Beth Williamson’s Blog

What do you do when love gives you a second chance at life?

Jack Malloy is haunted.

Haunted by memories, he tries to escape the dreams that have stolen his sleep for six months by agreeing to help out his sister Nicky. Unfortunately, time at her ranch offers him no escape when he’s confronted by Rebecca Connor’s beautiful gray eyes. For unbeknownst to her, she is a participant in his nightmares every night.
 
Rebecca Connor is haunted.

Haunted by memories she’s trying to escape that have stolen her future. Her attraction to Jack is unsettling for a woman that has sworn off men. But something keeps drawing her closer to him, and she can’t help but wonder what his hands would feel like on her skin…

Fate pushes them together when they become stranded, snowbound, on a lonely Wyoming ranch. There they rediscover what living is all about. With passion hotter than the sun, they learn to feel pleasure together, how to trust again, and how to love. But is it enough to face the demons of their past, or will they forever be haunted?

Excerpt:

Jack carried in the cradle an hour later. It was covered in a tarp, piquing Rebecca’s curiosity. Nicky had been so excited about it, going on and on about how beautiful it was until Tyler dragged her upstairs to rest. And Jack had made it. Apparently he had been the family’s official furniture maker for at least the last ten years. It was hard to believe that a 14 or 15-year-old boy could make furniture that well. She’d been surprised to learn how many of the pieces in the Malloys’ ranch house were actually made by him. Surprised and very impressed.

He brought the cradle into the addition and she followed him. Normally being in a room with a man was uncomfortable for her, but for some reason she had never felt that way with Jack. Perhaps because he seemed even more uncomfortable around her. Jack  set it down on the floor with care, then took the tarp off.

 Rebecca was nearly rendered speechless. She had never seen such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The cradle looked to be rosewood with lighter colored inlays that were tiny little angels. The rockers were shaped and matched perfectly. The beauty of it was simply incredible. She walked over and he jumped to his feet, looking at her like a deer staring at a hunter, wide-eyed and tense.

“I was wondering if I could touch it.”

He stared at her.

“The cradle, Mr. Malloy. May I?”

He nodded, but did not relax his stance one smidge. What in the world?

She ran her hands along the wood. It was smooth and nearly seamless. “You made this?”

He seemed to find his voice. “Yeah, I did.”

She looked into his blue, blue eyes and smiled her friendliest smile. “It’s magnificent. You have a true talent, Mr. Malloy.”

“Jack.”

“I beg your pardon?” She wasn’t sure he’d even spoken.

“Call me Jack. When I hear Mr. Malloy I turn around and look for my Pa,” he said.

On a good day, he probably would have delivered that statement with some of his humor, which she’d heard about but hadn’t witnessed yet. But today was apparently not a good day for him. He looked just horrible. His eyes were blood red, the rims were swollen and he had huge dark circles under them. She could see his hands shaking. Cataloguing the symptoms in her head, as her father had taught her to do, Jack had either given up long-term drinking, or he had not slept in some time. She believed it was the latter.

“Very well, I will call you Jack, if you call me Rebecca.”

He nodded.

“Thank you for letting me see the cradle,” she said as she left the room. “It’s a wonderful gift.”

*

Jack dropped down on the floor after she left.

Holy hell.

He had wondered what it would be like to actually see Rebecca again. On the one hand, she reminded him of the nightmares he was trying so desperately to forget. On the other hand, he felt a strange pull, an attraction to her. He’d felt it before when they’d first met six months ago. It had frightened him then. It frightened him now. He tried to tell himself it was just pure lust. Possible, but not likely. Jack didn’t really feel pure lust around women without running the other direction.

Maybe it was because she was in his dreams. Granted they were not erotic dreams that men should be having about women, but still. She was there and always beautiful, always pleading with him for help. God, if only he could help himself.

He didn’t know what the strange pull was. But when she ran her hands along that cradle, he had been astonished to feel himself harden. He imagined it was he she was caressing and feeling with those small, slender hands. He had to suppress a shudder of longing before she saw it. There was something there.

And he didn’t know what to do about it.

So he decided to avoid her, to exit the room if she entered, to not even speak to her unless she spoke to him first. Self-preservation was a mighty strong thing to resist. He had a feeling that if he didn’t run, life as he knew it would never be the same.

**

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