A contrast, Cliff decided. It was an implausible contrast to the woman who jumped sporadically from one project to another in that big, dusty house. She left walls half papered, ceilings half painted. There were crates and boxes everywhere, most of which hadn’t been touched. Rolls of supplies were tucked into every corner. He’d say her work on the house was precise, even creative, to the point where she’d leave off for something new.

She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known, and he realized that somewhere along the way he’d begun to understand her. It had been easier when he could dismiss her as a spoiled Hollywood princess who’d bought a dilapidated country house on a whim or for a publicity stunt. He knew now that she’d bought the house for no other reason than she’d loved it.

Perhaps she was a bit spoiled. She tended to give orders a little too casually. When she didn’t get her own way, she tended to bristle or to freeze up. Cliff grinned. The same could be said of himself, he admitted.

To give Maggie her due, she hadn’t run from the trouble or unpleasantness that had begun so shortly after she’d moved in. If he’d seen another woman stick as Maggie was sticking, he’d have said she’d indeed taken root. Cliff still had his doubts. Perhaps he fostered them purposely, because if he believed Maggie Fitzgerald would stay in Morganville, he might have to admit he wanted her to. He might have to admit that coming home every night to a woman who made him laugh and fume and throb wasn’t something he’d give up without a fight.

He drove the last few yards, then stopped at the edge of the drive. The phlox was blooming on the bank. The new grass was like a green shadow over the soil. Maggie’s petunias were a splash of color.

They’d both put part of themselves into the land already, he realized. Perhaps that in itself was a bond that would be difficult to break. Even as he stepped out of the truck, he wanted her, just the scent, just the softness of her. There was nothing he could do to change it.

There was no music. Cliff frowned as he slowly climbed the front steps. Maggie was always at her piano at this time of day. There were times he’d come back earlier and work on the yard himself. He’d know it was five o’clock, because that’s when the music would begin, and it would continue for no less than an hour, often longer. Cliff looked at his watch: 5:35. Uneasy, he turned the knob on the front door.