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  “I’m sorry, Mac. This isn’t going to happen.”

  It took a long second for her words to sink in. Then he said, “All right. Can you tell me why?”

  “I just—a lot of reasons.”

  He was entitled to an explanation, but she couldn’t tell him Charles would kill her if she ever let another man touch her. I’ll know if you betray me, Erin. I have many friends…and they have many friends. You belong to me. You will always belong to me.

  She met the confusion in Mac’s eyes again. How could she tell him anything about her life with Charles and keep his respect? More to the point, how could she tell him anything, period? Her attraction to him went beyond anything she’d ever felt for a man, but he was still very much a stranger to her. She’d only known him for two weeks, and it took longer than that to establish trust. Her daughter had to be her first priority. One innocent word to the wrong person could turn their lives into a living hell.

  Dear Reader,

  What better way to start off a new year than with six terrific new Silhouette Intimate Moments novels? We’ve got miniseries galore, starting with Karen Templeton’s Staking His Claim, part of THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY. These three brothers are destined to find love, and in this story, hero Cal Logan is also destined to be a father—but first he has to convince heroine Dawn Gardner that in his arms is where she wants to stay.

  For a taste of royal romance, check out Valerie Parv’s Operation: Monarch, part of THE CARRAMER TRUST, crossing over from Silhouette Romance. Policemen more your style? Then check out Maggie Price’s Hidden Agenda, the latest in her LINE OF DUTY miniseries, set in the Oklahoma City Police Department. Prefer military stories? Don’t even try to resist Irresistible Forces, Candace Irvin’s newest SISTERS IN ARMS novel. We’ve got a couple of great stand-alone books for you, too. Lauren Nichols returns with a single mom and her protective hero, in Run to Me. Finally, Australian sensation Melissa James asks Can You Forget? Trust me, this undercover marriage of convenience will stick in your memory long after you’ve turned the final page.

  Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around, only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Editor

  Run to Me

  LAUREN NICHOLS

  Books by Lauren Nichols

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Accidental Heiress #840

  Accidental Hero #893

  Accidental Father #994

  Bachelor in Blue Jeans #1164

  Run to Me #1271

  LAUREN NICHOLS

  started writing by accident, so it seems fitting that the word accidental appears in her first three titles for Silhouette. Once eager to illustrate children’s books, she tried to get her foot in that door, only to learn that most publishing houses used their own artists. Then one publisher offered to look at her sketches if she also wrote the tale. During the penning of that story, Lauren fell head over heels in love with writing fiction.

  In addition to her novels, Lauren’s romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures, and strongly believes in the Beatles’ philosophy, “All You Need Is Love.” When this Pennsylvania author isn’t writing or trying unsuccessfully to give up French vanilla cappuccino, she’s traveling or hanging out with her very best friend/husband, Mike.

  Lauren loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her at http: www.laurennichols.com.

  I was blessed with four great brothers but was never lucky enough to have a sister, so this book is dedicated to my sisters of the heart— the terrific women who make my days more fun with their friendships, e-mails, phone calls, promises of prayers and, frequently, the threat of a three-mile walk to get me in shape (which is a lost cause).

  For the one and only Anna Banana. For Karen Rose, Doreen, Shirley, Lisa and Gladys.

  For my Looper pals: Ann, Jacki, Jan, Liana, Lorraine, Polly and Susan.

  I love you guys.

  And always for Mike, for taking such good care of my wimpy heart.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The lies were getting easier to tell.

  Hiding a stab of guilt, Erin Fallon carried her nearly three-year-old daughter out of Amos Perkins’s sturdy clapboard home to his porch, then held the wooden screen door for Amos. Once, a lie would have died on her tongue; her father’s cheating had hurt her mother so badly, Erin grew up with a deep respect for the truth. But for the past year, honesty had had to take a back seat to survival.

  Christie’s warm breath and sweet baby whisper bathed Erin’s ear. “I’n firsty, Mommy.”

  “We’ll get some juice in a minute, sweetheart,” she returned quietly, then shifted her attention back to her new employer.

  Amos winced with exertion as he stepped over the threshold and onto the porch, then drew a few labored breaths. He continued the conversation they’d begun inside the house. “Then yer okay with the pay?”

  “It’s more than generous, Mr. Perkins. Thank you.” The money was a godsend. Buying the first van had seriously depleted her funds, then, when in fear, she’d traded the white Ford Windstar in on an older vehicle, there’d been no refund. Not that she cared. Now she had an anonymous-looking gray van that few people would notice.

  “’Course, your room and meals are included,” Amos continued, his wispy gray hair lifting in the early-June breeze. His cane thumped hollowly on the plank floor as he moved past two Adirondack chairs and an old green-and-yellow glider to brace himself against a porch post. “How soon can you ladies start?”

  Alarmed that he would lose his footing so close to the steps, Erin put Christie down and wandered to Amos’s side. “As soon as you like. Everything we need is in the van.”

  His startled look drew a smile from Erin. “Christie and I travel light, Mr. Perkins.”

  “Call me Amos. And I s’pose now’s as good a time as any to start.” He nodded down the sloping hill to his right, indicating an old but well-kept barn, a split-rail corral and two small outbuildings. Beyond them a pasture stretched to meet a wall of Ponderosa pines, and in the distance the majestic San Francisco peaks rose triumphantly against the summer-blue sky.

  “Like I said,” he repeated, “it ain’t much of a ranch. We run a few steers and horses for our own use. Couple-a cats to keep the mice busy.”

  Christie clung to her leg, and Erin reached down to stroke her fine black hair. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “We like it.” Amos’s brow furrowed. “You should know, not much happens here in High Hawk. We’re a whole twenty miles from Flagstaff—don’t have none of them nightclubs like you folks have back East. That gonna be a problem for you?”

  Erin nearly laughed at the irony. After the scare they’d had in Maine, they desperately wanted and needed the seclusion. “Not at all. Christie and I like it quiet.”

  “Good. You’ll get a lot of that here.” He jabbed his cane to the left, indicating the fairly new, light-golden-brown log home she’d noticed when she’d arrived. It was less than a hundred yards away, surrounded by trees and greenery, and separated from Amos’s home by a small, sun-spangled pond. “Go ahead and move your stuff into my grandson’s place.” A faint grumble entered his tone. “Lord knows he ain’t usin’ it. Since my strok
e, he’s been hauntin’ my house.”

  Amos’s tone evened out. “You’ll have more room over there, anyways. When we advertised for a live-in housekeeper, we didn’t figure on a young’un. Truth is,” he went on, “this housekeeper nonsense is his idea. I did just fine before the stroke, and I do just fine now.”

  Erin smiled, but she could see that wasn’t so. Though his folksy speech hadn’t been affected—or if it had, he’d recovered—Amos’s right leg was weak, and the responsibility of running his general store in addition to his home chores was undoubtedly more than he could handle.

  She glanced again at the sprawling log home with its deep wraparound porch, suddenly uneasy. “Mr…. Amos. Are you sure your grandson’s all right with us staying in his home? That is, did you mention it when you phoned him earlier?”

  “If the boy’s gonna insist I get another housekeeper, he’ll hafta put up with the rest of it.”

  “Then…I’m the second? Third?” And what had happened to her predecessors?

  “Second and last,” Amos grumbled again. “First one had her cap set for me. I wasn’t interested.”

  The roar of a rapidly approaching vehicle drew their attention, and Amos squinted toward the dirt road beyond his driveway. A moment later an old, pale blue truck with an emblem on its side appeared, trailing a plume of dust as it sped toward the house.

  “Speak of the devil,” Amos said through a low chuckle. “Figured he’d hightail it back here soon as I phoned and told him to take down the Help Wanted sign at the store.”

  “Your grandson?” Erin asked, unnerved as the truck came to a skidding, gravel-spraying stop behind her van. This wasn’t the arrival of a passive, agreeable man, she thought, her heart sinking. This man was churned up about something—and it was probably her. Suddenly she wondered if she could count on this job after all.

  “Mac,” Amos replied, pride in his hazel eyes. “My daughter Jessie’s boy, God rest her soul.”

  The broad-shouldered man who swung out of the truck was tall, tanned and so beautifully put together that for an instant everything in Erin stilled. The black Stetson he wore low on his brow covered most of his dark-brown hair, and his chambray shirt, rolled back over muscular forearms, was open throated, showing a hint of chest hair. As he moved unerringly toward her, Erin’s gaze dipped to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs and calves…and she drew a soft breath.

  At her short-lived job in Maine, the pretty teenage waitress she’d worked with had had a word for men like him—men who brought a flush to her cheeks and sent her scurrying to their tables to take their orders. She could almost hear Trisha’s flirty whisper now. Smokin’.

  But as Amos’s grandson crossed the weed-choked grass, giving her a critical once-over, another word occurred to Erin. Trouble. It was obvious from his long strides and body language that he didn’t approve of his grandfather’s choice in housekeepers, and he meant to do something about it.

  Backing away from the steps, Erin lifted Christie into her arms again, turning her front and center. It wasn’t terribly noble to use her daughter as a bargaining chip, but when they were fighting for their lives, she’d use whatever weapons she had. Christie’s blue eyes and shy smile had totally disarmed Amos. His grandson would be a harder sell.

  “Hello,” he said politely as he ascended the porch steps. “I’m Mac Corbett.” The firm, callused hand he extended all but swallowed hers. “I understand Granddad’s considering you for the housekeeper position.”

  “I ain’t considerin’ her,” Amos snapped, “she’s got the job. It’s a done deal.”

  Frowning at his grandfather’s precarious position, Corbett pulled a chair close and quietly asked Amos to sit. When Amos lifted his chin and belligerently stood his ground, the younger man sighed and dragged the chair between his granddad and the steps.

  He worked up another smile and looked at Erin again. Christie promptly jammed her face into Erin’s neck.

  “You’re okay,” Erin murmured. “This is Mr. Corbett. He’s a new friend.”

  Corbett extended his hand to her. “Can we shake?”

  “No!” Christie shrieked.

  “Honey, don’t be rude.”

  “She’s okay.” Corbett’s smile increased a little. “She has a right to pick her own friends.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke again. “Would you excuse Granddad and me for a minute, Mrs.—”

  “Terri Fletcher,” she replied, praying Christie wouldn’t correct this new lie. She’d spoken to her about their new names, but few toddlers were good at keeping secrets. “And it’s Ms.”

  “Nice to meet you, Terri.” He pulled open the screen door. “Granddad?” he prodded, glancing at Amos, then back at Erin. “We’ll be right back. Feel free to walk around—check out the place.”

  “Thanks, we’ll do that.” Except, Erin knew that what he meant was, take a hike so I can grill my grandfather without being overheard. And she had a very good idea what he would say. We don’t know her. How can we trust her? Maybe Corbett even had someone else in mind for the position. All she knew was, whatever his motive for this tête à tête, the big man was miffed at being left out of the hiring loop. Seeing the return of that grim expression as he ushered Amos inside, Erin decided with a heavy heart that her chances of staying here were slim to none.

  When the inside door as well as the screen door banged shut, she sighed and walked Christie to the van to grab a box of apple juice from the cooler and the local paper from the front seat. Hopefully, another look at the want ads would turn up something more promising. If not…they’d be moving on again.

  Clamping the paper beneath her arm, she popped the attached straw into the juice box and handed the drink to Christie. “Here you go, sweetie pie. Now, what do you say?”

  “Danka!”

  Chills erupted on Erin’s skin.

  Slowly she crouched down to Christie’s level, laid the paper aside, and dredged up a smile, meeting her daughter’s sparkling blue eyes. “No, sweetheart, we say, ‘thank you,’ when someone gives us a treat. Remember? Can you say it for me now?”

  “Fank you,” she repeated happily, innocently unaware of what she’d done to her mother.

  “Good girl,” Erin murmured and hugged her close, juice box and all.

  Her sober gaze found Amos Perkins’s home again, and she wondered what was being said in there. She didn’t blame Mac Corbett for being cautious.

  If he knew their past, he’d send them packing in a heartbeat.

  Inside Amos’s living room with its mismatched furniture and dated wallpaper, Mac faced his grandfather. He was still startled by the nerves twitching beneath his skin. Terri Fletcher was a dyed-in-the-wool knockout, and that was an understatement—even with her pretty black hair pulled back from her face in that tight ponytail. Even devoid of makeup. The shapeless, beige cotton shirt and slacks she wore only made him wonder what was beneath them—and why a woman that beautiful didn’t want anyone to notice her.

  Fat chance of that happening.

  “Before you say one word,” Amos began, stabbing a finger into Mac’s chest, “I like her and she’s stayin’. She’s a nice woman, and she looks like she could use the money.”

  “I’m not disputing that, Granddad, I just would’ve liked to talk to her before we made a decision. What’s her story? Has she done this kind of work before? What did her references say? Or didn’t she offer any?”

  Amos pulled a folded sheet of tablet paper from the breast pocket of his red-plaid flannel shirt. “Got ’em right here,” he said defensively. “She checked out perfect.”

  “Did you even call them?” Mac reached for it. “How many references did she—”

  Amos snatched the sheet away and stuffed it back in his pocket, his hazel eyes insulted and his lined face stubbornly set. “Since I got sick, you been callin’ the shots—makin’ my decisions for me—and it’s time it stopped. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind or my intuition, and I say she’s fine.”

  Silen
t seconds ticked by while Mac pondered his grandfather’s words. Then he nodded. Amos was right. He had been making all the decisions since the stroke. But everything he’d done, he’d done because he loved the old man. The last thing he’d wanted to do was hurt Amos’s pride, but apparently, that’s what he’d done.

  “Okay. I’m sorry. It should be your decision. I just expected you to choose someone a little more…mature.”

  “You don’t mean mature, you mean Mildred Manning.”

  “She was a nurse for years. It would’ve made more sense.”

  Amos stared as if Mac were completely out of his mind. “Don’t you know nothin’ about women?” He shook his head abruptly as though banishing a ridiculous notion, then answered his own question. “Never mind. ’Course you don’t. If you did, you’d have one of yer own. Sophie’d be mad as a wet hen if I hired Mildred to cook and clean for me. ’Specially when she offered to do it herself. And don’t tell me I ain’t right about that.”

  Releasing a weary blast of air, Mac brought his hands to his hips. Amos’s wisecrack about his love life aside, the old guy had a point. Sophie Casselback was a good woman, but she would’ve made Amos’s life a living hell if he’d hired a woman their age. She and Amos had been “good friends” for two years—the primary reason, Mac suspected, that Amos had refused her help. No man—even a seventy-three-year-old man—wanted to look less than strong around the woman he was keeping company with. Or maybe he and Sophie were over now. Since his stroke and stint in rehab, Amos hadn’t returned many of her calls.

  Amos continued to stare hard as Mac’s thoughts churned off in yet another direction. “Now what? There’s something else goin’ on under that hat. What is it?”

  “The little girl,” Mac said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with a child underfoot? You could trip, you might not get your right rest—”