While Ethan added another piece of firewood to the stack on his arm and whistled for Trapper, dark streams of clouds moved west across the ridge. In the past hour, the snowfall had doubled, half-inch flakes pelting nonstop from the night sky. Over a foot had fallen, and the updated forecast predicted another several inches before the storm ended.

He’d checked the portable generator and made sure there was plenty of gas just in case. Trapper came around the corner just as he reached the back steps. Ethan pushed open the back door to stack the wood in the wrought iron rack. Last winter he learned his lesson when he hadn’t been able to make it to the shed for additional wood and one of the water pipes froze.

“Can I help?” Noelle appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

He stomped the snow from his boots. “I’m good. Something sure smells good.”

“I made apple cider. Would you like a mug?”

The cinnamon apple smell wafting from the kitchen wasn’t what he was talking about—it was her. She made everything smell like a bag of Halloween candy. “Sounds perfect. Give me a minute to remove my boots and wipe Trapper’s paws.”

He closed his eyes to shut away an appealing fantasy of her standing in his kitchen wearing nothing but an apron. He groaned, doing his best to block his immediate reaction.

In the past few days she had made her mark. A bowl of pinecones decorated the counter, caramel creamer invaded the refrigerator’s top shelf, and vanilla shampoo stared at him from the bathroom windowsill, to name just a few. She filled every room in the house with fresh smells and bright colors. She was the rainbow beneath his storm cloud, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with her.

Even Trapper had taken to following her from room to room. Sure, he liked anyone who gave him treats, but the affection went beyond the usual. The grumpy old man even had taken a liking to her cat. Like Cheddar, Noelle had nudged and cuddled and settled into his life whether he wanted her to or not.

He walked into the kitchen to find a mug of steaming apple cider on the counter, but no Noelle. Picking up the mug, he followed the sound of her voice. Nestled into a chair, she sat with paper and pen in her lap, her guitar within easy reach.

“Working on a new song?” He sat on the couch across from her.

She shrugged. “I’m supposed to send a demo of my songs in before the audition, so the band can check them out.” She tapped her pen on the notebook. “You might be able to help.”

“Me? I don't know anything about writing music.”

“You don't need to. That’s my job. All you need to do is talk.”

The way she looked at him with that innocent smile that wasn’t so innocent made his gut churn. She was up to something. He’d like to know what. “Talk about what?”

“I need to write a ballad. Jade thinks the song about my dad is good, but recommends I have a backup in case the judges don’t like it.”

“What does your song writing have to do with me?”

“Well…” Noelle bit her lip and started fidgeting with the edges of the fleece lap blanket that once had been Callie’s. “The best ballads are about love or a lost love.”

He shoved away from the sofa so fast Trapper launched to his feet, the hair on his back ridged, and he looked right and left and barked a warning.

“Wait.” Noelle held out her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive, but I thought talking about your wife and daughter might help.”

His gaze snapped to her. “How would talking help? They're gone. Nothing will bring them back.”

“I know that.” She placed the notebook on the coffee table and pulled her knees to her chest, studying him over the top. “I can tell you loved them, and I would never do anything to diminish their memory. In fact, that's why I want to write the song. It's my gift to you and your wife. Your story can be preserved forever in a song.”

The snow outside the window swirled just like his thoughts. Part of him wanted to walk up the stairs and lock himself away. Ignore Noelle. Pretend his life wasn’t in shambles. But he couldn’t ignore the hurt in her eyes. He’d caused her sparkle to dim. He’d been careless.

He paced back to the couch, slowly sinking into the leather.

“I owe you an apology,” he raked his fingers through his hair.

“What for?”

For being closed off? Rude? Unable to feel? Take your pick. “For being difficult.”

“You aren’t difficult. I’d say you’re more like moody. Besides, this is your home. And, you’re allowed to be yourself when you’re in your own home. I’m the one who’s intruding.”

Did she just imply it’s okay to be an ass simply because this is my house? Really? “Are you always so accommodating?”

She laughed. “Jon said I was needy.”

“You’re kidding.”

Judging from her expression, she wasn't kidding. The bastard. Noelle didn't have a needy bone in her body. “It’s good you're no longer with that jerk.”

“I have my flaws.”

“We all do. But yours are sugar-coated.”

She flashed him a sublime smile. “Oh, dear. You’ve got me all wrong. I get obnoxious if I've had more than one drink, I rarely make my bed, and people tell me when I get excited I talk too much. When I’m driving, I yell at other stupid drivers, and…” she peeked his way, “well, that should be enough to prove I’m not always kind.”

“No one is perfect. However, there are some who are closer to perfection than others.”

Less than five minutes ago he had every intention of leaving her to write. But what would happen if he stayed? Noelle's positive energy was infectious. While he was around her, his empty life gained a tinge of color. But what about her? He wanted her to remain happily untouched by his moodiness, as she called it.

“If I agree to help you with your song—and I'm not saying I’ll do it—what would I need to do?”

“We could start by you telling me what you loved about your wife. What made her special?”

Right. All I need to do is rip my chest open and spill my guts. “And then?”

“Then, if you want, you can tell me how you felt when you lost her.”

He pulled and squeezed at his fingers. “I don’t think you would want to write a song about feeling angry and guilty and completely lost. If I had only known…”

“If you had only known what?”

“If I had only known it was the last time I would ever see them again, I would have done things differently.”

She grabbed her pad of paper and pen. “Go on.”

“I would've gone with them, or asked Brigitte not to go. I definitely wouldn’t have gone into work. I wouldn’t have been so distracted...would have paid more attention.” He pounded his fist on his knee. “I would have cherished the time we had together more.”

She pushed her feet to the floor, grabbed her guitar, and strummed a few chords before closing her eyes. “If I had only known it was our last moment, I would have taken more time.” Her fingers paused and then began strumming again, this time more slowly. “I would have lifted your hand in mine and hugged you close. I would have whispered your name and told you my secrets. I would have made you laugh, and kept you safe. If I had only known it was the end, I would have taken more time.”

“That’s amazing.” He rubbed his sweaty palms down his jeans. “You got all that from what I said?”

“You like it?” A ray of pure joy lit up her face.

For the first time in months, he felt lighter. His gaze latched onto her hopeful smile, and he wondered what made him feel like he wanted to drag her into his arms and protect her the way he hadn’t been allowed to protect Brigitte. His wife felt suffocated whenever he tried, insisting she was capable of taking care of herself. And she was. She was the type of woman who didn't need anyone or anything, including him. When she pushed him away, it reinforced his old insecurities, the conviction that he wasn’t wanted—wasn’t lovable.

Never had been.

But he wanted Noelle to know he cared.

“I do like your song.” He increased the volume of his positive comments to make sure she heard, and believed, his praise. “You have a magical way of capturing the moment.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile broadened, and the smile made him think about intimacy. Why her smile triggered those emotions he wasn’t quite sure, but he liked the feeling. A curious interest expanded, but not enough to explore.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

There were a lot of memories, but none he wanted to skim through again. “I’ll have to think about it.” Right now all he was thinking about was her.

“There’s time. We’ve got a few days.”

But only a few days. She was leaving to pursue her dream. He had to keep reminding himself she was only there temporarily.

Then what? What was he thinking? Somehow she’d managed to open the door to his heart.

He slammed it shut.

Never again would he let anyone into his life. It hurt too much, plus the feeling was only temporary.

“I had better find something to eat for dinner,” he said, to get himself out of the room.

“My mom let me raid her supplies, and I made a pot of chili yesterday. The crockpot’s in the refrigerator on the bottom shelf.”

He braced his foot against the door of his heart, working hard to find the lock. “It’s not your job to cook for me.”

She set the blanket aside and got up from the chair. “I know. Chili sounded good, and since it was going to snow, I thought it might make the perfect meal. I also made cornbread, which I stored in the oven.” She crossed the room toward the kitchen, then turned. “Cheddar likes to take bites out of anything left on the counter.”

The sparkle in her eye appeared, the one he couldn’t resist. The passive attraction had begun to transform into an intense awareness when she took a step closer, her lips slightly parted. But she turned and went into the kitchen.

“Would you like to join me?” she asked while pulling the crock from the refrigerator.

The word join got stuck in a repetitive loop. His mind interpreted the word correctly, but his body decided to use a somewhat different definition.

He forced his legs to carry him backwards toward the cabinets to get out bowls for the chili. “I’ll warm up the chili if you want to set the table.”

“Do you have a spatula for the cornbread?” She accepted the bowls he handed her.

“It’s in the far drawer. Over there.” He pointed to the four-drawer cabinet next to the oven, then opened the refrigerator and looked at the crowded space to shift his thoughts to the more mundane. He slid the milk jug aside and reached for a beer. “Drink?”

“Beer would be great.”

He grabbed a second bottle, twisted the top, and handed her the lager. She tipped up the bottle, taking a long swig.

“Oh, this is good. What is it?”

He retrieved side plates from the cabinet and handed them to her. “It's a microbrew from Boulder.”

“If you ever go to Nashville, stop by Yazoo, and have a Hop Perfect. Then again, the India Pale Ale may be a little citrusy for you. The HOPRY might be more your style.” She set the plates on the table, then aligned the silverware, just like any seasoned waitress would do out of habit. “Listen to me being all informed. Back in high school, there were only a handful of breweries in the area.”

“Things change.”

She looked at him intently, nodding. “You’re right. Time always seems to keep traipsing on, even if you don’t want it to.”

“Is that another line for your song?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Are you ready to talk some more about your wife after dinner?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

He liked her stubborn persistence, although not when it came to dealing with his past. “Why do you think the first song you wrote isn’t good enough?” He tested a spoonful of hot beans and meat and spices, then pressed the microwave start button again.

“It’s too personal.”

“You mean the song isn’t commercial, and may not appeal to a broader audience.”

“It’s commercial, but I haven’t been able to put the song in a box yet.”

He leaned in, knowing what she was trying to communicate was significant. “I don’t understand. Tell me more.”

“Singing in a box is like putting walls around the emotions. If I’m singing a song about a breakup, I can tap into the emotions easily since I’ve been through the experience personally. I’ve put boundaries around those emotions. I can tap into them, feel them without letting them get out of control. With my dad, I’m still processing a few things. I don’t know how I feel exactly, and I have a hard time tapping in to write them down. The emotions are too raw. It’s like I keep hiding behind a wall, not ready to let myself be so vulnerable.”

Her explanation resonated deep within his open wound. He’d been putting things in boxes all his life, only his boxes he’d padlocked, never to revisit. He didn’t feel the need. It was too late for him, but not for Noelle.

“Can’t you just tap into a similar feeling?”

“Not really. I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work.. The song ends up flat, or at best two-dimensional. Either way, it’s never good enough to get a producer’s attention.”

He set the bowls on the table as she handed him the plate of cornbread. “If you watch reality singing shows, the judges are always telling the artist to push harder. Is fear holding you back?”

“I don’t think so, but then again fear is a funny thing.” She folded the lumps of beans and meat and sauce over in her bowl. “You aren’t aware of it until something happens and it’s revealed.” Her cheeks splotched with a touch of pink. “If I’m making any sense.”

“I get the gist.” He spread butter on the cornbread to melt. “I had this challenging medical case. We needed to operate, but there were a lot of risks. The chief medical officer knew I was nervous. He gave me the best advice I've ever been given.”

“Oh?” She studied him.

“He said fear can’t sabotage you if you believe in what you’re doing.”

“In other words…believe in yourself.” There was that sparkle he loved to see. If she had a switch he could turn on, he’d keep her sparkle lit all the time.

“I wish someone had told me something similar for when I’ve been onstage.”

“Stage fright?”

“I’m okay when I’m in front of the crowd, but once I’m backstage, I get in my head and start believing the audience hated my music, or I was flat, or I wasn’t good enough.

“By whose standards?”

“Mine.”

“Ah,” He picked up his beer to wash down the tasty bread. “Well, if you don’t make it as a singer, you can always open a restaurant.”

“That’s just it. I can’t imagine doing anything else. Singing and writing songs is the only thing that feels right.”

“Then I suggest you tap into your determination the next time you're onstage and stop caring what other people think—especially producers and other singers, who are probably just jealous.”

“Every creative has doubts.” She poked at a breadcrumb that had fallen on the table. “But you’re right. Have no fear.” She shoved a large spoonful of chili into her mouth, then chewed and swallowed. “I really like where the song is going. Will you help me work on it again after dinner?”

Ethan felt the tension surge into his shoulders and pinch his neck. “Does it mean that much to you?”

“It does. I’ve always found it helpful to open a box of memories with someone else. That way the other person is there to talk things through. I always feel better afterward.”

He stared at her for a long silent moment. “Is helping me why you asked me to assist you in the first place? You think talking about my wife will make me happy?”

“I think talking about your wife will help you stop avoiding dealing with the past.”

His stomach clenched and rejected the bit of food he was about to put in his mouth. He dropped his spoon into his bowl. “I’m not avoiding the past.” But he was, and he knew it.

“Maybe not, but you are avoiding your future.”

“I’m working, healing people.” His stomach did another flip and flop. “Why is it you think I’m avoiding anything?”

“Everyone in town says you’re burying yourself in work.”

“So?”

“So, people are worried.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the wooden chair rungs. “Worried about what?”

“Never mind.” She shoved from the table, but he caught her arm.

“Noelle—”

“They are worried you might give up, stay angry, never find a way to be happy. They like you. Harold, my mom, Jenna—lots of people hate seeing you so sad.”

“And you thought if you decorated a Christmas tree, made me cookies, and permeated my house with your luscious scent and gorgeous body, that life would be grand again?” He let his frustration settle. “Damn. Drinking when I haven’t slept in days wasn’t a good idea.” Weeks. He hadn’t slept in weeks, but no one had been there to count.

The silence grew fat and thick. She eased back into the chair, studying him quietly. Thoroughly.

“I’d better go read my medical journals. Then I have a 50/50 chance of falling asleep.”

“If you’re worried I’m offended by your last comment, don’t be. I already told you I don’t date jerks.”

He was starting to think he might be the biggest jerk in the state. Then he caught the slight lift at the corner of her mouth, and a sparkle settled in her eyes.

“It’s probably a good idea you’ve decided not to date idiots, either.”

“I didn’t say I don’t date idiots…just jerks. Idiots are fine as long as they are hot, have good rhythm, and have a big penis.”

He coughed and sputtered. “Did you just say penis?”

“Are you having trouble with the technical term, Doctor?”

“No. I’m okay with the word. I just didn’t expect you to use such a…clinical term.”

“Well. If you hang around backstage after concerts, you’ll hear all sorts of sparkly terms.”

“Good to know. It's no wonder you hate men.”

“I don't hate men, just the ones who don’t know how to be gentlemen. I believe in love, and that life trades up. Someday, I’m going to find a man who treats me with respect and love. A man who’s strong, yet gentle. Sure of himself, yet seeks advice. Can both communicate and listen.”

“You mean one of those fairy-tale princes.”

Her brow and nose scrunched in unison. “No. No way.” She shook her head. “Why would I want pristine and perfect when I can have reckless and wild? There’s someone out there for me. I just have to find him. Just like there is someone out there for you.”

“Been there, done that…can't go back.”

“So you believe you can only love once in your life?”

He searched for a response, but nothing felt quite right. “Maybe.”

“That's a shame. You have a lot to give, if only you were willing.”

“I give a lot to my patients every day.”

“It’s not the same, and I’m pretty sure you already know that. I’m talking about finding a person to spend your life with, to share the ups and downs, to explore. You can't have that type of relationship with your patients.”

His foot vibrated under the table. What she was telling him was pretty much what the hospital psychologist told him. Then why did it irritate him so much?

“And you think you’ll find your Mr. Forever in LA?”

“I'm hoping to find a career in LA, and if I bump into Mr. Forever, then it’s a bonus. I can't stop living my life just because Mr. Forever hasn’t decided to knock on my door. Besides, if I don’t put myself out there, I’ll never find the right guy.”

Maybe the right guy’s in front of you and you just can’t see it. Whoa! Where did that come from? He tapped a finger against his temple. “You think because I'm not out there dating a different woman every night that I'm not happy.”

“A whiskey bottle doesn’t make for very good company.”

“Touché, Miss Conroy.” He nodded, but he wasn’t sure he agreed. “I need to put another log on the fire.” He should have left, but here he sat, gazing into her eyes, filled with hope. His fingers itched to tuck the strand of fallen hair behind her ear, but he didn't.

“I’ll take Trapper out.” She patted the old dog on his side. “It sounds like you have medical journals to read.”

She disappeared through the doorway, and another piece of regret was plunked down on top of the already teetering stack.

Outside the kitchen window, he could see several feet of snow, but the buildup was the least of his worries. The spunky woman staying in his house was his biggest concern.

She’d pushed him, tested him, and found him unworthy.

His parents found him unworthy a long time ago, and he found a way to stop caring.

However, Noelle was different. For some reason he wanted to prove her wrong.