URE, WE GOT A MECHANIC, you betcha. Lars Fredricksen. He’ll get you set up, don’tcha worry ’bout a thing.”

Coco and I were sitting in the truck between Nick and Deacon McCabe, our rescuer. His words were balm to my battered soul. With a sigh of relief, I felt my shoulders relax. Deacon seemed about as nice as a guy could be, full of folksy phrases and the rounded vowels of the region. The truck was old and smelled pleasantly of oil. A crucifix swung gently from the rearview mirror, and Deacon himself smelled like hay and tobacco, a very pleasant combination.

The fact that I was squished against Nick…well, that felt pretty damn good, too. He had his arm around me—well, not technically. Technically, his arm was resting on the back of the seat, but it was…cozy. The air had turned quite chilly. Unfortunately, my sweater was packed in my little red suitcase, which currently resided in the back of the pickup. Nick, however, was nice and warm. And he smelled good. And he seemed irritatingly unaffected by my presence for a man who loved and hated me.

The plan was for us to go into town (Harold, North Dakota, population 627) and get a tow for the poor Mustang, then have the mechanic assess the trouble.

“You folks’ll stay with us tonight,” Deacon said. “Our town doesn’t have a motel, don’tcha know, but you’re real welcome with me and the missus. We don’t get many folks coming through, no sir. And tonight just happens to be our very own Harvest Festival, so you’ll have to do us the honor. Real Americana. Where’d you say you folks were from again?”

“Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts,” I answered. “We’re headed to the airport in Bismarck. Is that far?”

“Oh, gosh no, not at all. Couple hours, three tops.”

“Great!” I said. If Nick’s car wasn’t fixed by then, maybe I could pay someone to drive me to the capital. By this time tomorrow, the odds were excellent that I’d be in the air, headed for home, back where I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t wait.

“So what’s it like in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts?” Deacon asked, and I happily told him about Menemsha and the fishing fleet, the wind and the pines, the rain, the ocean, the cheerful pastel Victorians of Oak Bluffs, the tidy streets of Edgartown.

“Sounds like you folks have a real nice life out there,” Deacon commented.

Nick said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes unreadable.

“Yes,” I finally said after a minute. “Coco likes it, don’t you, honey?” She wagged her tail agreeably, then resumed trying to hypnotize Deacon into becoming her love slave.

Thinking about home reminded me that I needed to call Dad. Should check in on Tommy. See what I could do for BeverLee. Make sure Willa had enough money. Court next Tuesday. My bimonthly lunch with Father Bruce. It was different from here, where the endless fields were punctuated with huge spools of hay, the flatness of the landscape nearly unbroken by trees. My home seemed so safe by comparison, the ragged coastline and snug little towns, the solid stone walls and whispering pines. No exposure, no relentless sun. No Nick.

A COUPLE OF HOURS later, I was the queen of the Harvest Ball. Well, maybe not queen. But I was holding court, at least in the judicial sense of the word. Six women had me cornered at a picnic table as we ate a tasty yet unidentifiable casserole called “hot dish” by my hosts. Coco, well fed on the same, snoozed at my feet, her leash tied to one leg of the picnic table.

“So if I move out, he could get the house? Gosh, that doesn’t seem right,” Darlene said. She was twenty-six, married for seven years, two kids. Husband was a trucker who enjoyed a side of hooker with his rest stop all-you-can-eat buffet, apparently.

“It’d be better if you stayed put, especially with the kids,” I answered, taking a sip of my Coke—strike that. A sip of my soda pop. Sounded much nicer that way.

“Okeydokey,” she said. “Stay put, you betcha. Think I should change the locks?”

“Well, that would certainly send a message,” I concurred.

Darlene nodded, and my next consultation approached. “Hi, there, Harper hon, didja see that rain before? I’m Nancy Michaelson, so nice to meetcha.”

“Hi, Nancy,” I said, taking another bite of hot dish. One could only imagine the cholesterol count, as the primary ingredient seemed to be mayonnaise, but man, it was good! “What can I help you with?”

She sat. “You’re a regular doll, answering all our questions, don’tcha know. So, okay, my mother, bless her heart, she just married some old geezer from the nursing home over in Beulah. At first, we thought he was, y’ know, not so bad, but turns out, he’s taking money out of her savings account! What can we do? I think she should divorce his scrawny old carcass, but Mom, well, she’s saying she’s in love! At her age, can you imagine!”

I squashed a smile. “Well, if you’ve got power of attorney, you can stop that. But if she’s competent—”

“Whatja mean, competent?”

“In her right mind? You know…sane?”

Nancy sighed. “Well, I think she’s crazy, having a romance at her age and all, but I guess I don’t get a vote. Thanks, hon.”

“Okay, okay, let’s give our guest a little breathing room, what do you say, girls?” Margie Schultz bustled over, my new best friend/bodyguard. She seemed to be in charge of the event; after Deacon had introduced Nick and me to her, she’d towed us around, introducing us to dozens of people, all of whom had seemed ridiculously happy that misfortune had led us here. Midwestern hospitality at its finest, putting us Yankees to shame.

The Harvest Festival was pretty much what you’d expect—the lot behind the Lutheran church strung with lights, a few booths and mouthwatering smells as hot dogs, hamburgers and bratwurst cooked on a grill. A giant table held dozens of casseroles, Jell-O molds and plates of cake and cookies. Soda pop and milk…no beer. A small band was setting up…just a guitarist, a bass player and a fiddler. This year’s real Harvest Queen, a sturdy and beautiful lass decked out in a pink prom gown, work boots and a John Deere cap, collected money for the school’s football program. Kids ran around with sparklers in the fading light, and the whole scene could’ve been taken from a Ron Howard movie.

“So is the Harvest Festival always on a Monday night?” I asked. Hard to believe it was only Monday—I felt as though I’d been in the car with Nick for years, but Monday evening it was.

“Oh, gosh no,” Margie said. “It was supposed to be Saturday, but oh, we had quite a storm blow through! And here there was that cloudburst today, I nearly wet myself, Harper, I did, thinking we were gonna have to reschedule again! But the Lord must’ve heard my prayers, because it just turned out fine, didn’t it?”

“It did. And the weather couldn’t be prettier,” I agreed.

“Well, it’s a little nippy, that’s for sure. I’ll have to bring my plants in tonight. Might be a frost, can you believe it?”

I smiled. I found myself a little in love with Harold, North Dakota, to be honest. Granted, I’d only had Nick to talk to these past couple of days, but these people had to be the friendliest, nicest people ever. Martha’s Vineyard wasn’t exactly a simmering hotbed of evil and malice, of course…but it was an extremely wealthy area, and with great gobs of money came a lot of…well, let’s be honest. Snootiness. Here, life seemed a bit more even, more clearly defined, which was, I admitted, ridiculously condescending and naive of me. Wishful thinking. Then again, I was only here for the night, and if I wanted to cling to some stereotypes, there was probably no harm in that.

“Can I take your dog for a walk around the church?” a girl asked. She was about twelve, tall and slender, hair in French braids. My mom had braided my hair that way when I was small. “I’m very responsible,” she added.

“Well, in that case, sure,” I said. The girl thanked me and roused Coco, who leaped up with joy at the sight of another fan.

“Your fella’s quite a looker, isn’t he?” Margie commented.

Oh. Right. One more thing about Harold, N.D. Everyone here was under the impression that Nick and I were married, despite the fact that neither of us wore a ring. I hadn’t corrected that impression, and though Nick and I hadn’t talked much since Deacon picked us up, I was pretty sure he was letting it ride, too.

I glanced over now at Nick. He was a looker, all right, standing there with his hands in his pockets, an easy half smile on his face as he talked to the mechanic and Deacon. Dennis was undeniably gorgeous, but Nick… Nick did things to me.

“How long have you two been together?” Margie asked.

“We got married when I was twenty-one,” I said. “\ There. Not a lie. Let them think we were married. Introducing the facts…that would diminish the glow of this sweet night.

“Any kids?” another lady asked.

For a second, the image of a dark-haired, brown-eyed boy appeared in front of me. He’d be skinny. Impish, irresistible smile. The kid would get away with murder and I’d let him, because he’d look just like his daddy…“Nope. No kids.”

“There’s still time,” an older lady said.

“You betcha,” I answered.

“But you better get on that, don’tcha know,” she added. “No time to waste.”

As if aware that I was lying about him, Nick turned his head and met my eyes. Boom. There it was, that locked-in feeling, like two magnets that had been quivering around each other before the forces of nature finally smacked them together. For a long moment, we just looked at each other. Then I smiled, reluctantly, maybe, and Nick started over to our corner of the lot.

“Breaking up marriages again, darling?” he asked.

“Your wife has been so patient there, Nick!” Margie exclaimed. “Oh, Harper, you’re a good sport, aren’tcha? Now, I have to run over there and get those boys up on stage. If they don’t start playing soon, people’ll go home. See you later, kids!”

The remaining two ladies wandered off as well, leaving Nick and me and my hot dish alone together.

“Care for some soda pop?” I asked.

“Wife, huh?” He cocked an eyebrow.

I shrugged. May have blushed. Then the microphone squeaked, and a man’s voice came over the PA. “Folks, let’s get things started off, how’d that be? Here’s a classic—Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy.’”

“Want to dance, wife?” Nick said.

“Not really,” I said.

“Great.” He took my hand and towed me to the dance area, which was outlined with hay bales.

“Typical of you, ignoring my opinion and doing what you want anyway,” I muttered as he put his hand on my waist.

“Shush, woman, you’re ruining the moment,” he said, pulling me a little closer.

There were a few other couples out there. The little girl who’d taken Coco was now dancing with my dog, and Coco was apparently all for it, since she had her head on the girl’s shoulder, braid in her mouth. The white steeple of the Lutheran church glowed against the cobalt sky. And despite the fact that Nick wore my last nerve down to a nub, my heart was nonetheless fluttering away like it was 1950 and this was the prom.

Nick was smiling that faint, wry smile that turned his eyes from tragic to mischievous, as if we had a secret that only we knew. He wasn’t much taller than I was, and I had a disconcerting view of his face, those too-seeing eyes. I moved a little closer so I wouldn’t have to look right at him…mistake. Now I could feel his heat, and he held me a little tighter. His neck was right there, next to my cheek, and the urge to bury my face there, kiss the hot, velvety skin—damn. My eyes closed. No one had ever felt this good. No one had ever felt this right.

“Hey there, Harper and Nick. Didja meet my husband, Al? Al, this is that nice couple who broke down out on Route 2.”

“Hello,” I said.

“How are ya?” Al said.

Nick released my hand to shake Al’s. “We’re great,” he said. “Lovely town you live in.”

They smiled in unison. “Oh, we couldn’t agree with you more, there, Nick,” Margie beamed. “It’s so nice to have you kids join us.”

“That it is,” Al agreed, winking.

They swayed away, and Nick took my hand once more.

“How’s the car?” I asked briskly and not at all as if I was melting from the bones out.

“Well,” he said softly, and we were now so close that I could feel the vibration in his chest as he spoke, and my knees went weak with longing, “Lars said we—and by we, I mean you, of course—ripped out a hose.” His arm tightened a little—my imagination? “But he thinks he can either replace it or patch it enough to get the car running. We should be good to go.”

“Good to go. Good. That’s good. Great,” I breathed. “Excellent.”

Crazy for crying, crazy for trying, crazy for loving you.

You said it, Patsy. Nick + Harper = Disaster. Been there, done that, had significant emotional scarring from said event. But it was easy to ignore in this moment, Nick’s arm around my waist, his clean, spicy smell, the gentle rasp of his unshaven cheek against mine, the slide of muscle under his warm skin. He held my hand the way he always had. With certainty. With commitment. As if I belonged to him.

I swallowed, then gulped in a quick breath of the cool night air. The band had morphed into another sweetly melancholy song. “I’m Not Supposed to Love You Anymore.” If that wasn’t the voice of God, I didn’t know what was.

I stepped back. “That was nice. Thanks, Nick,” I said, my voice a little loud. “I better find Coco.” And without giving myself the chance to do something stupid, I slipped off to reclaim my dog and some peace of mind.

DEACON MCCABE’S HOUSE was a tiny little one-story house in the middle of a lot of land. There were a few trees clustered around the house, and the earlier storm appeared to have stripped them of their leaves. Margie had been right—it had turned quite cold, and the wind gusted around the house, swaying the squat little bushes that crouched outside the door. I picked up Coco and kissed her head. Wondered what she thought of our strange little trip.

Inside the house, the living room was decorated with knotty pine paneling and mounted elk heads, which made Coco growl most adorably. Orange shag carpeting, a woodstove that, judging from the chilly temperature, had gone out some time ago. A pug came trotting in to greet its master, and Deacon bent down. “Lilly, this here is Coco and her mommy and daddy,” he said, scooping up the chubby little package of dog. Lilly made wheezing, snuffling noises at my dog. Coco gave me a quick Chihuahua look…Seriously? I have to let this thing slobber on me?…but then decided to allow Lilly a few ecstatic licks, which delighted the pug no end.

“The wife’ll be in bed already,” Deacon said, scratching his dog’s head, causing Lilly to wriggle madly with joy. “She’ll be sorry to miss you tonight—her rheumatism was acting up, which is why she skipped out on the festival. A shame. But she’ll be eager to meetcha come morning. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get you folks settled and hit the hay myself.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said.

“We’re both beat,” Nick said, cutting a glance at me. It was nine-thirty.

“I’ll take you into town in the morning, Lars should have you all set up,” he said, ushering us down a narrow hallway. He stopped, reached into a room and flicked on the light. I jumped back a little. Behind me, Nick made a strangled noise.

The room contained a double bed, a small bureau and…um…well…

“Wife’s kinda devout,” Deacon said by way of explanation. “This room’s her, uh, special place. Sorry if it’s a little chilly in here.”

“No, it’s great,” Nick said in a carefully controlled voice. The room was, in fact, frigid.

“You and your wife are so nice to put us up,” I added. It was true, of course.

“We really appreciate it,” Nick seconded, tearing his eyes off the decor. “Hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, not at all. Well now, there are clean towels in the bathroom,” Deacon said. “You need anything, you just let me know, all right?” He took a deep breath, surveying the room as if seeing it for the first time, gave his head a little shake. “Okeydokey then. Good night, you two.”

The door closed, and Nick and I just…well, we just took it in.

Pictures—dozens of them—of a blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus decorated the walls, and apparently, Jesus had a very strong resemblance to Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall. Amen!

“Is it wrong to find the Lord attractive?” I asked, earning a rush of Nick’s warm laughter as reward. I turned in a slow circle…more Jesus. Wow. And not only pictures, but, oh gosh, a small area where unlit candles sat on a long, low table in front of the biggest crosses I’d ever seen outside a church. A big church.

“Think they’re planning to crucify us?” Nick whispered, his eyes bright with laughter. He set our suitcases down. “I mean, what do we really know about these people?”

There was only one bed. One small double bed that, had Nick and I actually still been married, would’ve been quite cozy. I set Coco down, and she jumped right onto a pillow, as was her custom. She curled into a ball and ignored the two of us and our silent machinations.

Then, as if reading my mind, Nick said, “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep…on the, uh…altar.” A squeak of laughter escaped from me, and Nick gave me a lightning grin.

I sobered up a bit. “I’m gonna brush my teeth. Back in a flash.”

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The past few days had taken their toll; I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and I wasn’t about to get one, either. Shadows lurked under my eyes, and out of its ponytail, my hair looked scraggly. Good. The last thing I wanted right now was to look alluring in any way, shape or form.

Of course, in the movies, this was where the hero and heroine hooked up, trapped in some little motel or whatever. But Nick and I were not going to hook up. “You and Nick—not gonna hook up,” I whispered to my reflection, just in case I forgot. Because come on. Nick stirred things in me, damn the man. Once I’d become turned on watching him empty the trash. I’m serious.

With a sigh, I scrubbed my face without tenderness or mercy, brushed my teeth and pulled on my pajama bottoms, which were bright yellow and printed with laughing monkey faces. About as unglam as you could get, luckily. A vast Red Sox sweatshirt (my Christmas present from Dennis) completed the don’t touch me look, about as close to a chastity belt as I could manage at the moment.

Nick was in the hall when I came out, toothbrush in hand, and we did that awkward step-to-the-left-step-to-the-right dance for a second until he grabbed my shoulders and just held me still, hands warm and strong, causing my girl parts to croon. He brushed past me with a half smile and went into the loo.

Sober up, Harper, I told myself briskly, dragging my gaze off the bathroom door. Was he shaving in there? If so, I was a goner, because honestly, was there anything sexier than a man shaving? Was he brushing his teeth? Frooow. Granted, he could be hunched over the toilet, retching, and I probably would’ve found him incredibly hot.

“You’re pathetic,” I muttered, shaking my head at my own stupidity.

Back into the bedroom. Under the Brad-like gaze of Jesus, I climbed into bed, lifting up Coco and earning her please don’t beat me look. “Warm my feet, doggy,” I whispered, setting her down. “It’s freezing.” Then I pulled the covers to my chin. The bed was comfy, if icy. I’d always hated getting into a cold bed, the shock of the sheets bringing on dramatic bouts of shivering that I was unable to control. I huddled under the blankets, waiting to get warm. Coco, deciding that she really wasn’t the foot-warming type, moved to another corner of the bed, faithless diva that she was.

It was very quiet out here on the outskirts of town, on the prairie. The wind blustered outside, and the branch of a tree tapped against the window. In my little cocoon of blankets, the sheets smelled sharply fresh and clean, a testament to line-drying, but the usually lovely scent failed this time to slow my thudding heart.

A minute later, Nick came back into the room, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to see him, chicken that I was, then opened them. He wore plain green pajama bottoms and a faded Yankees T-shirt, thank God.

When we were married, he’d always slept in the buff. And I’d always worn one of his shirts, which he’d always enjoyed removing. Which I’d always quite enjoyed him removing.

This is the kind of rhetoric that leads to certain disaster, I told myself. Swallowed. Tried looking at Brad at Gethsemane to dull the thoughts of Nick and me back in the good old days.

Nick sighed, ran a hand through his unruly hair and went over to the other side of the bed. He took the other pillow off the unoccupied side of the bed and opened the closet. Withdrew a blanket and looked at me for a second. “You all set?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” I answered.

“Goodnight, then,” he said. “Night.”

He turned off the light, and shafts of cold white moonlight sliced into the room. I listened as Nick lay down on the floor, there in front of the makeshift altar.

The wind gusted again. Coco sighed.

One blanket.

It was awfully cold in here.

“Nick.”

“Yeah?” The answer came instantly, and my heart clenched.

“Come to bed,” I said, my voice blessedly matter-of-fact. “It’s too cold to sleep on the floor.”

There was a pause. “You sure?”

“Yep.”

Mistake, dumbass, my brain told me in no uncertain terms. But crap. It wasn’t as if we were hormone-inflamed teenagers. We weren’t about to sleep together—well, of course we actually were, but nothing more. My goodness, you’re stupid, Brain informed me, and it was true. If a client had told me she was about to let her ex climb into bed with her, I would’ve been screechingly against it. But this was different (as all women tell themselves right before they make a huge mistake). This was just a mission of mercy.

The bed creaked as Nick got in. Coco gave a tiny growl, then jumped off the bed, disgusted that we’d had the nerve to disturb her. I lay on my side, facing away from Nick, a good foot between us, but I could already feel his warmth over there, like the sun, taunting me.

“Thanks,” Nick said.

“Oh, sure. It’s nothing. Couldn’t let you freeze, not with Jesus watching.” I grimaced in the dark, glad he couldn’t see my burning face. “You cold?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Nice and toasty.”

“You’re freezing,” he stated.

“No, I’m good.” My feet were blocks of ice.

“Admit it. You’re dying over there.”

“I’m not. Very much alive.”

Then his foot slid over and touched mine. “You call that alive?” he asked, and then the covers rustled and his arm was around me, my back against his chest, his hand smoothing back my hair.

My throat tightened, and the nearness of him, the only man who ever made me feel cherished…it just sucker-punched my heart.

“Sleep tight,” I whispered.

“You, too.”

God, I’d missed him.

Nick was quiet, his skin as warm as I was cold. We lay like that for a long while, not talking, not moving. The wind blew, Coco adjusted herself and gave a little doggy snore. Nick’s breathing was slow and even, and this…the two of us lying together, was as comforting and wonderful as anything I’d ever felt. And horrible, because it brought such a pain to my heart. We’d had something special and rare, Nick and I. There’d been more to our marriage than loneliness and tunnel vision and wretched communication skills. There’d been times like this, lying together in the dark, together. Those times hadn’t been enough…but they’d been so precious nonetheless.

When I was sure he was asleep, I touched his hand. Just a little, just a little brush of my fingertips against the back of his lovely, wonderful hand.

“You asked why I couldn’t forgive you,” Nick said, very quietly, and I jumped a little. “It was because you were the love of my life, Harper. And you didn’t want to be. That’s hard to let go.”

The words were like a ragged shard of glass in my heart. I swallowed, the sound loud in the dark. “That’s not exactly true, Nick,” I whispered, turning around to face him. “I did want that. But…”

But what? I’d loved him with all my tattered, puny heart, but the fear I’d felt had trapped it inside, stunting me, ruining us. “It would’ve been easier to believe if you’d been around a little, Nick. If you’d…helped me believe it.”

He nodded, and that surprised me. “You’re right. My hours didn’t help. But I thought once we were married, you’d feel…safer.” He stopped, gave a rueful shake of his head. “I’ll tell you something, Harpy,” he said, his voice almost a whisper now. “It never even occurred to me that we wouldn’t make it. And it never occurred to you that we would. You were just waiting for us to go down in flames. I thought we could get through anything.”

“Except you left me, Nick,” I whispered, my heart tight. “That night. You packed your things and left.”

“I needed to cool off, Harper. I was staying with a friend for a couple days. I never would’ve asked for a divorce. You know that. You, though…you saw a lawyer the next day, Harper. The next day.”

For the first time in a long, long time, I felt as if I might actually cry. Instead, I gave a half nod of acknowledgment. Coco must’ve sensed her mommy was close to the edge, because she jumped up on the bed and wormed herself against my legs.

“Can I ask you something else?” Nick’s voice was very soft and horribly gentle.

“Oh, of course,” I whispered. “Why not?”

He gave a little smile at that, and then grew serious once more. “When I asked you to marry me, Harper…why did you say yes?”

Oh, God. This wasn’t scab-ripping. This was a bone-marrow harvest. “Nick…” My voice was uneven, and I stopped.

“I know you loved me,” he said, his eyes steady. “But you didn’t want to get married, that was clear in hindsight. So why did you say yes?”

“I couldn’t say no,” I blurted, the truth rushing out. “I didn’t want to…hurt you.”

“It hurt when you divorced me,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I know! I know it.” I lowered my voice so as not to wake the McCabes. “And you’re right. I knew it was just a matter of time before things blew up in our faces, but I couldn’t figure out how to say no and still keep you, and so…I just…went along.”

He looked away for a second. Scrubbed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end, then looked back at me, his eyes sad. Very, very sad. “Okay. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For telling me the truth.”

There was nothing left to say.

How unspeakably sad that small, hard fact was, so awful and so true. Love hadn’t been enough to save us, and though the thought wasn’t new to me, the world suddenly seemed awfully big and empty and hollow nonetheless.

Carefully, slowly, I turned back on my side. Nick put his arm around me once more, and his breath tickled the hair on my neck. Coco sighed.

I lay there, watching the blue numbers of the digital clock change as the moonlight slid across the room. Eventually, Nick’s breathing slowed, and his hand twitched, telling me he was asleep at last.

But I stayed awake for a long, long time, not wanting to fall asleep, because tonight was the last night of the two of us.