over at the Manor.”

  She stepped back. “Everything okay?”

  “Just somebody I used to work with.”

  “From New York?”

  “London,” he said, returning to pour the remaining yellow paint back into the can.

  Questions surged like the floodwaters th
at had almost inundated their home the month before, but like a makeshift dam, Meg held them back. They’d been through this before. He’d made his choice, made a clean break, walked away. He didn’t miss his old life, didn’t want to go back.

  Still, curiosity needled through her. As publisher and editor-in-chief of the Piney Woods Gazette, that was her job, after all. To ask questions.

  It’s how they’d met.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  The vagueness of his answers was not lost on her. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about this old colleague—or what they would be discussing. But she knew. A photojournalist, Russ had been at the top of his field when he’d turned his back on it all—the acclaim, the travel. The freedom.

  For her.

  Someone was always trying to lure him back. “Well, give her my—”

  “Meggie.” He was across the room in a heartbeat, leaning down to take her face in his hands. “Sean. His name is Sean. We—”

  “Russ—”

  “—did a few ride-alongs together in Iraq. He’s with the BBC—”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’m here.” The ferocity in his voice made her heart slam. “With you, Meggie. It’s where I want to be.”

  She swallowed hard. She knew that. She did. And if she ever had any doubt, she had only to look at the gallery of framed photographs lining the hallway. From their honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands to an afternoon picnic among the Texas bluebonnets, the moments were all there, captured. Preserved.

  The surge of raw emotion was new to her. Hormones, she figured. Her girlfriends told her it was perfectly normal, but she’d cried more since becoming pregnant than she had in the past few years, combined.

  Her cousin Julia promised this was just the beginning.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  Russ slid his hand back down to cup the newly formed bump. “And at eleven o’clock I’ll be with you at Dr. Brennan’s.”

  Meg smiled. At the last sonogram, their little one had waved, then gone right back to sleep. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” he said with a long, hard kiss. “I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Two and a half years later

  WHISPERS OF MORNING SUN leaked through the blinds, casting the small room in an ethereal glow. A cloth doll sat in the rocking chair. A soft pink towel lay on the changing table. And in the far corner, the crib stood in shadow. That was by design. Meg wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking, putting a baby in the room that was first to greet the morning. Actually she was pretty sure she hadn’t been thinking at all.

  Pure emotion, much like pure adrenaline, had a way of sending logic straight out the window.

  She slipped closer, careful not to step on the blocks or squeaky teething toys scattered across the rug. Just the slightest sound, and her morning routine would shatter before she even made it to the shower.

  Little Charlotte slept. She lay sprawled on her back, her arms thrown over her head, her soft yellow blankie long since discarded. No matter how many times Meg crept in to cover the baby, Charlotte persevered. In those first few fragile weeks, Meg had even slept on the floor.

  The swell of pure, unchained emotion still caught her by surprise. This was her favorite time of day, when it was still and quiet, before the craziness began. Little Char looked so peaceful. Her chubby cheeks were relaxed, her sweet little mouth slightly parted. And the baby-fine hair, as red now as the day she was born. She looked so like—

  Meg blocked the thought, didn’t want the memory. She had a day to start and not a second to spare. Resisting the temptation to retrieve the blanket yet again, she slipped back into the hallway, all too aware of the light steadily encroaching upon the moss-green wall.

  One of these days, she’d find time to paint.

  In the bathroom, the blast of warm water from the shower felt good. She lingered, indulged in a new lavender body wash her cousin had insisted she try. By the time she turned the water off, she was a good ten minutes behind schedule—and Charlotte was crying.

  Grabbing a towel, Meg dried off as she ran from the bathroom down the hardwood of the hallway. Charlotte’s screams grew louder, coming in virtual stereo between the now brightly lit nursery and the baby monitor. By the time Meg raced into the room, Charlotte had her chubby little hands wrapped around the crib rail and was working hard to hike her leg over the edge.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Meg muttered, securing the towel around her as she hurried across the room. The vivid green of Charlotte’s eyes swam with frustration—tears made her face splotchy.

  “Mama-mama-mama.” She sniffed between wails, lifting her little arms toward Meg.

  “I’m here,” she cooed, and somewhere deep inside, an echo stirred. “I’m here, baby.” With you. Swooping her from the crib, Meg drew Charlotte close. “I’ve got you now.”

  And I’m never going away.

  Charlotte burrowed closer, sweet fists closing tight around the flesh of Meg’s arms. “Mama-mama…” With the babbling, she nuzzled toward Meg’s chest. “Babababa…”

  Meg’s throat tightened. “Bottle,” she murmured, grabbing at the towel that kept sliding toward her waist. “You’ve been such a good girl,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Staying in your bed all night.”

  About half the time, she ended up cuddled next to Meg.

  “You must be hungry,” she continued in a soft, singsong voice. “Let’s get you some formula.”

  Charlotte pulled back and gazed at Meg with a longing that threatened to break her heart all over again.

  It wasn’t so long ago that Meg had been quite sure there was nothing left to break.

  “I know, sweet girl,” she whispered. “I know. I miss her, too.” Closing her eyes, she let the memories form, the tears and laughter, the smiles…the promises.

  There’d been a lot of those.

  “Let’s get you that bottle,” she said, easing Charlotte to the floor. Sweeping had become part of her nightly routine. “Here are your pots,” she added, scooting the nesting toy closer. “We’ll cook together.”

  The eleven-month-old plopped down in front of the dishwasher, her tight little pajamas reminding Meg of a pink floral baby sausage. In fire-resistant fabric—the considerations of parenthood were a whole new world.

  But it was a world she’d desperately wanted.

  As the baby banged the plastic pots together, Meg turned on the water and got the coffee going, measured out formula and poured Cheerios for both of them.

  She was opening the fridge when her cell phone rang. Twisting back toward the table, she grabbed the phone and flipped it open. “I’m up, I’m up,” she said by way of greeting.

  Julia’s calls had become an everyday ritual.

  “Good,” her cousin, the self-appointed alarm clock, said. “That’s a start.”

  Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, Meg reached for the milk—and lost her towel. “Oh, crap.”

  Julia laughed. “You were saying?”

  “I—” Forgot. Somehow in her rush to soothe and feed Charlotte, she’d completely forgotten that she’d yet to get dressed. “My hair is wet.”

  “Usually happens when you take a shower,” Julia said. “The key is to dry it before you come to work.”

  Lately, that didn’t always happen.

  “Or wash it at night,” her cousin went on as Meg rifled through a basket of laundry for clean underwear. “That’s what I started doing after Austin.” Mother of an almost teenager, Julia ran her family like a drill sergeant. If there was a problem, Julia had a solution. She could hold down a job at the paper, she could cook, she could clean, she could keep her son in line, and still have time for a pedicure.

  Meg hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

  “I know, I know.” She struggled into her panties and fastened her bra. “It’s just…” There’d been so many changes in such a short period of time. And nowhere near enough sleep. “I’ll t
ry.”

  Julia didn’t miss a beat. “And you’ll do great. But until then, I’m guessing you need me to cover for you.”

  Meg blinked. Cover for her?

  “The meeting?” Julia went on, reading Meg’s mind, as always. Only four days separated them in age. Most of their friends referred to them as twins born to different mothers. It was only natural that they worked together at the Gazette. “You know…breakfast? Henry? Veronica?”

  Meg’s lawyer—and her accountant. Of course. To discuss the Gazette’s finances—and how long they could continue operating at a loss. Meg herself had scheduled the meeting. Breakfast had been the only time available. The rest of the day was consumed by an editorial meeting then an all-afternoon planning meeting for the Wildflower Festival. It was less than a week away and the silent auction benefiting the March of Dimes was still up in the air. Plus she and Charlotte had a photo shoot scheduled.

  “I’ll be there,” she said, tearing at the dry cleaning draped over a chair. The office was only a few miles away. “Give me twenty—”

  “Meg.”

  She shoved the tangled mess of wet hair back from her face. All she needed was a comb—

  “Stop it.”

  She stilled, her hands fisted against the linen of her favorite black blouse, not because of her cousin’s words. But because of the gentleness in her voice. The quiet understanding.

  “Don’t,” she whispered.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Julia said quietly. “I promise.”

  Meg squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You can do this.”

  She swallowed. “I know.”

  “We’re here for you…all of us. You’re not alone.”

  The smile was automatic. She had the greatest friends in the world. “I know,” she said again, and this time her voice was a little stronger.