Montana Mavericks 05-08

Montana Mavericks: Books 5-8 Jackie Merritt Pat Warren Rebecca Daniels Helen R. Myers

Published by Silhouette Books

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

Contents The Rancher Takes a Wife Outlaw Lovers Way of the Wolf The Law is no Lady Copyright About the Author Coming Next Month

The Rancher Takes a Wife Jackie Merritt

Published by Silhouette Books

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

One It was a hot day in August. Melissa Avery opened the front

door of her restaurant, the Hip Hop Cafe´. The ceiling fans were stirring the inside air, but she hoped to catch a breeze from outside. Her building didn’t have air-conditioning, which was a problem she intended to rectify when her expansion plans came to fruition. It was midafternoon, the least busy time of day for the cafe´. Melissa turned to one of her waitresses. ‘‘I’m going to leave the door open, Wanda.’’ She smiled teasingly. ‘‘This heat makes me feel like playing hooky.’’ Wanda merely laughed. Melissa could play hooky any day she pleased, but she rarely did. Wanda had never worked for anyone so dedicated to her business as Melissa was. But it was probably that very dedication that explained the Hip Hop’s success. Of course, the town of Whitehorn, Montana had never had a restaurant quite like it before, either. Wanda loved the way Melissa had decorated the place, and so, it seemed, did the Hip Hop’s many repeat customers. Melissa returned to the booth she’d been using before opening the door. On the table was a scattering of notebooks, cookbooks and grocery lists. It was at this time of day that she often planned menus and food purchases, enjoying the task with a cup of herbal tea she bought specially blended from a company in San Francisco. Today the tea was in a tall glass, sharing space with a half-dozen ice cubes. There were only a few patrons in the place, and Melissa

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smiled at the couple seated at a table in the far corner. Picking up her glass, she took a sip of tea and looked at the bright sunlight outside. She really did feel like doing something silly on this beautiful day, like maybe scampering through a field of wildflowers. Shaking her head at the inane image, though with good humor, she set down her glass in preparation for getting back to work. At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, a tall man with broad shoulders and long legs. He was dressed in jeans, boots and a white, Western-cut shirt. There was a big hat on his head, and dark sunglasses concealed the upper half of his face. It had been almost ten years since Melissa had set eyes on Wyatt North, but she recognized him immediately. She became statue still, not by choice but because of utter shock. Wyatt walking in like this had never once entered her mind. He didn’t even live around here anymore, or so she’d heard. Since his marriage six years ago he’d been living in Helena. To her intense relief, he never even glanced her way. He walked over to the counter, sat on a stool and picked up a menu. Wanda was there immediately. Melissa could hear every word they spoke. ‘‘Hi,’’ Wanda said. ‘‘Coffee?’’ ‘‘Iced tea, I think, and...’’ Wyatt took off his dark glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. ‘‘What kind of pie do you have?’’ ‘‘Apple, cherry and banana cream. Homemade.’’ Wyatt grinned dubiously. ‘‘I’ve heard that one before.’’ ‘‘Not from me, you haven’t. I remember faces very well, and you’ve never been in here on my shift.’’ ‘‘Never been in here on anyone’s shift. Seems like a nice little place, but—’’ he leaned forward ‘‘—do you mind telling me who decorated it? It’s got something from every decade of the twentieth century. Couldn’t the owner decide what he wanted it to be when it grew up?’’ He chuckled at his own wit. Wanda’s chin lifted, as though instead of making a joke,

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he’d insulted her. ‘‘Our pie is homemade and delicious. Do you want some or don’t you?’’ Melissa gave Wanda a mental pat on the back. The Hip Hop was decorated eclectically. But she hadn’t wanted just another run-of-the-mill, small-town cafe´, and she thought she had blended the antique and modern pieces quite tastefully. Besides, she didn’t care if Wyatt North liked it or not. Much more important to think about was if it were possible for Wyatt to sit there, eat a piece of pie, pay his tab and leave without noticing her. If she got up and left the booth, there was no way he would miss seeing her. Maybe she could crawl under the table until he left. God, she silently groaned, dropping her forehead into her left hand to hide her face, just in case he should glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t that she was afraid of seeing Wyatt, she just didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to be polite to him, to smile and pretend that she didn’t despise him. Worse, to pretend that there wasn’t any reason why she shouldn’t despise him. ‘‘Give me a piece of the banana cream,’’ Wyatt said to Wanda, who dutifully wrote his request on her order pad. ‘‘Iced tea and banana cream pie,’’ she mouthed as she wrote. ‘‘Coming right up.’’ She walked away. Wyatt began looking around. The long chrome counter amused him, though it had to be forty years old and was probably quite valuable. He recalled that the place used to be owned by a grumpy old guy who’d made it clear to the high-school crowd that he didn’t like teenagers hanging around. Not that Whitehorn teenagers had wanted to hang around. Back then the cafe´ had been dingy and colorless, and had served greasy hamburgers and soda in the can. There’d been much better places to buy burgers and sodas— the Whirl-In Drive-In, for one. A nostalgic smile tipped the corner of Wyatt’s mouth. He hadn’t thought of the Whirl-In in ages. Was it still there? Maybe he’d drive by the site and find out after he left here. Wanda delivered his order. ‘‘Here you are, sir. Enjoy.’’

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Melissa was all but holding her breath in the booth. Wyatt not turning enough to spot her when he’d looked around must qualify as a minor miracle. But just then the telephone rang. She closed her eyes as a horrifying premonition hit her. Sure enough, after answering the phone, Wanda called, ‘‘Melissa, it’s for you.’’ There was no eluding a face-to-face now, Melissa thought disgustedly as she slid from the booth and walked behind the counter to the telephone. Wyatt had a bite of pie halfway to his mouth. His hand stopped in midair, though he gulped as though he’d taken that bite and needed to swallow it. Melissa had turned her back on him to speak into the phone, but his wide, startled eyes were taking in her long lean build in a flowing print skirt and blouse. Her hair was in a French braid, its tip almost reaching her waist. Melissa...dear God...it was Melissa. He slowly lowered the fork to his plate. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d walked in here and missed seeing her. Where had she been sitting? Swiveling his stool, he spotted the booth with the papers spread across the table. She’d seen him come in—how could she have not?—and had given no sign. Swiveling back, he locked his gaze on her again. His stomach muscles ached with tension. The pie was good, homemade as the waitress had promised, but there was no way he’d be able to finish eating it. A hundred, a thousand times he’d thought of someday seeing Melissa again, but not like this, never like this. Not in a public place with neither of them prepared. When had she returned to Whitehorn? What was she doing in this little cafe´, with papers and books strewn on a table? ‘‘Thank you,’’ Melissa said quietly into the phone. ‘‘Goodbye.’’ With deliberate caution, she placed the handset onto the receiver. Her stomach was cramping. She had to turn around and face Wyatt. She had to say hello, and maybe ask how he was. A chill went up her spine, causing her skin to ripple with goose bumps. The air no longer felt warm.

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As she turned, she was aware of him getting to his feet. ‘‘Hello, Melissa.’’ Her gaze flicked over his face, then dropped to his shirtfront. ‘‘Hello, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘How are you?’’ Look at me! Look into my eyes! ‘‘Just fine. And you?’’ How dare you enter my cafe´ and expect courtesy from me? She was so beautiful, Wyatt realized, unable to stop staring at her. As a girl she’d been pretty, but her beauty now stunned him. Her coloring—gleaming dark hair, deep blue eyes and skin like rich cream—was a shock to his nervous system. Had it always been so? Something else was stunning him—the unexpected situation?—making him feel as though his feet had lost the strength to carry him out of there and that his brain wasn’t functioning well enough for him to speak intelligently. ‘‘Uh...you’re looking well,’’ he stammered. Then, miraculously, he thought of a reasonable question. ‘‘Are you living in Whitehorn again?’’ Melissa was aware of Wanda and the other waitress standing at the opposite end of the counter, furtively watching and listening. Naturally, they were curious, since she was behaving so differently than she normally did with customers. But she couldn’t smile at Wyatt. She just couldn’t, even if she had been forced to speak to him. ‘‘I’ve been back for about eighteen months. About a year and a half,’’ she added unnecessarily. ‘‘I’m living here again, too,’’ Wyatt said, his voice low and laden with tension. ‘‘On the ranch, I mean. Not in town.’’ ‘‘Oh?’’ Why would you think I’d be interested? ‘‘You’ll have to excuse me, Wyatt. I have a hundred things to do before the dinner rush.’’ Melissa walked around the end of the counter and continued on to the booth she’d been using. Nervously, she began gathering up her books and papers. ‘‘Melissa...’’ She whirled, startled to find that he was

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right behind her. ‘‘Give me ten minutes,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Outside.’’ She flushed. ‘‘I don’t have ten minutes. I told you—’’ ‘‘I know what you told me. Melissa, I’m so surprised to see you. Couldn’t we talk for just a few minutes?’’ Everyone in the place was watching, she realized, not only the waitresses. Her chin rose. ‘‘Some other time, Wyatt.’’ With her books and papers stacked in her arms, she swept past him and kept going through the swinging door to the kitchen. Wyatt stood where she’d left him, near the vacant booth. Memories bombarded him, and he couldn’t escape them to think clearly. Several moments passed while he tried to get his bearings, but finally he realized that the cafe´ was deathly still and the handful of patrons and the two waitresses were all staring at him. Walking over to the counter where his half-eaten pie and tea were waiting, he dug into his jeans and came out with a ten-dollar bill. ‘‘That should cover my order,’’ he said to Wanda. ‘‘Keep the change.’’ Crossing the room to the door, he stepped outside and stopped in the sunshine to put on his dark glasses. As shocks went, the past few minutes had been a beaut. Looking up the street, then down—why, he didn’t know—he strode to his pickup and got in. Starting the motor, he pulled away from the curb and drove to the edge of town, where he turned into the large parking lot of a farm-equipment dealer. Parking as far from any other vehicle as he could get, he switched off the ignition and at long last permitted the pain in his gut to spread throughout his body. Groaning aloud, he put his arms around the steering wheel and buried his face in them. Melissa...Melissa...I’m so sorry, so damned sorry. There was a minuscule, windowless—which was why she rarely used it—office off the kitchen, and Melissa went into it, snapped on the ceiling light, closed the door, dropped her

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books and papers on the tiny desk, then fell into the chair behind it. Every cell in her body was trembling. Her hands, shaking so badly she couldn’t keep them still, traveled from her face to the arms of her chair, then fluttered over the items on the desktop. She finally clenched her fingers into fists, forcing them to stop quivering. But she couldn’t stop the turmoil inside her and eventually she put her head down on the desk and collapsed into tears. She’d walked right past her employees without a word, something she never did. What must her staff think? But was that why she was crying—because her cook and waitresses and a few customers had witnessed her unfriendliness with Wyatt? That was an absurd idea. Everyone was entitled to an occasional lapse of good manners. Eyes dripping, Melissa got up. With her arms wrapped around herself, she paced the floor of the small office. How could he speak to her as though they were merely old acquaintances running into each other? How dare he ask for ten minutes of her time to talk? What did he think they had to say to one another? Remembering that he’d said he lived on the ranch again, she groaned. They were bound to end up in the same place at the same time on occasion in this small town. She had to keep her wits about her and react more normally the next time they met. He knew he’d hurt her; he didn’t need to know that the pain had never subsided. Her trembling had, however, she realized gratefully. In fact, she felt much calmer, even deep inside where the pain resided so tenaciously. She sat at the desk and took a long, slow breath, calming herself even further. Without the agony that her brain had suffered only a few minutes ago, she was able to relive the scene in the cafe´ from a less-personal point of view. In retrospect, she hadn’t behaved that badly. She had said a civil hello and asked how he was. It was sufficient conversation for a first meeting after so many

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years, even if her normal buoyancy had been completely absent. Besides, she thought with a toss of her head, she really didn’t care how anyone in the cafe´—especially Wyatt—had interpreted the episode. Hopefully he’d gotten the message that she had no intention of ever having that talk with him. Let him go home and talk to his wife. Let her soothe his ego. Never was Melissa going to tell him that what he’d done six years ago was all right; maybe his wife could reassure him on that subject. Eventually Wyatt’s blue funk diminished enough for him to start his truck and leave the equipment dealer’s parking lot. Before stopping at the Hip Hop, he’d been driving around Whitehorn checking on the changes that had taken place during his absence. He’d been enjoying himself, admitting that from the moment he and Shannon had agreed on a divorce he’d felt as if a ten-ton burden had vanished. Moving back to the ranch for good about a week ago had been one of the high points of his life, and he’d just been enjoying this beautiful summer day, breathing in the warm air and reveling in his sense of freedom. He was no longer reveling. He was no longer enjoying the weather or the innocuous tour of Whitehorn. Melissa was back, and that was something he couldn’t have dreamed up in a million years. What fate had decreed he should notice the Hip Hop Cafe´’s sign, think it a clever name and decide to stop for a cold drink? While he no longer enjoyed seeing the sights of Whitehorn, he didn’t want to go back to the ranch—Melissa was here, in town—so he kept turning corners and listlessly checking out whatever street he was on. Instinct—or some mysterious malady—brought him to the high school, and without plan or reason, he pulled the truck to the curb and turned off the motor. For a while he merely stared blankly at the silent school, then old memories began churning in his brain. He sighed

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heavily and despondently. He had started dating Melissa when he was a junior and she a sophomore. They had clicked in so many ways, liking the same kind of music, the same dumb jokes. She was pretty and smart, and he’d fallen hard for her long legs and wry sense of humor. Because his last name was also a direction—North—she would pretend to forget which direction, and in passing each other in the hall she’d often call out, ‘‘Hi, East,’’ or ‘‘West’’ or ‘‘South.’’ He’d laugh and she’d laugh, and he’d go on to his next class feeling good. That year and the following flicked through Wyatt’s mind—the dances, the football and basketball games, the dates that had consisted of a movie and a stop at the WhirlIn before he’d taken Melissa home to meet her curfew. Melissa’s father had disappeared when she was a little girl, and Nan Avery, her mother, was overly strict with her only daughter. At least Wyatt had always thought so. His own dad was a widower, but Simon North never had imposed a curfew on his only child. Still, the North and Avery families were too dissimilar to make comparisons. Beneath Melissa’s jokes and laughter lay a sadness that very few people ever got to see. Wyatt had seen it, and after they had dated for a long time, she had talked about her father. She would never believe he’d just up and deserted his family the way her mother insisted he had, she’d told him. Something else happened, Wyatt, I know it, and someday I’m going to find out what it was. Wyatt suddenly sat up straighter. That was why Melissa was back in Whitehorn! He remembered reading that Charlie Avery’s remains had been found buried on the Laughing Horse Indian Reservation. Melissa had come back to unravel the mystery of her father’s death—he’d bet on it. Wyatt’s shoulders slumped again. No. The bones had been found in the spring and Melissa had already been here for over a year. Still, she was probably digging out the truth. The poor kid. She’d been so positive that Charlie would come back to her someday, and all along he’d been dead.

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Absently he watched an unfamiliar car use the school parking lot to turn around. Was there any chance at all that Melissa would ever forgive him? There was so much he yearned to tell her, if she would just talk to him. So many times in the past six years he’d thought of contacting her, or attempting to. Something had always stopped him. Call it honor, or a sense of responsibility, but after his son, Timmy, was born he’d felt duty bound to make his marriage work. Timmy had been the only bright spot during those years. Shannon, his soon-to-be ex-wife, was a shallow, selfish woman with a cutting personality that only softened when everything was going her way. Why draw Melissa into his misery? Even if he had decided in favor of contacting her, she probably wouldn’t have talked to him. Wyatt’s expression became grim with the memory of how she had treated him in the Hip Hop. Yet he couldn’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with him. He’d hurt her in the worst possible way a man could hurt a woman. Not by choice, for God’s sake. If he’d had any other option... Sighing, Wyatt turned the ignition key. There was little point in sitting here feeling sorry for himself. And he was tired of sightseeing, too. He decided to head on home. Melissa had fixed up the old apartment above the cafe´ as her living quarters. She had painted every wall eggshell white, and hung white shutters on the windows so she could push them open and bring in the sun. Decorating the apartment simply, with overstuffed furniture in pastel colors and lots of green plants, she had created a pleasant, comfortable home for herself. When the cafe´ closed at ten that evening as usual, Melissa wearily climbed the inside staircase to the apartment. There was also an outside staircase, which was handy at times, but mostly she used the one inside the building. Ordinarily she didn’t find 10:00 p.m. late, usually staying up until midnight. Tonight, however, she went immediately to her bathroom, threw off her clothes, took a shower and crawled into

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bed. From the time she entered the apartment until she pulled the top sheet and summer-weight blanket up to her chin, no more than ten minutes had passed. She closed her eyes and saw Wyatt North. Sudden fury engulfed her, and she got up, opened the window about six inches, climbed back into bed and glared at the dark ceiling. Damn him! Why had he moved back to the ranch? His wife was in some way involved with state politics, she’d heard, and the Whitehorn area wasn’t exactly a hotbed of political activity. One would think that Mrs. Wyatt North would find the ranch rather dull. Frowning, Melissa speculated on that idea. Maybe Wyatt had insisted on moving back because of his child. Maybe there was more than one by now, and he wanted to raise his children on the ranch where he’d grown up. But she knew for sure only about his first child and couldn’t help wondering, as she’d done many times in the past, if it was a boy or a girl. When she’d returned to Whitehorn, she’d thought of going to the library and looking up old editions of the Helena paper to see if there were any photos published of Wyatt’s wedding, just so she could get a glimpse of his wife. She’d been so tempted, in fact, that one day she’d found herself on the steps of the library. For some reason she’d come to her senses before going inside. It didn’t matter if his wife was beautiful or plain, damn it— it simply didn’t matter. What was wrong with her? That had been Melissa’s one and only serious lapse into the past. She’d gotten on with her own life, buying Billy Struthers’s old cafe´ and refurbishing it into something not only tasteful but attractive. Restaurant work was what she’d done in California, eventually becoming manager of a small but chic cafe´, so it only made sense to her to continue doing what she knew best. Until today she’d been...well, almost happy. Not with the investigation of her father’s death—that was moving so slowly Melissa could hardly bear it. But her work was satisfying and she even had plans to expand her business.

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Now, she thought, staring into the dark, nothing would ever be the same again. She would be forever looking over her shoulder, dreading another confrontation with Wyatt. Worse, a confrontation with Wyatt and his wife. The thought of meeting the two of them on the street was horrifying. She didn’t want to be introduced as an old friend, and what else would Wyatt be able to call her? ‘‘Honey, this is the woman I was engaged to before you and I got married.’’ It was a preposterous supposition, but heartrending. Tears filled Melissa’s eyes again, angering her. She’d done her crying six years ago, and she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life shedding tears every time Wyatt invaded her space. Brushing them away with a hardened expression, she turned over in bed and forced her thoughts to go elsewhere. She had lots to think about, the expansion of her cafe´ and the unsolved death of her father in particular. Wyatt North was not going to disrupt her life, and that was a vow.

Two At least twice a week Melissa put aside her duties at the cafe´ and drove to the sheriff’s office to converse with Sheriff Judd Hensley about the death of her father, Charlie Avery. ‘‘Of course it was murder,’’ Melissa said with some pique, when Judd announced the possibility again, as though for the first time. ‘‘The whole town knows it was murder. My father didn’t bury himself out there on the reservation. But Judd—’’ she leaned forward ‘‘—there has to be some clues to who did it, and nobody’s found anything substantial.’’ Judd sighed. He understood Melissa’s persistence and at times even admired it, but he couldn’t manufacture clues just to appease her. ‘‘Melissa, it’s been over twenty years since whatever happened out there took place. Besides, you know that Tracy’s in charge of the investigation. She’s the one you should be talking to.’’ Tracy was an FBI agent and Judd’s wife. Theirs was a convoluted story. Married to each other at a young age, they had divorced when the death of their son had driven them apart. Tracy’d left Montana and, to Judd’s surprise, had joined the FBI. Many years passed until, because she was familiar with the area, she’d been assigned to work on the mysterious human bones found by George Sweetwater on the Laughing Horse Reservation. Judd really had no authority to get involved in Indian affairs, but it had come as no small shock to him that the FBI agent sent to investigate the old murder had been his ex-wife. It still amazed him

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that they’d fallen in love again and remarried, though he was certainly happy about it. ‘‘I do talk to Tracy, which I’m sure you know very well,’’ Melissa replied. Tracy’s office was just next door to Judd’s. ‘‘I also talk to Sterling McCallum, Rafe Rawlings and anyone else who has the remotest connection to the investigation. I just can’t understand what’s taking so long.’’ ‘‘Real-life murder investigations aren’t like TV shows, Melissa.’’ ‘‘Well, of course they’re not, but one would think...’’ She closed her mouth. Maybe she was haranguing Judd and Tracy too much. They were both experienced, capable officers of the law and were undoubtedly doing their utmost to solve the long-ago crime. ‘‘I’m sorry, Judd.’’ Forcing a smile, Melissa got to her feet. ‘‘Is it all right if I keep coming around? I know it’s an obsession on my part, but I have to keep abreast of the investigation.’’ Judd stood. ‘‘Come around anytime you want, Melissa, but I guarantee you’ll be the first to know if and when we find out anything important.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Judd.’’ Every time Melissa talked to either Judd or Tracy, she left the meeting feeling frustrated. It was true what she’d told Judd about being obsessed with the investigation. Even though she sometimes sensed annoyance from him, Tracy or anyone else in the law-enforcement community she could pin down to discuss the case, she couldn’t stay distanced from it. From the day of her father’s disappearance she hadn’t believed that he’d merely run off and deserted his family. But by the same token, she hadn’t imagined him as a murder victim. Someone had killed him deliberately, purposely taking his life. It was so abhorrent to Melissa, so difficult to accept, that she often had nightmares about it. Her mother, on the other hand, had received the news quite calmly. ‘‘Mark my words, Missy. When the law uncovers the murderer, there’ll be a woman involved.’’ Nan

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always had felt—and never hesitated to say—that there must be a woman somehow connected to the mysterious disappearance of her husband. Nan Avery had been unabashedly relieved when Judd Hensley had telephoned her in California with information about the body’s identification. ‘‘Now we can collect on your father’s insurance,’’ she had told Melissa. Charlie had possessed a sizable, paid-up life-insurance policy. However, it contained a clause that stipulated benefits would be paid to his beneficiaries only upon presentation of a death certificate. Now she had access to that all-important death certificate and could file a claim on the policy. Unquestionably, Nan needed the money. But Melissa had found her mother’s attitude crass and unfeeling. She’d grown up with Nan’s bitterness over being abandoned by her husband, and often Melissa and her brother had been at odds with their mother because of that bitterness. ‘‘Can’t you give Daddy the benefit of the doubt?’’ Melissa had often asked. ‘‘He wouldn’t just go off and leave us, Mother. And think about it. He didn’t take anything with him—not his clothes, no money from the bank, nothing.’’ Maybe she had always suspected some sort of foul play, Melissa thought with a sigh while getting into her car outside of the sheriff’s office. Oh, Daddy. What really happened to you? Wyatt couldn’t get Melissa out of his mind. He thought about her while riding his favorite horse, Sasha, to check on his cattle. Melissa’s image was in front of him when he sat down to eat, or when he was talking to his ranch hands, or when he spent time in his office paying bills. It didn’t matter what he did or where he went, Melissa was with him. He wanted to see her. He wanted her to smile at him with her old smile, the one that had made his heart sing. He wanted her to talk to him, to listen to all he had to say to her, and he wanted, desperately, to remind her of that eve-

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ning so long ago when she’d called him, weeping and panicked because her mother was moving them to California. Melissa had just started her senior year of high school. Wyatt had started college in Missoula. He’d been called to the phone in his dorm. ‘‘Wyatt North here.’’ ‘‘Wyatt...oh, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘Melissa? What’s wrong?’’ It took a minute for her sobs to slow down enough to speak. ‘‘Mother...Mother is moving us to California.’’ Wyatt remembered that his knees had gotten peculiarly weak. He’d asked her when this was going to happen, trying to sound calm and sensible. ‘‘The moving truck will be here tomorrow,’’ Melissa sobbed. ‘‘Tomorrow! That’s impossible. When did she decide?’’ ‘‘I don’t know. She only told me about it tonight. Oh, Wyatt, what are we going to do? I’ll miss you so. And I won’t even see you to say goodbye.’’ ‘‘Yes, you will. I’m on my way. Watch for me.’’ Wyatt had driven the nearly three hundred miles at top speed, risking a ticket every mile of the way. It was one o’clock in the morning when he pulled to a stop in front of Melissa’s house. Everything was dark, but he knew she would see his car. He switched off the headlights and waited. Then he saw her coming around from the back of the house, walking very quickly. He pushed the passenger door open and she got in. ‘‘Go somewhere,’’ she said, her voice husky from crying. Wyatt drove away. ‘‘How’re you doing?’’ he asked quietly. ‘‘Terrible.’’ Melissa began weeping again. ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop crying. I don’t want to move to California. I don’t want to move anywhere. I want to finish school here, and what if Daddy comes back and he can’t find us?’’ ‘‘And what about you and me?’’

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She slid across the seat to lay her head on his arm. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she whispered raggedly. ‘‘Melissa, I love you.’’ ‘‘Oh, Wyatt, I love you, too.’’ Wyatt kept thinking of that evening all of one day, and that night he poured himself a scotch and water and sat in his den, staring broodingly into space as he sipped and remembered. They’d been odd kids by today’s standards, he realized. They had dated for several years—gone steady—and had never made love beyond kissing and mild petting. But that night, holding Melissa—feeling both their pain over a separation beyond their control—he’d let their kisses evolve into a passion that neither had put the brakes on. It was a beautiful memory for Wyatt, full of youthful awkwardness and inexperience, but so tender, so genuine. Afterward they had talked. ‘‘Melissa, you can come back to Whitehorn after you graduate. We’ll only be apart until next spring.’’ They’d made dozens of promises and vows that night, about getting married the following summer, about loving each other into eternity. ‘‘We were so damned naive,’’ Wyatt mumbled before tossing back the remaining scotch in his glass and getting up for a refill. Melissa hadn’t come back in the spring as they’d planned. They talked on the phone. ‘‘Wyatt, I have to stay with Mother awhile longer. She has a job, but gets such low pay that she needs what I’m earning just to exist.’’ ‘‘It’s okay, honey. My father is very ill and I’ve got to take care of the ranch. This isn’t the end of our plans, just a temporary setback.’’ Simon North had never been a robust man, as his son was. Frail from birth, Simon had concentrated on academics and earned several degrees. While attending Stanford University in California, he’d met and married Sheila Winston, a soft-spoken, intelligent woman who loved him exactly as

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he was—a kind, mild-mannered, gentle man who had been completely honest with her about his short life expectancy. For reasons Simon never fully explained to his son, he and Sheila had decided to make their home in Montana. Simon had inherited a fortune from his grandparents and parents, so money wasn’t a problem. After a leisurely tour of the state, they’d chosen the Whitehorn area and had purchased two thousand acres of undeveloped land thirty-five miles east of town. They’d had a beautiful, sprawling home constructed on their property, along with barns, corrals and other structures necessary to a cattle operation. Yet they purchased a very small herd—about a hundred head—and ranched rather lackadaisically, enjoying each other and their large library instead. Simon hired two men to take care of the ranch work and two women to manage the house. Wyatt’s parents had been happily married for five years when Sheila became pregnant. In later years Simon told his son that he had felt a joy he never could have believed possible. He said that all during Sheila’s pregnancy he had prayed openly for a healthy child and secretly for a son. His prayers had been answered; Sheila gave birth to a lusty, eight-pound boy, whom they named Wyatt Simon North. Wyatt’s birth changed everything for the Norths. Simon built up the ranch to its maximum potential—for his son. When Wyatt was old enough, Simon bought the best horses available for his son to ride. He was profoundly thankful that Wyatt was all-boy and possessed the health and strength that had bypassed him, and he encouraged and supported Wyatt’s athletic abilities. Then, when Wyatt was twelve, his mother died. It was so ironic that Simon had been the unhealthy parent and Sheila, who had always enjoyed good health, died suddenly and without warning of a massive coronary. The light went out of Simon’s eyes after that, and though it wasn’t noticeable at first, his own health began deteriorating. The summer that was supposed to include Wyatt’s and

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Melissa’s wedding passed in hard work for each of them. Letters flew back and forth, and Wyatt ran up huge telephone bills calling California. Simon insisted adamantly that his son return to college in the fall. ‘‘I’m feeling much better and your education is important, Wyatt. You must see to it.’’ Wyatt appointed what he considered the best man working on the ranch to act as foreman in his absence. ‘‘My father is to do absolutely no physical labor. If you see him overdoing in any way, you are to call me at once.’’ So Wyatt returned to school in Missoula worried about his father, about the ranch and most poignantly about Melissa. Her problems were financial, and he could have solved them so easily if she would only allow it. But he’d broached that subject one time on the telephone and heard the immediate deep freeze in Melissa’s reply. ‘‘I will never take money from you or your father, Wyatt, so please don’t suggest it again.’’ He hadn’t. Another year passed. Melissa was taking business classes and holding down a full-time job. Wyatt’s spare time was spent at the ranch. They were still very much in love and in almost-constant contact, either by telephone or through letters. They were both locked into situations not of their making, and their most enjoyable telephone conversations were when they lightened up and cracked silly jokes about themselves, their plans and their respective parents. But it was serious business, all the same. Simon’s health was failing. Wyatt’s nerves were stretched wafer thin. The ranch required his attention, and he couldn’t disappoint his father by dropping out of school to be there. As for Melissa, all Wyatt had of her were memories, photographs, her voice on the telephone and a small mountain of letters. Sipping his second scotch, Wyatt put his head back and permitted the final episode of their relationship to run through his brain. Overwrought and strung out over classes and worry, he’d let himself be dragged to a party by his college roommate.

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It was a semiformal affair and Wyatt had objected to dressing up, but even he knew that he needed a break from the stress he’d been living with. So he’d put on his best suit, shined his shoes and gone with his friend. It was the biggest mistake of his life. He’d met a girl there, Shannon Kiley, the daughter of State Senator Wilbur Kiley. Shannon lived in Helena and was in Missoula specifically to attend that party. She was vivacious, dazzlingly beautiful and sexually aggressive. Wyatt had never met anyone like her. She was so confident, so sure of herself, and after he’d had a few drinks she seemed like the only woman in the world. He ended up in Shannon’s motel room that night, and awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a realization of the enormity of what he’d done. Sick at heart, he had explained his situation to Shannon. ‘‘I’m engaged to a woman I love very much, Shannon. I’m sorrier than I can say about last night.’’ She had looked pensive, then sighed. ‘‘Don’t take it so hard, Wyatt. You’re only human, like the rest of us. For my part, I’m not at all sorry we made love. It was a wonderful night and I’ll never forget it.’’ Neither would Wyatt ever forget it. A month later Shannon called him. ‘‘Wyatt, we have something of great importance to discuss. Come to my apartment this evening.’’ She gave him her Helena address. He’d gone. There had been something in Shannon’s voice that had him sweating. With good reason, he realized after she’d talked for a few minutes. ‘‘I’m pregnant, and since you’re the only man I’ve slept with in months, it’s your child. I will not have an abortion, nor will I embarrass my father by having a baby without a husband.’’ She paused. ‘‘It’s your move, Wyatt.’’ Like hell it was his move. He wanted to run, to go back in time and refuse to attend that party, to do anything but what he knew he was going to be forced to do. His own father would expect him to do the honorable thing. But what about Melissa? What about his own plans?

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Weak kneed and nauseous, he’d sunk into a chair. Shannon’s apartment was large and elegant. The Kileys weren’t paupers by any means, and Shannon lived the role of a wealthy state senator’s daughter to the hilt. Right now she was dressed in a stunning black dress that nearly reached her ankles. Below the swirling hemline was sheer black hose and high-heeled black pumps. Her blond hair was arranged dramatically, brushed to the left side of her head and held by an ebony comb. Why was she all in black? Wyatt wondered. Was she deliberately setting a somber scene to underscore the seriousness of her situation? Of his? ‘‘You, uh, want us to get married,’’ he mumbled. ‘‘Can you think of another solution that won’t damage my father’s career?’’ ‘‘That’s your criteria for a shotgun wedding—your father’s career might be affected?’’ ‘‘Don’t be crude, Wyatt. Do you think I’m any happier about this than you are?’’ He looked into her eyes and saw a spark that belied her question. She was happy about this! How could she be? He dropped his head in his hands, covering his face. His heart was hammering with remorse, with grief, with misery. Then he stood up. ‘‘I’ll marry you. Make the plans and let me know. I’ll be there.’’ He had driven back to Missoula in a state of numbness. For hours afterward he’d lain on his bed in the dorm and thought of Melissa. He had to call her; a letter would be too cruel. He wept, silently so his sleeping roommate wouldn’t hear. It was three in the morning, too late to call tonight. He would do it tomorrow.... A log fell in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and jerking Wyatt back to the present. His expression became grim and determined. The past was set and irrevocable, but he still had a future. Someway, somehow, he was going to see Melissa and get her to talk to him. The serenity he had derived from moving back to the ranch had completely vanished, Wyatt realized a few nights

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later. He was in a particularly disgruntled mood. Actually, all of his moods were disgruntled in one way or another since he’d seen Melissa in the Hip Hop and she had cut him off so coldly. Despite his vow to see her again and get her to talk to him, he hadn’t come up with any feasible way of doing it. Oh, he could walk into the cafe´ again, but what would that accomplish? As well as the waitresses, there were bound to be customers. Forcing a public meeting would be wasted effort and probably even cause Melissa to become angry with him. That was one thing in his favor, he felt: Melissa hadn’t seemed angry that day in the Hip Hop, merely stunned. Well, he’d been stunned, too. If he hadn’t been, he probably would have handled the situation much better than he had. What was so frustrating was that he knew so little about Melissa’s status. Where did she live? He’d tried to get her telephone number from information and was told it was unlisted. There was a listed number for the cafe´, but he recalled how public the phone there was. Pacing and stewing, he finally had an idea. Was it possible that Nan Avery still had the same phone number that he had called so many times when Melissa was living with her in California? He eyed the telephone almost cautiously, pondering this course of action. If he lucked out and actually got to speak to Nan, how would Melissa take it? But if he didn’t do something, he and Melissa could both grow old living within thirty-five miles of each other and never have a conversation. Drawing a deep breath, he strode to the phone and dialed the number that was etched in his brain. It rang once, twice, three times. Wyatt held his breath. ‘‘Hello?’’ a female voice said. ‘‘Mrs. Avery? Nan?’’ ‘‘Yes. Who’s this?’’

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‘‘Wyatt North, Mrs. Avery.’’ ‘‘Wyatt who?’’ ‘‘North. I’m calling from my ranch in Montana. You must remember me.’’ ‘‘Wyatt North. Of course I remember you. How are you?’’ ‘‘Just fine, Mrs. Avery. How are you?’’ ‘‘Well, I don’t like complaining, but I can’t really say I’m fine. Terrible bursitis in my shoulders, and I had my gall bladder removed last spring. I still have the same symptoms that I had before surgery, so I have to wonder about the medical profession. Also—’’ Wyatt cut in. ‘‘I’m sorry to hear you’re not well, Mrs. Avery. The reason I called was to ask you a few questions about Melissa.’’ ‘‘About Melissa? Well, good heavens, she lives in Whitehorn. Why don’t you just ask her whatever it is you want to know?’’ ‘‘It’s like this, Mrs. Avery. I only moved back to the area myself a few weeks ago. I’d like to call Melissa, but I’ve been told she has an unlisted telephone number. Do you have it?’’ ‘‘Yes, of course I have it. Have you got something to write with?’’ ‘‘Right here, Mrs. Avery.’’ ‘‘Her number is 555-2888. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear from you. I wasn’t too happy about her moving back to Whitehorn, you understand, but there was no stopping her once she had the financial means to do so. She’d been saving up to go back to Whitehorn for years. I couldn’t understand why she wanted to go back there, since California is so wonderful. But she really thought her father would come back one day. Well, I guess you heard that he’d never left. At least I had the sense to keep up on that insurance policy. Now that there’s a death certificate I’m finally getting some money out of these bureaucrats.’’ Wyatt was listening with one ear as he stared down at the

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number he’d written on a small pad...Melissa’s number. His heart was in his throat, but he had to ask one more question. ‘‘Do you have her address, too, Mrs. Avery?’’ ‘‘If you want to see her, Wyatt, just go to the Hip Hop Cafe´. She lives in the apartment on the second floor.’’ ‘‘And she works at the cafe´?’’ ‘‘Works at it? She owns it, Wyatt, and she lives for it. She rarely dates and spends too much time working. She keeps trying to get me to come for a visit. Can you believe that she has plans for a funeral service when the law releases Charlie’s remains? Guess they’re doing tests or something. Anyway, I told Melissa not to expect me to be there. That long trip? Oh my no, my health just wouldn’t permit it. Anyhow, tell me what you’ve been doing since we left Whitehorn.’’ It hit Wyatt like a ton of bricks: Melissa hadn’t told her mother anything about their past. Nan didn’t know about his marriage, that he’d been living in Helena or anything else of his history. ‘‘It’s a long, dull story, Mrs. Avery, and I really have to get off the phone for now.’’ ‘‘Well, call me again sometime and we’ll have a nice long chat.’’ ‘‘I’ll try to do that. Thanks for talking to me.’’ ‘‘Say hello to Melissa for me.’’ ‘‘Will do. Goodbye, Mrs. Avery.’’ After hanging up, Wyatt fell into the nearest chair. His pulse was beating a mile a minute. Melissa didn’t work at the Hip Hop Cafe´, she owned it. And she lived above it, in an apartment. He had her telephone number in his hand, which was utterly amazing. After fretting and fuming for over a week, one telephone call to California had cleared up all of his questions. Now all he had to do was pick a time to call Melissa. Or would it be better to just knock on her door?

Three After thinking about it, Wyatt decided against calling Me-

lissa. She could hang up and that would be that. He planned another course of action. Around nine-thirty on Wednesday evening, he drove to town and parked on the street a short distance from the Hip Hop. A telephone call to the cafe´—he had no idea who had answered—had resulted in his receiving information on the cafe´’s hours: Melissa would be through working at ten. Now that he had something concrete to go on, he wasn’t nearly as keyed up as he’d been before. They were both adults and he had always known she was intelligent. Surely she’d had time to recover from the shock of him walking into the cafe´ without warning, and would permit a discussion between them. Laying his head back while he waited for the last few customers to leave and Melissa to lock up for the night, Wyatt let his mind wander. His thoughts touched on high school, and the football games in which he’d scored well and become the hero of the hour. He smiled wryly, because what had been so crucially important in those days meant so little in the long haul. Those events and times were pleasant memories, nothing more. Kids in high school were only that—kids, with absolutely no idea of what adulthood signified. He had learned about it the hard way, and probably every other kid he’d gone to school with had gone that route as well. Before running into Melissa, Wyatt had been planning on checking around to see if any of his old friends still lived

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in the area. He would still do that, he thought, but later, after he had made some headway with her. He was damn lucky, he decided. Not in his personal life, for God’s sake. No one could have made a bigger mess of personal relationships than he had. But because of some smart, shrewd, hard-working ancestors, he would never want for money, and he had the ranch, which he loved beyond description. Looking back, he wondered how he had ever let Shannon keep him in Helena for six long years, when every day he had ached to get back to the ranch. It wasn’t Shannon keeping you there, it was Timmy. Wyatt sighed. His son, Timothy Wyatt, had held him in a loveless marriage, not Shannon. Timmy was five now, and Wyatt had demanded equal custody in the divorce proceedings. Shannon had put up a fight on that point, until Wyatt threatened to file for full custody, which would have meant a court battle and too much publicity for her taste. But other than his love for his son, his marriage had been a sham and a day-by-day fight against misery. He was married, he had hurt Melissa beyond redemption and he really had tried to make the best of things with Shannon. No more. Not ever again. Discovering that Shannon was playing around on the side had been the biggest blessing of his life. He hadn’t been angry, he’d been relieved. Caught red-handed, she’d had no choice but to agree to an amicable divorce. Daddy’s career, you know. In the third year of his marriage, Wyatt’s father had died. He’d tried then to get Shannon to move to the ranch. Her refusal had been coldly put and final. Helena was her home and where the action was. Bury herself on a ranch in the middle of nowhere? ‘‘Forget it, Wyatt. I wouldn’t even consider it.’’ Now he was glad she had refused, because the ranch wasn’t tainted with any sordid memories. Wyatt’s gaze wandered and his thoughts moved on. The town had changed in six years, grown a great deal. He wasn’t parked directly in front of the Hip Hop, but rather

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at the curb of the vacant lot directly abutting Melissa’s property. It was a good lot, he thought, noticing the For Sale sign on it. Amity Lane was a good street. Over the years he had developed an interest in real-estate investments and owned several nice parcels of land that he felt could only go up in value. This lot could be a smart investment. Searching the glove compartment for a piece of paper, he wrote down the telephone number that he could barely make out on the sign. Then he forget the lot and everything else. The lights had just gone out in the Hip Hop. His heart began a faster beat. He could see the outside staircase to the building’s second floor, and any minute now Melissa would be coming out to go to her apartment. But ten minutes later he was frowning and wondering what she was doing in that dark cafe´. Glancing to the upstairs windows, which were lighted, it dawned on him that there must be an inside staircase. Okay, North, this is it, he told himself, rubbing his mouth in a burst of anxiety. He sat there another few minutes to calm his racing pulse. She could slam the door in his face, but would she? His feelings for her had never died; maybe she still cared for him in some small way, despite the pain he’d inflicted on her six years ago. Taking a deep breath, he got out of his pickup and quietly closed the door. He had never been a fearful man, but right then he felt as though a band was around his chest, tightening with every breath. Was it fear, he wondered, or excitement? Unquestionably he was excited over seeing Melissa again, even for a moment, if that was all she allowed. He climbed the stairs, a long flight of wood steps with a wooden railing. There was a small light burning next to the door. On the landing he stopped, hearing music from within the apartment. Nostalgia hit him. He had forgotten Melissa’s collection of Billie Holliday records, which she had valued highly even though she and everyone else had been bopping to rock-and-roll rhythms at school dances.

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There was a window in the door and he moved closer to peer into the apartment. The entry was also a laundry room, he saw, and beyond that was the kitchen. His heart skipped a beat when Melissa momentarily appeared in the doorway between laundry and kitchen. She was wearing a blue robe. Swallowing nervously, he rapped on the door. Inside, Melissa became very still. No one knocked on her door at this time of night. Peeking cautiously around the kitchen doorframe, she saw a man’s silhouette. ‘‘Wyatt,’’ she whispered with a sinking sensation, though she was identifying him from form alone. But she knew it was him. For a minute she couldn’t think. He rapped again. ‘‘Melissa?’’ She drew a shaky breath. ‘‘Who is it? Who’s there?’’ ‘‘Wyatt. Please open the door.’’ A crazy thrill shot through her body, alarming her. He was married and he had hurt her, and why in God’s name would she feel anything but revulsion for him? Stay calm, she told herself. Apparently he was going to have to be told how distasteful she found a late-night visit, and probably a few other things as well. Entering the laundry room, she crossed to the door, unlocked it and opened it a few inches. ‘‘What do you want, Wyatt?’’ The light near the door revealed his handsome face and his eyes, which she had once used to gauge his moods. A dark, chocolate brown, Wyatt’s eyes had always silently spoken his thoughts. Right now they contained an impassioned plea. ‘‘Just some conversation. A few minutes of your time. Please let me come in.’’ She looked away. ‘‘We have nothing to talk about. Why are you doing this?’’ ‘‘Melissa, please don’t send me away.’’ Her hair was loose and he could see the hairbrush in her hand. Standing this close to her was a sweet kind of torture. He had loved her so much—her laughter, her kisses—and as easily as

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striking a match it could all be ignited again. On his side, anyway. ‘‘I only want to talk,’’ he said quietly, which was the truth, for now. But if she refused even that small concession, any other hopes for the two of them had no chance at all. What he wanted to do, Melissa thought unhappily, was apologize in person for marrying another woman. Did she want to hear that? Could she bear hearing it? What difference would another apology make, anyhow? ‘‘Wyatt, I’m tired. I work long hours, and...I’m tired.’’ ‘‘Then you’re not going to let me come in?’’ The saddened, disappointed look on his face tweaked Melissa’s innate generosity. She had never really hated anyone in her life, and while she’d told herself for years that she despised Wyatt because of what he’d done to her, it was obvious that she didn’t despise him at all. He was still Wyatt, the boy and then the man she had loved with all her heart and soul. Cruelty wasn’t in her nature, and she could be only so hard. She stepped back and opened the door wider. ‘‘Come in. But only for a few minutes.’’ Enough relief invaded Wyatt’s system to make him feel light-headed. ‘‘Thanks, Melissa. You won’t regret it.’’ That was a debatable point, she thought while leading him to her living room. ‘‘Sit down, if you like.’’ ‘‘After you.’’ Neither of them sat. They stood there, quite some distance apart, and looked nervous. Wyatt gave a sickly grin. ‘‘I had so much lined up to say to you, and now I can’t think of what it was.’’ ‘‘Try,’’ she said coolly. He took a slow, uneven breath and pretended interest in her living room. ‘‘You’ve done a lot work in here. This is nice.’’ ‘‘It’s comfortable,’’ she agreed. Obviously he wasn’t going to sit unless she did, and she was feeling embarrassed and out of place in her own home with both of them stand-

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ing there so awkwardly. Moving to the sofa, she perched on a cushion. Wyatt sat on a chair. He had filled out, she realized. He’d never been skinny, but there’d been a youthful angularity to his body that was missing now. Not that he was fat. He looked just about perfect, in fact, which she found discomfiting. He shouldn’t look perfect. He should look...married. He smiled at her, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over the jump in her pulse rate because of that marvelous smile. Fortunately one’s pulse rate didn’t show, and her expression became deliberately cooler. ‘‘What did you want to talk to me about?’’ she asked, rather brusquely. Wyatt raised one booted foot to rest on his other knee. ‘‘Have you heard about my divorce?’’ Melissa’s eyes widened. ‘‘When did that happen?’’ Wyatt cleared his throat. ‘‘Actually, it’s in progress. It won’t be final for a few more weeks.’’ Melissa’s mouth was suddenly dry as dust. Surely he wasn’t thinking that his divorce would mean something to her, like maybe she would be glad to hear about it. She wasn’t. There was at least one child involved, and having grown up as an ‘‘abandoned’’ child—other people’s opinion, not hers—she hated the idea of Wyatt abandoning his children just because he and his wife couldn’t get along. Unless he had them at the ranch with him. Still, she knew now why he was here. Did he actually have the gall to think there could ever be anything between them again? ‘‘Melissa, I never stopped...missing you,’’ he said softly. She got to her feet. ‘‘That’s unfortunate for you, Wyatt. I stopped missing you about six years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’’ Wyatt got up slowly. ‘‘You don’t understand. I’d like to tell you everything.’’ ‘‘I don’t want to hear it, Wyatt.’’ She didn’t like him very much right now, but even upset with him as she was, some-

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thing inside of her was responding to his good looks—his long, lean body and his eyes. Damn his eyes for being so expressive. ‘‘Wyatt, we are not going to be friends,’’ she said. ‘‘You were always special to me,’’ he began. ‘‘Yeah, right,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘You proved how special, Wyatt, so please don’t lay any phony lines on me.’’ Color rose in his face. ‘‘That’s one of the things I’d like to discuss with you.’’ ‘‘No, I don’t think so. I really have no interest in the past.’’ She thought a moment, remembering that she had an enormous interest in the past—but only where it concerned her father. Her and Wyatt’s ‘‘past’’ had come to a screeching halt six years ago. She became aware of his gaze on her robe and defiantly tugged the sash tighter. ‘‘Go home, Wyatt. There’s nothing for you here.’’ ‘‘Nothing at all, Melissa? Not even friendship?’’ He didn’t want only friendship with her. She was beautiful and bright and he had never stopped loving her. True, she wasn’t the same sweet, malleable girl of his memory. Her air of independence and self-reliance was obvious. But just being in the same room with her made his blood run faster. ‘‘You never married,’’ he said softly. ‘‘That’s right, I never married. But don’t make the mistake of thinking it had anything to do with you.’’ She was getting nervous again. ‘‘Wyatt...please go. It’s late and I have several things to do before bedtime.’’ She began inching toward the doorway to the kitchen. Gratefully she registered the fact that he was following. Turning her back on him, she passed through the kitchen and laundry room to open the outside door. Tucking the hairbrush into the pocket of her robe, she reached for the doorknob. But she hadn’t realized how close he was and nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt his hand in her hair. For the merest fraction of time she permitted the thrills to

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compound in her body. His fingers moving in her hair felt like heaven on earth. Then she whirled around, showing him an angry face. ‘‘How dare you touch me like that?’’ His eyes were dark and hooded. ‘‘You’ve never cut it. I’m glad.’’ ‘‘Of course I’ve cut it,’’ she said sharply. ‘‘It would be down to my hips if I hadn’t. That’s not the point. You have no right to touch me. I know what you want, Wyatt, and it isn’t going to happen.’’ ‘‘What do I want? If you know so much about it, tell me.’’ ‘‘Don’t play coy, Wyatt. Please move back so I can open the door.’’ He was crowding her, standing much too close, and she was finding normal breathing difficult. But he was emboldened by the sexual tension between them and stayed where he was. ‘‘Will you go out with me?’’ he asked. ‘‘No, absolutely not.’’ ‘‘Are you afraid of me, Melissa? Afraid of what I’m making you feel?’’ She tried to scoff. ‘‘You have way too much ego, Wyatt. The only thing you’re making me feel is uncomfortable.’’ ‘‘That’s a lie. Don’t you think a man knows when a woman is feeling all fluttery and excited because of him?’’ Melissa’s eyes suddenly blazed. ‘‘That’s enough! How dare you come to my own home, act like I should be glad to see you, and then have the bloody gall to suggest...to suggest...’’ She couldn’t say it. But he was talking about sex, damn him! As though she didn’t have the strength of will to resist him. She angrily poked him in the chest with her forefinger. ‘‘You might be in the process of a divorce, but you’re still a married man in my book. Putting everything else aside, just the fact that you’re still married would preclude any sort of foolishness between us. And what you’re interpreting as fluttering and excitement is incredulity that you’d have

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the brass to come here in the first place. I don’t want to be your friend, Wyatt North. I don’t want—’’ Her words stopped abruptly because his mouth was suddenly on hers. Sputtering, she pushed against him. But his hands were cradling her head and holding it right where he wanted it. His lips moved on hers, gently, then roughly, then gently again. She thought she might faint from shock and fury, when she’d never fainted in her life. But she was suffering from waves of darkness and a sensation of lifeless limbs, which had to be signs of an encroaching fainting spell. Her lips felt swollen and softly sensual when he finally stopped kissing them and raised his head to look into her eyes. ‘‘I didn’t intend doing that when I came here tonight,’’ he whispered. ‘‘But I’m not sorry about it. Melissa, you can deny it till hell freezes over, but there’ll always be something between us. What I did to you can never be undone. God, if only it could. I never expected to see you again, and apparently you never expected to see me again. But it happened, and I’m not going to lose you a second time.’’ ‘‘And I have nothing to say about it?’’ She had tried to speak forcefully, angrily, but her voice sounded weak and fragile. His hands gentled on her head, his fingers twining into her hair. ‘‘You have everything to say about it. All I’m asking for is a chance. See me, Melissa. I’m not even asking for forgiveness, just a chance.’’ ‘‘Hurt me once, that’s your fault. Hurt me twice, that’s mine,’’ she said huskily. ‘‘No, Wyatt, I’m not giving you anything, least of all a chance to prove again what a bastard you really are. And guess what? I do forgive you. But forgiving isn’t forgetting, and that’s something I’ll never be able to do.’’ His gaze roamed her features. ‘‘You kissed me back.’’ ‘‘You’re not going to argue me into anything, so you may as well stop trying.’’

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‘‘Do you really expect me to walk out of here and pretend nothing happened tonight?’’ ‘‘Nothing did, except in your own mind.’’ For a minute there, when he’d been kissing her, he’d felt her approval, her acceptance, her response, and now he felt her slipping away, backing off. ‘‘Melissa, you mean so much to me,’’ he whispered raggedly. ‘‘Don’t be hard, please. You were never hard. You were—’’ ‘‘Stupid,’’ she put in bitterly. ‘‘Take your hands off me, Wyatt. I’m sure you can find any number of women who would just love to fall into bed with you. I’m not one of them and I never will be.’’ He realized that he wasn’t going to change her outlook tonight. But whether she would admit it or not, they had taken a step toward a relationship. He was going to have to be very patient with her and hope that time and tenderness would reduce the pain of the past. But she was badly mistaken on one point. ‘‘Do you honestly believe that all I want from you is sex? You’re right about there being a lot of willing women out there, Melissa. That’s not why I’m here.’’ ‘‘From where I’m standing right now, it’s sort of hard to tell,’’ she retorted. ‘‘I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago, Wyatt, and what you just said sounds like one. You kissed me. Look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t a sexual kiss.’’ He looked directly into her eyes for a long moment, but he couldn’t lie about it. ‘‘It was a sexual kiss. But try to remember I didn’t come here with any such thing in mind. It just happened.’’ Dropping his hands from her hair, he took one backward step. ‘‘All I can do is apologize. I’m sorry.’’ ‘‘I’ll just bet you are,’’ Melissa muttered. At least he’d given her space enough to open the door, which she did promptly. ‘‘Good night and goodbye. And please don’t do this again. The next time I won’t open the door, Wyatt. I mean it. I think our best course is strict avoidance. I’d appreciate your cooperation in that effort.’’

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He shook his head. ‘‘That I can’t give you.’’ Melissa’s mouth thinned. ‘‘So you’re planning to harass me at every opportunity? I won’t stand for it, Wyatt. If necessary I’ll file a complaint with the sheriff.’’ ‘‘Oh, great,’’ Wyatt groaned. ‘‘Well, I guess that says it all, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I won’t ‘harass’ you again.’’ He stepped out onto the landing and looked at the sky. ‘‘The weather really turned in the last few days,’’ he said. ‘‘Fall’s on its way. Looks like we’re in for some rain.’’ His eyes dropped from the cloudy night sky to her. ‘‘Have a good life, Melissa. I wish you the best of everything.’’ His trip down the stairs was accomplished with as much dignity as he could muster. Melissa shut the door, then leaned her back against it and closed her eyes. She felt choked up and her stomach ached. Actually, her entire body ached. The last twenty or so minutes had been an unbelievable ordeal. And regardless of her threat to register a legal complaint should Wyatt bother her again, and his display of resigned defeat, she was positive he’d find a way to see her. Probably when she least expected it, and she’d be off guard again. Snapping off lights as she went to her bedroom, Melissa sat on the edge of the bed and rocked back and forth with her arms around herself. How could he be so crass? His divorce wasn’t even final and he was already out looking for another woman. Wait a minute, she thought with a frown. It didn’t take long for Montana residents to obtain a divorce. Was it possible that Wyatt had broken up with his wife after he’d learned about her return to Whitehorn? The speculation was horrifying, and after a few moments Melissa ridiculed her own wild imagination. ‘‘Enough of that,’’ she mumbled, getting up to take her nightly shower. Then, standing under the spray, it all caught up with her, and she broke down and cried. Sobbing with both the shower water and tears streaming down her face, she gave in to anger and called Wyatt a whole slew of foul names.

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Every one that she knew came spewing out of her mouth. Standing in the shower and swearing like a sailor was pure idiocy, but it was also healing, and when she finally turned off the water and got out to dry off, she felt much calmer. Slipping into a fresh nightgown, she turned off the lights and crawled into bed. Her first thought as she lay down was that he’d kissed her. He’d kissed her and she hadn’t scratched out his eyes or kicked him in the shins. Instead, she’d stood there and let him kiss her. Not only that, she’d kissed him back. ‘‘You damn fool,’’ she mumbled to herself. ‘‘What would a man have to do to you before you wouldn’t open your door for him at ten-thirty at night?’’ Her mood changed, becoming very sad and brokenhearted. Never would she forget Wyatt’s telephone call six years ago. She had been baking cookies and reading a marketing-class assignment at the same time. With a batch in the oven, she was at the kitchen table with the marketing textbook when the phone rang. She’d smiled. This was usually the time of day Wyatt called. ‘‘Hello,’’ she said cheerfully. ‘‘Hello, Melissa.’’ ‘‘I knew it was you. How are you?’’ ‘‘Uh...fine, I guess.’’ This was not the Wyatt she was accustomed to hearing on the phone. This Wyatt was very upset and down in the dumps. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ she asked gently. Her thoughts went to Simon North, who’d been ill for so long. ‘‘Is it your father?’’ ‘‘Dad? No...no. Dad’s fine. He’s not fine, but he’s no worse. This isn’t about Dad.’’ A chill went up Melissa’s spine. Never had she heard the lifeless, defeated tone in Wyatt’s voice she was hearing now. ‘‘What is it, Wyatt? Tell me.’’ It frightened her to catch what sounded like a sob in her ear. ‘‘Are you crying?’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘There’s something I have to tell

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you. I thought about just writing a letter, but I couldn’t do that to you. Melissa, do you believe I love you?’’ ‘‘Of course I believe it. Wyatt, you’re scaring me.’’ And then he blurted it out, his words running together. ‘‘I got a girl pregnant and I’m going to marry her.’’ She was struck dumb, unable to grasp what he’d said. ‘‘Melissa? Did you hear me? Do you understand?’’ She was beginning to. While she’d been holding down a full-time job and going to classes at night, while she’d been turning down every young man who did more than smile at her, while she’d been worrying and planning and living for the day when she could finally leave her mother alone and return to Montana to marry him, Wyatt had been sleeping with another woman. She suddenly felt old beyond her years, and shriveled. ‘‘I understand,’’ she whispered. ‘‘No, you don’t really,’’ Wyatt groaned. ‘‘How could you? Melissa...’’ ‘‘Please. There’s nothing more to say. I really don’t care to hear the details. Goodbye, Wyatt.’’ She hung up. He called back. She hung up again, then took the phone off the hook. In her bed she huddled into a ball of misery. Wyatt had written several letters, which she had burned unopened. Now he had the audacity to try and pick up where they had left off. Didn’t he have a conscience? Even if she wanted to leave Whitehorn to avoid Wyatt, she couldn’t—not until her father’s murder had been solved. Then...well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Her business was doing well and Whitehorn was home. She had never liked California, and she wouldn’t have any idea where to go from here. Besides, the thought of allowing Wyatt to chase her out of the area raised her hackles. To hell with him, she thought vehemently. If he continued to pester her, he was going to find out that she had learned how to fight for her rights as a human being.

Four Melissa carefully studied the blueprints that had just ar-

rived in the mail from the Billings architect whom she’d hired to draw up a plan for the cafe´’s expansion. The vacant lot next door was for sale, and had been since her return to Whitehorn. She had spoken to the owner a few weeks back, and the price was well within reason, though she hadn’t yet made an offer to purchase. The share she had received from her father’s life-insurance policy had paid off her mortgage on the Hip Hop. Even though the cafe´ was making a nice profit, Melissa was putting as much of it as she could into a savings account each month, so buying that lot and constructing the addition she was admiring on the blueprint would require much more money than she had. She had two options, she figured—borrow from the bank or take on a partner. The thought of a partner made her uneasy, so she geared herself up for a visit to Paul Rodell, the loan officer at the local bank. She made an appointment, and a day later put on a beige linen business suit for the occasion. Her hair was neatly arranged in a fashionable bun at her nape. For jewelry she wore small gold earrings and her watch. Her mirror told her she looked quite smart and like a serious businesswoman, which was the effect she wanted. Satisfied with her appearance, she took her briefcase, drove to the bank, parked her car and went in. Paul Rodell had a small office off the lobby, and Melissa was shown into it immediately after speaking briefly to a secretary. The young woman introduced her. ‘‘Mr. Rodell, Miss Melissa

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Avery.’’ A tall, nice-looking man with thinning, light brown hair rose from behind the desk. ‘‘Hello, Miss Avery.’’ Melissa offered her hand across the desk. ‘‘Hello, Mr. Rodell. Thank you for seeing me.’’ ‘‘Seeing clients is my job, Miss Avery. Please sit down.’’ ‘‘Thank you.’’ There were two upholstered chairs in front of Rodell’s desk. Melissa chose the one on the right and set her briefcase on the floor beside it. She smiled. ‘‘Since you’re the bank’s loan officer, you have to know why I’m here.’’ Rodell gave her an acknowledging nod. ‘‘You own the Hip Hop Cafe´, don’t you? I’ve eaten there a few times and have always found the food and service head and shoulders above any other restaurant in Whitehorn.’’ ‘‘That’s very nice to hear. Business is good, Mr. Rodell, so good that I’m planning to expand. The lot next door is for sale and I hired an architect to draw up plans. I have them with me.’’ Melissa reached for her briefcase. ‘‘Before we get into that, Miss Avery, let me explain bank policy. We do not make loans on undeveloped land. In order for anyone to secure a loan for the construction of any sort of building, they must own the land free and clear.’’ ‘‘Oh.’’ This was an unexpected blow. Melissa thought for a moment. ‘‘If I manage to buy the land on my own, then I would be eligible for a construction loan?’’ ‘‘Actually, that’s not quite the correct terminology for what you would need. A construction loan is normally a temporary loan and is paid back upon completion of the building. Spec home builders use this form of loan all the time. Then they sell the house and the new owner takes out a long-term loan, which pays off the construction loan. Do you follow me?’’ Melissa cleared her throat. ‘‘I wasn’t familiar with the different types of loans, but yes, I understand.’’ How on earth would she raise the money to buy the land for cash? ‘‘Mr. Rodell, could I borrow on the existing building to buy

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the land, then...’’ She stopped, because Paul Rodell was shaking his head. ‘‘I’m afraid that would put you in an overextended position, Miss Avery. You would end up with two loans on virtually the same business.’’ Melissa frowned. ‘‘Yes, that’s true.’’ She felt rather stupid right then. She had thought everything was pretty well lined up, and in reality nothing was. The loan officer leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. ‘‘It’s really quite simple, Miss Avery. If you’re truly serious about this, my advice is to go ahead and buy the land. If it takes you some time to pay for it, the bank will still be here and willing to discuss an expansion loan.’’ His smile was very open, very friendly, Melissa noted. His age was probably around thirty-four, thirty-five. He was an attractive, pleasant man, and if she was any judge of males, she was on the receiving end of Paul Rodell’s admiration. She had dated no one since returning to Whitehorn, and she couldn’t help glancing at his left hand, which was ringless. Another quick glance around his office revealed no family pictures. Dare she come right out and ask if he was married? Why not? she thought recklessly, though doing it with a little subtlety would make a better impression. She smiled warmly. ‘‘Do you and Mrs. Rodell live in Whitehorn proper?’’ Paul looked very pleased. ‘‘I’m not married, Miss Avery.’’ ‘‘Please call me Melissa.’’ ‘‘Thank you, I will.’’ Paul leaned back in his chair. ‘‘So, do you think you’ll go ahead with the lot purchase?’’ ‘‘Definitely. I’ll speak to the owner today.’’ ‘‘Good, glad to hear it. Here, let me give you these.’’ From a desk drawer he took out a sheaf of papers. ‘‘This is a loan application. From the questions contained in it, you’ll be better apprised of what the bank requires from a loan applicant.’’

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Melissa accepted the papers and tucked them into her briefcase. ‘‘Thank you. I appreciate your time and courtesy.’’ They both got up. ‘‘Well,’’ Paul said with a dazzling smile. ‘‘It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Melissa.’’ ‘‘Thank you, Paul. The next time you stop by the Hip Hop, be sure and say hello. Maybe we can have coffee together sometime.’’ ‘‘If that’s an invitation, consider it done.’’ Melissa left feeling both disappointed and elated. Obtaining a bank loan was not going to be a simple exercise, but she had not only learned the requirements, she had met a man she could like. Paul Rodell would be around for coffee, she was sure. Wyatt was going to discover there were more fish in the sea than one, and it might be petty of her, but she wished she could be a fly on the wall when he heard that she was going out with another man. It was precisely what he deserved. Wyatt shook hands with John Hendrix. John had Wyatt’s cashier’s check and Wyatt had the deed to the lot next to Melissa’s building. The deal was final. ‘‘Good doing business with you, John,’’ Wyatt said over the handshake. ‘‘Same here. Got any plans for that land?’’ ‘‘Not at the present. I’ll probably just sit on it for a few years and see what happens.’’ ‘‘Can’t go wrong investing in real estate,’’ John said. ‘‘I feel the same way. Well, thanks again. I’d say we’ll be seeing each other again, but since you’re leaving the area, we probably won’t.’’ Wyatt left the Hendrix home feeling good. He had gotten the lot dirt cheap, as John and his wife were selling everything they owned in Whitehorn to retire in Arizona. They were an older couple, very nice people, but because they were anxious to be on their way, they had set their prices

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below the current market rates. They already had a buyer for their house, so they would be leaving in a few weeks. Whistling through his teeth, Wyatt got in his pickup and headed back to the ranch. It was late afternoon before Melissa found the time to call the telephone number on the For Sale sign next door. ‘‘Hello, Mr. Hendrix. This is Melissa Avery. I called a few weeks ago about the price of your lot on Amity Lane. Do you remember my call?’’ ‘‘Sure do, Miss Avery.’’ ‘‘I’m prepared now to make an offer, Mr. Hendrix. I could put ten thousand down and—’’ ‘‘Miss Avery, the lot is already sold.’’ Stunned, Melissa fell silent. ‘‘Uh...when?’’ ‘‘Just this morning.’’ ‘‘I missed it by a few hours?’’ Oh, damn, she groaned internally. What in God’s name had made her think she was a businesswoman? Why hadn’t she gone ahead and tied up that lot with a deposit, if nothing else? Now her expansion plans were in the ash can, and she had only herself to blame. ‘‘Would you mind telling me who bought it, Mr. Hendrix?’’ ‘‘Well, guess he never said I should keep it a secret. It was Wyatt North. He owns a ranch outside of town. Maybe you know him.’’ ‘‘I know him,’’ she said in a voice so weak it was barely audible. ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Hendrix.’’ She hung up. Melissa was so upset she didn’t know where to put herself. She had made the call to Mr. Hendrix from her apartment, and she walked circles in her living room, trying to get her bearings. Why would Wyatt buy property in town? Had he somehow learned of her plans to expand the cafe´ and deliberately purchased the lot to deter her? But why would he do that? Frowning, she tried to recall whom she might have men-

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tioned her expansion plans to. She hadn’t said anything to her staff about it, she knew, but what about some of the old friends she had run into? The Billings architect knew, of course, but who else? Oh damn, she thought. News traveled fast in Whitehorn and her plans were probably common knowledge. This was a nightmare. It couldn’t possibly be mere coincidence that Wyatt had bought the one parcel of land in all of Whitehorn that she wanted and needed. Why had she procrastinated on making Mr. Hendrix an offer? It should have been her first step in the process, certainly taken before she spent money on blueprints, which hadn’t been inexpensive. Maybe Wyatt thought he could use the land as leverage in their personal relationship. Instantly Melissa shook her head at that theory. In the first place, they had no personal relationship, and Wyatt was certainly smart enough to know blackmail wouldn’t work with her. Or he used to be. God only knew what kind of man he was these days. For that matter, had she ever really known him? Wouldn’t she have sworn on a Bible at one time that he was the most honest, straightforward, loyal, kindhearted and trustworthy man who’d ever lived? And hadn’t he proved how wrong that opinion had been? What should she do? What could she do? Wyatt told himself repeatedly to forget Melissa. And yet she constantly crept into his thoughts. She had definitely kissed him back that night in her apartment. Obviously the wound he’d inflicted six years ago had never healed, but she had still kissed him back. That was what he kept remembering—that kiss; her incredible scent; how her lips, soft and womanly, had yielded to his; the blue robe she’d been wearing; the way her hair had felt in his hands. Would she really file a complaint if he paid her another visit? Something within him said no, that she had merely used

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a threat out of desperation. Her pride was denying any warmth between them, and pride was a powerful influence on anyone. He knew all about pride; Shannon had all but destroyed his. But that was over. He had survived six years of unhappiness and felt now like the trees must when their sap rose in the spring. Okay, call it what it was, he thought laughingly. He was horny, but not for just any woman. There was only one woman he wanted—Melissa Avery. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to see her again without ticking her off. The weather had indeed turned. The day was gloomy, with drizzling rain and a heavy cloud cover. Business at the cafe´ was slow after lunch, and Melissa couldn’t sit still. ‘‘I’ll be gone for a few hours,’’ she called to Wanda on her way out. She hadn’t taken the time to go upstairs for a jacket, and she felt chilled clear through by the time she got in her car. Starting the motor, she turned on the heater. It would take a few minutes to warm up, but then the car would be comfortable for a drive. A drive where? An immediate answer came to mind. Every week or so she drove out to the Laughing Horse Reservation to look at the spot where her father had been buried. It was cordoned off with yellow tape bearing the inscription, Crime Scene. No Trespassing. But she stood outside the tape and tried to imagine what had happened there so long ago. Today, as chilly and damp as it was, she probably wouldn’t get out of the car, she thought as she started the thirty-mile drive. But her mind was filled to bursting with questions about Wyatt’s motive in buying that land, and since her other major concern was her father’s murder, it only seemed natural to make another visit to the scene of the crime. One crime at a time was all she could attempt to

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solve, she thought wryly, which might take her thoughts away from Wyatt’s treachery. The only conclusion that made any sense about Wyatt beating her to the punch on that property was that he had found out she wanted it. So what did he think—or hope— she would do about it—go to him? Try to buy it from him? Beg a little, grovel a little? The mere thought made her nauseous. He had her over a barrel. He was even more deceitful than she’d thought, and already she thought him the worst kind of beast there was. Damn it! Why had she let him kiss her? Why hadn’t she thrown a fit—yelled and screeched and fought like a tiger? Instead, mealymouthed and acting as if she were completely brainless, she had stood there and let him play with her hair. There was little traffic on the road to the reservation, but she kept to the speed limit because of the wet asphalt. She turned on the radio, then found it intrusive to her present state of mind and turned it off again. Sighing, she wondered why everything in life was such a problem. She had tried almost desperately to talk her mother into moving back to Whitehorn with her. Nan had refused and wouldn’t even discuss the possibility. Her mother’s show of independence didn’t stop Melissa from worrying about her, however. The only good thing in her own life at the present was the cafe´, and she wondered how she had lucked out with that success. Well, luck really had very little to do with it, Melissa had to admit. She had worked nonstop for weeks after buying the place, painting, wallpapering, decorating and cleaning. Everything in the entire building had been coated with about twenty years’ worth of grime. Actually, she had gutted the restaurant and started from scratch. The kitchen equipment was old, but most of it had only needed a scrubbing down. She had added a few modern conveniences such as a microwave and a convection oven. But there were really no secrets to running a successful restaurant. As Paul Rodell had pointed out, the Hip Hop provided good food and ser-

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vice, which were what patrons were looking for in an eating establishment. Passing the reservation’s boundary line, Melissa continued on to the area where her father’s remains had been found. Changing her mind about not getting out, she left the motor idling and walked from the road toward the taped-off area. The police, the sheriff’s department and the FBI kept coming back whenever they got a chance—though a twentyodd-year-old murder wasn’t a high priority. Nobody was out here today, though. It seemed impossible that no real clues had been discovered, but then, as Judd had said, twentyseven years was a long time. The changing seasons alone would have destroyed footprints, tire tracks and deteriorative items such as a dropped matchbook or a piece of paper. Melissa felt the sting of tears. She never failed to shed a few when she came out here. Most of her life she had been told that Charlie Avery had deserted his family, and it was such an abysmal departure from the truth that she couldn’t help crying. Finally, feeling chilled to the bone and damp from the misty rainfall, Melissa returned to the warmth of her car. Deciding to return to town the long way, via a road that would take her past the Kincaid Ranch, she made several turns and eventually left the reservation. She was several miles past the Kincaid spread when she felt the bump, bump, bump of a flat tire. ‘‘Oh, hell,’’ she groaned, and pulled over to the side of the road. Her tires were practically new, so she must have picked up a nail somewhere. ‘‘Damn!’’ she exclaimed when she got out and saw that her right rear tire was as flat as a pancake. She wasn’t dressed for changing a tire in this weather. Someone would come along, she told herself, shivering and returning to the car. After a minute she got out again, raised the hood—a distress signal—and hurried back to the heater’s warmth. Wyatt shook hands with Dugin Kincaid, the only surviving son of Jeremiah Kincaid. Jeremiah had been a strong,

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influential rancher in the area. He had died a few months back in a bizarre accident: he’d slipped in the shower, hit his head and drowned in his own bath water. Jeremiah had been one of Simon North’s few friends, as unlikely as the liaison had been. Wyatt’s visit to the Kincaid Ranch had arisen out of a sense of duty to his father’s and Jeremiah’s memory. Personally, he had never cared for Jeremiah, whom Wyatt had always felt to be too hard on not only his hired help, but on his son, Dugin. ‘‘It was good of you to come by, Wyatt,’’ Dugin said over the handshake. Just as Wyatt hadn’t been particularly fond of Jeremiah Kincaid, he had never really liked Dugin, who had always struck him as soft and effeminate. But that didn’t prevent him from sympathizing with the man over the death of his father. ‘‘Just paying my respects, Dugin. I apologize for missing the funeral.’’ The truth was, the news of Jeremiah’s death hadn’t reached him in Helena until some time after the funeral. ‘‘You missed my wedding, too,’’ Dugin pointed out. ‘‘Yes, yes, I did. What’s it been—about a year now?’’ Dugin nodded, and the expression on his face didn’t impress Wyatt as being that of a happily married man. As if on cue, a woman flitted into the room. ‘‘Dugin, darling, why didn’t you tell me we had a guest?’’ ‘‘Sorry, Mary Jo. This is Wyatt North. Wyatt, my wife, Mary Jo.’’ Mary Jo held out her hand with a brilliant smile. ‘‘So happy to meet you, Wyatt. I like knowing all of Dugin’s friends.’’ Wyatt took her hand. ‘‘Nice meeting you, Mrs. Kincaid.’’ Actually, he could hardly believe his eyes. Mary Jo Kincaid didn’t look like a rancher’s wife, at least like none that he’d ever met. Her hairdo was so perfect it looked unnatural. Her face was layered with makeup, well done but still very obvious. She was wearing a frilly flowered dress and high-

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heeled shoes in a shade of pink that matched some of the flowers in the fabric of her dress. Her fingernails were outlandishly long and painted a bright pink. But it was her eyes that bothered and embarrassed Wyatt. He had met gushing, overdressed women before, but Mary Jo’s eyes were sending him messages that could only be described as flirtatious. And right in front of her husband. He pulled his hand back. ‘‘I was just leaving, Mrs. Kincaid. Dugin, I’ll be seeing you around.’’ He started for the door. ‘‘Please don’t rush off,’’ Mary Jo said in a sugary-sweet, little-girl voice. Wyatt paused with his hand on the knob. ‘‘Thanks, but I really have to be going.’’ ‘‘In this rain? At least stay until it stops. We’ll have coffee.’’ Dugin wasn’t saying a word, Wyatt noticed. ‘‘Some other time, Mrs. Kincaid. Goodbye.’’ Mary Jo rushed to the door before Wyatt could close it behind him. ‘‘Call me Mary Jo, Wyatt,’’ she called as he dashed through the rain to his pickup. He pretended not to have heard, climbed in and hastily closed the door. That woman was a pickle short of a full barrel, he thought, cranking the key to start the motor. Poor Dugin. Where in hell had he found her? Mary Jo closed the door and went to a window to watch Wyatt’s pickup leaving the compound. Her eyes narrowed menacingly. She hated what had just happened. In fact, she hated Wyatt North. Who in hell did he think he was, snubbing her the way he had? At that moment she became her real self, Lexine Baxter. Raising her hand and pointing her forefinger at the back of Wyatt’s pickup, she said, ‘‘Pow!’’ in an undertone, as though she’d been firing a gun at the truck. She had owned a gun once, she recalled. She had bought it during her years

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as a prostitute, after she had been severely beaten up by a John. A cold smile twisted her lips. Everyone in this whole damn area would probably die from shock if they knew who she really was, especially if they had any inkling of the life she had lived after leaving Whitehorn. The smile became confident, no one would ever know. She was much too clever for the horde of hicks who occupied the town and surrounding countryside. Driving away, Wyatt thought about his father’s and Jeremiah Kincaid’s longtime friendship. They couldn’t have been more different from each other. Jeremiah had been a big, gruff, physical man, while Simon had been seeker of knowledge, a savant, a man who had studied and pondered the works of the great philosophers. The only physical activity that didn’t sap Simon’s fragile strength had been fishing, and perhaps it was a common affection for the sport that had been his and Jeremiah Kincaid’s connection. At any rate, Wyatt had felt the need to call upon Dugin and pay his respects, which he’d done. After meeting Mary Jo, however, he was glad it was over. It was raining, all right—coming down in sheets. He noticed also that fog was gathering in low points of the terrain, and he switched on his headlights. He was almost upon the car at the side of the road before he saw it. Its hood was up, which meant car trouble. Immediately he steered to the side of the road, pulling to a stop behind the disabled maroon sedan. The windows of the car were steamed over. Obviously the driver was running the motor for warmth. Wyatt got out and hurried to the vehicle, bending over to peer into the driver’s window. Seeing Melissa gave him a jolt that caused a peculiar reaction: he laughed. Grim lipped, she rolled down the window a crack. ‘‘I’m so glad to be of amusement to you, Mr. North. What in hell

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are you doing on this road? Your ranch is clear across the valley.’’ ‘‘Sorry,’’ he said, though it was tough to maintain a straight face. This was some coincidence, the kind of unexpected situation that made one ponder fate. ‘‘What’s the problem?’’ ‘‘I have a flat tire. Right rear. I could change it, but I left without a jacket and I’m wearing a dress.’’ Why hadn’t she frozen her butt off and changed the tire herself? Accepting help from Wyatt went against her grain. Well, she wasn’t completely helpless. Grabbing the keys from the ignition, which shut down the motor, she pushed the door open and got out. ‘‘Hey, you don’t have to get wet. What’re you doing?’’ ‘‘I’m going to open the trunk.’’ ‘‘You might find this hard to believe, but I’ve unlocked a few trunks in my lifetime.’’ ‘‘Don’t be purposely irritating, Wyatt.’’ She marched to the back of her car. ‘‘You’re the last person I would have imagined coming along,’’ she fumed. ‘‘Sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘Want me to leave so you can wait for the next passerby?’’ ‘‘Damn, you’re annoying,’’ she snapped. ‘‘Deliberately, I suspect.’’ ‘‘You’re much too suspicious, sweetheart.’’ The trunk was by then wide open. ‘‘Okay, there’s the spare and the jack. Now why don’t you get your pretty tail back in your car and get the heater going again? Unless you’d like to wait in my truck while I change that tire.’’ ‘‘My car will do just fine, thank you very much.’’ Even though she had been waiting for assistance from someone, Wyatt being that someone was extremely aggravating. It was also unbelievable. How many people lived in the county—twenty thousand? Thirty? The odds of one particular, vexing person being her rescuer had to be astronomical. Shivering almost violently, she dashed for the driver’s door and climbed in to restart the car and the heater.

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Wyatt was still near the trunk, checking out the spare and the jack. If that spare just happened to be flat, too, Melissa would have to ride back to town with him. This was an opportunity to spend a little time with her, and if he let it pass, it might be an awfully long time before another one presented itself. Without a dram of guilt, he took his jackknife from his jeans, opened it and carefully pushed the razor-sharp tip into Melissa’s spare just under the rim. The air whooshed out of the tire. He walked around to the driver’s window again and rapped on it. She opened it a crack. ‘‘I hate being the bearer of bad news, Melissa, but your spare is flat, too.’’ ‘‘It couldn’t be!’’ Wyatt stared into her eyes with an innocent, forthright expression. ‘‘Melissa, your spare is as flat as your right rear tire.’’ ‘‘That’s impossible. My tires are practically new, including the spare.’’ Groaning, she held her forehead in her left hand. ‘‘I don’t believe this.’’ ‘‘Good thing it was a friend that came along, ’cause you’re going to have to ride back to town with me.’’ Her head jerked up. ‘‘And, of course, we both know how safe a woman is with you, don’t we?’’ ‘‘Sure do,’’ he said solemnly, as though he hadn’t even heard her sarcasm. ‘‘Come on, Melissa. It’s getting dark. Lock up your car and let’s get going. We’ll send a mechanic back for the car.’’ Rain was dripping from the brim of his hat, she saw. His shirt and vest were wet. He had to be uncomfortable. She sighed. ‘‘All right.’’ What choice did she have? Wyatt was the only one who had come along, and she couldn’t refuse his assistance and risk the possibility of staying out here all night. He lowered the hood and shut the trunk while she locked the car doors. Taking her purse, she got out and hurried to his pickup. It was colder than before, and raining hard. Her

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dress and underwear were damp and sticking to her body. She felt utterly miserable, especially about the situation. They were about twenty miles from town. With every intention of stretching their time together to the maximum, Wyatt drove slowly. ‘‘How come you’re way out here?’’ he asked. Melissa was staring straight ahead, sitting stiffly, unwilling to give an inch where Wyatt was concerned, whether he’d rescued her or not. ‘‘I drove out to the reservation.’’ ‘‘Without a jacket in this rain?’’ She sent him a scathing look. ‘‘I didn’t plan on having my tires go flat.’’ His handsome profile caused a reaction within herself she didn’t like, so she quickly looked forward again. ‘‘How come you’re way out here?’’ ‘‘I was at the Kincaid Ranch, paying my respects to Dugin. Jeremiah and Dad used to fish together. It was just a courtesy call.’’ ‘‘I didn’t realize you were so concerned with courtesy.’’ Wyatt grinned. ‘‘Be nice, Melissa. Think what might have happened if I hadn’t come along.’’ ‘‘Yes, well, I do appreciate your stopping,’’ she said grudgingly. She couldn’t resist adding, ‘‘But why did it have to be you?’’ ‘‘Fate? Predestination? Luck?’’ ‘‘Oh, please,’’ she said with obvious disgust. ‘‘It was just some weird coincidence.’’ ‘‘You call it coincidence if you want, but I’ll stick with luck.’’ ‘‘You would.’’ After a few silent moments, Wyatt spoke in a deadly serious tone of voice. ‘‘Don’t hate me, Melissa.’’ Startled, she turned her head to look at him. ‘‘Hating someone is such a waste of time and energy,’’ he said. ‘‘Especially when that someone suffered more than you did over the same incident.’’ ‘‘I doubt that.’’ ‘‘You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.’’

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‘‘How dare you say that! Your interpretation of love leaves something to be desired, and just what makes you think I would even want to hear such an abominable lie? Did you forget you married another woman?’’ ‘‘Hardly. But did you ever for one moment think I wanted to marry another woman? God, I hope not. I did what I had to do, Melissa.’’ ‘‘Oh, come on. You had to sleep with another woman and make her pregnant? Wyatt, just drop it. I don’t want to have this conversation. I never want to have this conversation.’’ ‘‘You’ll never get past your hatred if we don’t.’’ ‘‘Good God, I don’t hate you. You mean nothing to me, can’t you get that through your head?’’ ‘‘I don’t believe you.’’ She took an exasperated breath. ‘‘Only because you have an ego the size of Los Angeles. Did you actually think I would be glad to see you again? When I moved back here you were living in Helena. It never occurred to me that you might move back, too. Besides, you were married, so if we did happen to run into each other it wouldn’t mean anything. I felt reasonably safe...’’ ‘‘And now you don’t. You know why you don’t? It’s because six years and a lot of mistakes didn’t destroy what we had. Melissa, nothing has the power to destroy what we had. The second I saw you again I knew that to be a fact.’’ Melissa’s head dropped to the seat back. ‘‘Oh, give me strength. Nothing I say makes the slightest dent in your macho confidence.’’ She lifted her head to glare at him. ‘‘Listen closely. I have lived very well without you for six years, and I intend to live very well without you for the rest of my life. Is that concept too difficult for you to comprehend?’’ ‘‘Not at all. It’s just not the truth. You’re lying to me and you’re lying to yourself. Maybe you don’t realize you’re lying, but that’s what you’re doing.’’ Melissa’s anger exploded. ‘‘You arrogant bastard!

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Where’s your wife and child now? Did you get tired of married life and just walk off? Did you decide that—’’ ‘‘Hey, just stop it!’’ Wyatt wheeled the truck to the side of the road and slapped the shifting lever into Park. He turned in the seat. ‘‘You don’t have the slightest understanding of what my marriage was like. Maybe I deserved it, but the only reason I stayed in it for as long as I did was because of my son.’’ Melissa was staring at him. ‘‘Your...son.’’ ‘‘Yes, my son.’’ Wyatt dug out his wallet and flipped it open. ‘‘Here’s a picture of him.’’ Melissa was trembling. She didn’t want to look at a picture of Wyatt’s son, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her gaze dropped to the wallet in Wyatt’s hand, and she saw a handsome little boy with blond hair, brown eyes and an infectious grin. ‘‘He—he’s beautiful,’’ she whispered, shaken to her soul. ‘‘Yes, he is,’’ Wyatt softly agreed. ‘‘His name is Timmy—Timothy Wyatt—and I’m getting equal custody in the divorce. I want him at the ranch with me during the summers. He’ll be spending winters with his mother because of school, but I’ll have him every other weekend and for alternating holidays.’’ He gave Melissa a rather hard look. ‘‘So you see, I didn’t just walk away and forget my son. And I will never apologize for the divorce.’’ His expression softened. ‘‘But I would like to tell you about it. There’s so much I’d like to tell you.’’ Wyatt could see how the subject was affecting Melissa. She had covered her face with her hands, and he wasn’t sure if she was crying. ‘‘You don’t have to hear it now,’’ he said gently. ‘‘Not now.’’ Taking her hands, he pulled them away from her face. Moving closer to her, he put his arms around her and cradled her head to his chest. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation of holding her. Then he tipped her chin and pressed his lips to hers. That

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was when Melissa came back to life. She jerked her head to the side, breaking the kiss. ‘‘No, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘Honey...’’ ‘‘No!’’ He looked at her for the longest time. The cab of the truck was shadowed and lit mostly by the dashboard lights. The wipers were rhythmically slapping the rain from the windshield. ‘‘Are you ever going to forgive me?’’ he asked sadly. ‘‘I already told you you’re forgiven,’’ she replied, sounding weak and exhausted. ‘‘But I don’t want you kissing me.’’ ‘‘You’re afraid of—’’ ‘‘Please don’t start that again. Take me home, Wyatt.’’ He hesitated a moment, then slid back behind the wheel. They drove the last few miles to town in silence.

Five S

eeing that snapshot of Wyatt’s son affected Melissa in unexpected ways. For one thing, she wondered if maybe she really had forgiven him. Twice she’d told him that she had already done so, but it hadn’t been the truth, or at least not the whole truth. To be factual, if she had forgiven him during the last six years it had been on a part-time basis. Sometimes weeks had passed without her spirits taking a nosedive because something would remind her of Wyatt’s perfidy, and she supposed now that those times could be construed as periods of forgiveness. On the other hand, how could anyone truly forgive infidelity? She understood what had taken place six years ago better now than she had then, but still there was Wyatt’s unfaithfulness to deal with. And yet...there was Timmy. Even from a snapshot the little boy had touched Melissa’s heart. Tender feelings for the child were influencing her attitude toward his father. But why, if Wyatt had remained in an allegedly unhappy marriage for six years because of his son, had he suddenly decided on divorce? Was it because he had finally gotten wind of her return to Whitehorn? The possibility was so destructive to Melissa’s peace of mind that she couldn’t allow herself to dwell on it. The morning after Wyatt rescued her, Melissa found her car keys attached to her apartment doorknob and her car parked at the curb. There was no bill, no note, nothing to tell her the cost, so she placed a call to the garage that had repaired her tires.

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‘‘Mr. North took care of the bill, ma’am.’’ ‘‘Oh. Well, I need to know the cost so I can repay him. Will you look it up, please?’’ ‘‘Uh...sure. Hold on a minute.’’ The man came back on the line. ‘‘It was $126.23, Miss Avery. There was a thirtydollar charge for my man driving out there.’’ ‘‘I understand. Thank you.’’ Melissa jotted down the amount and hung up. Even with the thirty-dollar charge for the trip, the price seemed terribly high for just repairing two flat tires. But she was in no position to argue cost at this point, so she wrote out a check in Wyatt’s name and stuck it in her purse. It wasn’t going to be mailed. She was going to gear up her courage and talk to Wyatt about the lot next to the cafe´, so she may as well hand him the check at the same time. But several days passed before her courage was even close to being ‘‘geared up.’’ It was disconcerting and unsettling that she felt so confused about Wyatt now, so uncertain. Was it possible that she had judged him too harshly six years ago? Still, his admitted infidelity remained an enormous hurdle to even friendship, and she honestly believed suspicion of him was a permanent condition on her part. She had trusted him so implicitly that the idea of him seeking other women during their extended separation had never entered her mind. Learning otherwise, hearing it from his own lips on the telephone, had nearly killed her. Certainly it had destroyed her trust in him, and without trust, no relationship stood a chance of surviving. She wasn’t into risk taking anyway, she told herself pragmatically. Romance with Wyatt was simply out of the question. But she could be a little more civil to him now, and maybe they could even do business together. If he was receptive to a discussion on that vacant lot, that is. Paul Rodell had started dropping in for coffee everyday. When Melissa was there and not too busy, she sat with him

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and chatted. ‘‘You did a remarkable job with this old building, Melissa,’’ he told her one afternoon. She smiled. ‘‘I hope the bank will take that into consideration when I finally apply for that loan.’’ ‘‘Have you purchased the lot?’’ ‘‘Um...it’s in process.’’ The following afternoon he asked her out. ‘‘The Ranchers’ Association’s annual dinner-dance is coming up, Melissa. Several officers of the bank have been invited, including myself. I’d be honored if you would go with me.’’ Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. The Norths had always been members of the association, and more than likely Wyatt would attend the function. She wouldn’t have to be a fly on the wall to see Wyatt’s reaction to hearing she was dating another man; she could witness it with her own eyes. What went around came around, didn’t it? Eventually? If one waited long enough? ‘‘I’d love to go,’’ she told Paul. Melissa couldn’t procrastinate on that vacant lot any longer. With or without courage, she had to speak to Wyatt about it. The sky was sunny again, although the air was much cooler than it had been before the drenching the area had received. For the drive out to the North Ranch, Melissa put on jeans, sneakers and a blue cotton sweater. She had no idea if Wyatt would be there, but if he wasn’t, she decided, she would merely leave the check and a note about the lot. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she hoped he wouldn’t be there. Then he could digest the contents of the note and give some thought to selling her the lot before they actually talked about it. Assuming, of course, that he hadn’t bought the land just to get her goat. She still had her doubts on that point. Turning into the ranch’s long driveway, Melissa stopped the car at a high spot in the road. A poignant sigh whispered through her. She had always thought the North Ranch to be

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the most beautiful in the valley. The house, especially. It was immense and architecturally perfect. Wyatt had never discussed his parents’ wealth with her, but it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that they had been. Since Simon’s death it was all Wyatt’s, of course. Melissa got the car moving again. Wyatt’s assets meant nothing to her, except for one: the lot he had snatched right from under her nose. What was so vexing was that it was her own darn fault. Wyatt wouldn’t have been able to do any ‘‘snatching’’ if she had taken care of business the way she should have. Following the driveway, she approached the house. Up close it was even more beautiful. Constructed of whitepainted wood and some type of striking, silvery gray rock that Melissa knew wasn’t indigenous to this section of Montana, it boasted a number of interesting details such as porches, cupolas, frosted glass doors and mullioned windows. She was certain there wasn’t another house in the valley to compare. Parking her car near several other vehicles, she got out and walked to the front door, where she rang the doorbell. A middle-aged woman in a neat cotton housedress opened the door. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘Hello. I’m Melissa Avery. Is Wyatt home?’’ Melissa felt the woman’s eyes go up and down, measuring her. Obviously she was wondering who she was. But she answered politely, if not with any apparent friendliness. ‘‘He’s around somewhere. Not in the house, though. Would you like to come in?’’ ‘‘Oh...well...there wouldn’t be much point if he isn’t there.’’ Melissa smiled. ‘‘Would you have any idea where he might be?’’ ‘‘Probably out by the barns or corrals. Unless he’s on a horse somewhere. You could go out back and take a look, if you’d like.’’ ‘‘Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you.’’ Skipping from the porch, Melissa recalled that the Norths had always had a house-

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keeper and a cook. As a girl she had thought having a housekeeper and a cook to be the height of luxury. But when, big-eyed and open-mouthed, she’d mentioned it to Wyatt, he’d just laughed. The truth, of course, was that he had never lived any other way, and her awe had tickled his funny bone. Then, as she and Wyatt became closer, his family’s affluence lost significance. He’d acted no different than the other high school kids, and who had what hadn’t mattered to those of them who liked each other and hung out together. The boys drove pickups—some old, some new—and the girls usually drove the family car, though there had been a few who had their own vehicle. Melissa hadn’t been in that fortunate group. Her mother had made ends meet by doing odd jobs—some sewing, some housecleaning, whatever she could pick up—and by dipping into her savings account when absolutely necessary. THE SAVINGS ACCOUNT was the Averys’ one asset, and Nan had spoken of it in reverent tones. Melissa had always seen the term in capital letters whenever her mother mentioned it, and to this day she realized the value of every dollar that passed through her hands. The major difference between her and her mother was that Nan was content with her savings—now replenished by her share of Charlie’s life-insurance payoff—and Melissa had ambition and dreams and the determination to do something about them. Walking around the house, Melissa put a lilt in her step, when she felt much more like dragging her feet. Her visit was going to be a surprise to Wyatt, and she didn’t want him getting any funny notions from it. But it seemed more appropriate to approach him confidently when she was going to instigate a discussion about that vacant lot. Her lighthearted step and bright expression were pure bluff; she desperately wanted that land and didn’t want Wyatt to catch on to how much she wanted it. Wasn’t that how practiced businessmen and women threw their opponents off guard?

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Behind the house was a beautiful backyard, with what seemed like acres of green grass, flower beds and artistically placed trees, bushes and shrubs. Farther out were the ranch’s barns, corrals and equipment sheds. That was where Melissa headed. Someone called her name. ‘‘Melissa?’’ She stopped and looked around. ‘‘Melissa? Over here.’’ It was Wyatt. He was calling to her from one of the corrals. At sight of him, Melissa felt something inside of her go all soft and mushy. He was wearing a big hat, tan leather chaps over his jeans and a shirt without sleeves. There were leather gloves on his hands and he was drawing a rope into a coil. He was too gorgeous to be believed. Vaguely Melissa registered the horse in the corral with him, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from Wyatt. It wasn’t fair that he should look like that, she thought angrily, not fair at all. ‘‘Come on over,’’ Wyatt called, because she was just standing there. She took a deep breath and began walking, too uneasy now to ‘‘lilt.’’ But she did manage a reasonably normal, ‘‘Hi,’’ before reaching the corral fence. ‘‘Hi, yourself.’’ The corners of Wyatt’s eyes crinkled as he gave her a pleased but curious smile. He couldn’t believe she was here, but she was, looking radiantly beautiful and a little nervous. ‘‘This is a pleasant surprise,’’ he said, walking over to the fence where she was standing. ‘‘Yes, well, I wanted to give you this.’’ Melissa pulled the check from her purse and held it out over the fence. Wyatt looked at it, then folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He had no intention of ever cashing the check, but explaining that to Melissa wasn’t a good idea right now. Eventually, by the time she finally realized that the check hadn’t been cashed, things would be much better between them and they could laugh together about him slashing her spare tire.

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‘‘That garage charged an awful lot to fix the tires,’’ Melissa remarked. ‘‘Prices are high on everything these days,’’ Wyatt said with a perfectly straight face. The high amount was due to having to purchase a new tire to replace the one he had ruined. Melissa glanced toward the horse nearby. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ ‘‘Trying to take some of the ornery out of that horse.’’ ‘‘Oh, he’s ornery.’’ ‘‘She’s ornery.’’ ‘‘Oh, it’s a mare.’’ Wyatt laughed. ‘‘Yep, that she is.’’ His smile faded as he looked at Melissa. ‘‘Do you know that you glow?’’ ‘‘I what?’’ Her gaze jerked to his. ‘‘You glow.’’ ‘‘Like a fluorescent worm, you mean?’’ ‘‘Now why would you think of a worm?’’ ‘‘Because I had a fluorescent caterpillar when I was a child, I suppose. An orange one.’’ ‘‘Well, a caterpillar isn’t a worm, and I wasn’t thinking about a fluorescent anything. Your glow is like an aura.’’ ‘‘An aura, huh?’’ Melissa looked away from his eyes. He wasn’t kidding and she didn’t want to deal with serious compliments. She had to introduce the subject of that lot he’d bought, but how? Just blurting it out would reveal her intense interest in it. There must be a way to lead up to it that would sound casual, like ordinary conversation. Inadvertently, Wyatt helped her out. ‘‘How about something cold to drink?’’ ‘‘Yes, thanks,’’ she said immediately and with a brighter countenance. ‘‘We’ll go up to the house.’’ He came through the corral gate and they started walking. Thinking of that stern, measuring housekeeper, Melissa eyed the patio. ‘‘Why don’t we sit out there?’’ ‘‘Sure, if you prefer.’’ He took off his gloves and beat

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some of the dust from his chaps with them. Melissa tried not to stare at his arms, which were tanned and muscular and so blatantly male, the sight of them gave her goose bumps. He had not had arm muscles like that in high school. ‘‘What would you like?’’ he asked. ‘‘A soda? Iced tea?’’ ‘‘Just water, please.’’ He wished he could give her something special, like nectar and ambrosia, the food of the gods and immortals, but water would have to do. For now. Melissa was glad when she was sitting on the patio alone and he had gone in for the drinks. He was still the Wyatt she had loved, she thought unhappily. However badly he’d hurt her, some part of her was going to keep her miserable by responding to his good looks and incredible smile, and to memories of times past. She wished passionately that they had never made love. It had only happened once—the night she had called him, sobbing her heart out because of being forced to move to California—but it was one memory that would never become dull or tarnished with age. Her gaze absently drifting over the patio furniture and yard, Melissa heaved a heavy sigh. She had been so young, so naive, and she had believed in ‘‘happily ever after,’’ when there was no such thing. Wyatt came out carrying two tall glasses, one of which he passed to Melissa before occupying the chair next to hers. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she murmured, taking a swallow. The cold water felt good in her dry mouth. ‘‘Your ranch looks wonderful. Just like I remembered.’’ ‘‘You look wonderful,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Just like I remembered. I’m glad you’re here.’’ She could have put the check in the mail. Her delivering it in person raised his hopes to new heights. ‘‘Please,’’ she said, looking down at the glass in her hands. ‘‘Let’s keep this impersonal.’’ Wyatt’s eyes narrowed slightly. Keep what impersonal? Was she here for a reason unrelated to that check? ‘‘I don’t want ‘impersonal’ with you, Melissa.’’ He set

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his glass down and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his expression intense. ‘‘I want it as personal as it gets.’’ Color flared in her cheeks. ‘‘Don’t say things like that. You’re married.’’ ‘‘Not for long. I should be receiving the final decree papers any day now. The Ranchers’ Association’s annual dinner dance is this weekend. Will you go with me?’’ She couldn’t meet his eyes, nor could she explain that she was going to the affair with Paul Rodell. Besides, that wasn’t the issue. She wasn’t going to date Wyatt under any circumstances. ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘Why not?’’ ‘‘Why do you think?’’ There was some sarcasm in her voice. Inwardly she winced at the way she’d spoken. This was not the conversation she had come out here to have with Wyatt. She took a breath and spoke calmly. ‘‘Wyatt, I am not going out with you.’’ ‘‘Not ever?’’ ‘‘Not ever,’’ she affirmed. His features became harder. ‘‘Why didn’t you just put that check in the mail?’’ Suddenly nervous, Melissa stalled on an answer by taking another swallow of water. But the time had come, and she couldn’t avoid it by sucking on ice cubes, which was all that was left in her glass. The timing was terrible. Wyatt was angry or hurt or something else now, when he’d been in an upbeat, cheerful mood not more than three minutes ago. She hadn’t meant to upset him, but in all fairness he’d done that himself with his suggestive compliments. There really was no roundabout way to approach the subject of that lot, so she may as well just come right out and ask about it. ‘‘I didn’t mail the check because of something I need to talk to you about,’’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate.

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‘‘Which is?’’ Melissa cleared her throat. ‘‘Um...I understand that you’ve recently purchased the lot next to my building.’’ Wyatt blinked. News traveled with the speed of light in Whitehorn. He’d forgotten what a gossipy little town it really was. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, or thought they did, and were thrilled to pass it on. ‘‘That happens to be true,’’ he said slowly, pondering her interest in the transaction. ‘‘It was a good investment,’’ he added after a moment of silence between them. ‘‘I’ve bought a couple of pieces of land lately.’’ Melissa was obviously uncomfortable with the subject, and yet she had felt it necessary to drive out here to discuss it. It puzzled him. ‘‘John Hendrix, the guy I bought it from, said it had been on the market for a long time.’’ ‘‘For quite some time,’’ Melissa murmured in agreement. For so long, in fact, she had felt no urgency about making an offer to purchase, a dire mistake in judgment. ‘‘I guess I don’t understand, Melissa. Were you interested in that lot?’’ He noted that she was chewing on her bottom lip rather nervously. ‘‘Actually...’’ How best to present this without appearing to be begging? ‘‘...I’ve been wondering what you intend to do with it.’’ Now he understood. She was concerned that he might put up some sort of structure that would detract from her business. ‘‘You don’t have to worry, I probably won’t do anything with that lot for years.’’ Melissa’s shoulders slumped. They were conversing at cross purposes, him saying one thing, she another. But was he speaking a little too smoothly? Toying with her? God, she really didn’t know him anymore. She sat up straighter. Beating around the bush was getting her nowhere. ‘‘Would you consider selling the lot to me?’’ Wyatt looked startled. ‘‘You want it?’’ ‘‘I’ve been working on plans to expand the cafe´ for months now. Longer than that. Almost from the first, actu-

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ally. I should have tied up the lot with a deposit, but—’’ she took an embarrassed breath ‘‘—but I didn’t, and it got away from me.’’ She watched Wyatt’s eyes for his reaction to her next comment. ‘‘You could have knocked me over with a feather when John Hendrix told me you were the person who had bought it.’’ With his elbow on the arm of his chair, Wyatt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘‘This is a peculiar situation, isn’t it?’’ ‘‘One could say that,’’ Melissa replied dryly. ‘‘Well...’’ He got up. ‘‘You can have the lot.’’ Melissa gaped. ‘‘I can? Just like that? Don’t you want to discuss terms? I can’t immediately pay you the entire amount, Wyatt. What I have is ten thousand—’’ ‘‘No terms,’’ he said flatly. ‘‘You misunderstood. What I said was that you could have the lot. I’m giving it to you.’’ ‘‘Giving it to me?’’ Melissa jumped to her feet. ‘‘Absolutely not! Why on earth would you even think I would accept a thirty-thousand-dollar gift from you?’’ ‘‘Twenty-five thousand. Hendrix was anxious to sell.’’ Melissa’s spine was rigidly stiff and her eyes were blazing. ‘‘I have ten thousand dollars for a down payment, and I can pay a thousand a month on the balance. There has to be an interest factor and I’ll pay whatever you say, plus, if you want to make a reasonable profit—’’ ‘‘You may as well stop laying down the law,’’ Wyatt said brusquely. ‘‘The only way you’re going to get that lot is without payment. Take it or leave it.’’ ‘‘This is absurd! You know damned well I’m not going to take that lot as a gift.’’ ‘‘Why not?’’ ‘‘Because—because I can’t be bought,’’ she retorted with her chin in the air. Wyatt laughed, albeit humorlessly. ‘‘I’m not trying to buy you, for God’s sake.’’ His amusement vanished. ‘‘But maybe I owe you something.’’ The color drained from Melissa’s face. ‘‘You don’t owe

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me money!’’ Whirling, she started across the lush grass toward the parking area and her car. ‘‘Aw, hell,’’ Wyatt mumbled, as realization of what he’d done struck him right between the eyes. For one thing, he had forgotten her chilled reaction to his offer of financial aid when she and her mother had both lived in California. But what in hell was wrong with a man giving a woman a gift? He could write out a dozen twenty-five-thousanddollar checks and barely notice a dent in his net worth. In fact, he donated almost that much to charity every year. The ranch just kept on making money; his stocks, bonds, T-bills, real-estate investments and cash accounts just kept on making more money. And he did owe Melissa. But apparently it wasn’t a debt that could be cancelled with anything monetary. He should have figured that out before talking about ‘‘owing’’ her. He went after her, calling, ‘‘Melissa, wait. I’m sorry. Give me a chance to explain.’’ She yanked open the door of her car and hurriedly got in. But her anger was evolving into something much worse—humiliation. Holding back the tears burning her eyes was impossible, and when Wyatt reached her car and pulled open the door, they were streaming down her cheeks. ‘‘Leave me alone,’’ she gasped. Her trembling hands were trying to get the car started, but she could barely see the ignition through the massive onslaught of tears, and her attempts were futile. ‘‘Melissa,’’ Wyatt said, sounding forlorn and helpless. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ He was leaning over, peering in at her. ‘‘You’re always sorry after you do something abominable.’’ Ignoring the tears, she glared at him. ‘‘Shove that lot up your nose, Wyatt.’’ A glimmer of common sense shone between the clouds of her despair. ‘‘Unless you decide to behave like a normal human being and sell it to me for what it’s worth.’’ He looked at her beautiful, teary face and an unaccus-

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tomed stubbornness set in. ‘‘I told you my deal. I’m not going to change my mind.’’ Furious words came spewing out of Melissa’s mouth. ‘‘Fine! Keep the damned thing. You planned this, didn’t you? You knew I wanted that land and you bought it just to spite me. Just so you could look benevolent and wonderful by giving it to me. And while we’re at it, I wonder about the timing of your divorce. If you left your wife just because I was back in Whitehorn, you’re the worst kind of snake there ever was.’’ She grabbed the inside door handle. ‘‘Get out of the way so I can leave.’’ ‘‘You little idiot,’’ Wyatt said through clenched teeth. ‘‘You’re so far from the truth about the sort of man I am and what I would or wouldn’t do, it’s almost funny. But I’m not laughing, am I? I think you should get your head examined. A completely sane person would never come up with the kind of accusations you’ve just thrown at me.’’ ‘‘Go to hell!’’ Slamming the door as hard as she could, she got the motor going and backed up fast. Turning the car around, she sped down Wyatt’s long driveway. He stared after her, shaking his head.

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he cardboard cylinder containing the architectural rendering for the Hip Hop’s expansion stood in a corner of Melissa’s bedroom. Every time she happened to glance that way and realize it was never going to be used, she got a tight, clenched-fist feeling in her stomach. Wyatt trying to give her that lot was so preposterous, she became angry all over again whenever she thought of it. He was out of her life, she vowed—this time her doing. To be honest, she wasn’t sure she would even be able say hello to him should they run into each other. On the evening of the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association’s dinner-dance, she thought about that while getting ready. Wyatt was apt to be there, though now she didn’t care what his reaction might be to her dating Paul Rodell. Wyatt North was history as far as she was concerned, and his reactions simply didn’t interest her anymore. There were few formal occasions in Whitehorn, and tonight’s affair was one of them. Actually, it was more semiformal than formal, but it was reputed that people really dressed up for the event. Melissa was relying on hearsay in that regard. Her family hadn’t been ranchers, and she’d been too young to be invited to the event prior to leaving Whitehorn. Last summer, though she’d been in the area, no one had asked her to attend. She went through her wardrobe carefully, considering the season, the event and her own mood. In a way she wished that she hadn’t accepted Paul’s invitation, but in another she was looking forward to dressing up and spending the eve-

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ning with an attractive man. Narrowing her choice of apparel down to three dresses, she laid them on the bed and took a shower. An hour later her hair was curled and perfect, as was her makeup. Wearing lacy underwear, she was studying the dresses, trying to make up her mind which of them was most appropriate, when the telephone rang. Rather absently, her gaze still on the garments on the bed, she picked up her bedside phone. ‘‘Hello.’’ ‘‘Melissa, this is Wyatt. Please don’t hang up.’’ Instantly angry, she tensed. ‘‘How did you get this number? It’s unlisted and I know I didn’t give it to you.’’ ‘‘I called your mother awhile back. Melissa—’’ ‘‘You called my mother? Wasn’t that rather nervy?’’ ‘‘For God’s sake, I don’t want to argue,’’ Wyatt said sharply. He took a breath. ‘‘Melissa, please change your mind and go with me tonight. Give us a chance. Give me a chance. We haven’t really spent any quality time together, and—’’ Quality time? That was too much. Rudely, Melissa broke in. ‘‘Sorry, I’m going with someone else.’’ She heard silence, then, ‘‘Who are you going with?’’ ‘‘Paul Rodell.’’ ‘‘I see. Well...have a good evening.’’ ‘‘I’m sure I will. Goodbye.’’ Wyatt put down the phone and sat back in his chair, feeling disappointed and empty. He had been getting ready for the dinner-dance and was wearing his black trousers and white pleated shirt. His jacket was draped around the back of another chair, his tie was on its seat. But did he want to go now? Did he want to see Melissa smiling at Paul Rodell? He knew Paul and, worst luck, liked him. He could understand Melissa liking him. Maybe she’d been dating him all along. ‘‘Damn!’’ Wyatt shot up and out of the chair. Women had been the bane of his existence for six years now—first Shannon, now Melissa. He’d done his best to atone for his

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sins with Melissa, trying everything he knew how to make amends with her, all but turning himself inside out to garner a kind word, a genuine smile. She had said several times that she’d forgiven him, but she hadn’t, and why didn’t he just stop acting like a damned wimp and face the fact that she never would? He stopped his pacing at a large bureau with a mirror above it and looked himself in the eye. Giving up on Melissa would be like losing a crucial part of himself. Could he do it? He stood there for some time, thinking, pondering the past, present and future. He had everything he wanted that money could buy, but he didn’t have the only woman he’d ever loved, the only woman he’d ever wanted. No, he wasn’t going to give up on Melissa. Not yet. And neither was he going to attend that function tonight and pretend it didn’t matter that she was there with another man. ‘‘No more playing the fool,’’ he mumbled under his breath. Leaving the bureau and the mirror, he took off his shirt and pants and returned them to the closet. Fifteen minutes later, wearing jeans, boots, a cotton shirt and a denim jacket, he left the house, got in his pickup and started driving. His destination was his cabin in the mountains. It had always been the place where he’d done his best thinking. At twelve-thirty that night Melissa was saying good-night to Paul Rodell. ‘‘Thank you, Paul. It was a very pleasant evening.’’ Wyatt hadn’t been there. Why not? ‘‘I enjoyed it immensely, Melissa.’’ They were sitting in his car, which was parked at the curb outside her building. The motor was idling. ‘‘Tomorrow is Sunday. I’d love to take a drive somewhere. Would you go with me? We could go to Billings, maybe, and have dinner. Or anyplace else. You name it.’’ ‘‘Sundays are the cafe´’s busiest day of the week, Paul, so I really can’t.’’ It had been a pleasant evening. She couldn’t deny it. She had said hello to a lot of old friends

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and met some new people. The food had been reasonably good and the live band had been reasonably talented. Paul had been an attentive, considerate companion, and he had done nothing to alter her original opinion of him. But there’d been the most disturbing hole in the entire affair, and it was unnerving to realize how deeply she had felt Wyatt’s absence. She smiled for Paul’s benefit. ‘‘It’s late. Good night, and thanks again.’’ ‘‘Wait, I’ll walk you to the door.’’ ‘‘Not necessary,’’ she said, and opened her door to get out. Peering into the car, she said, ‘‘’Night, Paul,’’ and saw the perplexed expression on his face. Sighing inwardly, she closed the door and proceeded to the stairs. Aware that he was waiting until she got upstairs and inside her apartment, she waved from the second-floor landing before going in. Heading directly to her bedroom, she switched on a light, tossed her evening bag on the bureau and began undressing. That was when the tears started. They dribbled down her cheeks while she hung up her striking red dress with its spaghetti straps and fringed hemline, and put away her stylish, high-heeled red shoes. After Wyatt’s call, she had chosen the sexiest of the three dresses on the bed, hoping, she realized now, to make him suffer just a little. Well, he hadn’t been there to suffer. He hadn’t seen her in her red dress, dancing and laughing with Paul. He hadn’t seen her chatting and mingling and enjoying herself, most of it pretense. He hadn’t been there! Crawling into bed, she wiped her eyes and thought about the evening. Not about the party, but about why Wyatt had decided to skip it. Because she had told him she would be there with Paul? Because he hadn’t wanted to see her with another man? ‘‘Oh, God,’’ she whispered unhappily, turning over in bed to hug her extra pillow to herself. Why was this happening? Why was Wyatt in her blood again when she didn’t want him in her blood? Why couldn’t she fall for a nice, uncom-

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plicated guy like Paul Rodell? Yes, she had enjoyed his company tonight, but there were no sparks between them, no excitement that told a woman this was something special. Wyatt liked fireplaces, and his mountain cabin had a grand fireplace. At this elevation it was cold enough to build a roaring fire at night, though now, after midnight, it had died down to remnants of glowing logs that occasionally popped and sent sparks up the chimney. The silence and isolation of the cabin were pacifying to Wyatt this night. His father had had it constructed when Wyatt was still a child. The family used to come up here together, to fish or to walk among the tall pines. Like everything Simon had built, the cabin contained every luxury, though with a purposely rustic design to fit in with the mountain terrain. During his final years Simon had spent much of his time at the cabin, and there was a cupboard, Wyatt knew, that held five or six large photo albums. Those albums, with their hundreds of family pictures, had given Simon great comfort. Old photos didn’t provide the kind of comfort Wyatt was seeking tonight, however, and he hadn’t taken out the albums. What he wanted was peace of mind, he told himself. After a moment that thought produced a dry laugh. Peace of mind? Yeah, right. Thinking of himself and Melissa for hours on end wasn’t the route to peace, and that was what he’d been doing—studying their situation and diverse attitudes from every conceivable angle. He had come up with only one conclusion: he had to either leave Melissa completely alone or do something drastic to get her attention. Now...what could that be? What could he possibly do to change her opinion of him that he hadn’t already tried? The Hip Hop was as busy on Sunday as Melissa had told Paul it would be. At one point people were actually lined up outside the front door waiting for a table. Regardless,

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Melissa’s mind wasn’t completely on the day’s thriving business. She had to approach Wyatt about that vacant lot again, but with what ammunition? No way was she going to accept it as a gift. The mere thought of his ridiculous generosity made her head ache, and she had started the day with a headache to begin with. By eight that evening, when business began petering out and Melissa’s feet hurt and her mouth felt stretched from smiling when she hadn’t been in a smiling mood all day, she poured herself a cup of coffee and wilted into a vacant booth. What she needed was a vacation, she thought wearily. She had been working hard for eighteen months, and a few days away from the work and responsibility she had assigned herself would probably do her a world of good. Make that a week, she amended with a sigh. She had excellent help and they could handle the place for a week. The idea brightened her sagging spirits a little. She could go see her mother. Nan made it abundantly clear in letters and on the phone that she was never going to return to Whitehorn for any reason, so the only way Melissa was ever going to see her again was to make the trip to California. And she’d be able to see her brother and his children, too. Maybe the change of scene would clear her mind some, which Lord knew she needed. She could even use Nan’s car and drive to the ocean for a day. Walking on the beach had always been soothing for her. It just might work, she thought hopefully. Maybe she would come back with all sorts of solutions to her problems. On Monday morning Melissa made the rounds of Whitehorn’s law-enforcement agencies, talking to Judd, to Tracy and to Sterling. There were no new developments in her father’s murder investigation, and she returned to the cafe´ all but scowling. Instead of immediately immersing herself in work, she went upstairs to her apartment and made reservations for a flight from Billings to Fresno, California for the next day. With that task completed, she picked up the

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phone again to dial her mother and let her know she was coming. But then, frowning, she hung up. If by some quirk she had to cancel her plans, Nan would be upset. It was better to just go and take a cab from the airport. There was no doubt in Melissa’s mind that her mother would be home, or at least very close to home. The extent of her traveling was to a nearby shopping mall, which held a supermarket and a drug store, so she probably didn’t put a thousand miles on her car in a year. Okay, Melissa thought, she was all set. Packing would take about an hour. Much more important was to let her restaurant staff know her plans. She could speak to the shift on duty right now and the other shift this evening. On Tuesday morning the sunless, cloudy sky looked as though it could start raining any minute. Obviously the area was in for another drenching. After standing at the window of his den for twenty minutes staring out at the dark and gloomy day, with his mind at the Hip Hop Cafe´ and what Melissa might be doing, Wyatt muttered, ‘‘To hell with it,’’ and headed for his desk and telephone. He couldn’t vegetate and do nothing about Melissa’s attitude any longer. He had a plan in mind, that ‘‘something drastic’’ he’d decided was necessary to his and Melissa’s faltering relationship, but he couldn’t set it in motion all by himself. Dialing the cafe´’s number, he sat tensely, awaiting an answer. ‘‘Hip Hop Cafe´,’’ a female voice said brightly. ‘‘Melissa Avery, please,’’ Wyatt said, sounding almost normal. ‘‘Hold on, please.’’ Wyatt could tell the phone had been set down. ‘‘Melissa?’’ the woman called. ‘‘Telephone.’’ It took a minute, but then the receiver was picked up. ‘‘Hello, this is Melissa.’’ ‘‘This is Wyatt.’’

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‘‘Oh.’’ He could hear the sudden chill in her voice. ‘‘I don’t have time for chitchat right now.’’ ‘‘I didn’t call to chat. I need to see you.’’ She needed to see him, too, Melissa thought with a crease of discomfort between her eyes. About the lot. Somehow she had to make him understand why she couldn’t accept it without payment. But her mind was a blank as to how to accomplish that feat. At any rate, she couldn’t slam that door completely shut. She spoke with a little less chill in her voice. ‘‘Wyatt, I don’t have time to see you this morning, and I’m leaving for a week.’’ ‘‘Going where?’’ She hated his nosiness. He had no right to question her about anything she did. Withholding her impatience, she continued without answering his question. ‘‘We can talk when I get back.’’ ‘‘Melissa, what I need to see you about is the lot.’’ ‘‘The lot?’’ Melissa’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘‘Um...what about it?’’ ‘‘I’ll tell you in person. When are you leaving?’’ ‘‘Around noon. Twelve-thirty, actually.’’ Wyatt checked his watch. It was eight-fifteen. ‘‘You’re driving somewhere?’’ ‘‘Just to the airport.’’ ‘‘I see.’’ Wyatt felt a burst of excitement. This was perfect to his plan, fitting it as though by supernatural design. But he had some important matters to attend to before twelve-thirty and had better get to them. ‘‘Okay, fine. Call me when you get back and we’ll discuss the lot.’’ ‘‘Can’t you tell me what you’ve got in mind right now?’’ ‘‘I’d much rather do that face-to-face. Have a good trip.’’ Melissa hung up, frowning. Now she would wonder what was cooking in Wyatt’s brain about that lot all during her vacation. Melissa’s flight was scheduled to leave Billings at 3:10 p.m. Since Billings was a little over seventy miles from

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Whitehorn, and she wanted to give herself plenty of time to check in at the airport, she was ready to leave Whitehorn at twelve-thirty. She was loading her suitcases into the trunk of her car when a pickup pulled up right behind her. Glancing up, she felt her heart do what felt like a double somersault. The pickup was Wyatt’s, and he was getting out. ‘‘Hi,’’ he said casually. ‘‘Hello.’’ She looked at him curiously and with no small amount of hope. Maybe he’d come to tell her his idea on the lot. Maybe she wouldn’t have to wonder and worry about it for a week. ‘‘Looks like you’re all set to leave.’’ Melissa closed her trunk. ‘‘I am.’’ She decided to be cordial. ‘‘I’m paying a visit to my mother.’’ ‘‘I hope she’s not ill.’’ ‘‘She’s fine.’’ ‘‘Just a little vacation, then?’’ ‘‘Something like that.’’ Melissa walked around her car to the driver’s door. ‘‘I really have to be going. My plane leaves at three.’’ She stood with her hand on the door. ‘‘About the lot...’’ ‘‘You can buy it.’’ A crazy joy rocketed through her. She breathed an enormous sigh of relief and her expression took on genuine warmth. ‘‘Thank you.’’ ‘‘On one condition.’’ Her body stiffened with sudden suspicion. ‘‘Which is?’’ ‘‘That you let me drive you to the airport. Where are you leaving from, Billings or Butte?’’ ‘‘Billings. But your driving me would be terribly inconvenient when I return, because I wouldn’t have my car to get home.’’ ‘‘I’ll pick you up.’’ Melissa looked away from his expectant brown gaze. Why was there a pocket of excitement within herself be-

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cause he obviously hadn’t given up on her? She could see it in his eyes. He still had hopes for the two of them becoming close again. Was that what was behind his complete turnabout on the lot? The question was disturbing. She really didn’t want to be indebted to him, except for the payments on the lot, of course. But there was no question that this was a business deal with hordes of personal ramifications. ‘‘You’ll sell me the lot if I let you take me to the airport. Wyatt, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘Maybe not, but that’s my offer. You can have the lot for what I paid for it.’’ A bargain. She couldn’t refuse it, nor could she waste time in a debate over his very strange ‘‘condition,’’ though she did take a moment to wonder what his ‘‘condition’’ would have been if she hadn’t been on the brink of a week’s vacation. She inhaled a much-needed breath. ‘‘All right, fine. Since my luggage is already in my car, maybe we should just take it.’’ Wyatt shook his head. ‘‘No, I’ll transfer your suitcases to my truck. As you can see, I’ve put the camper shell on the bed of my pickup, so if it starts raining before we get to Billings, your luggage won’t get wet. Give me your keys.’’ Melissa hesitated. This was very peculiar. He would sell her the lot if she agreed to his driving her to the airport. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea, seeing as how she would be gone for a week. They could get the terms of the sale settled during the drive. Feeling better about Wyatt’s ‘‘condition,’’ she handed him her car keys. Then, while he transferred her suitcases from her vehicle to his, she got her raincoat and purse from the front seat. ‘‘Oh, just a minute,’’ she said. ‘‘My staff will wonder why my car is still here. It’ll just take a second to run in and explain.’’ Wyatt nodded. ‘‘Sure, go ahead. I’ll wait in the truck.’’

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He got in and started the motor while Melissa dashed into the cafe´. Admittedly, his stomach was churning a bit sickishly. But that ‘‘drastic’’ plan he’d come up with was risky business. If it worked, everything would be great between him and Melissa. If it didn’t, he could find himself in deep trouble. Very deep trouble. It was worth the risk, he told himself while watching the Hip Hop’s front door for Melissa. He had given up six years of his life in doing the ‘‘honorable’’ thing, so honor wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Simon North would never have agreed with that conclusion, Wyatt realized uneasily. But then, Simon had married the woman he’d loved. Spotting Melissa coming through the door, Wyatt got out, hurried around the front of the pickup and opened the passenger door for her to get in. She did so, rather breathlessly. ‘‘Everything’s all set,’’ she told him. Returning to the driver’s seat, Wyatt put the pickup in Reverse and backed away from Melissa’s car. Then he pulled into the street and headed east. ‘‘It’s starting to sprinkle,’’ he commented, turning the wipers on Intermittent, so they would clear the windshield at fifteen-second intervals. The normal route to Billings was to take Highway 191 to the interstate. Melissa sat back when Wyatt made a turn onto 191. She felt elation over Wyatt having decided to sell her the lot, though she could only guess at his motive for doing so. ‘‘I really appreciate your selling me the lot,’’ she said, while in the back of her mind resided the question, Why? She wouldn’t ask, though the matter was definitely hounding her. ‘‘As I said before, I can put ten thousand down.’’ ‘‘Any terms you want are fine with me.’’ He glanced at her. ‘‘You know I don’t need the money.’’ ‘‘Your net worth has no bearing on it, Wyatt. I pay my own way. You know that.’’ He chuckled softly. ‘‘Yes, I do. I remember when we first started dating that you wouldn’t even let me pay for your movie tickets or hamburgers. Do you remember that?’’

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Melissa couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘I remember. Guess I went a little overboard sometimes.’’ Her laughter faded. ‘‘But there was so much talk about Dad deserting Mother, my brother and me that I hated the idea of being labeled a charity case.’’ ‘‘Good Lord, Melissa, no one ever thought of you as a charity case. You were too sensitive about that. Do you think people blamed you because your father disappeared?’’ ‘‘What I think, what I remember, is that there was so much gossip, so much talk about it that every possible scenario was hashed and rehashed a hundred times. I hated knowing it was everyone’s main topic of conversation.’’ ‘‘Well, that’s probably true. People do love a mystery.’’ Melissa frowned. ‘‘Why are you making this turn?’’ Wyatt had just made a turn onto a gravel road. ‘‘Shortcut,’’ he said blandly. ‘‘I don’t know of any shortcut to Billings.’’ Wyatt laughed. ‘‘But I do. Melissa, I know every back road within a two-hundred-mile radius. Dad and I fished every creek, river and pond in three counties. You have to remember that.’’ ‘‘Well, yes...but the interstate is probably best today. I hate being rushed at an airport.’’ ‘‘You’ll get there sooner going this way over taking the interstate.’’ She blinked, startled, when he made another turn. ‘‘Wyatt, I’ve never been on these roads. Are you sure this will save time?’’ ‘‘Positive. Relax.’’ How could she relax when he kept making turns and totally disorienting her? The cloud cover concealed the sun, and she no longer knew in which direction they were traveling. ‘‘I wonder if all the rain this year is indicative of a lot of snow this coming winter,’’ Wyatt mused. ‘‘The area could use a heavy snowpack in the mountains. Water is a valuable

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commodity, and our last few winters have been pretty mild.’’ ‘‘It snowed last winter,’’ Melissa reminded him rather sharply. She was getting worried about time and didn’t care how much snow had fallen in the past few winters, or how much might pile up this year. She wanted to get to the Billings airport with lots of time to spare. She liked checking in early, then relaxing with a cup of tea before getting on the plane. ‘‘Wyatt, please turn around and go back to 191. I don’t want to miss my flight.’’ He flashed her a grin. ‘‘What a worrywart.’’ ‘‘Worrywart? Wyatt, we’re in the mountains!’’ ‘‘You’re certainly not afraid of mountains.’’ ‘‘Well, of course I’m not afraid of mountains. That’s absurd and you know it. But we just seem to be going higher and higher. Look at how dense the forest is getting.’’ Wyatt did look, out each of the side windows, as a matter of fact. ‘‘This sure is beautiful country, isn’t it?’’ Refusing to answer a remark that had absolutely no bearing on the situation, Melissa folded her arms across her chest and stared straight ahead while her mind worked. Should she be worried or shouldn’t she? Certainly Wyatt had told the truth about knowing every back road within a very broad area. Her knowledge was limited to only a few of the lesser-used roads, all of them very close to Whitehorn. If only the sun were out, she thought, squinting through the rain at the cloud-covered sky in an attempt to pinpoint its location. For some reason she felt turned around, as if they were going in the opposite direction from Billings. Yet it was such an inane thought that she didn’t vocalize it. What possible gain would Wyatt receive from making her miss her plane? She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost one-thirty. She still had plenty of time to make her flight, though if they had taken the interstate she would know exactly how much farther they had to drive. Trying to appear rational about Wyatt’s almost-frightening shortcut, she returned to the subject of the lot transac-

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tion. ‘‘What I plan to do is pay you a thousand a month. We should agree on an interest rate.’’ ‘‘You don’t have to pay interest.’’ ‘‘But I want to.’’ ‘‘Well,’’ Wyatt said in a casual tone, ‘‘the prime rate is low right now. How about five percent?’’ Melissa shook her head. ‘‘No, that’s too low. No one can borrow money at five percent. How about nine percent?’’ ‘‘Nine seems a little high to me. Make it seven.’’ Melissa thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘‘All right, seven. When I get back from California I’ll have an attorney draw up a contract.’’ ‘‘Good idea. Then your purchase will be protected should something happen to me.’’ Melissa’s head came around to look at him. ‘‘That wasn’t what I had in mind when I suggested a contract.’’ ‘‘I realize that. But it’s true, all the same.’’ She kept watching him. Something about his loose and relaxed posture made her uneasy. She cleared her throat. ‘‘How come you changed your mind on the lot?’’ He sent her a smile. ‘‘Because I finally remembered how upset you got when I offered you money years ago. I guess I’d forgotten your spirit of independence.’’ ‘‘Oh.’’ Just then Wyatt made another turn. Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. They were climbing higher all the time, and Billings was not surrounded by mountains! If she remembered correctly, the city’s elevation was just a little over three thousand feet, and right now she and Wyatt had to be at the five- or six-thousand-foot level. ‘‘Um...does this road make a sudden decline?’’ she asked. ‘‘Coming up very soon now,’’ Wyatt affirmed. He knew how nervous she was getting, and with damned good reason. They weren’t anywhere near Billings, and if the sun had been visible, she’d know that. But they were almost to his destination. That was when the fireworks would begin. What he didn’t know was just

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what form those ‘‘fireworks’’ would take. Would Melissa lose her temper and scream at him? Maybe she’d cry. He was prepared for whatever reaction his surprise might cause, and whether it was screeching or weeping or merely stunned silence, he wasn’t going to back off from his plan. All of a sudden there was a clearing. Melissa saw a large, beautiful cabin ahead. ‘‘My goodness, would you look at that!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Who do you suppose lives way out here?’’ Wyatt said nothing. They were at the end of the road, which wasn’t yet apparent to Melissa. He pulled up next to the cabin and stopped the truck. She gave him a puzzled look. ‘‘Why are you stopping?’’ Wyatt switched off the ignition and turned in the seat to face her. ‘‘Because we’re here.’’ A look of panic entered Melissa’s eyes. ‘‘We’re where?’’ ‘‘At my cabin. I’m going to say it straight out. You’ve been kidnapped, Melissa, and for the next week this is where we’ll be staying.’’ She was too shocked to speak. She stared. He stared. Then she exploded. ‘‘Have you gone crazy? I have a plane to catch!’’ ‘‘Want to know something, honey? I think maybe I am a little bit crazy.’’ Reaching out, he touched the tip of her nose. ‘‘It’s your fault.’’ She jumped back as though burned. ‘‘Don’t you dare lay a hand on me, you—you maniac. Get this truck started and take me to Billings right this minute.’’ ‘‘Nope.’’ Nonchalantly Wyatt took the keys out of the ignition and opened his door. ‘‘I’m going in. What are you going to do?’’ ‘‘I am not going into your cabin!’’ He paused, then nodded. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’ He got out and looked back into the cab at her. ‘‘Incidentally, don’t try to walk out of here. You’d be hopelessly lost in ten minutes.’’

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Giving the pickup door a push to close it, he sauntered to the porch of the cabin, climbed the three steps, crossed the porch, opened the door and went inside.

Seven At first Melissa was too dumbfounded to even think. Wyatt

had actually gone inside and left her out here alone. What was wrong with him? My Lord, what was she doing here? The cab of the truck was cooling down rapidly and she wriggled into her raincoat. Then she began to look around. The clearing was only slightly larger than the cabin. Surrounding it on all sides was forest—thick, dark, drippingwet forest. She shivered just from looking at it. And then it sank in, hitting her peculiarly. Wyatt had kidnapped her! Her eyes widened at the same time as a hysterical urge to giggle welled up in her throat. Her fingers rose to her lips. Should she be scared? She wasn’t, not of Wyatt. He hadn’t brought her out here to harm her, the conniving sneak—he’d brought her here to convince her of what a great guy he was and always had been, and of how badly she had misjudged him all these years. Now she was thinking. Fury nearly choked her. How dare he ruin her vacation? How dare he intrude on her life at all, but particularly in this manner? He had used her need to own that lot against her, and like a fool she’d fallen for his charming generosity and friendly smile. She wasn’t an ordinary fool, she was a terrible fool. She had learned six years ago not to trust Wyatt, and putting her trust in him was exactly what she had done today. Groaning, Melissa shivered, not sure if it was from the cold or from frustration. Years ago Wyatt had occasionally mentioned his family’s mountain cabin, but he had never brought her out here. Just

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exactly where ‘‘here’’ was, Melissa had no idea. She racked her brain, trying to recall if he had ever indicated a location when talking about the cabin, and came up empty. There could be a direct, simple route back to 191 for all she knew, but he had thrown her off balance by making so many turns, most of which had probably been unnecessary. He had deliberately addled her sense of direction, and done it so calmly, so coolly, that she hadn’t caught on, the snake. Gritting her teeth, she wished she had the physical strength to walk into that house and pop him one right in the nose. But he might pop her back, and the thought of her and Wyatt in a fistfight created another nervous giggle. Why on earth was she giggling? she thought disgustedly. She was stuck out here until Wyatt decided to take her back to town. Melissa checked her watch and felt anger rising again. She would stay right where she was, she decided furiously—in the truck, shivering and shaking from the dropping temperature. Eyeing the ignition, she wished she knew how to hot-wire a vehicle. Oh, how she wished it, with every fiber of her being. Wouldn’t she just love to drive Wyatt’s own truck away and leave him stranded? She shot the ignition a dirty look, then turned her attention to the cabin, which was much nicer than any other she’d ever seen. Though constructed of logs and rock, it was large and sprawling, a beautiful structure. Wyatt was inside, warm and cozy, while she... ‘‘Damn you, Wyatt North!’’ she shrieked, which was so inane she almost giggled again. He could at least have the courtesy to come out and try to convince her to go inside. He had to know she was cold and uncomfortable. Of course he knew, she thought with another onslaught of outrage. And he also knew it would be dark in a few hours. She noticed smoke rising from the chimney, and a picture took shape in her mind of a fireplace churning out

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heat and Wyatt sitting in a comfy chair soaking up the warmth. For a few minutes she concentrated on loathing him. To think that she had once been starry-eyed in love with him. What a naive idiot she had been in those days. She took another glance at her watch. She had been sitting in the truck for almost thirty minutes! Was he just going to leave her out here? There had to be a way to make him pay for his odious behavior today—there had to be. Melissa’s eyes narrowed in vengeful speculation. What could she do to even the score? Whatever it might be, it couldn’t be accomplished with her in the truck and him in the cabin. Clenching her jaw, she opened the door of the truck and got out. Marching to the cabin, she climbed the stairs, crossed the porch and brashly walked in. The front door opened directly onto an immense room that contained numerous chairs, two sofas, several bookcases and tables, and the largest fireplace she had ever seen. Wyatt got to his feet. Just as she had imagined, he’d been sitting in a big chair near the fireplace. ‘‘Hi,’’ he said with a friendly smile, as though this were an ordinary situation and she had just dropped in to pay a neighborly call. His isn’t-this-just-wonderful expression grated on her nerves. Ignoring his greeting, Melissa walked over to the fireplace. ‘‘I could have you arrested, you know,’’ she said in a taut voice filled with anger. Wyatt sank back into his chair. ‘‘Guess you could.’’ She turned to look at him. ‘‘You don’t believe I would do it, do you?’’ Wyatt smiled. ‘‘I don’t know what to believe about you anymore, honey.’’ ‘‘Don’t call me anything but my name. You don’t have the right to use endearments with me.’’ ‘‘All right. If ‘honey’ bothers you so much, I won’t use it.’’

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‘‘It doesn’t just bother me,’’ she said sharply. ‘‘It irritates the hell out of me. Just like you do.’’ After a beat Wyatt slowly nodded. ‘‘I see.’’ His gaze moved over her form in the long raincoat. ‘‘I guess I didn’t realize I irritated you so much. Are you irritated right now?’’ She sent him a murderous look. ‘‘There aren’t words to describe what I’m feeling right now. Just where do you get your gall? I should be on a plane this minute. Instead I’m—’’ she threw out a hand ‘‘—God knows where.’’ Wyatt held up a finger. ‘‘Which brings us to a question I’ve been thinking about. Is your mother expecting you?’’ Adrenaline shot through Melissa. This could be her way out of this fiasco. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said triumphantly. ‘‘And when I don’t arrive as scheduled, she’ll call my apartment. There won’t be an answer, so she’ll call the cafe´. Then she’ll hear how I got in your truck so you could drive me to the airport. She’ll call in the law. She’ll—’’ ‘‘Hold it,’’ Wyatt said, getting up and walking over to a telephone on a table, which Melissa hadn’t noticed. A telephone! She drew a rather smug breath. All Wyatt had to do was turn his back on her for three minutes, and she would call in the law herself. But who was he calling? She saw him punch out a number from memory, and then it struck her: he was calling her mother! She ran over and broke the connection before it was made. Pure venom poured from her eyes. ‘‘Mother isn’t expecting me. Your call would only upset her.’’ ‘‘Oh, I see.’’ Calmly Wyatt pulled the phone cable from the wall jack, then wound it around and around the instrument. ‘‘You won’t find any other phones in the cabin, so don’t waste your time searching for one.’’ Renewed fury radiated from Melissa’s eyes. ‘‘What do you think you’re going to get out of this?’’ ‘‘Some conversation,’’ he said evenly.

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‘‘Conversation! You kidnapped me for conversation? You really are crazy.’’ Wyatt smiled. ‘‘Crazy about you.’’ ‘‘Well, this is certainly the way to prove it,’’ Melissa said with heavy sarcasm. ‘‘You’ll relax after a few days, and you might even let yourself like me again.’’ ‘‘Don’t hold your breath.’’ Wyatt held up the phone. ‘‘I’m going to put this away. You might as well make yourself comfortable.’’ ‘‘Never!’’ He left the room. Melissa stood there seething. Obviously he had gone to hide the phone, the jerk. Let herself like him? Absurd! He certainly had a warped sense of how a man went about earning a woman’s affection. Besides, nothing he could ever do would renew the affection she’d once had for him. She had been burned once by Wyatt North, and once was enough. Pacing the room, Melissa fumed and fretted. Still, through the red haze in her brain, the furnishings and decor registered. Wyatt’s affluence was everywhere she looked. Leather chairs. Bronze lamps. Leather-bound books. The books she bought were usually paperbacks, as hardcovers were too expensive for her budget. That was the trouble with Wyatt—he’d always had everything he wanted, the best of everything. Now he thought he wanted her again. Well, he’d had her once, but it wasn’t going to happen again, not while there was breath in her body. He came strolling in. ‘‘I’m going to bring in your luggage.’’ ‘‘Leave my luggage right where it is!’’ ‘‘No, I don’t think so.’’ He walked out the front door, leaving it ajar. Melissa ran across the room to peer out. ‘‘Who do you think you are, my keeper? I don’t want my luggage brought into your—your damned den of iniquity.’’

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Wyatt laughed with genuine amusement. ‘‘You sure are cute right now.’’ ‘‘You—you cretin. I loathe and despise you.’’ ‘‘Well, that’s exactly what we’re going to find out.’’ He sent her a big grin. Melissa advanced to stand on the porch. ‘‘I hope you know that kidnapping is a felony.’’ Unperturbed, Wyatt bent into the camper shell to retrieve her suitcases. They had bounced forward during the drive and were closer to the cab than the tailgate. ‘‘Do you know what the police do to kidnappers?’’ Melissa yelled. ‘‘I hope they put you in the State of Montana’s deepest, darkest dungeon.’’ Wyatt came out with a suitcase. ‘‘I don’t think the State of Montana has any dungeons, dark or otherwise.’’ His head disappeared as he crawled under the camper shell for another piece of luggage. ‘‘There must be a dungeon somewhere in these United States, and now that I think about it, I believe that kidnapping is a federal charge. Maybe the FBI will send you to a dungeon in Alaska, where it’s forty below zero and you have nothing to eat but stale bread and melted snow for water.’’ Wyatt succeeded in snagging the final suitcase. Slamming the tailgate in place and the shell door closed, he picked up Melissa’s luggage and walked to the house. ‘‘If you suggest it when you file your complaint, they might also periodically hang me by my thumbs,’’ he said. Passing her, he carried the suitcases into the house. Wearing a poisonous glare, Melissa followed. ‘‘You’re not a bit funny, so you may as well stop trying to be.’’ Wyatt kept going, leaving the main room and heading down a hall. Melissa stayed at his heels. It was her luggage, after all. ‘‘Where are you taking my things?’’ ‘‘To your bedroom.’’ ‘‘Nothing in this ghastly place is mine, so what you’re doing is taking my things to one of your bedrooms.’’ Wyatt set her suitcases down in the middle of a spacious

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bedroom. ‘‘Guess that’s true. But while you’re here, feel free to consider this room as yours.’’ ‘‘How generous of you,’’ she sneered. ‘‘How munificent.’’ ‘‘Beats a dungeon, honey. Oops, sorry about that.’’ Wyatt moved to the door. ‘‘Are you hungry? I could make an early dinner.’’ ‘‘If you think I’m going to eat anything you cook, think again.’’ Wyatt thought a moment. ‘‘That appears to leave you with two options. Either you cook for yourself or you don’t eat.’’ He walked out. Never had Melissa felt such an overwhelming helplessness. But then, she’d never been ‘‘kidnapped’’ before, either. Muttering under her breath, she slumped onto a chair, her hands in the pockets of her raincoat. Walking out of here was impossible. Well, maybe it wasn’t impossible if one knew in which direction to go. But it was impossible for her, so she wouldn’t waste her time on that method of escape. Wyatt had the truck keys in his jeans. Or had he already found a hiding spot for them, too? This was a big house— or cabin, as he called it—with probably a hundred places where one could hide a set of keys. On the other hand, telephones took up more space, and he had probably hidden several phones as he had the one he’d taken away. She would have better luck locating the phones than she would the truck keys. Sighing, Melissa laid her head back against the chair and stretched out her legs. Her gaze went around the room. It was at least twice the size of her apartment bedroom and contained a huge bed—king-size—several bureaus, three chairs and numerous wall shelves, holding books and various trinkets. On either side of the bed was a stand with a lamp. The furniture was of good quality, and someone had brightened the room by adding red accessories. The curtains at the two windows were red burlap, and there was quite a

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lot of red in the bedspread and the chair fabrics. The room was appealing and homey, though it grated on Melissa’s nerves to admit it. Getting to her feet, she went to a window and looked out. It was still drizzling, still dark and gloomy outside. She heard a rap at the door. Wyatt called, ‘‘There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen if you want some.’’ Melissa turned her head without answering. She was on to his game now. He was all sweetness and light, showing her what a wonderful human being he was. His intention was to wear her down with exaggerated kindness, to infiltrate her defenses. It wasn’t going to work. He could be as nice as pie for the entire week and she wouldn’t give an inch. Inside, where it counted, he was a sneaky, manipulative bastard with criminal tendencies. Only someone with criminal tendencies would even think of kidnapping as a method of wooing a woman. Staring out the window, she gnawed on a hangnail. To think that she was stuck out here for a week raised her blood pressure again, though not nearly as high as it had been a few minutes ago. It wasn’t that she was accepting the situation, but what could she do about it, other than be surly and uncooperative? Well, she couldn’t be anything else, could she? she asked herself defiantly. She’d been kidnapped, for crying out loud. That weird urge to giggle welled up again. There was something morbidly humorous about Wyatt kidnapping her. But she couldn’t let him get away with it. She must keep her guard up and remain angry. She had to remember constantly what he had done to her six years ago, and not fall into any traps of his making. And he would set traps; she could bet on it. Wyatt was sipping coffee in his chair near the fireplace. There was no sound coming from the bedroom he had assigned Melissa. Setting down his cup on the table, he

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thoughtfully rubbed his mouth. Her anger was only what he had expected, but how long would she stay mad? All of tonight, probably. Possibly all day tomorrow. Her pride wouldn’t let her relent and relax too quickly. He had better be prepared for more fireworks from her. Footsteps in the hall alerted him, but he stayed where he was. From sound alone he was able to track Melissa’s route to the kitchen, then to the room where he was sitting. He glanced up as she strode to the other chair facing the fireplace and stiffly sat down. She was holding a cup of coffee and wearing slacks and a bulky sweater, when earlier she’d had on a skirt. He wouldn’t let himself hope she was already adjusting to the situation, but her more-comfortable clothing and the coffee she was sipping did seem like a concession. He said nothing, just retrieved his own coffee and took a swallow. Melissa was staring into the flames. Finally, she shot him a murderous look. ‘‘I want you to know that I fully understand what you’re trying to accomplish with this ridiculous charade.’’ ‘‘You do? That’s great, Melissa. Eases my mind a whole lot.’’ ‘‘Do you think I care if your mind is eased? That’s not why I said what I did. I merely wanted you to know that I’m on to your childish game.’’ ‘‘You think this is a childish game? That’s too bad. For a minute there I really believed you understood why I’d brought you here. It’s not a game, Melissa. Would I risk spending the rest of my life in a freezing dungeon in Alaska with only stale bread and melted snow for food and drink for just a game?’’ ‘‘You’re laughing at me. Well, ha-ha to you, too, you jerk! It is a game, a demented perversion of normal behavior. Sane people do not kidnap other people. At least none that I’ve ever known.’’ Wyatt pointed a forefinger at her. ‘‘Do you know something? You lied to me.’’ ‘‘I most certainly did not!’’

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‘‘Twice, as a matter of fact.’’ Her expression could have curdled milk. ‘‘What are you babbling about?’’ ‘‘What I’m babbling about are the two times you told me that you’d forgiven me for what happened six years ago.’’ Melissa’s chin rose haughtily. ‘‘That wasn’t a lie.’’ ‘‘The hell it wasn’t. Look at it this way. You said you’d forgiven me, but that you hadn’t forgotten. It was a logical statement, because most people have a good memory and don’t forget milestones in their lives. But you see, Melissa, if you had truly forgiven me, and everything that happened was nothing but a memory for you, you wouldn’t still hate me for it. And you do hate me. You told me only a short time ago that you loathe and despise me. That doesn’t add up to forgiveness in my book. Conclusion? You lied. Twice.’’ She sent him a saccharine smile. ‘‘Well, tell you what, Wyatt. When I file charges against you for kidnapping, you can file charges against me for lying. We’ll see whose crime really matters, all right?’’ ‘‘Would you really like to see me in a dungeon in Alaska?’’ he asked with a smile. ‘‘That stabs me to the quick.’’ ‘‘What I’d prefer is stabbing your black heart.’’ ‘‘You don’t really mean that.’’ ‘‘No? Reverse roles with me for a minute and imagine yourself taken somewhere against your will. Imagine me holding the upper hand. How would you be feeling right now?’’ ‘‘If you went to all that trouble to get me alone somewhere, I’d be thrilled beyond measure.’’ She smirked. ‘‘Well, since we’ve already established your recent loss of sanity, I believe you would be thrilled.’’ ‘‘Beyond measure,’’ he reminded. Melissa drew an exasperated breath. ‘‘This conversation is boring me to tears.’’ ‘‘Let’s talk about forgiveness again,’’ Wyatt suggested.

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‘‘I have a feeling you really meant it when you said you had forgiven me.’’ ‘‘Oh, for crying out loud!’’ Melissa jumped to her feet. ‘‘I know what you’re trying to lead up to, Wyatt. I am not going to discuss what happened six years ago, so you may as well forget it.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Can’t forget it. Too good a memory, I guess. Like you.’’ ‘‘Who cares about your wretched memory? I certainly don’t.’’ Standing near the fireplace, Melissa sipped her coffee, aware of his gaze on her. ‘‘Stop staring at me,’’ she demanded. ‘‘You’re the prettiest thing in the room to look at.’’ ‘‘In that case, I’ll go to another room.’’ With that, she stomped out, paused in the hall for a moment to decide which room she wanted to sulk in and finally chose the kitchen. After topping up her coffee cup, she sat at the large, circular dining table. The kitchen was a marvelous room, though she hated admitting it. All of the appliances were white. The cabinets and floor were a dark wood and the countertops were white. Again, whoever had decorated the place had used red as an accessory color. The rag rugs on the floor were red, the tablecloth was red and the curtains were white with a red floral design. A thought occurred to her: someone was keeping this place in apple-pie order and she doubted Wyatt was the person. Did that mean they weren’t alone out here? If there was a housekeeper or a caretaker, did he or she know about Wyatt’s nefarious scheme to hold her prisoner for a week? Maybe her threats of arrest didn’t bother Wyatt, but an employee of his might feel differently. Melissa took a swallow of coffee with narrowed eyes. If there was another person on the place and he did nothing to help her, he would be considered an accomplice, which she would be only too happy to point out. Melissa’s penchant for organization arose. She should find a notebook or

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something to write on, and document this entire episode. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do. Then, when she walked into the sheriff’s office, or maybe Tracy’s—she wasn’t all that certain about kidnapping coming under the FBI’s jurisdiction—she would have a clear, concise complaint to file, written evidence of what she had been forced to endure against her will. Wyatt came strolling in. He rinsed his cup and set it on the counter. ‘‘I’m getting hungry,’’ he stated calmly, and went to the refrigerator to take out an amber casserole dish. Setting the oven dial, he placed the dish on the counter. ‘‘Preheating the oven,’’ he said with a glance at Melissa. ‘‘I prefer your not talking to me,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘Do you think I give a damn if you’re preheating your stupid oven?’’ ‘‘Calling my oven stupid doesn’t make it so, Melissa. Actually, this is a very intelligent oven.’’ ‘‘Oh, for Pete’s sake,’’ she muttered. ‘‘That oven is about as intelligent as you are, which is a pretty accurate indication of your IQ.’’ Wyatt leaned his hips against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘You used to think I was intelligent.’’ ‘‘I used to think a lot of things that weren’t even close to being true, which only proves how gullible I was. I’m not gullible now, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘Maybe a little bit gullible,’’ Wyatt said with a hint of a smile. Melissa’s face grew crimson. Getting into his truck today couldn’t be described as anything but gullible. ‘‘You tricked me,’’ she accused. ‘‘You’re probably not planning to sell me that lot at all, and I believed—’’ ‘‘You’re wrong. The lot is yours, just as I said. On your terms. Unlike some people, I never go back on my word.’’ ‘‘Oh, please,’’ she drawled with obvious disgust. ‘‘Considering what happened today I readily admit to retaining some adolescent gullibility, but that’s going too far.’’

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Wyatt grinned. ‘‘Probably is.’’ He glanced at the stove. ‘‘Oven’s hot. I’ll put the casserole in to heat.’’ ‘‘I couldn’t be less interested in your activities, so please stop announcing your next move as though it were of great importance.’’ ‘‘Better use some pot holders,’’ Wyatt said, completely ignoring her sullen, rude remarks. He pulled a set out of a drawer. ‘‘The casserole isn’t hot, of course, but that oven sure is.’’ ‘‘Don’t use the pot holders,’’ Melissa advised churlishly. ‘‘Maybe you’ll get the burn you so richly deserve.’’ His grin made her want to leap out of her chair and slap it off his face. She realized then that she would like to goad him into a fight, a real fight, with name calling and yelling and the whole ball of wax. She had to get hold of herself, she thought. Her bad mood was accomplishing nothing. Yet, if she wasn’t in a bad mood right at the present, how would she feel? Certainly she couldn’t pretend everything was peachy keen when she’d just been kidnapped. Then there were a few other matters to consider. For one, she was getting hungry. Obviously she was going to have to eat Wyatt’s food, however strongly she had sworn she wouldn’t. She frowned suddenly. That casserole. Was he such a fast and capable cook that he’d been able to put together a casserole during one of their separations since their arrival? While she was in the bedroom, maybe? Or when she’d been sitting in the truck? She cleared her throat. ‘‘Um...did you make that?’’ Wyatt closed the oven door and laid the pot holders on the counter. ‘‘Nope. Brought it up here this morning, along with a lot of other food.’’ Melissa was stunned. ‘‘You planned this? It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment impulse?’’ He laughed. ‘‘Melissa, I’ve been planning this since the night of the Ranchers’ Association dinner-dance. I had a problem, though—when and how to get you to take a ride with me.’’

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‘‘Your telephone call this morning cleared that up, right?’’ she said sarcastically. ‘‘You got it.’’ Groaning, Melissa put her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. The picture was complete now. From her own mouth during this morning’s telephone conversation Wyatt had found the opportunity he had needed to implement his abominable plan to get her out here. He had tricked her into permitting him to drive her to the airport, using the lot as bait, and she had fallen into his scheme as though she’d been handed a script. She dropped her hands. ‘‘You wanted to talk about forgiveness.’’ Melissa got to her feet. ‘‘Well, put this in your pipe and smoke it. I will never forgive you for today. Never!’’ She swept from the kitchen. ‘‘Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,’’ Wyatt called cheerfully. ‘‘Shove it up your nose!’’ she yelled over her shoulder.

Eight Melissa stayed in the bedroom that Wyatt had told her to

think of as hers through the dinner hour and on into the evening. In her own handbag she found several sheets of blank paper, upon which she began writing down the events of the day. Wyatt North said plainly that he had kidnapped me, and that we would be staying here, at his mountain cabin, for a week, the time I had allotted myself a vacation in California.

She detailed his trickery in getting her into his pickup for the drive to the Billings airport, explaining their strange situation regarding the lot next to her building. He has not been unkind, nor has he attempted anything that could be construed as sexual pressure. Yet I know... Melissa frowned. She knew what? When she’d told him he was crazy, he had responded with, ‘‘Crazy about you.’’ In retrospect she realized there’d been both a teasing and a serious tenor to his voice, as though he wanted her to figure out which it was for herself. Ignoring the hunger pangs in her stomach, she tucked the papers back into her purse and dug out a nightgown from one of her suitcases. Upon returning to the room, she had discovered a private bathroom through a connecting door.

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She had locked the door to the hallway, so she felt quite secure in her little domain. After brushing her teeth, she turned off the lights and climbed into the huge bed. That was when she became aware of music. Apparently Wyatt was still up, probably sitting near the fireplace again and listening to music, which was tuned too low for her to make out clearly. Still, it provided a surprisingly pleasant backdrop for her troubled thoughts, going so far as to ease some of her tension. She was certain she wouldn’t sleep a wink, but when she awoke with a start and saw by the lighted clock on the nightstand that it was after midnight, she had to amend that opinion. Obviously she had slept for hours. The house was completely silent, so Wyatt must have given up on her showing her face in any other part of the house and retired himself. Her hunger pangs were annoyingly persistent, and her mouth watered at the thought of a glass of milk. From experience she knew that a drink of milk would satisfy her hunger until morning, which she would worry about when the sun came up. Stealthily she crept out of bed, found her bathrobe in a suitcase without turning on a light and tiptoed barefoot to the door. She listened for several moments, holding her breath so that she would pick up any sound in the house. There was none, so she slowly turned the knob and opened the door. A tiny night-light burned in the hall, sufficient light for her to make her way to the kitchen. The bedroom area was far enough away from the kitchen that a light wouldn’t alert Wyatt, Melissa decided, and she located the switch for the ceiling light and turned it on. The sudden infusion of light made her blink, but then she went directly to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. Her eyes widened. The refrigerator was crammed with food, indisputable proof of Wyatt’s insufferable plot to hold her prisoner for a week. And he had the unmitigated brass to talk about forgiveness. That would be the day. Stiff with righteous indignation, Melissa took out a gallon

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of milk, opened cabinets until she found a glass, then filled it to the brim. Drinking a good third of the contents, she refilled her glass and returned the gallon jug to the refrigerator. Planning to take the glass of milk to her bedroom, she started for the light switch to darken the kitchen again. Only Wyatt suddenly materialized in the doorway. Startled, Melissa stared. He was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. ‘‘Having trouble sleeping?’’ he asked. ‘‘Your bed is comfortable, isn’t it?’’ He knew her sleeplessness had nothing to do with the bed. Neither did his. But he would overlook no opportunity to make her talk to him, even if the subject matter was only bland and impersonal. ‘‘I got up for a glass of milk,’’ she said, which was completely obvious from what she was holding. He was filling the doorway, blocking her passage, and his partial nudity was unnerving. She tried to avoid looking at his naked chest, but involuntarily flicked it a glance. The mat of hair between his nipples gave her a start. He hadn’t had any hair on his chest—or very little—before her move to California. Nervous suddenly, she backed away and took refuge on a chair behind the table. Wyatt went on into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. ‘‘That milk looks good. Guess I’ll have some, too.’’ He took out not only a gallon of milk, but a plastic bottle of chocolate syrup. ‘‘Don’t tell me you still have to have chocolate in your milk,’’ Melissa said in a scathing tone. Wyatt sent her a grin. ‘‘Still just a kid at heart, I guess.’’ He poured his milk into a glass and added a generous squirt of chocolate. Stirring the mixture with a spoon, he leaned against the counter and looked at her. ‘‘So you remember my preference for chocolate milk, hmm?’’ ‘‘I didn’t until now,’’ Melissa said stonily. ‘‘Do you remember the Whirl-In Drive-In? It isn’t there anymore, a darned shame. We sure used to have some good times there, didn’t we? All of our friends hung out at the

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Whirl-In. Do you remember their french fries? Made out of real potatoes. Best I’ve ever eaten.’’ ‘‘My french fries are made out of real potatoes.’’ ‘‘No kidding? I’ll have to try them.’’ ‘‘From jail?’’ Wyatt looked a bit startled, but then he grinned. ‘‘You’re not really going to have me arrested, are you?’’ Melissa didn’t answer, merely took several swallows from her glass. But she did ask herself the same question: was she really going to file charges when he took her back to town? ‘‘Melissa?’’ he said softly. ‘‘Are you?’’ ‘‘I’m thinking,’’ she said coolly. ‘‘It’s only what you deserve, you know.’’ She thought of the pages in her purse on which she had started documenting his crime. ‘‘In my estimation this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever done,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘Romantic, did you say?’’ Her expression was incredulous. ‘‘You actually believe that kidnapping a woman is romantic?’’ ‘‘Kidnapping you is. Forget other women. There are none to compare with you.’’ She wasn’t going to sit there and listen to his phony flattery. Melissa finished off her milk. ‘‘I’m going back to bed.’’ ‘‘What can I say to change your attitude?’’ Wyatt murmured. ‘‘How about this? You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.’’ She got up quickly. ‘‘That’s a line of bull and I don’t want to hear it.’’ She started around the table, but Wyatt stepped in front of her. ‘‘Don’t you dare try anything,’’ she warned. ‘‘It’s not a line, Melissa.’’ The softness and texture of his voice alarmed her, not because of him but because of what it did to her. Deep inside she felt a curling heat, and any such response to

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Wyatt was ludicrous. Her eyes suddenly blazed. ‘‘Am I going to have to fight my way out of this room?’’ His brown eyes drifted over her face. ‘‘Don’t fight me over anything, Melissa. Let yourself relax and enjoy the place. You used to tell me on the telephone how much you disliked California. This could be a much better vacation than the one you had planned.’’ ‘‘I wasn’t going to visit California,’’ she retorted. ‘‘I was going to visit my mother. Now, move out of the way so I can leave.’’ He stood there for another few moments, then nodded and backed off. Melissa immediately dashed around him and to the door. ‘‘I hope you can sleep now,’’ he called. ‘‘Yeah, right,’’ she muttered, hastening down the hall to her room. There were tears in her eyes, which infuriated her. She closed and locked the door, tossed her bathrobe on a chair and climbed into bed. It was raining again. She could hear it on the roof. She had always liked the sound of rain at night, but tonight she had too much to think about to enjoy the pitter-patter of raindrops. Her biggest worry now, she realized uneasily, was that Wyatt had a chance of succeeding with his nefarious scheme. Like it or not, she had been affected by his near nudity in the kitchen, by his tousled hair and good looks. Maybe that was understandable. He was an especially handsome man and she had once been mesmerized by his looks. But feeling something because he told her ridiculous lies, like her being the only woman he’d ever loved, was deeply disturbing. Was it possible for him to erode her determination to keep a wide chasm between them with an onslaught of flattery and charm? He wasn’t going to suddenly jump on her, she felt, but subtlety always had worked with her much better than crudity or pushy machismo, and Wyatt wasn’t stupid or dense. God, if she succumbed in any way, if she permitted even one pass, she would never forgive herself.

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She finally fell asleep, only to dream chaotic dreams that brought her awake several different times. It was not a good night. Melissa came awake slowly, stretched, glanced around the room and remembered where she was. Jerking upright, she checked the clock on the nightstand and was surprised to see that she had slept until almost nine. She lay down again, as tense as she’d been last night. This was outrageous and something had to be done about it. How could a fact be so clear and so murky at the same time? Doing nothing about Wyatt’s bloody gall in this fiasco was intolerable, and yet no way around it came to mind, no matter how intently she concentrated. What that man deserved was a dose of his own medicine. But tit for tat in this instance meant her plotting to kidnap him someday, which was too ridiculous to consider. Sighing dismally, Melissa forced herself out of bed. Pushing aside the curtain at a window, she glowered at the drizzling rain. A little sunshine wouldn’t have solved her dilemma, but it might have lifted her sagging spirit a few notches. After showering, she fixed her hair and put on makeup. Not for Wyatt North, God forbid, but she wasn’t going to alter her own personal regime for him or anyone else. If he got any foolish ideas over the fact that she was wearing makeup, she would gladly and heartily set him straight. Her silly reaction to his naked torso in the middle of the night seemed a hundred years away this morning, and most definitely was not going to be repeated during her enforced confinement here. Dressed in the same slacks and sweater she had changed into yesterday, Melissa made the bed and finally left the room. Her refusal to eat was foolish, she realized, tough as it had sounded when she had given Wyatt the word. She was ravenously hungry this morning and would eat whatever was available. She went directly to the kitchen.

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To her annoyance, Wyatt was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. ‘‘Hi,’’ he said cheerfully. She shot him a dirty look and moved to the counter containing the coffeepot and a clean cup, obviously intended for her. ‘‘Nasty day out there,’’ Wyatt remarked. ‘‘I was hoping for sunshine today. There are some great hiking trails on this mountain and I’ve been thinking of showing you the area.’’ Melissa turned with her cup of coffee. ‘‘I’m not interested in being shown the area. Could I make myself some toast?’’ ‘‘The refrigerator and the cupboards are full of food, Melissa. Make anything you want. I’ve already eaten, but if you’d like, I could fry up some bacon and—’’ ‘‘I’ll have some fruit and toast,’’ she said coolly. The fruit was in plain sight, a large bowl of it on the counter—bananas, apples, oranges and pears. ‘‘Where will I find the bread?’’ Wyatt got up and went to open a cabinet. ‘‘There’s bread, doughnuts, sweet rolls and English muffins in here. Take your pick.’’ ‘‘What, no bagels?’’ Reaching behind the bread, he pulled out a package of bagels. ‘‘Will these do?’’ ‘‘You thought of everything, didn’t you?’’ It wasn’t said kindly, certainly not as a compliment. Resentment was in every line of her body as she waited until Wyatt had resumed his chair before helping herself to two slices of wheat bread, which she dropped into the toaster. She stood like a sentinel watching that toaster, all too aware of Wyatt watching her in the same steadfast way. Her gaze briefly flicked his way. ‘‘Must you stare?’’ ‘‘Just trying to figure you out,’’ he said. ‘‘Work on yourself, Wyatt. At least I’m not a criminal.’’ He couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘I keep forgetting that.’’ ‘‘You have a convenient memory.’’

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‘‘Have you noticed how we keep returning to the subject of memory?’’ The toast popped up. ‘‘There’s a plate in that cabinet to your right.’’ Melissa found a small plate and put the toast on it. ‘‘As I was saying,’’ Wyatt said, ‘‘our entire relationship revolves around memories.’’ ‘‘You were saying no such thing.’’ Melissa plucked an orange from the bowl and brought it to the table, deftly balancing it, her plate of toast and cup of coffee. She sat down. ‘‘What you said was that we keep returning to the subject of memory. Let me add that you’re the only one in this house even remotely concerned with the topic.’’ She began peeling the orange. ‘‘There’s only one phase of the past that interests me, and that’s my father’s murder. So you see, you can talk about the Whirl-In Drive-In, old friends and anything else that might flit through that mass in your head that passes for a brain, and I couldn’t care less.’’ ‘‘Ouch,’’ Wyatt said, though he grinned. ‘‘You’re trying really hard to stay mad at me, aren’t you?’’ She gave him a disgusted glance. ‘‘Do you think I have to try? Believe me, it’s the most natural feeling in the world right now.’’ ‘‘Real anger requires a certain level of adrenaline, which the human body can sustain for only so long,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘You’re just clinging to remnants of yesterday’s anger this morning.’’ ‘‘An analyst, too? There’s just no end to your talents.’’ Damn, she’d love to put him on the hot seat. Just once she’d like to see him squirm. Maybe she knew how to do it, too. ‘‘You certainly don’t seem very broken up over your impending divorce.’’ ‘‘It’s not pending anymore. I received the final decree in the mail a few days ago.’’ Wyatt smiled. ‘‘You’re looking at a free man, Melissa.’’ He hadn’t squirmed in the least. Melissa pushed on. ‘‘Tell me about your wife.’’ His smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘‘I’ll be happy to, if you’ll let me start at the beginning.’’

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‘‘You mean those days when you were sleeping around?’’ Melissa popped a section of orange into her mouth. ‘‘Why on earth would you think I’d be interested in your college love life?’’ Wyatt wasn’t even close to smiling now. ‘‘I didn’t have a college love life, Melissa. I made one mistake and I paid for it for six years.’’ ‘‘Enough,’’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘‘We’re not going to start talking about poor you and judgmental me.’’ Wyatt got up, too. ‘‘How about talking about regret? Remorse? I’ve asked for your forgiveness, but do you think I’ve forgiven myself, or that I ever will? Melissa, sit with me, please. Talk to me.’’ She had brought her orange peelings to the sink. ‘‘Is the trash can under the sink?’’ ‘‘Yes. Melissa, please come back to the table. We were just starting to make some headway.’’ She located the trash can and dropped in the orange peels. Straightening, she took a breath and looked at him. ‘‘You want me to ease your conscience. Why it’s still bothering you after all these years I have no idea, but I’m not going to do it, Wyatt. I’m not going to tell you what you did was all right. Whatever price you paid for what you did wasn’t nearly enough. That’s the way I feel, and bringing me up here to brainwash me into thinking otherwise isn’t going to work.’’ She returned to the table, but only to pick up her empty plate and coffee cup. Carrying them to the sink, fully aware of Wyatt standing there and watching her every movement, she rinsed the dishes and then slipped them into the dishwasher. ‘‘I never thought you were so hard,’’ he said quietly. His comment hurt. She whirled around to face him. ‘‘Oh, get a grip, Wyatt. It takes a little hardness to even make it in this world. Don’t ever expect timidity or meekness from me. I’m as far from the girl you knew in high school as any

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woman could be. And you want to know what makes people hard in the first place? It’s other people steamrolling them.’’ ‘‘Like I did to you.’’ ‘‘The shoe does fit, doesn’t it?’’ He hesitated, then nodded. ‘‘It doesn’t just fit, Melissa, it pinches like hell. Do you know that I would do anything to make it up to you? Are you able to grasp that concept? Wait, let me rephrase that. Would you please let yourself believe it?’’ ‘‘My God, it doesn’t matter if I believe it or not! Why won’t you let yourself believe that?’’ ‘‘You know why I can’t.’’ ‘‘Because I’m the only woman you’ve ever loved,’’ Melissa said scornfully. ‘‘It happens to be the truth.’’ Wyatt came around the table and stopped right in front of her. ‘‘I’ll tell you what I believe, Melissa. Love isn’t something one can turn on and off like a light bulb. Yes, you were hurt, with damned good reason. I would rather have cut off my own right arm than make that call six years ago. I knew what it would do to you, because it was doing the same thing to me. But I had no choice. I—’’ ‘‘You made your choice several weeks before that call,’’ Melissa said bitterly. She threw up her hands. ‘‘This is precisely the conversation I swore to avoid. I’m going to my room. Please don’t follow me.’’ Wyatt’s jaw clenched, and he caught her by her wrists before she could stalk off. ‘‘Damn you,’’ she cried. ‘‘Let go of me!’’ ‘‘Look at me.’’ She kept her face turned away. ‘‘Melissa, when I walked into the Hip Hop and saw you, I nearly blacked out from shock. You were just as shocked—I could see it on your face. If all of your feelings for me had died, as you want me to believe, running into each other wouldn’t have been such a shock. Don’t you see? You’re lying to me and you’re lying to yourself.’’ Her eyes were wide with astonishment. ‘‘You couldn’t

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possibly have the audacity to think I’m still in love with you. My God, Wyatt, get real. Your theory about love and light bulbs is utter hogwash. I didn’t turn off my feelings, you jerk, you killed them! Now, let go of my wrists or so help me I’ll kick you where it hurts the most.’’ He yanked her up against himself. ‘‘Kick me now,’’ he mumbled into her hair. Touching her, holding her, was immediately arousing, quickening his heartbeat, thickening his voice. ‘‘You’re so beautiful,’’ he whispered. And just like that, like a bolt from the blue, Melissa knew how to get even. She would have her revenge, and not only for the frustration of being brought here against her will. By the end of this wretched week Wyatt was going to suffer, damn him, suffer the way she had suffered in California after his phone call. She became very still in his arms, though she laid her cheek on his chest. ‘‘I’m so very confused,’’ she whispered. Wyatt’s pulse went crazy with wonder, with happiness. He had hoped, prayed even, that this would happen, that being together would create a chink in Melissa’s armor of self-righteousness. This was a little sooner than he’d dared to envision it occurring, but she wasn’t fighting his embrace. Rather, he sensed acceptance from her, and even a little response. His lips moved in her hair while he inhaled its intoxicating scent. ‘‘I’m not trying to confuse you, Melissa. This is like coming out of a nightmare for me. Maybe the same thing is happening to you.’’ ‘‘Possibly,’’ she murmured. You snake in the grass. We’ll see who has the last word. Dare he kiss her? He wanted to so badly he ached, but how far should he go in this first concession? He gently stroked her back, permitting himself that familiarity at least. She felt like the Melissa in his memory, but there was more of her to hold now. Her breasts were different, he realized. They were fuller, larger, and having them pressed into his chest was the most incredible sensation of his life. He was

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getting very hard, and as closely bonded as they were, she had to know it. Yet she didn’t move away. He brought his right hand around from her back, took her chin and tipped her face up to look into her eyes. They contained a misty quality, he saw, which nearly undid him. He had to kiss her. His mouth descended to hers, very slowly. Regardless of her acquiescence thus far, he halfway expected her to pull back. But she stood there and let his lips meet hers. He kept the kiss tender and very gentle, a monumental effort when what he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his bedroom. But his tongue remained in his own mouth, and it was a sweet kiss of lips upon lips. Still, his heavy breathing related his intense desire, and Melissa was fully cognizant of what was going on in his nasty little mind. Oh yes, this was going to work beautifully, she thought. His kiss was just a kiss, she told herself. She could probably even make love with him and feel nothing. Well, she might feel something. She was as human as the next woman. But he would never know her true feelings, the cad, not until she laid them on him at the end of the week. Lifting his head, Wyatt attempted a smile that came off pretty weak. ‘‘You’re a potent woman,’’ he whispered hoarsely. She licked her lips, slowly, seductively, noticing his almost hypnotic interest in the tip of her tongue. ‘‘We shouldn’t be—be doing this,’’ she said tremulously, as though she simply couldn’t stop herself from responding to his potency. His hands rose to cup her face. She could feel the tension in his body, his fingers, see it in his eyes. One rather trivial kiss and he was nearing the explosive stage. This was going to be easy. ‘‘You have to know how much I want you,’’ he whispered, his lips a mere fraction from hers. He had learned boldness in the past six years, she thought

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resentfully. The Wyatt in her memory would never have said that to her. ‘‘I know,’’ she whispered back. ‘‘But...let’s give it a little time. I’ll be here for a week. Let’s not rush into anything.’’ With a labored breath, he closed his eyes and brought her head to his chest. ‘‘Whatever you say,’’ he said raggedly. ‘‘If you only knew what this means to me...holding you...kissing you...how I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms.’’ He gave a shaky laugh. ‘‘I’d like to hold on to you forever. Maybe I’m afraid if I let go of you, you’ll disappear.’’ ‘‘I won’t disappear. I’m very solid flesh and blood. Can’t you tell?’’ ‘‘Oh, God, Melissa,’’ he groaned, and the utter agony in his voice brought a frown to her brow. But she wanted him to suffer, didn’t she? What had she thought he was going to do, go off into a closet somewhere and suffer where she wouldn’t see it? Okay, maybe her plan of revenge wasn’t going to be as easy or simple as she’d thought. But it was a good plan and only what Wyatt deserved. Her own sensibilities would just have to tone themselves down some. What really bothered her was how good he felt. That was her biggest concern, she realized. If he got to feeling too good, she could end up hurting as much as he was going to. No, that wasn’t going to happen. She was going to keep a lid on her own emotions and fan his into a frenzy. Then, at the end of the week, when he was completely starry-eyed, she would tell him she was going to marry another man. Yes, that would be the grand finale. He would demand to know who the man was, of course, and what would she say? Well, she’d worry about that later. She snuggled closer to him for just a moment, then stepped back when she felt his arms begin to tighten around her. ‘‘Later,’’ she said with her eyes full of promises. Wyatt sucked in a ragged breath and repeated, ‘‘Whatever you say.’’

Nine After Melissa went to her room, Wyatt walked the floor.

There was a gladness within him—youthful in its flavor— that almost overwhelmed the desire, although he knew no other emotion would probably ever have the power to really accomplish that amazing fact. There wasn’t one tiny part of his body that didn’t ache for Melissa’s. Although it was pure and utter torture, he couldn’t stop his mind from devising erotic images, each of them depicting Melissa and himself in various stages of undress and crazed with passion. He couldn’t sit, though he tried to several times. He attempted reading, went outside and stood on the porch for a few minutes, then came back inside. His nerves were raw, standing on end, with his mind feeling as though he were teetering on the very edge of a precipice, shaky and uncertain of just when he was going to go hurtling over it. Again and again he thought of the morning. She had let him kiss her. She had admitted confusion. She had stopped her sharp-tongued retorts and started being nice to him. She had said, ‘‘Later,’’ and promised volumes with her beautiful blue eyes. It was too much too fast; it wasn’t nearly enough and time was dragging. He was standing near the fireplace, rocking back and forth on his boot heels when Melissa walked into the room. He looked at her with adoration, with longing, while his heart leapt around in his chest. She was wearing her raincoat. ‘‘I’m going out for a breath of air,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll go with you.’’

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‘‘No, please. I need to do some thinking.’’ He nodded his understanding. ‘‘Don’t go too far. The mountain can be treacherous if you don’t know the trails.’’ ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay in the clearing.’’ She went through the front door. Wyatt watched her from a window. She seemed to be deeply engrossed. It was the truth. She was questioning her plan of revenge. Never had she considered herself a vengeful or vindictive person, and yet wasn’t she admittedly obsessed with finding her father’s murderer? Was that vengeance or justice? Maybe she didn’t know herself as well as she’d thought. She could ask the same question about Wyatt’s sins. Did she want vengeance or justice? Justice was a reward or a penalty, as deserved. Vengeance was retribution for an offense. The definitions were worlds apart, and yet there were instances when either seemed appropriate. Sighing, Melissa slowly circled the house. Behind it were several smaller buildings—a garage, she thought, and maybe a toolshed. There was also a long structure with a roof and only three sides. It contained a supply of neatly stacked firewood. The air was damp with a light, misting rain. Melissa stopped, lifted her face and closed her eyes. The mist felt good on her feverish skin, which hadn’t been feverish before that episode in the kitchen. Justice or revenge, revenge or justice. Which was it? If only Wyatt hadn’t moved back to his ranch. If only he hadn’t dropped in at the cafe´. She had naturally thought of him when she’d moved back, but she hadn’t dwelled on it because she knew he was married and living in Helena. He was right about her being shocked that day. She couldn’t remember ever being more shocked about anything. Except for the day Judd Hensley had called her about the remains of a body discovered on the Laughing Horse Res-

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ervation being identified through dental records as her father, Charlie Avery. But had Wyatt’s shock in the cafe´ been genuine or an exceptionally good act? Wasn’t it just a little bit unbelievable that he’d happened to stop at the cafe´ completely ignorant of her ownership? Completely unaware of her return to Whitehorn? Resuming her slow pace, Melissa heaved a troubled sigh. Why should she believe anything he said? And whether for vengeance or justice, didn’t he deserve to be taken down a peg or two? It was within her power to do it. All it would take was being nice to him for six more days. He would expect kisses, to be sure, and would probably do his level best to get her into bed. But she could certainly sidestep sex. No other man had talked her into bed when she hadn’t wanted to be there, and that was all Wyatt was to her, just a man. Not even a friend, to be honest. Not even someone she liked or respected. Wyatt stepped away from the window when he saw her returning to the house. His stomach was tied in knots. The throbbing in his loins was more uncomfortable, though. They could have an incredible six days and nights up here, if she agreed. She walked in with flushed cheeks and wispy curls around her face from the dampness outside. Wyatt forced a casual tone in his voice. ‘‘I was just getting ready to build a fire.’’ As though he needed to prove it, he began gathering paper and kindling from the rock alcove built into the wall of the fireplace. Melissa took off her coat. ‘‘I’m going to hang this up.’’ He sent her a pleading look. ‘‘Come back.’’ She hadn’t seen his look; she was on her way out of the room. ‘‘I will. A fire sounds great.’’ Wyatt realized that his hands weren’t steady as he crushed sheets of newspaper and arranged them on the grate. He added kindling, then two small logs. Once the fire got going

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he would add more wood, but he always started a small fire first. It was a routine he would be wise to remember with Melissa, he thought. Start small. Don’t rush her. She was coming around, speaking civilly to him. And after this morning could he doubt the progress they had made in a very short span of time? Melissa returned. The fact that she was smiling gave Wyatt’s spirit wings. ‘‘The fire’s starting to warm up. Sit here, next to it.’’ He moved a chair closer to the fireplace. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She sank into the deep-seated, upholstered chair. ‘‘It’s much cooler up here in the mountains than in town.’’ ‘‘At any given point of the year,’’ Wyatt replied. ‘‘Because of the elevation. It’s possible that this rain could turn to snow. I’ve seen snow up here at the end of August many times.’’ ‘‘Your father built this cabin?’’ ‘‘He had it built, yes.’’ The flames were ready for more fuel. Wyatt placed one large log in the center of the oversize grate. Then he moved his own chair closer to Melissa’s and the fire. A peace, of sorts, settled upon him. He remembered his mother and father sitting in just this way, talking quietly, enjoying the warmth of the fire and each other. ‘‘After Mother died, Dad didn’t come up here for a long time,’’ he said. ‘‘But then, when I was about fifteen, he started bringing me here again. To fish, mostly, but also to walk the trails. In his latter years he spent a lot of time up here. I think he felt closer to Mother here than at the ranch.’’ Wyatt paused for a moment, then said quietly, ‘‘He never stopped missing her.’’ He turned his head to look at Melissa. ‘‘They had a very special relationship, the kind of marriage everyone should have.’’ ‘‘And few do,’’ Melissa murmured, thinking of her own parents—her father gone, her mother bitter. ‘‘Even one really good marriage gives the rest of us hope,

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though, don’t you agree? If it’s possible for one couple, it’s possible for others.’’ ‘‘Possible, yes, but given today’s divorce statistics, not very probable.’’ ‘‘Melissa?’’ Wyatt hesitated, but he had to ask. ‘‘Didn’t you ever meet anyone important in California?’’ Inwardly she stiffened. How candid could she be with him? How much of her private self could she expose to his scrutiny? He shouldn’t be asking her questions like that. All she had to do to renew the pain of his perfidy was to recall his phone call. ‘‘Melissa, I got a woman pregnant and I’m going to marry her.’’ She owed Wyatt nothing...except for maybe a little justice. ‘‘No,’’ she lied. There had been a few men whom she’d thought important, but the relationships had petered out for various reasons, none of which she was going to explain to him. ‘‘But you must have dated. You’re so beautiful, and men had to have noticed.’’ ‘‘I dated,’’ she admitted. ‘‘But nothing came of it.’’ She sent him a look. ‘‘And I’m not beautiful. I don’t know why you keep saying that.’’ ‘‘Melissa, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’’ ‘‘That’s silly.’’ She got up in a hasty movement. ‘‘And I don’t want to talk about it. How about some lunch? I’ll fix it.’’ Wyatt slowly rose. He had offended her by talking about her looks, a fact he couldn’t quite grasp. Didn’t she know how beautiful she was? ‘‘I’ll help,’’ he offered. ‘‘No, you stay here. I’m really very good in a kitchen.’’ ‘‘I’m sure you are,’’ he said, but he wasn’t positive she heard because she was already out of the room. Sighing, he sank back in his chair. Had this morning been a fluke? Had he read too much in the fact that she had permitted a kiss between them? Despondent, he stared into the flames. Maybe he would

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never understand Melissa again. There had been a time when they had all but read each other’s mind. God, it had been great. They had held hands whenever walking together, and everything had been funny. They had probably spent more time saying silly things and laughing than any other activity. And he had been so proud to be dating the prettiest girl in school, the prettiest, the nicest, the friendliest. Maybe even the smartest. Melissa had pulled straight A’s. He would have done as well if it hadn’t been for science. He had never been able to get past a B in any of his science classes. But he had excelled in math and sports. Though he had taken part in all the school had provided—basketball, baseball and track—football had been his favorite. Melissa had attended every game, and afterward they and a bunch of their friends would head for the Whirl-In. Those were wonderful memories. Then had come college. He hadn’t wanted to go, and had only done so at his father’s insistence. He hadn’t tried out for any of the sports teams, simply because he was merely biding his time until he could get out of school and back to the ranch. Melissa would return, too, and they would be married. It was what he lived for. Everything had gone to hell the night he’d met Shannon Kiley. Cursing under his breath, Wyatt got up to give the fire an unnecessarily vicious stir with a cast-iron poker. He had to make this week work. If he didn’t, the future would be awfully damned bleak. During lunch they talked about the weather, about Simon North, Wyatt’s father, and about Nan Avery, Melissa’s mother. Neither of them mentioned themselves, though their conversation was really just a cover-up for what they were each thinking. Behind Wyatt’s input was a vow—considered from many angles—to take it slow and easy with Melissa. Behind Melissa’s was discord because of her wish for justice. That was

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how she was thinking of her plan to get even with Wyatt for abducting her now—as justice fair and square. It was a much more comfortable term than vengeance and, unquestionably, he had brought it on himself. Still, she realized that she wasn’t completely sold on the idea, fair or not. It depended, she decided while finishing her cup of tea, on how he replied to one crucial question. She set down her cup and looked across the table directly into Wyatt’s eyes. ‘‘If I asked you to take me back to town today, would you do it?’’ Her question, coming without warning, startled Wyatt. ‘‘Uh...’’ Her stare was unrelenting. He could almost see the progress they had made flying away. And yet, even though advances had been made, they hadn’t really resolved anything. He looked down at his plate and spoke in a low voice. ‘‘Not today.’’ ‘‘Tomorrow, Wyatt? The day after?’’ Her calm tone surprised him. His gaze rose to hers. ‘‘I’d really like to stick to the original plan, Melissa.’’ She nodded. ‘‘I see.’’ If anyone had ever asked for ‘‘justice,’’ it was Wyatt. Melissa’s feeling of guilt vanished completely. The hurt he’d inflicted six years ago had diminished with time—to a point—though she had been honest when she’d told him it would never be forgotten. But he had barged back into her life with all the subtlety of a water buffalo, and if she didn’t do something about it, she would never be able to regard herself as anything but a coward for the rest of her days. His expression was cautious. ‘‘You’re not angry?’’ She smiled sweetly. ‘‘I’m not going to get angry, Wyatt, I’m going to get even.’’ He blinked. ‘‘You’re what? How?’’ ‘‘I haven’t quite figured that out yet,’’ she lied. Standing, she began to clear the table. ‘‘You’ll know when it happens.’’ ‘‘Well, hell,’’ he muttered. How could she get even? What was percolating in the back of her mind? He had never

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thought of Melissa as capable of devious behavior, but then it had been a long time since they had spent any time together. But wasn’t that why he had brought her out here—so they could get to know each other again? She sure hadn’t been letting it happen in town. He got to his feet. ‘‘You made our lunch. Let me clean up.’’ Her smile was dazzling and definitely flirtatious. ‘‘How sweet. Sure, go ahead. I’ll be in the living room.’’ Wyatt stood there after she was gone, feeling as though he’d just been stonewalled and not knowing exactly how it had happened. One minute she was talking about getting even and the next giving him a smile that raised his blood pressure. Dismayed by it all, he slowly shook his head. Women were the most confusing of all God’s creatures. Was there a man alive who truly understood them? After the kitchen was in order, Wyatt put on a jacket and his hat and went outside to the woodpile. He carried in an armload of logs and deposited them in the fireplace alcove. Melissa was curled up in her chair, looking quite comfortable and relaxed. She smiled at him. ‘‘Taking care of chores?’’ ‘‘Just bringing in some firewood.’’ He left to get another armload. Melissa’s smile remained intact. She felt at peace with her plan now. She had given him every chance to elude justice and he had failed the test. So be it. He made two more trips to the woodpile and the alcove was filled to the top. Before taking off his jacket, he added two small logs to the fire and stirred the coals to life. ‘‘We won’t need a big fire until evening,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s very pleasant,’’ Melissa murmured, stretching lazily. ‘‘I love a fire.’’ After staring at that sexy stretch, he left for a minute to

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hang up his hat and jacket and then returned to sit in his chair. He didn’t know which way to go with Melissa now. There was still a lot he wanted to tell her, but she would let him get only so close to certain subjects. A good five minutes passed with him staring broodingly into the flames. Finally he couldn’t bear the silence any longer. ‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘we’ve got all afternoon. Is there anything you’d like to do?’’ Melissa made a snuggling movement. ‘‘I’m perfectly content, but maybe there’s something you’d like to do.’’ He hesitated, then grinned slightly. ‘‘If I said what I’d like to do, you’d probably throw something at me. Maybe that lamp next to your chair.’’ She laughed. ‘‘Oh, I don’t know. I just might surprise you.’’ ‘‘Melissa, you surprise me every minute of every hour.’’ She laughed again. ‘‘At least I’m not boring you.’’ ‘‘You could never bore me.’’ ‘‘Tell me what you’d like to do on this rainy afternoon,’’ she urged. ‘‘Go on. Don’t be shy.’’ ‘‘You’re serious? You really want to hear it?’’ ‘‘I’d love to hear it.’’ He looked away for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair, his forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze on the fire. ‘‘I think you already know.’’ ‘‘Do I?’’ His head turned toward her. ‘‘Don’t you?’’ ‘‘Are we playing twenty questions? Is that what you’re afraid to tell me?’’ ‘‘Don’t tease, Melissa. You know how I feel about you. What do you suppose I’d like to do this afternoon? And tonight, tomorrow, every day and night you’re with me?’’ Her pulse went wild, though she hid it well. ‘‘And where would you like this to take place? Here, in front of the fire?’’ ‘‘Here would do just fine. So would a bed. For a fact, it could take place in any room of this cabin, in any section of any room.’’

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Delicately she cleared her throat. ‘‘I see. This would include undressing, of course. You naked, me naked?’’ ‘‘Sweet Jesus,’’ he mumbled, closing his eyes at the sudden rush of blood to his groin. Was this how she intended to get even—by driving him crazy with desire and never doing more than talk about it? ‘‘Stop it,’’ he whispered thickly. ‘‘Unless you mean it, don’t say it.’’ ‘‘Oh. Then I guess I’d better figure out if I mean it,’’ she said thoughtfully, deliberately sounding as though she were talking only to herself. ‘‘Maybe if you kissed me...?’’ she added, speaking slowly and as if she were truly perplexed. He didn’t need a second invitation. In one fluid movement he left his chair and knelt in front of hers. Pushing her knees apart, he fit his hips between them and at the same time burrowed his hands behind her to bring her forward. Melissa’s eyes grew as big as saucers. That curling heat was in her belly again, and she had to ignore it, which, she was discovering, was no small achievement. Wyatt nuzzled his face into the curve of her throat. ‘‘You smell like no woman who ever lived,’’ he whispered. She was getting a little alarmed. ‘‘Wyatt, I said to kiss me, not—not this.’’ He raised his head to see her face. ‘‘When we made love before, I didn’t know what I was doing. Neither did you.’’ ‘‘We...managed,’’ she said weakly. ‘‘Besides, I really don’t care to be reminded of how you got your—your experience.’’ ‘‘Didn’t you get some experience?’’ ‘‘That’s really none of your business.’’ He took her face between his hands. His eyes were dark and burning with emotion. ‘‘You said you dated. You’ve made love with someone other than me, haven’t you? Tell me the truth, Melissa. Whatever else you do or don’t do, tell me the truth about this.’’ She couldn’t tear her eyes from his. There was so much passion in his eyes, so much emotion. ‘‘Wyatt...’’ ‘‘Tell me!’’

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‘‘All right, yes! I made love with other men. Why shouldn’t I have?’’ His hands dropped to her shoulders. ‘‘I never said you shouldn’t have, did I?’’ But his voice was shaky and hoarse. ‘‘Anything I did shouldn’t bother you,’’ she said, letting her resentment show. ‘‘You sure weren’t sleeping alone.’’ He felt like the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach, and he had no right to feel that way. Love could bring the strongest man to his knees, he thought, which was right where he was, on his knees in front of Melissa, leaning into her, probably looking like a lovesick calf. He didn’t like that picture. Breaking all contact with her, he sat back on his heels. ‘‘That’s one of the things I brought you up here to talk about.’’ Melissa’s left eyebrow went up in utter astonishment. ‘‘You want to discuss you and your wife’s sex life with me?’’ ‘‘Ex-wife, and no, that’s not what I meant. How crass do you think I am?’’ ‘‘That’s a loaded question, considering how you got me here.’’ He gave her a very long look, one that lasted until she became edgy about it and said, ‘‘What?’’ in a rather belligerent tone. ‘‘I don’t know how to take you. I have the feeling you want me to think you’re not angry anymore about being here and it’s not the truth. Melissa, why did you ask me what I wanted to do on this rainy afternoon?’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Because you asked me.’’ ‘‘But you didn’t leave it at that. You taunted me. You turned our discussion into something sexual. Then you pretended confusion and asked me to kiss you. Know what? I think we’ll skip the conversation and the confusion and get to the kiss.’’ She hadn’t quite kept up with his rapid accusations and ultimate conclusion, so she wasn’t prepared for his touch. His hand snaked beneath her hair to cup the back of her

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neck. A thrill she wasn’t anticipating shot through her with the speed and impact of a bolt of lightning. ‘‘Wait... Wyatt—’’ Her objection was eliminated very effectively by his lips on hers. It was a kiss very much like this morning’s had been, gentle and undemanding, which eased some of her tension. His mouth felt wonderful, in fact—soft and giving. She began kissing him back, moving her lips against his. It was a delightful kiss, sweetly unselfish and certainly nothing to cause alarm. Then his mouth left hers to move over her face. She sighed, though she told herself her enjoyment was completely impersonal. She would feel the same if any attractive man kissed her so obligingly. She could feel herself sinking into emotion, but that, too, didn’t alarm her. She wasn’t brain dead, after all, and Wyatt seemed perfectly contented with what she considered a rather innocent embrace. This time when he nuzzled her throat, she made no protest. She felt warmer than she had, but then the fire was putting out more heat than it had a few minutes ago. He kissed her mouth again, and she felt a definite difference in style. His tongue slid along her lips, urging them apart. The strangest weakness was disabling her limbs, she realized, but the sensation wasn’t only strange, it was quite delicious. Then he really kissed her, with his tongue in her mouth and his body pressing hers deeper into the chair. Her mind was suddenly clouded, dazed. As if from a great distance she remembered that she wasn’t going to get carried away by anything Wyatt did. But his weight against her and his kisses, one after another, made reality and even justice seem so trivial. He backed away from the chair and pulled her down to the floor. With both of them lying down, he leaned over her and opened his lips around hers, taking her gasp of surprise into his own mouth. She wanted to say no. The thought was

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suddenly crystal clear in her mind, the word in her throat. But he kept kissing her and she couldn’t get it out. The only sounds she was able to manage were soft moans of intense pleasure, which weren’t at all a part of her plan. This man was not the Wyatt of old. This man knew how to kiss and arouse and make a woman lose sight of herself and everything else. So dizzy the room seemed to be spinning, she attempted to push him away. But even while her hands were feebly pushing against his chest and shoulders, she was sucking on his tongue. Obviously she had completely lost her mind, but she couldn’t think of how to get it back. In fact, she couldn’t think at all, not about anything but what he was making her feel. The floor beneath her felt soft, when she knew it wasn’t. Wyatt felt weightless on top of her, when she knew he had to be at least a hundred and ninety pounds. While the heat in her body rose to the feverish stage, her brain seemed to be floating and utterly useless. She knew when he slid up her sweater and then pulled it over her head. She knew when he undid her slacks and worked them down her hips. But it was as if it was happening to someone else. Surely it couldn’t be her, Melissa Avery, lying on the floor with Wyatt North and permitting, even encouraging each of his steps to seduction. As though of their own accord, her fingers unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off of his shoulders. The intensity in his eyes only added fuel to the fires searing her vital organs. His hard breathing was no harder than her own. There was no longer gentleness, or tenderness, and certainly no sweetness in their groping and grabbing at each other’s clothing. His shirt vanished. She registered him fumbling with his belt buckle, with the button on his jeans, and with his zipper. His manhood sprang forth while he tore away her panties. She croaked out two words. ‘‘Use protection.’’ He did it with all possible speed. Then he was there, at the heated, moist entry he needed so desperately. He thrust

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himself inside of her and groaned out loud. ‘‘Melissa... baby...’’ Her hips rose to meet him halfway. Her eyes were closed for a long time and when she opened them she saw him watching her face. There was no levity on his, no lightheartedness, nothing remotely familiar or sweet. But she was too far gone to dissect expressions. He undid her bra and bared her breasts, then bent his head to suck on her nipples, all the time moving within her, moving, moving. Her chest was heaving for air. Her brain wasn’t floating anymore, it was being dashed about by intense emotions. The pleasure was overwhelming, but it wasn’t enough. There was something she must reach, the ultimate high, and she closed her eyes to concentrate on attaining it. Wyatt knew he was about to go over the edge. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. If he failed Melissa now, there might never be a second chance. He was sweating, from the heat radiating from the fireplace and from his own exertions. But it had to be perfect for her or every gain he’d made since their arrival on the mountain could vanish in the blink of an eye. He knew he’d make it when she began whimpering deep in her throat and tossing her head back and forth. Her legs went up around him, drawing him deeper inside her, clamping him tighter against her. Her fingernails raked his back, and she finally cried out, ‘‘Yes...oh, yes. Yes!’’ Releasing his self-control with intense relief, he reached the pinnacle seconds behind her. ‘‘Melissa...Melissa!’’

Ten At first Melissa just lay there basking in the incredible afterglow of truly stupendous lovemaking. There were tears in her eyes, she realized when she turned her face toward the fireplace and the flames appeared blurred. Her heart was still pounding, but as reality began returning, she suspected her only alternative to an overfast heartbeat was none at all. This was utterly insane. She had done exactly what she had vowed not to do—lose herself in Wyatt’s arms. It wasn’t making love with him that was so imprudent, it was her total immersion in the act, her amnesiac behavior. Every important aspect of her life had vanished from her foolish female brain, including Wyatt’s betrayal six years ago, his trickery in getting her out here and her own plan to get even. How effective would a declaration of loving and marrying another man be after this? Oh, how smug he must be feeling right now. So proud of his masculine power. So cocksure. If he dared to say something smug or condescending when he spoke, she wouldn’t be able to keep her disgust for either of them to herself. ‘‘Let me up,’’ she said. With a satisfied sigh Wyatt raised his head and looked at her. ‘‘I knew it would be like that for us, Melissa. I never stopped loving you. I—’’ ‘‘Don’t!’’ Wriggling, she pushed on his chest. ‘‘How can you say something like that?’’ ‘‘Because it’s true.’’ Tears filled her eyes again. Her plan was in shambles.

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How could she have behaved so outrageously? Other than a complete fool, who was she these days? Before Wyatt reentered her life she had been a confident, reasonably contented woman with several important goals. Now she didn’t know herself at all, and it was all Wyatt’s fault. ‘‘Hey,’’ he said softly, brushing away the moisture from beneath her eyes with his thumb. ‘‘Please don’t regret this.’’ Because she didn’t know what else to do, she let him hold her and actually wept on his shoulder. Then something clicked in her head. Wasn’t this exactly what she had wanted to happen—him declaring eternal love for her? He never needed to know how deeply she had been affected by their lovemaking. Wasn’t this really just an extremely influencing first step toward the moment when she told him her trumped-up story of being in love with another man? A few days of heartache wouldn’t kill her. She had learned six years ago that one didn’t die from a broken heart, and even eventually got over it. More or less. Enough of this maudlin self-pity in Wyatt’s presence, she thought, and twisted her head to see his face. She even managed a tremulous smile. ‘‘I really do need to get up,’’ she said. ‘‘I’d like to take a shower.’’ She always did her best crying in the shower. Wyatt was concerned about her teary eyes. ‘‘Are you sure you’re all right?’’ ‘‘Very sure.’’ She saw the kiss coming and took a breath and held it. His lips touched hers tenderly, then settled upon them with a possessiveness she hadn’t expected. Instantly she felt her traitorous body responding. Jerking her head sideways, she mumbled, ‘‘Sorry, but I couldn’t breathe.’’ He smiled indulgently. ‘‘Go take your shower, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting.’’ When he moved away from her she stared. He hadn’t even removed his jeans and undershorts, which were a tangled mess from his knees to his boots. Hastily she sprang up, gathered her clothes and ran from

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the room. Wyatt chuckled deep in his throat. He had never been happier than he was right this minute. And it was only going to get better. Melissa didn’t cry in the shower. Instead, while soaping her body, she did some heavy-duty thinking. It seemed that more than ever Wyatt needed a dose of his own medicine. He had decided before ever bringing her here that he was going to seduce her, or at least make the attempt. She did have to accept some of the responsibility, but it never would have happened in Whitehorn, which he’d known all too well. He kept talking about love, of never having stopped loving her, which was a crock. Did he think her a complete moron? Melissa grimaced. She was a moron, so why wouldn’t he think so? How could she have melted into a whimpering lump of sexual clay for him? He was the last man on earth to whom she should respond so uninhibitedly. And why had she? Why, right now, did the mere act of recalling his lovemaking cause her blood to run faster? She wasn’t going to stand for any of it, she decided with a grim expression. He had committed a felony by abducting her and a crime of immorality by seducing her. Enough was enough. Not only was she going to go through with her plan of fair-and-square justice, but when he brought her back to town she was going to march into the sheriff’s office and file a kidnapping charge against him. In no hurry to return to Wyatt’s company, Melissa dawdled while fixing her hair, applying her makeup and getting dressed. She had packed for a week in California, not for chilly, damp weather in the mountains, so her wardrobe wasn’t very adequate. The cabin was comfortably warm, fortunately, so she was able to put on a summery dress. It was while she was giving her overall appearance a onceover in front of a large mirror that her decisions in the shower suddenly reversed themselves. Startled at her own ambivalence, she frowned disapprov-

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ingly at her reflection. Could she really file a criminal complaint against Wyatt and send him to prison? Secondly, her seeking justice for Wyatt’s old crimes was a dangerous undertaking. How much of his lethal chemistry could she take and come out of this unscathed? Her chin lifted. The long and the short of it was that she had to convince Wyatt to take her back to town and then forget this whole awful episode. Planning retribution with the law and on her own was detrimental to her own future, and she would not think of it again. Leaving her cosmetics strewn on the bathroom counter, she walked through her bedroom to the hall door. It was time for a showdown. ‘‘Wow,’’ Wyatt said softly when Melissa walked into the living room. ‘‘You look gorgeous in that dress.’’ The dress was one of several she owned in her favorite style—long, flowing and loosely structured. The fabric had a pale blue background that was barely discernible among the multitude of tiny flowers in shades of pink, green and lavender. ‘‘And I love your hair down like this,’’ Wyatt added, his eyes gleaming with admiration. It was also long and flowing, with just enough wave to give it shape. In their better days he had loved her glossy thick hair, loved touching it. Melissa ignored his compliments and let her eyes flick over his clothing—pale gray slacks, a long-sleeved navy shirt and black loafers. He, too, had showered, and his jaw was shiny from a fresh shave. ‘‘That outfit must be part of your Helena wardrobe,’’ she said coolly. Her tone, not at all what he’d been anticipating, sounded a warning bell in his head. ‘‘Do you prefer me in jeans?’’ Melissa dismissed the topic with an indifferent wave of her hand. ‘‘We need to talk.’’ He almost laughed. ‘‘Talking’’ was the primary reason he’d brought her to the cabin, which he had told her in plain

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English, and precisely what she had been rebelling against since her arrival. Great, he thought. Maybe they would finally have a meeting of the minds. As fantastic as their lovemaking had been, their relationship could go only so far without some very crucial conversation. But as anxious as he was to begin that discussion, he wasn’t able to completely disregard his own plans for the evening. ‘‘I couldn’t agree more,’’ he said. ‘‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’’ Frowning over his hasty exit, Melissa walked around the room. Wait for what? Damn it, she had come in all pumped up to lay into him, and waiting could undermine her determination. But Wyatt was true to his word and returned almost immediately. Melissa’s spine stiffened when she saw the bottle of very good red wine—already opened—and the two stemmed glasses he was carrying. He set about filling the glasses, then, wearing a smile, he walked over to her and held one out. Melissa looked at it as though it were something poisonous. ‘‘Take it,’’ he urged. ‘‘Please.’’ Slowly she inhaled and strove for rationality. A few sips of wine wouldn’t befuddle her, and they might even reinforce her courage. ‘‘All right,’’ she conceded, accepting the glass. Wyatt held his up. ‘‘A toast. To you, to me and, most of all, to us.’’ Her eyebrow rose cynically. ‘‘I’d rather toast to freedom.’’ ‘‘Freedom of adventure? Freedom of speech?’’ There was a teasing twinkle in Wyatt’s eyes. ‘‘Just plain freedom.’’ Her gaze challenged him. He pondered that challenge for a moment, then nodded. ‘‘Sure, why not? Here’s to just plain freedom.’’ They each took a sip from their glasses. ‘‘Would you like to sit down?’’ Wyatt asked. Melissa’s eyes narrowed on him. ‘‘What I’d like is for

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you to take me back to town. Not six days from now, not later tonight, not in the morning, but right now. I’m not asking, Wyatt, I’m demanding.’’ Disappointment streaked through him. ‘‘That’s what you wanted to talk about?’’ ‘‘Yes. Are you going to do it?’’ He tried to make light of the topic. ‘‘You seduced me and now that you’ve had your fun, you want to leave? Is that it?’’ ‘‘I seduced you?’’ ‘‘Didn’t you ask me to kiss you?’’ ‘‘Oh, for God’s sake,’’ she muttered, tipping her glass for a healthy swallow. Lowering it, she glared at him. ‘‘I did not seduce you. You seduced me and we both know it. It was your only reason for bringing me out here. Well, you succeeded, so there’s no point in keeping me here any longer. I want to go back to town, and I want to go now.’’ ‘‘You’ve got it all wrong. You see, that’s why I can’t take you back yet. You still have it all wrong,’’ Wyatt said patiently. ‘‘Don’t you realize that you’re going to force me to file kidnapping charges against you? I’ll be honest. So far I’ve been going back and forth about it. I can’t say that it would brighten my life any to see you behind bars, but you really should believe that I’ll do it if you keep me out here much longer.’’ Watching her intently, he took a sip of his wine. Then, with a leisurely stride to his chair in front of the fireplace, he sat down. His nonchalance raised Melissa’s ire. She, too, strode to the same portion of the room, standing near the fireplace so she could see his face. Her own was as threatening as she could make it. ‘‘I strongly advise you to believe me,’’ she said sharply. Wyatt returned her stare. ‘‘I believe you.’’ ‘‘But you’re still going to keep me captive for another six days.’’

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He thought a moment. ‘‘Captive isn’t a good word. Guest is much better. And it might not take six days. Depends.’’ Her anger erupted. ‘‘Guest! You almighty jerk! Do you think for one moment that I believe you’re in love with me? You could say it a thousand times and it wouldn’t make it true. People in love don’t kidnap each other.’’ ‘‘Except in our case.’’ ‘‘There is no our case! There is no us! We do not have a relationship and we never will have!’’ ‘‘We did about an hour and a half ago,’’ Wyatt said calmly. ‘‘Or do you have a better term in mind for what happened between us?’’ He looked at his empty glass and got up for a refill. Holding the bottle, he asked, ‘‘Would you like some more wine?’’ Melissa was seething and totally ignored his question. ‘‘God, I hate being the weaker sex. If I were as physically strong as you are, I’d get those truck keys away from you, one way or another.’’ ‘‘You don’t need physical strength to get those keys.’’ ‘‘Oh, please. I suppose all I have to do is ask for them, right?’’ ‘‘Wrong. You’re a bright, intelligent person. I’m sure you’ll figure it out sooner or later. I thought several times today that you were finally grasping my reason for bringing you here, but apparently not.’’ He shrugged then and returned to his chair. ‘‘Actually, I’ve told you my reason several different times.’’ ‘‘For conversation,’’ she sneered. ‘‘Which is why, of course, you took advantage of me this afternoon.’’ Wyatt let out a whoop of laughter. ‘‘That’s one charge no court would convict me on, honey. But feel free to add it to my list of crimes when you file that kidnapping complaint. If nothing else, it sure would titillate the good citizens of Whitehorn.’’ Melissa was trying to remember what those people in the Old West who took justice into their own hands with cattle rustlers and horse thieves were called. Oh yes, she suddenly

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thought, they were called vigilantes. Just as Wyatt was going to force her to file kidnapping charges, he was forcing her into personal retribution. ‘‘There was a time when nothing or no one could have made me believe you were capable of doing something like this,’’ she said in a derisive tone. ‘‘You’ve changed, and not for the better.’’ ‘‘You’ve changed, too, Melissa. We both have.’’ ‘‘But I didn’t turn into a criminal.’’ He couldn’t help laughing. ‘‘No, I suppose not.’’ He sobered. ‘‘But you’re not as open-minded as you were, nor as pleasant. I remember a girl who laughed at everything.’’ ‘‘Well, I remember a boy, a young man, who was honest and decent and...and—’’ ‘‘Loyal?’’ Wyatt said softly. ‘‘Faithful?’’ She whirled around and stalked off to a window. It was almost dark outside. The forest was already dark, and only a pale, silvery light on the western horizon gave evidence of the setting sun. ‘‘That’s what you don’t want to talk about, isn’t it?’’ Wyatt said quietly, getting to his feet. ‘‘My disloyalty? My infidelity?’’ Her shoulders twitched irately as she raised her glass to her lips and drank the last of her wine. ‘‘Melissa?’’ He had come up behind her. She shrank closer to the window. ‘‘Don’t touch me.’’ ‘‘Why not touch you? Explain why I shouldn’t touch you after what happened between us today. Are you afraid it will happen again?’’ ‘‘Don’t be absurd,’’ she scoffed. ‘‘That was a—a fluke, a mistake. Believe me, it won’t happen again.’’ ‘‘A fluke. Hmm. Well, I suppose it’s possible. I’ve learned through the years that almost anything is. And everyone seems to see things in their own way, different from anyone else.’’ Arguing with Wyatt was getting tiresome. Was she going

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to go through with her little act of cooperation so she could pay him back, or wasn’t she? In either case, she was tired of the dissension. Besides, she had tried everything within reason to persuade him to stop this ridiculous charade and he just kept right on begging for a symbolic kick in the shins. She turned around, surprising him with an almost friendly smile. ‘‘I’ll have some more of that wine now, if you don’t mind.’’ Suspicion suddenly hit him. She had run hot and cold on him since she’d got here, one minute furious, the next as congenial as anyone he’d ever known. She had accused him of playing a game with her, but it appeared that she might be involved in some sort of game of her own. He took the empty glass from her hand and walked over to the table where he had left the bottle of wine. ‘‘Getting hungry?’’ he asked while filling her glass. ‘‘Dinner will take only a few minutes to heat up.’’ ‘‘Another casserole? I noticed the covered dishes in the refrigerator when I made lunch. Did you have your cook at the ranch prepare food for this week?’’ Handing her glass to her, he laughed lightly. ‘‘Guilty as charged.’’ ‘‘Indeed you are,’’ she murmured, though the comment was tempered by a rather flirtatious look into his eyes. Her ability to change moods amazed Wyatt. It also bolstered that spurt of suspicion he had noticed a minute ago. But, he decided, he would go with the flow. ‘‘Come on,’’ he said with a short laugh. ‘‘Let’s go have some dinner.’’ The food was good, Melissa had to admit. ‘‘Your cook is way above average,’’ she told Wyatt after they had eaten and were having a second cup of coffee. That is, Wyatt was drinking coffee. Melissa’s beverage was tea. ‘‘I’ll tell her you said so. Coming from you, she’ll appreciate the compliment.’’ Wyatt set his cup down. ‘‘You’ve

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done well with the Hip Hop. Years ago I never would have guessed that your future lay in the restaurant business.’’ Melissa gave a small shrug. ‘‘It just sort of happened on its own. The only jobs I could hold and still stay in school were in fast-food establishments. After high school I found a full-time job in a regular restaurant.’’ ‘‘Waitressing?’’ ‘‘No, in the kitchen. Cook’s assistant. All it was was a gofer job, really. That cook was the grouchiest woman I’d ever known, but I learned a lot from her. She made marvelous bread and pastry. I started getting interested in cooking, and along with my night-school business courses, I took some cooking classes. I never did do any cooking for employment, although I do some in my own place. But the management end of the business was more appealing to me, which was what I aimed for.’’ ‘‘Apparently you hit the bull’s-eye.’’ Melissa hesitated, then said quietly, ‘‘I was saving what I could to buy my own restaurant someday, but I was able to get a good deal on the cafe´. I had a hefty mortgage at first, but I was determined to make it.’’ ‘‘And you chose Whitehorn for that start.’’ There was something intimate in his voice, which offended her. She looked him in the eye. ‘‘Don’t ever think I came back to Whitehorn because of you. You were married and living in Helena, and I never dreamed you would move back to the ranch. I chose Whitehorn because of my father. I’d always hoped he’d come back, and now I want to find his killer.’’ Wyatt cocked a curious eyebrow. ‘‘Are you involved in the investigation?’’ ‘‘No, but I’m going to be if Judd and the others don’t make some headway very soon. What have they found? A few hairs, meaning what?’’ ‘‘Maybe you’re a little too impatient, Melissa. I’m sure Judd is doing everything humanly possible to uncover the

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murderer, who probably isn’t even in the area anymore. Hasn’t been for years, I’d be willing to bet.’’ ‘‘Yes, Judd is trying,’’ Melissa conceded. ‘‘So is Tracy, and Sterling. And maybe I am impatient, but I’ve had a missing father for most of my life. All that time his bones were lying on the reservation,’’ she said with some bitterness. ‘‘Now I want to know why he was killed, and who did it, and I don’t intend living through another twenty years not knowing.’’ ‘‘What could you do that Judd and Tracy aren’t doing?’’ ‘‘If I knew the answer to that question, I’d already be doing it.’’ Wyatt got up for the coffeepot. ‘‘I’d probably feel the same way if it were my father,’’ he said while refilling his cup. He resumed his seat, thinking that they might not be discussing what was most important to him, their own past, but at least they were talking. They had finished the bottle of wine with dinner, and unquestionably Melissa was more relaxed than when she had walked into the main room after her shower. ‘‘Do you remember your father?’’ Melissa nodded. ‘‘I have quite a few memories of him. Some aren’t very clear, but yes, I remember him. And I have some old snapshots of him.’’ Frowning, she studied her fingernails. ‘‘He worked as a ranch hand.’’ ‘‘Oh? Which ranch?’’ Melissa drew an uncertain breath. ‘‘According to Mother he was restless and impulsive and changed jobs every few months. There’s a chance that he was working on the Baxter place when he disappeared, but Mother is rather vague on that point. She told me that he might have been between jobs. She really doesn’t like talking about it.’’ Except for her immovable opinion about a woman being involved, Melissa could have added. ‘‘Anyway, from Mother’s remarks I have the opinion that they weren’t very happy together.’’ Her gaze rose to Wyatt’s. ‘‘Unlike your parents.’’

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He nodded in mute understanding, murmuring, ‘‘More like my marriage.’’ Instantly Melissa recoiled. ‘‘I’m not going to discuss your marriage with you, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘We have to discuss it.’’ He leaned forward. ‘‘How am I going to get you to forgive me if you won’t talk about the past?’’ ‘‘Are we back to that again?’’ Pushing out her chair, Melissa stood up. ‘‘I think the evening is over. I’m sure you can handle the dishes, so I’ll say good-night.’’ She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Wyatt agitated and staring after her. ‘‘Damn,’’ he mumbled, slumping back in his chair. He was beginning to think the only way Melissa was ever going to listen to him was if he tied her down. But if she was so dead set against anything but animosity between them, why had she made love with him this afternoon? One thing was certain, he hadn’t forced her. She had been as eager and hungry for him as he’d been for her. Just thinking of her passionate response was arousing. It also changed the direction of this thoughts. For a few minutes in front of the fireplace she had been solely and wholly his. Was that the answer? To repeatedly seduce her until she finally admitted that she had special feelings for him? Would she forgive him then?

Eleven T

he sky was clear the next morning, and sunshine beamed into Melissa’s bedroom through an opening in the curtains. She sat up and realized that she had slept very well, though considering her restiveness the night before and yesterday’s trials and tribulations, it was no wonder. The sun being out seemed like a gift after so many gloomy, gray days, she thought. At least today she could spend some time outdoors. Melissa went through her normal morning routine and then, dressed in a denim skirt and white knit blouse with blue trim, she ambled rather desultorily to the kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the counter, but Wyatt was obviously elsewhere. Pouring herself a cup, she wandered into the main room of the cabin and found it, too, vacant. She stopped and listened. The cabin was as silent as a tomb and felt empty. Wyatt must be outside, taking advantage of that beautiful sunshine. Her pulse began racing. This could be her chance to look for those telephones, although she had better make sure that Wyatt really was outside. Setting her cup on a table, she returned to the bedroom area and began rapping on doors. ‘‘Wyatt?’’ No answer. Cautiously she turned the knob and peered into a bedroom that appeared to be lived in. There were things on the bureaus and nightstands—books, magazines, a jackknife, some pads of paper and pens. Quickly she darted into the room and checked the closet, which, to her surprise, was filled with men’s clothing. Not Wyatt’s, though. By the size of the garments, whoever occupied this bedroom was a much smaller man. Instinct or intuition told her who occu-

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pied this room: a caretaker. Wyatt had undoubtedly told the man to take the time off. Melissa’s lips thinned as she thought of Wyatt planning this week, seeing to food and total privacy. Moving fast, she left the room and quietly closed the door, to try the next one. Rapping lightly, she called, ‘‘Wyatt?’’ No answer. But that door only opened onto a linen closet. She finally located what she thought was Wyatt’s bedroom, and it was as vacant as the rest of the house. Looking furtively down the hall to make sure he hadn’t snuck up on her, she entered his room, which seemed like the most logical place for him to have secreted the phones. First she glanced around the large space, noting that his bed had been carelessly made, with the covers pulled up to the pillows without benefit of a spread. There were three dressers of various sizes and two nightstands. Those phones could be anywhere, but intuition told her that she was on the right track. She began opening doors and pulling out drawers in the furniture. Some contained clothing—underwear, sweaters and socks—but most were empty. The closet! Whirling, she saw two doors and decided that one must lead to his closet and the other to his bathroom. The spacious bathroom, she discovered, was slightly steamy, indicating that Wyatt had showered not too long ago. Hurrying to the second door, she found that it was a walk-in closet with a multitude of built-in shelves and drawers, along with bars for hanging clothes. She was down on her knees, in the process of sliding open a drawer that was about two feet above floor level when a voice behind her said casually, ‘‘Looking for something?’’ Her heart nearly stopped. Red-faced, she turned her head to face Wyatt, who was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded. ‘‘I wasn’t snooping through your things out of morbid curiosity,’’ she said defiantly. ‘‘I was looking for the phones.’’

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‘‘They’re not in here.’’ ‘‘Well, they’re somewhere in this house!’’ ‘‘Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t,’’ Wyatt said, giving her a maddening grin. Embarrassed at getting caught and angry that he would grin at her in that smugly masculine fashion, Melissa jumped to her feet. She did it negligently, however, because she banged her knee into the edge of the drawer. ‘‘Ow,’’ she yelped, and without thinking, raised the hem of her skirt to inspect the damage to her knee, which hurt like the very devil. Wyatt walked in. ‘‘Let me see what you did.’’ She dropped her skirt. ‘‘It’s nothing. Just a bruise.’’ ‘‘Did you break the skin?’’ ‘‘No,’’ she lied. It wasn’t very broken, she told herself, just enough to show a dotted line of blood. The closet felt cramped with two people in it and she tried to slip past Wyatt to leave. But he had other ideas. Taking her by the arm, he demanded, ‘‘Let me see that bruise.’’ ‘‘My bruise is none of your affair.’’ She tried to jerk her arm free of his grip. ‘‘Wyatt, damn it, let go!’’ ‘‘Okay, fine, have it your way.’’ Without another word, he bent over and scooped her off the floor and into his arms. She started yelling. ‘‘Put me down, damn you! What do you think you’re doing?’’ She was put down, all right—tossed rather unceremoniously to the middle of his bed. He followed her descent before she could get off the bed and lay over her, easily holding her in place. His face was no more than an inch from hers. ‘‘Now,’’ he said. ‘‘Am I going to see that bruise the easy way or the tough way? You choose.’’ Clamping her lips shut, she turned her face to the side. ‘‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not serious,’’ Wyatt warned. She turned angrily flashing eyes on him. ‘‘It’s only a bruise and none of your business. Let me up. I don’t like being on your bed.’’ Then she saw the heat of desire de-

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veloping in his eyes. She licked her suddenly dry lips. Her own body was working against her. His weight, his scent, the configuration of his torso and thighs were overwhelming weapons to combat. ‘‘Don’t,’’ she whispered, all but reading his mind. ‘‘Close your eyes,’’ he said huskily. ‘‘Think about yesterday in front of the fireplace.’’ Lowering his head, he began kissing her cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘‘I—I don’t want to do this again.’’ It was a lie. She did want it. Deep inside of her, the wanting was developing at an alarming rate. The bed beneath her was soft and yielding; the man over her was hard and sexually persuasive. Her normal strength was deserting her muscles and limbs, and her brain seemed to be dissolving into witless mush. ‘‘Melissa,’’ he whispered, seeking her lips. He loved her. He had always loved her, and he knew she wouldn’t melt in his arms if she didn’t love him, too. Maybe he would never succeed in getting her to admit it, to face the truth, but he recognized her feelings even if she did not. Weakly she tried to elude his kiss, but she gave up very quickly and parted her lips for his mouth and tongue. About two seconds into the kiss, their passion exploded. They tore at each other’s clothing, undoing buttons, pushing aside her blouse and his shirt, all the while kissing and gasping for air. ‘‘Oh, Melissa, what you do to me,’’ Wyatt whispered thickly between kisses. She could have said the same, but not only was his mouth on hers preventing speech, she wasn’t certain of the wisdom of such revealing comments. But then wisdom had little to do with what was happening on his bed. Adrift in her bedazzled mind were questions and doubts about her own morality. How could she be so untrue to herself? Why didn’t she escape his arms, his mouth, his hands? No one was forcing her to stay where she was. No

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one was forcing her to writhe at his touch, or to moan when he caressed her breasts. He unbuttoned her skirt and pulled it down, then her panties. Breathing erratically, she watched his eyes, his beautiful, expressive eyes, while he undressed her. ‘‘Me, too,’’ he whispered, twisting around to get rid of his boots and jeans. Naked, he sat up to look at her, adoringly running his hands over her silky skin. Dipping his head, he wet her nipple with his tongue, then sucked gently. ‘‘Oh,’’ she cried as a delicious thrill shot through her body. His head came up. ‘‘Am I hurting you?’’ ‘‘No...no.’’ She reached up to his neck and urged his head down for a kiss on the mouth. He moved on top of her and the kiss became rough and needful. Reaching down, she guided his engorged manhood to the unbearable ache between her thighs. He slid into her at once, unable to do anything else. Their lovemaking was tempestuous, almost savage. He thrust into her as deeply as possible, again and again, and in the back of his mind was last night’s conclusion that in this, at least, she was his. ‘‘Wyatt,’’ she moaned, begging for release. He gave it to her, taking her to the stars, going with her. Their climaxes were a fraction off simultaneous, and so strong and overwhelming they all but blacked out. Wyatt was the first to stir by raising his head to look at Melissa. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, he said nothing. But he searched her eyes, and she lay there and let him, honestly not knowing what he might see. This time she felt no shock over her behavior. Rather, confusion held her almost frozen in place. Was she destined to become Wyatt’s pawn, his plaything? Disappointment in herself inserted itself into the confusion. ‘‘Say something,’’ he said softly, gently brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

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‘‘Say what, Wyatt?’’ Her voice was neither strong nor steady. ‘‘I don’t know. Say it was great. Say you love me. Say...’’ He stopped himself. Even hinting at the word marriage might make her angry and resentful again. ‘‘It was great,’’ she said dully. ‘‘And?’’ ‘‘That’s as far as I can go.’’ ‘‘But you do love me, I know you do.’’ ‘‘Then you know far more than I.’’ ‘‘I know you don’t respond to other men like you do to me.’’ ‘‘Oh? You know that? How?’’ ‘‘I feel it. In here.’’ He tapped his chest. Her plan of retribution flashed into her mind. Maybe she would go through with it and maybe she wouldn’t, but paving the way, at least, seemed sensible. It also seemed slightly demented. Sighing, she broke eye contact. ‘‘I don’t know what I feel just now. Please don’t pressure me about it.’’ And then a horrifying thought struck her. Panicked, she pushed on his chest. ‘‘You didn’t use protection. Let me up!’’ ‘‘Aw, hell,’’ he mumbled, angry at himself for getting so carried away that he’d forgotten protection. It would be too ironic for words, given his history with Shannon, if he had gotten Melissa pregnant this morning. His eyes narrowed on her stricken face. It might be ironic, but it would sure make her sit up and take notice of him. He felt a quickening of blood and tissue at the thought of Melissa having his baby, and suddenly wasn’t sorry at all that he had neglected protection. What if it really had happened? What if Melissa had conceived and was pregnant this very minute? ‘‘Wyatt,’’ she said sharply, wriggling to escape his weight. ‘‘Get off of me!’’ She felt like smacking him one, and herself, too. Never had she done anything so foolhardy

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before. Even inexperienced with this sort of risk taking, she felt she shouldn’t just lie there. But the look of profound tenderness in his eyes brought her squirming and wriggling to a startled halt. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’ she asked, her voice laden with suspicion. ‘‘About a baby. I’d love to have a daughter with you.’’ Why should he lie about it? he thought. He couldn’t think of anything better than Melissa having his baby. She grew weak, too weak to do more than whisper, ‘‘Let me get up. Please.’’ He looked at her, studying the perfect features of her beautiful face, and felt his love for her compounding. ‘‘Melissa, let’s start over. Let’s pretend the past never happened.’’ Closing her eyes, she drew in a long-suffering breath. ‘‘That’s not only an absurd idea, it would be impossible to do.’’ Her lids lifted and she glared directly into his eyes. ‘‘I want you to take me back to town. Do you have the slightest idea of what you’re doing to me?’’ He smiled. ‘‘I know what I was doing to you a few minutes ago. Is that what you’re referring to? Incidentally, I could do it to you again, in case you haven’t noticed.’’ She groaned out loud, because while she hadn’t noticed his remarkable recovery from utter repletion, she was doing so now. ‘‘Not again, Wyatt. I’m saying no. Does no mean anything to you, or are you one of those Neanderthals who think a woman means yes when she says no?’’ Her sarcasm registered, but he simply couldn’t contain the truth in his own soul. ‘‘I want to make you pregnant,’’ he whispered. His hips moved, causing a slow slide of his manhood inside her. ‘‘No,’’ she moaned, tossing her head on the pillow. ‘‘No...no...no.’’ But now the no was for herself. She shouldn’t be feeling anything and she was. She shouldn’t be responding, and she was. Tears of desperation filled her eyes. How did he have so much power over her senses? She couldn’t fall for him again, she just couldn’t.

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But this was nothing like their youthful romance, when he had been the sweetest guy in her world. The one time they had made love, she had been extremely emotional, but hadn’t even remotely felt what he was able to draw from her now. Maybe he was right in spite of her distaste for the idea: maybe they had already started over. It was clear she wasn’t dealing with the Wyatt she remembered. Strangely, that progression of thoughts completely demolished her responsiveness. Her body stiffened and Wyatt felt it. One second she had been with him, albeit reluctantly, and the next she was lying under him like a rock. Frowning, he became very still and probed the depths of her eyes. ‘‘What happened?’’ ‘‘No more, Wyatt. If you want me to ever speak to you again, you’ll let me get off of this bed.’’ There was a steely quality in her voice he had never heard before, she meant what she’d said. Instead of another step forward, they were regressing. Saying nothing, he released her and moved to one side. She got up immediately, gathered her clothes and left him lying there questioning the last few minutes with a knot in his gut. Melissa straightened the clothing in her suitcases and carried the luggage out to the cabin’s front door, passing Wyatt, who was slumped in his chair by the fireplace. He stood up slowly. ‘‘Melissa, I’m not taking you back yet,’’ he said soberly, eyeing her luggage. ‘‘Yes, you are!’’ she said, her voice set in a strident pitch. ‘‘Please, just calm down and talk to me.’’ ‘‘So you can throw me on another bed?’’ Her glare was murderous. ‘‘How dare you talk about wanting to get me pregnant? Do you actually have the gall to think you can restructure my entire life? My plans, which obviously mean nothing to you, do not include becoming a single parent.’’

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‘‘My God, Melissa, do you think I would let you have the baby alone?’’ ‘‘If you dare mention the word marriage, I swear I’ll walk back to town!’’ ‘‘Don’t be ridiculous.’’ ‘‘So now I’m ridiculous? Let me tell you who’s ridiculous, Wyatt. A man who thinks he can get away with kidnapping, that’s who.’’ Melissa advanced on him as she yelled, ‘‘What, really, did you hope to accomplish by your disgusting tactics? And don’t say conversation again, because we’ve talked plenty.’’ ‘‘Never about the right things.’’ ‘‘Oh, you mean because I won’t listen to lies about how you were trapped into marrying Shannon that we haven’t talked about the right things?’’ A muscle began jumping in Wyatt’s jaw. ‘‘Don’t accuse me of lying, Melissa. I’ve never lied to you.’’ ‘‘What do you call your story about driving me to the airport, if not a lie?’’ ‘‘Except for that, I’ve never told you anything but the truth.’’ ‘‘You have a real knack, do you know that? I’ll bet there isn’t a person alive who could corner you on any subject known to mankind!’’ Grimacing, Wyatt put his hands over his ears. ‘‘Are you trying to deafen me? Stop that infernal screeching.’’ Melissa drew herself up indignantly, but inside she felt about two inches high. Screeching had not been her intention when she had brought out her luggage. He was just so damned infuriating. Stonily she sat on her largest suitcase. ‘‘I’m not moving from this spot until you take me back to town. I mean it, Wyatt. I’ll sit here for three days if I have to.’’ In a final, determined rebellion, she had dug in her heels, Wyatt realized. Thinking hard, he rubbed the back of his neck. He could walk out and do something, maybe take a

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good long hike, and see if she was still parked on her suitcase when he returned. But he had never intended any discomfort for her while planning the week, and sitting on a suitcase for ‘‘three days’’ couldn’t be anything but discomfiting. Her stubbornness just might work in his favor, he thought then. Hadn’t he figured that the only way he would ever get her to listen to him would be to tie her down? In essence, she had tied herself to one small portion of the room. ‘‘You’re not serious,’’ he said, testing the degree of her determination. ‘‘I’m deadly serious,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘The only thing that will get me off this suitcase is a ride to town.’’ ‘‘And nothing I say or do will change your mind?’’ ‘‘For Pete’s sake, how many times do you have to hear it?’’ Disgusted, Melissa looked away. It was only a second before she caught movement from Wyatt in her peripheral vision, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking to see what he was up to. Her eyes widened when she saw him carrying a chair over to her and her luggage. ‘‘I’m not using that chair, so you might as well put it back where it belongs.’’ ‘‘It’s not for you,’’ Wyatt said calmly. ‘‘It’s for me.’’ Placing the chair within inches of her knees, he sat on it. Quickly she moved her knees so they wouldn’t touch his. ‘‘You are the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing,’’ she said in a distinctly irritated tone. ‘‘If you’re not going to take me home, why don’t you just leave me alone?’’ ‘‘Because I can’t.’’ Wyatt sat back, reasonably comfortable on his straight-backed chair. ‘‘Leaving you alone, ignoring you, just isn’t possible.’’ ‘‘It’s a nice day. Go for a walk or something,’’ she said peevishly. ‘‘I thought of that, but a better idea came up.’’ ‘‘Sitting and staring at me is a better idea?’’ She sneered.

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‘‘Staring at you is pure pleasure, Melissa, but it’s not my better idea. No, this is the perfect opportunity for some serious conversation.’’ ‘‘Well, it’s going to be one-sided,’’ she snapped with selfdirected anger for putting herself in this ludicrous situation. ‘‘Fine, if that’s the way you want it.’’ ‘‘What I want obviously doesn’t mean two hoots to you, so why don’t you just cut the bull, Wyatt? You’re an arrogant SOB, and we both know it. You’ve had everything your way for so long, you can’t function on any other level. You know, I kept thinking of you as the Wyatt I used to know, but that was a dire mistake. You’re so far from the nice guy you once were it’s like you became a whole other person.’’ ‘‘You’re right. Not a hundred percent right, but you’re pretty close. What do you suppose caused so much change?’’ ‘‘I don’t know and I don’t want to know.’’ Wyatt leaned forward. His eyes contained an intense light. ‘‘You do know. You just won’t admit it.’’ Her lip curled. ‘‘Your marriage. Well, pardon me if I don’t get all soppy and wet-eyed with sympathy over something you caused yourself.’’ ‘‘I did cause it myself. I know that better than anyone else. It’s what I’ve lived with for six years, but I wouldn’t welcome your or anyone else’s sympathy. Understanding, yes, but not sympathy.’’ Melissa folded her arms and gave him a cold look. ‘‘I understand perfectly. I understand that you couldn’t keep your pants zipped six years ago and you had to pay the penalty. Well, poor you. While you’re commiserating with your own past, please take note of the fact that I kept my clothes on and never had to pay any penalties.’’ His eyes narrowed on her. ‘‘You can’t compare you and me. You’re a woman. You’re the one who could trap a man into marriage by getting pregnant. Men don’t have that dubious advantage.’’

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Disdainfully, Melissa turned her head. ‘‘I find this conversation repugnant. Next you’ll be telling me that Shannon seduced you against your will.’’ She gave a short, sardonic laugh. ‘‘Or that she raped you. I sincerely doubt that she got pregnant because she wanted to.’’ Despite her derisive attitude, the topic was painful for Melissa. Wyatt hadn’t only shattered her heart six years ago, he had badly damaged her trust in all of mankind. But it wasn’t all of mankind sitting there with a hurtful, pleading look in his eyes, it was Wyatt, and discussing his unfaithfulness was bringing back the terrible months after his telephone call much too clearly. Her chin lifted, a monumental effort when she really felt like sinking into tears. ‘‘Talk about something else if you must talk, or go away and let me be.’’ ‘‘I’m not going anywhere, Melissa. What I am going to do is tell you exactly what happened six years ago.’’ ‘‘No,’’ she gasped. ‘‘I won’t listen.’’ ‘‘Then get up off of that damned suitcase and leave the room,’’ he said harshly. They glared at each other, an unnerving standoff that had Melissa wishing she hadn’t been so adamant about sitting right where she was until he agreed to take her back to town. ‘‘Say any damned thing you want,’’ she finally said sullenly. ‘‘It won’t change anything.’’ ‘‘Maybe not, but to me it’s worth a shot.’’ Wyatt took a deep breath. ‘‘You were in California, I was in college in Missoula. We wrote dozens of letters. We talked on the phone at least three times a week, discussing our plans to get married. The only time you weren’t occupying my mind was when I was studying, and even then I’d be reading along and suddenly see your face. I loved you so much and I wanted us to be together. You kept delaying your move back to Montana.’’ Melissa couldn’t let that remark pass. ‘‘I had no choice,’’ she said angrily. ‘‘Could I leave my mother when she wasn’t making enough money to support herself let alone my younger brother? She needed my earnings to pay the rent

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and eat. Maybe those are minor considerations for a North, but at that time they weren’t minor for the Averys.’’ ‘‘I understood what you were doing. I accepted it, Melissa. I kept telling myself it wouldn’t be forever. Several times I thought of going to California and begging your mother to move to the ranch so you and I could be married. We could have all lived there. Dad wouldn’t have minded.’’ ‘‘She never would have come. I can’t even get her to come back to Montana for a visit.’’ ‘‘I know that now, but there were moments when I missed you so much I would have done anything to solve our dilemma.’’ ‘‘So you consoled yourself with other women,’’ Melissa said bitterly. ‘‘No, I did not,’’ he said sharply. ‘‘You were the only woman I had ever made love with, and that was the way I intended to keep it. I took a lot of ribbing from my classmates because I didn’t date or pay attention to the girls on campus. And let me say right here, Melissa, that there were more than a few very attractive, intelligent women who let me know they were interested.’’ ‘‘There were attractive, intelligent men interested in me, too,’’ she retorted. ‘‘But unlike you, I remained faithful.’’ ‘‘So did I. Until one night, when my roommate talked me into going to a party with him. It was a semiformal affair, which in itself was enough reason to avoid it, but Jason—you must remember my mentioning his name—kept at me until I agreed. It was a private party thrown by a wealthy Missoula family with political connections. ‘‘Anyway, I went. There must have been a hundred people milling around in that big house, and the quantity and quality of the food and drink was staggering. For the first time in ages I let go and relaxed. It was fun, entertaining, and I began enjoying myself. Someone was forever pushing a drink into my hand, and after the first few, I stopped counting.’’ Melissa wasn’t looking at him, but she was listening. He

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took another deep breath and braced himself for the tough part of his story. ‘‘I was introduced to so many people I didn’t even try to remember their names. And then this girl, this young woman, walked up to me. She introduced herself.’’ ‘‘Shannon,’’ Melissa whispered. She was fighting tears, fighting them hard. Crying over Wyatt’s story right in front of him might destroy her. ‘‘Yes, Shannon. I’m not going to gloss this over, Melissa. She was beautiful and vivacious and I was just drunk enough to notice.’’ Wyatt paused, then said quietly, ‘‘I barely remember it, but I went to her motel room with her after the party. She lived in Helena and had gone to Missoula expressly to attend the affair. I woke up the next morning in her bed with a killer hangover that got worse when I realized what I had done.’’ Though Melissa’s face was turned away from him, he was positive he saw the sparkle of tears in her eye. He felt like crying himself, but got past the moment by clearing his throat. ‘‘I got up and dressed immediately. Shannon asked what was wrong. I explained that I was in love with you and that we were engaged to be married. I left. ‘‘The next few days were a nightmare. I wanted to call you and confess, but knowing how hurt you’d be, I decided that I couldn’t appease my conscience at your expense. A month went by, and then I got a call from Shannon. She said she had something important to discuss with me and demanded I go to Helena. Maybe I suspected what it was. I don’t know. But I went, and she said she was pregnant, and because she hadn’t slept with any other man for months, it was my baby. Before I could say anything, she said that abortion wasn’t an option and she wouldn’t damage her father’s reputation by bearing a child out of wedlock. Wilbur Kiley was and still is a state senator. She wanted a ring on her finger and would settle for nothing less.’’ Wyatt fell silent and stared down at the floor for a long time. ‘‘I called you in California to tell you about it myself.

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That’s the story, Melissa. I didn’t sleep around during our separation, except for that one time. And if this sounds selfpitying, I can’t help it, but I paid for that one night, paid in spades.’’

Twelve Wyatt raised his eyes. ‘‘Melissa, look at me.’’

Her head turned slowly and their eyes met. In his were misery, remorse and a plea for understanding. In hers were tears. Wyatt spoke so quietly his words were barely audible. ‘‘I know this is hurting you, but you have to hear it.’’ There was resentment in Melissa’s wet eyes. ‘‘And so you were married.’’ ‘‘Yeah.’’ ‘‘Why didn’t you live happily ever after?’’ The question was posed bitterly. ‘‘Because we didn’t love each other. No marriage can succeed without love, Melissa. I have a theory, which could be right, wrong or somewhere in the middle, but I think Shannon knew what she was doing the night we met.’’ ‘‘She deliberately got pregnant? That’s ridiculous. Women can only conceive at certain times of the month. It’s highly unlikely her fertile time coincided with meeting you and that she immediately came up with a plan to land you. Your theory is hogwash.’’ ‘‘Is it? I think she wanted a wealthy husband. Not that her family was in need. The Kileys have been well off for generations. But there were signs after we were married that she’d been thinking of something like that the night we met. Why else would she want me, if not for the money?’’ Melissa stared at him through the mist in her eyes. Didn’t he know how incredibly handsome he was? How he looked to a woman—strong and straight and startlingly masculine?

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If his theory had any credibility at all, it was probably because Shannon Kiley had taken one look and decided she wanted him. ‘‘If you were so unhappy with your marriage, why did you stay in it so long? I know you said it was because of your son, but that hasn’t changed and you finally got a divorce,’’ she said huskily, almost accusingly. There must have been something between him and Shannon for him to stay so long. There had to have been, however much he denied it. Wyatt sighed softly. ‘‘I didn’t have you anymore, and I did have Timmy. He’s a great kid, Melissa, and I love him a lot. Too, the institution of marriage had always seemed sacred to me. Because of my parents, I suppose. When Dad was still alive I didn’t want to appear dishonorable in his eyes. I don’t know, Melissa. Now it seems like a terrible waste, but at the time I thought I should try and make it work.’’ ‘‘For six years,’’ Melissa said dully. ‘‘Until I discovered she was having an affair.’’ ‘‘An affair? Were you hurt by that?’’ ‘‘Hurt?’’ Wyatt gave a brief, cynical laugh. ‘‘I was so relieved I couldn’t see straight. I had her dead to rights and she knew it. When I told her I had proof of her infidelity, she didn’t fight me on the divorce. Status means everything to her, Melissa. She didn’t want the publicity of a court battle, which I promised would be the case if she didn’t agree.’’ They sat without speaking for a long time. Wyatt kept watching her, waiting for some sort of reaction. When it came, it wasn’t what he’d hoped for. ‘‘Do you feel better now?’’ she asked in an accusing tone. ‘‘Unloading your conscience on me was what you wanted all along, but did it really make you feel any better about yourself? Maybe it obliterated your guilt, assuming you’ve been living with guilt. One question, Wyatt. Now that

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you’ve bared your soul, if that’s what you really did, what do you expect from me?’’ ‘‘I’d be happy to start with belief,’’ he said. ‘‘Belief.’’ Melissa chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘‘You mean believe that you made only one mistake, that everything changed in both of our lives because of one night at a motel? And if I believe you, what comes next?’’ Wyatt inhaled a long breath and then slowly released it. ‘‘Trust, affection, love and marriage.’’ There, he had said it, and if she clobbered him over it, he would take it like a man. If she wasn’t so torn up, she would laugh, Melissa realized as the strength drained out of her. ‘‘I can see you don’t want much.’’ His eyes and voice were suddenly intense. ‘‘I want you. I want the rest of your life. I want your thoughts, your love and your time.’’ He leaned forward. ‘‘I want you to have my babies, and I want the kind of marriage my folks had. With you as my wife, Melissa, only you.’’ ‘‘In other words, you’re proposing.’’ ‘‘No, not yet. Not until you’re with me a hundred percent. Not until you believe every word of what I just told you and forgive me—really forgive me—for making a bad mistake. Not until you realize it was a mistake and only that.’’ ‘‘A mistake,’’ she echoed in a near whisper. Was that what had caused so much unhappiness for her, a mistake? Caused so many tears and sleepless, agony-filled nights? Wyatt had stubbed his toe and she had taken the fall. A mistake. What an innocent-sounding word for so much heartache. He tried to take her hands, but she withdrew them. ‘‘No,’’ she said. His mouth tightened, but could he blame her? ‘‘Will you think about what I told you?’’ ‘‘I...hope not.’’ But she knew she would think of little else. Maybe if they hadn’t made love up here on the moun-

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tain she could forget his tale of woe and get on with her life. Would she ever forget now? She sighed wearily. ‘‘I never set out to hurt you,’’ he said with a downhearted expression. ‘‘At least believe that.’’ Her head had started aching, and she lifted her hands to massage her temples. ‘‘Will you take me back to town now?’’ ‘‘Melissa, please stay. Stay because you want to.’’ ‘‘Stay?’’ she repeated, visibly astonished. ‘‘And do what?’’ Her expression became closed. ‘‘No, Wyatt, I need to go home. I need to be alone.’’ He tried another tack. ‘‘You haven’t had breakfast. At least stay long enough to eat.’’ ‘‘I’m not hungry.’’ It was the truth. Her stomach felt as empty as the Grand Canyon, but it wasn’t caused by hunger. So this was why he had abducted her, to tell her that all he had done six years ago was make a mistake. It was how he saw it, she realized, how he felt about it. Maybe he was right, but her side of the coin had been so badly bruised she could hardly take seriously his declarations of love and hope for a future together. At least she couldn’t right now. The one factor that she couldn’t ignore was her response to Wyatt’s lovemaking, even though it had absolutely no connection to his story. Her behavior must have immeasurably increased his hopes, she thought uneasily. In fact, the stage was set perfectly at this moment for her to put her plan of justice into motion. But her heart just wasn’t in it. Lying to him about there being another man in her life no longer seemed like justice, but rather an adolescent method of reaping revenge. There had been enough pain between them, and she wasn’t going to deliberately cause more. She got up from her perch on the suitcase. ‘‘I’m ready to leave,’’ she informed him, speaking firmly, leaving him no room for further argument. After a brief hesitation, Wyatt stood also. ‘‘I’ll get the

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truck keys.’’ He walked away, leaving her alone with her suitcases. A great weakness overtook Melissa, and she leaned against the front door for some necessary support. That had been the conversation she hadn’t wanted to have. Anyone could rationalize a sin or a crime, and Wyatt was smart enough to devise a story of entrapment that would affect any woman’s emotions. Hers were in shreds right now, and she prayed that she could get through the drive to Whitehorn without breaking down. Her urge to cry had to be stifled at any cost. She could do her crying when she was alone in her apartment. Wyatt carried her luggage out to the truck, then opened the passenger door for her to get in. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she murmured, albeit stiffly. ‘‘You’re welcome.’’ Shutting the door, he walked around the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. After inserting the key into the ignition, he turned his head and looked at her. ‘‘I wish you would change your mind and stay. I swear I wouldn’t pressure you, Melissa, not about anything. You can see how the weather has changed. We could take a hike. The mountain has trails leading to scenic sites that I know you’d enjoy seeing.’’ She gave her head a shake. ‘‘No. I couldn’t pretend that everything is all right between us. Hiking and looking at scenery should be done when people at least feel friendly toward each other. It would be nothing but a farce, and I can’t do it. Not today.’’ ‘‘You don’t feel friendly toward me? Not at all?’’ She looked at him. ‘‘No, I don’t. Do you think I should?’’ Sighing, he turned the key and started the motor. ‘‘I was hoping.’’ ‘‘The world doesn’t revolve around your hopes,’’ she said, managing to speak civilly in spite of the turmoil she felt.

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He turned the truck around and began driving. ‘‘You don’t believe my story, do you?’’ ‘‘I believe that you believe it,’’ she said, staring out the side window at the dense forest they were passing through. ‘‘Do you think I made it up?’’ She didn’t answer. ‘‘Do you think I was sleeping with every woman I ran across while I was calling you and planning our marriage? Damn,’’ he muttered under his breath, wounded that she might consider his narration untrue. Even part of it. He had been scrupulously honest, omitting only those segments that lent nothing to the story and would only hurt Melissa to hear them. But it was also true that he had slept with his ex-wife for the better part of six years, and that fact had to be somewhere in Melissa’s mind along with everything he had told her. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said then, his voice husky with emotion. ‘‘I’m so damned sorry. I’d do anything to make it up to you, anything.’’ ‘‘No one can change the past,’’ she said, still staring out the side window. ‘‘No, but you can sure as hell change the present,’’ he shot back. ‘‘And what about the future? Melissa, we’re still young. We could have it all—children, a long and happy marriage. Don’t throw it out without giving us a chance. That’s all I’m asking for, a chance. I knew if I didn’t get you alone somewhere you’d never listen to me. That’s the only reason I took you to the cabin.’’ Cocking a dubious eyebrow, she slowly brought her head around. ‘‘The only reason?’’ Color crept into his face and neck, but he gave her a steady, though brief, eye-to-eye look. ‘‘I didn’t take you up there to seduce you, however it turned out. That’s something else you have to believe.’’ Frustration got the better of him, and he slapped the steering wheel. ‘‘I know I’m asking a hell of a lot, but I’ve got to try. If I lose you a second

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time...’’ The tears in his eyes shocked him, but he suddenly couldn’t see very well. Pulling the truck to the side of the road, he put his head down on the steering wheel. Surprised by it all, Melissa frowned at him. What on earth was happening? And then she realized what he was doing. But she had never seen a grown man cry before and wasn’t sure if she should say something consoling or pretend not to notice. Making matters worse was the huge lump in her own throat. Nervously she smoothed the hair back from her face and tried not to look at the man bent over the steering wheel. Her inherent kindness wouldn’t let her ignore his misery for long, however, and she took a breath and extended a hand to lay it on his arm. ‘‘Wyatt?’’ Turning his face away from her, he got out of the truck and walked off, leaving the door hanging open. When he disappeared into the trees, Melissa stared at the spot with a horrible sinking sensation. How had things come to this— him crying, her on the verge? He wanted too much, she told herself defensively. At the same time she still felt somehow to blame for his unhappiness. But she wasn’t to blame, he was, her common sense argued, so why did she feel as though she had committed some unpardonable sin? He couldn’t possibly shed as many tears as she had six years ago, not if he stayed in the woods for a week. She checked her watch and kept an eye on the trees. Should she just sit here and wait, or what? They were not an ordinary couple, and she couldn’t go running after him as though they were. But she should do something. After another few minutes she got out and called, ‘‘Wyatt?’’ To her surprise, he answered. ‘‘I’ll be there in a minute.’’ The huskiness of his voice gave Melissa a pang. His last words before stopping the truck had been, ‘‘If I lose you again...’’ She remembered how his voice had cracked.

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With a groan of utter despair, she returned to her seat in the truck and laid her head against the passenger-door window. He loved her and wanted her to completely forget the past. Okay, that was his side of this awful situation. But what was hers? Why, if she felt nothing but disdain for him, had she permitted such abandoned lovemaking between them? Without question, she had a lot of soul searching to do. Did she believe the story he’d told her or didn’t she? Had Shannon really been the only woman he’d slept with all the time they had been apart? Not that even one misstep was acceptable behavior for an engaged man who swore undying love on the telephone at least three times a week. But was it understandable? Hadn’t she had her desperate moments in California? Not that she had sought the comfort of another man, but Wyatt had been at the peak of his sexual drive and living a celibate life, while she hadn’t even yet experienced a climax. Her thoughts had been focused on romance, not on sex. There was no comparison between the two of them, she realized unhappily. ‘‘Oh, God,’’ Melissa whispered, feeling like the dregs at the bottom of a barrel. When Wyatt returned to the truck and got in, he immediately took his sunglasses from the visor and put them on. ‘‘Sorry about that,’’ he said to her. Adjusting the shifting lever to Drive, he started the truck moving. Melissa didn’t know how to respond to his apology, so she said nothing. They rode in uncomfortable silence. At least Melissa was uncomfortable; she couldn’t tell what Wyatt was feeling because he stared straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the road. The trip out of the mountains took much less time than the trip in, which verified Melissa’s suspicion that Wyatt had done a lot more driving than was necessary the day he’d brought her out there. Today he made only two turns before reaching the highway, when before he had driven at least a half-dozen different roads. Spotting Whitehorn in the distance, Melissa heaved a sigh

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containing some very peculiar ambiguities. Ostensibly it was over; she would soon be home again. But what would Wyatt do next, if anything? He’d taken his best shot, and how did he view the results? Even more disturbing, how did she view the results? Approaching the town limits, Wyatt finally spoke. ‘‘Would you like me to drive you to the sheriff’s office so you can file those kidnapping charges?’’ She gave him a look. ‘‘That would be handy for Judd, I suppose. He wouldn’t have to drive clear out to your ranch to arrest you.’’ After a moment of silence, she added with a sigh of weary resignation, ‘‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to file charges.’’ A slightly cynical smile touched Wyatt’s lips. ‘‘Why not? I committed a crime. Shouldn’t I have to pay for it? One always pays for sins or crimes in one way or another. If I’ve learned anything in my lifetime, it’s that.’’ Melissa also produced a cynical smile. ‘‘I think I’ll let the big guy upstairs make the decision on whether or not you deserve to pay a penalty. I’m not going to do it.’’ ‘‘What’s stopping you? Cowardice, disinterest or love?’’ ‘‘I’m not a coward,’’ she said sharply. ‘‘No, you’re not a coward,’’ he agreed. ‘‘Guess that leaves disinterest or love.’’ He sent her a glance. ‘‘Those are not the only options, Wyatt, so stop being so damned smug.’’ ‘‘Smug I’m not,’’ he mumbled, then spoke with more clarity. ‘‘What in hell do I have to be smug about?’’ ‘‘Nothing, which is exactly my point.’’ That wasn’t entirely true, Melissa thought uneasily. He had seduced her with a kiss—twice, to be accurate. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t feel a little smugness over his own potency. Wyatt took the shortest route through town to reach Melissa’s building. He parked behind her car, just as he had the day he had talked her into letting him drive her to Billings. Melissa got out immediately, but so did Wyatt. ‘‘I’ll carry your luggage up those stairs,’’ he announced.

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‘‘I can do it.’’ ‘‘I’m sure you can. But I’m going to do it.’’ Opening the door of the camper shell and dropping the tailgate, he fished out her suitcases. ‘‘Lead the way and unlock your door.’’ ‘‘You do enjoy giving orders, don’t you?’’ ‘‘Don’t get mad again. I’m not in the mood for another argument.’’ Doing a slow burn, Melissa preceded him up the stairs and unlocked the door of her apartment. ‘‘Just set them down right here,’’ she said when they were no more than two steps into her laundry room. ‘‘Fine.’’ Wyatt lowered the suitcases to the floor. Straightening, he gave her a long look. Melissa couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses of his glasses, but she didn’t need to see them to feel their intensity. ‘‘Well...’’ she said hesitantly, wishing he would leave without further dissension. ‘‘About that lot,’’ he said. ‘‘Have your lawyer draw up the contract, or do it yourself if you know how. Keep it simple. It doesn’t have to be pages and pages of legal mumbo jumbo. I’m selling, you’re buying. List your terms. When it’s ready, let me know and I’ll come to town and sign it.’’ ‘‘Oh, the lot. Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll call when it’s ready.’’ The lot had completely slipped her mind. During the last few days she had lost track not only of her plans but of her own self. All because of this man, who was a disturbing combination of the Wyatt in her memory and a sexy stranger who would make any woman’s heart beat faster. Emotions were running wild in her system, but they were so jumbled and tangled she wasn’t able to act on any one of them. ‘‘Well, I’m sure you’d like me to leave.’’ Wyatt turned to go, then turned back to her. ‘‘I probably should apologize for ruining your vacation plans, but I’m not really sorry for what I did. At least we talked, which never would have happened if I hadn’t brought you to the cabin.’’

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‘‘I’m not looking for an apology,’’ Melissa said. ‘‘It’s over and I only want to forget it.’’ ‘‘Forget it? Is that what you intend to do?’’ It hurt that the only thing she had gotten out of their time together was a wish to forget it. He suddenly felt drained, sapped. He had tried everything he knew how to atone for the past. There were no more ideas cooking in his brain that might bring them emotionally closer. This, then, was the end of the line. Frustration and sorrow burned in his gut. He took the two steps that separated them and slid his hand beneath Melissa’s hair to clasp the back of her neck. Her eyes widened in stunned surprise, but what the hell? he thought. At this point he had nothing to lose. Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to hers in a rough, emotional kiss. He felt her hands move to push against his chest, and she tried to turn her head to break free of the kiss. But he held her head steady by the strong grip he had on her neck, and he kissed her until his own legs felt shaky. When he needed air, he raised his head and looked into her eyes. ‘‘Just remember one thing, Melissa. You could go to the ends of the earth and you would never find a man who loves you more than I do.’’ Her mind searched for a retort, something that would cut him down, put him in his place. But his stinging kiss was still on her lips and her brain felt numb. You could go to the ends of the earth, and you would never find a man who loves you more than I do. The tears she’d been battling for hours suddenly erupted. ‘‘Go,’’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘‘Just...go.’’ He looked at the tears streaming down her face. ‘‘You’re not going to forget. Don’t even try.’’ Releasing her, he walked to the door. ‘‘Call me when the contract is ready.’’ He walked out. Melissa all but collapsed on the dryer, bending over it to sob uncontrollably with her head on her arms. Gradually her

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sobs subsided, and finally she was able to straighten up, pick up her suitcases and carry them to her bedroom. She was about to throw herself across her bed when the phone rang. Clearing her throat and wiping her eyes, she answered on the fourth ring. ‘‘Melissa? I saw you getting out of Mr. North’s truck. You’re home so early. Are you all right?’’ It was Wanda from downstairs. She couldn’t face anyone today, Melissa thought. Not today. ‘‘Um...I caught a—a bug or something, so I came home. I’m going to stay in bed today and hope I feel better tomorrow.’’ ‘‘Oh, that’s the pits, hon. Is there anything I can do? Are you able to eat? I could bring you up something.’’ She hadn’t had anything but a few swallows of coffee all day, Melissa remembered, and while she didn’t feel hungry, she really should eat something. ‘‘An omelet, Wanda. Plain. No cheese. And some wheat toast.’’ ‘‘A pot of tea?’’ ‘‘Yes, that would be great.’’ ‘‘I’ll be up in ten minutes.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Wanda.’’ Wyatt drove with a grim, brooding expression. At the edge of town he debated about going to the ranch or returning to the cabin. Did he prefer being alone for a while or getting back to work? He had five hired hands at the ranch and the house help, which pretty much eliminated the possibility for any solitary thinking. But maybe he had done enough thinking. It was really up to Melissa now. She knew how he felt about her—he couldn’t have said it any plainer—and she knew the facts of the past as he had lived it. What more could he do? Sighing roughly, he turned the pickup toward the ranch. When he got there he would call Helena and talk to Timmy. Talking to his son always gave him a lift. Then he’d try to reach Joe Lott, the man who lived and worked at the cabin

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as caretaker. He had told Joe to take some time off and that he would let him know when to return. Joe might as well get back to work, too.

Thirteen By the end of the day Melissa felt more like her normal

self. For hours she had alternately walked the floor, cussed, wept and laid in her bed staring at the ceiling. By that evening her emotions had apparently worn themselves down and she was able to think about Wyatt and the last few days without experiencing another explosion of one sort or another. One thing was abundantly clear: Wyatt was bitter about his marriage. But his theory about Shannon getting pregnant on purpose was ridiculous. An accidental meeting? One night together? No, Melissa couldn’t swallow that portion of his story. The rest of it? Well...she just didn’t know. When Wanda had delivered the food from the cafe´ she’d exclaimed, ‘‘Lordy, hon, you look terrible. You really are ill.’’ Well, she wasn’t ill, but Wanda was right about her looking terrible; a glance in a mirror at her pasty face and puffy eyes had stunned Melissa. Her eyes were still a little puffy that evening, but the color had returned to her skin and her nerves were no longer screamingly raw. Wearing a nightgown and bathrobe, she curled up in her favorite chair in her living room. Not once since opening the Hip Hop Cafe´ had she done what she had today—feigned illness to avoid going downstairs and seeing to her business. But she had a much bigger problem to deal with than her taking an unnecessary day off—Wyatt, of course. She might have doubts about portions of his history lesson, but he had

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finally convinced her that he still loved her. Yet should his feelings influence hers? It was ironic that justice had been served without any lies from her about there being another man in her life. Wyatt was suffering as she had suffered six years ago, and what bothered her most about it was her own lack of satisfaction. His unhappiness added nothing to her happiness, she realized sadly. In fact, his misery could almost persuade her to truly forgive and forget. That wasn’t all he wanted, though. His intention of proposing marriage one day was astounding. If she had been the least bit kind today, if she had even pretended to understand and accept his story, he would have already proposed. The thought sent a tingling thrill up Melissa’s spine, which didn’t please her. Getting tingly over Wyatt when he wasn’t even in the vicinity was merely a delayed reaction to the great sex between them at the cabin, she told herself. And yes, it had been great. The best. She had never gotten so lost in a man’s arms before, nor experienced so much pleasure from making love. But that didn’t mean she was in love, did it? Her feelings for him were different now, though, she had to admit. If they had just met and had no shared past to remember and ache over, she would have no reason not to fall very hard for Wyatt. Melissa drew a deeply troubled breath. Facing her own feelings was extremely difficult. If she succeeded in overcoming the past and permitted herself to trust Wyatt again, and then he did something else to hurt her, she would probably end up a mental case. Could she take such a risk? On the other hand, could she not take the risk? He would be back, she was certain of it. If nothing else, they had to see each other to complete their transaction on the lot. Maybe she should bend a little and give him the chance he had begged for. They were both different people today than they’d been six years ago. And the honest-to-God’s truth was that there was the most persistent ache in her body that

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she knew only Wyatt could pacify. Maybe that was no more than chemistry or raging hormones, but shouldn’t she at least make the attempt to find out if it meant more? It was shortly after noon hour the next day when Melissa looked up the phone number of the North Ranch in the Whitehorn directory. Dialing the number, she all but held her breath in nervous anticipation. A woman answered. ‘‘North Ranch.’’ ‘‘Hello. This is Melissa Avery. Does Wyatt happen to be around?’’ ‘‘He’s not in the house, Ms. Avery, but I can have someone locate him and ask him to return your call.’’ ‘‘Would you do that, please? I need to talk to him about a business transaction we’re working on. My number at work is 555-3707. I would appreciate hearing from him as soon as possible.’’ ‘‘I’ll pass on the message. Goodbye.’’ ‘‘Thank you.’’ Putting down the phone, Melissa sat back in her chair with an unsettled sigh. She was in the cafe´’s awful little windowless office, as that was where she kept her typewriter. For the last hour she had been putting together the contract on the vacant lot for her and Wyatt’s signatures, and it was now completed except for one essential ingredient: the legal description of the property. She could get the information by going to the assessor’s office at the courthouse, but since she needed to tell Wyatt that he could come by this evening and sign the document, she had decided to get it from him. Sitting straighter, she read the contract in the typewriter again, checking it for typos and content. It was, as Wyatt had suggested, simply structured and only one page long. She was buying, he was selling, her terms were succinctly stated and that was that. There were no superfluous phrases or, as Wyatt had put it, any legal mumbo jumbo. If that suited him, it suited her, and once the legal description was

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typed into the space she had left between paragraphs, it would be ready for signatures. Her phone rang. Thinking that someone had located Wyatt very quickly, she drew a nervous breath and picked it up. ‘‘Hip Hop Cafe´. Melissa speaking.’’ ‘‘You’re back. I was hoping you would be.’’ ‘‘Pardon?’’ Melissa frowned. The masculine voice was familiar, but not so familiar that she was able to put it with a face. ‘‘This is Paul.’’ ‘‘Paul?’’ ‘‘Paul Rodell.’’ ‘‘Oh, Paul. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your voice, but my mind was a million miles away. How are you?’’ ‘‘Just fine. I stopped in for coffee and was told by one of your waitresses that you were on vacation.’’ ‘‘I...was.’’ She gathered her wits. ‘‘Actually, I planned to be gone for a week, but...’’ That lie about catching a bug got stuck in her throat. ‘‘I decided to come home early.’’ Paul chuckled in her ear. ‘‘You just can’t stay away from your business, can you?’’ Melissa smiled wanly. ‘‘Something like that.’’ ‘‘Well, the reason I called—one of the reasons—I was wondering if you had secured the land next to your building.’’ ‘‘It’s almost mine, Paul. To tell you the truth, the purchase should be completed very soon now. But I won’t own it free and clear for some time, possibly six or seven months.’’ Her terms in the document included a monthly payment of one thousand dollars, but she planned to pay as much on the balance due Wyatt as she could scrape together each month. ‘‘That long, hmm? Well, that means you won’t be looking for that expansion loan until February or March of next year.’’ ‘‘I think that’s about right,’’ Melissa confirmed. ‘‘Well, fine. You know where to come when you’re ready

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for the loan. Melissa, about the other reason I called. Let’s drive to Billings and having dinner tonight. We could catch a movie and be back around midnight.’’ ‘‘Uh...I can’t, Paul. Not tonight.’’ It occurred to her rather suddenly that she really didn’t want to date Paul on any night. He was a nice guy and she liked him, but going out with him again would only encourage his interest, and she didn’t want his interest encouraged. Frowning, she bit down on her bottom lip, wishing ardently that she hadn’t caused this unlikely liaison in the first place. It was her fault, not Paul’s, and now she had to let him know how she really felt. ‘‘Paul, I’m going to be up-front with you. I’ve been seeing someone else.’’ Oh, yeah? Who? Wyatt? When had she learned to lie so well? But there was something between her and Wyatt, and even if there wasn’t, Paul Rodell was not the man for her. ‘‘Oh, I see.’’ The sudden chill in his voice couldn’t possibly be missed. ‘‘I’m sorry, Paul,’’ she said gently. His voice took on a macho quality that Melissa saw through at once. Like most men in this situation, he wasn’t going to let her know that she had just injured his pride. ‘‘No problem, Melissa. Don’t give it a thought.’’ ‘‘Still friends?’’ she asked quietly. ‘‘Of course. I’ll see you around. Goodbye.’’ Sighing heavily, Melissa put down the phone. Now he would probably find reasons to refuse her that bank loan when the time came, she thought regretfully. Hopefully he was professional enough about his job to keep it separate from his private life, but she really didn’t know him well enough to foretell the outcome of this conversation. Frowning, she dropped her gaze to the contract in the typewriter, and Wyatt’s image appeared in her mind. She could only deal with one man at a time, and right now he was first in line. Paul wouldn’t want her anyway if he knew what had taken place at Wyatt’s cabin.

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* * * ‘‘Melissa? Wyatt here. Marion said you called.’’ He didn’t sound angry or upset because of yesterday, she thought, greatly relieved. ‘‘Yes. I’ve been working on the contract and I need the legal description of the lot. Do you have it handy?’’ ‘‘Hold on.’’ Melissa doodled on a yellow pad while she waited, though her thoughts were on Wyatt. ‘‘You’ll never find a man who loves you more than I do.’’ She swallowed hard, aware of just how influencing that declaration had been. ‘‘Melissa? Got something to write with?’’ ‘‘Yes, go ahead.’’ He read off the description listed on his deed. ‘‘That’s it. How are you doing?’’ Melissa cleared her throat. ‘‘I’m fine. Once I type this in, the contract will be finished. Would this evening be all right for you to come to town and sign it?’’ ‘‘Yes. What time?’’ She had been thinking of something all morning, but now that the moment was at hand, she became a little queasy with dread. Yet the ball was in her court where Wyatt was concerned, and somehow she had to let him know that there possibly was a chance for them. ‘‘I—I was wondering if you’d like to come for dinner.’’ ‘‘In the cafe´?’’ ‘‘That’s what I had in mind, yes.’’ ‘‘I’ll come for dinner if we eat in your apartment.’’ Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. ‘‘Oh. Well, that wasn’t exactly...’’ Wyatt was silent, apparently to give her time to rethink her invitation. ‘‘I guess that would be all right,’’ she finally said. ‘‘Great. What time do you want me?’’ Wanting him was precisely the problem she’d been struggling with. She didn’t know if she loved him, she didn’t know if she could ever love him again, but she had learned one thing at Wyatt’s cabin: a woman could want a man without calling it love.

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‘‘Around seven,’’ she said. ‘‘Seven it is. See you then.’’ Wyatt climbed the outside stairs of Melissa’s building and rapped on her apartment door at seven sharp. He was afraid to hope that she had softened toward him, but why else would she invite him to dinner? The door opened. ‘‘Hello,’’ she said, hiding her nervousness behind a smile. ‘‘Hi.’’ He drank in the sight of her. Her dress was an exquisite lavender-gray color and draped enticingly over her body. What he liked best, though, was that her hair was loose, framing her beautiful face, caressing her shoulders. ‘‘Come in.’’ Melissa stepped back. Wyatt was wearing dark slacks and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, probably more clothes from his ‘‘Helena’’ wardrobe. She took a breath, annoyed with herself for immediately dredging up the past. Wyatt walked in and closed the door. ‘‘Something smells good in here.’’ ‘‘Beef Stroganoff.’’ Melissa led him past the kitchen to the living room. ‘‘We’ll have dinner in a few minutes. Would you like a drink? I have some hard liquor—vodka and scotch—or beer and soft drinks.’’ ‘‘I’ll have a scotch and water, thanks.’’ Being offered a drink was a surprise. ‘‘Make it light.’’ ‘‘It’s in the kitchen. Have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.’’ Melissa’s mood was so vastly different from any he had witnessed since their reunion that Wyatt’s hopes became renewed tenfold. Too on edge to sit, he wandered around her living room with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. She returned with two glasses, one of which she passed to him. Here was his second surprise—Melissa, too, was having a cocktail. How many other surprises did she have in store for him this evening? An internal excitement made him feel youthful and almost giddy. ‘‘Cheers,’’ he said while lifting his glass in a toast.

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‘‘Cheers,’’ she repeated. They sipped. ‘‘Wyatt, I have a few things to say. Let’s sit down.’’ She went to a chair and he sat on the sofa. Next to her chair was a small, round table, and she reached for two sheets of paper lying on it. ‘‘This is the contract I drew up. It’s only one page, but I made a copy. Before we get to it, I’d like to thank you for allowing me to buy the lot. When I first learned you had bought it, I thought you had done so to...well, I don’t know...but I guess I thought you bought it because I wanted it.’’ ‘‘I didn’t know you wanted it.’’ ‘‘I know that now.’’ Her eyes met his. ‘‘I hope you understand why I couldn’t accept it as a gift.’’ He sat back. ‘‘Probably because you didn’t want to feel indebted to me.’’ Melissa frowned slightly. ‘‘That was part of it, yes, but I couldn’t take a gift of that nature from anyone.’’ ‘‘Melissa,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I’m not just ‘anyone.’ Someday I’m going to give you the world.’’ Her breath caught. ‘‘Please don’t count on it, Wyatt. I’ve thought a great deal about our past and what’s happened since we met again, and I can’t deny anymore that there is something between us. But I need time, maybe a lot of time, maybe much more time than you’re willing to give me.’’ ‘‘I want you now,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘But if you need some time...’’ His voice trailed off and after a moment he smiled. ‘‘I’ll be satisfied with whatever you’re willing to give me. Will that work? Melissa, just being here with you like this...you can’t know what it means to me.’’ Melissa’s heart was pounding. Wyatt exuded sex appeal. He was so handsome it hurt to look at him. And for the first time it occurred to her that she just might be the most stupid woman alive. A handsome, sexy, generous man was madly in love with her, and she kept saying no because of some ancient history? She was suddenly too emotional to maintain that particular conversation. Taking a breath, she held up the contract.

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‘‘I hope this isn’t too simple.’’ Rising, she walked over to the sofa and held it out. ‘‘Please read it and tell me what you think. I’ll be in the kitchen.’’ Taking her drink with her, she hurried from the room and into the kitchen, where she weakly leaned against the counter and swallowed half the contents of her glass in one gulp. Though mixed with water, the scotch burned going down and hit her stomach hard. She shivered at the sensation, then set the glass on the counter. Wyatt walked in. ‘‘It looks fine to me. Got a pen?’’ ‘‘Uh...yes, by the phone.’’ Nervously she dashed to the phone, picked up the pen and turned around to give it to him. She didn’t have far to reach; he was right behind her. Their gazes locked. Instead of taking the pen, Wyatt took her hand. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his, nor could she breathe normally. Her heart was hammering, her pulse racing. He loved her, and dear God, did she love him, too? She felt his thumb gently moving on her wrist. ‘‘You look especially beautiful tonight,’’ he said huskily. ‘‘So—so do you,’’ she whispered. Slowly he pulled her forward until they were standing only inches apart. His right hand rose to her hair. ‘‘I’m so glad it’s still long. I always loved your hair.’’ A shadow entered his eyes. ‘‘Oh, Melissa, if only—’’ She pressed her fingertips to his lips. ‘‘Don’t. I’m trying very hard to forget the past.’’ His eyes probed hers. ‘‘You really are?’’ ‘‘If we had no past, if there was only the present...’’ ‘‘Then you would love me.’’ He said it sadly because he knew it was true. But she didn’t want to talk about the past again, and neither did he. ‘‘Melissa...’’ He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against himself. A sigh whispered from her as she laid her cheek on his chest. His solid, warm body felt so good, and she couldn’t help nestling even closer. He tipped her chin and looked into her eyes. Seeing acquiescence, he tenderly pressed his lips to hers. He hadn’t

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come here for this—at least he’d told himself during the drive from the ranch to keep his hands to himself—but neither had he expected Melissa’s incredible change of heart. Though not apparent until now, the abduction had worked. His spirit soared in a direct ratio to his rising blood pressure. The kiss deepened. He felt her drop the pen to the floor and lift her arms to curl around his neck. Her mouth opened for his tongue, and suddenly their embrace was no longer in the soothing, comforting category, which was how it had started. His eyes opened, burning into hers. ‘‘Melissa?’’ It was a question of how far she would let him go. He needed her, almost desperately, but it was her decision to make. ‘‘It’s all right,’’ she whispered throatily. ‘‘Give me a minute.’’ Slipping from his arms, she turned off the oven and then, with pot holders, opened its door to remove a covered pan and place it on a trivet on the counter. Wyatt watched the procedure through slightly narrowed eyes, uncertain of her intent. But his uncertainty vanished when she laid the pot holders aside and walked over to him to take his hand with a softly stated, ‘‘Come.’’ This was truly incredible, a miracle, he thought as she led him to her bedroom. Apparently she needed some time to sort out her emotions where a permanent commitment was concerned, but she was an honest-enough woman to admit their powerful physical attraction. So be it. Someday she would be his wife. He knew that as surely as he knew anything, but he would bide his time and give her plenty of space to come to that decision on her own. Besides, how could a man be unhappy when the woman he loved was in his arms? Her bedroom was decorated in deep rose and lavender, but he saw none of the pretty, imaginative touches Melissa had used to make this room hers, not the wallpaper, not the matching drapes and bedspread, not the scatter rugs. All he could see was her, and all he wanted was her.

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His hands started at her wrists and slowly moved up her arms, drifting across her shoulders to her throat and then caressing their way to her face, which he cupped while he kissed her lips with all of the love and ardor in his soul. ‘‘I didn’t plan to do this,’’ she whispered breathily when she could speak. ‘‘Nor did I.’’ But Wyatt wondered if either of them really knew what had been in the back of their minds since their telephone conversation regarding the contract and Melissa’s surprising dinner invitation. It didn’t matter, he thought then. Their kisses were becoming urgent, and each began unbuttoning the other’s clothing. Melissa pushed his shirt from his shoulders. He finally got the bodice of her dress unbuttoned and open, and her bra unfastened. They moved with more haste then, shedding their clothes, throwing back the bedspread, then lying down together, arms and legs tangling erotically. ‘‘Oh, Wyatt.’’ Her hands slid around his neck, then upward to twine into his hair. ‘‘I—I don’t understand myself at all anymore.’’ He became very still and slowly lifted his head to search her eyes. ‘‘As much as I want you right now, as painful as it would be to get off of this bed and leave this room, I would do it if my being here makes you unhappy.’’ Her head moved back and forth on the pillow. ‘‘No, no, it’s not that.’’ Her eyes slid from his. ‘‘I—I’m afraid.’’ ‘‘Of me?’’ When she didn’t answer, he gave her a slight shake with his hands on her shoulders. There was no anger in the gesture, only a profound affection and some dismay. ‘‘Melissa, I’ll never hurt you again. How many ways can I say it? How can I prove it to you?’’ Lowering his head, he kissed her with great tenderness. Then he looked at her once more. ‘‘Tell me what you want me to do.’’ She looked into his beautiful brown eyes and saw only love. Her fears were her own, and she would have to get past them on her own. ‘‘Stay,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I want you to stay.’’

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‘‘My love,’’ he said softly, and took her lips in another tender kiss. That was how they made love—slowly, compassionately, with rougher emotions contained. Melissa fell into a dreamy state and marveled at this side of him, marveled that he could be so gentle and giving and patient. He kissed every inch of her, and his mouth on her skin was like nothing she had ever felt before. When every nerve in her body was sensitized to his touch and she could bear no more, she moaned raggedly, ‘‘Now, Wyatt, now.’’ He took a moment for protection, then entered her with the same unselfish gentleness with which he had brought her to this passionate peak. Clinging to him, she felt the beginning of her climb to completion, the swirling heat in her lower body, the urgency that was both delicious and torturous. Her hips rose off the bed to meet his thrusts. Her eyes were closed, her head back. ‘‘Harder,’’ she groaned. ‘‘Harder.’’ That was all he needed to hear. Pulling out all the stops, he set free the wildness within himself and rode her hard and fast. In seconds she cried out. ‘‘Wyatt...Wyatt...’’ He was with her, and his voice mingled with hers. ‘‘Melissa...sweetheart...oh, baby.’’ Silence descended upon the room as their breathing returned to normal. Neither moved. Neither spoke. At long last Melissa took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. ‘‘I hope you like dried-out beef Stroganoff.’’ Raising his head, he looked at her and laughed. She laughed, too, and it was the first time in six years that they had laughed together. It felt wonderful, and when they stopped laughing they were still smiling. Wyatt shook his head, openly displaying his amazement. ‘‘You are the most fantastic woman who ever drew breath. Do you know that?’’ She lifted her head and kissed his lips. ‘‘Never was, never

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will be. But thanks for saying so. Let’s get up and see if we can salvage dinner.’’ He was grinning. ‘‘You’re the boss.’’ She gave him a playful pinch on the shoulder. ‘‘I’ll remember you said that.’’ ‘‘Until we’re old and gray, I hope.’’ Laughing again, they got off the bed.

Fourteen T

hey sat at the table long after they were done eating and talked. Not about the two of them, but about high school pranks, dances, football games and old friends. ‘‘Do you remember...?’’ preceded numerous stories that made them laugh, almost hysterically a few times. It was a wonderful evening, one of the most pleasant in Melissa’s memory. And underlying the camaraderie Melissa felt with Wyatt was the excitement of sexual awareness. Again and again she found herself admiring Wyatt’s handsome face, the unique way his head cocked to one side at times, his perfect smile and white teeth, his hair and the twinkle in his marvelous brown eyes. She knew he was doing the same with her. Sometimes his gaze burned her with its intensity, as if he was absorbing every nuance of her every expression. Finally they had finished the small bottle of dinner wine, a pot of tea and another of coffee. Wyatt got up and stretched; they had been sitting there for hours. He gave her a smile that was slightly teasing. ‘‘I could be easily talked into staying the night.’’ Laughing lightly, Melissa got to her feet. ‘‘Not a good idea, Wyatt. My employees arrive early and I don’t relish gossip.’’ He walked around the table to be near her. His hand rose to caress her hair and his smile became pensive. ‘‘How about tomorrow night? May I come by again?’’ he asked. Melissa gave it some thought, then shook her head. ‘‘I

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can’t goof off through every dinner hour, Wyatt. It’s the busiest time of day in the cafe´.’’ ‘‘After the dinner hour?’’ ‘‘Um...let’s wait a few days.’’ ‘‘But a few days takes in the weekend.’’ ‘‘Yes, I know. But I still need a little time. And Mondays are generally a little quieter in the cafe´. Come by on Monday night.’’ ‘‘Instead of you cooking, let me take you to dinner. We’ll drive to Billings or Butte or somewhere in between. Just to get out of town.’’ ‘‘Sure...why not?’’ He bent his head and kissed her. It was a low-pressure, lovely kiss that seemed in tune with their lengthy table talk. ‘‘Monday seems a long way off,’’ he murmured. The warmth of his kiss remained on her lips and in her system. Monday did seem a long way off, but she couldn’t ignore her weekend business. The thought of business gave her a start. ‘‘We forgot to sign the contract,’’ she exclaimed, and slipped away from him to retrieve the document from the top of the refrigerator, where she had laid it for safekeeping while putting the finishing touches on dinner. After they had each signed, Melissa handed him the original. ‘‘You can keep this,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘No, I owe you the money. You should have it.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Whatever suits you.’’ She felt his gaze on her mouth and decided that she would be the one to instigate a good-night kiss. Stepping closer to him, she raised up on her toes and kissed his lips. Immediately his arms clamped around her, and the kiss felt a lot more like a hello than a goodbye. ‘‘Damn, you’re something,’’ he whispered when they came up for air. He didn’t want to leave, but it was growing late and he knew Melissa got up early in the morning to open the cafe´. Reluctantly, he took a backward step. ‘‘This was a great evening, Melissa, the best.’’

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‘‘I think so too.’’ ‘‘I’ll see you on Monday. Can you get away around five?’’ She nodded. ‘‘Five will be fine.’’ They walked through the laundry room to the outside door. Wyatt looked at her, then caught her around the waist and brought her close. ‘‘Until Monday,’’ he whispered, kissing her soundly and very thoroughly. Then he left. Breathlessly she closed and locked the door. An elation she had never before felt made her step light and almost dancelike. Returning to the kitchen, she began cleaning up. Talking had seemed so much more important than doing the dishes, and she knew it would take her only a few minutes to accomplish the task. But her mind was in a dreamy state, she realized when she caught herself working in slow motion. A smile tipped the corners of her lips. She was not going to rush into a commitment with Wyatt, but things were definitely moving in that direction, and surprise of all surprises, she felt good about it. Very good. ‘‘Leave the past in the past,’’ she murmured to herself, thinking it good advice. At least it was good advice where Wyatt was concerned. There were aspects of the past that she would never permit herself to lose sight of, specifically her father’s murder. A frown created a tiny wrinkle between her eyes. She was doing nothing to help find Charlie Avery’s killer other than hounding Whitehorn’s law-enforcement agencies. Maybe there was something she could do, like hire a private investigator. How would Judd and Tracy view such a step from her? Would they label it interference and be uncooperative, or would they be willing to share what information they did have with a PI? It was something to think about, Melissa decided. For one thing, since there were no private investigators in Whitehorn, she would have to locate someone from another area. Sighing about that subject, she let her thoughts return to

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the evening and Wyatt, which eliminated her frown and brought another smile. The truth was, she felt happy. Joyful. And she wasn’t going to think about old hurts anymore. That phase of her life was over. Wyatt had good, honest, industrious men working on the ranch, which had been proven time and again during his residency in Helena. During those years he had made as many trips to the ranch as he could work in around Shannon’s demands that he attend every political function and play the role of a proper son-in-law to State Senator Wilbur Kiley. Wyatt didn’t dislike Wilbur. In fact, he and Wilbur had gotten along quite well. It was Shannon who had her nose in the air because her father was an important, influential figure in Helena. In retrospect, Wyatt wondered how he had endured it for so long. His body might have been in Helena, but his soul had been at the ranch. It was all behind him now and he was home where he belonged, but at moments he was struck so hard with that incredible fact that he would actually get light-headed. He was happy, he realized. Really happy for the first time in years. Next weekend he would have Timmy—his first visit, as stated in the custody decree—and he’d have him every second weekend after that. He could hardly wait to show his small son the ranch, to teach him to ride as his own father had taught him, to introduce him to Melissa. She would love him—how could she not? He had no misgivings on that subject. On Saturday he talked to his men for a few minutes, ascertaining what chores or tasks were lined up for the day, then saddled a horse for a ride. The sun was bright enough that he wore dark glasses, and riding his own land in the sunshine and thinking of his freedom and Melissa made him feel like shouting in childlike glee. Instead, he kept his dignity intact and rode along grinning.

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Deliberately he headed for a section of the ranch opposite to where the men would be working. He wanted nothing to intrude on his own euphoric thoughts today other than his horse’s hooves on the ground, bird calls and an occasional honeybee. Time was all Melissa had requested of him, which he would give her, gladly. He visualized the day when she needed no more time, when she was certain of her feelings for him and they would plan their wedding. His heart skipped an impassioned beat. He loved her so much, and he would never hurt her again, not even in the smallest way with some thoughtless remark. His thoughts went back in time to when his mother had been alive, and how kindly she and his father had spoken to each other. To his knowledge there had never been a cross word between Simon and Sheila North. That was how he wanted his and Melissa’s marriage to be, how he swore it would be. The future looked so great he couldn’t stop smiling: he and Melissa and Timmy together...their own babies...Christmases...birthdays...weekends at the cabin. Maybe before they started having babies they would do a little traveling. A honeymoon in Paris, or whatever appealed to Melissa. He sighed contentedly. It was late afternoon when Wyatt rode into the compound and unsaddled his horse. Feeling sweaty, and with dust on his clothes, he walked to the house contemplating a shower. Entering through the back door, he saw Marion, who’d apparently been waiting for him. ‘‘Wyatt...’’ She stopped to clear her throat. ‘‘Shannon is here.’’ ‘‘Without Timmy?’’ When Marion nodded, his mouth tightened. Why would Shannon make a trip to the ranch now when she never would during their marriage? ‘‘Where is she?’’ ‘‘In the den...for more than two hours.’’

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His eyes narrowed to mere slits. In their six years of marriage Shannon had consented to come to the ranch only one time, and during the drive back to Helena she had complained incessantly about the isolation and boredom of the place. ‘‘Don’t ever ask me to go back. I cannot imagine anyone—especially an educated man like your father—living such an incidental, limited existence.’’ Wyatt hadn’t tried to argue her out of her attitude. It was fine with him if she didn’t like the ranch. In fact, he’d found her narrow-mindedness rather amusing. If anyone he knew was living an ‘‘incidental, limited’’ life, it was Shannon, who had no personal ambitions or goals of her own and whose only claim to fame was her father’s career. Once Wyatt had pointed out that while she should be justifiably proud of Wilbur’s accomplishments, he was still only a state senator, and if he had any real political ambitions he would have risen to the federal level of government. Shannon had become furious and they had traded insults for a while, until Wyatt had tired of the argument and left the house. Her coming to the ranch now—especially without Timmy—boded no good. If she had enjoyed the place and felt some nostalgia for it in spite of their divorce, he would not feel so wary. But he knew how Shannon’s mind worked, and she hadn’t made the long drive from Helena without some devious plan in the mill. ‘‘Thanks, Marion,’’ he mumbled. Taking a deep breath, he strode through the house to the den. The wide double doors were open, and he stood in the doorframe for a moment. Shannon’s back was to him, as she was standing at a window looking out, one hand holding a cigarette, the other a drink. ‘‘Shannon?’’ He walked into the room and watched her turn around. As usual, she was dressed expensively and stylishly. Today’s outfit was a stunning off-white dress and matching jacket. She was smiling. ‘‘Hello, Wyatt. How are you?’’ She laughed lightly.

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‘‘Been out on the range, I see.’’ Her green eyes drifted over his dusty hat, jeans and shirt. Wyatt’s expression remained guarded. ‘‘Where’s Timmy?’’ ‘‘At home. I needed to speak to you alone.’’ ‘‘What about?’’ ‘‘So abrupt,’’ she exclaimed in a teasingly scolding manner. Moving with rigid precision, Wyatt took off his hat and walked over to the desk to lay it down. Turning, he sat on the edge of the desk with his arms folded and a hard, unsmiling expression on his face. ‘‘Why are you here?’’ Shannon took a long drag on her cigarette, then went to a table containing an ashtray to snuff it out. Looking at Wyatt, she took a sip from her glass. Finally she answered, ‘‘Where else would I find you?’’ ‘‘Okay, so you need to talk to me. What about?’’ He couldn’t imagine a topic that would connect the two of them in any way, shape or form. Their divorce was final, financial settlement and all. There were no loose ends to tie up, and there was no sensible reason for her to be here that he could think of. ‘‘We don’t have anything to talk about,’’ he added gruffly. ‘‘Oh, but we do.’’ Shannon studied her nearly empty glass for a second, then walked over to the liquor cabinet, where she dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass before adding bourbon. ‘‘I asked Marion for the ice. Hope you don’t mind.’’ She turned to face Wyatt. ‘‘Get to the point,’’ Wyatt said brusquely. He didn’t like her being here, nor did he like the feeling in his gut that she was up to no good. ‘‘Well, it’s like this.’’ She took a swallow from her glass, then held Wyatt with a steady look. ‘‘I’m pregnant.’’ He stared at her as though struck dumb. Those two words brought back the evening six years before when she had made the exact same announcement. But this time he wasn’t the naive young man he’d been

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then. He spoke coldly. ‘‘If that should happen to be true, it’s not my baby.’’ Without a word Shannon went to her purse and extracted a piece of paper. ‘‘I knew you would think I was lying, which is why I asked my doctor for this.’’ Crossing the room, she held out the paper to Wyatt. ‘‘Go on, take it.’’ With visible reluctance he took and read it. His heart began to beat faster and his mouth went dry. He read it again, merely to take a moment to digest the information, then his eyes lifted. ‘‘This letter is probably a phony, but even if it’s not and you really are pregnant, what does it have to do with me?’’ She spoke quite casually. ‘‘You could be the father.’’ His mouth twisted angrily. ‘‘What in hell are you trying to pull?’’ Her eyes widened. ‘‘Pull? Why would I be pulling anything? Facts are facts, Wyatt. I’m pregnant and I feel certain that you’re the father.’’ ‘‘We both know how skilled you are at lying,’’ he said harshly. ‘‘And why in hell would I believe the child is mine when you were having an affair right under my nose? Do you think I’m completely stupid?’’ ‘‘I never thought you were stupid while we were married and I don’t think so now. I am not trying to pull anything, as you so cruelly accused. Wyatt, this child could be yours. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’’ ‘‘This child is Rick’s!’’ Rick Malone was the man with whom Shannon had been having the affair. ‘‘Why come to me? Why aren’t you badgering him?’’ ‘‘Well, I would hardly categorize a discussion of one’s unborn child as badgering.’’ Shannon walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured herself yet another drink. ‘‘Prove it’s mine,’’ Wyatt challenged. ‘‘Prove it’s mine and I’ll do everything humanly possible to help you with its upbringing.’’ Turning, Shannon’s eyebrow lifted. ‘‘With money? No,

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Wyatt, I’m not here because of money. I want your name on our child’s birth certificate.’’ ‘‘Then prove it’s mine!’’ he shouted. ‘‘There are tests—’’ ‘‘Which I will not permit until after the baby’s birth. You owe me this, Wyatt. I didn’t get pregnant all by myself. You were there, and enjoying yourself in the bargain.’’ Wyatt was becoming so enraged he feared he might do something violent. To put space between them, he walked around the desk. Then he leaned forward with his fists on the desktop. ‘‘You will never convince me without medical proof that this baby is mine. What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?’’ ‘‘I hoped you would do the honorable thing, as you did before.’’ He was dumbfounded. ‘‘You thought I would marry you again? Have you lost what little mind you did have? Go to Rick. Tell him your lies, or tell him the damned truth, but get him to marry you. It’s not going to work with me, Shannon, not this time.’’ Sipping her drink, she looked away. ‘‘Rick...is gone.’’ ‘‘Gone where?’’ She went to her purse for another cigarette, which she promptly lit, deeply inhaling the first drag. ‘‘I don’t know where he went, but he left Helena.’’ ‘‘In other words, he had his fun and left you flat. Incidentally, if you care so much for that baby you’re carrying, how come you’re smoking and drinking?’’ ‘‘Stop criticizing everything I do!’’ ‘‘Well, think of the baby, at least,’’ he retorted disgustedly. Was there a chance the child was his? Frantically his mind raced, trying to remember the last time they had slept together. He had always been so diligent with protection, but he had also heard that there wasn’t a birth control product on the market that was one-hundred-percent foolproof. Shannon gulped the contents of her glass and immediately went for a refill. Scowling, Wyatt watched. With a fresh drink, she moved to a chair and sat down. ‘‘I’d like to make

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a deal with you. Please hear me out. Marry me and we’ll get another divorce after the baby is born. I wouldn’t ask you to live in Helena, nor would I make any demands regarding financial support. You know how I feel about scandal, and I merely want it to appear as though we decided to try again.’’ Wyatt shook his head. ‘‘No, absolutely not. Let me tell you something, Shannon. I’m happy, or I was until a few minutes ago. Melissa and I are going to be married—’’ ‘‘Melissa?’’ Shannon jumped to her feet. ‘‘You contacted her in California? Already? Or maybe the two of you stayed in contact during our marriage. And you had the nerve to—’’ ‘‘Just hold on a minute. I was not in contact with Melissa during our marriage. Unlike you, I tried to make it work. But in my absence Melissa moved back to Whitehorn, without my knowledge, I might add. It was pure accident that I walked into her cafe´ one day.’’ ‘‘Her cafe´? She owns a business?’’ Shannon said with a sneer. ‘‘So, the marvelous Melissa—’’ ‘‘Damn it, don’t you dare demean her! You know nothing about her, and you have no right—’’ ‘‘I know nothing about her? What about all the schoolboy babbling you did the morning you woke up in my bed in that motel in Missoula?’’ ‘‘And I suppose you remember every word.’’ ‘‘You bet your sweet bippy I do.’’ Shannon’s expression changed from angry to placating in the blink of an eye. ‘‘Look, I didn’t come here to fight with you. Wyatt, I’m in an awful jam. You could help me out of it. It would only be a temporary measure and I would be grateful for the rest of my life. Please reconsider.’’ Wyatt became very still. His emotions were in shambles and he could barely form a complete thought. But Shannon’s desperation was her own doing and he had given her enough of his life. If the baby was his—proven by medical tests—he would do everything he could for the child, the

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same as he was doing for Timmy. But that was as far as he was going. He took in a long breath. ‘‘I’m not going to marry you.’’ She started crying and moaning. ‘‘Oh, God, what am I going to do?’’ ‘‘I think you’re asking the right person. At any rate, it’s your problem, not mine. Right now I’m going to go and have a shower. You know your way out.’’ Wiping her eyes, she followed him to the doorway of the den. ‘‘How can you be so cold and unfeeling? I know this is your baby, whatever you might think.’’ Wyatt stopped. ‘‘No, you don’t know. That’s what you’d like to convince me of, but I’m not falling for it, no matter how many tears you shed.’’ ‘‘You’re an unsympathetic bastard.’’ He laughed grimly. ‘‘There are a few unflattering names I could lay on you, so don’t go too far in that direction.’’ He started through the doorway. ‘‘You loved me once, I know you did.’’ Wyatt’s steps slowed, but he could be only so cruel, so he ignored her frantic cry and continued down the hall. In his bedroom he tore off his dusty clothes and walked nude into the attached bathroom. Turning on the shower, he stepped into the stall and lifted his face to the spray. That was when the pain struck. What if the baby was his? He couldn’t remember when they had last made love. There had been so much trouble and dissension for a while that dates and timing totally eluded his desperate attempts at recall. Laying his forehead against the wall tile, he groaned out loud. Shannon’s plea for a second marriage was ludicrous and he would never agree, but what if the baby was his? Utter misery gripped him. He wanted more children, but not this way. He wanted Melissa’s children. After drying off, Wyatt pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stretched out on his bed. With his hands locked beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling. Odds were that Rick was the baby’s father. He would wait, Wyatt decided, wait until

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the child was born and then demand a test to prove parentage. By then he would undoubtedly have to go through legal channels to force Shannon’s cooperation, but that wouldn’t stop him. In the meantime, he would tell Melissa what had occurred here today. In fact, he would like to call her right now and tell her. Turning his head, he eyed the phone. But relating today’s events on the phone went against his grain, and would probably go against Melissa’s, as well. This was something he had to do in person, face-to-face. Melissa would understand, wouldn’t she? He closed his eyes in abject misery. If something happened to destroy the gains he and Melissa had made in their relationship, he wouldn’t be able to deal with it. It wasn’t fair. They had come so far since their first shocking meeting in the Hip Hop, when neither had been prepared for seeing the other. A knock on his door brought him to a sitting position. ‘‘Yes?’’ Getting off the bed, he strode to the door and pulled it open. It was Marion. ‘‘Wyatt, dinner is almost ready. Shall I set a place for Shannon?’’ His entire body went rigid. ‘‘I thought she left.’’ ‘‘She’s still in the den, Wyatt, and...’’ Marion hesitated, then continued ‘‘...she’s been drinking steadily.’’ ‘‘I’ll handle this, Marion,’’ he told her. ‘‘Thanks.’’ She left and Wyatt closed the door. With his lips in a thin, grim line, he found a sweatshirt and pulled it on, then stuck his feet into a pair of old moccasins. Why was Shannon hanging around? He’d thought he had made his position clear enough, and he didn’t relish the prospect of another bout of pleas from her and refusals from him. ‘‘Damn,’’ he muttered, leaving his bedroom and heading for the den. The scene there stunned him. Beside the chair Shannon was occupying was an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and the bottle of bourbon, all but empty. Her head

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was slumped forward on her chest and he got the picture: she had drunk herself into a stupor. Cursing under his breath, he walked over to her and shook her shoulder. ‘‘Shannon?’’ She barely stirred. He shook her again and spoke louder. ‘‘Shannon?’’ It was apparent that she wasn’t going to come around, and a feeling of angry helplessness hardened Wyatt’s eyes. Even if she came to and tried to leave now, he couldn’t let her drive. He went to the den doorway and called, ‘‘Marion?’’ The woman appeared in the hall. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘I’m going to put Shannon to bed and I need your assistance.’’ ‘‘Certainly,’’ she agreed. What he needed more than assistance, Wyatt thought wryly, was a witness. No way was Shannon going to be able to say that he’d put her to bed and then taken advantage of her, even to an accusation as trivial as removing some of her clothes. Maneuvering his arms under her legs and back, he picked her up. ‘‘I’m going to take her to the blue guest room, Marion. Then I would appreciate your removing enough of her clothing to make her comfortable.’’ ‘‘Yes, I can do that.’’ Marion preceded Wyatt down the hall and opened the door to the blue guest room. ‘‘Turn down the bed,’’ Wyatt requested, which she did. He laid Shannon on the clean blue sheets, then stepped away. Looking at the woman lying there, he realized that he didn’t like her in the least. There had been times in their marriage when they had gotten along and he had thought it was working. But Shannon’s innate dishonesty and determination to maintain the upper hand had again and again destroyed what little hope there had been for their hapless relationship. He felt no guilt at all for refusing her absurd ‘‘deal.’’ This time it appeared that she’d been the one caught in the snares she set for other people. Wyatt would bet anything

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that Rick Malone had left Helena after Shannon had announced her pregnancy. Rick hadn’t struck him as the marrying kind of man, and from what Wyatt had learned about him upon discovering his and Shannon’s liaison, he didn’t have an honorable bone in his body. He flitted from woman to woman, usually married ones, and lived off a family trust fund. He was smooth, suave, a roamer, and not about to be tied to a wife and kid. Either that, Wyatt thought, or Shannon had simply decided she didn’t like being single and had come up with this plan to get him to marry her again. She wasn’t above talking a doctor friend into writing that letter, and maybe her story of pregnancy was nothing but a lie. Wyatt ardently prayed that was the case. Disgusted with the whole thing, he shook his head. ‘‘Undress her, Marion. We’ll let her sleep it off.’’ He walked out.

Fifteen T

he Hip Hop Cafe´ was crowded with customers. Melissa, coming out of the kitchen carrying a huge tray loaded with dinners, passed Wanda going in. ‘‘Thank goodness you cut your vacation short,’’ Wanda said for at least the third time in as many hours. Melissa continued on to the table of six she was presently serving and began distributing the meals. The phone behind the counter started ringing, and she shot it a brief, harassed look. Smiling at her patrons, she finished passing out the plates containing their entre´es. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wanda answering the phone, catching it on the run. Wanda said a few words, then laid the instrument on the counter. Melissa glanced at her and the waitress mouthed, ‘‘It’s for you.’’ ‘‘Could we have another basket of those delicious rolls?’’ Melissa nodded at the lady making the request. ‘‘Certainly. I’ll get them right away.’’ All but running to the kitchen and back, she deposited the basket on the table. ‘‘May I get you anything else?’’ ‘‘I think we’re fine for now. This chicken looks wonderful. Oh, maybe a little more coffee.’’ Once Melissa had the coffeepot in her hand, she made the rounds and topped off a dozen cups at different tables. Finally, she dashed behind the counter and picked up the phone. ‘‘This is Melissa. Sorry to keep you waiting.’’ ‘‘Sounds like things are a little hectic there.’’ ‘‘Oh, hello, Wyatt. Things are so hectic you wouldn’t believe it. Two people called in sick and Wanda and I have

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been trying to keep up. Was there something...?’’ She was watching four more people come through the door and look around for a table. ‘‘I need to talk to you.’’ She could feel the silent pressure of the newcomers. ‘‘I really can’t talk now, Wyatt. Call me tomorrow. No, wait. Sundays are always busy and I still might be shorthanded. Please, let’s just keep our date for Monday evening. We can talk for hours then.’’ He hesitated. Shannon showing up at all was unnerving enough news to pass on to Melissa, but his ex-wife sleeping in the guest room could be so easily misunderstood. Still, he had vowed not to pressure Melissa and it was obvious she was on the run tonight. Besides, it was probably best to have this conversation face-to-face. ‘‘All right,’’ he agreed. ‘‘We’ll talk on Monday. See you then.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Wyatt. Bye.’’ Melissa hurriedly put down the phone and went to greet the newcomers. ‘‘Good evening. Table for four?’’ Wyatt went to bed at eleven, though worry kept him awake for another hour. He didn’t like Shannon being at the ranch; he especially didn’t like her spending the night in his guest room. What he probably should have done was load her into her own car and drive her back to Helena. Then, for a while, he stopped thinking about himself and worried about Shannon. Although it was certain he had never loved her and could barely tolerate her now, she had been his wife for six years and was possibly desperate at present. If she was telling him the truth, that is. Knowing her as he did, he also knew it wasn’t wise to believe anything she said without tangible proof. All right, maybe the doctor’s letter was genuine. If he gave her the benefit of the doubt on that score, she was pregnant and looking for a scapegoat. But did she really think he was stupid enough to believe the child was his?

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Muttering a curse, Wyatt turned over in bed and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape. Regardless of common sense arguments, he couldn’t ignore the extremely slim chance that the baby might be his. As Melissa had so succinctly pointed out, he hadn’t been sleeping alone during his marriage. But his memory told him that the last time he and Shannon had shared a bed had been too long ago for her to be holding him responsible for her pregnancy. Whatever the truth was, it was a hell of a mess and he hated having to tell Melissa about it. But tell her he would. She had to know, and she had to hear it from him. He finally fell asleep visualizing various ways in which to relate the news. Wyatt’s dreams were erratic and disturbing. People appeared and disappeared. He was in one place and then another. His body moved restlessly in the bed. Then, suddenly, a scene became very clear. He was in a huge barn. It was supposedly his, but it wasn’t the barn on the ranch and it was full of junk and clutter. He was trying to clean it, working hard and making no headway. It was as though he couldn’t focus on any one object, and he kept moving among the litter with a frantic feeling, driven by an inner force that urged him on, because for some earthshaking but unclarified reason it was utterly crucial that he get the barn in good order. The tenor of the dream changed and he was no longer alone, though he couldn’t see the woman who was touching him, as everything had become dark and shadowed. He felt her hands on his bare chest—where had his shirt gone?— and then her mouth. He sighed in his sleep, picturing the woman as Melissa as his insides became warm and languid. He touched Melissa and discovered bare skin. Groaning softly, he sought her lips with his. They kissed. Something was wrong. He pulled himself from sleep. Melissa neither smoked cigarettes nor drank bourbon, and he

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could taste both. Jerking away from the female body in his bed, he sat up and switched on the lamp. ‘‘Shannon!’’ She was stark naked and blinking in the sudden infusion of light. ‘‘What’re you doing? Turn off the damn light.’’ Her words were slurred; she was still drunk. Wyatt slid off the bed and stood up. ‘‘Get yourself out of my bed and back to the guest room. Do it now!’’ He couldn’t remember ever being so disgusted with another human being. Would she stop at nothing? ‘‘You used to be a lot more receptive to making love,’’ she said sullenly. ‘‘I used to be married,’’ he retorted sharply. ‘‘Get out of here, Shannon.’’ She slowly dragged herself from the bed, picked up the sheet she had obviously covered herself with for the trip from the guest room and haphazardly wrapped it around herself. Then she looked at him with a venomous expression. ‘‘You’re going to pay for this insult, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘Take your best shot, lady.’’ She started from the room. ‘‘Oh, I will. Believe me, I will.’’ She stumbled out and left the door open. Wyatt hurried around the bed, shut the door and locked it. Raking his hair in aggravation, he looked at the bed and knew he would never go back to sleep after this. He started dressing, pulling on jeans, shirt, socks and boots. Tiptoeing through the house, he left by the back door, got in his pickup and headed for the mountains. He’d been trying to reach Joe Lott, his caretaker for the cabin, but apparently Joe had left the area for the week he’d been told to take off. That was okay, Wyatt thought. He would just as soon be alone out there tonight and tomorrow. It sure as hell was certain that he wasn’t going to show his face at the ranch any time tomorrow. No telling when Shannon would come to, realize her little game hadn’t worked and finally leave. He wasn’t going to be around to see it.

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* * * Thankfully, Melissa wasn’t shorthanded on Sunday. She had slept well and greeted her early morning customers with a warm, welcoming smile. Thinking back to when she had bought the old cafe´ and nervously hoped for success, she had to marvel at just how successful the place had become. Expansion wasn’t merely an ego trip for Melissa; more space and tables were becoming a dire necessity. Nothing bothered her more than having people waiting when every table and booth were already occupied. As the morning progressed, Melissa became aware of a nagging voice in the back of her mind. It had to do with Wyatt’s phone call the night before. Had she been too short with him? She’d been on the run, granted, but hadn’t he said that he needed to talk to her? The morning passed with the before-church breakfasters coming in, then those who ate after church. Immediately behind them the lunch crowd began arriving, and on Sunday, lunchtime went on for hours. Melissa knew what to expect from the afternoon. First the early dinner crowd would show up, followed by the normal dinner-hour diners and, finally, those who preferred a late meal. It was around two when Melissa could no longer ignore that voice in her head. She had been short with Wyatt. Maybe the reason he’d called was important. She should call him back and... No, she didn’t want to call. She wanted to see him, to apologize for cutting him off last night, to explain how really busy she had been. If her and Wyatt’s present relationship was going to flourish, which she now hoped would be the case, she shouldn’t put business before him. ‘‘Wanda?’’ Melissa walked up to her waitress. ‘‘I need to be gone for about two hours.’’ Two hours should do it, she figured. A half-hour drive to the ranch, an hour with Wyatt and a half-hour drive back to town. ‘‘It’s important.’’ ‘‘Well, sure, Melissa.’’ Wanda studied the concern on her employer’s face. ‘‘I hope nothing’s wrong.’’

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She shook her head. ‘‘It’s only an errand, but I really have to see to it. Keep things going while I’m gone, okay?’’ ‘‘You can count on me.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Wanda.’’ Melissa ran up the inside stairs for her purse and then down the outside staircase to her car. Wyatt’s pickup was absent, Melissa noted with a frown as she parked next to an expensive and unfamiliar red sports car. It was a beautiful vehicle, low slung and sleek, and Melissa gave it a long, curious look while walking up to the front door. She expected Marion to open the door, but instead a strange woman stood there. She was wearing a stunning sea green dress and matching accessories. Her blond hair was attractively arranged and her makeup was perfect. All in all, she was one of the most striking women Melissa had ever seen. Melissa knew she was staring, but the woman was such a surprise. ‘‘Hello.’’ ‘‘Hello.’’ The woman spoke coolly, openly sizing her up. Melissa drummed up a smile, though she had an awful, unexplainable feeling of dread. ‘‘Is Wyatt at home? His truck isn’t here, but—’’ ‘‘I don’t know where Wyatt is. But don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re Melissa Avery.’’ ‘‘Uh...yes.’’ The woman smiled, though Melissa couldn’t find a dram of warmth in the expression. ‘‘And you’re calling on Wyatt. How sweet.’’ Melissa’s face flamed, but then she found her backbone. ‘‘And you’re...?’’ ‘‘Shannon North.’’ Melissa’s color changed again, becoming paler by degrees. ‘‘I see.’’ Her heart was pounding like a tom-tom. Questions about Shannon’s presence at the ranch bombarded

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her stunned brain. Only by supreme effort was she able to stand there. Their eyes met, Shannon’s deep and green, Melissa’s deep and blue. Melissa found herself wondering how she measured up in this elegant woman’s opinion. She was wearing a long, flowing, sky blue skirt and a blouse with a mauve background and tiny blue flowers sprinkled through it in a pretty pattern. Her hair was arranged in her preferred working style, a thick French braid, and there was lipstick on her lips and blusher on her cheeks. But she felt dowdy compared to Shannon North. Wyatt had mentioned something about Shannon being beautiful— the statement being connected to the night they had met at that fateful party—but that wasn’t like seeing the woman’s beauty and style with her own eyes. ‘‘Well...I may as well be running along,’’ Melissa said, praying she sounded as though meeting Wyatt’s ex-wife like this really didn’t bother her. ‘‘Let me walk you to your car.’’ Melissa’s eyes widened. ‘‘If you wish.’’ Shannon closed the door behind her and walked beside Melissa to her car. Melissa faced her. ‘‘Will you tell Wyatt I dropped by?’’ Shannon smiled. ‘‘Of course.’’ This woman’s smiles gave her cold chills, Melissa thought, opening the door of her car, eager to leave. She was doubting Wyatt again, she realized unhappily—doubting his story of lies and deceit from Shannon and six years of misery for himself. Maybe that was unfair, but why was his ex-wife here at the ranch? There could be a perfectly logical explanation. Maybe that was the reason Wyatt had called her last night. But that ‘‘perfectly logical explanation’’ might be one she wouldn’t like, Melissa thought, feeling a renewal of the pain she had lived with for so many years. ‘‘Well...goodbye,’’ she said numbly. ‘‘Please wait a moment. Maybe we should talk.’’

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‘‘Talk? What about, Mrs. North?’’ Shannon took a deep breath. ‘‘Please call me Shannon. There’s no reason we should stand on formality.’’ Melissa merely looked at her, questioning her own sanity and Wyatt’s. Questioning Shannon’s presence again, and why she would want to talk to her. She felt an enormous shock when Shannon wiped away a tear. ‘‘I’m sorry. I promised myself just a minute ago that I wouldn’t get emotional.’’ ‘‘Emotional about what?’’ Melissa asked quietly, though her pulse was running wild. Something was horribly wrong—at least where she was concerned. Wyatt’s divorce was a fact and final, wasn’t it? He hadn’t lied to her about that, had he? Please God, no. Shannon was looking the other way, as though uncomfortably lost in thought. ‘‘Is this about Wyatt?’’ Melissa asked. ‘‘I would have no other reason to talk to you, would I? You see...’’ Again she dabbed at her eyes. ‘‘This is much more difficult than I thought it would be.’’ ‘‘Is this about Wyatt and...me?’’ Melissa asked in a distraught whisper. Shannon took another long breath, which sounded terribly troubled to Melissa. ‘‘Primarily it’s about Wyatt and me. Melissa, I’m pregnant with Wyatt’s child. Neither of us knew about the baby when we agreed on the divorce.’’ Shannon paused and looked pensive and saddened for a moment. ‘‘If we had, I’m sure we’d still be married. We had our problems, as most married couples do, but I never dreamed he would demand a divorce. I guess...we just gradually lost track of our love for each other.’’ The life went out of Melissa. This was the other side of the coin, she thought dully, feeling as though something huge and powerful was squeezing the breath out of her. She had heard Wyatt’s side and now she was hearing Shannon’s. But she was hearing more than ancient history. Shannon

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was pregnant now. Melissa’s mouth was so dry she had trouble speaking. ‘‘You’ve told Wyatt?’’ ‘‘Just last night.’’ Melissa withered inside. Shannon had stayed here last night. Had she and Wyatt used the same bed? Oh, God, she thought in a silent cry of agony. Just when she was starting to trust him again, and fall in love with him again, she had to deal with this. How could she? She didn’t have the strength to relive the same nightmare she had barely survived six years ago. He had called, Melissa remembered again, and she’d been too busy to talk. Was this what he had been going to tell her—that his ex-wife was carrying his child and...and what? What were their plans? They must have made some. Had he been going to tell her their plans, as well as the rest of it? Melissa suddenly frowned at the dramatically beautiful woman standing so close to her. As shocking as her story was to Melissa’s nervous system, nothing Shannon had said explained her reason for bringing her into this. ‘‘Why did you feel it necessary to talk to me?’’ Melissa hated her own thoughts. Wyatt had lived with this woman for six years. And slept with her. How could he not have loved her? She was beautiful, conscious of fashion and obviously intelligent. ‘‘When—when I told Wyatt about the baby, he became very angry.’’ Shannon stopped to bite her lip, as though on the verge of tears. ‘‘I couldn’t believe his reaction in view of how much he dotes on Timmy. Then he began talking about you. I asked him if you had become important to him and he evaded the question. I told him I would understand if he had found another woman, but he said that wasn’t it. He explained about knowing you for a long time...something about the two of you dating in high school...but he was so casual about it that I dropped the subject.

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‘‘Anyway, when we went to bed I asked him why he had gotten so upset over hearing about the baby. He—’’ Melissa broke in, speaking stiffly, numbly. ‘‘You...went to bed...together?’’ Shannon looked crestfallen. ‘‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that to you.’’ She sighed poignantly. ‘‘Looking back, I really don’t know why we got a divorce. He had heard some rumors about me and another man, completely untrue gossip. Rick was a friend, his as well as mine. Wyatt was always so jealous of me. That was one of our problems, I know.’’ Melissa was fighting nausea. They had slept together just last night. Shannon had given him an opportunity to explain about his being in love with her, and he hadn’t done so. ‘‘Did—did he ever tell you why your pregnancy upset him?’’ she asked in a weak, hoarse voice. ‘‘He—he finally said—just before we went to sleep—that he owes you.’’ ‘‘He owes me? What does he owe me?’’ That word rang a bell and created resentment and anger. He had used it right to her face, after all, telling her that he owed her for what he had done to her six years before. But that was before they had become close again. Melissa’s head spun from so many disorienting aspects of this unpleasant situation. ‘‘Melissa, I didn’t intend to hurt you, but—’’ Shannon looked helpless ‘‘—I have to think of the baby. He said he had jilted you when he met me. Is that true? Were you two planning to be married when Wyatt and I first met?’’ Melissa licked her dry lips. Every cell in her body was screaming in agony. ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered. Shannon’s eyes sparked with anger. ‘‘Then why did he seduce me the very night we met?’’ The anger remained in her expression. ‘‘He was engaged to you and making love to me. Oh, this is worse than I thought. Now he has this notion of owing you, and he’s still making love to me. If I had known this last night, I would not have permitted what happened between us, believe me.’’

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Melissa couldn’t bear to hear another word. ‘‘I—I really must be going.’’ ‘‘I understand,’’ Shannon murmured sympathetically. ‘‘Melissa, I think Wyatt would marry me again and give our second child his name if you would release him from that old debt. He made me promise to stop smoking and take care of myself, which I fully intend doing. I know he will return to me and his children, Melissa, if you release him.’’ Melissa sucked in a long, slow, disheartened breath. ‘‘There’s nothing to release him from, but consider it done, Shannon.’’ Shannon smiled tremulously. ‘‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’’ Her expression became shy. ‘‘Melissa, I really like you. Maybe you and I can see each other again sometime.’’ Battling tears, Melissa shook her head. ‘‘No, I don’t think so. It would be better for all of us if we stay away from each other.’’ Shannon sighed. ‘‘I suppose you’re right.’’ She paused. ‘‘Do you have any idea when you’ll tell Wyatt how you feel?’’ ‘‘We have plans for tomorrow night. If he keeps the date, I’ll tell him then.’’ ‘‘Would you do me an enormous favor and not mention my talking to you? He has so much pride, and it’s so easily damaged.’’ Shannon gave a short, rather breathless laugh. ‘‘I don’t want him to end up hating both of us. Just tell him...’’ She waved her free hand. ‘‘Oh, I can’t tell you what to say. You’ll handle it tactfully, I know you will.’’ ‘‘Considering what you’ve told me, I’m sure he’ll be relieved. It should be a simple matter.’’ Melissa climbed behind the wheel of her car. To her chagrin, Shannon reached into the car, took her hand and squeezed it. ‘‘You’re a very special person, Melissa. I wish we could be friends. Goodbye.’’ Closing the door, Melissa started the car, backed up to

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turn around and drove away. When the ranch was behind her, well out of sight, she pulled over to the side of the road and wept until there were no more tears to shed.

Sixteen Melissa managed to stumble through the rest of Sunday,

but though she tried, she couldn’t fall asleep that night. She forced herself to lie in bed until she felt like tearing out her hair, then, admitting defeat, she got up to drink hot tea and prowl the apartment through the dark hours. Sad and despondent, she watched the sun come up from her kitchen window, then did something she had never so much as thought of doing before: she called each of her employees and told them the cafe´ was not going to be open that day. They would be paid as usual, but they were not to come in. Once that chore was behind her, she threw on a sweat suit and took a long, early morning jog. Exhausted, she returned to the apartment and fell across her bed. She was asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until three in the afternoon. Blinking bleary-eyed at the digital clock on her bedstand, she groaned and then forced herself off the bed and into the shower. She was dressed and waiting for Wyatt at quarter to five. Wyatt parked at the curb directly in front of the cafe´ and looked around in surprise. The only other vehicle in sight was Melissa’s, when normally the street was lined with cars and pickups during business hours. Peering at the cafe´, he saw the Closed sign on the front door. ‘‘What the hell?’’ he mumbled, instantly concerned about Melissa. With the time and dedication she gave her business, it wouldn’t be closed without a significant reason. Something was seriously wrong.

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Hurrying to get out of his pickup, he ran to the stairs and took them two at a time. Reaching Melissa’s door, he pounded on it. ‘‘Melissa?’’ She opened the door. ‘‘Hello.’’ Wyatt stared. There was no smile on her pale face, no sign of welcome or friendliness. His heart sank. ‘‘Sweetheart, are you ill?’’ ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘But the cafe´ is closed.’’ ‘‘That doesn’t mean I’m ill. Come in.’’ She moved away from the door, leaving it for him to close. ‘‘Well, something’s wrong. What is it?’’ he questioned, following on her heels to the living room. It had to be something especially bad for her to close the cafe´ and look like she did, Wyatt thought worriedly. There were dark smudges under her eyes and a pinched, tragic line to her lips. His voice grew gentle as a truly unhappy possibility occurred to him. ‘‘Honey, is it your mother?’’ ‘‘My mother?’’ It took Melissa a second to grasp his meaning. ‘‘My mother is fine. Sit down, Wyatt. This shouldn’t take long, but you may as well be comfortable.’’ A painful premonition began gathering in the pit of Wyatt’s stomach—whatever it was that ‘‘shouldn’t take long’’ had to do with their relationship. Uneasily he sank to the edge of a sofa cushion, but there was nothing relaxed about his posture. ‘‘So, what’s going on?’’ he asked. Melissa was sitting with her back straight and her head high. Her hands were folded in her lap. ‘‘I’ve decided not to see you again.’’ Had he heard her right? ‘‘You’ve decided what?’’ She cleared her throat. ‘‘I’m sure you heard me. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and you and I are not even close to being compatible. I don’t visualize us as enemies, certainly nothing like that. In fact, there’s no good reason why we can’t say a civil hello should we run into each other. But...I

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don’t want to see you again, as in going to dinner...and such.’’ He slumped back against the sofa, too stunned to speak, and stared at her as though she had just announced the precise date of the end of the world. He finally got one word out. ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘I just explained why. Weren’t you listening?’’ ‘‘What did you mean when you said we’re not compatible?’’ ‘‘Wyatt, I don’t intend to get into any sort of debate with you about this. My mind is made up.’’ His eyes narrowed. ‘‘What happened between Friday night and tonight? Why is the cafe´ closed? Why do you look as though you haven’t slept in days?’’ ‘‘Don’t grill me,’’ she said sharply. He got to his feet, every line of his body exuding anger and frustration. ‘‘Don’t grill you? Did you think you could calmly announce what you did and I would accept it without some questions? A lot of questions? When I left here Friday night everything was great between us. You were as sweet and loving as anyone could be, and now this?’’ Pacing in a circle right in front of her, he muttered a vicious curse and stopped with his hands on his hips and his feet apart, a belligerent stance. Melissa watched him uneasily. ‘‘At least give me the courtesy of an honest explanation,’’ he said with some sarcasm. ‘‘I already did.’’ ‘‘Like hell you did!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Why is the cafe´ closed?’’ For some reason that Closed sign on the door of her business felt like the key to this mess. ‘‘I needed a day off.’’ ‘‘You could have taken a day off without shutting down the whole works,’’ he pointed out. ‘‘Put it this way, if it makes you feel better. I wanted to close the cafe´.’’ ‘‘Why? You said you weren’t ill. Melissa, this isn’t like you.’’

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She jumped to her feet. ‘‘That’s enough. I said I wasn’t going to get into a long debate with you and I’m not. I’d like you to leave now.’’ Why was he arguing with her? Considering his present situation with Shannon, he should be relieved. Unless...he wanted both Shannon and her. Melissa’s spine stiffened. ‘‘So it’s over for us, just like that,’’ Wyatt said. ‘‘Exactly,’’ she said, looking everywhere but into his eyes. He stood there and stared at her, studying, searching, probing for some clue, some sign as to why she had so abruptly reversed herself on the subject of their burgeoning relationship. Had he been moving too fast? Had she thought about the abduction and again become angry over it? But she didn’t seem angry. Rather, she seemed broken, spiritless, almost robotlike. Something had happened that she wasn’t talking about. ‘‘And I have nothing to say about it,’’ he said in a choked voice, a voice that conveyed his shattered hopes and dreams as well as intolerable pain. ‘‘It doesn’t matter that I love you and always will.’’ Melissa kept her head high. ‘‘It might, if I believed you.’’ The blood drained from Wyatt’s face, leaving a pallor to his skin that Melissa didn’t miss. ‘‘When was the exact moment between Friday night and now that you stopped believing?’’ he asked. ‘‘Don’t be absurd,’’ she retorted. ‘‘There was no exact moment.’’ But there was, she thought weakly, and she turned away from him so he couldn’t see her face, just in case a glimmer of her inner misery was visible. How could he stand there and tell her he loved her and always would when he had spent Saturday night making love to his exwife? He was the worst kind of man there was, the kind who cheated and lied, and did it to more than one woman at the same time. For all she knew there could be other women besides Shannon and herself. He could be using the same line on all of them. Fretfully, Melissa raised her hands

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to her aching temples. God, how many times did he think he could put her through this? Dropping her hands to her sides, she swung around. ‘‘Please go.’’ He felt so helpless, so mystified. ‘‘Melissa...don’t do this.’’ She saw the tears in his eyes and steeled her heart against them. He had used tears before to influence her, and she wasn’t going to fall for that phony act again. Melissa started for the living room doorway. ‘‘I’ll wait in my bedroom until you leave. You know your way out.’’ Everything had turned upside down so fast, and without warning. Wyatt stared at the empty doorway long after Melissa had gone. Something in what she’d said kept nagging at him: ‘‘You know your way out.’’ He had said those same words to Shannon on Saturday night, but she hadn’t gone. When, exactly, had she left? He hadn’t been at the ranch to see her departure for himself, nor had he thought to ask anyone about it when he returned around three today. Shannon had been notably absent, and that had been enough. His blood started pumping furiously as his mind took off on a wild tack. Was it possible that Shannon had something to do with Melissa’s turnabout? Hell yes, it was possible, he thought disgustedly. Anything was possible with that woman. But why wouldn’t Melissa have said so, if Shannon had paid her a visit? ‘‘Aw, hell,’’ he muttered, sinking into the nearest chair. Just thinking of the lies and distorted truths that Shannon might have told Melissa made him feel as weak and vulnerable as a newborn kitten. How did a man defend himself against an unscrupulous woman like her? He had to try. Pushing himself out of the chair, he headed for Melissa’s bedroom. The door was ajar and he pushed it open. She was sitting on the edge of her bed. Seeing him, her eyes became wide and startled. ‘‘Don’t come in here, Wyatt. I asked you to leave.’’ Leaning against the woodwork, he folded his arms across

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his chest and hit her with a hard look. ‘‘Did my ex-wife come here?’’ ‘‘Don’t be absurd.’’ Wyatt frowned. He’d been so positive of his conclusion. But he still wasn’t convinced that he was on the wrong track. ‘‘Have you ever met my ex-wife?’’ From the stricken expression on Melissa’s face, he had his answer. ‘‘Lord,’’ he mumbled, closing his eyes as waves of dread, fear and panic rippled through his system. He and Melissa were back to square one, all because of Shannon’s lies. No, that wasn’t true. They were back to square one because Melissa believed Shannon’s lies. It was still a matter of trust with them, and she was never going to really forget the past, no matter what he did to atone for it. He opened his eyes, taking in Melissa’s discomfiture, her inability to look him in the face. He had no more taste for this, he realized with an empty sigh. No more taste for bickering and apologizing and begging for forgiveness for doing what he’d had to do. ‘‘You met her sometime this weekend, apparently, but where?’’ he asked. She had promised Shannon to say nothing about their little talk, but Wyatt had figured it out for himself. ‘‘At your ranch. I drove out there yesterday.’’ ‘‘I see. Instead of seeing me, you met her. That’s really great.’’ He kept looking at Melissa, feeling both empathetic toward her and lifeless within himself. ‘‘I know what she told you,’’ he said in a flat, dull voice. ‘‘At least I know the basics of what she said. The embellishments I can only imagine. I’m sure you’re sitting there expecting me to start tripping over my own words with anxious explanations and apologies, Melissa, but that’s not going to happen. I’ll say one thing again. I love you, I always have, I always will. The rest is up to you. Believe what you have to. Believe Shannon or believe in me. You know where to find me.’’ He walked out. The sound of his footsteps painted a pic-

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ture in her mind of his traversing the apartment and leaving by the laundry-room door. He was gone. Melissa couldn’t move. Move? She couldn’t even think. Her mind swirled aimlessly, dredging up bits and pieces of events and conversations that had happened since she’d met Wyatt again. Who was the liar, Wyatt or Shannon? ‘‘Believe Shannon or believe in me.’’ Moaning deep in her throat, she covered her face with her hands. Admittedly, Melissa’s mind wasn’t on her business in the next few days. She found herself staring into space too many times when there was work to do, and looking for excuses to climb in her car and get away by herself. She drove to the reservation several times, but other days had no destination, and traveled some roads she had never been on before and many that were only vaguely familiar. One afternoon she turned onto Route 17, which she knew led to the No Bull Ranch owned by Maris and Luke Rivers. They sometimes ate at the Hip Hop, and Melissa had come to like them both. But she wasn’t planning on stopping for a visit; Route 17 was really just another road to her. After about fifteen to twenty miles of open country, Maris blinked and stared, then pulled her car to the side of the road. Never had she seen such a messy yard as that surrounding Winona Cobbs’s Stop ’N Swap establishment. There were goats, chickens, dogs and cats wandering among the junk, and several faded signs proclaiming eggs and honey for sale. Melissa knew Winona, though not well, but couldn’t resist saying hello, probably because she had never before seen a place quite like hers. Turning off the ignition, she got out and began picking her way through the clutter to the door of Winona’s shop. She was stopped by a cheerful, ‘‘Hello, there!’’ Whirling, Melissa saw Winona coming from an outbuilding of doubtful usage. ‘‘Hello, Winona.’’ ‘‘Well, as I live and breathe, Melissa Avery.’’ The

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woman walked up, her round face beaming. ‘‘What a pretty thing you are today. And how nice of you to drop in. How about a glass of iced sun tea?’’ ‘‘That sounds wonderful. Thank you.’’ ‘‘I’ll be right back. We’ll sit under that big tree over there.’’ Smiling, Melissa nodded. But instead of heading for the huddle of chairs she could see under the large tree, she wandered over to a table crowded with glassware. Everything was dusty, but Melissa picked up several different pieces and looked them over. One, a red bowl, was especially appealing. Winona appeared with two tall glasses. ‘‘How much for this bowl?’’ Melissa asked. ‘‘Oh, you don’t want that old thing. It’s supposed to be carnival glass, but it’s only a cheap copy. If you’re interested in the genuine article, I have some fine pieces in the shop.’’ ‘‘I’m not a collector, Winona, and I wouldn’t know genuine from fake. I like this bowl just fine. How much do you want for it?’’ ‘‘Well...two dollars should do it.’’ Melissa dug out the money from her purse, then laughed because Winona’s hands were full and she couldn’t take it. ‘‘Just tuck it in my pocket,’’ the older woman told her. She complied. ‘‘I’ll run and put the bowl in my car.’’ ‘‘I’ll be under the tree,’’ Winona said. Melissa put the bowl on the front seat of her car and left her purse there, as well. Then she hurried over to the tree, where Winona was seated. Accepting a glass of tea, she took a nearby chair. ‘‘This is very pleasant. Thank you,’’ she said, tasting the tea. Winona sipped and swallowed. ‘‘Now, suppose you tell me what brought you way out here.’’ Melissa sighed. ‘‘I was just driving around and decided to take Route 17. No reason, really.’’

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Winona smiled. ‘‘No reason that you know of, but there could be a reason all the same.’’ Melissa gave her a curious look. ‘‘Are you talking about predestination?’’ ‘‘Do you believe in predestination?’’ ‘‘I’m not sure. Frankly, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.’’ ‘‘You’re not deeply religious?’’ ‘‘Well...Mother always sent me to Sunday school as a child, and we attended church services pretty regularly as I grew up. But there are a lot of sensible arguments against predestination, aren’t there?’’ ‘‘When one considers the tragedies in life and believes in a benevolent God, yes, there are many sensible arguments against predestination.’’ Melissa looked off into the distance and spoke thoughtfully. ‘‘I find it difficult to believe that, before he was even born, my father was destined to be murdered at a young age.’’ They were silent for several long moments, then Winona said softly, ‘‘You’re not happy, are you, Melissa?’’ She jerked her head around to look at her hostess. ‘‘Is it that obvious?’’ ‘‘It is to me. Give me your hand, child.’’ Everyone knew of Winona’s psychic power, or rather, everyone talked about it. Whether it was true or not, Melissa felt a strange prickling on the back of her neck when she put her hand in Winona’s. The older woman closed her eyes. Melissa stared at her, a little alarmed at this unexpected event. Yet something kept her silent. Winona’s hand was warm, and comforting in an eerie way. ‘‘Your father’s murderer will be found,’’ Winona murmured, adding after a moment, ‘‘in time. You think of him often, but he is not the cause of your unhappiness. The cause is a man, though, and a woman.’’ Winona frowned. ‘‘How odd. Another woman with two faces.’’

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Her eyes opened. ‘‘I had a vision with Tracy Roper regarding her investigation of your father’s death. Do you know Tracy? FBI agent married to the sheriff? I suppose I should be calling her Tracy Hensley.’’ ‘‘Yes, I know her. I talk to her often. What kind of vision did you have with her, Winona?’’ ‘‘It was about a woman with two faces.’’ The frown was still creasing Winona’s forehead. ‘‘Now I see something very similar with you.’’ ‘‘It must be the same woman.’’ ‘‘But it’s not. That’s what’s so odd.’’ ‘‘Did you actually see a woman with two faces? I mean, graphically? Can you describe her?’’ Winona smiled. ‘‘Symbolically, my dear. It’s impossible to explain.’’ ‘‘And how do you interpret such a vision?’’ Winona let go of Melissa’s hand and reached for her glass of tea, which she had set on the ground next to her chair. ‘‘It could mean many things, Melissa—from a woman taking on a whole new persona to one who merely pretends to be what she’s not.’’ ‘‘And you saw this, just now while you were holding my hand? You actually saw a man making me unhappy and a woman with two faces?’’ Winona nodded. ‘‘Does that make any sense to you?’’ Melissa sat back. ‘‘It might.’’ It was Thursday before Wyatt got hold of his temper enough to call Shannon in Helena. ‘‘Wyatt!’’ she exclaimed in his ear. ‘‘What a marvelous surprise. I’ve been so hoping to hear from you.’’ ‘‘Have you?’’ He spoke coldly, because when dealing with Shannon he felt either red-hot rage or icy pragmatism. ‘‘I understand you talked to Melissa before you left the ranch.’’ ‘‘Oh, she told you. She promised she wouldn’t. I guess you can’t trust anyone, can you?’’

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‘‘That seems to be the general consensus of opinion these days,’’ he replied grimly. ‘‘But just so you know, she didn’t tell me. I figured it out for myself. The reason I’m calling is to tell you something. After your baby is born, I’m going through legal channels to find out who fathered the child.’’ ‘‘You’re what?’’ ‘‘You heard me. If the child is mine, I’ll be going to court to demand equal custody. Naturally, I will accept financial responsibility.’’ ‘‘You son of a bitch.’’ ‘‘I thought you might say something like that. So long, Shannon. See you in about six months.’’ He hung up. Since talking to Winona Cobbs, Melissa was in constant torment. She tried to go over the architect’s drawings for the addition to her building and couldn’t concentrate enough to grasp the layout. Her menu planning for the cafe´ was virtually in the ash can, because she just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm for food. She cried a lot. The slightest reference by anyone to anything even remotely sad had her blubbering like a baby. She wasn’t sleeping well and usually spent more time walking the floor at night than she did in bed. In a daze most of the time, she passed friends on the street without seeing them. The worst of it all was an internal, ongoing argument between her common sense and a fantasylike side of herself she hadn’t been aware of possessing. ‘‘Psychic power is a lot of hooey,’’ one voice told her. ‘‘Oh, yeah? If someone like Tracy takes Winona seriously, why shouldn’t you?’’ another voice argued. The problem was that Winona had hit the nail so squarely. Melissa was unhappy—horribly unhappy—and the condition was definitely caused by a man and a woman. It was the part about the woman having two faces that gave Melissa cold chills, because she had believed every word Shannon

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had said without once considering that she might be lying or even slanting the truth in her favor. And if that were true, she, Melissa, who had always rated her intelligence quotient as higher than average, had been taken to the cleaners by a woman who was clever, unscrupulous and a damned fine actress. The final straw, of course, was the awful way she had treated Wyatt that night. On second thought, the final, final straw was that she had fallen in love with Wyatt. Again. ‘‘Oh, Lord,’’ she moaned when that irrevocable fact wormed its way through the mishmash in her brain. It was what she had fought against since the day he had walked into the Hip Hop; obviously she had lost the battle. So...was she going to do something about it, or was she going to live out her life in torment? ‘‘Believe Shannon or believe in me.’’ It was too simple a statement to create so much turmoil in a person. Why couldn’t she do one or the other and then act upon it? By the beginning of the following week Melissa’s choices had narrowed. She knew she couldn’t go on in the same addled state of mind in which she had stumbled through this week. There was only one sensible course of action to take, and that was to see Wyatt and have it out with him. With her hands shaking, she picked up the phone and dialed the number of his ranch. ‘‘North Ranch.’’ It was Marion, the housekeeper, and Melissa felt a perverse relief that Wyatt himself hadn’t answered. ‘‘This is Melissa Avery. I—I need to talk to Wyatt.’’ ‘‘He isn’t here, Ms. Avery. He said he would be at the cabin for a few days. That was yesterday afternoon. You could call him there.’’ ‘‘Oh.’’ Melissa took a breath. ‘‘I don’t have that number. Could you give it to me, please?’’ ‘‘Certainly. It’s 555-8828.’’

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Melissa jotted the number on a piece of paper. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She put down the phone, looked at the number and realized that she was glad Wyatt hadn’t been readily available. Rising, she walked around the room with a feeling of utter despair. What would she have said to him if he had come on the line? Winona’s ‘‘vision’’ wasn’t proof that Shannon had talked to her solely to cause trouble for her and Wyatt, nor that she had lied about anything. Had she spent the night at the ranch or hadn’t she? Maybe that was what she really needed to know, Melissa thought uneasily. Maybe if she heard from Wyatt’s own mouth that Shannon had not shared his bed, she would be able to apologize for her rudeness that night and take it from there. The more she pondered that theory, the more sense it made. But she couldn’t ask him about it on the phone. Somehow she had to gear up her courage and talk to him in person. She had to see his face when he gave her an answer, see his eyes. He never had been able to prevent his emotions from reaching his eyes. He was at the cabin. Fine, she would go out there and... She stopped with her fingertips on her lips in a questioning pose. Could she find the cabin on her own? The trip out there had been confusing, but the trip back had been much shorter and had involved only a few turns and a few different roads. Thinking hard about the route, Melissa decided she could do it. In fact, she would do it now, before her courage deserted her. Without taking the time to change from her dress into something more appropriate for a trip to the mountains, she grabbed her purse and car keys, stopped to speak to Wanda for a second and raced from the building to her car. Though her heart was beating a mile a minute, she felt like she was doing the right thing. At least she was doing something, which was a heck of a lot better than moping

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around like a lost soul. Whatever happened at Wyatt’s cabin, however their confrontation turned out, her moping had to come to a screeching halt.

Seventeen Wyatt and Joe Lott had been cutting wood all day. They were stacking split logs in the three-sided woodshed when they heard the noise of an engine. As quiet as the mountain was, vehicles were often heard from miles away. This one, however, was getting close to the North property line. ‘‘Someone’s coming,’’ Joe commented. ‘‘Sounds like it,’’ Wyatt agreed, fitting his armload onto the growing pile of fireplace fuel. The road, which ended abruptly at the clearing, couldn’t be seen from the woodshed, so Wyatt walked to the back left corner of the cabin to get a look at whoever was driving in. At the sight of Melissa’s car, he became very still for a moment, then walked back to Joe. ‘‘Joe, would you mind taking off for a couple of hours?’’ A teasing twinkle appeared in the man’s pale blue eyes. ‘‘Need some privacy?’’ ‘‘Yeah, I do. Call before you come back, okay?’’ ‘‘Sure. I’ll go and do some visiting.’’ Wyatt slapped his old friend and caretaker on the back. ‘‘Thanks.’’ Joe took off his gloves and laid them on a block of wood. ‘‘See ya later.’’ He headed for his pickup. Admitting nervousness, though he swore Melissa wasn’t going to see it, Wyatt sucked in a lungful of air, then removed his own gloves and used them to knock some of the bits of bark and wood chips from his jeans. He heard Melissa’s car drive up and stop just as Joe’s pickup drove away.

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Perfect timing, he thought, and walked around the cabin to the parking area. Melissa got out. ‘‘Hi.’’ Wyatt walked up, noting that she wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. ‘‘Hi. Have any trouble finding the place?’’ ‘‘A little. I took a few wrong turns, but—’’ her smile wobbled slightly ‘‘—here I am.’’ Yes, here she was. He wanted to ask why in the worst way, but he had a feeling she planned to tell him. It would be best if he let her do it in her own good time. ‘‘Come inside,’’ he invited with a pointed glance at her short sleeves. As usual, she wasn’t dressed for the weather. The day was sunny but the mountain air was crisply cool. He’d worked up a sweat cutting and chopping logs, but standing still he could feel the coolness penetrating his longsleeved flannel shirt. ‘‘Thanks,’’ Melissa murmured. What did she sense from him? she asked herself. He appeared rugged and outdoorsy right now, so handsome her legs felt unsteady from her just looking at him. But was he glad to see her? She couldn’t tell. His eyes, normally so expressive, contained no expression at all. They started for the cabin. ‘‘Who’s the old gentleman who just drove away?’’ she asked. ‘‘Joe Lott. He stays up here to keep an eye on the place. Been with us for over twenty years, first at the ranch, then here.’’ Wyatt opened the front door and stood back so Melissa could go in first. ‘‘I hope my arrival didn’t chase him off,’’ she said. Wyatt shut the door behind him. ‘‘If you knew Joe, you’d know that a pretty woman would be the last thing to chase him off. He had some things to do. I’m going to put on a pot of coffee and take a shower. Make yourself to home. I won’t be long.’’ Melissa, who had walked to the middle of the room, turned to look at him. ‘‘Why don’t I put on the coffee and let you go directly to the shower?’’

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Her offer surprised Wyatt, though not nearly as much as her being here did. ‘‘Good idea. Thanks.’’ He left her alone. Drawing an uneasy breath, she went to the kitchen. It took only a few minutes to prepare the coffeemaker, then she stood at a window that provided a view of the clearing behind the cabin. From the chainsaw, axes and array of logs and wood outside, it was obvious what Wyatt had been doing before she got there. It was also fairly evident that he had sent Joe Lott away, for which she was grateful. The things she needed to say to Wyatt couldn’t be said in the presence of a third party. Then she realized something. A large part of her nervousness had abated. In fact, she felt calmer and more like her normal self than she had since... She swallowed, thinking of that meeting with Shannon. Stewing and worrying and walking the floor because of that destructive incident had to stop, and it never would if she didn’t clear the air with Wyatt. Maybe ‘‘clearing the air’’ wasn’t the best term for what was haunting her. Wasn’t ‘‘hearing it from his own lips’’ much more accurate? Ten minutes later, when Wyatt walked in, Melissa was seated at the table with a cup of coffee. ‘‘I set out a cup next to the coffeepot for you,’’ she said. He was wearing clean jeans and a shirt, and his hair was damp from the shower. He looked handsome and manly, and Melissa felt like she could look at him forever. She drew a breath, thinking hopefully that ‘‘forever’’ just might be the outcome of her visit. ‘‘Thanks,’’ he said, walking over to the counter holding the coffeemaker. Pouring himself a cup, he turned around to look at her. ‘‘Would you be more comfortable in the living room?’’ ‘‘I’d just as soon stay in here, if you don’t mind. I like this kitchen.’’ He nodded. ‘‘I like it, too.’’ Moving to the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down. There was tension in the air; they both felt it. But they

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each sipped from their cups and remained silent for several moments. Wyatt spoke first, looking at her across the table. ‘‘It’s good seeing you. I wondered if you...’’ He stopped, reminding himself not to pressure her. ‘‘Did you go to the ranch first, before coming here?’’ ‘‘I called. Marion told me you had come up here for a few days. She gave me the telephone number, but...I decided to come and talk to you in person instead of calling.’’ ‘‘I’m glad.’’ Their eyes met and held, stirring emotions in each of them. Melissa swallowed hard. ‘‘Wyatt...’’ She set down her cup. ‘‘I...don’t know how to begin.’’ She paused and frowned. ‘‘No, that’s not true. I know exactly where to start. I treated you unfairly the night you came by to take me to dinner, and I’d like to apologize.’’ ‘‘Apology accepted,’’ he said quietly, but that was all he said. Melissa coming here was a dream come true and his hopes were running wild. Right now, though, anything he said would be like putting words in her mouth, and he wanted to hear her own words, not an echo of his. Eyes cast downward, Melissa ran her forefinger around the rim of her cup. ‘‘You said for me to believe Shannon or believe in you. It’s not quite that simple, Wyatt. Shannon said some things...’’ Pausing for a breath, she lifted her eyes. ‘‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’’ ‘‘She thinks so.’’ Melissa frowned slightly, again studying her cup. ‘‘I think so, too. Wyatt...what you said about her trapping you into marriage six years ago...you don’t really believe that, do you?’’ Wyatt leaned back in his chair, regarding Melissa with a steady gaze. A few moments passed, as though he was making up his mind about something. Finally, he spoke. ‘‘I’m going to tell you something I’ve never said to another living soul. I wouldn’t tell you, either, but I want you to know my innermost thoughts. I’m not positive Timmy is my son. Oh,

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he’s my son,’’ he added quickly. ‘‘He’ll always be my son, but I’m not positive that I’m his biological father. The night she announced her pregnancy, Shannon lied about my being the only man she had slept with in months. I found that out after we were married. She had been dating several different men, and knowing Shannon, I’m sure they weren’t just holding hands.’’ Melissa looked stricken. Wyatt rushed to reassure her. ‘‘I couldn’t love Timmy more if things had been perfect for Shannon and me. But to answer your question, yes, I believe she tricked me into marriage. I believe she knew exactly what she was doing the night of the party—finding herself a husband because she was already pregnant.’’ ‘‘Oh, Wyatt,’’ Melissa said sadly. ‘‘She—she told me she’s pregnant now.’’ ‘‘She told me the same thing.’’ ‘‘Is it true?’’ ‘‘She showed me a letter from a doctor that says it’s true.’’ He saw the startled look in Melissa’s eyes. ‘‘She didn’t show you the letter?’’ ‘‘No.’’ Melissa was suddenly so unnerved she didn’t know what to do. Why had she come? Why was she putting herself and Wyatt, too, through this? Her eyes darted around the kitchen, as though she were looking for an easy escape. ‘‘Maybe I don’t have any more questions.’’ Wyatt saw the panic in her eyes and realized she was on the verge of bolting. They had only started talking, and he couldn’t let her stop now. ‘‘Yes, you do, Melissa. How about this one: Wyatt, do you believe the letter is authentic?’’ Melissa stared at him. ‘‘Don’t you?’’ ‘‘Not all doctors are ethical, Melissa. Maybe I shouldn’t make such an inference when I have no proof. But Shannon has a lot of friends and she might have talked one into writing the letter. She’s very good at—’’ he paused, watching Melissa very closely ‘‘—manipulating people.’’ He paused again. ‘‘Deep down, though, I think I do believe it.’’

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‘‘Is...it your child?’’ she asked, her voice cracking. ‘‘She says it is. I say it isn’t. I told you about her affair with Rick Malone.’’ ‘‘You never mentioned the man’s name, but it’s immaterial.’’ Pushing back her chair, Melissa got up and went to look out the window. Literally, she was wringing her hands. ‘‘Could—could it be your child?’’ He looked at her straight back, her slender waist, the thick braid of her hair and the pretty dress she was wearing. He loved her, deeply and forever, but how would it help her or their relationship to discuss his and Shannon’s sex life? Still, if she was driven to know everything, he would tell her. Before answering he slowly inhaled and exhaled. ‘‘We were married, Melissa. We shared the same bedroom. Do you want to hear details? Particulars? If you do, just say so. I’ll tell you anything you’re up to hearing.’’ She turned to look at him. ‘‘No. No details, please, but could the child be yours?’’ ‘‘There’s a slim chance, yes. A very slim chance. I intend to find out once the child is born, which I informed Shannon of the other day.’’ ‘‘You saw her again?’’ ‘‘No, I called her. Specifically to tell her that I intend going through legal channels to demand medical tests to prove paternity when the baby is born. If it’s mine, I want full parental rights.’’ Melissa’s fingertips rose to massage her temples. ‘‘Shannon—Shannon talked about your marrying her again.’’ ‘‘Melissa, if you really believe that, why are you here?’’ He studied her. ‘‘You don’t believe it, do you?’’ ‘‘I did, but then...’’ Her voice trailed off and, rather than stand there and look helpless, she went for the coffeepot and returned to the table. After topping off her cup, she looked at Wyatt. ‘‘More coffee?’’ ‘‘Just put the pot on the table and sit down.’’ She complied, not because he had demanded it but because she needed to sit again. Wyatt leaned forward. ‘‘Shannon is ac-

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customed to getting whatever she wants, Melissa, and when she told her lover about her condition and he left Helena— she told me that herself—she thought of me. She came to the ranch actually believing she could talk me into marrying her again. I know how her mind works, and I’m sure she thought a few tears and a poor-little-me attitude would get her what she needs again—a husband. It didn’t work. ‘Not this time,’ I told her. Then I made a bad mistake. I told her about you.’’ ‘‘What did you tell her about me?’’ ‘‘That I intended to marry you.’’ Melissa sucked in a sharp breath and looked away from the intensity in Wyatt’s eyes. ‘‘Oh, God,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I feel like I’m breaking up a family. I wondered, you know. I wondered when you told me about your divorce if you were cutting your ties with Shannon because of me.’’ ‘‘You had nothing to do with it,’’ he said sharply. ‘‘Look, it was a bad marriage from the start, but I tried to make it work. I lived in Helena, when I hated the place and every day I spent there. She refused to even visit the ranch, let alone live on it. Melissa, when I found out about Rick Malone, I felt like a ten-ton burden had suddenly disappeared. That’s what ended our fiasco of a marriage, not your return to Whitehorn. I didn’t even know you were back until I walked into your cafe´. ‘‘Let me say this. Even if you weren’t in the picture, I wouldn’t marry Shannon again even if the baby was mine.’’ Melissa was still avoiding direct eye contact. ‘‘She told it so differently.’’ ‘‘Well, like I said, either you believe her or you believe me.’’ There was one more question nearly killing Melissa, and she figured that since she had gone this far, she might as well go for broke. ‘‘Did she sleep with you when she was at the ranch? Did you make love to her?’’ Wyatt laughed bitterly. ‘‘I can see she didn’t miss a trick. Well, it’s like this. After she put on her little act and I told

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her no deal, I left her in the den while I went to take a shower, mentioning before I left that she knew the way out. Instead of leaving, she got plastered. She’d been smoking cigarettes and drinking bourbon like a crazy woman as it was, and I couldn’t stay silent on the subject of a pregnant woman risking her baby’s health with tobacco and alcohol. Maybe she took it as a challenge. I don’t know what went through her mind at that point, but after I left her alone she drank until she passed out. ‘‘I was lying down when Marion let me know about it. We put Shannon to bed in the guest room. Incidentally, it was Marion who undressed her. Once I got her on the bed, I left the room. About two o’clock in the morning I woke up to find her in my bed. She was naked and all over me, apparently making a last-ditch effort to have things her way. I think she finally got the message when I told her to get the hell out of my bedroom. I remember her saying that she would get back at me for the insult. Apparently your coming along was her opportunity. ‘‘Melissa, that’s the whole story. Instead of driving up here to the cabin so I wouldn’t have to see her again, I should have gone directly to your place, wakened you up and told you everything. But as selfish and self-centered as I know Shannon to be, it never occurred to me that she might talk to you and try to ruin things for us.’’ His voice became softer. ‘‘Maybe she succeeded. Did she?’’ To Melissa’s chagrin, she began crying. Not loudly or with shaking shoulders, but with burning, silent tears drizzling down her cheeks. She wiped them away, but they kept coming. Wyatt got up, walked around the table and pulled her from her chair and into his arms. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she whispered thickly with her face buried in his shirt. ‘‘I don’t know why I’m crying, other than that I’m feeling so mixed up.’’ ‘‘How could you be anything else?’’ Though there was a bitter curl to his lips, he spoke gently. He would like to hold her like this for eternity, or at least for a good long while.

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But he could sense how troubled she was and that she still hadn’t come to terms with the past, both distant and recent. ‘‘I’ve been miserably unhappy all week,’’ she whispered tearily. ‘‘So have I, honey. Look, why don’t you come and sit in the living room and let me fix you something nice to drink that will relieve some of your tension.’’ Sniffling, she nodded. Wyatt took her hand and led her to a comfortable chair near the living room fireplace. ‘‘Just sit there and relax,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’ He returned in a few minutes with two steaming mugs, one of which he placed in Melissa’s hand. ‘‘It’s hot, so be careful,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She could smell some kind of liquor in the drink, maybe brandy, but she didn’t care what he’d put in it. It tasted good and warmed her tight throat clear to the knot in her stomach. He sat in the chair closest to hers and sipped his own hot drink. Then he said in a low, tense voice, ‘‘If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?’’ ‘‘I—I’ll try.’’ It was all she could promise. With her hands trembling, she lifted the mug to her lips. ‘‘You know how I feel about you—I’ve said it a dozen times—but how do you feel about me? What I’m asking is, do you love me?’’ Why else would she be here? he reasoned. Yet he needed to hear her say it. Melissa’s eyes filled again. ‘‘I...think I do.’’ Closing his eyes, Wyatt felt relief pour through him. Thinking she loved him and saying so was a giant step forward, in his book. Still, he hadn’t missed the reluctance in her voice. She must not be overly thrilled at finding herself in love with him again. He took a big swallow of his drink, all the while watching her. Though she periodically wiped her eyes, she was gradually emptying her mug. Without a word, he set his aside and got up to build a fire. Now Melissa watched him. She had admitted—or al-

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most admitted—that she loved him, and she wondered if he weren’t building a fire to delay giving a response. Her mind was a little loopy from the hot drink, she realized, but there was no question that it had relieved a lot of her tension. When there were flames dancing in the fireplace, Wyatt returned to his chair. Sighing, Melissa snuggled deeper into hers, drawing her legs up under her. The warmth of the drink and of the fire were making her feel a little drowsy, and she laid her head back to ponder the differences in the same story told by Shannon and Wyatt. ‘‘Believe Shannon or believe in me. Believe in me...believe in me.’’ ‘‘I want to believe in you,’’ she said, as though there’d been no lapse in conversation. ‘‘I hope you understand that.’’ ‘‘I’ll tell you what I understand, Melissa. I understand how badly I hurt you six years ago and that it destroyed your trust in me. I understand that the two of us meeting again, unexpectedly the way we did, was a shock you’re still feeling. I understand that meeting and talking to Shannon just when you and I were finally overcoming the past brought it all back again. Do I blame you for reacting as you did? No. Am I resentful of your reactions? I’m resentful, but not of you. Shannon has a lot to answer for, but I believe what goes around comes around. I paid for my sins and Shannon will pay for hers.’’ He chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not wishing her any bad luck, and knowing her the way I do, she might go on for years without paying the bill. But sooner or later her selfish disregard for everyone else will catch up with her. ‘‘Melissa, I don’t know what else to say. I can’t change the past. God, if only I could. We lost six years, you and I, six years that we should have spent together in living, loving and having babies.’’ He saw the tears spilling from her eyes again. ‘‘Please don’t cry.’’ ‘‘I...can’t help it. Wyatt, do you really consider me a hard person? You said so once. Maybe twice.’’

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He smiled. ‘‘With me, yes.’’ ‘‘I don’t want to be hard. All I’ve ever hoped for was...’’ She stopped, because she honestly couldn’t remember what her hopes were, other than finding out who murdered her father and attaining some financial success. But nowhere in her mind could she locate any long-term personal hopes, certainly none that included falling in love. And then, looking at Wyatt, she knew why. She had never stopped loving him, even when she’d been angry and hurt and swearing she despised him. And he had never stopped loving her. How could she have been such a fool not to have figured it out before this? Not to have believed? ‘‘Our lives took some very strange twists,’’ she murmured. Wyatt nodded. ‘‘A little stranger than most, I think. But it’s all in the past and best forgotten. For me, anyway. Something wonderful came out of my marriage—Timmy. I wish my father were alive to know Timmy. For Timmy to know him.’’ His eyes rested on Melissa. ‘‘He was with me this last weekend. I’ll have him again in two weeks. I’d like you to meet him.’’ ‘‘I’d like that, too.’’ There was something in her voice that told Wyatt the worst was over. Rising, he knelt in front of her, took the empty mug from her hand and set it on the floor. Then his hands wrapped around hers. ‘‘I love you, Melissa. I’ve loved you since high school, and I’ll love you in the same powerful way the day I draw my final breath.’’ She was crying again, this time with great gulping sobs. ‘‘I’ve been...a...terrible fool.’’ Pulling her hands from his, she threw her arms around his neck. ‘‘Wyatt, please, please forgive me. I love you, too, so much.’’ At last, he thought, giddy with relief. Kissing her damp, teary face, he realized his tears were mingling with hers. ‘‘Melissa...’’ He pressed his lips to hers, and her passionate response ignited the flames of arousal in his body. ‘‘Oh, Wyatt,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I want you. I need you.’’

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Taking his face in her hands, she kissed his mouth until they were both breathless. Wyatt pulled away then, standing to bring her to her feet. He kissed her once, then bent over to wrap one arm behind her knees. With a growl of utter possession, he scooped her up and strode from the room. Melissa buried her face in the curve of his throat and closed her eyes for the trip to his bedroom. ‘‘I love you,’’ she murmured. ‘‘I love you.’’ It felt so good to say it, but even better to feel it. Releasing the past was like stepping from darkness into bright sunlight. Why had she clung to those old hurts for so long? In Wyatt’s bedroom they undressed quickly and lay down together. There was joy in their kisses and caresses, and in the freedom of expressing their love for each other. Then the joy turned fiercely ardent as they made full and complete love. They cried out together and Wyatt vowed it would always be this way for them. Sated, they held each other while their racing hearts and labored breaths returned to normal. ‘‘I will never forget today,’’ Melissa murmured softly. ‘‘Nor will I,’’ Wyatt said, his voice husky with emotion. He raised up to look at her, gently pushing wayward tendrils of hair from her face. ‘‘You’re so beautiful, Melissa. I love looking at you.’’ She raised a hand to touch his face. ‘‘I can say the same.’’ She smiled ruefully. ‘‘I’m sorry I was so difficult.’’ ‘‘No more apologies, my love.’’ He took her hand and brought it to his lips for a tender kiss. ‘‘Will you marry me?’’ Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened with an adoring light in them. ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Thank you, God!’’ he said ecstatically, and pulled Melissa into a fervent embrace. ‘‘We have a lot of plans to make. I’d like a long honeymoon.’’ Peering into her eyes, he asked, ‘‘How do you feel about long honeymoons?’’

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She laughed joyously. ‘‘I’d love the opportunity to find out.’’ ‘‘I’ve been thinking about Europe...Paris, in particular.’’ A beautiful, dreamy smile lit her features. ‘‘Paris sounds wonderful.’’ Again she touched his face. ‘‘But anywhere with you would be wonderful.’’ The telephone rang. ‘‘That’ll be Joe,’’ Wyatt said, reaching for the bedside instrument. ‘‘Hello?’’ Melissa chuckled quietly. Wyatt’s end of the conversation proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had sent Joe away because she had arrived. When Wyatt signed off, she said teasingly, ‘‘So Joe had things to do, hmm?’’ Laughing, he snuggled down beside her. ‘‘Not Joe, sweetheart. Me.’’ His voice softened. ‘‘And you. Guess we got them done, didn’t we?’’ ‘‘Guess we did,’’ she said with a contented sigh.

Epilogue T

here were important decisions to make before their wedding, most of them Melissa’s and most revolving around her business. Wyatt could leave the ranch without worry, but Melissa was such an important component in the success of the cafe´ that leaving it for a long honeymoon could cause a tremendous setback in business. They saw each other every evening and discussed the problem from various angles. The sad truth they kept bumping into was that neither of them knew anyone capable of taking Melissa’s place. There were other problems to discuss, as well. Melissa had called her mother with the news of her impending nuptials. Nan was happy for her, and they laughed and talked for nearly an hour before Melissa got up the nerve to ask, ‘‘Will you come for my wedding, Mom?’’ A heavy silence ensued, then Nan began hemming and hawing about the long trip and her failing health, and Melissa knew that her mother was still adamant about never returning to Whitehorn. That evening she told Wyatt about it. ‘‘So she won’t be at our wedding. I know why she won’t come to Whitehorn, Wyatt, and her reason has nothing to do with disliking travel or her health. It’s because everyone believed for years that Dad deserted us, and that hurt her so deeply she simply washed her hands of the town.’’ ‘‘Gossip can be deadly,’’ Wyatt agreed. Another hurdle for Melissa to overcome was the all-but-

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nonexistent headway the law was making in the investigation of her father’s death. She discussed it with Wyatt. ‘‘Nothing’s happening,’’ she said with a frustrated sigh one day. ‘‘Make something happen, honey.’’ ‘‘How? What do I know about murder investigations?’’ ‘‘Hire someone who does know. Hire a private investigator.’’ Melissa’s eyes brightened. ‘‘I thought of that before. It is a good idea, isn’t it?’’ ‘‘I think so.’’ And so she began a search for a PI. In the Whitehorn library she went through all the telephone books she could find and made a list of possible private investigators. One in particular stood out. The ad stated humorously: Have Experience, Will Travel. Gearing up her determination, she placed a long-distance call to Nick Dean, Private Investigator, who sounded cordial and pleasant on the phone. Melissa explained why she was in need of his services, and Nick agreed to take the case, although he couldn’t give her a definite date of arrival because of his current workload. ‘‘Sometime within the next few weeks,’’ he told her. ‘‘Is that all right?’’ Melissa thought for a moment, then said yes. ‘‘Just so we get to meet and talk before my wedding in November. After that, I’ll be away for some time.’’ She put the phone down feeling better about that problem. But there just didn’t seem to be any solutions to the others. She wanted her mother at her wedding and felt bad that Nan wouldn’t be there. Plus, she couldn’t leave the cafe´ for an extended leave and enjoy herself. She knew she would worry every day of the honeymoon and probably end up ruining it. She and Wyatt had dinner in her apartment on a Wednesday evening, but Melissa was just barely eating. Wyatt noticed and frowned. ‘‘What’s wrong, honey?’’ Laying down her fork, she put her elbows on the table

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and her chin on her folded hands. ‘‘Wyatt, I have to ask you something. How much do you love me?’’ He stared for a second, then chuckled. ‘‘Well, let me see. In pounds, about ten trillion. In size, about the dimensions of the universe. In—’’ ‘‘Stop it,’’ she said with a laugh, which faded into sobriety almost immediately. She spoke falteringly. ‘‘Would you be terribly disappointed if we didn’t take that long honeymoon right after the wedding?’’ He laid his own fork on his plate. ‘‘Is that what you want?’’ ‘‘No, but how can I leave for a long time without someone I trust implicitly being in charge of the cafe´?’’ He spoke slowly. ‘‘I suppose you can’t.’’ Melissa reached across the table for his hand. ‘‘Wyatt, we could go next year, possibly sooner. I can train someone to do what I do, but it will take time.’’ His eyes contained so much love that her breath caught in her throat. ‘‘I will never refuse you anything, Melissa. If you feel that we should delay our honeymoon, then that’s what we’ll do. Something’s been on my mind, as well. I’ve been a little concerned about being away from Timmy for so long right now. It’s probably best for both of us if we delay our honeymoon for a while.’’ She smiled at her beloved. ‘‘I understand and agree.’’ After a slight hesitation, she said rather meekly, ‘‘There is one other matter.’’ ‘‘What’s that?’’ ‘‘I’d like us to be married in California so my family can be there. We could take Timmy with us, if you wish. Oh, Wyatt, I’m such a burden to you, and I don’t want to be. It’s just that—’’ He got up and walked around the table, holding out his hand to her. ‘‘Come here.’’ She got up and he pulled her into his arms. After a long, delicious kiss, he looked into her eyes. ‘‘Listen to me, kiddo. You will never be a burden as far as I’m concerned,

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understand? I love everything about you, and I intend to help rather than hinder you when you’re faced with a problem. I don’t give a damn where we get married, as long as we get married. Got it?’’ Her smile was a yard wide and very excited. ‘‘Got it. This is wonderful. You’re wonderful. I’ll call Mother and—’’ ‘‘Call Mother in the morning. Right now I’d like you to prove how wonderful you think I am.’’ Archly, Melissa glanced at the table. ‘‘What about dinner?’’ ‘‘Dinner can wait, baby.’’ Taking her hand, he led her from the kitchen. She smiled all the way to the bedroom. Wyatt picked up the phone on the third ring. ‘‘North Ranch.’’ ‘‘Wyatt, this is Wilbur Kiley.’’ Wyatt went into alert mode. ‘‘How are you, Wilbur?’’ ‘‘Very well, thank you. Wyatt, Shannon asked me to make this call.’’ ‘‘Oh?’’ Wyatt’s stomach tensed. ‘‘She got married last night...to Rick Malone. Listen, Wyatt, I know what she tried to do to you and your lady. She broke down and confessed the whole sordid mess to me a few days ago. I know I spoiled her something awful after her mother died, but she’s not all bad and well...I just wanted you to know you’re off the hook. The baby is Rick’s. They both told me so.’’ Wyatt went weak with relief. ‘‘Thanks, Wilbur.’’ The older man sighed in Wyatt’s ear. ‘‘Well, Rick Malone is no Wyatt North, but maybe he’s the kind of man Shannon needs. I’m pretty certain he’ll keep her on her toes.’’ ‘‘Will you tell her I wish her well, Wilbur?’’ ‘‘That’s mighty generous of you, Wyatt. Yes, I’ll pass on the message. You have Timmy this weekend, don’t you?’’ ‘‘He’s here. I put him to bed about an hour ago.’’

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‘‘He’s a fine boy, Wyatt.’’ ‘‘Yes, he is.’’ ‘‘Which brings me to the real reason for this call. Wyatt, would you like to have full custody of Timmy?’’ Wyatt’s jaw dropped. ‘‘My God, yes. But Shannon—’’ ‘‘Rick prefers not raising another man’s child, Wyatt. I’ve been trying very hard not to judge the fellow, nor my daughter for conceding to his wishes, especially since I was so certain you would jump at the chance of having Timmy fulltime.’’ Wyatt thought his heart might burst through his chest with excitement. ‘‘In writing, Wilbur?’’ ‘‘In writing. Shannon asks only that she be permitted to see him at specified intervals.’’ ‘‘Well, of course she could.’’ My God, this was fantastic. Wyatt didn’t know how he was managing to speak normally when elation was making his head spin. Timmy could live at the ranch. Timmy could go to school in Whitehorn. It was a dream come true for Wyatt, and he hadn’t even asked for it. ‘‘I understand you’re getting married, Wyatt. Congratulations. I hope you and your bride will be very happy.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Wilbur. I appreciate it.’’ Melissa had fallen in love with Timmy on sight, and the little boy had taken to her, as well. Wyatt knew that she would be as thrilled with full custody as he was. ‘‘Let’s stay in touch. We do have Timmy in common, and I would like to see my grandson on occasion.’’ ‘‘You may see him whenever you wish, Wilbur. You have an open invitation to visit the ranch.’’ After they hung up, Wyatt sat back in his desk chair, stunned. He’d just been handed the most precious gift he could have ever imagined—his son, full-time. Smiling, he picked up the phone and dialed the Hip Hop’s number. The last loose end in his life was tied up, and he wanted to share his euphoria with Melissa. ‘‘Melissa? Have I told you how much I love you?’’

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She laughed teasingly. ‘‘Not for several hours.’’ ‘‘Listen, sweetheart, something incredible just happened.’’ Quickly he related Wilbur’s call. ‘‘Oh, Wyatt, everything’s perfect, isn’t it?’’ ‘‘Yes, my love, everything is perfect.’’ And it was. *

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Outlaw Lovers Pat Warren

Published by Silhouette Books

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

One All small towns have their secrets, Nick Dean thought as he drove north on Montana’s Route 191. Some more than others. The town of Whitehorn, northwest of Billings, seemed to have more than its fair share, or so he’d discovered these past few days. He swung his blue Blazer into the passing lane to go around a slow-moving station wagon, its windows steamed up by a carload of kids of varying ages and a harassed-looking woman driver. It was dusk, that nebulous time of evening just before the streetlights come on. A cold October wind whipped occasional clumps of tumbleweed across the highway, adding to the feeling of desolation. With a shiver, Nick rolled up his window. Of course, having been born in Red Lodge, near the southern border close to Wyoming, and having spent most of his adult life in Montana, he was used to often-frigid weather. He even enjoyed it much of the time. The day’s high of thirty-eight, dropping at least ten degrees since midafternoon, was warm compared to what it would be at the height of winter, when the wind-chill factor could take it down to thirty below in an hour. Glancing at a darkening sky thick with churning gray clouds, he decided it was entirely possible that the first snowstorm of the season was building. That was all he needed right now. Nick rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. He’d been

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on the move from early morning, starting off with breakfast at the Hip Hop Cafe´, hanging around over coffee refills, trying to overhear conversations or bits of gossip. Some people had been chatty and friendly, others outright suspicious. He’d learned several interesting things since he’d arrived in town, especially from the older generation, but nothing concrete. Next, he’d spent several hours at the Whitehorn library checking out old newspapers in their morgue. After a late lunch he’d driven to the Whitehorn County Hospital, where he’d persuaded a young redhead in medical records to allow him to paw through some old files. After all that he still had more questions than answers as to what had happened to Charlie Avery, whose remains had been discovered recently on the Laughing Horse Reservation north of town. He had a few suspects—men who hadn’t exactly seen eye-to-eye with Charlie—but not a shred of proof that pointed to any one person actually doing him in. Nick ran a hand through his flyaway blond hair, feeling the frustration. For the most part, he enjoyed his work. Being a private investigator meant he was his own boss, worked his own hours and got to call most of the shots. It sure beat the years he’d put in with the Butte Police Department working vice. That job, too, had called for patience, something his father had taught him as a teenager working in the family construction business. The problem was that most of the people who hired private investigators wanted action now. He watched the streetlights come on and noticed that now his was the only vehicle on this stretch of highway, both ahead and behind. Most of the residents of Whitehorn were home having dinner in their warm kitchens. He wasn’t really hungry, so he decided to drive on to the

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Whitehorn Motel, where he’d rented a room, and pick up something from their coffee shop later. Luck was with him on this case, Nick acknowledged, at least as far as his client was concerned. Melissa Avery, the woman who ran the Hip Hop Cafe´, was anxious to find out what had happened to her father after he’d disappeared some twenty years ago. But because of the elapsed time, she realized that the trail might be cold and that Nick wouldn’t have results quickly. The first thing he’d done when he’d arrived in Whitehorn after driving the hundred thirty-six miles from Butte had been to check with the coroner, where he’d verified Melissa’s right to be concerned. Charlie Avery had definitely been murdered. But by whom and for what reason—that was what Nick was intent on discovering. And he would, he felt certain. He’d never taken a case yet that he hadn’t solved, though admittedly, some took months, while a few had been resolved in a matter of weeks. That’s where patience came in. An investigator had to carefully gather facts; keep extensive notes; interview anyone and everyone remotely connected to the victim, his family and friends; ascertain motives, opportunity and means. Eventually, the pieces of the puzzle would fall into place. That’s where the satisfaction came in, unlike police work where, often as not, catching the culprit didn’t necessarily mean a conviction. Smart, high-paid lawyers, legal technicalities, uncertain witnesses—any one of those and a number of other factors, and the criminal walked. Nick had found that frustration much harder to deal with than the patience required to unravel a mystery. His eyes flickered over the hilly terrain to the left, the dormant scrub grass, the scraggly bushes. Winter was sneaking up on them. He flipped on the lights and had

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barely gone ten feet when something just ahead had him leaning toward the windshield and squinting. He hadn’t been mistaken, Nick decided as he made out a form at the side of the road. A woman stood motioning for him to stop, yet he could spot no disabled vehicle. Surely she hadn’t been out walking along this deserted strip of highway. Quickly, he pulled the Blazer to a halt. Leaning over, Nick rolled down the window and studied her in his headlights. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with long, windblown hair and a thin face. She seemed lost in the folds of an oversize tan raincoat as she approached, carrying what looked like a heavy canvas bag. ‘‘Car trouble?’’ he asked. She answered his question with one of her own. ‘‘Can you give me a lift?’’ ‘‘Sure.’’ He shoved open the passenger door and watched her climb slowly inside. ‘‘Where you headed?’’ She had trouble closing the door, but finally managed it. ‘‘I—I’m not sure. Where are you going?’’ She struggled to fasten her seat belt. Up close in the light from the dash, Nick saw that she was quite pale and, despite the cold, her face looked flushed. ‘‘I’m heading for the Whitehorn Motel.’’ Her blue eyes were huge and seemed a little vague. ‘‘But I could take you somewhere else. It’s getting colder and looks like it may snow.’’ At that, he turned the heater on. ‘‘I don’t want to trouble you. The motel’s fine.’’ Her voice was so low he had to lean closer to hear her. Shifting into gear, Nick glanced over again. ‘‘Are you from around here?’’ ‘‘No, no. I just came back to make sure she was all right.’’ ‘‘She?’’ But the woman was staring out the windshield,

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apparently unaware of his question. ‘‘You came back to make sure who was all right?’’ Suddenly, she came to attention. ‘‘No one. Never mind.’’ Nick saw perspiration gathering on her face, unhealthy perspiration not caused by the heater, he was certain. ‘‘Are you all right? Maybe I should turn around and take you to the hospital.’’ ‘‘No, I’m fine. Really.’’ She huddled in her coat, pulling up the collar. ‘‘My name’s Nick Dean,’’ he said, giving it one more try as he downshifted around a steep curve. Another glance told him she had her eyes closed and wasn’t planning on giving him her name, whether because she was ill or from a need for privacy, he couldn’t tell. He wanted to ask her what she was doing on this lonely stretch of highway hitchhiking, if she knew someone in town and who the mysterious ‘‘she’’ she’d been checking on was. Still, it was none of his business. Perhaps the best thing he could do was to get her to the motel, where she could either check in or call someone. As he straightened the vehicle after the curve, Nick suddenly felt the jolt of a tremendous explosion. Fire burst forth, flames shooting out from under the hood as the Blazer came to an abrupt stop. The driver’s door shot open and Nick was thrown out, hitting the cold ground, then rolling down the embankment. His left shoulder and then his head took the worst of it. He had no time to prepare himself, no time to brace against the tumble and roll into the fall. As he plunged down the hill, he heard another roaring eruption. He didn’t see the black smoke billowing up from the wreckage, nor hear the lone, frightened scream of a woman. Before his body rammed into a cluster of prickly

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bushes that stopped his plunge down the incline, Nick Dean mercifully passed out. Sara Lewis checked her watch and saw that it was nearly seven. The wind was really picking up, and it had begun to snow just as she’d left the Whitehorn County Hospital and climbed into her six-year-old white Volkswagen. Fortunately, the little car ran like a top, and the reliable heater had the interior warm in moments. She would have to dig out her fur-lined parka soon, Sara thought as she turned onto the two-lane road that paralleled Route 191. The highway would have gotten her back to the reservation more quickly, but she much preferred the slower pace of Pale Bluff Lane, especially when she was tired. And she was tired, Sara admitted to herself as she shook back her long black hair. They’d had a shipment of valuable tapestries come in this morning at the Native American Museum where she was artifacts curator. She’d been in charge of the paperwork, cataloging each arrival, checking the authenticity and overseeing the hanging. She’d been anxious to get the job done before the five o’clock closing time, so she’d worked through her lunch hour. But she’d gotten every piece finished and hung to her satisfaction. So she was comfortably tired, not drained. Afterward, it had been her choice to drive in the opposite direction from her home to the hospital. She had an arrangement with her friend, Dr. Kane Hunter, another Native American who worked in town. They’d grown up together and had remained good friends. One of the children in the reservation’s day-care center where she volunteered on weekends—Chad Laughing Face, a chubby four-year-old—had diabetes and a family that had trouble affording insulin. Kane was good enough to tend the boy

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free of charge and to keep him supplied with insulin if Sara picked it up when needed. She’d been happy to oblige tonight, just one of the things she did on the reservation to make life easier for her people. Things she did quietly, as was her way. Sara’s stomach growled, reminding her that her body wasn’t a machine and needed sustenance, and soon. Some hot, homemade soup would hit the spot, she thought, and the wheat bread she’d made yesterday. Then a cup of tea and a long soak in her claw-footed tub. She smiled as she leaned into the curve she was rounding. By most people’s standards, this was probably not an exciting evening for a twenty-nine-year-old woman in the prime of life. But it suited Sara just fine. She didn’t crave excitement, never had. She liked her life; her small house on Laughing Horse Reservation, where she’d grown up; her job, which she’d trained for both at Montana State University and at the museum in Bozeman, where she’d worked part-time to pay the expenses her partial scholarship hadn’t covered. A woman proud of both her heritage and her independence, Sara knew she was strong and stable. She also knew that those were the very things that apparently frightened off most of the eligible male population. Sighing, she acknowledged not for the first time that she was caught between a rock and a hard place. While attending college, she’d dated some white men, but hadn’t felt totally comfortable with any one of them. Certainly not Jack Kelly, the all-American football star who’d surprised her with his avid interest, then taught her the hardest lesson she’d ever learned. Though there were few Indian males living on Laughing Horse in her age group, she’d dated a couple. And there was the rub. She’d come to believe that no white man would accept

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and respect her cultural background. And she hadn’t run across a Native American man who was strong, dedicated and as dependable as Sara believed she needed a man to be. She was beginning to think she never would for with the exception of her good friend Jackson Hawk, who’d married Maggie Schaeffer recently, and Kane, who’d been in love with someone else for a long while, few young Indians were comfortable with themselves, had come to grips with their heritage and were therefore able to remain happily on the reservation. And Sara couldn’t picture herself living anywhere else. Definitely a dilemma, she thought as she crossed over the intersection of Route 191 and turned onto the road leading to Laughing Horse. A dilemma but not a tragedy, she told herself. She had lots of friends, the warm love of her mother and grandmother, who both lived near her own small house, and work she enjoyed. Many people had far less. Life was a trade-off, after all, and— Sara instinctively stepped hard on the brakes as a tall figure loomed just ahead of her, caught in the twin circles from her headlights. He was apparently having trouble staying upright, and she might have missed him altogether if he hadn’t been wearing a bright red jacket. Pulling off the road, she stopped by a thick copse of pine trees. Shifting into Park, she left her lights on and jumped out of the car. For a moment she didn’t see him, then realized he’d fallen onto the shoulder of the road. She rushed over, noticing that he was trying to sit up. Dried grass clung to his thick blond hair and there were scrapes and bruises on his angular face. A large gash on his head near his left temple was bleeding, and his jeans were dirty and ripped. ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked quickly.

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With his head pounding and his left shoulder hurting like hell, Nick was having trouble remaining in a sitting position. But he didn’t think about his discomfort, only of getting help. ‘‘Blazer,’’ he finally managed to answer. ‘‘Caught fire. Have to get the woman out.’’ Straightening, Sara looked in each direction and could see no Blazer, no fire, no woman. ‘‘Where did this happen?’’ He waved a hand vaguely. ‘‘Up on the highway. Gotta get help. I started walking. Fell.’’ He tried to push himself upright, but the effort was just too much. ‘‘Here, let me help you.’’ Sara moved to his side and slipped one arm around him. ‘‘Oh!’’ he cried out. ‘‘My shoulder.’’ She jumped back. ‘‘I’m sorry. Look, you’re hurt. Let me drive you to the hospital and—’’ ‘‘No! Explosion. Can’t risk it. No hospital.’’ Nick reached a shaky hand up to where the pain centered in his head and saw that his fingers came away bloody. ‘‘Never mind me. Go help the woman.’’ Again, feeling foolish, Sara glanced around and saw nothing. ‘‘There’s no Blazer in sight and no woman.’’ In the headlights, she studied his eyes. Pupils dilated, his complexion pale. She touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers and found his skin cold and moist. And he was disoriented. Her training under several volunteer doctors during her teens when she’d helped out at the reservation clinic told her the man was in shock. ‘‘How long have you been walking?’’ ‘‘Don’t know.’’ Damn, if only he could think clearly. Gently, Sara peered under his red jacket and saw that the shoulder he’d favored was at an odd angle. Probably dislocated, needing to be yanked back into the socket, an unpleasant experience at best. ‘‘Where would you like me

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to take you, if not to the hospital?’’ The snow was coming down steadily now and beginning to stick. The wind gusted and had her long hair tossing every which way. Sara brushed a handful out of the way and waited for him to respond. When he didn’t, she thought of another suggestion. ‘‘You say there was an explosion. Perhaps you’d like me to take you to the police station.’’ He looked up, his blue eyes suddenly kind of wild as his hand reached to grip hers. ‘‘No, please. I don’t know what happened or who did it. My head...’’ He lowered his head into his other hand. ‘‘Hurts so much.’’ ‘‘What’s your name?’’ Except for her years away at college, she’d lived in the area all her life and knew nearly everyone in town, by sight if not by name. Whitehorn was only twenty-five square miles. ‘‘You’re not from around here. Where are you staying?’’ ‘‘Motel,’’ he muttered. An organized thinker, Sara took a moment to assess the situation. It was hard to tell if he’d been unconscious after the apparent accident, and if so, how long. If his mumblings were to be believed and he’d actually fallen from his burning Blazer, the thick red jacket had probably cushioned his fall somewhat, but that shoulder needed attention. Evidently, he’d been dazed and had started out walking, wandering onto the reservation. She couldn’t take the time to drive back to the highway now to see if there was a charred Blazer anywhere to be found. Taking him to his room at the motel seemed heartless. She couldn’t just leave him here by the side of the road, bleeding and nearly incoherent, with snow coming down fast and furious and the temperature below freezing already. Sara came to a decision. She’d take him home, feeling rather safe since her house was located right behind the tribal police station. The self-defense course she’d taken

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some years ago gave her a measure of confidence as well, though he seemed in no shape to harm her physically. She’d call and see if she could get a report on a Blazer on fire and the possibility of a woman inside it. And she’d get him some medical attention, taking care of it herself if necessary, guided by Kane Hunter if she could still reach him at the hospital. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d followed his phone instructions during a medical emergency. ‘‘Come on,’’ she said, leaning down to him. ‘‘Let me help you into my car. We’ve got to get you out of this cold.’’ She braced herself to accommodate his weight, slipping her arms around him, trying to avoid the area of his injured shoulder. Nick groaned but made it upright on the second try, leaning heavily on the woman. He wasn’t sure he could fold his six-foot-plus frame into her small Bug, but he managed that, too. Closing his eyes, he leaned back his head, scarcely aware when she got behind the wheel. Despite his best effort, shivers shook him. If only he could warm up. ‘‘I’ll have you inside out of this cold in just a few minutes,’’ Sara told him, praying he wouldn’t pass out. She didn’t know how on earth she could get him into her house if he was entirely deadweight. Flipping the heater on high, she passed the last of the pine trees and turned left in front of the tribal center building, circling the complex. With cold and trembling fingers, Nick clutched his arms, then winced as pain shot through his shoulder. He wondered vaguely if he had the strength to yank it back into place. He’d feel a lot better if he could figure out what the hell had happened. He’d had the Blazer serviced just be-

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fore leaving Butte and hadn’t had any indication of a problem until the explosion. Had someone messed with his vehicle sometime today? He’d left it for hours in parking lots at the cafe´, the library, the hospital. But who would try to harm him and why? He was new in town, had met but a few people. Or could it have had something to do with his investigation into Charlie Avery’s murder? Who was the mysterious woman he’d picked up? Had she been tossed clear as well? Where was she and where was his Blazer? With a groan he couldn’t prevent as pain sliced through his head, Nick opened his eyes and tried to focus. The lighted sign on the building just up ahead read Laughing Horse Tribal Police. Though it cost him, he swiveled toward the woman driving. ‘‘Where are you taking me?’’ he demanded in a voice that sounded rusty to his own ears. ‘‘To my house,’’ Sara answered calmly. But she hadn’t missed the fear in his question. Was it the sight of the police station that had him worried? ‘‘Are you in trouble with the law?’’ He frowned. ‘‘Not that I know of.’’ As she passed the building and drove on, finally turning into the driveway directly behind, she wondered if she’d made a colossal mistake by taking this stranger to her home. Parking as close to the front door as she could, Sara shut off the engine and lights, then turned to look at him. He seemed moments away from passing out again, trembling like a small boy sick with the flu. She’d lived most of her life going on instinct. Deep down inside, she simply felt the man posed no threat to her, rather that he might be in danger himself. From childhood, her mother had taught her that to help one another was one of the

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reasons people were put on earth and that it was the thing that separated humans from animals. Sara believed that with all her heart. ‘‘I’ll come around and help you out.’’ Quickly, she did just that, taking some of his weight as his heavy arm draped over her slender shoulders. Managing the two steps up onto the small porch wasn’t easy due to the difference of six inches or so in their heights and the gathered snow that made the painted boards slippery. Finally, she had him standing at the door. She fished her keys from her shoulder bag, maneuvered the lock open and moved inside with her burden. She turned on a lamp, then led him over to the couch facing the small corner fireplace. He all but fell onto it, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, pain from his shoulder and head causing him to grimace. Eyes closed, Nick struggled to keep from going under. Sara shrugged off her coat and was grateful she’d laid a fire yesterday. Hurriedly, she lighted the paper and kindling, watched the logs catch, then moved to the kitchen to turn up the furnace as well. She felt warm enough in a pale yellow sweater her mother had made for her and a navy wool skirt, but she could see that he was still shivering, undoubtedly a result of shock. First things first. From the bathroom medicine chest she gathered cotton, peroxide, bandages, antibiotic ointment and a basin with warm, soapy water. Before she called Kane, she’d have to see how extensive his main injuries were. Returning to the living room, she saw that he hadn’t moved. Dragging over a kitchen chair, she sat down facing him. Gently, she touched his face and felt that it was still cold and clammy. ‘‘Let me help you out of this jacket.’’ His

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eyes popped open and Sara couldn’t help but notice that they were a startling blue despite the dilation. ‘‘No. Cold.’’ The effort to talk had his face beading with sweat. ‘‘I know, and I’ll get you a blanket as soon as we clean you up. But first we need to put your shoulder back in place.’’ Reluctantly, because it hurt even more now to move, he struggled to a sitting position and allowed her to ease off his jacket. Underneath, he had on a plaid flannel shirt in red and blue. He turned to study his shoulder. ‘‘You know how to do that?’’ ‘‘Yes. We don’t have a hospital on the reservation, just a clinic. I’ve worked there as a volunteer for over ten years, on and off. Dr. Hunter stops by several times a week. I’ve learned a lot from him.’’ From his visit to the county hospital earlier, he remembered the name as being that of a staff doctor. Had that been today? Nick blinked, feeling wobbly, but at least he was following the conversation, which he felt was progress. He knew she was right, that the shoulder had to be popped back in. He also knew it would hurt like hell, and in his present condition, wasn’t sure if he’d pass out from the pain. ‘‘Then you’ve done this before?’’ ‘‘Once, on a boy about twelve who’d taken a tumble playing football.’’ And she’d felt young Lucas White Water’s pain more deeply that day than he had. ‘‘Yeah, me, too. High school football.’’ He swallowed around a dry throat. ‘‘Okay, go ahead.’’ Sara swallowed, too, only around a lump of fear. Lord, please don’t let me do more harm than good, she prayed. ‘‘It’d be easier if you could stand up.’’ Nick narrowed his eyes, studying her. He must really be out of it not to have noticed before this how beautiful

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she was. She was tall, five-seven or -eight, and slender, but with plenty of womanly curves beneath her sweater. Her eyes were large and so deep a brown they were almost black. He saw intelligence there and an enviable serenity, with just a hint of nerves. Her skin was the color of rich coffee with cream and absolutely flawless. And then there was her hair, thick, shiny and black, and so long it fell to her waist. Maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. ‘‘Who are you?’’ he asked, weaving a bit. She smiled and her face softened. ‘‘Sara Lewis.’’ She wondered how much he remembered, of the accident, of how he’d gotten here. One of the symptoms of shock was this drifting in and out of awareness, of random memory snatches. ‘‘I found you by the side of the road, remember?’’ Her voice was low and husky, sending shivers down his spine. Sexy. He liked it. ‘‘Yeah, I remember.’’ He looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, then back at her. ‘‘You brought me to your house.’’ ‘‘Yes. Now, let’s—’’ ‘‘How do you know I’m not an ax murderer or a serial killer?’’ If he were, would he joke about it? Sara asked herself. ‘‘Are you?’’ Slowly, he shook his head, his expression serious. ‘‘You shouldn’t trust strangers, you know. Dangerous, especially for a—a woman as beautiful as you are.’’ She let the compliment go, considering his present condition. ‘‘Would you like me to take you back to the side of the road?’’ A log shifted in the grate and he jerked in response to the noise, then stifled a moan as the resulting pain regis-

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tered. ‘‘Not just yet, I think.’’ He glanced down at his arm, dangling at an odd angle. ‘‘I’ll try to stand.’’ Refusing her assistance, Nick got to his feet and stood unsteadily. ‘‘Okay, just do it.’’ Sara rose. ‘‘I need to see the joint. Could I help you remove your shirt?’’ He nodded, then just stood there. Taking that as her cue, she unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that weren’t all that steady suddenly. He was so large, his shoulders so muscular. He was dressed like a rancher and looked as if he worked outdoors. She tugged his shirt from the waistband of his jeans and saw that his stomach was flat, his waist narrow. Curly blond hair darker than that on his head was generously sprinkled on his wide chest. As she pulled his good arm free of the shirt, then carefully disengaged his injured one, she found herself very close to him. Close enough to smell the decidedly masculine scent that emanated from his smooth skin. Sara cleared her throat, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. She was the calm one, always in control, levelheaded. But he was so very male and so near, and it had been a very long time since she’d been alone with a very attractive, half-undressed man. Keeping her expression bland, she stepped back and to the side of him, shifting her attention to his injured shoulder. The skin was marred by dark, ugly bruises. It was obvious that it had popped forward, probably from the impact of his body hitting the ground. ‘‘Since you’ve had this before, you know this is going to hurt, right?’’ Nick closed his eyes. ‘‘Yeah. Just do it.’’ Gripping his arm with both hands, Sara kept her eyes on the socket. Quickly, she gave a hard yank, pulling the

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arm forward, then around. She heard the muted sound of bone sliding against bone, and felt him shudder as he let out a deep-throated yell. She watched him fall back onto the couch, his face even paler than before. ‘‘It worked,’’ she told him unnecessarily, needing to speak to cover her anxiety. Sitting down alongside him, she reached into the basin for the warm washcloth. ‘‘Next, let’s take care of this gash.’’ The cut near his hairline had stopped bleeding, but it began again as she gently cleaned the area. It was so close to his temple that it worried her. She saw that he kept his eyes closed and didn’t move, which she appreciated. She made quick work of cleaning the more-minor cuts, then reached for the antibiotic ointment and dabbed a bit on the worst ones. The deep cut she bandaged carefully, then she picked up his hands. ‘‘You’ve got some bad scratches here.’’ When he didn’t respond, she went to work, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. But his breathing was too uneven, so she guessed he was trying to get through this by gritting his teeth. At least they’d stopped chattering as the heat from both the furnace and the fireplace raised the room to almost too hot a temperature. She’d have to change out of her heavy sweater soon, Sara thought. Finishing, she rose, setting aside the medical paraphernalia. She picked up his shirt and saw that it wasn’t torn, though his jeans had several jagged rips. Since she didn’t have anything else for him to change into, his own clothes would have to do. ‘‘Let’s put this back on.’’ Nick leaned forward and marginally assisted her in redressing him. He licked his parched lips. ‘‘Thirsty. Please, could I have something to drink?’’ Another sign of shock. ‘‘Sure. I have orange juice, milk, water.’’

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He frowned as the pain in his shoulder began to throb steadily. ‘‘Got any whiskey to put in the water?’’ He couldn’t have known that she’d never served whiskey in her home, Sara thought. Not after her alcoholic father had left her mother and his two children when Sara had been just eight. They’d heard two months later that he’d died in a head-on collision after falling asleep behind the wheel, dead drunk as usual. Far too many other men on the reservation—men under-educated and jobless—had turned to liquor when they’d run out of hope. The sorry situation had left such a bad taste in Sara’s mouth that she’d avoided alcohol all her life. ‘‘Afraid not.’’ His frown deepened. ‘‘Not even wine?’’ ‘‘No. It’s water straight or one of the others. What’ll it be?’’ She knew her voice was several notches cooler. Nick looked up at her, trying in his hazy mind to determine why she was suddenly so distant. ‘‘I’m not a drinker, if that’s what you’re thinking.’’ He touched his shoulder gingerly. ‘‘It’s just that this hurts like all the fires of hell.’’ ‘‘I’ll get you some aspirin.’’ She left the room. Swell. Aspirin. Nick gazed into the fire, then around the small living room again to keep his mind off the pain. It was in shades of ivory, green and peach. Cozy, his mother would have called it. Two easy chairs set at angles on both sides of a table. The couch, which was not only quite long, but comfortable. A bookcase along the far wall crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers. A stereo on a shelf, some records and photos. A serene watercolor hanging on the side wall. Lots of plants and toss pillows. No television, and he wondered why. Didn’t everyone have a TV? Sara returned and handed him two aspirins and a tall

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glass of cold orange juice. He drank them both down, then shivered again. ‘‘I should be going. You’ve been very helpful, but...’’ The very thought of going out into the cold night had him closing his eyes wearily. ‘‘I don’t think you’re in any shape to go anywhere tonight.’’ Sara walked to the front window and peered out. ‘‘It’s really snowing now. And you have no car, remember?’’ She pulled the drapes shut to help keep out the wind. None of the houses on the reservation were terribly well built. Walking back to him, she stood looking down into his face. Even with the pain lines, he reminded her of someone. Someone she’d spent many years trying to forget. Sara tilted her head, studying him. A lock of his thick blond hair fell boyishly onto his forehead and she could see a tan beneath his pallor. His eyes were the color of a Montana sky in summertime. This man had more character and maturity than Jack probably had even today. Actually, he resembled Robert Redford when he’d appeared in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. ‘‘If you’re going to be my overnight guest, do you think you could tell me your name?’’ He roused himself, realizing he owed her that at the very least. ‘‘Nick Dean. I’m a private investigator from Butte. I’m working on a case in Whitehorn. Charlie Avery. His remains were found on Laughing Horse Reservation recently.’’ ‘‘Yes, I heard about that. About twenty miles from here.’’ His eyes opened slowly. ‘‘From here?’’ ‘‘Uh-huh. You’re on that very same reservation.’’ She watched the knowledge register. ‘‘And you’re an...’’ ‘‘An Indian, yes. Or a Native American, as some pre-

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fer.’’ She tossed her long hair back over her shoulder challengingly. ‘‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you somewhere now that you know that? I might have a tomahawk tucked in my purse.’’ He frowned again. ‘‘Why would you say that? Don’t put yourself down, or your people. And don’t resort to cliche´s. You’re Indian, I’m not. So what?’’ He rubbed his aching head. ‘‘I rarely take aspirin. How long before it starts to work?’’ Sara was nonplussed, something she rarely was. She’d never heard any white person, man or woman, dismiss cultural differences so casually. Perhaps it was his concussion. She’d have to see how he reacted in the morning. ‘‘Not long,’’ she said, preferring to answer his medical question rather than discuss his other comments. ‘‘You probably haven’t eaten. I’m going to heat some chicken soup for myself. Would you like a bowl?’’ ‘‘I don’t think so. My stomach’s a little queasy.’’ From the shock he’d suffered, she decided. ‘‘Maybe a nice cup of tea with honey and lemon.’’ He almost smiled. ‘‘That’s exactly what my mother used to fix for me when I had a cold.’’ ‘‘Mine, too. Perhaps we’re not so very different after all.’’ Sara started for the kitchen, but his next comment stopped her in her tracks. ‘‘Oh, yes, we are,’’ Nick said to her retreating back. She swung about to face him, raising a questioning brow. ‘‘I’m a man and you’re definitely a woman.’’ This time he did smile. ‘‘I may be in shock, but my eyes are working just fine.’’ Taken aback once more, Sara took her time fixing his tea. When she returned with it, she found he’d managed to remove his boots and was lying on the couch on his

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good side, sound asleep. She set down the teacup and sighed. What had she gotten herself into? she wondered.

Two S

eated at her kitchen table, Sara took a sip of her tea, then picked up the wall phone and dialed the sheriff’s office. It was time for a few answers. She’d known Sheriff Judd Hensley, a big, muscular man eminently suited for his position, for years. She’d been saddened when Judd and his wife, Tracy, had lost their only son eight years ago and had subsequently divorced. Tracy had concentrated on her work with the FBI and was one of their finest forensic anthropologists. Judd had also buried himself in his work. Sara had been extremely pleased to hear that Judd and Tracy had worked out their problems and recently remarried. The phone was picked up on the fifth ring and Sara recognized Tracy’s voice. ‘‘Hi. It’s Sara Lewis. Are you working with Judd on the night shift?’’ Tracy laughed. ‘‘Not exactly. I came to pick him up, since we had plans to go to dinner and then do some shopping. But he’s out on a call and so are both deputies. I only answered the phone because I thought it might be Judd.’’ Sara gazed out her kitchen window. Since she’d arrived home, it seemed as if at least two inches had accumulated on the ground outside. She’d rather have talked with one of the deputies, but it appeared that she was stuck with Tracy, who probably wouldn’t know much. ‘‘A lot going on tonight?’’

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‘‘Sort of. This unexpected early snow’s caused a couple of accidents already. Judd left a note for me. Something about rushing to check on a call about a truck catching fire on Route 191. I really thought he’d be back by now. Do you need something, Sara?’’ Tracy had already told her exactly what she’d wanted to know. ‘‘Nothing that can’t wait. I’ll catch him later. Was anyone hurt in that fire, do you know?’’ ‘‘I won’t know till Judd returns. Why, is someone missing from the reservation?’’ She really didn’t want to say more to Tracy, mostly because the sheriff’s wife was all too friendly with Lily Mae Wheeler, a woman who lived in town and was the worst gossip Sara had ever run across. ‘‘Not that I know of. Listen, I’ll let you go. Take care, Tracy.’’ ‘‘You, too.’’ Sara replaced the receiver thoughtfully. So Nick Dean, private investigator from Butte, had been telling the truth. At least as far as it went. Who, she couldn’t help wondering, was the woman he’d wanted her to go help, and where was she now? Was she real or had he imagined her? Sara hadn’t dared bring up the subject to Tracy for fear of arousing her suspicions. Sipping more tea, Sara wondered when she’d aligned herself with the stranger sleeping on her couch. It was just that he’d seemed genuinely worried that perhaps he was in some sort of danger. An explosion, he’d said, then the fire. Luckily, he’d been thrown free, but what of the woman he’d seemed so worried about? Yet he hadn’t mentioned her since she’d brought him inside. Investigators by their very profession, especially when they were looking into what the newspapers had labeled a twenty-year-old murder, were likely to rile folks up. Perhaps the person who’d done in poor Charlie Avery, a man

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Sara had never met, was now after Nick. Maybe Nick’s asking questions around town, which she’d heard mentioned at work, was upsetting people. People who apparently wouldn’t stop with one murder. That seemed to put a different slant on her taking him in. Sara drained her cup and carried it to the sink, where her soup bowl was soaking. Was her imagination working overtime here? Was she jumping to conclusions because the man was a detective? But still, Tracy had said there really had been a truck on fire up on the highway. Nick could easily have rolled down the embankment, passed out and awakened facing Pale Bluff Lane. Disoriented, he’d likely staggered along, finally reaching the reservation. Perhaps tomorrow he’d remember more. Again, Sara picked up the phone, this time calling Kane Hunter at the hospital. The receptionist said she’d page him, so Sara waited, watching the heavy snow fall. If this kept up all night, they’d definitely be snowed in by morning. And tomorrow was Friday, the day Jason Eagle, their head curator, usually took off. She knew that her Volkswagen had trouble making it into town in really deep snow, since the reservation had no snow-removal service. Of course, if it got really bad, the museum would likely be closed. That sort of thing happened frequently during Montana winters, although mid-October was quite early for a really severe storm. ‘‘Dr. Hunter here.’’ Kane’s voice came on, sounding rushed as always. ‘‘Hi, Kane. This is Sara. I’m terribly sorry to bother you again tonight, but I need a bit of advice.’’ She pictured him at one of the paging phones near the O.R., probably in his green scrubs, his dark eyes impatient. ‘‘No problem. What do you need?’’ Kane rarely had time to waste. Quickly, she told him

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she’d picked up an injured man after an accident, described Nick’s wounds and what she’d done so far, then waited. ‘‘Who is he?’’ She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal, even to a trusted friend. She didn’t want to put Nick in more jeopardy, or herself for that matter, since he was in her home. ‘‘If I tell you, it must be between the two of us only.’’ Kane thought that over. ‘‘I don’t like secrets. Is he a stranger?’’ ‘‘He’s new in town.’’ More than that, she’d rather not say. ‘‘I’m not sure if he’s got a concussion, which is my main worry.’’ ‘‘You want to bring him in?’’ ‘‘No. Tell me what signs to look for. Right now, he’s asleep.’’ Kane let out an aggravated rush of air. He’d grown up with Sara and knew how stubborn she could be. ‘‘You need to wake him periodically, ask him ordinary questions he should know the answers to. If he can’t answer them, he probably has more than a minor concussion. Does he have a bump on his head anywhere? Any vomiting or amnesia?’’ ‘‘I haven’t checked for a bump. He’s a little nauseated but not sick. He doesn’t appear to have amnesia, though he’s quite vague about some things.’’ She recalled Nick’s last comment—that she was definitely a woman—and the accompanying grin. ‘‘Yet very aware of other things. I treated him for shock, as I mentioned, and his pupils aren’t quite so dilated anymore. The chills have also stopped.’’ The last time she’d checked, when she’d covered him with the blanket, the clamminess was gone from his skin and his color was improving.

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‘‘Is he going to stay the night? Surely, not alone with you?’’ Not only because of his profession but because of their friendship and the fact that he was four years older than she, Kane had always been overly protective of her. ‘‘Will you stop worrying? I’m fine.’’ Kane fumed quietly. ‘‘I’d stop by later, but I doubt I’ll get out of here until very late. I’ve got a woman in labor, a man who’s had a heart attack and an accident case that came in a few minutes ago.’’ Sara’s ears perked up. ‘‘An accident? What kind?’’ ‘‘You don’t want to know. A burn victim. Sheriff’s office had to all but pry her out of the truck.’’ Sara swallowed around a wave of nausea. ‘‘She’s gone?’’ ‘‘Of course. No one could have lived through that. Judd’s looking into it.’’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘‘Listen, if that’s all, I’ve got to go. Why don’t you at least call Summer to stay with you? I’d feel a lot better knowing you weren’t there alone with a stranger.’’ One day Sara’s tender heart was going to get her in trouble. She couldn’t ask her mother to come over and stay the night, Sara thought. Summer Lewis worked long hours at the reservation’s trading post, took care of her own elderly mother, who lived with her, and most evenings took dinner to several older widows, food she cooked in the early hours of the morning. ‘‘I’ll think about it,’’ she hedged. Kane let out a resigned sigh. She didn’t fool him for a minute. ‘‘Keep an eye on him during the night and give him lots of liquids. If the weather doesn’t worsen, I’ll stop by tomorrow sometime.’’ ‘‘Thanks, Kane.’’ Again, she hung up. At least it appeared as if she hadn’t done anything to harm her unexpected guest.

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She stared at the phone, wondering if she should call Clyde White Feather, the tribal police chief. The office was right behind her home, but Clyde was probably in his own house half a mile from hers. What would she tell him—that she’d picked up an injured man, tended to him and he was sleeping peacefully on her couch? What purpose would that serve? Clyde would offer to come over if she indicated she was frightened. Which she wasn’t. No, she’d go it alone and trust her instincts. Turning out the light, she went into the living room. He was asleep much as she’d left him, his breathing deep and only a little labored. She touched his face and found it warm, but not sweaty. In sleep, his features relaxed, he looked even more appealing she noticed. In his early thirties, she’d guess. Was the woman who’d been in his truck someone significant to him? As attractive as he was, he surely had someone special in his life. Then again, he’d scarcely mentioned her after getting into Sara’s car. She’d tell him what she’d learned in the morning, provided he was better. Now, he needed worry-free rest. Turning, she stirred up the fire, put on another log, then walked to her bedroom. She didn’t want to sit around in a bath with a man in her living room, but she’d take a quick shower. Then she’d wake Nick and ask him questions as Kane had instructed. It was going to be a long night. The howling wind woke him. Nick came awake instantly, as was his habit. He opened his eyes and, for a moment, wasn’t quite certain where he was. Then he saw the fire still glowing, the cozy room and his rescuer asleep on a chair across from him, one long leg stretched out onto the ottoman, the other curled under her. She’d changed into a pink sweatshirt and well-washed jeans. A

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green-and-white afghan was bunched across her middle. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the fire, which was probably why she’d shoved aside the cover. He lay studying her, wondering what Good Samaritan urge had compelled her to take a stranger into her home. These were dangerous times, as his business all too often made him aware. Sara Lewis didn’t look like a careless or foolish woman. It had to be that her caring instincts were deeply ingrained. Fortunately, she’d happened upon someone who would do her no harm. This time. But he hoped she didn’t make a habit of picking up strangers. Memory slammed into Nick. He, too, had picked up a stranger tonight. The woman hitchhiker. His foggy mind had let him forget her for a while, but now he grimaced, wondering at her fate. The wind that had awakened him was testimony that the night weather had only worsened. The woman hadn’t seemed well before the accident. Had she been tossed free of the burning truck on the passenger side? He hoped so. That thought brought about another, as snatches of memory came drifting back. An explosion. His mind felt much clearer now and he distinctly remembered hearing an explosion just before seeing flames, and then shooting out of the truck as if shoved by a huge, ruthless hand. Nick knew he wasn’t a deeply religious man, yet he silently thanked the gods that he hadn’t fastened his seat belt. He knew using seat belts was the safe, prudent thing to do, but he hated the restriction, especially when he was wearing a heavy jacket. In this instance, his stubborn resistance just may have saved his life. He might be nothing but charred remains if he hadn’t been able to free himself immediately. He maintained his Blazer with the careful attention of a man who regularly had to depend on his vehicle in a

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state where harsh weather was the norm for months on end. That had to mean that someone had tampered with it. He’d been in Whitehorn less than a week, but he’d apparently ruffled some feathers with the questions he’d been asking around town. He was investigating a twentyyear-old murder. Evidently he’d gotten close enough to scare someone enough to want to put him out of commission. The thought was more chilling than the freezing wind outside. He returned his attention to the woman sleeping two feet from him. There wasn’t a speck of makeup on her face, yet she was even more beautiful than he’d realized earlier. If he leaned just a little, he could touch her, and suddenly, he badly wanted to. There was something about escaping death that made a man want close contact with another human being, to reaffirm that he was indeed still alive. But he knew she’d probably toss him out on his ear if he awakened her that way. He didn’t want to be a problem, since he had a lot to thank her for. In the morning she’d drive him back to his motel and he’d likely never see her again. She lived on the reservation and probably seldom strayed from it. From what he’d heard from the people in town, the Northern Cheyenne who lived on Laughing Horse pretty much kept to themselves, except for a very few. The Indians had been appalled when Charlie Avery’s remains had been found on their land, as if his very presence brought with it a taint of guilt. Nick didn’t think so. From what Melissa had told him about her father, twenty years ago Charlie had been young and restless, a man who’d made several enemies in his short life. But among the white people in town, not the Indians. From everything Nick had learned, the Northern

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Cheyenne were peaceful and wouldn’t harm a man who’d wandered onto their reservation. His own inadvertent arrival last night proved that. One of their own had taken him in. He shifted his gaze back to his reluctant hostess. She had thick black lashes that rested on her cheeks now. Her mouth was full and beautifully shaped. She’d apparently bathed, for he could pick up a light floral scent, like bath powder, over the pungent wood aroma from the fireplace. She’d fixed her hair into a long braid that draped along one shoulder, and he wished she’d left it loose and free. She’d gotten somewhat bristly and decidedly defensive over the Indian thing, and he wondered why. There’d been Indians in and around the area where Nick had grown up, but his parents had taught him early that the color of a man’s skin told you absolutely nothing about him. It was what was in his heart and head that counted. Apparently Sara Lewis had her own prejudices, perhaps fashioned from some bad experiences. During his college days in Bozeman, Nick remembered that some of his classmates had deeply resented the few Indians who’d attended, most on scholarships. Nick had never understood why. Still, he thought as he watched her chest rise and fall with her deep breathing, Sara couldn’t be too prejudiced or she’d never have taken a white man into her home, especially since she lived alone. Feeling stiff from lying in one position so long, and suddenly realizing he was very thirsty, Nick shifted, moving into a sitting position. A quick stab of pain shot through his shoulder and had him releasing an involuntary groan. Sara heard him and came awake quickly. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

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‘‘Yeah. I just hurt like hell.’’ Easing his legs from the couch, Nick became aware of other bruises along his back and rib cage. One hip also ached, probably from when he’d hit the ground after dropping from the Blazer. He touched the cut near his temple and felt a bandage. At least his headache was gone. ‘‘What’s your name?’’ Sara asked. He looked at her, frowning. ‘‘I told you, Nick Dean.’’ ‘‘And where are you from?’’ He glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘‘Isn’t two in the morning an odd time to be playing twenty questions?’’ Shoving free of the afghan, Sara got to her feet. ‘‘I think you may have a concussion. When that’s a possibility, it’s best to question the patient every couple of hours to make sure they’re coherent and aware. Otherwise, you might need hospital attention.’’ His color appeared normal, she was pleased to see, and his pupils, too. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching a bit. ‘‘I seem to recall being awakened earlier and someone demanding that I talk to them.’’ ‘‘Yes, that was me. You weren’t very nice.’’ He glanced up sheepishly. ‘‘What’d I say?’’ ‘‘You told me to leave you the hell alone. That was the first time. The second session you told me to go away or you’d punch my lights out.’’ He saw the hint of amusement in her eyes and relaxed. ‘‘Sorry about that. I guess I was a little out of it. I’m not usually so rude, especially not to someone who rescues me.’’ ‘‘Would you allow me to check your head, to see if there’s a bump that might indicate a concussion?’’ ‘‘Sure, if you don’t mind if I whimper a little. I hurt in places I didn’t even know I had.’’ Sara stepped close to where he was sitting and slowly

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pushed her hands into his thick hair. She felt him shiver and wondered if his chills were back. With sensitive fingers, she probed his scalp carefully, looking for a possible cut or a raised bump. It was silly, considering his condition, but she felt a jolt of awareness at touching him so intimately. She forgot for a moment that he was hurt and trusting her to help him. She thought of him only as a man, an extremely attractive man. Nick took a deep breath and knew instantly that it was a mistake. She smelled so good, like wildflowers on a summer day, like everything female. He felt his body’s instant hardening response and shifted uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn’t notice. ‘‘Find anything?’’ he asked, his voice husky. He knew he couldn’t take too much more of her warm, womanly nearness. Sara sensed the change in his breathing and stepped back. His lips were parted, drawing her attention. They were full and inviting, causing her to wonder how they’d feel pressed to hers. Appalled at her mental meanderings, she put a chill in her voice. ‘‘No, but I wanted to be sure. Dr. Hunter advised me to check.’’ He sat up straighter, wincing at the effort. ‘‘You told someone I was here?’’ Sara backed up farther and sat down on the ottoman facing him, feeling on safer ground. ‘‘Not exactly. Kane’s a friend and I called to make sure I was doing the right thing regarding your injuries. But I didn’t tell him your name.’’ He looked skeptical. ‘‘You told him you happened on a stranger who might have a concussion, took him home and needed advice?’’ She shrugged. ‘‘More or less. Kane knows me, knows I’m apt to do just that, but that I’m careful.’’ She tilted her head, nodding toward the rear of the house. ‘‘Besides,

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the tribal police are right behind me.’’ He wouldn’t know it was seldom that anyone was on duty all night. ‘‘And the chief lives nearby.’’ He remembered passing the building last night. He’d fleetingly thought she’d intended to drop him there. He’d underestimated her. ‘‘You’ve done this before then— taken in a stranger?’’ She debated with herself about what to tell him, then decided the truth was best. ‘‘No, I haven’t.’’ ‘‘Then why me?’’ Sara thought he looked honestly perplexed. ‘‘You were in need and I came along. Is that so unusual? I’d have stopped for my neighbor’s dog.’’ That certainly put him in his place, Nick thought. Sara stood again. ‘‘Are you thirsty? Hungry? Do you need more aspirin?’’ ‘‘I am thirsty, but not especially hungry. At least my head doesn’t hurt anymore.’’ ‘‘I’ll get you more juice, or would you prefer milk or water?’’ ‘‘Juice is fine.’’ Holding on to the arm of the couch, he got to his feet somewhat unsteadily. And felt the room sway, causing him to sit back down rather quickly. Concerned, Sara moved to him. ‘‘If you’d let me, I’d help you to my guest room. I think you’d find the bed far more comfortable than this couch. I tried to get you to move earlier, but I couldn’t wake you enough.’’ ‘‘Give me a minute.’’ Eyes closed, Nick felt even the darkness swirling. Apparently he wasn’t as free of the aftereffects as he’d thought. He hated having to lean on her, but there seemed no other way. And the couch was about a foot short of accommodating his height. ‘‘All right.’’ As he stood, she slipped an arm around his waist and waited until his good arm slid along her shoulders. ‘‘It’s

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the first door on the left off the hallway.’’ They walked, Sara very aware he was trying not to let her bear too much of his weight. She’d turned down the double bed earlier and now helped him ease into it. Looking exhausted, he fell back onto the pillows. She pulled the comforter up to cover him. ‘‘I’ll get that juice.’’ When she returned with it, she saw that he’d removed his jeans, tossed them aside and bunched both pillows under his head. She tried not to picture those strong, hard thighs under her grandmother’s quilt and handed him the glass. As he drank, she heard his stomach rumble. ‘‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?’’ Suddenly he did, but he hated being such a bother, especially in the middle of the night. ‘‘I don’t want to trouble you.’’ ‘‘It’s no trouble. I think you’ll sleep better.’’ Sara heated the soup and cut a generous slice of bread to go with it. She carried the tray in to him and saw that he was sitting up. Watching, she saw him take the first spoonful, then look up at her with those deep blue eyes. ‘‘This is really good.’’ Sara pulled up a low-back chair. He seemed alert enough, with no signs of a concussion and the shock symptoms nearly gone. He was probably hurting, from his shoulder and possibly the gash in his head, as well as from many smaller bruises. A tumble out of a high Blazer onto frozen ground, then a roll down a wintry hill full of brambles and prickly bushes likely had left him sore all over. Fortunately, he’d been in good shape, which meant he’d heal quickly. ‘‘You look more as if you worked outdoors rather than behind a desk,’’ she began, hoping to learn more about him. She had a feeling Kane would be dropping in to-

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morrow with questions, and she wanted to have some answers for him. Nick swallowed another savory mouthful. ‘‘My father owns a construction business outside Red Lodge. I used to work with him and still help out occasionally when things are slow in my office. My folks also have a small ranch—some cattle, a couple of horses. Nothing fancy.’’ So that’s where he’d gotten those muscled shoulders. She curled her feet under her and let him eat for several minutes before starting in again. ‘‘What made you switch from construction and ranching to detective work?’’ He chewed a chunk of warm bread thoughtfully before answering. ‘‘I get restless. I enjoy building homes and ranching’s okay. But staying in one place too long makes me antsy. That’s why I took off after college and did my share of drifting. Worked a lot of odd jobs, lived in a lot of places. Finally, I joined the police force in Butte and worked vice for a while. Nasty business.’’ He scooped up more soup. A restless man who liked a frequent change of scene and new challenges. So many men she knew were like that, a fact that had always puzzled Sara. Perhaps because she had no desire to pack up periodically and live elsewhere. ‘‘After I quit the force, I went back to work for Dad for a while again. Then a college friend asked me to come back to Butte and look into opening a private-investigation firm with him. I always liked Nate, so I did.’’ ‘‘Apparently you enjoy your work.’’ He shrugged with his good shoulder. ‘‘It has its moments. I’ve got to admit, there’s rarely a dull week. The people who come to us for assistance are endlessly fascinating.’’ Reading between the lines, Sara decided that once P.I.

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work stopped being fascinating, he’d move on. Men like Nick Dean grew bored easily. Nick glanced at her between spoonfuls and saw her studying him in her patient, watchful way. She wasn’t one to press, it seemed, just let him say what he would in his own time. He liked that about her. Finished, he leaned back into the pillows. ‘‘I got married right after college, but it didn’t work out.’’ He checked out her left hand, then met her eyes. ‘‘How about you? Married, divorced, involved?’’ She wasn’t surprised at his question, but rather at how much about himself he’d revealed on such short acquaintance. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the hour or the aftermath of his accident. ‘‘None of the above. Who was the woman in your Blazer, the one you wanted me to go help?’’ Nick frowned, remembering. ‘‘I don’t know. She was hitchhiking and I picked her up—not more than five or ten minutes before the explosion. She was just standing at the side of the highway. I didn’t see a car around or anyone else. I don’t know how she got there, practically in the middle of nowhere.’’ ‘‘Did she tell you her name?’’ ‘‘No. I asked, but she seemed to be in her own world. The only thing I got out of her was that she wasn’t from around here, but she’d come back to make sure she was all right. When I asked who this ‘she’ was, she closed her eyes, looking kind of sick. Next thing I know, there’s fire everywhere and I’m sailing down this hill.’’ Though Sara looked deceptively calm, her interest had been aroused. Two strangers in Whitehorn on the same day was unique in itself. ‘‘Describe her.’’ He did, but Sara shook her head. ‘‘I’ve never seen her. So you don’t know any more about her than that?’’

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‘‘No. Why, do you?’’ She looked away for a moment, then back to him. ‘‘I’m afraid so. Kane told me they’d brought in a burn victim from an accident on Route 191.’’ Thank goodness. Help must have arrived while he’d been wandering about, disoriented. ‘‘What’s her condition?’’ ‘‘I’m afraid she didn’t make it.’’ Nick frowned, then shook his head. ‘‘Poor thing. She was young, you know. Around twenty-five. And she didn’t look well.’’ His lips became a thin line. ‘‘She had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In a Blazer that apparently someone had tampered with. If only I hadn’t picked her up.’’ She saw regret, then anger in his eyes, and felt better. A man who cared about others, even strangers, probably wouldn’t do harm. ‘‘I understand the sheriff’s looking into the accident.’’ His eyes narrowed. ‘‘Did you talk to him, too?’’ ‘‘No, just his wife.’’ ‘‘Who else did you call while I was asleep?’’ Sara’s gaze cooled. ‘‘Listen, you’re a stranger, one I took into my home, and you told a rather rambling story. I believe I have the right to check it out.’’ ‘‘So when will the sheriff be here, at first light or any minute now?’’ Sara crossed her arms over her chest, not letting him see her quick flash of temper. ‘‘You’re a real trusting soul, aren’t you? Seems to me that I’m the one at risk here, yet you don’t trust me.’’ ‘‘I’m the one whose Blazer exploded. That’s apt to make anyone a little uneasy, wouldn’t you say?’’ ‘‘Well, I didn’t blow it up. I’m the one who took you in.’’

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He let out a rush of air, feeling tired. ‘‘You’re right and I apologize.’’ She heard him, but she had trouble setting aside her annoyance. ‘‘For the record, I didn’t tell the sheriff’s wife one word about you, nor did I say much more to Kane.’’ That confused him even more. ‘‘Why? Why were you protecting me, when you didn’t know many of the details and you don’t know me?’’ Sara tossed her braid over her shoulder. ‘‘Probably because I’m a poor judge of people.’’ Rising, she glanced at the bedside clock. ‘‘It’s late and I have to go to work in the morning.’’ ‘‘Where do you work?’’ ‘‘At the Native American Museum in Whitehorn.’’ She walked over and leaned down to pick up his bed tray, but before she could grasp it, his long, lean fingers closed around her wrist. His grip was stronger than she’d have guessed after his ordeal. Her eyes flew to his face. The coolness was still in them, Nick noted and he hated it after her earlier warmth. ‘‘I said I was sorry,’’ he told her, ‘‘and I meant it. I—I guess I’m surprised at how much you’ve put yourself out for me.’’ ‘‘I’m fairly bright, you know. I, too, figured out that perhaps someone might have tried to do you in.’’ He felt her pulse scramble beneath his fingers and wondered if it was from her temper or his touch. Her hand was so much smaller than his, the bones almost fragile. ‘‘Then I have even more to thank you for.’’ His gaze drifted to the heavily draped window. ‘‘I’m not comfortable with putting you in possible danger.’’ ‘‘No one came along when I picked you up. And no one knows you’re here, not even the people I spoke with.’’ He gave a slight tug on her arm, bringing her down to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘‘Then we’re in hiding together,

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two outlaws—one probably already wanted for questioning in a suspicious explosion in which a woman was killed, and the other for harboring a fugitive.’’ ‘‘You make it sound like a bad television cop show.’’ He was relieved to see her features had relaxed. He didn’t want her angry with him. He decided that he liked Sara Lewis. She also intrigued him. ‘‘You don’t have a television.’’ ‘‘Sure I do. In my bedroom. But I seldom watch it. Not much on worth watching.’’ But her mind kept returning to the problem at hand. ‘‘They’ll be able to trace ownership of the Blazer to you through the registration or the license plates, if they weren’t destroyed.’’ Nick turned her hand over in his, tracing her smooth skin with his thumb. ‘‘Depends on how much was left after the explosion. That fire had to have been very hot. It’ll take them awhile, I’m sure.’’ His eyes sought hers. ‘‘Would it be a problem if I stayed here, just until I can sort things out? I’d like to heal a bit and try to figure out just who tried to kill me.’’ Sara’s pulse was jumping erratically and her skin was heating from his touch. A problem if he stayed here? Oh, yes, that it would be. But if she refused him, where would he go? She pulled her hand free and walked to the window, almost gasping as she pulled the drape aside. ‘‘The problem may be taken out of our hands. There’s about a foot of snow on the ground already and it’s still coming down.’’ She closed the drapes and turned back to him. ‘‘We may be housebound for a day or so.’’ But she’d already been more than kind. ‘‘I’ll find a way to leave if you’d prefer that.’’ He could always call Melissa to come get him, take him back to the motel, then rent a car when he felt better. Nick didn’t want to do that, but

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he would if Sara didn’t want him here. ‘‘I don’t want to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable.’’ What kind of person would send an injured man out into a near blizzard? Slowly, she moved back to the bed, but not close enough that he could touch her again. ‘‘I have no problem with you staying and you’re not crowding me. It’s not a mansion, but there’s certainly room enough for two.’’ He was certain his relief must have shown on his face, for he saw a softening of her features. ‘‘I’ll try to stay out of your way and not be too much trouble.’’ ‘‘Please, stop saying that.’’ This time she picked up the tray. ‘‘Is there anything else I can get you before I go to my room?’’ ‘‘Uh, the bathroom. It’s...’’ ‘‘Right next door. I’ve put out clean towels. Do you want me to help you?’’ ‘‘No, no. I can make it. But thanks.’’ If he had to crawl, he wasn’t about to let her take him to the bathroom. She turned toward the door so he wouldn’t see how badly she wanted to smile. Did he think she planned to go inside with him? ‘‘Just call out if you need anything.’’ ‘‘Okay. Sleep well.’’ Nick watched her walk out, leaving the door slightly ajar. He’d wait until he heard her bedroom door close, then he’d manage somehow to make it next door. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, just for a moment. Damn, if only he didn’t feel so incredibly weak. She was just drifting off when she heard the crash. Jumping out of bed, Sara grabbed her robe, shrugged into it and tied the sash as she hurried down the hallway. She could see a light coming from beneath the closed bathroom door. ‘‘Nick, are you all right?’’

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She heard a groan and decided she’d have to take a chance. She shoved open the door. He was standing with one hand braced on the sink. Dangling in his other hand was the towel bar that somehow had gotten ripped off the wall. He wore only dark blue briefs and a miserable expression. ‘‘I’m sorry. I got dizzy and grabbed the towel rack. I guess I put too much strain on it.’’ She didn’t quite smile, though it was pretty funny. Or perhaps it was just relief that he hadn’t fallen and injured himself further. ‘‘It’s all right. Are you feeling better now?’’ ‘‘I’ll fix it, I promise.’’ ‘‘Not tonight, I hope. Why don’t we get you back into bed?’’ She took the towel rack from him and placed it on the floor near the tub, then slipped an arm around him. Her fingers touched warm, taut masculine flesh and she tried not to react. More importantly, she tried to keep her eyes above his waist. ‘‘Ready?’’ Wordlessly, he allowed her to help him back to bed. He watched her settle the heavy quilt around him, noticing the intricate design for the first time. ‘‘Did you make this?’’ ‘‘My grandmother did, many years ago.’’ ‘‘It’s too nice to put on a spare bed. You should be sleeping under it.’’ She checked his eyes to see if there was a double meaning in his comment, but decided there wasn’t. ‘‘I have others. Are you warm enough?’’ ‘‘Yeah, this is great. I’ll try not to disturb you again.’’ Just then there was a rough, sliding sound coming from outside the window, then a heavy thump. His nerves on edge, Nick sat up too quickly, pain slicing through his shoulder.

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But Sara was already across the room, peering out. ‘‘It’s nothing. A clump of snow slid off the overhang and landed on the shed. The roof’s tin, which is why it sounded so loud.’’ Nick relaxed, easing back onto soft pillows. ‘‘There’s that much snow?’’ For a long moment she watched the growing accumulation. ‘‘Yes. I remember only one other time when we had this much snow this early in the season. I was ten and my brother, Paul, was twelve. The schools were closed and we were thrilled, naturally. We built this huge fort alongside our house. When it was finished, Paul dared me to climb up and slide down.’’ Drawing the drapes closed, she walked back to the bed, unaware she was smiling at the memory. ‘‘I never could resist a dare, so I did it. Only I didn’t slide down. I fell down and broke my arm. My mother was furious with Paul, even though I kept telling her it was my own fault. Paul didn’t make me climb up.’’ Nick had missed growing up with siblings and had always wanted a brother. ‘‘What did your father do?’’ Her face changed, closing in. ‘‘My father died before that incident. My mother had to be both parents, and she was.’’ Something there, Nick thought. She seemed to resent her father for dying and leaving them. ‘‘Does your brother live here, too?’’ Sara adjusted the belt of her robe, wondering why she’d started this with someone she scarcely knew, even though he’d told her half his life story and she’d seen him stripped down to his underwear. ‘‘No. He’s married, lives in Billings and works for his wife’s family business.’’ Nick got the feeling she didn’t approve of her brother’s choices. He was probably married to a white woman if

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there was a family business. Nick didn’t think there were many businesses owned by Indians in Billings. There was that Indian-white thing again. ‘‘I guess you don’t have any family left here on Laughing Horse.’’ ‘‘My mother’s here and I have several aunts and uncles, lots of cousins. And my grandmother, the one who made the quilts, lives with my mother. She just turned eighty.’’ ‘‘I envy you,’’ Nick said honestly. ‘‘An only child usually envies big families. It’s a lonely way to grow up.’’ Sara shoved her hands into the robe’s pockets and studied him. She’d never met a white man quite like Nick Dean. He didn’t ask the usual questions, the ones about life on a reservation that annoyed her no end. People from other parts who’d never been exposed to Indians had the movie version of a reservation in their minds, certain that everyone lived in teepees, used war paint periodically and sat around chewing buffalo hides for recreation. Nick listened and seemed to find similarities rather than differences. It was unnerving. ‘‘I suppose the grass is always greener, as they say. Paul and I are very different and still seldom see eye-to-eye. We used to fight a lot, but now we just have discussions. The adult version of disagreeing.’’ Nick didn’t smile. ‘‘Still, I’d have given a lot to have had a brother. The construction crew was like family, since most of the guys have been with Dad for years. But there was no one my age, you know.’’ ‘‘Is that the real reason you left home and wandered around?’’ ‘‘I suppose. Looking for something. Damned if I know what.’’ He struggled with a yawn, wondering how this conversation had moved onto a track he wasn’t all that comfortable with. Middle-of-the-night chats usually ended

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up soul searching. He didn’t mind talking about himself and his past, but in-depth analyses made him feel awkward. ‘‘Guess you’d better get some sleep if you have to go to work in the morning.’’ Sara shot a glance toward the window. ‘‘I doubt that anyone will be leaving Laughing Horse tomorrow. We don’t have snow-removal service. Could take all day to shovel out.’’ ‘‘Then I guess your doctor friend won’t be able to get through, either.’’ ‘‘Oh, I don’t know. Hunter’s very tenacious.’’ Hand on the doorknob, she looked at him. ‘‘Sleep well.’’ ‘‘You, too.’’ To his great surprise, Nick found his eyes closing the moment he heard the door shut behind her. The comfortable bed, the warm quilt and his beautiful hostess sure beat the hell out of the impersonal Whitehorn Motel.

Three S

ara awakened at seven as usual, stretching beneath her hand-sewn quilt. It wasn’t until her feet searched for her slippers that she realized she could see her breath in the bedroom. Moaning inwardly, she hoped her furnace wasn’t acting up again. Quickly, she wrapped herself in her robe and opened the drapes. The wind had blown wildly most of the night. Snowdrifts were piled as high as her fence line. She’d have to check the road out front to see if she could make it in to work. She wasn’t crazy about leaving a relative stranger alone in her house, but she couldn’t seem to come up with a viable alternative. So much for that concern, she thought as she gazed out the front window moments later. Her car was completely covered over, the walk wasn’t distinguishable from the yard on either side and the road had at least eighteen inches of drifted snow covering it. The museum, a mere twenty-minute drive from her house, was likely half buried, too. Turning, she saw that the fire had gone out and that Nick’s door, which she’d closed last night, was ajar. She tiptoed past and saw he was still in bed, the covers pulled up to his ears. Poor man was probably afraid of catching pneumonia if he got up. In the laundry room off the kitchen, she eyed the furnace. The little house was over thirty years old and Sara

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felt lucky to have gotten it. Made of wood and shingles, painted a blue she’d never liked, it had thankfully been insulated long before she moved in and the inside walls paneled. However, there was always something needing repair, draining most of her spare dollars. This summer it’d been the roof needing patching, and more recently, kitchen plumbing that had needed replacing. Now, just as the cold weather was beginning, the furnace had apparently decided to take a rest. Sara punched in the reset button, adjusted the valve and waited. Nothing. She knew zip about furnaces and couldn’t think where to begin to look further. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the thing with disgust. With the weather they were having today, who could she get to come out and take a look? As usual, the repair would be up to her. ‘‘Having a little trouble?’’ Nick asked from behind her, then smiled when she jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘‘Did you forget I was here?’’ ‘‘No, you just startled me.’’ She looked back at the offending machinery. ‘‘You could call it a little trouble. The darn thing won’t come on.’’ In his stocking feet, he finished buttoning his shirt as he walked closer. ‘‘Have you got any tools?’’ How was it that some men with ruffled hair looked unkempt and others, like Nick Dean, looked sexier than ever, even first thing in the morning? Sara wondered as she went to her utility closet and pulled out her toolbox. ‘‘Living alone, I’ve learned to do most minor repairs. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of juice and I’ll see if I can get this thing going?’’ He reached for the handle of the toolbox. ‘‘Why don’t you put on some coffee and let me take a look? It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.’’

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Unconvinced, she looked up at him. ‘‘I dislike depending on others. I’m pretty handy, and I didn’t take a fall down a hill.’’ Nick had always admired independence. But sometimes some people took it a shade too far. ‘‘Look, I don’t want to make this a contest of wills. I’ve got years of experience in construction and I’ve repaired many a furnace. Would you please just let me help as a small measure of thanks for taking me in?’’ Put that way, she could scarcely refuse. And she really didn’t know a thing about furnaces. It’s just that it was her problem and she wasn’t comfortable having him take over. Reluctantly, she relinquished the box to him. ‘‘All right.’’ Nick picked out a screwdriver and began removing a metal panel. ‘‘Are you feeling any better?’’ ‘‘I believe I’ll live.’’ The truth was he hurt in a lot of places, especially since it was so damn cold in the house. But he knew that a fall like he’d had would take time to get over completely. In the adjoining kitchen, she ran water into her coffeepot. ‘‘Have you looked out the windows yet?’’ she asked, gazing at the snow still coming down, though only lightly now. ‘‘Yeah. Mother Nature dumped a bunch on us, didn’t she?’’ The storm worked in his favor. It would take longer with this weather to contend with for the sheriff to learn the identity of the owner of the Blazer. If Sara’s phone was working, he’d make a few inquiry calls later and see how much he could find out. With the coffee perking, Sara left to dress in jeans and an oversize, baggy sweater in pale blue. She didn’t feel comfortable being in her robe with a man in the house,

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even though it was full length and serviceable rather than sexy. Or perhaps she didn’t feel comfortable with Nick in the house, period. He was so tall, so big, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. Her house seemed much smaller with him in it. You’re being silly, she chastised herself, as she stepped into fur-lined moccasins. In a day, two at the most, he’d be gone. Despite his middle-of-the-night comment, he knew nothing of Native Americans and certainly wouldn’t be interested in one, male-to-female. Except perhaps as a conquest, she thought, remembering the heat of his gaze as he’d held her wrist last night. Let him try. He’d soon discover a frost colder than the temperature outside. She was no man’s one-night stand, no white man’s Indian experiment. She’d already been down that road once and found it to be full of potholes. A smart woman had to learn important lessons only once. She was just leaving her room when she heard the furnace click on. All right, so he was handy. Big deal. She probably could have repaired it just as easily had he not insisted on coming to her rescue. His grin when she returned as he was replacing the metal panel was a bit cocky. ‘‘Do you think I’ve earned my breakfast?’’ Nick asked. ‘‘So that was your motive all along, eh?’’ She smiled back, despite her firm convictions of a moment ago. It was hard not to. He was a man who smiled readily and often, she’d guess. Here he was, stuck in a snowstorm in a stranger’s home with only the clothes on his back, his Blazer totaled, unknown someones apparently wanting to do him harm, undoubtedly hurting despite his macho denials, yet in a good mood. It was an optimism of spirit, or perhaps a self-confidence, that was almost foreign to her culture. It was not

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that Indians were unhappy—far from it. They laughed and joked regularly and often. But mostly within their own groups, with their own people. With foreigners and most especially with whites, they were guarded, hesitant, wary. Nick was the outsider here, yet oddly, Sara felt more as if she were. She envied his innate good humor and wished she had more of it. And she had to admit that his smiles were infectious. The first real smile he’d seen on her had changed her face, Nick decided. Softened it, added a touch of vulnerability that she was so good at hiding. Then she’d drifted off into her own thoughts. ‘‘Where did you go?’’ he asked, stepping closer. He’d replaced the panel, put away the toolbox and still she stood there, as if contemplating the mystery of the ages. ‘‘You’re so serious when you look at me.’’ He dared to reach out and touch the end of her long braid, where it hung to her waist, and found her hair soft and silken, just as he’d imagined. ‘‘What are you thinking?’’ Even his fingertips on the ends of her hair had her nerves jumping. Sara stepped back quickly. ‘‘I’m thinking I’d better make you that breakfast.’’ She moved to the kitchen before she revealed the effect he had on her. Taking a deep breath, she removed a pan from a low cupboard and arranged her features into her usual composed expression. By the time he joined her, she was calm again, her heart rate normal once more. ‘‘Would eggs be all right?’’ ‘‘Whatever you make is fine.’’ He picked up one of two mugs she’d left by the coffeepot and held it up. ‘‘Want some?’’ At her nod, he poured hers, then filled the other, taking his to the small drop-leaf table across the room. He sat down and sipped as he stared out at a sea of white, but he wasn’t thinking about the snowfall.

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She was an enigma. Nick had never known anyone like Sara Lewis. She was, from the little he’d been able to put together, fiercely independent and very capable. Many women he’d known—beautiful, educated and selfreliant—were often a bit arrogant as well. Sara lacked that superior air, though she seemed quietly prideful. But there was a wariness to her that seemed such a part of her, and an underlying anger he’d caught glimpses of ever so briefly that had him wondering as to its source. Inhaling the mouth-watering fragrance of bacon frying, he turned to study her as she worked at the stove, her movements unhurried yet efficient. She was in profile so he couldn’t read her expression. Actually, he had trouble defining her emotions even when looking into her eyes. And there was the crux of it. Sara guarded her feelings behind a serene composure he’d seldom seen, except perhaps in his grandmother, who’d lived with his family when he’d been a boy. Yet he felt Sara’s was a cover-up. Nick understood the need to guard feelings. When he’d been married to Beth, he hadn’t wanted to expose her to the harsh realities of his work in vice. So he hadn’t talked about it, had instead bottled up his feelings of helplessness at not being able to lock up some of the slippery sleazeballs they’d had under surveillance. And he’d never mentioned his rage on behalf of so many innocent victims. In protecting his wife, he’d harmed himself. The department’s psychologist had finally managed to point that out to him. But by then, his marriage was over and the satisfaction he’d once found in police work totally gone. He was a slow study, but he’d finally learned to be more open, to share his feelings with the few he trusted. The change in attitude had improved his disposition, his outlook and the ulcer that had once eaten away at his stomach lining.

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As he watched Sara fill two plates, he wondered if the careful way she thought things over before speaking, the reactions that fleetingly crossed her face before she quickly masked them, the disciplined way she held her body were from lifelong training or because she was uncomfortable having a white man in her home. Or could it be because she was as aware of him as a man as he was of her as a woman? Sara set his plate in front of him, then sat opposite with her own. She was unused to eating a big breakfast, usually making do with juice and coffee on the run as she hurried to work. But she’d thought it would look unfriendly if she didn’t join him. Which was basically how she felt at the thought of having to spend the entire day enclosed with him in her small house. ‘‘This is terrific,’’ Nick said after swallowing a generous mouthful of scrambled eggs. ‘‘Did you put cheese in them?’’ ‘‘Uh-huh.’’ He ate in silence for a while, then glanced over and noticed Sara picking at her food. ‘‘Aren’t you hungry?’’ ‘‘I often skip breakfast. I’d rather sleep an extra half hour.’’ Oddly nervous, she got up to refill their cups. At the counter, she flipped on the radio, hoping to get a weather report. She was fidgety this morning and addressing her remarks to her plate rather than looking at him. Chewing his toast, Nick wondered if he could put her at ease. ‘‘Where’d you go to college?’’ That seemed a safe-enough topic. ‘‘Montana State,’’ Sara said, sitting back down. ‘‘What year did you graduate?’’ When she told him, he nodded. ‘‘I made it out three years ahead of you.’’ So she was around thirty, an age

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when many women seemed to take stock and reassess their lives. He was curious about Sara’s, where she’d been and who was important in her life. She’d breezily dismissed his inquiry last night, but he doubted if someone as lovely as she wouldn’t have men in her life. Sara wasn’t surprised they’d attended the same college. Nearly everyone in Montana went to State if they went to college at all. She nibbled on her toast, thinking that she’d better try calling Jason Eagle, the head curator, and see how the museum had fared in the storm. Sometimes even ten miles could make a difference in the amount of snowfall. ‘‘Why did you decide to return to the reservation after graduation?’’ Here it comes, she thought. He probably couldn’t imagine why someone with a degree would choose to live in less-than-perfect surroundings. ‘‘I’d always planned to return. I feel I have something to offer here that wouldn’t be as appreciated elsewhere.’’ Not wanting to hear his opinion about her choices, she rose. ‘‘Please excuse me. I have to call the museum.’’ She cleared her plate, took her mug with her and walked to the wall phone, wishing she had an extension in the bedroom. Turning her back to him, she quickly dialed. Definitely touchy this morning, Nick thought as he finished his breakfast. He tuned her low murmurings out and tuned in the radio announcer, who was explaining that although the snow had stopped falling, the accumulation had closed Whitehorn and surrounding schools and most businesses, a common occurrence in these parts. The voice on the radio went on to advise everyone to stay home if at all possible because road crews were just getting started on the main highways. It would be hours before secondary roads would be cleared.

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And Sara had said the reservation had no snow-removal service. Except perhaps manpower. Nick flexed his shoulder and felt ripples of pain race down his arm and across his back. A doctor might frown on shoveling after a dislocation, but he had to do something to win back Sara’s approval and warm up her frosty expression if he were to remain in her home. The problem was he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done to cause the coolness in her tone. He drained the last of his coffee and carried his dishes to the counter just as she hung up the phone. Glancing over, he saw that she looked thoughtful. ‘‘Is the museum going to open today?’’ ‘‘No, they’re snowed in worse than we are, it seems.’’ The two-story building stood on an open corner where Route 17 intersected Pale Bluff Lane, an obvious target for the wind to whip mounds of snow all around it. She’d had to phone Jason at his home. ‘‘Guess you’ll be staying in then.’’ Searching around under the sink, he found liquid soap and a stopper. He plugged the sink, squirted soap in and turned on the hot water. ‘‘I have this medicine I have to get over to little Chad,’’ Sara said, thinking out loud. She looked out the window again, gauging the snow’s depth. ‘‘I could make it on snowshoes.’’ Absently, she glanced at Nick and became aware that he was washing the dishes. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ ‘‘You cooked, I clean up. That’s the rule I grew up with.’’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘‘You grew up on a ranch and working construction, yet you still did dishes for your mother?’’ It didn’t fit the picture she’d been forming of him.

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‘‘Sure did, from the time I could reach the sink. Dad does them when I’m not there.’’ ‘‘Well, I certainly admire your mother.’’ He sent her a proud smile. ‘‘You’d like her, too. She’s one very special lady. I’m going to tell her about putting cheese in the eggs. Adds a nice touch.’’ Sara tried not to be charmed. A man who talked so warmly of his mother usually liked and respected women. Yet, as she stood watching him, the way the morning light coming through the window played across his features reminded her so much of Jack Kelly that it was almost uncanny. Jack had loved his mother, too. And had listened to her every word, especially when it came to what to look for in a suitable wife who would one day deliver the Kelly heir. The remembered anger and shame brought color to her cheeks. She struggled against recalling the pain, the devastation that had followed. But she’d survived Jack and his blue-blood family, and had painfully rebuilt her shaky self-esteem. And she’d vowed that no man would ever hurt her like that again. Except for the infrequent times when someone came across her path who reminded her so vividly of that bitter episode in her life, she was happy and productive. However, there were lingering effects. Jack hadn’t quite managed to squelch her romantic hope that one day she’d meet someone who’d love her truly and honestly for herself alone. Life before and after Jack had done that. Witnessing her mother and father’s marriage, which had been one long quarrel, had had a profound effect. Her brother Paul’s marriage was a tribute to his ambition, not a great love affair. Her friend Jackson Hawk had a failed mixed marriage in his past, before he’d found Maggie, one of his

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own kind. And even Kane had been torn up about a white woman who’d left him high and dry. What did it matter that Sara was attracted to a man who’d literally stumbled into her life and caused the first stirrings she’d felt in far too long? He was trouble waiting to happen. But she was no longer an innocent nineteen-year-old in love for the first time. She now knew better than to stretch her hand into the flame. Grabbing a towel, she began wiping the dishes he’d washed. ‘‘You don’t have to help,’’ he told her, noting the color spots on her cheeks that told him he’d managed to anger her again. ‘‘I’ll finish.’’ She was about to tell him that it was her house and she’d wipe the dishes if she wanted to when the phone rang. Tossing down the towel, Sara grabbed it. She’d no sooner finished telling Jackson Hawk that she was fine when Kane’s call came in, asking about her as well. Though she assured him that her uninvited guest hadn’t slit her throat during the night and that he was feeling better, Kane still sounded unconvinced. He reminded her that he’d be stopping by the clinic later when the roads were clear and he’d check with her then. Listening to Nick drying the silverware and tossing it into her drawer, she kept her back to him and dialed her mother. After several minutes of conversation, she was reassured that both Summer and her grandmother were fine and not going outside today, since the trading post would be closed. Hanging up, she turned and saw that Nick had finished, put on his red jacket and was pulling on his boots. ‘‘Where are you going?’’ ‘‘Do you have a shovel? I thought I’d clean off the porch and clear a path, maybe brush off your car.’’

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He’d managed to throw her off balance again. ‘‘With a shoulder that was dislocated not twelve hours ago? Do you enjoy pain?’’ He stood. ‘‘I heard you mention you had to get medicine to someone.’’ ‘‘Yes, a little boy, Chad Laughing Face. He’s a diabetic and I picked up his insulin yesterday. His family lives about half a mile from here. Do you plan to shovel a path all that way?’’ He remained unruffled, letting her spout off her unreasonable irritation, trying to figure out why she vacillated between a smile that lit up her face and an unfriendliness that had her all but sniping at him. ‘‘Probably not, but I’ll see how how I feel after I finish your place.’’ Sara shook her head, praying for patience. ‘‘Is that what you did in Red Lodge when it snowed, shovel all around the barns and outbuildings? Or did you simply put on snowshoes like most sensible people and wait for a truck with a plow to take care of the bulk of it?’’ ‘‘We had a truck with a plow. Do you have one?’’ ‘‘No, but Ira at the gas station next to the tribal police has one and he usually gets around to clearing most of the main streets as quickly as he can.’’ Apparently, Nick wasn’t aware that many of the roads around the reservation were mere dirt paths, especially in the southwest section, where far too many families lived in rundown housing and tar-paper shacks. There was beauty to be found on Laughing Horse, with its incredible view of the snow-capped peaks of Crazy Mountain, Beartooth Creek with its pristine water and the acres of green grazing land that stretched as far as the eye could see in the summertime. But there was also abject poverty, sections of barren land with no funds to farm it and desolation in the eyes of some people who’d given

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up believing life would get better. Maggie Schaeffer Hawk was getting the people and government more motivated to change but progress came slowly to the outlying reservation areas. How could a man whose family owned a prosperous construction company and small ranch know of such things, much less understand them? Perhaps she was unfair to judge Nick. The old adage about not knowing a person’s troubles until you’ve walked in his mocassins was certainly true. Maybe she should loan him her mocassins. He concentrated on buttoning his jacket, determined to shovel her damn snow even if he dislocated his shoulder again. ‘‘Fine. Let Ira clear the roads. I’ll do your porch and walk. Where do you keep your shovel?’’ ‘‘Look, this is silly. You’re going to do irreparable harm to your shoulder. I can’t let you do that. I’m going out to shovel. I’ve done it a hundred times before and—’’ Growing angry now, Nick yanked up his coat collar. ‘‘If you think I’m sitting in here while you’re outside shoveling, you don’t know me at all.’’ Matching his anger despite her resolve not to lose her temper, Sara planted both fists on her slim hips. ‘‘I know you, all right. You’re a chauvinist, believing there’s men’s work and women’s work. And you’re fixated on being macho, throwing aside common sense—if you have even a modicum of it—which should tell you that if you dislocate that shoulder now, you could very well face surgery.’’ Nick gritted his teeth. ‘‘Do chauvinists do dishes? Did I not lean on you last night? I don’t give a damn about appearing macho in your eyes. I just happen to be stronger than you, a fact of physiology. Now, are you going to tell me where that shovel is or do I go looking?’’

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He really was exasperating. ‘‘Neither. I don’t think either of us should go out. I’ll call around and find a teenage boy to shovel the walks. I know several who are always looking to earn a few dollars.’’ Her dark brown eyes were spitting fire and her cheeks were flushed from her adamant arguing. It was the most reaction he’d seen since he’d met her, the first strong emotion he’d witnessed. His temper cooled as his blood heated. ‘‘You’re very beautiful when you’re angry. Did you know that?’’ It was all she could do not to groan out loud. ‘‘What an original line. Did you say it to distract me? Because if you did, it didn’t work.’’ ‘‘Then maybe this will.’’ His good arm reached around and dragged her up against his hard body. He heard a quick, startled sound from her before his mouth took hers. Fury rose inside Sara, hot and heavy. She knew how to handle this and it worked every time. She made herself stiffen, forcing her body to be rigid from head to foot, clamping her teeth together, keeping her lips closed tight. She hung on despite the overpowering male scent of him seeping into her, the surprising softness of his mouth captivating her as it pressed against hers, the devastating taste of him that had her suddenly wanting, wanting. She must not give in, she told herself, must not let him drag her under. And Lord, he was trying, his clever hands exploring and caressing her back while she kept her own balled at her sides. She tried to empty her mind, to keep resisting, even as her pulse began to pound. Her unresponsive rebuff cooled him more quickly than a bucket of ice water might have. Nick let her go and stepped back, breathing hard but brave enough to meet her eyes. He’d never seen eyes so dark, yet so frosted over.

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‘‘My grandfather had a saying,’’ Sara said, as calmly as she could manage. ‘‘‘Anything you take that isn’t freely given is never really yours.’’’ He got the message, in spades. He couldn’t let her see how badly he’d wanted her response, so he opted for levity. ‘‘Is that an old Indian saying?’’ ‘‘More like a universal truth. I’m surprised, since you’ve lived all over, that you haven’t heard it before.’’ Turning on her heel, she left the kitchen, went into her bedroom and closed the door. Quietly. She wasn’t about to let him see he’d moved her to temper. Angry with her, with himself, Nick went to the back door and shoved it open. Physical exertion was the only answer when a man felt this low. Stomping through the thick snow, he made his way to the shed. He hurt like hell. Not just his shoulder, but all over. He’d been a stubborn fool and now he was paying the price. The physical pain he felt wasn’t nearly as bad as having to allow Sara to remove the leather boots that felt permanently frozen to his feet. His own hands wouldn’t have been able to do it, since he’d worked outside without the gloves that had gone up in flames in his Blazer, along with his gray Stetson. He tried not to cry out when she finally tugged off the second boot over his lifeless toes, all but landing on her backside with the effort. Sara set the boots by the back door and handed him the blanket she’d left on the kitchen table. ‘‘Take off your wet clothes and wrap yourself in this. I’ll throw your things in the washer.’’ Without another word, she left the room. To her credit, she hadn’t said I told you so. And her eyes hadn’t mocked, her mouth hadn’t sneered. He was furious anyhow. Only at himself this time. Slowly, feeling as if his fingers might snap off with

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each movement, he took off his clothes and left them by the washer. Then he wrapped the generous plaid blanket around himself and made his painstaking way into the living room. Thank goodness she’d built a fire. Even easing himself onto the couch had his muscles screaming. Now his hands felt on fire as they thawed. Could he possibly feel worse? He glanced up and saw Sara watching him with her steady gaze. There wasn’t censure there so much as a humorous disbelief that he could have been so dumb. Yes, he could feel worse, knowing that she thought he was as stupid as he felt. ‘‘Go ahead, say it. You were right and I was wrong.’’ Sara shook her head. ‘‘I don’t have to say it.’’ She went to put his clothes in to wash. Nick lay his head back and shut his eyes, trying not to groan out loud. He felt as if he were sixteen showing off for the pretty little cheerleader, working out in front of her until his muscles nearly snapped. Funny thing was, he hadn’t done it to impress, but rather because he’d been so damn mad at Sara’s rejection of his kiss. He wasn’t used to it. Not that he came on to many women. After his divorce, he hadn’t wanted to go out for some time. Casual sex had lost its youthful appeal. But the occasional special woman he chose—always someone, who appealed to his mind and libido—never turned from him. Until now. It stung. However, as he’d told himself just this morning, Sara Lewis was definitely different from any woman he’d known. More cautious, less friendly. Yet sensitive and caring. Picking up a stranger and dragging him home with her, getting medicine for a small boy and calling her

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mother to make sure she wouldn’t go out in the storm... she was a dichotomy. He became aware she was back and raised his head. Quietly, she placed a cup of hot chocolate on the end table alongside him. Just like his mother might have done. But when his eyes moved to her, he wasn’t thinking of his mother. She was actually smiling. He nearly tipped the mug over in surprise. ‘‘How is that shoulder?’’ she asked, her voice low and husky once more. ‘‘Not wonderful, but not dislocated.’’ Sara sat down on the couch, not real close, but not at the far end, either. ‘‘My brother used to do foolish things like that. Must be something men have to prove, to themselves or to someone else, I’m never sure.’’ He sighed, a ragged sound. ‘‘I don’t know, either. Something in the Y chromosome, maybe.’’ She smiled at that. She liked the fact that he could laugh at himself, even if she’d had to prod him to do it. ‘‘Are you always so stubborn?’’ He thought that over. ‘‘Yeah, probably.’’ He met her eyes. ‘‘You, too?’’ ‘‘I’m afraid so. One of my worst traits.’’ ‘‘I don’t imagine you have too many bad traits.’’ She relaxed, drawing her legs up and shaking back the long hair she’d brushed out of its confining braid. ‘‘You might be surprised.’’ He took a swallow of the hot chocolate and almost purred at the marvelous taste and the welcome heat. Then he turned back to catch the firelight dancing in the ebony black of her hair. His fingers ached to reach out and touch it. Shifting, he gathered his blanket about himself, thinking it might have been better if a big burly man had found

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him or some motherly older woman who was comfortably fat and no temptation. He was getting that heated look again. Sara rose and went to the bookcase and her tape collection. ‘‘Shall I put on some music?’’ Anything to distract him. As soon as Ira came by with his plow, she’d put on her snowshoes and go see Chad. But until then, maybe music would lull him into a nap. ‘‘Sure. Got any Garth Brooks or Reba McIntyre?’’ His slow grin told her he doubted it. ‘‘Afraid not. I’ve got mostly classical, some collector albums of jazz favorites, show tunes and a couple of operas.’’ Apparently she wanted him to nod off. ‘‘Anything you choose will be fine.’’ He waited, and in moments, the sound of violins filled the small room. He took another gulp of his drink. ‘‘Maybe you’d like to read.’’ He’d already checked out her titles earlier. Not a mystery or Zane Grey in the lot. Instead there were biographies, gardening manuals and heavy tomes on ancient statuary, sculpting and the lives of painters long dead, as well as books on Indian history. ‘‘I don’t think so, thanks.’’ ‘‘All right, I tried.’’ She sat back down, this time in her favorite easy chair across from him, and picked up her needlepoint. Sara didn’t have much leisure time, since she spent most of her days either working or volunteering around the reservation, weather permitting. But listening to music and working on a new design was one of her favorite ways to pass her free time. She stitched away, glancing up occasionally to watch him finish his drink and eventually stretch out on the couch. She’d always marveled at how easily men fell asleep. Most women she knew, including herself, often

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took quite a while. Their disparate taste in music and books hadn’t surprised her. Even though Nick Dean was currently a private investigator, he was really mainly an outdoorsman, a westerner through and through. Which only pointed out their differences. She was a woman who happened to live in the west, but he was a born-and-bred, countrified westerner. There was a huge difference. And she badly wanted to keep in the forefront of her mind all of their differences. Despite an attraction, opposites really didn’t belong together. That made it easier for her to ignore her decidedly potent and very disturbing awareness of this man. So she sat working away while he napped, a cozy domestic scene to an observer, but one with no basis in fact. She got up to toss his clothes in the dryer and to put a chicken in the oven for dinner. When the fire began to sputter, she put on two more logs. Rising, she heard his low moan as he turned, his shoulder irritation probably making itself known. She walked over and hitched up the blanket that had slipped, covering him again. She then gasped in surprise as his hand caught hers, tugging her down to sit alongside him. His eyes were so deep a blue it felt as if she were staring into the depths of a fathomless sea. He held her gaze for several long heartbeats, then reached up and slowly stroked her cheek, finally cupping her chin. Her breathing altered, her reaction out of her control. ‘‘Don’t do this, please.’’ ‘‘Are you afraid of me?’’ ‘‘No. I just don’t want to get involved.’’ ‘‘With me specifically?’’ She didn’t want to go into why getting involved with him would be like revisiting a mine field that had nearly destroyed her the first time around. ‘‘With anyone.’’

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‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘It’s a long story, and I don’t want to tell it.’’ She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t let go. ‘‘Is it because I’m white?’’ He wasn’t going to make it easy. ‘‘Certainly that has something to do with it.’’ ‘‘It’s not important, not to me. Why is it to you?’’ It’s not important. The very same words she’d heard before. And though that man, too, had insisted their different cultures weren’t important to him, they had been of utmost importance to his family. With determination, Sara pulled her hand free and stood. ‘‘Here’s the story. You can stay here until you’re healed, until the storm’s over, until you find out who’s after you or whatever. But the offer does not include me. If you can’t honor that, you’ll have to make other arrangements.’’ Thrusting her hands into her pockets to hide their trembling, she went to the kitchen to check on dinner. With a puzzled frown, Nick watched her leave. Someone had hurt her, undoubtedly a white man. Lewis was her family name. Apparently her father, the man she’d said had died when she was young, had been white. Her features weren’t typically Native American, which would back up his theory. Had her father been the man who’d left her distrusting all white men? Or had it been someone else, someone she’d been involved with as a grown woman? Whichever, Nick felt sure of one thing: he wasn’t about to be lumped in with someone who’d hurt her just because he shared the same skin color. With that decided, he closed his eyes. After a nap, he’d feel better equipped to change Sara Lewis’s pretty little mind.

Four ‘‘Y

ou say you’re calling about a vehicle that caught fire on Route 191?’’ Deputy Rawlings asked in a drawl that held more than a little trace of the south in it. Nick held the phone a short distance from his mouth, hoping the deputy he’d met earlier in the week wouldn’t recognize his voice. He’d deliberately waited until after five to call, hoping the sheriff wouldn’t be in. He had a feeling that Judd Hensley’s deceptively quiet way hid a shrewd mind. ‘‘That’s right. A Blazer, as I understand it. Late afternoon yesterday.’’ ‘‘Yeah, that’s right. Not much left of that vehicle. Been towed to the garage where we’re going to check it out.’’ ‘‘Do you know what caused the fire?’’ ‘‘Sheriff suspects foul play. Say, who is this and what’s your interest in this?’’ ‘‘Uh, I was on the road that day. Seemed like I heard an explosion just before the fire.’’ ‘‘You saw it happen? Sheriff’ll want to question you. What’s your name?’’ Nick’s mind raced through several possible answers, then he decided he’d better play it safe. ‘‘I don’t want to get involved.’’ ‘‘Now, hold on,’’ Deputy Rawlings insisted. ‘‘You’re the only witness to a possible crime in which a woman died. You have an obligation to come forward.’’ ‘‘What was the woman’s name?’’

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‘‘We don’t know who she was yet. She...’’ There was a pause and a shuffling sound. A deeper voice came on. ‘‘This is Sheriff Hensley. Would you by any chance be Nick Dean?’’ Nick nearly dropped the phone. How in hell had they found out his identity so quickly? There seemed no point in evading the sheriff’s question. ‘‘Yes. Your deputy tells me you suspect foul play. On what do you base your suspicions?’’ Judd decided he’d ask his own questions while he had Dean on the line. The weather was still bad, which meant the man wouldn’t be able to get into his office until tomorrow, probably, and he needed answers now. ‘‘We hauled what’s left of your Blazer into the service station last evening before the snow got too heavy. Our man took a look at it today. He’s found fragments of dynamite. I’ve got a call in to the forensics lab in Billings to send over one of their experts. Can you tell me what happened?’’ Nick rubbed the back of his neck. It was one thing to wonder about the explosion and quite another to hear the cold, hard fact that someone had deliberately planted a bomb in his Blazer. He’d been shot at once in his work as a P.I. and had had a knife slice into him by a guy high on drugs when he’d been working vice. But a bomb? ‘‘I wish I could. I was driving along when suddenly there was this explosion, followed by a huge burst of fire. I was thrown clear and passed out.’’ In his office, seated at his cluttered desk, Judd took notes. ‘‘Do you know why someone might put dynamite in your vehicle?’’ ‘‘The only reason I can come up with is that I’m investigating that old murder, like I told you when we talked last Monday. I haven’t been in Whitehorn long enough to make enemies.’’ Nick heard a sound on the front porch,

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the stomping of feet, and realized that Sara was back. He’d awakened from a much-longer nap than he’d intended having and found her note saying she’d gone to see Chad Laughing Face. ‘‘You’ve never been to Whitehorn before this week?’’ Judd asked. ‘‘No, never.’’ ‘‘Who was the woman with you?’’ ‘‘I was going to ask you the same question. I picked her up hitchhiking. She didn’t look well and never did tell me her name.’’ ‘‘Where were you taking her?’’ ‘‘I asked if she wanted me to take her to the hospital, because she appeared ill, but she refused. I told her I was headed for the Whitehorn Motel and she said that would be fine. She was sweating even though it was cold, and her hands were shaking.’’ ‘‘Describe her.’’ Judd hated to say out loud that there’d scarcely been enough of the poor woman left to make it easy for even a relative to identify. ‘‘Average height, mid-twenties, thin and pale, wearing a raincoat too big for her, light brown hair.’’ Judd frowned at his pad of paper. That description didn’t fit anyone in town, all of whom he knew. Why would a young woman be hitchhiking along such a busy highway at dusk near an unfamiliar town? They hadn’t found an abandoned car she might have left behind, giving her a reason to thumb a ride. Whoever she was, she’d had the rotten luck to be picked up by a man who had dynamite under his hood. ‘‘Did she say anything that might give us a clue to her identity?’’ Nick crossed his long legs and leaned back in the kitchen chair as Sara came through carrying her snowshoes. He’d gotten his clean clothes out of the dryer and

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put them on. He saw that hers were quite damp from her long walk. He mouthed the word sheriff to her as she glanced at him so she’d know who he had on the line, then answered Judd. ‘‘Only one thing. She said she wasn’t from around here and that she’d come back to make sure she was all right. But when I asked her who she meant, she said never mind.’’ Puzzled anew, Judd toyed with his pen. ‘‘I need you to come in tomorrow. We should make a list of everyone you’ve been in contact with since arriving in Whitehorn. I’ve heard tell around town that you’ve been asking a lot of questions, talking to folks everywhere. Looks like you stirred up a hornet’s nest. Someone doesn’t want you nosing into their business.’’ Nick let out a huff of air. ‘‘I’ve come to that conclusion myself.’’ ‘‘Weather should be clear by tomorrow. See you in the morning, say nine o’clock?’’ Nick watched Sara pull out the other kitchen chair, sit down and tug off her boots. ‘‘I don’t think so, Sheriff. I’m not crazy about exposing myself to further danger.’’ Judd thought that over a moment. ‘‘All right. Tell me where you are and I’ll come get your statement.’’ He’d known that was coming. ‘‘Can’t do that either, Sheriff. Tell you what. I’ll write down that list of names and call you with it tomorrow.’’ A scowl appeared on the sheriff’s face. ‘‘I’d think things over, if I were you. If you don’t cooperate in a police investigation where an unexplained explosion occurred and an unknown woman died, you’ll be an accessory to murder. You’re our only witness. You and the person who’s harboring you would both be in deep trouble. It’s not going to help your line of work any to become a fugitive yourself.’’

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‘‘I intend to cooperate, by phone. I’m just not willing to give whoever did this the chance for another crack at me just yet.’’ Judd’s irritation was palpable. He’d had one hell of a twenty-four hours, what with the Blazer fire, the death of an unknown woman and a whole assortment of other accidents due to the storm, leaving him scarcely four hours to grab a little sleep. He was in no mood to fence with this guy. ‘‘We’ll protect you, assign a man to you, if that’s what you want.’’ He wasn’t quite sure how he’d arrange that, since they were shorthanded in this freak storm, but he’d do it somehow. Protection from a small-town sheriff and a couple of deputies who rarely had more to do than catch a speeder or break up a domestic quarrel, Nick thought. No thanks. On Laughing Horse Reservation, which was out of Whitehorn Police jurisdiction, he was in a safe place. He’d go back, but in his own sweet time. ‘‘I appreciate that, but I can’t risk it. The person who planted the bomb could be any one of a dozen people I’ve questioned, or someone I haven’t met yet but who’s worried I’m getting close to a murder they covered up years ago. He knows who I am and I don’t know his identity. I don’t like those odds.’’ Grudgingly, Judd had to admit the man had a point. ‘‘I guess I’ll go along with you, though I don’t approve. Call me with that list tomorrow. And Dean, don’t do anything stupid.’’ What could he say to that? Nick hung up and met Sara’s dark gaze. ‘‘I took a shower. I hope you don’t mind.’’ ‘‘Of course not.’’ ‘‘Well, you heard most of my end of the conversation. You think I’m being stupid?’’ ‘‘No. If someone was after me and had tried to blow me away once and failed, I’d think long and hard about

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giving him another chance to finish the job.’’ Despite her uneasiness at sharing her home with Nick, in her heart Sara knew she couldn’t encourage him to leave and jeopardize his life. ‘‘Even if it means you’re stuck with me awhile longer, and that the sheriff warned me that whoever’s harboring me becomes an accessory?’’ Sara rose to take her boots to the laundry room before answering. ‘‘Judd Hensley doesn’t worry me. He has no jurisdiction over me, nor you while you’re on Laughing Horse. And even if he did, what could he do to me? I took in an injured man. That’s hardly a crime.’’ With that, she turned. ‘‘I’m going to get out of these damp clothes and then see about dinner. I hope you’re hungry.’’ ‘‘Starving, and it smells wonderful.’’ But he had something he had to say. ‘‘Sara?’’ At the doorway, she turned to look over her shoulder, her eyes questioning. ‘‘Thanks, for everything.’’ ‘‘You’re welcome.’’ Nick took a moment to also thank the fates that it had been Sara Lewis who’d found him wandering along, dazed and bleeding. Then he dialed his partner in Butte to update him. As the clock on Sara’s mantel chimed eight, Nick sipped his hot tea with lemon and studied Dr. Kane Hunter over the rim of his cup. The man’s complexion was darker than Sara’s, but his hair was just as black. His intelligent eyes were filled with questions, even though Nick had told him much the same story he’d told Sheriff Hensley, at Sara’s insistence. ‘‘So, what are your plans?’’ Kane set down his empty cup and leaned back in the easy chair opposite Sara’s un-

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invited guest. He’d listened to the man’s explanation, and even he agreed with Nick’s decision to lay low for a while. What he didn’t like was where he’d chosen to hide out. ‘‘I’m not sure,’’ Nick stated honestly. ‘‘I talked with Melissa Avery earlier. Since she’s the one who hired me, I thought it only fair that she be told that I didn’t run out on her. She was shocked to hear about what happened to my Blazer. I didn’t tell her where I was, but I did say that I was nearby and still working on the case, only from a distance for a while. And I asked her to keep her ears open in her cafe´ in case she learns something, and said I’d check back with her in a day or two.’’ ‘‘Then you plan to stay here until...until when?’’ A relentless man, pushing harder than the sheriff, Nick thought. But then, the sheriff wasn’t a lifelong close friend of Sara’s. Sara had had about enough of Kane’s unfriendly interrogation. He’d been acting like an irate father responsible for a teenage daughter ever since he’d rushed in, all querulous bustle. While she valued his interest, she didn’t appreciate his acting as if she needed his intervention in order to be safe. ‘‘Kane, really. Ease up. I told Nick he could stay until he felt better, the weather improved and he perhaps had a lead on who tried to kill him. You do recall my telling you that he took quite a fall and you are aware that we’ve been snowed in? Besides, his truck was blown to bits. He has no transportation.’’ Kane wasn’t mollified. ‘‘There are car-rental agencies listed in the yellow pages.’’ He wasn’t trying to be unfriendly, just cautious. Kane had no prejudice against Nick because the man was white. He’d have felt the same about any man who moved in with Sara and was vague about how long he intended to take advantage of her hospitality. Nick’s eyes narrowed. Did Kane perhaps have more

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interest in Sara than that of a friend, and therefore he saw Nick as a threat, though she wasn’t aware of his deeper feelings? ‘‘I take it you object to my being here.’’ He said it as a statement, not a question. Kane’s dark eyes slid to Sara, then back to the P.I. ‘‘Not you, personally. But you must be aware that Sara is unmarried and therefore vulnerable to rumors and censure. Our community is tight knit and—’’ ‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kane.’’ Sara all but flew off the couch at his idiotic statement. So much for keeping her cool. ‘‘I am almost thirty years old, not seventeen. And perfectly capable of handling myself. If anyone in our tight-knit community wants more information, let them come to me.’’ Seeing that he was fighting a losing battle, Kane stood and changed the subject as he looked at Nick Dean. ‘‘Would you like me to take a look at your shoulder or the cut on your head?’’ ‘‘Sara’s taken care of both to my satisfaction. But thanks for the offer.’’ He also stood, relieved to see he was quite steady on his feet. ‘‘Please be assured I won’t imperil Sara’s reputation in any way.’’ ‘‘Tomorrow, weather permitting, I plan to take Nick around the reservation and introduce him to people so they can see him for themselves.’’ It was something they’d talked about at dinner, and Sara had been greatly surprised at his eagerness to tour the area. ‘‘I want him to meet Jackson and Maggie and the Thunderclouds. Then I’ll take him to the trading post to pick up a few things and show him our day-care facilities and the community center.’’ Shrugging into his heavy jacket, Kane frowned as he walked to the door, slipping his arm around Sara’s waist. ‘‘Are you sure that’s wise? He’ll be gone in a few days. Why drag him all over?’’

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Stepping back, Sara crossed her arms over her chest. ‘‘He wants to look around, Kane.’’ Although she had misgivings about spending the upcoming weekend sequestered with Nick, it was because of her disturbing attraction to him, not because she didn’t trust him as an individual. ‘‘Why do you object?’’ Kane lowered his voice, glad that Nick was bending to stoke the fire. ‘‘You know how some of our people react to whites. How are they going to feel about having one living here, especially with you?’’ ‘‘You’ve known me a long time, Kane. Do you think any man would be able to get to second base, or even first, if I didn’t want him to?’’ He studied her eyes, so fierce with determination. ‘‘And do you want him to?’’ Sara turned her head, too annoyed to answer as she looked at the ceiling, wishing she could think of a good retort. Was she angry at his interference or because he’d hit at the heart of the matter? she asked herself. ‘‘Sorry, but I’ve never seen you so quick to come to the defense of a total stranger.’’ He busied himself putting on his gloves, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. ‘‘I just care about you, that’s all.’’ And she believed he did, which was why she turned back and gave him a smile. ‘‘I care about you, too. But I wish you’d trust me.’’ ‘‘All right, I will. Call you tomorrow.’’ And he was gone. Locking the door, she went back to the couch and sat down to stare into the fire. After a lengthy silence, she looked over and saw that Nick seemed absorbed in the flames, too. Finally, he spoke. ‘‘I suppose Jackson Hawk’s going to climb all over my case, too.’’

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‘‘Probably. You have to understand, those two are like brothers to me. Especially since my own brother left the res.’’ ‘‘The what?’’ ‘‘The reservation. We call it the res.’’ With her fingers, she shoved back a long fall of her hair. ‘‘Kane didn’t mean to be rude.’’ Nick smile was rueful. ‘‘Sure he did. He was warning me that you’re off-limits. I don’t think he’s looking at you as a brother at all.’’ Sara shook her head. ‘‘You’re wrong. Kane’s not interested in me. I don’t think he’s ever really gotten over Moriah Gilmore.’’ Interested, he angled his body on the couch so he could see her better. ‘‘Does this Moriah live on the reservation or in Whitehorn?’’ ‘‘She used to live in Whitehorn. She’s white, and from what I’ve heard, Moriah’s mother didn’t want her involved with Kane. So she took her daughter out of state when Moriah was still a teenager. The desertion devastated Kane. Poor Homer Gilmore, Moriah’s father, became quite eccentric.’’ ‘‘Why didn’t Kane go after Moriah?’’ She shot him a look that indicated he truly didn’t understand. ‘‘He was a young Indian, wanting desperately to become a doctor. What could he have offered her, especially if her mother was intent on keeping them apart?’’ ‘‘Are you so sure Kane’s never gotten over her?’’ The doctor’s concern for Sara seemed genuine and far more than brotherly. ‘‘I don’t think so. Oh, he’s dated others, recently a nurse at the hospital named Lori, but sometimes he still mentions Moriah.’’ ‘‘And you believe the breakup was because her mother

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couldn’t accept the fact that he’s an Indian? Surely that sort of thing wouldn’t happen today.’’ The man must have just dropped off Mars. She drew up a leg and shifted to face him. ‘‘Of course it could, and does every day. You don’t appear to be the sort who hides from the truth. Prejudices against cultural and ethnic differences are alive and well and living in every country in the world.’’ ‘‘I guess you’re right. I saw some examples of it at State.’’ He’d seen it; she’d lived it. Sara swung back to gaze into the fire, struggling to keep her memories buried. But Nick’s curiosity had been awakened. ‘‘Why do you suppose Kane wasn’t keen on having me tour the reservation?’’ A harder question to answer. ‘‘Maybe because he thought you’d get an even colder shoulder from some of our residents. We don’t get many whites here, except delivery men and an occasional government representative. Certainly not any that stay overnight or longer.’’ ‘‘None?’’ She shrugged. ‘‘A few, I guess, over the years.’’ ‘‘Like your father?’’ So he’d figured that out. It wasn’t difficult. Lewis was definitely not a Native American name. ‘‘Yes, like my father.’’ ‘‘How did he manage to fit in?’’ ‘‘He never quite managed it.’’ Go carefully here, Nick warned himself. ‘‘Then why did he stay?’’ ‘‘He loved my mother, even though they fought all the time.’’ ‘‘About the Indian-white thing?’’ ‘‘No, about his drinking.’’ Why hadn’t she stopped this

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conversation when he’d asked the first question? Now that they’d come this far, Sara felt compelled to explain, so he wouldn’t judge her family too unkindly. To understand was to forgive, or so her mother had told her repeatedly. ‘‘From the beginning, they were mismatched. They met, believe it or not, at a church bingo. Aaron Lewis had been a problem teenager, came from a broken home and had had several minor skirmishes with the law. One of the priests at the church took him and several other young truants under his wing and tried to straighten them out. One requirement was working the bingo, the same one where my mother was a volunteer.’’ ‘‘Here on the reservation?’’ ‘‘Yes. The Catholic Church is not very far from the tribal center. At any rate, they met, fell in love and wanted to get married. My mother’s parents weren’t thrilled because they felt my father wasn’t very stable and that he might coax my mother off the res. But he had no family elsewhere and surprised them by moving here.’’ ‘‘I guess there must have been problems or he wouldn’t have started drinking.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes. See, there aren’t a lot of occupations that provide jobs on Laughing Horse, especially for the unskilled. We have no industry. Back then, unemployment was even higher than today, and far too many men were undereducated. When the kids come along and there’s no money, a man loses heart if he can’t find work to support his family.’’ ‘‘Why didn’t he look for work in Whitehorn?’’ Leaning back, she absently threaded her fingers through her hair. ‘‘I wondered about that myself. Later, when I was older, my mother told me that my father was like a man without a country, so to speak, unable to find real acceptance anywhere. The whites wouldn’t hire him even

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for entry-level jobs such as pumping gas because he’d married an Indian. This was over thirty years ago, when prejudices were even more open. And people on the res wouldn’t take a job away from a Native American and give it to a white man. So my father turned to the bottle for solace.’’ ‘‘And got sick and died?’’ ‘‘Not quite. He left us finally. Not long after we heard that he’d been killed in a head-on collision. Probably never knew what hit him. He was drunk.’’ She said it so quietly, so calmly, without emotion. Yet Nick knew that inside she had to be hurting. ‘‘Is that why you don’t keep alcohol in your home—because your father drank and you’re afraid you might become an alcoholic?’’ Her eyes shifted to his face as she tried to read his thoughts. He was more intuitive than she’d guessed. However, she doubted that he was getting the message yet. She was glad to shift the focus, since she’d already revealed more than she’d intended. ‘‘That’s not it at all. If you’d grown up as Paul and I did, heard the quarreling, witnessed the fighting, saw how alcohol changed a basically sweet man into an incoherent, blubbering mess, you’d stay away from it, too. Alcohol is banned from most Indian reservations, since it kills more Native Americans than all other diseases put together. Although my father was white, he was no different from other men on the res who have too little education, are scarcely employable and therefore without hope. And if we don’t do something to change it, still another generation will follow in their footsteps.’’ Although he’d lived around or near Indians all his life, Nick had never truly thought about their economic problems. He’d known that many drank, but not why. ‘‘What’s the answer?’’

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Sara sighed. ‘‘Education, for starters. Money appropriated by the government to further education for Native Americans. Maggie Hawk’s doing a wonderful job now that she’s crusading for funding and implementing socialreform programs. She used to be an aide to a pretty corrupt Montana congressman before her marriage to Jackson. She’s getting things done, but there’s so much more that needs doing.’’ ‘‘You have a school right here on the res?’’ ‘‘Of sorts, as part of the community center. But our kids have to go into Whitehorn for high school. And that can be a problem. Some poor families can’t afford the right clothes for their teenagers, much less typewriters, schoolbags, money for lunches. We’ve had some equipment donated by Maggie’s stepfather, but much more is needed. The dropout rate is very high. The crime of it is that many of these kids are really bright and want to learn. They’d do well, probably even go on to college. If only.’’ Nick couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was excited and animated when talking about something she believed in passionately. He couldn’t help wondering if she carried that same passion to bed. He swallowed at the thought as she turned to look at him. ‘‘Aren’t you sorry you asked?’’ ‘‘No,’’ he answered honestly. ‘‘And I agree that education is the answer. Not just educating the kids, but educating people outside the reservation about conditions here. Then maybe you’d get more action.’’ He wasn’t stupid, so he had to be merely naive. ‘‘Just how would you go about that?’’ Nick took a minute to consider that. ‘‘Newspaper articles—get magazine journalists to tour the area. Write letters to your congressmen. Surely they aren’t all corrupt. Do fund-raising to equip and perhaps enlarge the school.

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Solicit donations for scholarships. Get an athletic program going for young men. Nothing like sports to teach a guy clean living.’’ She had a gleam of admiration in her eyes. He’d given a very thoughtful, comprehensive answer. Certainly not one off the top of his head. She began to think there might be hope for him. ‘‘That’s very good and all those suggestions are valid. But who’s going to initiate them, follow through, get funding, organize and work like a fiend to see that they happen? There are a handful of young Native Americans like Kane and Jackson and Maggie who stay and do things for the tribe. The rest either leave or hang around and slip into the downhill slide of either drugs or drink. The others remaining are mostly the elders. And they’ve pretty much lost hope.’’ She watched Nick scratch his head thoughtfully, causing strands of blond hair to stick up at random and a thick lock to fall onto his forehead. Why was it that, even disheveled, she found him so appealing? Why was she sitting here debating old issues when what she longed to do was to move closer, inhale the clean, soapy scent of him and slide her fingers into his thick hair? Averting her eyes, she shifted to study the fire, wondering if she was losing her mind. ‘‘I guess there are no simple solutions.’’ ‘‘You’ve got that right.’’ ‘‘Still, there’s got to be an answer. You can’t just sit back and accept the status quo of an intolerable situation. We have to start somewhere, even if only a little bit of progress is made with each step.’’ Raising one eyebrow, she looked at him. ‘‘We?’’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘‘I’m not arrogant enough to think that any one person can fix such a monumental problem, one that’s been going on for years. But

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that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. There’s power in numbers.’’ Maybe tomorrow, he’d go talk to this Jackson Hawk. He was a Native American attorney and his uncle was tribal-council chairman, so Sara had told him. Tossing out a few suggestions couldn’t hurt. Since he was confined to the reservation, he might as well be doing something worthwhile. ‘‘Power in numbers. Just who are you teaming up with to fix the problems?’’ She was making fun of him and he would let her. For now. ‘‘I’m not sure yet. Let me think on it.’’ Easing fractionally closer, he trailed his fingers along her outstretched arm. ‘‘Your skin is the most beautiful color.’’ Perhaps it was time to change the subject. She searched his face and saw that he seemed to mean every word. ‘‘And quite a bit darker than yours.’’ ‘‘You should see me after working outside all summer without a shirt. I’m the color of mahogany from the waist up.’’ ‘‘Our differences are more than the color of our skin. We come from vastly different backgrounds and cultures.’’ Their discussion had just pointed out how very different. He stared at her until she made eye contact. ‘‘You just can’t let go of it, can you? You make it sound as if we came off two separate planets. Is it because your parents’ marriage didn’t work out that you’re afraid to get involved with me?’’ ‘‘No.’’ Actually, that was only a small part of it. ‘‘Then tell me what it is.’’ Her sigh was a ragged sound. How was it that closemouthed Sara was telling this man so much? ‘‘I cared about another white man once, in college.’’ ‘‘What happened?’’

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‘‘We couldn’t get past our—our differences.’’ ‘‘And you think that we can’t get past any so-called differences? Sara, what differences?’’ She was growing exasperated. ‘‘Why do you persist in this? Do you just want to add an Indian woman to the notches on your belt? Is that it?’’ It was all he could do not to bunch his fists. ‘‘You’re not just an Indian woman. You’re a woman and I’m a man. I’ve watched you and you can’t deny there’s an attraction between us. I don’t want to take over your life. I’d just like to follow up on the attraction and see where it might lead us. Damn it, Sara, what’s wrong with that?’’ Needing to move about, she stood, unable to come up with a good answer. ‘‘Do you know that it’s a misdemeanor for a man to swear in front of a woman in Whitehorn?’’ He rose and stepped to her. ‘‘To hell with that. Sara, give us a chance. I want to kiss you and have you kiss me back. I want to show you how I feel and find out how you feel.’’ Remembering her earlier rebuke about her grandfather’s saying, he chose his next words carefully. ‘‘Do you want to give me a kiss?’’ He was a quick study after all. But just because he’d asked kindly didn’t mean she’d jump at the chance. ‘‘We can’t always have what we want. Besides, I don’t want you.’’ The lie felt uneasy on her lips, but once said, she couldn’t back down. The control he’d forced on himself all day snapped. ‘‘Oh, you want me, all right. But you won’t say it or reach out or allow yourself to even think it. Not Sara, the original drugstore wooden Indian. See no emotion, feel no emotion. Reserve your passion for issues and turn from people. Stoicism at its finest.’’ Shocked, she just stared at him.

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Clamping down on his temper, he towered over her. ‘‘You’re lying to me and to yourself. Admit it.’’ Anger, frustration, desire—she felt them all. ‘‘Damn you,’’ she muttered. He straightened, feigning surprise. ‘‘It must be at least a felony if a woman swears in front of a man.’’ ‘‘Oh, shut up.’’ Rising on tiptoe, she let her mouth seek his. She’d show him, by God, that she wasn’t unfeeling, that she had plenty of passion and not just for issues. By the time she realized her mistake, she was so caught up in the kiss that she was helpless to do anything but put all she had into it. His mouth, as she’d somehow known it would be, was incredibly soft as it pressed against hers, yet hard with purpose. Her blood swam hot and furious as her mind clouded over. Without half trying, he’d found the key to unleash all her dormant desires. A log in the grate sizzled and crumbled, throwing sparks. The old floorboards beneath their feet creaked as they clung to one another. Sara was only peripherally aware of any sound except her own labored breathing and the thrum of her wildly beating heart. His rugged, masculine scent wrapped around her and she was lost, lost. The kiss was everything he’d been imagining, and so much more. She was tall, yet her bones were small and infinitely feminine beneath his traveling hands. Her taste was ripe with needs he recognized as mirrors of his own. She smelled like velvet nights drenched in moonlight, like a summer meadow rife with wildflowers. There was the aspect of the forbidden about her, which drew him even more. It seemed as if he’d wanted this woman in this way all his life instead of a mere twenty-four hours. The explosion that had shattered his Blazer hadn’t been half as potent as her effect on him. His fingers thrust into the lustrous thick-

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ness of her hair where they’d been longing to be, and he felt the room tilt. He slipped his tongue tentatively past her lips and felt hers mate with him boldly. Shaken to his shoes, he devoured. The seducer was being seduced, Sara thought with the hazy part of her brain still able to function. She’d sought to show him and instead was being shown just how few defenses she had against this man. Trembling, she stepped back, breathing hard. Eyes locked, they studied one another as opponents might, assessing weaknesses, gauging strengths. Then, almost simultaneously, he felt the loss and she murmured low in her throat. They came together again, as if to see if the first encounter had been just a fluke. It hadn’t. Sara felt her breasts grow fuller, awakening as his large hands at her back pressed her closer to his hard, broad chest. Her hands slid up his shoulders and thrust into his hair as her lips drank from his. Never had she felt such a burning need, such a fierce longing. Her body of its own accord molded to his as if fashioned just for this purpose. How could that be? Her mouth was addictive, inviting. Nick eased her closer, wondering how he’d ever lived without experiencing this intoxicating feeling. The satin column of her throat, the silkiness of her skin, the soft sound she made as he deepened the kiss—could he ever let her go now that he’d known this? When finally he released her a second time, she had trouble catching her breath. And even more difficulty finding her voice. ‘‘There,’’ she said, her words barely above a whisper. ‘‘I just wanted to show you.’’ Stepping back, his arms limp at his sides, Nick blinked to clear his vision. ‘‘Yeah, you showed me, all right.’’

Five ‘‘It took awhile to find all the bones,’’ Jackson Hawk said as he leaned back in his desk chair. ‘‘The area where the remains were discovered is near our old burial grounds, and at first it was thought that some of those bones had shifted from a grave site. It wasn’t until the FBI sent Tracy Roper, a forensic anthropologist, to examine the skull that the identity was confirmed. You might have met Tracy. She married Whitehorn’s sheriff recently.’’ Seated across the desk from Jackson, Nick consulted the small notebook he always carried. ‘‘No, but I’ve had several discussions with Sheriff Hensley.’’ Jackson’s dark eyes studied the blond man intently, then shifted to Sara, seated next to him. She looked a bit tense today, he thought. He’d been more than a little surprised when Sara had dropped in this morning with a strange white man, but not in the least amazed to hear that she’d taken in someone who’d been hurt. When they’d been kids, Sara was the one who’d always been finding wounded birds and starving cats, taking it upon herself to make them strong and well. But before him sat a man, not an injured animal. From what they’d just told him, Nick Dean was staying with Sara, a fact that didn’t sit too well with Jackson. He needed to know more about this stranger. ‘‘I’d heard there was someone new in Whitehorn asking questions around town about Charlie Avery. You’re from Butte, right?’’

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‘‘That’s right,’’ Nick answered. He’d been expecting the third degree and apparently Jackson wasn’t going to disappoint him, even though they’d just told him how he’d come to be on the reservation. He’d say this for Sara, she had her share of watchdogs. ‘‘Melissa Avery hired me to find out what happened to her father.’’ ‘‘Judd wants Nick to go to his office and give him a list of everyone he’s talked with since arriving in town, in case they might have had something to do with the explosion of his Blazer,’’ Sara offered. Jackson frowned thoughtfully. ‘‘You sure you want to do that? Seems to me if someone had tried to put me out of commission, I’d sure think twice before giving him a second chance to finish the job.’’ Sara smiled, pleased that despite Jackson’s misgivings about a stranger staying with her—and a white man, at that—he was also concerned for Nick’s safety. And she was amused that he had phrased it exactly the way she and Nick had. ‘‘Just what I told him. Judd can’t touch him here.’’ Jackson raised a curious brow. ‘‘Of course, I’m not sure how the sheriff will react to your not doing as he asked.’’ Nick crossed his long legs. ‘‘I’ve already told him and he’s not happy, but he doesn’t know where I am so he’s going to have to be content with my phoning him with a list of the people I’ve talked with so far.’’ As always, Jackson thought of Laughing Horse first. ‘‘Any of our people on your list?’’ ‘‘No.’’ Nick turned to look at Sara. ‘‘Your people took me in when I was bleeding and disoriented with a concussion. One of your people, that is.’’ Smitten. The man was already smitten with Sara, Jackson thought. And why not? She not only had a heart of pure mush for the wounded and downtrodden, she was

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beautiful to boot. And though Sara wasn’t even looking at Nick, Jackson could tell she wasn’t unaffected. This might mean trouble and he didn’t need any more right now. Perhaps it was time to step in. ‘‘Well, Nick,’’ he began, ‘‘never let it be said that the Northern Cheyenne aren’t a hospitable people. My wife Maggie and I have a big house out aways. Why don’t you come stay with us until you’re mended and ready to resume your investigation? I’m sure Sara has her hands full with her job and her volunteer work on the res.’’ That was one he hadn’t been expecting. Nick opened his mouth to answer, but before the words were out, Sara jumped in. ‘‘That’s very kind of you, Jackson, but we’ve got things worked out just fine.’’ Her dark eyes bore into Jackson’s, as if warning him to stop interfering. She hadn’t planned on Nick staying for an extended period of time when she’d picked him up. But since learning that someone had tried to kill him, she felt differently. She’d offered him her hospitality and she resented those who questioned her decision. She was a big girl and didn’t need constant protection from Jackson, Kane or anyone else. Jackson had seen that look before. He stumbled, feeling awkward. ‘‘It’s just that—that your place is rather small and I—’’ ‘‘Is Jackson trying to run your life again, Sara?’’ came a feminine voice from the doorway. Nick looked up and saw a lovely woman with short black hair and dancing dark eyes in the doorway, her smile loving yet scolding as she looked at the attorney. Sara swiveled in her chair and smiled at Maggie Hawk. ‘‘I’m afraid he is. Time to sit him in the naughty chair like we do with the little ones at the day-care center.’’ Laughing, Maggie walked to her husband and leaned

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down to hug him. ‘‘Oh, just leave him to me. I’ll think of a way to make him leave you alone.’’ Reluctantly, Jackson gave up his effort not to smile. Ever since their marriage, Maggie had that effect on him. ‘‘I’ll just bet you will.’’ Warmed by their affection, Sara felt the tension in the room ease. ‘‘Maggie, I’d like you to meet Nick Dean. He’s—’’ ‘‘He’s the man you picked up the night of the storm.’’ Still smiling, she held out her hand. ‘‘A pleasure to meet you, Nick. You’re the talk of the res.’’ It was impossible not to respond to the woman’s friendliness. ‘‘The same here,’’ Nick said, shaking her slender hand, wondering how word had spread so rapidly when he hadn’t left Sara’s house till a few minutes ago. Sara was wondering the same thing. ‘‘How did you hear about Nick?’’ ‘‘From Kane, of course.’’ She winked at Nick. ‘‘He’s checked you out and couldn’t find any skeletons in your closet, so I guess you’re off the hook, temporarily.’’ ‘‘Knowing Kane, he’ll keep looking,’’ Jackson added, thinking that wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, an unknown woman had died in that burning Blazer. How did they know this guy was on the level with his story? ‘‘It’s fine with me if he does,’’ Nick said. ‘‘I haven’t got anything to hide and I’ve told all of you the truth, as far as I know it.’’ Nick had wanted to come here, Sara reminded herself. She’d hinted that Jackson might be rough on him, but he was handling it pretty well. ‘‘I must warn you, Maggie,’’ Sara said as her friend settled herself on the corner of Jackson’s desk, ‘‘we’re both fugitives according to Sheriff Henley.’’ Quickly, she brought Maggie up to date on what had happened to Nick’s Blazer, the hitchhiker and his in-

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juries. ‘‘So it just makes good sense that Nick should stay on the res until he learns who’s trying to harm him. He’s safer here than anywhere else right now.’’ It hadn’t escaped Maggie’s notice how quickly Sara had sprung to the man’s defense. She hadn’t known Sara but a few months and didn’t know if she had ever been seriously involved with a man. If she was inexperienced, the situation would bear watching, just in case Nick Dean wasn’t as ‘‘all-American clean-cut’’ as he looked. Unlike her husband, Maggie felt she could best do that by being noncritical and yet let Sara know she was available to talk if her friend needed her. ‘‘How exciting. Outlaws together, eh? What do you plan to do when Sara goes back to work, Nick? This snow isn’t going to last forever.’’ He’d been thinking about that himself. The snow was melting rapidly today in the warmth of an October sun, the early storm disappearing as quickly as it had come. His shoulder was better and his cuts were healing. He couldn’t just sit in Sara’s house and wait, especially since he didn’t know just what he was waiting for. ‘‘I’m not sure. Rent a car, I guess, and do some quiet snooping in town.’’ Maggie’s mischievous side surfaced. ‘‘Maybe we could work up a disguise so no one would recognize you.’’ Nick couldn’t figure out if she was making fun of him or simply had an offbeat sense of humor. ‘‘That has possibilities.’’ But Sara was on another track as she turned to Nick. ‘‘The museum’s closed Mondays, so I won’t be going to work until Tuesday. You can drive me to work and use my car. No one will think to look for you in my Volkswagen.’’ That brought Jackson into the discussion. ‘‘And have

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someone plant a bomb in your car? Too dangerous. I think Nick’s right. He should rent a car.’’ Sara sent him another narrow-eyed look. ‘‘Thanks for the input, but we’ll work out the details when the time comes.’’ Nick decided it was time to get control of the conversation with a change of subject. As Sara had said, they’d work out the car situation later. ‘‘So other than the FBI identification of Charlie’s remains, you don’t know anything more about why he’d have been on the reservation some twenty years ago, Jackson?’’ The tribal attorney shook his head, his two braids shifting on his big shoulders. ‘‘It isn’t common, but whites come on the reservation occasionally. The spot where the bones were found is about ten miles from my house, and it’s very rural out that way. There’re acres of grazing land and sections of wilderness. The fencing isn’t real good. Anyone could wander into the area and we’d probably never know. Does Melissa have any theories?’’ ‘‘Not really. She’s given me a few names, men who reputedly didn’t get along all that well with Charlie, but she was only a child at the time. The main thing for her is that she’s always felt abandoned because her father disappeared so abruptly. Now that we know he was murdered, we can surmise that he might not have left voluntarily. She feels better knowing that, but understandably, she wants to know who did him in.’’ Jackson had been in his teens at the time of Charlie’s disappearance and had paid little attention to the news. But the finding of his bones on his res had him interested now. ‘‘What names did she give you?’’ Nick consulted his notebook again. ‘‘Unfortunately, two of them are already dead. Cameron Baxter and Jeremiah Kincaid.’’

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Maggie looked surprised. ‘‘Jeremiah? What reason would the richest man in town have for killing a ranch hand who didn’t even work for him?’’ She’d heard stories about Charlie Avery since his remains had been found on the res, and most folks described him as having been restless, impulsive and unhappy being tied down with a family and very little money. Jackson, who’d disliked Jeremiah, felt that the man had thought himself above the law and wouldn’t need much reason to kill a man. ‘‘We might not know his reasons, but we know that Jeremiah was short on conscience and could easily have justified murdering someone, say if the man had something on him.’’ Nick jotted that down. ‘‘Do you know anything about Cameron Baxter?’’ Jackson leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. ‘‘I know that the Baxter Ranch at one time was quite prosperous. But Cameron was a conniver and gambler, always dreaming up get-rich-quick schemes. He wound up having to mortgage off his land little by little to pay off his gambling debts and poor business investments. There was bad blood between the Baxters and Kincaids, especially after Kincaid bought up much of Baxter’s land. But how Charlie fit into the picture, I wouldn’t know.’’ That pretty much confirmed what Nick had gathered from folks in town. ‘‘Anyone left of the Cameron family?’’ ‘‘I don’t think so. Cameron’s wife died even before he did. They had a daughter who was rumored to be pretty wild as a teenager. Then she disappeared, and as far as I know, no one’s heard from her since she left town years ago.’’ ‘‘Not much to go on.’’ Nick glanced at his notes again. ‘‘The only other possible suspect I have so far is Ethan

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Walker. Melissa tells me Ethan and her father quarreled publicly more than once. I tried to get him to talk with me, but when he found out what I wanted to know, he left the Sundowner Saloon, where I’d approached him, without finishing his beer.’’ Jackson thought that over. ‘‘I’ve heard that Ethan’s reclusive and antisocial, and that he gets into fights occasionally. He was in Vietnam, so he might be familiar with bombs and weapons. But I’ve also heard that he’s honest and hardworking. He was still a teenager when Charlie disappeared. What would be his motive?’’ ‘‘I don’t know. I need to convince him to talk with me, and hopefully I can interview some of his friends and neighbors.’’ He closed his notebook and put it in his shirt pocket. ‘‘Whitehorn’s a pretty closemouthed town.’’ ‘‘Yes, and they’re not crazy about strangers,’’ Maggie threw in. ‘‘Most especially not Native American strangers.’’ ‘‘But you set them straight, didn’t you, sweetheart? And impressed them to boot.’’ Jackson sent her an affectionate smile, then turned to Nick with an explanation. ‘‘When my wife worked for the government, she ‘persuaded’ the school superintendent to treat the Indian kids more fairly and she shook up the town fathers a bit. They don’t call her ‘The Little Fed Who Actually Listens’ for nothing.’’ Nick looked puzzled. ‘‘The little Fed who actually listens?’’ Maggie liked her name and was pleased to explain. ‘‘That’s what they call me on the res, my Indian name.’’ ‘‘Aha.’’ Nick looked over at Sara. ‘‘And what is your Indian name?’’ ‘‘Never mind. It’s time we got going.’’ She stood, buttoning her jacket. Nick rose, but wasn’t going to let it go. ‘‘Come on,

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give.’’ When she shook her head, he turned to Maggie. ‘‘Is it so terrible?’’ Maggie laughed. ‘‘Of course not. Sara is ‘The Little Lamb Who Thinks Too Much.’’’ Sara sent her friend a mock scowl. ‘‘I do not think too much, nor am I a little lamb.’’ ‘‘More like a roaring lion these days, I’d say,’’ Jackson said, then pretended to flinch as Sara shook a fist at him. He, too, got to his feet and decided to lighten up and take Nick Dean at face value. The guy seemed all right. But he’d still keep his eyes and ears open. ‘‘If there’s anything I can do to help your investigation, Nick, let me know,’’ he said, walking to the door with them. ‘‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’’ The overprotective ‘big brother’ had calmed down since his wife’s arrival, Nick thought. Like beauty taming the beast. The two men lingered as Sara and Maggie walked ahead arm in arm. Nick stopped, turning to Jackson. ‘‘I want you to know I wouldn’t hurt Sara. She came to my rescue in a way few would have. I owe her.’’ Jackson studied the man’s vivid blue eyes a long moment and decided to believe him. ‘‘Glad to hear you say that,’’ he said, clapping Nick on the shoulder. At the door to the tribal office, they caught up with the women. ‘‘I was just saying that it would be nice to have Sara and Nick over to the house for dinner one night, Jackson, since he’s going to be around for a while,’’ Maggie said, looking up at her tall husband. Before her marriage, she’d lived with Sara for a while and had grown to respect and admire her. Besides, she was curious as to how things between Sara and Nick might develop. A good way to keep track of their relationship, Jackson thought as he nodded. ‘‘Fine with me.’’ Maggie smiled her thanks. ‘‘I’ll call you, Sara.’’

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‘‘Great.’’ Carefully, Sara stepped out into slippery slush as the noonday sun melted the drifts. She felt Nick grab her arm as her booted feet sunk further into the mess. ‘‘I liked the fresh snowfall better than this stuff.’’ They’d opted to walk over, since the day was warming, but Sara wished now that they’d taken her car. ‘‘Didn’t I see a restaurant on the other side of this building as we came around?’’ Nick asked. ‘‘The Tribal Center Restaurant, yes.’’ ‘‘Good. I’m hungry. Let me take you to lunch, since you’ve been feeding me for quite some time now.’’ She wasn’t sure that was such a dandy idea. The small restaurant was a gathering place as well as an eatery, and the patrons were unused to white people. Still, how could she explain that to Nick without sounding as if the entire res was prejudiced? Perhaps it would be best to let him find out for himself. ‘‘Lunch sounds fine.’’ The bell above the door tinkled in greeting as they entered, wiping their boots on the thick mat. There were clusters of tables throughout the restaurant, a small counter at the rear with six stools and half a dozen red vinyl booths along the outer wall with its low picture windows. All but two tables and one booth were occupied, with three and four people at each and only a couple with two diners. As one body, the occupants looked up and stopped talking. Only the clink of dishes from the kitchen could be heard as Sara led Nick to the far booth, smiling at several people along the way and greeting most by name. Nearly there, she stopped to hug a small girl of perhaps five and speak a few words to her parents. Then she slid into the booth and began unbuttoning her jacket as if nothing unusual had just happened. He wasn’t one to feel awkward often, Nick thought. Yet

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that silent walk across the room had definitely done something to shake his confidence. Clearing his throat, he picked up the menu, though his eyes were on Sara. ‘‘I took a shower this morning, even combed my hair. What do you suppose it is? I haven’t said a word and they don’t like me on sight?’’ ‘‘Many of our residents aren’t used to white people on their turf. Some rarely even go into town. Give them time.’’ He looked so taken aback that she felt sorry for him. However, she’d been through this exact scene more than once herself, only in the reverse. Some places even around the college had made her uncomfortable, even after living on campus for four years. Nick stared at the menu, but couldn’t concentrate. Well, he’d wanted to see the reservation up close and it seemed he was. He’d traveled a great deal, been many places, yet he’d never once felt this...this out of place. Like a foreigner. No, more like a little green man who’d just popped off a distant planet, an interesting species one should be wary of. Running a finger around his collar, he dared to glance around. The adults dropped their eyes and went back to their food, but the children openly stared as if he were that visiting alien. Sara had been right. The differences he’d so readily dismissed did make him stand out among her people. Surely, though, they’d get used to him. Wouldn’t they? ‘‘How long does it take a white man who lives on the reservation to be accepted?’’ Maybe he’d be better off returning to the motel and taking his chances. He wasn’t used to such a collectively hostile environment. ‘‘I wouldn’t know. My father never quite made it and he lived here ten years. There’s been no other white man who’s ever come to live here permanently.’’ Surely this

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incident told him more than she ever could in words. They were vastly diverse and not just in skin color. In his hometown or in Butte, she’d likely be feeling as he now was if he’d take her into a restaurant there. No, it would never work. Despite their strong attraction and the power of those two kisses she’d lain awake most of the night reliving, an involvement was out of the question. People who stuck to their own kind were happiest. She must keep that in mind. Sara opened the menu she already knew by heart. ‘‘Have you ever tried Indian fry bread?’’ ‘‘Sure, lots of times. There’s a shop in Red Lodge that sells it.’’ ‘‘Along with Indian jewelry and pottery?’’ She’d seen those typical shops, often in touristy areas. Most weren’t even run by real Indians. He heard a hint of criticism in her voice. ‘‘Yeah. What’s wrong with that?’’ ‘‘Nothing.’’ Sara closed the menu as the waitress approached. ‘‘Hi, Gretchen. I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries. And coffee, black.’’ ‘‘Oh, you mean the usual?’’ Gretchen’s wide face split in a big smile. She wrote the order on her pad, then looked to Nick hesitantly, her smile fading. ‘‘And for you?’’ Nick gave her his most dazzling smile. He would show them, by God, that he wasn’t taking their snub to heart. ‘‘The same, please.’’ He was a bigger man than that. He knew it took time to win strangers over. But he was good at it. Real good. As the waitress turned to fill their order without responding, he looked around the room, still wearing his smile. Only one small boy even made eye contact. He shifted his gaze out the window. ‘‘If I make it out of here alive, where are you taking me next?’’ He was hurt and trying to hide it. Sara felt a softening

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inside that she didn’t want to acknowledge. She didn’t want to like him, to empathize with him as few others could. It would be so much easier to handle his leaving if she didn’t care at all. Why hadn’t she let Jackson and Maggie coax Nick to stay at their much larger home? He’d have been more comfortable, and more accepted as the guest of not only the tribal attorney, but a man and his wife, rather than remaining with a single woman. She’d been asking herself why ever since leaving Jackson’s office. And she was all too afraid of the answer. ‘‘If you feel like marching through the slush, I’ll take you to the day-care and the community centers. And you said you’d like to pick up a few things at the trading post.’’ ‘‘Yeah, fine.’’ He looked so dejected that she wanted to reach across the table and squeeze his hand in reassurance. But Native Americans frowned on public displays. She was certain her gesture would be misinterpreted by the people seated nearby pretending not to watch them. She groped for a subject that would distract him, wondering when his happiness had become important to her. ‘‘Did anything Jackson said about the suspects on your list help in your search for Charlie’s killer?’’ Nick shrugged, then ran a hand across his face in a weary gesture. ‘‘Hard to tell. I need to get back to Whitehorn, to interview more people. At this point, I still don’t have much.’’ ‘‘Would you want me to go with you?’’ An impulsive offer, but Sara rather thought she’d enjoy helping. ‘‘To drive you, I mean. Surely the mad bomber wouldn’t take on two of us.’’ He couldn’t keep his surprise from showing on his face,

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nor his other feelings. ‘‘That’s—a very generous offer.’’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘‘I thank you, but I can’t let you do that. It’s far too dangerous and I wouldn’t involve you.’’ Gretchen chose that moment to bring their order. Sara pulled back her hand and placed it in her lap as the waitress silently set down their food. Her fault, she told herself as she caught disapproval in the eyes of an elderly woman two tables over. She hadn’t told Nick about some of the important traditional Indian customs that he needed to know if he were to remain on the res, even for a few more days. If she didn’t, she’d soon have a scandal whirling about her head. Nick pumped catsup onto his burger, unaware of her uneasiness. Picking up the generous sandwich, he took a big bite, savoring the juiciness. ‘‘Mmm, this is really good.’’ Sara tasted a french fry. ‘‘I suppose you’re a junk-food junkie and I’ve been plying you with healthy soups and salads.’’ ‘‘No, I love what you’ve been fixing. But once in a while I get a craving for a greasy old burger.’’ ‘‘Me, too. I got hooked when I was in college.’’ She took a bite of her cheeseburger, feeling better. He hadn’t seemed to notice her earlier discomfort. She’d enlighten him in private. They ate, chatting easily, about Montana winters, and then he asked about her work at the museum. The subject was near and dear to Sara’s heart, so she told him about her love of ancient artifacts and their accompanying history. By the time the check arrived, Nick was convinced that he’d like to visit the museum. He also insisted on paying for both of them. Leaving a generous tip, he took her elbow as they left, again amidst

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a watchful silence. Outside at last, Nick pulled up his coat collar against a cool wind. ‘‘You know,’’ he couldn’t help commenting, ‘‘even with the wind-chill factor, I think it’s warmer out here than in there.’’ He took hold of her arm again, hoping to take the sting from his words, since her neighbors’ attitude was hardly her fault, as he followed her around the building to the trading post. Summer Lewis was behind the counter just as Sara had told Nick she would be. Sara smiled and hurried over to hug her mother. ‘‘Hello, Mama.’’ The woman could have passed for Sara’s older sister, Nick thought as he watched the two embrace. Summer was as tall as her daughter and as slender, her black hair pulled back from her face and wound into some sort of bun, with only a few strands of silver showing. The big difference was that the mother’s skin was about two shades darker and her eyes reflected a kind of tired wisdom. ‘‘I’ve brought someone I’d like you to meet,’’ Sara said, motioning for Nick to come closer. ‘‘This is Nick Dean, a private investigator from Butte looking into who killed the man whose bones were found on the res recently. Nick, this is my mother, Summer Lewis.’’ He smiled warmly and held out his hand. The older woman hesitated, as if she rarely touched strangers, but finally placed her hand ever so briefly in his, then quickly withdrew it. ‘‘It’s good to meet you, ma’am. You have a daughter to be proud of.’’ Summer’s black eyes warmed as they returned to her daughter. ‘‘That is not news to me.’’ She reached to touch Sara’s long braid. ‘‘You didn’t tell me you had a new friend.’’ Of course, she’d heard about the white man on the res from Kane’s visit and from others who’d come into the store. But not from her daughter’s lips.

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Sara heard the unspoken part, a new white friend, and felt the slight rebuke. She rushed to explain about Nick’s Blazer and how she’d happened on him. Although her mother’s eyes widened when she realized that Nick had spent two nights at her daughter’s house, to her credit she didn’t mention it. ‘‘It was good of you to take him in. I taught you well.’’ The smile finally came, but slowly. Sara knew she was forgiven, but that her mother would want an in-depth explanation when they were alone. ‘‘Nick’s interested in purchasing some shirts and jeans.’’ ‘‘Men’s clothes are at the back,’’ Summer said. ‘‘Come with me.’’ There was no one else in the store at the moment, but Nick still sent Sara a don’t-leave-me-alone look, so she trailed after them. Summer asked him questions as to size, then pointed out the stacks of flannel shirts and denim pants. Sara watched him select two of each, then turn to the packaged underwear and socks. She’d told Nick she’d drive in to the motel and pick up his luggage, but he’d said he didn’t feel she’d be safe and therefore wouldn’t let her go. As casually as he purchased replacement clothes, she had to assume he must do fairly well in his business. ‘‘Sara,’’ Nick said, handing his choices to Summer, ‘‘those moccasins you wear look so comfortable. Did you buy them here?’’ She pointed to the far wall, where boxes were stacked in neat rows. ‘‘Right over there. Let’s go see if they have your size.’’ ‘‘How is my grandmother?’’ Sara asked afterward as Nick paid for his purchases. ‘‘She is well. You should go see for yourself. She

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misses you.’’ With nimble fingers, Summer rang up the charges on the old cash register. ‘‘She is home?’’ ‘‘No. She sits with Tommy Running Deer’s newborn. You know where that cabin is?’’ She slid the clothes and moccasins into a large paper bag and held them out to the man. But her thoughts were on Sara, on how frequently her eyes drifted to this white man, on how easily they’d laughed together as he’d tried on the moccasins. That is how it so often begins, Summer remembered— a man and woman laughing easily together. She tried to keep from frowning, recalling the summer Sara had come home after her college graduation, filled with a lingering sadness instead of anticipated joy. She sent a swift prayer to Maheo that her daughter would not fall prey a second time. ‘‘Of course I know where Tommy Running Deer lives. Perhaps I will go.’’ Her mother was broadly hinting that she visit her grandmother, and Sara wondered why. Summer was concerned about the white man, that Sara could see in her eyes. Did she think by showing Nick a more realistic Indian cabin, he might be shocked enough to leave and never return? That had to be it. Moving to her mother, she embraced her again. ‘‘You worry too much,’’ she whispered in her ear, then listened as Nick thanked Summer for helping him. As they made for the door, the bell above tinkled again and two middleaged Indian women entered, each carrying a satchel. Sara greeted them in Cheyenne, knowing that neither spoke much English, then walked outside, keenly aware that two pairs of dark eyes as well as her mother’s watched Nick follow her. On the slippery walk, Sara nearly fell, but Nick’s strong arm caught her to him and held her upright. ‘‘Thanks,’’

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she said, her voice trembling not from the near fall but because she knew both women and probably her mother had witnessed this strange white man rushing to assist her. They would not openly criticize her, but the disapproval would be in their eyes. Why was she opening herself up to so much censure? Sara asked herself. She who led a nice orderly life, was liked and accepted by nearly everyone both on the res and at work, respected, admired and loved by the young people she tried to help. Why was she tossing all that aside for a man who would walk out of her life just as soon as he was finished using her? Nick felt her deep sigh. ‘‘Is something wrong?’’ he asked, genuinely puzzled. She stopped, turning to look up at him. The weak winter sunshine turned his hair golden and the capricious wind tossed it about, rearranging it even more boyishly. But there was nothing boyish about the way he so often looked at her, stirring her in that indefinable way that both excited and frightened her. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should expose Nick to a hard dose of res reality, the kind that separated the men from the boys. A glimpse of actual Indian life had sent Jackson’s first wife scrambling back to her comfortable white world. Sara couldn’t help wondering if Nick was made of sterner stuff. ‘‘Would you mind if we went to visit my grandmother? We could go to the community and day-care centers tomorrow.’’ ‘‘That’d be fine. You said she’s eighty, and she’s actually baby-sitting a newborn? She must be something.’’ ‘‘Manya is definitely one of a kind.’’ ‘‘Is Manya grandmother in Cheyenne?’’

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‘‘No. It means revered one. As long as I can remember, my grandmother’s been called Manya.’’ Anxious to meet the lady, Nick gripped her arm as they made their way back to the house and Sara’s car. The lady was barely four feet tall, with pure white hair worn in a long braid down her back and a corncob pipe stuck between her lips. ‘‘Child, it’s good to see you,’’ Manya said, pocketing her unlit pipe as she stepped back from the old wooden door. But when Sara bent to hug her and she was able to see the tall white man behind her, the old woman stiffened. ‘‘I’ve brought someone to meet you, Manya,’’ Sara said, standing aside and drawing Nick closer. Watching her grandmother’s wrinkled face, she introduced them. Delighted by Nick’s warm greeting and firm handshake, Manya smiled. ‘‘He reminds me of Aaron, only his hair is lighter.’’ ‘‘Yes, a little.’’ Sara actually didn’t think that Nick resembled her father other than by skin color, but she didn’t want to contradict the older woman. ‘‘We’ve come to visit with you and see the baby.’’ ‘‘Come in, come in. It’s bitter cold out.’’ Turning, she walked back to her rocker by the fireplace alongside a small wooden cradle, while Nick and Sara removed their jackets. Sara went over and pulled back the blanket, revealing a fat-cheeked baby with coal black hair sleeping soundly. ‘‘Oh, he’s adorable. Is he good?’’ Manya nodded. ‘‘Very good. He was so small, not even four pounds, but he’s growing now.’’ The baby still seemed awfully small to Nick, who viewed him from a safe distance over Sara’s shoulder. ‘‘A preemie, eh?’’

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‘‘Yes,’’ Manya answered, ‘‘and we almost lost him along with his mother.’’ ‘‘His mother died?’’ He saw the old woman nod as he straightened. ‘‘It’s pretty rare these days, a woman dying in childbirth. Was she ill?’’ ‘‘Not ill, just unlucky. A breech birth. She lost too much blood.’’ Manya shook her head sadly. ‘‘Tommy grieves daily.’’ ‘‘Didn’t the doctor give her transfusions? Lots of babies are born breech and—’’ ‘‘There was no doctor. She had him here in this cabin.’’ Nick felt a strange rush of de´ja` vu. Only this time, the mother had died. Reliving remembered pain, he glanced around the cabin, finding it far more primitive than Sara’s simple house. He’d noticed as they’d arrived that the small structure was made of logs, and from where he stood, he could see daylight creeping through in several places. There was no insulation and the coldest weather had yet to come. The floor was rough planking, with only two thin braided rugs in the large room. The kitchen area was at one end and a pine bed stood in the corner. He could see no bathroom, no door leading to one. Clothes hung on hooks on the far wall and the two small windows in front seemed ill fitting. All of it, however, was spotlessly clean. Lord, how could anyone survive a Montana winter in this cabin, especially a tiny baby? He turned back to the old woman, who was wearing a shawl and sweater over a dark dress, and caught her studying him. He had to know, had to ask. ‘‘Did the baby come too quickly so there was no time to make it in to the hospital or even the clinic?’’ Manya chewed on the stem of her pipe. ‘‘The labor went on for hours, the medicine woman told us. There

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was no money for the hospital, even if Katrina would have gone.’’ ‘‘But it might have saved her life.’’ Sara saw a concern on his face that surprised her. ‘‘A lot of Native Americans don’t trust hospitals or city doctors, Nick.’’ He couldn’t let it go. Guilt revisited, he knew. ‘‘Then why didn’t she call Kane Hunter? Doesn’t he deliver babies?’’ Manya saw his agitation, too, and the tight look on her granddaughter’s face. ‘‘Tommy has no phone and Katrina wouldn’t let him leave. She didn’t think she would die. She feared more for her baby. By the time he finally came for me and I reached Kane, it was too late.’’ Too late. Two of the saddest words in the English language. Nick became aware that his face was damp. He’d stepped too close to the fire, he thought as he wiped his brow. Sara turned from him and touched the silky softness of the baby’s cheek. ‘‘At least Tommy has his child. That’s more than some have.’’ Manya felt the heaviness of Sara’s old sadness, the one that would never leave her. ‘‘I will make us a hot drink,’’ she said, rising slowly from her rocker. ‘‘I—I think we should go,’’ Nick said, wanting to get outside, to breathe fresh air. He took the old woman’s small, work-worn hand in his much larger one, intending to thank her. Instead, he got caught up in another memory. ‘‘My grandmother had hands like yours,’’ he said, his voice low. Why was it that being with this lady and seeing that child had dragged him back through his own past? ‘‘She lived with us when I was growing up.’’ He met the old woman’s dark gaze. ‘‘When her hands held me, I used to feel safe. The baby’s lucky to have you.’’

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The old woman squeezed his fingers. ‘‘Come back one day. We will talk.’’ Nick nodded. ‘‘Thank you.’’ He turned to Sara. ‘‘Ready?’’ Sara had watched the interchange between Nick and Manya silently and felt stunned to see a suspicious moistness clouding the blue of his eyes. Perhaps he, too, had painful memories best left buried. Ironic that Summer had thought Nick’s visit to this place would send him running from the res. Instead, he’d found an affinity with Manya that transcended age or racial differences. Quickly, she leaned to kiss her grandmother’s leathery cheek. ‘‘Stay well, Manya.’’ Outside, the air had grown cooler and dark clouds had moved into the sky. ‘‘I think it’s going to rain,’’ Sara commented as she gazed upward. Nick took several deep breaths, trying to shake off his sudden depression. Turning back, he studied the cabin with a practiced eye. Several others a short distance away along a winding path looked to be in equal disrepair. ‘‘Who built these homes? A structural inspector would condemn them.’’ Hands thrust into her pockets, Sara followed his gaze. ‘‘No one will come to inspect. No one in city government cares about anything on Laughing Horse.’’ He swung about. ‘‘Can’t Jackson or his uncle do something?’’ ‘‘They try, but they keep running into red tape and brick walls. Besides, where would the money come from to repair the homes, or to build better ones? Where would these people live in the meantime?’’ Where, indeed. ‘‘Does Tommy have a job?’’ ‘‘He works part-time on one of the ranches near town. Employers don’t have to pay benefits to part-time em-

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ployees.’’ She tried to keep the anger, the injustice from her voice, but didn’t know if she was succeeding. He caught it. ‘‘It isn’t fair.’’ With his chin, he indicated the row of shabby houses. ‘‘None of it’s fair.’’ She hadn’t thought he’d notice or care. She’d been wrong. ‘‘You’re right.’’ ‘‘There ought to be something that can be done.’’ Walking to the car, he opened the passenger door. Sara climbed in behind the wheel, turned the Volkswagen around and had gone only a short way when she saw a woman carrying two heavy bags walking slowly along the edge of the road. She stopped and wound down the window. ‘‘Can I give you a lift, Alice?’’ The young woman shook her head, then peered curiously at Sara’s companion. ‘‘I’m almost home, thanks.’’ ‘‘Alice Thundercloud, meet Nick Dean. He’s investigating Charlie Avery’s murder.’’ Alice’s smile was friendly. ‘‘Yes, I heard. Hello.’’ Nick smiled. ‘‘Nice to meet you. Those look heavy. You sure you don’t want to get in?’’ As Alice shook her head again, Sara frowned. Nearly three months pregnant with her first baby, Alice shouldn’t be carrying weighty packages nor walking in ankle-deep slush. ‘‘Where’s John?’’ ‘‘At the museum. Something about unpacking stock.’’ Sara hid her reaction to that piece of news. John Thundercloud worked part-time at a ranch near town and after that did maintenance work at the Native American Museum. But it was Sunday and the museum was closed. Of course, he could be doing a side job somewhere. ‘‘Well, if we can’t give you a lift, then we’ll be on our way. Bye, Alice.’’ Returning her friend’s wave, Sara drove to her house, her mind first on the Thunderclouds, then on the mood of

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the man beside her. Something was bothering him, some memory that had been triggered inside the little cabin, and she wondered if she should mention it. As she pulled up in her drive, she decided to ask. ‘‘Nick, did you ever lose a child?’’ She saw a muscle in his jaw clench, but he didn’t look her way, just sat staring. Finally, he answered. ‘‘A long time ago.’’ Sara had never married, had never had high hopes for a baby on the way. Not yet, anyway. How could she relate? ‘‘You wouldn’t understand.’’ He got out, closed his door and walked toward the porch. Sara let out a trembling breath. ‘‘Don’t be too sure,’’ she whispered.

Six A slow, steady dripping sound woke him. Nick opened his eyes and realized the threatening rain had finally arrived. With luck, it would wash away the dirty snow. Rearranging his pillow, he settled back down in the comfortable bed. But the dripping continued, and it sounded as if it were inside rather than out. Shoving back the quilt, he rose and snapped on the bedside lamp. It took him but a moment to locate the problem. The roof was leaking from a crack in the ceiling just over Sara’s desk. Walking over, he saw from the accumulated puddle that the rain must have been splashing onto the oak top for some time. Quickly he pulled on his jeans and stepped into his new, fur-lined moccasins. Moving past the fireplace on his way to the kitchen, he noticed that the fire was only smoldering embers. He turned on the kitchen light and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. Rummaging around, he found a bucket toward the back, but no rags. He grabbed a kitchen towel and headed back to his room. Hurrying along the shadowy hallway, he almost collided with Sara, who was walking toward him, tying the sash of her long green robe. ‘‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’’ he told her, hardly able to take his eyes from her long hair cascading down her back. He much preferred it loose and flowing rather than in the braid she usually wore. ‘‘I’m a light sleeper. What’s going on?’’

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‘‘Your roof is leaking onto the desk in your guest room.’’ He moved past her and into the bedroom. The towel soaked up the rain easily. ‘‘I don’t think the finish has been damaged.’’ Wiping down the front of the desk where some water had trailed to the floor, he next felt the wood. ‘‘We caught it in time.’’ He placed the bucket under the drip and stared up at the ceiling. ‘‘Were you aware of this crack?’’ Sara followed his gaze and let out a frustrated sigh. ‘‘No, it’s a new one. I had several leaks patched this past summer. The repairman said he thought he’d gotten them all.’’ ‘‘Roof leaks are often hard to find and to track to the original crack, especially in houses with no attics or substantial crawl space. My dad and I once tracked one in the ranch bunkhouse on and off all summer until we finally tagged the point of entry.’’ Nick adjusted the bucket slightly to better catch the leak. ‘‘I noticed you have a ladder in your utility shed. I’ll go up and check this out in the morning, provided the rain has stopped.’’ Sara thrust her hands deep into her pockets. ‘‘I can’t ask you to do that.’’ He turned to her and paused to watch the lamplight dancing in the ebony of her hair. ‘‘You didn’t ask. I volunteered.’’ She was standing too near, and the big, inviting bed was causing mind pictures that had him clearing his throat and reaching for his discarded shirt. Thank goodness he was putting something on, Sara thought. She’d had to hide her hands to keep from reaching out, the desire to explore that hard chest matted with blond, curly hair still making her pulse erratic. She couldn’t stay in this room another minute with his things scattered about and his masculine scent making her light-

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headed. ‘‘Thanks for catching the leak,’’ she said, walking to the door. ‘‘Good night.’’ ‘‘Mind if I pump up the fire?’’ Nick asked, following her out. ‘‘Suddenly, I’m not sleepy.’’ ‘‘No, go right ahead.’’ Sara feigned a yawn. ‘‘See you in the morning.’’ She started down the hallway. ‘‘Is it okay if I have a glass of milk?’’ He stood in the archway and waited for her to turn his way. He smiled. ‘‘Might help me sleep.’’ ‘‘Help yourself.’’ She moved to her own bedroom doorway. ‘‘Would you care to join me in a glass?’’ Slowly, she swung to face him. What game was this? He certainly hadn’t faked the roof leak, yet this seemed a ploy to get her to stay up with him. But why? He’d been lost in his thoughts and unusually quiet since they’d returned from visiting her grandmother. She’d seen him wander to the bookcase, pick up a book and try to read. He’d given that up and had sat staring moodily into the fire most of the evening. Then he’d gone to bed early. She’d left him alone, wary of pursuing the subject of the child he’d said he’d lost a long time ago. It was really none of her business. Sara had always disliked it when people tried to pry information out of her, so she tried not to do it to others. She valued her privacy and respected Nick’s. Yet she had to admit to a certain curiosity. All he’d said that first night about his marriage was that it hadn’t worked out. Had it failed because he and his wife had lost a child? The death of a baby was often a catalyst in finishing off a shaky marriage. The loss left both parents shattered, unable to forget and forgive. The knowledge that Nick had suffered a loss somehow shifted their relationship for Sara. It humanized him more, which unnerved her. She didn’t

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want to think warm, sympathetic thoughts of him. She wanted to be detached, friendly from a distance, uninvolved. But was that even possible? Catching the hopeful glint in his eyes, she found herself walking back to join him, wondering if perhaps she’d been a fool to think she could corral her feelings in the face of this riveting attraction Nick Dean held for her. Maybe what she needed to do was play it out, face it down, check into it. Perhaps she’d be happily surprised to discover that once she’d satisfied her curiosity, the feeling would die a natural death. In the kitchen, Nick opened the fridge and poured two glasses of milk. She’d come up beside him and he handed her one. ‘‘What we need with this is chocolate-chip cookies.’’ ‘‘Sorry. I rarely buy cookies.’’ ‘‘You don’t buy chocolate-chip cookies. You make them from scratch. Tomorrow we’ll go get the ingredients and make some. What do you say?’’ She couldn’t help smiling. The man could charm the birds from the trees. ‘‘You honestly want to bake cookies?’’ ‘‘You bet. And eat them when they’re warm.’’ He closed his eyes and rubbed his stomach. ‘‘Mmm. Nothing like it.’’ Carrying her glass, Sara left the kitchen and went to sit on the couch. ‘‘I suppose we could take the extras to the day-care center. The kids would love it.’’ Nick set down his glass and bent to stoke up the smoldering fire. ‘‘If there’re any left.’’ Sitting back, she watched him, that fine yellow hair falling onto his brow, the way the shirt stretched over his broad back as he tossed wood chunks onto the grate. He

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really was a beautiful specimen, she decided, trying to think of him clinically. Dusting off his hands as the blaze caught, Nick backed up and sat down next to Sara. Not at the other end of the couch, but near her, though not touching. He turned to her, studying her profile until she finally raised her eyes to his. The look held as each tried to read the thoughts of the other. The only light in the room came from the fire, the only sound the crackling and hissing of the flames licking at the wood. Nick could smell some kind of lotion on her skin mingling with her clean, feminine scent. He drew in a deep breath as she shifted her eyes to her hands, laced together in her lap. ‘‘I’ve been thinking about what you said in the car,’’ Sara began, needing to talk, needing to know, for what reason she was uncertain. She looked back and saw the vulnerability in his eyes. ‘‘Will you tell me what happened?’’ Nick turned, stretching out his long legs toward the fire, leaning his head on the couch’s back. She hadn’t talked very freely about her own failed relationship in her college days, and he had to admit to a relentless curiosity about her past. Perhaps if he shared with her, she’d open up to him more. But even after eight years, it was still so damn difficult to talk about. He searched for the right words. ‘‘I married Beth shortly after graduating from the police academy in Butte. I was twenty-four and she was twenty-one. Both of us so damn young.’’ It hadn’t seemed so at the time. He’d been out of college three years and had traveled all over, taking ranching jobs, working on construction crews. ‘‘It didn’t take me long to make sergeant, and then I was transferred to vice.

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It’s rough duty, long hours, undercover, frequent stakeouts, dealing with a lot of people you wouldn’t invite to dinner.’’ She could only imagine and that was bad enough. Shifting, she saw that his eyes were closed, as if he were watching the past roll by on the screen of his mind. ‘‘Beth hated my work. She was a teller in a bank and was always after me to quit the force and get a nice, safe job. But I wanted adventure, I guess. A taste of life, or whatever.’’ He heard the bitterness in his tone, but he couldn’t help that. ‘‘When she found out she was pregnant, she stepped up her campaign to get me to quit. I wouldn’t listen, kept putting her off. After the next bust, and the next.’’ He swiped a hand across his face, wishing he could wipe away the guilt as well. This was too hard. ‘‘I shouldn’t have asked, Nick,’’ Sara said softly. ‘‘I had no right.’’ He seemed not to hear, lost in his memories. ‘‘Beth was in her seventh month. I was on an important stakeout, thirty miles outside of town. I had a beeper and told her to call me if she needed me. She went into premature labor and tried to reach me, but something went wrong. My beeper didn’t go off. She finally called a friend, who drove her to the hospital. By the time I got home, found her note and raced to the hospital, it was too late.’’ He swallowed around a huge lump. ‘‘Too late. A little boy. He didn’t make it.’’ Sara reached out to him in an instinctive gesture of comfort, her fingers wrapping around his. ‘‘I’m so sorry.’’ ‘‘Yeah, me, too.’’ Nick sat up, watching their intertwined hands. ‘‘Beth was understandably bitter. She never went back to our apartment. She went to her parents’ house and filed for divorce.’’ ‘‘Why did she blame you? Chances are it would have

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happened even if you’d have gotten her to the hospital sooner. Babies two months premature can have many things wrong with them.’’ ‘‘The doctor said something about the baby had been deprived of oxygen too long. Because—because Beth had struggled to hold the baby back, waiting for me.’’ Sara squeezed his hand. ‘‘It’s unfair to lay the blame all on you.’’ ‘‘It was my work. Beth blamed my job, and me for not quitting it, for not being there for her.’’ He gave a painful laugh. ‘‘The irony is that, after that, I lost my enthusiasm and left police work.’’ Sara was not a toucher, not with people she didn’t know well. Yet the urge to touch him, to reach through his guilt, overwhelmed her. She pressed her hand to his cheek and turned his face to her. If ever there was a subject she understood, it was this one. ‘‘Years later, you’re still blaming yourself, and you mustn’t. Even today babies still die under the best of circumstances. And occasionally mothers in delivery, like Katrina. Who knows if Tommy’s wife would have made it even at a top-notch hospital? Someone bigger than us sets our fate. You call Him God, we call Him Maheo. Either way, He calls the shots. We can never control all aspects of our lives, much as we’d like to think we can.’’ He heard her, but the guilt ran too deep, the selfcondemnation was a habit too ingrained. ‘‘I wish I could believe that.’’ Of their own accord, her fingers stroked his face. ‘‘You should. You’re a good man, Nick.’’ ‘‘Good men make mistakes, too. Mistakes that damage other people. Some things you can’t make up for, like a life lost before it’s had a chance to grow.’’ His words hit home and she shivered in reaction. ‘‘I

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know, but we can’t go through life dragging all that guilt. What adult hasn’t made some mistakes, mistakes that they’d do anything to go back and fix? But we can’t. Dwelling on regrets is for the weak. I think of you as strong. Very strong. My grandmother recognized your strength, your worth. She asked you to come back and talk with her. I’ve never heard her make such a request to a white man, not ever.’’ Manya had been wary of Aaron Lewis from the beginning, she’d been told. And had had no use for him once he’d started drinking. Nick needed to pull himself back together, to shift the focus. He covered her hand with his own, drew it to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her palm before meeting her eyes. ‘‘How did you get so wise? A wise Indian is a cliche´.’’ It was his turn to stroke her face. ‘‘And how did you get so beautiful? Is it because you’re so beautiful inside?’’ Sara eased back a fraction, her nerves tensing. ‘‘You don’t really know me.’’ ‘‘Oh, I think I do. You’re a bright, educated, refined woman who chooses to live in far less comfort that you deserve, because you have this need to give, to share, to do for others. I watched you with your mother and Manya, your friends and your neighbors at the restaurant. You’re compassionate and caring. I know you’ve loved someone once and were disappointed, even deeply hurt, as I was.’’ She tried to ease back farther, but he held her steady. ‘‘You don’t want to talk about him, and that’s all right. I won’t press you.’’ He remembered how he’d thought her cold and then had discovered her warmth. ‘‘You have a buried passion you want to deny for some reason. Like you want to deny that you’re attracted to me.’’ He tipped her chin up. ‘‘How am I doing?’’ Close. Way too close. ‘‘Conjecture. All of that’s con-

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jecture.’’ She put a hand to his chest to push him away, to give herself some breathing room. Only his shirt was open and her hand touched the soft hair there. She made a small, helpless sound deep in her throat, fascinated at the sight of her darker fingers twining in the wiry blond curls. She felt his heartbeat pick up its rhythm, thrumming beneath her touch. Slowly, she raised her eyes and found his deep blue and aware. ‘‘Still think I’m conjecturing?’’ And then he was wrapping his arms around her and crushing his mouth to hers. Desire didn’t creep in on little cat feet. It didn’t steal through her quietly like the drizzle of fine wine on the tongue. It exploded, rocketing through Sara’s system like a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. Her hands on his chest tightened, then went exploring along hard muscles. Beneath his shirt, they moved to his back so she could gather him closer. She allowed his tongue entry to her mouth and tasted a hint of the milk he’d sipped, the innocent flavor, incongruous yet oddly exciting. As if from a distance, she heard the rain pounding on the roof, the sound keeping time with her galloping heart. She shouldn’t want him like this, shouldn’t be pressing her body so eagerly against his. She knew in the vague recesses of her mind that this had nowhere to go, that getting involved with this man was a dead-end street. Yet she could no more have pulled back than she could have walked on water. She had his head spinning and his thoughts whirling out of control. He wanted her desperately, wanted her hot and throbbing beneath him, warm and welcoming. He wanted her flesh-to-flesh with him, no barriers between them. He wanted her hands on him, touching him, pleasuring him.

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Nick knew he had to have felt all this before. Since the divorce, he’d known his share of women who’d meant something to him briefly. He liked it that way—to part friends, no hard feelings. But he’d never felt this kind of fire with anyone before, never felt the need to make a woman his and his alone. The thought had him nervous and edgy. Yet when Sara made a soft sound and tilted back her head, his lips burned a trail down her satin throat and his hands went wandering. Quicksand. She was sinking in quicksand and sensed the danger. She’d given in to similar feelings before and had lived to regret it. All the accumulated doubts, the buried fears resurfaced and had her trembling. ‘‘Nick,’’ she said, her voice shaky. Her hands, which still wanted to drag him closer, were suddenly pushing him away as her mind took charge of her emotions. ‘‘Stop, please.’’ His breathing was choppy as he drew back. Needing a moment, he touched his forehead to hers, letting his nerves settle. ‘‘I didn’t mean to push. It’s just that I touch you and I want more. Lots more. I’ve never had a problem quite like this before.’’ His admission, such a parallel of her own thoughts, almost had her reaching for him again. She steeled herself to move farther back. ‘‘This can’t keep happening. If it does, you’ll have to go stay with Jackson and Maggie.’’ Still a bit unsteady, she stood nonetheless. Fighting a rush of anger, Nick rose, touched her arm and turned her toward him. ‘‘What are you so afraid of— that you’ll commit the cardinal sin and fall for a white man?’’ Her eyes heated. ‘‘Only fools make the same mistake twice.’’ Pulling free, she rushed down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

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Picking up his empty glass, Nick struggled against an urge to smash it into the fireplace. Instead, he took it out to the kitchen and slammed it down on the counter. The childish gesture didn’t make him feel one bit better. Nick hung up the phone with a muttered oath. He’d just spent an exasperating half hour talking with Sheriff Hensley, giving him a detailed list of everyone in Whitehorn he’d interviewed in connection with his investigation. And it wasn’t enough. Judd wanted him to go in to the sheriff’s office or tell him where he was staying so they could talk in person. When Nick had refused, the sheriff calmly said that if he didn’t cooperate, he’d issue an All Points Bulletin for him. On what charge? Nick had wanted to know. No charge, just wanted for questioning in the death of an unknown female who’d died in the Blazer fire. When Nick had pointed out that he’d answered every question Judd had put to him, the man still continued to insist that he show up at the sheriff’s office. That was when Nick had hung up. Rising from the kitchen table, he walked to the counter and poured himself the last cup of coffee from the pot. But when he took a sip, he found it bitter and poured it into the sink. Or perhaps it was just his mood. He and Sara had been tiptoeing around one another ever since awakening on this cloudy Monday morning. Their emotional conversation last night and the stunning kisses were hard to avoid thinking about. The memory hung between them, thickening the air with tension, as did her warning that it had to stop. A subdued Sara had busied herself doing laundry. So he’d taken her toolbox into the bathroom and reattached the towel bar he’d pulled from the wall. Then he’d gone

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outside to the storage shed and propped the ladder against the house. The ground was soggy from melted snow and rainfall, but a slight warming trend appeared to be doing its best to do away with any excess moisture. He’d climbed up to the roof over the spare bedroom, but hadn’t been able to spot a specific section where the leak might have begun. It seemed unlikely that a thorough repair could be done until the spring thaw, after the long winter. However, he’d found some shingles in the shed, probably left over from last summer’s patch job, and nailed them down, overlapping a dozen or more in the vicinity of the suspected leak. He hoped that would take care of the problem temporarily. He’d gone back inside just as Sara had been putting on her jacket. She told him she was leaving to help out at the day-care center. Though he waited for her to invite him along, she hadn’t. He understood, though. She needed some space, and perhaps he did as well. Yet as he’d watched her drive off he’d felt strangely abandoned. So he’d stayed in and made some calls. To his partner in Butte, to Melissa Avery and finally to the sheriff. He’d learned nothing new from the first two and had been frustrated by the third. It was this confinement, Nick told himself. He was an outdoor man and unused to staying in so much, especially in a small house with a woman who set his teeth on edge. And he hated not having his own wheels. Through the kitchen window over the sink, he watched a sparrow flit from one barren tree branch to another, envying the bird’s freedom to go wherever it pleased. For the first time ever, Nick found himself a prisoner of circumstances, and he didn’t much care for the situation. Someone had tried to kill him, and probably that someone was still out there somewhere, possibly waiting to try

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again. That alone could make a man nervous. He’d happened on a safe place where any white resident of Whitehorn who came looking for him would stand out like a sore thumb. Yet keeping safe meant staying put, being restricted. Nick was certain he wouldn’t be able to maintain the status quo much longer. Hiding out went against the grain. His makeup was far more confrontational than evasive. Regardless of the risks, he’d have to take his chances soon because he was beginning to feel cowardly hiding out rather than hunting down Charlie’s killer, probably the same person responsible for planting dynamite in his Blazer. Tomorrow he would take some action. That decided, he felt better. A weak sun was trying to break through the cloud cover, Nick noticed as he peered out the window. What he needed was a walk to clear his mind. Sara hadn’t said how long she’d be gone. It didn’t matter, actually, since she would probably stay late in order to avoid being alone with him. If he left tomorrow, he was certain she wouldn’t weep over his departure. She wanted him, of that he was sure. But something in her past—more correctly, someone— was causing her to turn from her feelings. And from him. So be it, Nick thought, shrugging into his jacket. He’d learned the hard way that you couldn’t make someone care if something in their mind or heart stopped them. Beth had turned off her feelings for him the night their baby had died. It had taken him longer, much longer. Which was why it was best to remain uninvolved, unattached, he reminded himself as he stepped out into the brisk, early afternoon air. That’s the way he’d played it for a long time now, and that credo had kept him from

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getting hurt deeply again. Little did Sara realize that he didn’t want a serious relationship, either. He wanted friendship, a caring, intimate friendship. All right, so maybe he’d entertained fleeting thoughts of how good it would be to have Sara there at night when he came home from a long day. How comfortable it would be to talk together by the fire and share their days with one another. How pleasant it would be to have their meals across the table from each other, morning and night. How wonderful it would be to crawl under her grandmother’s quilt together in the big four-poster bed. How easily she chased away the loneliness he hadn’t recognized until she’d come into his life. But she was right. They were very different. She was committed to helping her people on the reservation. He needed to be free to come and go as he pleased. The two life-style choices would never mesh. It was best that he found out now, wasn’t it? Before he fell really hard, before he began to think of her during the day and dream of her at night. Before she got a real stranglehold on his feelings. Stepping off the wooden porch, Nick realized there was a loose board underfoot. He’d have to fix that next. Provided he was around long enough. Whistling to affirm that his mood had improved, he started off down the crooked path. Nick felt a little foolish standing outside the day-care building peering first into one window, then another. But he’d wanted to catch Sara with the children when she didn’t know he was watching. He walked on to the next one, keeping low. He’d spent several hours wandering the main streets of the reservation, checking out the buildings. Most of them

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were in need of repair or, in some cases, of being torn down and rebuilt. But the people had impressed him more this time. He’d walked into the rehab center and introduced himself to Earnest Running Bull, the crusty old Indian who ran the place. Earnest had been suspicious at first, then had warmed to him when he’d mentioned Sara’s name. Everyone, it seemed, knew Sara. Two thousand people lived on Laughing Horse, and by the time he’d finished his walk, Nick was certain each and every one he’d met had something good to say about Sara. Clyde White Feather, the tribal police chief, had been most interested in talking with him about the investigation. He’d been a bit cool and hostile until he’d heard the whole story, then had wound up saying that Nick was welcome to stay on the res until he felt it was safe to leave. Again, Sara’s name had come up several times, and undoubtedly she was the reason for the chief’s friendliness. Then he’d walked along some of the streets, many little more than rutted, muddy paths, and viewed the houses, some from a distance, some up close. So much needed doing. An infusion of money wouldn’t hurt, either. He’d strolled on, running across an older Indian named Henry Raintree, and had stopped to talk with him about horses for some time. He’d spotted Maggie Hawk strolling arm in arm with a tall, thin older woman she’d introduced as Annie Little Deer, her grandmother. They’d taken him into the grocery store and helped him find the ingredients for chocolate-chip cookies, which now rested in a sack on the front porch of the day-care center while he searched for Sara. Finally, at the third window, he got lucky. She was apparently in charge of the preschool kids today. There had to be over a dozen boys and girls ranging

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in age from two to five or so. They were seated on the floor in a half circle facing Sara, who was kneeling, her full, multicolored skirt arranged around her, a battered guitar in her hands. They were rehearsing a song she’d evidently taught them before, for she’d point to a twosome, who’d chime in with their part, and then three others, who’d jump in with theirs. Then she’d beckon to the back row, obviously the chorus, and they’d all but shout out the next line or two. Through the window, Nick could see that each small head was turned toward Sara, some expressions intent and others smiling from ear to ear. A couple of the smaller children were sucking their thumbs and several squirmed restlessly. A round-faced boy kept scooting closer to her and she’d reach out to touch him affectionately, then inch him back into his space. The song was loud and somewhat off-key, or so it sounded through the ill-fitting window. But the children were loving every minute of the sing-along. And so was the woman in the bright turquoise top with the long braid hanging down her back and the warm smile lighting up her face. His first thought was that she looked very much at home, a woman meant to have a whole passel of kids. As he watched, the song ended. Sara set down the guitar to wild applause from the children, and picked up the roundfaced boy, plunking him onto her lap. Her free hand reached to still one of the wiggly girls, who giggled as Sara ruffled her short bangs. Nick wasn’t sure why he felt a sudden thickness in his throat. ‘‘Hey, what are you doing over there?’’ came a deep, bellowing voice from behind him. Surprised, he swiveled about and saw a huge man in the uniform of a tribal policeman coming toward him, dan-

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gling a stick attached to a leather strap from his hand. Over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds, he wasn’t a man to be on the bad side of, Nick thought, turning on his smile. ‘‘Hi. I’m Nick Dean. I’ve come to see Sara Lewis.’’ The big man frowned. ‘‘You that detective fellow, the one working on that old murder case?’’ Their communication system on Laughing Horse was better than AT&T. ‘‘Yes. I’ve just been over talking with Chief White Feather.’’ The man’s frown disappeared and he nodded. ‘‘I’m Al Black Bird, the first one on the scene when they found those bones.’’ ‘‘That’s good to know, Al. Maybe you can spare some time this week and tell me about it.’’ The man’s substantial chest swelled importantly. ‘‘Sure.’’ He glanced at the window and back at Nick. ‘‘Why don’t you just go inside?’’ Nick gave an embarrassed laugh, wondering how he could explain his impulse to be a Peeping Tom. ‘‘I think I will. Thanks.’’ He walked back to the front and entered through the double doors just as Sara and several other adults were helping the little ones into their outerwear. Straightening from zipping up a small jacket, Sara spotted him. She didn’t smile, just stared, wondering why the sight of this one man could make her pulse scramble as no one else ever had. She’d tried to stay annoyed at him since last night, although her conscience told her that what had happened was as much her fault as his. But after what she’d heard this afternoon from no fewer than three sources, it was difficult to maintain even a cool expression. She watched as he walked slowly toward her, a hint of wariness in his blue eyes. He stopped in front of her as

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two of the children stepped behind Sara, unsure about being around the tall white man. ‘‘I hear you’ve been busy,’’ she said casually. ‘‘A little. I went for a long walk.’’ He nodded toward the doors. ‘‘I’ve got a surprise for you on the porch. Chocolate chips.’’ She didn’t think he’d forget that. But cookies weren’t what she wanted to talk about. Scooting the children over to the other adults, she grabbed her jacket and walked outside with him. ‘‘I understand you met Henry Raintree,’’ she began. Nick nodded. Did she get a report on his every move? ‘‘And Chief White Feather, Earnest Running Bear, plus Annie Little Deer.’’ ‘‘Did you capture a runaway horse for each of them?’’ So that’s what this was about. ‘‘Who told you?’’ She stood buttoning her jacket, watching his face. ‘‘Three of the parents who dropped off their children. They say you saved Henry from being trampled to death.’’ ‘‘Oh, hardly that. I happened to be walking past his fence and saw him trying to get this black stallion into the corral. The stubborn cuss knocked Henry over and was about to take off.’’ And he’d run over, jumped on the stallion bareback and gotten him under control and inside the gate, then had helped Henry up. ‘‘The way I heard it, you risked your neck for someone you don’t even know.’’ For a white man to disregard his own safety to save an Indian was uncommon enough to have half the reservation talking about the incident by now. ‘‘Henry’s a nice man. His wife died not long ago and he’s lonely. But I guess you already know that. He invited me in and we had a drink.’’ He made a face. ‘‘I’m not sure what was in the drink, but it sure had a kick to it.’’

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‘‘Why’d you do it, Nick?’’ Sara needed to know, needed to fit the variant puzzle pieces that made up Nick Dean into a nice, neat picture she could understand. ‘‘Why’d I drink it? Because I was cold and I thought it would warm me. Besides, it would have been rude to refuse.’’ ‘‘I’m not talking about the drink. Why did you help him?’’ His brow wrinkled in a genuine frown. ‘‘Why is this such an issue with you? The man needed help and I was there. No big deal. Do you think I should have passed on by and ignored someone in trouble?’’ ‘‘A lot of white men would have.’’ She searched his eyes and saw the goodness there. The surprising, genuine goodness. Nick’s frown deepened. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’ ‘‘I honestly think you don’t.’’ ‘‘Are we arguing about this Indian-white thing again?’’ ‘‘No, we’re not arguing at all.’’ This time she took his arm and didn’t care who was watching as she smiled up at him. ‘‘Come on, let’s go make those cookies.’’

Seven S

ome sort of unspoken barrier between them had disappeared suddenly, Nick thought on the ride home. Sara was friendlier, warmer, even chatty. Once inside, she poured a glass of apple cider for each of them while he built a fire. Wanting the mood to continue, Nick asked about the preschool program. Sara’s eyes were lively as she told him stories about the children, some funny, some a little sad. ‘‘I took a course last summer through the university extension program and modified it to fit our small daycare center. The idea is to learn while having fun. On weekends I’ve been teaching some of the younger women how to conduct the classes, so that the parents of the children are free to work in town when possible. The older women help out by baby-sitting the infants. It’s not all it could be, but it’s improving.’’ ‘‘I watched you through the window for a while,’’ he confessed. ‘‘You’re great with those kids. You should have half a dozen of your own.’’ The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he saw her back stiffen and the dreamy smile she’d been wearing fade. He saw a hint of sorrow in her eyes before she turned away and quickly stood. ‘‘It’s time I made dinner.’’ She headed for the kitchen. Annoyed with himself that he’d inadvertently spoiled another pleasant spell, Nick followed her. He found her peering into the open refrigerator. ‘‘I said something

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wrong. Although I don’t know what, I’m sorry.’’ He touched her shoulder lightly. ‘‘Please don’t be angry with me.’’ His apology was almost her undoing. She leaned on the door a moment and took a calming breath. ‘‘I’m not angry. Sometimes I overreact.’’ She needed to change the focus. ‘‘Do you like chili? I think I have everything we’d need.’’ ‘‘Only if you let me help.’’ They made a pot of chili together and Sara’s somber mood lifted, though Nick couldn’t forget how quickly one careless statement had unnerved her. He’d pursue that again at a better time. They wound up laughing through their tears as the onions made their eyes water. Sara let the melancholy memories recede and found she couldn’t recall a time when cooking had been such fun. Fun. Something she didn’t have a lot of in her life. Odd how she hadn’t even realized that until...until Nick had moved in. He made her laugh, she who was known around the res as fairly serious. For once, he made her smile and forget to think too deeply or analyze too thoroughly. Later, however, as she watched him mix the thick cookie dough, she wasn’t sure if all the changes he’d brought about were for the good. This constant physical awareness was playing havoc with her state of mind. Studying his face, she saw him grimace as he pulled the wooden spoon through the batter, then try to mask his involuntary reaction. ‘‘I think you strained that shoulder again, either when you were pounding on my roof or when you were wrestling with that stallion. Are you always this careless?’’ Bending to the lower cupboard, she removed two large cookie sheets. ‘‘My shoulder’s fine and I’m not careless.’’ The last thing he wanted to do was argue with her, since dinner

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had gone so well and she’d even been enthusiastic about making cookies. ‘‘I’m ready for the chocolate chips.’’ She dumped the whole bag into the bowl he held out and stood watching him blend the chips into the contents. After several silent minutes, Nick decided he’d held off as long as he could. He dipped a finger into the batter, came up with a gooey cluster and popped it into his mouth for a taste. ‘‘Mmm. Want some?’’ Sara frowned as she opened a drawer. ‘‘That’s raw dough. It’ll make you sick.’’ ‘‘Nah. I used to eat this when I was a kid, and I’m still here.’’ He dipped his finger back in, scooping some out on the tip and holding it out to her. ‘‘Come on. Try it.’’ His look challenged her, so Sara bent her head and closed her lips around his fingerful of batter. Drawing gently, she got most of it off. Still, he held the finger up, indicating she should return for the rest. Eyes locked with his, she swirled her tongue around his finger, cleaning off every speck of the dough. Sara felt the color seep into her face, knowing exactly what he was thinking, for she was thinking it, too. Swallowing with difficulty, she straightened. She was the most unconsciously sensual woman he’d ever known, Nick thought. He felt like circumventing the counter between them and pulling her into his arms, the desire to kiss her so strong that his hands were shaky. As she averted her heated gaze and began dropping teaspoonfuls of batter onto the prepared cookie sheet, he grabbed the towel and wiped his hands. The phone rang just then, a welcome interruption of the sudden tension in the kitchen. Sara reached for it, dragging the cord over to the counter, hoping her voice wouldn’t betray her unsettling emotions. ‘‘Hello.’’

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‘‘Sara? This is Alice Thundercloud. Are—are you busy?’’ The young woman sounded worried. ‘‘Is something wrong, Alice?’’ ‘‘I think so. It’s my first pregnancy so I’m not really sure.’’ Sara set aside the bowl, her heart skipping a beat. ‘‘Is something happening?’’ ‘‘I’ve had some spotting and a little pain. Sort of like low pressure. John’s not home yet and I can’t locate him. Do you think you could come over? I’m—I’m a little scared.’’ Alice was so young, only twenty-one. Her parents were both dead and she didn’t get along well with her in-laws. Of course she’d be frightened. Sara felt a rush of de´ja` vu, the memory flooding her mind. Alice had to get to a doctor quickly. ‘‘Have you called the clinic?’’ ‘‘I phoned, but they told me Dr. Kane’s at the hospital in town tonight.’’ Sara was already turning off the oven and refrigerating the cookie dough. ‘‘I’ll be right there to take you to the hospital.’’ ‘‘Wait, Sara. I’ve heard stories about the Whitehorn hospital. My grandmother told me—’’ ‘‘Alice, those things happened years ago. Kane wouldn’t practice there if problems still existed.’’ She could hear the fear in the young woman’s voice and tried to make her own sound strong and reassuring. ‘‘You trust Kane and so do I. I promise I’ll stay with you and make sure no harm comes to you or your baby.’’ ‘‘All right, Sara. If you say so.’’ ‘‘Get into your coat. I’m on my way.’’ Sara hung up and headed for her own jacket, praying that they’d make it in time.

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‘‘What’s happening?’’ Nick asked, although he’d heard Sara’s end of the conversation. A chill had raced up his spine as he’d guessed the rest. ‘‘Alice is spotting and John’s not home. I’ve got to get her to Kane.’’ She stepped out of her moccasins and tugged on her boots. ‘‘It sounded as if she’s not anxious to go to the hospital. Why would that be?’’ She didn’t have time to pretty up the truth, even if she’d wanted to. ‘‘Years ago, white doctors often sterilized Indian women after they delivered their first child. It happened to Maggie’s mother, for one. The stories circulated and, even though we now have our own Native American doctor in Whitehorn, some women can’t forget the tales of horror they’ve heard.’’ He felt the outrage the Indians must have experienced. ‘‘That’s barbaric! It’s inhuman!’’ Coming to a decision, he reached for his own boots. ‘‘I’ll drive.’’ ‘‘No. You can’t leave the reservation.’’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘‘I’ll manage just fine.’’ Nick stepped to the door in front of her. ‘‘I’ll drive, I said. You’ll have your hands full with Alice. Especially if things get worse on the way over.’’ She looked up at him, exasperated. ‘‘It’s too dangerous, Nick.’’ ‘‘That’s my decision to make, Sara. This is important. Very important.’’ He opened the door. She saw the determined set of his jaw and knew there was no arguing with him. She also knew why this hospital run was important to him. ‘‘All right. Let’s go.’’ He didn’t think about blowing his cover as he drove Sara’s Volkswagen as fast as he could without endangering their lives on the thirty-something-mile trip to White-

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horn County Hospital. He didn’t think about the possibility that the person who’d tried to kill him might be out and about and spot him, then perhaps try again. All he thought about—and it was more a prayer, really—was that Alice Thundercloud must not lose her baby. This time he’d make sure they weren’t too late. In the back seat, where he’d helped her lie down minutes before, Alice was tight-lipped and obviously fearful, Nick realized as he glanced in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t blame her. With all the medical knowledge available in these modern times, so much could still go wrong. Beside him, Sara had her hands clasped in her lap in a white-knuckled grip, the only outward sign of her anxiety. She was a good friend to Alice, taking on the younger woman’s fear for her unborn child as if it were her own. That trait, more than anything he’d learned about Sara, was what set her apart from so many women he’d known. Sara genuinely felt other people’s pain. At eight in the evening, Route 191 wasn’t heavy with traffic. Nick kept their speed at five miles over the limit, almost hoping a sheriff’s car would happen by. Compared to this crisis, his problem with Judd Hensley didn’t matter, and they’d be able to open up the sirens and escort them to the hospital more quickly. But none were in sight. The drive seemed to take forever, though Nick knew he’d made good time. At the emergency entrance he pulled to a halt, and Sara was out of the car almost before it had stopped. He turned to reassure Alice, while Sara ran inside to get help. Two men were out with a gurney in short order, reaching in to help the young woman out of the back seat. ‘‘She’s Alice Thundercloud, a patient of Dr. Kane Hunter’s,’’ Sara told the desk clerk. She’d phoned from Al-

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ice’s house and knew that Kane was at the hospital waiting for them. ‘‘Would you page him, please?’’ The young woman at the admitting desk busily snapped her gum as she indicated the waiting room through an archway. ‘‘Have a seat. I’ll call the doctor.’’ Just then the gurney came through the double doors, with Alice looking pale and nervous under a dark blue blanket and Nick trailing after. ‘‘I want to stay with her until Dr. Hunter arrives,’’ Sara told the admitting clerk. The woman behind the counter shook her head. ‘‘Against the rules. You can wait in there.’’ Sara had known this might not be easy. ‘‘I’m staying with her until Dr. Hunter arrives!’’ Turning, she hurried after the gurney, which the two men in white were wheeling down the hallway. Obviously annoyed, the redhead spotted Nick. ‘‘Are you the husband?’’ ‘‘No, ma’am,’’ he told her, then rushed after Sara. Wrinkling her brow in dismay, the desk clerk stood. ‘‘Wait! You can’t go with her, too. It’s against the rules.’’ She leaned across the counter and saw that no one was paying the least attention to her. Frustrated, she picked up the phone to page Dr. Hunter. Every time Indians showed up, there were problems, she thought, chewing her gum while she waited for the page to be answered. Kane was with Alice, Sara told herself as she gazed unseeingly out of the waiting room window into the parking lot. It would be all right. She was in good hands. Kane would assess the situation, stabilize her, order complete bed rest, if necessary. Alice would not lose her baby. First thing tomorrow, Sara would phone her mother and others

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on the res. She’d organize help for Alice so she could rest, so the baby would grow and be strong. So this baby would live. Sara closed her eyes a moment. She felt rather than heard Nick come up behind her, then pause, letting her regain control. She’d almost lost it several minutes ago when the silly woman from Admitting had come after her, demanding she fill out paperwork, insisting that Alice’s husband or some other responsible party had to come in and sign forms. Sara had almost told her exactly what she could do with her precious papers. And just where in hell was John Thundercloud? Sara wondered. She’d phoned his home, the ranch where he worked and even the private number to the museum, hoping to catch him somewhere. Here it was nearly nine and Alice had said he’d left at seven this morning. Sara knew that John wasn’t a drinker, nor did he run around. Where was he then? How could he leave his pregnant wife alone for over twelve hours without even phoning? ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Nick asked finally. Her face once more composed, Sara turned to him. ‘‘I’ll feel a lot better when Kane tells me everything’s okay with Alice and her baby.’’ It was the eyes, Nick realized. Her eyes gave her away even though her features were calm and her body almost relaxed. Once you knew her, you could see in the dark turmoil of her eyes how deeply she was affected. He didn’t want to mutter platitudes like ‘‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’’ when he wasn’t sure of anything. So he slid his arms around her and eased her closer, rubbing her back, offering comfort. But he felt her stiffen at the contact and pull back. Sara glanced at a white couple also waiting in the room, the woman pretending to leaf through a magazine, but the

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man openly staring at them. ‘‘Not here, Nick,’’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘‘It’s...so public.’’ He felt a flash of irritation, then a hurting sensation. He was aware his jaw clenched as she stared up at him, but he didn’t say a word. Damn. Now she’d hurt him, and she hadn’t meant to. It had been a godsend having him available to drive them here. Her own nerves had been frazzled enough to welcome his help. She knew how concerned he’d been about getting Alice to the hospital on time, because he’d been too late to save his own baby. He’d been patient with Sara herself, too, even though he had no idea why Alice’s problem was hitting her so hard. And she’d hurt him because she didn’t want the two others in the room—people she knew by sight but not name—to see an Indian woman allowing a white man to comfort her. She flushed with shame as she realized how hypocritical that was. To hell with what others thought, Sara decided, reaching for Nick’s hand. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she whispered, then let her eyes say the rest. Apparently it was enough, for he squeezed her fingers in response. When he led her to the far end of the room, she let him draw her down to the two-seater couch, his hand still firmly gripping hers. Together, they waited. That was the way Kane found them minutes later. His brow wrinkled as he realized that Sara’s hand was enclosed in Nick’s. His practiced eye told him that these two were more than just friends, and the knowledge didn’t please him. ‘‘Alice is fine and the baby, too. For now.’’ Sara sagged with relief. ‘‘Thank goodness,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I’m going to keep her here for a day or two,’’ Kane went on, ‘‘just to make certain the danger has passed.’’ He glanced around the waiting room. ‘‘Where’s John?’’

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‘‘I’ve been trying to find him, but no luck so far.’’ Sara nodded toward the admitting desk through the archway. ‘‘They want paperwork filled out. I don’t suppose John has insurance. I can sign if—’’ ‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’ Hands thrust into the pockets of his white coat, Kane shook his head. ‘‘You go on home and keep trying to reach John. Alice is going to need to stay off her feet for a while, not do any lifting. Generally take it easy. I want to talk with John, make sure he understands.’’ Sara stood, as did Nick. ‘‘I’ll round up some help for her.’’ She touched Kane’s arm. ‘‘Thank you.’’ Kane’s dark eyes studied Nick’s face for a moment, then moved back to Sara. ‘‘Is everything all right?’’ he asked pointedly. She almost smiled. Kane never changed, which was a comfort in itself. ‘‘Fine. Can I stop in to see Alice for a moment before we leave?’’ ‘‘Sure. Come with me.’’ Without a word to Nick, he turned and started down the hall at his usual brisk pace. ‘‘I’ll be right back,’’ she told Nick, then hurried after Kane. Wearily, Nick sat back down. They hadn’t been too late. Thank God. He held a cup of tea sweetened with honey and wished it were a snifter of fine, aged brandy. It was a perfect night for a heady drink, with the chill wind whistling outside while wispy clouds floated past a midnight moon. He stretched his moccasin-clad feet toward the fire he’d rebuilt and absorbed the welcome heat. Sara had been very quiet on the ride back to her house, and he’d respected her need to be alone with her thoughts.

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He sensed something had upset her tonight beyond Alice’s problem and wondered if she’d tell him about it. Only a few days of living on the reservation had shown him that Sara’s hesitancy about their relationship was not without cause, for the Indians on Laughing Horse were as suspicious of whites as the residents of Whitehorn and other cities were about Native Americans. It was all so damn silly, Nick thought, as he took a sip of tea and set down the cup. But he’d seen the way Sara had reacted to his touch in front of the white couple in the waiting room, yet she’d reached out easily enough to Kane. Of course, Nick had noticed that she’d regretted rejecting his comfort, but she’d still been uncomfortable holding his hand. He was beginning to care for her far more than he’d thought he ever would, he admitted to himself. And in such a short time. A woman, a relationship, certainly hadn’t been in his game plan when he’d left home. He liked his life just fine the way it was. And yet... There was something about Sara. She’d managed to get under his skin, though he knew she didn’t want an involvement. She fought her feelings for him every step of the way. Yet she felt them, and they were growing, he could see. He’d thought she’d come home and say goodnight, go straight to bed saying she had to get up to go to work in the morning. But she hadn’t. She’d asked him if he wanted tea, had made it and then excused herself to freshen up. It helped a little to know that she was fighting the same losing battle he was. Because, if he were totally honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he was falling for her in a big way. And that thought had his nerves jangling. Nick heard footsteps, looked up and almost stopped breathing. She’d changed into well-washed jeans and a

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soft, furry white sweater, then brushed her hair out of its long braid. As she sat down on the couch and it settled around her shoulders and down her back, he felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed with some difficulty. ‘‘I thought you’d be tired.’’ She took a sip of her tea, which had been waiting on the end table, before answering. ‘‘Tired, but not sleepy.’’ She turned to him, saw that his eyes were dark and aware. ‘‘You risked a lot to drive us tonight. I admire courage.’’ All the way home she’d been checking the side mirror, praying no one particular car had been following them. The nameless, faceless person who’d planted the dynamite was out there somewhere and she’d felt the threatening presence as keenly as if he were after her. Nick shrugged off the compliment, knowing he didn’t deserve it. ‘‘It wasn’t courage. I didn’t want you driving that far at night with a woman who could start hemorrhaging any moment. And I couldn’t stay here in a safe place while still another baby was at risk.’’ She’d known that that was what had motivated him. In a small way, he’d been trying to make up for not being there to save his own child. ‘‘I know I’ve said this before, but you have to let go of all that guilt. You can’t spend your life trying to make amends for something that wasn’t your fault.’’ He let out a frustrated sigh. ‘‘That’s easier said than done. Haven’t you any aspects of your life that you can’t control?’’ Did she ever, and one was sitting beside her and inching closer. Did he really think she hadn’t noticed that the space between them was slowly disappearing? ‘‘A few,’’ she said in answer to his question. ‘‘But I know my weaknesses and I try to avoid temptation.’’ Except tonight. Tonight, she’d deliberately arranged this time alone

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with him. She was feeling particularly vulnerable and in need of comfort, perhaps because of the emotions of the past few hours, when they hadn’t known if Alice would lose her baby. She’d walked through the mine field of her memories and felt wounded anew. So she’d invited him to sit with her, fully aware of where it might lead. The truth was, she wanted him to make love with her. It was a hard admission for Sara to make, even to herself. She’d been a virgin when Jack had seduced her, and she hadn’t consciously wanted him until he’d shown her that her body liked the way he could make her feel. He’d swept her off her feet and sent her soaring, then dropped her without a safety net or even a kind word. He’d merely said he’d thought a smart girl like her would know the score. Apparently, she hadn’t been as smart as either of them had thought. Making love with Nick wouldn’t be that way. Sara could tell that he was kinder, more honest. Besides, she wasn’t the naive girl she’d been then. She’d vowed that summer after graduation when she’d returned home and managed to live through the pain of Jack’s rejection that nothing and no one would hurt her like that again. Perhaps she and Nick could share something special, without promises made that neither could keep—because he was a man who needed his freedom and she was a woman devoted to this place. But they were both adults, neither tied to another, obviously yearning to express their attraction physically. It had been so long and she felt so needy. Wasn’t taking a chance on temporary happiness better than turning from the possibility altogether? Nick had been watching the play of emotions on her expressive face and wondered what she was thinking. ‘‘I believe your Indian name suits you. You are a little lamb who thinks too much.’’

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She surprised him by agreeing. ‘‘You’re probably right. A bad habit I should try to break.’’ He eased closer, his body almost touching hers now, her scent teasing him, making him crave what had so far been forbidden. There was something different about her tonight, and he liked the difference. ‘‘So, then, what temptations are you trying to avoid?’’ Her eyes as they met his were the dark brown of rich chocolate. ‘‘You,’’ she said simply. It was exactly what Nick needed to hear. He slipped an arm behind her and brought her nearer. He felt her heart begin to pound beneath the soft sweater and saw her tongue lick her lips as her nerves reacted. Then he took her mouth. She didn’t hesitate even a fraction of a second, her lips parting and inviting intimacy. He felt her arms go around him as if she, too, couldn’t get close enough. He heard his own heartbeat thundering in his head, then shifted his hands to thrust them into the rich silk of her hair. And he drank from her with the intensity of a desert wanderer who’d stumbled across an oasis. Right. This felt so right, Sara thought. The feel of him against her body, already beginning to soften in welcome. The masculine scent of him, clean and sharp and sensual. The taste of him on her tongue, achingly familiar, as impossible as that seemed. His lips were softer than she could have imagined in a man—so lean and hard, yet agile and seeking as they left her mouth and skimmed down her throat. She tipped back her head and gave him access, then felt wet kisses trail lower into the open V of her neckline. A shiver took her as her hands bunched in the material of his shirt. His breath coming in heated puffs, Nick deliberately slowed, raising back to look at her. Needs raced through

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his bloodstream like a quick shot of expensive bourbon. Crazy, wild thoughts whipped through his mind, things he’d like to do to her. Pick her up, carry her to her bed, bury himself deep within her and make love until neither of them could move. Stay with her, hold her, love her all night long. But he knew as he met her eyes that this was not a woman to rush but to savor. And this might not be the night to do either. She’d invited, but how would she feel in the morning? After the adrenaline high of the evening they’d spent, was she just reacting or did she really want him? He couldn’t chance hurting her, wouldn’t touch her without finding out. He framed her face, her beautiful face, with hands that trembled. ‘‘I want you. I have since that first night when I woke up and saw you sleeping in the chair, making sure I was all right. But I need to know that this is what you really want, too.’’ Sara felt a little funny talking about it this way, and dropped her gaze to his second shirt button. ‘‘I wouldn’t have said what I did if I didn’t.’’ He placed a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose while his hands caressed her back lazily. ‘‘I need to hear you say the words, to be sure.’’ Leaning in, he kissed both of her eyes closed and heard a sigh escape from her. She’d never played the game this way, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. ‘‘I’m not a casual person, Nick. I think you should know that.’’ ‘‘Casual isn’t how I feel about you, Sara. Tell me how you feel.’’ He was forcing her to verbalize her feelings, and she hadn’t been prepared for that. Edgy with nerves, she struggled to think while his warm mouth worked its magic at her left temple. ‘‘I—I want you, too. I have from the be-

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ginning. I tried to fight what I feel, but it’s not working.’’ She couldn’t be more honest than that. What would it be like with him? She’d wondered for days now, and long, restless nights. Just minutes ago, she’d decided to act on that need. Yet she worried that once she shared herself with him so intimately, could she keep from wanting more? Could she guard her heart this time? He saw the indecision in her eyes, yet saw the desire, too. He would do away with the first and satisfy the second. Slowly, he let his lips roam her face, tasting the honeyed flavor of her skin. His hands at her back snuck beneath her sweater and began their own journey of discovery. His fingers trailed a burning path as they moved to the front. When his hands closed over her breasts, she moaned low in her throat and sought his mouth. The kiss was deep and desperate as passion ignited. His head was beginning to spin as his mind fragmented. No other woman had ever made him so helpless so quickly. He kneaded her flesh, then fussed with the bra’s clasp, freeing her breasts to his grateful hands. He brushed his thumbs over the points and heard her release a cry she couldn’t hold back. Shifting the material of her sweater, he lowered his mouth to her and felt her hands move into his hair and press him closer to her yearning flesh. She was so responsive, so sensitive to his touch. Breathing hard, he raised his head, needing to know. ‘‘Are you on the pill?’’ It took Sara a moment to come back from the wondrous place where he’d taken her. ‘‘No. I...it’s been awhile and there’s been no need. Don’t you have...?’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Not with me.’’ She felt the disappointment first, then the concern. Mov-

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ing back, she found herself trembling. ‘‘We can’t, then. I get...that is, I have a feeling I could get pregnant easily. I can’t risk that.’’ She began moving away, straightening her sweater. Frustrated but far from finished, he shifted, then lifted her, leaning her back against his chest, trapping her between his spread legs. ‘‘There are other ways.’’ ‘‘But I—’’ ‘‘Shh,’’ he said, already nuzzling her neck. ‘‘I won’t get you pregnant. I promise. And you can stop me anytime you want if you’re worried.’’ Her back was to him and he buried his face in her neck beneath the heavy fall of her hair. His lips feasted on her ear next and felt the shivers race through her. He sent his hands back to worship her breasts, then angled around to capture her mouth with his. As his hands and mouth aroused, she became restless, her fingers fidgeting along his arms. When his hand trailed down to the waistband of her jeans and loosened the catch, she made a soft, mewing sound. His fingers roamed lower to discover her most intimate secrets and she jerked, as if startled. Nick waited for her to settle, his mouth still locked to hers, making the kiss quietly persuasive. Before she could gather the strength to protest, he was arousing her beyond belief—perhaps because it had been so very long or maybe because he knew just how to touch her. Sara no longer knew which, nor cared. She crested with such a fierce explosion of feeling that she thought her pounding heart might burst from within her. The tremulous waves went on and on, until she finally sagged against him, totally replete. And still he didn’t turn from her, but held her as aftershocks shuddered through her. Lying in his arms, Sara felt

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a rush of emotion for the man who could give so much without taking, an emotion she feared putting a name to. Finally, she craned her head so she could see his face and found him smiling at her. She felt no embarrassment, but rather a spreading warmth. Yet she felt bad for him. Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. ‘‘I loved what you did, but it’s a lonely way to make love.’’ He dipped his head and gave her a very long, very gentle kiss. ‘‘I enjoy touching you. Tomorrow, I’m going into town to find a store. Then we’ll climb the mountain together.’’ Tomorrow. He was already making plans for tomorrow. She hadn’t the strength, nor the desire, to argue.

Eight ‘‘It’s about time you turned yourself in, Dean.’’ Sheriff Hensley’s expression was not friendly. Nick settled his long frame in the chair across from Judd’s desk. ‘‘I wouldn’t exactly call it that. I’m not a wanted man, except in your eyes. It was my Blazer blown to bits. I’m the victim, remember?’’ Judd chose to ignore his remarks as he picked up a piece of paper. ‘‘Are you sure you didn’t leave anyone off this list of people you talked with since arriving in town?’’ ‘‘I’m sure.’’ ‘‘What makes you and Melissa Avery think that you’ll be able to find her father’s killer all these years later when we haven’t been able to?’’ They’d been over this ground before, on his first visit before the explosion. Apparently the sheriff was still annoyed that Melissa hadn’t left the unsolved murder up to his department. ‘‘What can it hurt having one more person investigating? You and your staff are busy with other things, but I’m focusing in on this alone.’’ Sitting back, Judd frowned. ‘‘Why did Melissa wait so long to put someone on this?’’ ‘‘Because until Charlie’s remains were found, she wasn’t sure her father hadn’t just taken off on his own. When she learned he’d been murdered, she felt compelled to find out who did it.’’

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‘‘Why? She was a little girl when Charlie disappeared. From what I’ve gathered, Charlie wasn’t really close to anyone in his family.’’ Nick shrugged. ‘‘Guess you’ll have to ask her.’’ Judd already had and had gotten nowhere. He intensely disliked having a P.I. nosing around. Civilians, even licensed investigators, tended to muddy up his own work. And added to his workload when they wound up irritating someone enough to have them plant dynamite in a vehicle. ‘‘Who do you suppose tried to kill you?’’ He indicated the list. ‘‘Someone on there?’’ ‘‘Your guess is as good as mine.’’ ‘‘You’re taking all this rather lightly, I’d say.’’ Nick straightened. ‘‘No, I’m not at all. I’ve apparently got someone in Whitehorn worried with my inquiries about something that happened twenty years ago. My guess would be that it’s the killer. I’ve had other attempts on my life in my line of work, and I never take them lightly. What would you have me do, turn tail and run back to Butte?’’ ‘‘Some might think that’s wise.’’ The sheriff nodded out the front window of his office. ‘‘You’re driving Sara Lewis’s car. Just how did you get involved with her?’’ Reluctantly, he told the sheriff the story of how Sara had found him wandering about on Laughing Horse Reservation the night of the explosion, dazed and bleeding. Whitehorn was a small town and Nick knew Judd would find out sooner or later, if he hadn’t already, and was just testing him for veracity. He felt the best path to follow was to be up-front. ‘‘So you’ve been hiding out on the reservation, knowing it’s off-limits to us?’’ Nick’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to relax, realizing the man was just doing his job. ‘‘I wasn’t hiding

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out as much as recuperating from a dislocated shoulder and other injuries.’’ He still had a small bandage near his temple where the deepest gash hadn’t quite healed. ‘‘Sara and her neighbors have been very good to me.’’ Judd studied him thoughtfully as he toyed with his pen. Nick Dean seemed honest enough, but who could tell in this bizarre case? He would bear watching. ‘‘Now that you’re back at the motel, what are your plans?’’ Nick held on to his temper, though barely. Judd Hensley was treating him as if he were a suspect. ‘‘I’ve checked out of the motel. As to my plans, I intend to finish the job Melissa hired me to do.’’ Tossing down his pen, Judd leaned forward, his ancient desk chair protesting under his sudden weight shift. ‘‘In other words, you’re going to march around town inviting this killer to take another crack at you.’’ He’d about had it with this small-town lawman. ‘‘Look, Sheriff, I don’t want to get hurt again and I certainly don’t want to get myself killed. But I’ve made a commitment. I’m not leaving until I find the person responsible for Charlie’s murder, but I’m not stupid enough to offer myself up as a sacrifice to flush him out. I worked vice in Butte for some years. I know what I’m doing.’’ ‘‘Maybe if you saw the remains of your Blazer, you’d reconsider.’’ ‘‘Doubtful, but I’d like to take a look.’’ Hensley got to his feet and reached for a ring of keys. ‘‘Come with me.’’ It wasn’t a pretty sight. Fire hot enough to fuse metal was an inferno. Again, Nick had reason to thank his lucky stars that he’d been thrown free. ‘‘Have your people learned anything about the cause of

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the explosion? Was it dynamite for sure? Was forensics here?’’ ‘‘Yes. Some fragments were found. Not a lot to go on.’’ The man surely didn’t seem eager to find the person or persons responsible. Nick knew small-town lawmen moved slowly, but this seemed almost purposeful. Watching Nick’s expression, Judd continued his own questioning. ‘‘Did you remember anything else about the hitchhiker that might help us identify her?’’ ‘‘I told you all I know.’’ He struggled with an involuntary shudder, thinking of what a torturous death the poor soul had endured. The sheriff led the way out of the garage. ‘‘Who are your main suspects so far?’’ Nick named the three men who appeared to have motives to kill Charlie. ‘‘But two of them are dead, and though Ethan Walker hasn’t been cooperative, I haven’t come up with enough evidence to implicate him. I plan to interview some people who knew Cameron Baxter and Jeremiah Kincaid well back then. And I’m going to corner Ethan again.’’ He met Judd’s dark gaze. ‘‘Have you got any leads you’d be willing to share with me?’’ ‘‘Not so far. Has it occurred to you we may never find the person responsible?’’ Nick turned up his coat collar as a chill wind sent a gust of cold air down his neck. ‘‘I’m not one to give up easily.’’ ‘‘Where can I reach you if I need to?’’ He wasn’t about to tell the sheriff he was staying with Sara. ‘‘I’ll check in with you periodically.’’ He could see that Judd wasn’t pleased with his answer. Without another word, he turned and walked back toward his office. Nick headed for Sara’s Volkswagen. He had a number

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of stops to make before he picked her up at the Native American Museum at five. Nick slid into a booth by the window where he could keep an eye on Sara’s car. He wasn’t paranoid. Just careful. It was nearly noon and the Hip Hop Cafe´ was busy with the lunchtime crowd. It was a landmark eatery, a throwback to the fifties with a long chrome counter, mismatched tables and chairs, colorful wall posters and hanging baskets of ivy at odd intervals. The air was welcomingly warm, heavy with the sweet scent of syrup and the aroma of coffee, rich with the greasy smell of fried bacon and burgers. An old jukebox thrummed out a Patsy Cline ballad as three waitresses zigzagged expertly through the makeshift aisles with heavy trays. Melissa had seen Nick enter and give the waitress his order. She walked over to his booth, a cup of coffee in her hand. ‘‘Well, the prodigal P.I. returns,’’ she said with a smile as she slid in opposite him. ‘‘I hope you’re fully recovered. I feel terrible about your injuries and the loss of your Blazer.’’ ‘‘Yeah, me, too. Did you give some thought to the woman I described to you on the phone, the hitchhiker who died in the explosion? Ever see her in here?’’ Melissa shook her head. ‘‘From your description and Judd’s, she doesn’t sound familiar, and I have a good memory for faces. They still don’t know who she was?’’ ‘‘Afraid not.’’ ‘‘Have you learned anything new?’’ ‘‘This is my first day out after the accident. I plan to talk with a couple of people this week.’’ His lunch arrived just then, barbecued beef on a bun and a beer. Nick waited until the smiling waitress whose name tag read Daisy re-

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filled Melissa’s coffee cup before he leaned forward. It wasn’t likely anyone would hear over the loud music, but he wasn’t taking any chances. ‘‘Have you run across anything I can use since we talked on the phone?’’ Melissa took a sip before answering. ‘‘There’s been a lot of talk and speculation in here, but nothing concrete. People are wondering how it came to be that my father’s remains were found on the reservation, of all places. It’s not an area most townsfolk frequent. And, of course, about your Blazer catching fire and a stranger dying. A few have heard the sheriff say it wasn’t an accident.’’ Nick had been aware of several interested looks coming his way as he’d sat down—especially from the couple two tables over. ‘‘Who are those two?’’ he asked, indicating the almost delicate looking blonde picking at a salad alongside a tall, pale man who’d already finished his lunch. Melissa took her time glancing over before answering. ‘‘That’s Dugin Kincaid and his wife, Mary Jo.’’ So that was Jeremiah’s son. Nick saw the man’s pale blue eyes dart around the restaurant nervously. ‘‘From what I’ve heard, he’s not much like the old man, is he?’’ Keeping her head averted and her voice low, Melissa leaned closer. ‘‘You can say that again. Dugin’s always been wimpy, but since Mary Jo popped up on the scene, he’s led an interesting life.’’ Nick took a long swig of beer. It tasted good, perhaps because he hadn’t had a glass in ages. ‘‘What do you mean by interesting?’’ ‘‘Well, one of the guests at Dugin and Mary Jo’s wedding—a man named Floyd Oakley—was found dead. And just before that, a baby had been found abandoned on Dugin’s doorstep.’’

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‘‘A baby? No kidding!’’ But the dead man interested him more. ‘‘Who was this Floyd Oakley?’’ ‘‘That’s the odd part. No one claimed to have invited him.’’ Melissa waved as one of her regular customers walked in, then returned her attention to Nick. ‘‘And no one knows where the baby came from, either. This little town has more than its share of mysteries.’’ Nick finished his sandwich. ‘‘So it would seem.’’ Wiping his mouth, he saw that Mary Jo Kincaid had dropped all pretense of politeness and was openly staring at him, her eyes curious. He smiled at her, then shifted his gaze out the window to check on the Volkswagen. Melissa followed his gaze. ‘‘Are you nervous since the accident? Not that I blame you. I want you to know, Nick, I never dreamed you’d be in actual physical danger. Maybe we should drop the whole thing.’’ He took a moment to study the woman who’d hired him. Nick knew she was planning on marrying rancher Wyatt North soon, and she’d told him they were very happy. Melissa was an attractive woman around Sara’s age, vibrant and full of life. But she couldn’t hold a candle to Sara’s dark beauty and the most gorgeous black hair he’d ever touched. ‘‘Is that what you want, Melissa—to have me back off?’’ ‘‘Not really. But I also don’t want you to lose your life trying to help me.’’ Nick glanced at the check, noted the amount and placed a bill on top of it with a generous tip for the hardworking Daisy. ‘‘I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be all right.’’ Melissa reached for the check. ‘‘I’ll take care of this.’’ He took it back from her. ‘‘Thank you, but no.’’ Nick had always preferred paying his own way. He slid to the end of the booth, very aware of Mary Jo Kincaid’s eyes

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still on him as Melissa rose and walked to the door with him. ‘‘I’ll be in touch. Keep your ears open.’’ ‘‘I will. And Nick, take care, please.’’ With a nod, he headed for the Volkswagen. Ethan Walker had a lived-in face, as if the man had seen his share of pain. Right now, his wide forehead wore a deeply furrowed frown. ‘‘I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to talk to you,’’ he said to Nick, turning back to the fence post he was twisting barbed wire around. Nick had spotted the stoic rancher from alongside his barn and had walked out to where Ethan was working, hoping to break through the man’s reticence. ‘‘I suppose you did. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time. If your father had been gone for over twenty years and suddenly someone ran across his bones and it was learned he’d been murdered, wouldn’t you want to know what happened to him?’’ The expression on the weathered face didn’t soften as Ethan straightened and adjusted the thick gloves he wore. ‘‘My father ran out on us when I was young. If he didn’t want to be with me when I needed him, I don’t give a damn what happened to him.’’ A hard man, Nick thought. Or was he coming from a position of being hurt by his father’s abandonment and never quite getting over it, much like the woman who’d hired him? ‘‘Well, Melissa Avery doesn’t feel that way. She wants to know what happened to Charlie. And word around town is that you argued with her father fairly often. Is that right?’’ Ethan squinted into the afternoon sun, as if trying to decide whether to answer Nick or throw the man off his property. Finally, he swung back. ‘‘Yeah, we argued. That doesn’t mean I killed him.’’

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‘‘What did you argue about?’’ ‘‘I just didn’t like him.’’ He picked up his wire cutters. Like pulling teeth, Nick thought. ‘‘What was it about him that you didn’t like?’’ ‘‘Everything.’’ ‘‘Could you be more specific?’’ Ethan let out a whoosh of disgust, then tossed down the cutters and straightened again. ‘‘You just aren’t going to quit, are you?’’ ‘‘Not until I learn the truth. If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear from me.’’ Removing his gloves took some time. Then Ethan ran one rough hand over his unshaven face. ‘‘Charlie was selfish. He cheated on his wife and he didn’t give a damn about Melissa or her brother, not that you should go and tell her that. He doesn’t deserve all her worrying.’’ It wasn’t enough. ‘‘What specific gripe did you have with him that made you openly threaten him, an incident several people overheard?’’ Ethan’s face took on an annoyed look. ‘‘When Charlie got to drinking, he got meaner by the minute. He’d brag, and didn’t have anything to brag about. He was always complaining, always criticizing. I was just a teenager, but he got on my nerves whenever I saw him. And sometimes he seemed to be sniffing around some of the girls in my school. He was older than them and a married man! I told him it was wrong and he didn’t like it. I told him to stay away from them or he’d be sorry. That was all there was to it.’’ Nick doubted that. ‘‘What did you mean when you told him he’d be sorry if he didn’t stay away from the girls?’’ Temper fairly crackled in the rancher’s eyes. ‘‘Not that I’d kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. I meant we could meet and settle our differences, man-to-man. But he

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never had the guts to take me up on that because he knew I’d win, hands down. Even then I was bigger than him— something he couldn’t deal with.’’ ‘‘I heard you got into more than one fight back in your younger days.’’ ‘‘So what if I did? After I got home from Nam, I had some problems. Lots of guys did.’’ He started putting his gloves back on. ‘‘Did you know Charlie’s wife?’’ ‘‘Some. Not well. I felt sorry for her. I don’t like to see men take advantage of women.’’ ‘‘Did Charlie ever cut in on some girl you did care about?’’ Ethan’s scowl was awesome. ‘‘Look, you’re on the wrong track here. I didn’t like Charlie because I didn’t care for the kind of man Charlie was, not because he’d done something to me personally.’’ But Nick noted something evasive in Ethan’s eyes. Nick removed a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it till he found the page he wanted. ‘‘Fellow named Arnie McDonald says he was on the Kincaid ranch one day when you and Charlie fought. Do you recall that incident?’’ Ethan ran his ungloved hand through his hair, looking exasperated and cornered. ‘‘That wasn’t a fight. Charlie tried to take a swing at me. He was drunk. I hit him, knocked him out. Then I left.’’ ‘‘You didn’t stick around to see if he was all right?’’ Ethan grunted, as if it should have been obvious. ‘‘He was coming around before I left. Listen, I’ve had enough. Go bother someone else. Lots of guys didn’t like Charlie Avery. He was a no-account loser.’’ ‘‘Then you were hoping he’d disappear.’’ It wasn’t a question.

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Now the man’s eyes became flinty. ‘‘Yeah. But I didn’t make him disappear.’’ Turning his back, Ethan returned to his fence. His gut instinct told Nick that Ethan wasn’t telling him everything. Arnie McDonald had been very sure that the fight between Ethan and Charlie had been about a woman. However, Nick didn’t think he’d get any more out of the hostile rancher today. ‘‘Thanks. If I need more, I’ll be back.’’ Nick didn’t wait for Ethan to respond, but instead walked back toward the barn, where he’d left the Volkswagen in plain sight of where they’d been talking. He felt it was best to err on the side of caution. He glanced toward the big barn and wondered if Ethan kept dynamite on hand, as so many ranchers did. He couldn’t risk taking a look today. Nick had just a few more stops to make before it would be time to pick up Sara. He hadn’t really made much progress on Charlie’s case, but he was smiling nonetheless as he got behind the wheel. The evening stretched before him, sharing dinner with Sara, talking over the day with Sara and hopefully making love with Sara. His body’s quick reaction to that thought had Nick hurrying as he pulled out of Ethan’s drive and onto the road. He was trying to concentrate on Sara’s recital of her telephone conversation with Alice Thundercloud as he drove. The traffic on Route 191 was rather heavy during rush hour so he kept his eyes on the road. ‘‘So she’s going to be released from the hospital tomorrow?’’ ‘‘Yes. Kane says the immediate danger has passed, but she still has to be careful.’’ Sara paused, remembering the rest of what Alice had told her. ‘‘She told me that John

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is now working three jobs trying to make ends meet, and that he was at this third place last night when she needed him. Naturally, she can’t stay angry with him, since he’s working so hard for his family.’’ ‘‘Do you believe that’s where he was?’’ ‘‘I want to. Alice never did say where the new job was, only that John said it was going to pay well. As I’ve mentioned before, most of the men from the res who work in town can scarcely get minimum wage, and they never get benefits. Small wonder they have to work two and three jobs just to live at poverty level.’’ Nick had seen examples of that in his walks around the reservation. Unemployment was widespread, with too many able-bodied young men hanging around the gas station or coffee shop with little to do. ‘‘They need to be trained. Vocational schools, maybe. Classes in plumbing and heating, carpentry, electrical. Not only could they keep their own places in repair, but they could hire out if they were skilled.’’ Sara sighed. ‘‘Exactly. But how do we entice instructors onto the res to teach our people when they can’t pay?’’ Nick changed lanes, then zipped around a white truck. There’d been a dark sedan directly behind the Volkswagen for several miles and it was making him tense. ‘‘That is a problem,’’ he answered, keeping up his end of the conversation so she wouldn’t guess his concern. ‘‘Otherwise, how was your day?’’ She told him, animated and excited about the acquisition of some valuable textile hangings, some of them priceless. ‘‘They’re fantastic. You should come early the next time you pick me up and meet our head curator. Jason Eagle’s very nice and quite knowledgeable.’’ But as she thought about what she’d just said, she decided she

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might have been too presumptuous. ‘‘Oh, but you’re probably not interested in artifacts.’’ Nick pulled his eyes from the rearview mirror. The dark sedan had indeed followed his lane changes. ‘‘What makes you think I’m not?’’ he asked Sara. He sent her a quick look as he took her hand. ‘‘I’d like to see where you work.’’ She didn’t want to be pleased at his remark nor warmed by his touch. Just like she hadn’t wanted to think of him nearly all day nor look forward to seeing him this evening. She was heading for danger, Sara warned herself. But after the night she’d spent in his arms on the couch, the warning was probably too late. No man had ever made love to her as unselfishly as Nick had last night, then held her until they’d both fallen asleep. Jack had always sought his own satisfaction greedily while hers had been incidental. It had taken time, distance and a bit of experience before Sara had realized that. Remembering Nick’s touch, she felt her face flush. Nick pressed down on the accelerator and the little car jerked forward. Maneuvering quickly, he zigzagged around a slow-moving horse van, passed a station wagon and then dipped back into the right lane before slowing down. In the side mirror, he saw the dark sedan with the tinted windows stay to the left, keeping the Volkswagen in sight. Only another couple of miles to the turnoff to the reservation. Surely whoever was driving wouldn’t try anything on a crowded highway. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Sara asked, sensing his tension and watching him frown into the rearview mirror. Twisting in her seat, she could see only a lumbering station wagon behind them. ‘‘Don’t look back. It’s the black sedan left of us.

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They’ve been on our tail for some time now. It may be nothing, but—’’ She felt a flash of fear race up her spine. It was one thing to hear about this sort of thing and quite another to experience it. ‘‘The res isn’t far.’’ ‘‘I know. We’ll be all right.’’ But his hands gripped the wheel tighter. If only Sara wasn’t with him, he wouldn’t be so concerned. Now, by using her car today and apparently catching the wrong person’s attention, he’d exposed her to danger as well. In minutes, they came to the turnoff, and Nick quickly zoomed to the right and onto the road bordered by thick pines. Of course, nothing could prevent the sedan from following them, but the occupants had to know that a strange car would stand out on Laughing Horse and perhaps even invite questions by the tribal police. Without breaking his speed, he kept his eye on the road behind and saw that they were no longer being followed. ‘‘They didn’t turn,’’ he told Sara. ‘‘I was probably mistaken.’’ ‘‘I doubt that. Where all did you go today?’’ Perhaps she could figure out who might have seen him. By the time he’d given her a rundown on his visits with Judd, Melissa and Ethan, they were parked in her drive. Nick shut off the engine and turned to her. ‘‘The car was always in my sight, but any number of people could have seen that I was driving your Bug. Especially at the Hip Hop. Jackson and Kane were right. I should have rented a car. That way, they couldn’t have connected us.’’ ‘‘Then you’ll just stay on the reservation from now on. They won’t come after me alone.’’ She got out of the car. Nick didn’t agree, but didn’t argue. He took several packages out of the trunk and followed her inside. He set down his bundles on a chair while she snapped on the light. Then, before she had time to slip out of her jacket,

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he pinned her arms to her sides and pulled her to him. ‘‘All day I’ve been thinking about you.’’ He watched awareness leap into her dark eyes. ‘‘While I was talking with people, when I was driving along and even shopping, you were on my mind.’’ He raised his hand to capture a dark strand of hair that had escaped from her long braid. ‘‘Your wonderful hair.’’ He kissed each of her eyes. ‘‘Your beautiful eyes.’’ He buried his face in her neck. ‘‘The way you smell.’’ Her mind beginning to spin, Sara put a hand to his chest. ‘‘Nick, I—’’ ‘‘The soft sound you made last night when I—’’ On tiptoe, color flooding her face, she pressed her mouth to his, not wanting to hear out loud what she knew he was about to say. The kiss began slowly, but warmed quickly. His lips were so soft, so giving. His tongue met hers in a mating dance that stole her breath away. Her hands dove into his hair as she pulled his head down to her. This. This was exactly what she’d been dreaming of all day. This race into passion, this rush into madness. He wasn’t the man she needed, but he was the one she wanted. Here, inside her small home where no man before Nick had ever kissed her, he now kissed her as if there were no tomorrow. Tomorrow was not something she would think about tonight. For this night, he was here in her arms where she’d longed for him to be, and he was hers. Nick heard his own heartbeat echo inside his head, or was it hers? He no longer knew where he left off and she began. No woman had ever aroused him so thoroughly, even dressed in layers of clothes and her hair sedately braided. Breathing heavily, he eased back from her and found her eyes already misty with desire.

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‘‘Let’s go to bed,’’ he suggested, his voice thick. Sara’s brows shot up. ‘‘Bed? It’s barely six in the evening. We haven’t even made dinner.’’ ‘‘I bought dinner. We can reheat it later.’’ She tried to think calmly, rationally. No one had ever suggested making love when daylight had barely disappeared. ‘‘But—but what if someone comes to the door?’’ ‘‘Are you expecting anyone?’’ ‘‘No, but—’’ He reached over and slammed home the dead bolt. ‘‘Let them knock. We won’t answer.’’ He bent to kiss her again, his hands slipping her jacket from her, then starting on the buttons of her pale blue sweater. Sara placed her hands over his, then shivered as he shifted his attention to kissing her ear. ‘‘The sun’s hardly gone down and—’’ ‘‘Are you so conventional you can’t make love unless it’s dark outside or the middle of the night?’’ His fingers closed over her breasts and he heard her struggle with a soft moan. There could be only one answer to his question. She wasn’t sure how much longer her knees would hold her upright. ‘‘Do you want to go to my room?’’ ‘‘You have to ask?’’ Bending, he picked her up in his arms as if she were no heavier than a child and he hadn’t had a dislocated shoulder only days ago. He carried her to her room, reached to flick on the low bedside lamp, then let her slide down his body before he captured her mouth in another stunning kiss. He was right, Sara thought. It seemed a foolish waste of time to wait when they both were so needy. The time of day meant nothing, nor which room they were in. All that mattered was that finally, at last, they would come together.

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Plenty in the outside world would not approve, some in her own circle of family and friends. Most certainly his people would not, if they knew. But no one need know, for they were behind locked doors, safe from weather and prying eyes and strangers with bombs that could kill. For this sweet moment in time they would be free to explore and enjoy each other. From behind his back, Nick brought out a long cellophane bag he’d grabbed on the way to the bedroom. In the soft light, he watched her draw out the single, longstemmed red rose, her dark eyes widening with pleasure as she inhaled the heady fragrance. He’d had to drive forty miles to find a store that sold roses, but the look on her face was worth it. ‘‘Romance?’’ she whispered, for she hadn’t believed such a sexy man would also be romantic. ‘‘Perfection deserves perfection,’’ he answered, his hands going to her braid. ‘‘Undo it, please.’’ Sara did, setting aside her rose and watching him all the while, noticing his breathing grow shallow as she shook out the final strands. Could there be anything more thrilling than seeing such open desire in a lover’s eyes? Swallowing, Nick took off his jacket and hurriedly removed his boots before pulling off hers. Then he turned down the quilt and leaned toward her, his hands at his sides, only his lips touching her. He kissed her long and lazily, his mouth toying with hers, his tongue dipping in for a thorough, lingering taste. Deliberately teasing, he saw her eyes close as he trailed his lips over her face, along her jawline and the base of her throat. He felt her pulse pound there, pound for him. She was floating, drifting, tingling. She’d wanted his hard, clever hands learning her, she’d thought, never dreaming this slow onslaught would shatter her more

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quickly. She felt her blood racing, churning. When slowly she opened her eyes, she saw him watching her. ‘‘I want to see you,’’ he said softly, ‘‘to look at you.’’ But his hands were trembling and he wasn’t sure he could free the tiny buttons of her sweater. She did it for him, very slowly, drawing out the anticipation. Two could play this game, Sara thought, knowing the waiting would sweeten the reward. She stepped out of her slacks and skimmed off her hose, a little worried that the contrast of her white bra and panties against her dark skin might give him pause. But she saw only approval and a hint of impatience in the blue of his eyes as he examined her. When she tossed aside the last two items, she heard his breath catch, then whoosh out as she stood before him in the dim light. She almost smiled as he rid himself of his clothes in record time. It was her turn to admire. And to tremble. Hesitantly, she reached out to run her fingers through the thick patch of blond hair on his chest. It felt so good, so right to touch him freely. Closing her eyes, she let herself feel. He’d never seen a more responsive woman, nor a more natural one. She unfurled like the petals of a rose as his fingers skimmed along her shoulders and down her arms, then moved back up to caress her breasts. This time she didn’t bother to suppress the moan that came from deep in her throat. He eased her onto the mattress and followed her down. A breath shuddered from her as his lips closed over flesh begging for his attention, first one side, then the other. His hand skimmed along her rib cage to her narrow waist and the gentle flare of her hips.

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‘‘Tell me what you’d like me to do,’’ he said, wanting to please her in every way. ‘‘Whatever you want,’’ she managed to gasp. ‘‘Just don’t stop.’’ An aching pleasure wound its way along her nerve endings as, with teeth and tongue, lips and hands, he tasted and teased, doing delightful, delicious things to every part of her. The fragrance of the rose mingled with his intoxicating male scent, the combination dizzying. His warm breath skimmed along her sensitive skin and had her shivering. For always she would remember this, their first time. She was exquisite, to taste, to hold, to kiss. Restless now beneath his questing fingers, she arched into his touch. His head swam with the wonder of being able to love her at last, to love her slowly and freely. But his control was nearing the breaking point. Days of desiring her, last night holding her and loving her, hours of dreaming had him strung tighter than a barbed-wire fence. And he could tell she was running out of patience, too, as her hand settled nervously on his hard stomach. ‘‘Touch me,’’ he said, guessing that she wanted permission. And when her fingers closed around him, it was his groan of pleasure that filled the room. He took a moment to put in place the protection. Then, as if they’d been waiting for this moment forever, he slipped inside her effortlessly. She rose to meet him in welcome. Like old lovers, he found the rhythm quickly and they moved together. The sweet friction built as, locked in his arms, she kept her eyes on his. His control unraveled as he moved them to a fierce finish. When he felt her explosion begin, he tightened his hold on her. Just before his mind fragmented, he whispered her name.

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* * * Sara lay perfectly still in a euphoria of satisfaction. She wasn’t absolutely certain she could ever move again. Despite Nick’s weight pressing on her, she was content to lie just so. And to relive the wondrous thing that had just happened. She wasn’t naive enough to think that making beautiful love meant that two people were destined to be together. Remembering her mother and father, her brother and his wife, Jackson Hawk and his first wife, she knew that attraction didn’t necessarily guarantee happiness. But oh, it had been glorious. Why did it have to be that when at last she’d found a man who could make her feel so much, he was the wrong man? Nick stirred, shifted his weight and looked into her eyes. He saw a sadness there that instantly upset him. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ ‘‘Mmm,’’ she murmured, rearranging her expression and putting on a smile. ‘‘More than all right. Wonderful.’’ But still he frowned. ‘‘You’re sure?’’ Dropping her gaze, she toyed with his chest hair. ‘‘I never knew it could be like that.’’ He felt that, too, yet hesitated to tell her. His fingers moved to tangle in the silk of her hair. ‘‘It sure beats the moo shu chicken, fried rice and sweet-and-sour pork waiting for us in those cartons in the living room.’’ ‘‘You picked up Chinese for us?’’ ‘‘I figured after working all day you wouldn’t feel like cooking.’’ No, she’d felt like lazily loving instead. Stretching, she reached for her rose, drawing it to her nose. ‘‘You were busy today, shopping for surprises.’’ The reminder had him frowning. ‘‘Uh oh. I forgot about something.’’

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‘‘What?’’ ‘‘I also bought a quart of fudge ripple ice cream. It’s probably a soggy puddle on your chair by now.’’ She laughed. ‘‘I guess you got distracted.’’ ‘‘A little.’’ He nuzzled her neck, took her rose and trailed the soft petals along her throat, then circled her breasts. He saw her skin quiver and jump, her stomach muscles tighten. Smiling, he gathered her to him. ‘‘What the hell. It’s already melted. What’s another hour?’’ And he took her mouth in a soul-shattering kiss.

Nine Hammer in hand, Nick sent the nail home with his third swing. It was a cold Saturday afternoon, but the air was dry, the sun shining. He felt good, useful and productive. Physical labor always made him feel like this—tired at the end of the day but pleased with results he could see. Lining up another nail, he found himself wishing investigations worked that way. He’d spent the past week hunting down people to interview in connection with Charlie’s murder, and though he’d found a few, the results weren’t exactly promising. Tex Barlow was in his sixties now, a ranch hand working on a small spread off Whispering Pines Road. But years ago he’d worked on Cameron Baxter’s place, until the rancher had had to sell it to pay off his gambling debts. Tex had thought his employer to be a mean old cuss at times, but Tex was the sort who kept to himself, got his work done and didn’t stick his nose where it didn’t belong. However, Nick had found the man’s memory wasn’t all that bad. Tex had overheard Cameron ranting about Charlie Avery several times, mostly to his daughter, Lexine, the wild one who’d apparently left town in her youth. Of course, Cameron, according to Tex, had raved on about several men his daughter had known, often shouting so loud that his voice carried through the open windows of the big house into the yard and beyond. Tex’s own daughter had run away at an early age after his wife had died,

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which was one reason he lived in a bunkhouse now. He empathized somewhat with Cameron’s difficulties with his own high-strung girl. It boiled down to nothing concrete that could be pinned on Cameron Baxter about Charlie’s death. Nick climbed down from the ladder, reached for another wide board and maneuvered it into place. The large stack of lumber his father had had shipped to the reservation after his call was slowly disappearing. Nick had told Bill Dean that many houses here were in need of shoring up and insulation for the colder winter days ahead, and like the man his son knew him to be, Bill hadn’t hesitated in sending enough supplies to keep him busy for some weeks. Not that he’d probably be staying that long. He’d started on repairing Henry Raintree’s place first, because the old man had quickly agreed to accept Nick’s help. He knew how prideful the Northern Cheyenne were and he didn’t want to insult that pride in any way. So he’d begun with Henry, a man who seemed to like him, and hoped that when the others saw he was doing repairs not only because they were needed but because he needed to keep busy, and that he wanted to repay the folks who’d befriended him when he’d been hurt, they’d allow him to assist more. And if he could round up a few of the teenagers, he could teach them basic carpentry skills they’d be able to use on their own homes. Nick climbed back up and reached for another nail. He was itching to get to some of the worst ones. Like Tommy Running Deer’s home, with the newborn child inside. Then there was the Thundercloud house, with the sagging porch and leaking roof. And Summer Lewis’s place, with such poorly fitting windows that the wind whistled in constantly, something Sara had let slip recently.

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Squinting into the sun, Nick glanced over at Sara’s car, which was parked in her mother’s drive. She’d left this morning to work half a day at the museum and had told him she’d be dropping in on Summer afterward. The side windows of the small house looked out on to where he was working on Henry’s place. He couldn’t help wondering if he was Topic A in the mother-daughter conversation today. Finished nailing the board in place, Nick went down for another, wiping his damp brow with his handkerchief before climbing back up. All along this rutted road, cabins and dwellings that could only be called shacks badly needed attention. The only home he’d visited so far that was truly sound was Jackson Hawk’s residence, about ten miles from the reservation center. Maggie had had Sara and him over for dinner last night and, though Nick had been a little uneasy about going, he’d wound up enjoying the evening. Maggie was a good cook and Jackson had inexplicably warmed to him. Earlier, Nick had run his idea of asking his father to donate materials for housing repairs past Jackson and, after thoughtful consideration and quiet questioning, the tribal attorney had accepted Nick’s offer. He’d also wanted to know how the Avery investigation was shaping up. Nick had told him about the little he’d learned from Tex Barlow about Cameron Baxter’s relationship to Charlie. And he’d revealed that he’d located a widow named Mattie Finn, whose husband had worked for Jeremiah Kincaid twenty years ago. She’d described Jeremiah as handsome and flashy, a man who ran his ranch with an iron hand. He was also ruthless and selfish, liked by very few. Mattie knew who Charlie was, had even seen him on the Kincaid ranch a time or two, but didn’t think he’d had

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a deeper relationship with Jeremiah than any other drifter looking for work in those days. Personally, she hadn’t liked Charlie because she’d heard stories that he stepped out on his wife and neglected his young children. But she’d offered no motive for Jeremiah to want Charlie out of the way. After listening, Jackson could come up with no other suspects for Nick to talk to, though Nick had said he planned on questioning Arnie McDonald about Ethan Walker again next week. They’d ended the evening having coffee at the big oak dining table and playing Scrabble, a homey touch. Nick had driven back to Sara’s house feeling mellow. But alone with her, his mood had changed to barely restrained passion, one she’d matched willingly, eagerly. Once they’d made the leap into physical intimacy, they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off one another. Even at the Hawks’s place, Nick had made sure he sat next to Sara, within touching distance. He knew she wasn’t ready to reveal their close relationship to anyone at this point, but his own churning needs had him finding a dozen excuses to pat her hand or brush back her hair. Each time, color would move into her face and she’d put a bit of distance between them. Not to be outmaneuvered, he’d scoot closer. Nick was certain, despite keeping up a lively conversation, that their hosts hadn’t missed the little interplay. And he knew their knowing bothered Sara. Nick picked up the last board he’d cut for this side and shoved it into place before going back up the ladder. Why, he wondered, did she want to keep their alliance a secret? He was falling in love with her and wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Correction: had fallen in love with her. He whacked the

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nail in place, realizing how far he’d come in such a short time. He’d arrived on the reservation with not a thought in mind about a woman or a relationship or permanency of any sort. He’d neatly avoided anything resembling commitment since his divorce. But it was different with Sara. She was so beautiful, for starters. Such a cool facade that hid a passionate nature, the kind he’d only dreamed of before meeting her. She was intelligent, funny, warm. She cared about people, genuinely cared. From the youngest to the oldest, people were drawn to her. As he was. Yet he hesitated in telling her. There was something in her eyes that stopped him even at their most intimate moments. She surrendered her body to him freely, but her mind was full of secrets and her heart was kept under guard. Unavailable, unreachable, remote. Would she ever come around? Nick’s jaw tightened with determination. Yes, she would. He would see to it that she did. He would wear her down, win her over, make her see that it could work between them. It was the Indian-white thing gnawing at her, he knew. Even more than he, she was aware of the way her people had regarded him in the restaurant that day, of the shocked hostility of the white couple in the hospital waiting room when Nick had taken her into his arms. She focused on their differences, whereas he saw only their similarities. He felt she loved him, but was afraid to admit it. To him, perhaps even to herself. How could he convince her that they were meant to be together? Pounding in the last nail, Nick realized he didn’t know the answer to that important question. But he would, by God, find it, he decided as he slowly climbed down.

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* * * Sara stood by the kitchen window and stared out past her mother’s starched white curtains. Nick was starting on the other side of Henry’s house, nailing thick boards over insulation he’d already put in place earlier today. He’d told her this morning he had to hurry to finish in case another storm hit. Henry had a bad cough he didn’t like the sound of and was treating it with that rotgut whiskey he’d probably made himself. So far, Nick hadn’t been able to convince the old man to go to the clinic and let Kane take a look at him, but he was working on it. Each day she spent with Nick, he amazed her more. And then there were the nights. ‘‘He is a good man,’’ Summer said, peering over her daughter’s shoulder as she chopped vegetables for soup and quickly finding what was fascinating Sara so. ‘‘Did you know that he asked your grandmother to talk with Tommy Running Deer about letting him insulate his house? For the baby’s sake, he said.’’ Sara tried not to let the thought warm her. ‘‘I’m not surprised.’’ ‘‘He was here yesterday, you know.’’ Summer had opened the door to the tall blond man and experienced such a rush of de´ja` vu that she’d almost reeled. Nick Dean didn’t really resemble Aaron Lewis all that much. Yet there were similarities that had dragged her back more than thirty years. This time Sara was surprised. ‘‘Here?’’ She’d been at work at the museum, of course, having driven the compact car Nick had asked Jackson to rent for him the day after the incident with the dark sedan. Nick had insisted she take that one and that he’d use her Volkswagen, since he’d already been seen around town in her car. She knew he’d been in Whitehorn part of the day tracking down nebulous

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leads, but he’d been home when she’d returned. ‘‘Why was he here?’’ ‘‘Manya invited him. He’d visited her at Tommy’s and she’d promised to make him fry bread. The three of us sat at the kitchen table, eating and talking, for half an hour.’’ Summer twisted the leafy green tops off a bunch of carrots and watched her daughter’s eyes return to the window. Her next statement wasn’t a question. ‘‘You love him.’’ Sara didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the tall, lean man who’d hoisted a heavy board onto his good shoulder and was marching over to where he’d propped the ladder. How had she let this happen? she wondered. How had she let this blond giant steal her heart in so short a time? Summer could see that her daughter didn’t want to care, though she did. ‘‘We can’t choose who we love, Sara.’’ Hadn’t she told herself that very thing a million times? Sara sighed, recognizing the truth. ‘‘There’s much about me he doesn’t know.’’ ‘‘Will you tell him?’’ ‘‘I don’t know.’’ Summer wished she could take away her daughter’s sadness, the sadness that lingered in her eyes. ‘‘There is no shame to what happened to you, Sara. It was never your fault.’’ She knew that, in her head. But her heart reminded her that perhaps she’d been punished for loving so foolishly, so unwisely. Was she doing that again? How did a person know? ‘‘He lost a child once. He still blames himself.’’ ‘‘Then he will understand. He’s not like the other man you knew, is he?’’ The man Summer had wanted to hunt down and punish for hurting her vulnerable, trusting daughter. ‘‘No, he’s not.’’ Sara watched Nick finish the corner

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piece, then turned to face her mother. ‘‘He sees no difference between us.’’ Summer’s capable hands finished cleaning the carrots and set about rinsing them. ‘‘Perhaps love blinds him. Or perhaps he’s a fool.’’ Grabbing a towel, she met Sara’s eyes. ‘‘Or perhaps he’s genuine and you’re afraid to believe.’’ She was afraid, Sara thought. And with good reason. ‘‘You think I should give in to my feelings for this man? How can you, after what happened between you and my father?’’ Summer could feel the heavy regret in her chest as she dried her hands. How much harm had she and Aaron done to their children? she wondered, not for the first time. So much that both were now unhappy. One of her brothers, Paul, was denying the fact that his marriage wasn’t working and Sara was afraid to love. How could she fix it? Setting down the towel, she took Sara’s hands in her own. ‘‘By the time you were old enough to see and to know, there was only pain and bitterness. But Sara, once there was love between your father and me. So much love.’’ ‘‘But it wasn’t enough, was it, Mama?’’ ‘‘Because he was a weak man.’’ Summer nodded toward the window. ‘‘I don’t think the man out there is. Do you?’’ Sara leaned to hug her mother, again not answering. ‘‘I have to go. Tell Manya I’m sorry I missed her.’’ Grabbing her jacket, she rushed out into the winter sun, heading for Henry Raintree’s house, where Nick was climbing down the ladder. Sara squinted up at Nick, who was sitting astride the black stallion. ‘‘I don’t know. I’ve never ridden bareback.’’

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His eyebrows shot up. ‘‘An Indian who’s never ridden bareback?’’ ‘‘An anachronism, right?’’ ‘‘I’d say so.’’ He reached a hand down to her. ‘‘Henry doesn’t have a saddle, or another horse. Come on. You’ll be fine.’’ Sara wasn’t convinced, watching the restless horse fight the bit as he pawed the ground. ‘‘Is this the same stallion that almost trampled Henry that time you came to his rescue?’’ ‘‘He’d been spooked by a rabbit that day.’’ Nick patted the horse’s sleek neck. ‘‘He’s a little jittery, but not mean.’’ Again he held out his hand to her in invitation. She’d taken to wearing her hair loose when not at work because Nick had repeatedly told her how much he liked it that way. Now she tossed her head as the wind whipped dark strands about her face. Here goes nothing, she thought. Taking his hand, she let him pull her up onto the stallion and settle her between his thighs. Immediately, even through the denim of his jeans and her wool slacks, she became aware of him snuggled tightly against her back. Blood rushed to her face and she hoped he hadn’t noticed. His hands adjusted the reins as his laugh rang out in the cold air, letting her know he’d caught her reaction and it amused him. Playfully, she punched him in the ribs with an elbow as his heels nudged the stallion forward. Henry had suggested often that Nick could ride his horse anytime he felt like it, not only as thanks for the work on his house but because the restive beast so seldom got a workout. Judas wasn’t a young stallion, but he was powerfully built even though he carried a bit too much weight. Released from his corral, he eagerly raced across

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the field, expertly avoiding the occasional patch of hard snow. Nick had to lean forward and press his cheek to Sara’s to keep her hair from flying into his face and blocking his view. He inhaled her familiar scent and almost purred like a big cat. He breathed into her ear and felt her involuntary shudder, then laughed aloud again. ‘‘Don’t you ever think about anything else?’’ she teased, turning her head so he could hear her. She was unused to this constant sensual awareness. Though she loved knowing he wanted her, she couldn’t help wondering how she’d adjust to the loss when he left. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said into her ear. ‘‘Sometimes I think about dinner.’’ But he’d postponed their evening meal many times, more anxious to feel her beneath him than to feed his stomach. ‘‘Are you complaining?’’ Sara placed her hands along his arms, deciding to enjoy the moment and not worry about the future just now. ‘‘Never.’’ Smiling, Nick let Judas have his head as they hit the open field alongside the woods that ran for miles. It felt good to walk hand in hand, holding the stallion’s reins as the beast cooled down. The sky was such a piercing blue at three in the afternoon that it almost looked as if an artist had painted it, streaking in a few wispy clouds for effect. Welcome sunlight splashed over the mountains. Nick breathed in cold, clean air and the scent of pine. In the distance, cattle bawled intermittently. He’d always loved Montana and had never really wanted to live anywhere else. ‘‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’’ Sara stepped gingerly over a protruding rock. One short ride and her legs ached, while her thighs tingled from

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gripping the horse. ‘‘Parts of it are.’’ She gazed upward. ‘‘This section unspoiled by man certainly is.’’ ‘‘You’re kind of quiet today.’’ He looked down at her. ‘‘Anything the matter?’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Maybe, maybe not. Do you recall my telling you about the textile hangings the museum got recently?’’ ‘‘The ones that were so valuable some were priceless? Yes. What about them? Did you discover they’re fakes?’’ ‘‘That problem might be easier to solve. We discovered this morning that two of the blankets that date back four generations to the era of Chief Strongheart are missing.’’ ‘‘Missing? As in misplaced, never unpacked, hung on the wrong floor, maybe?’’ Sara shook her head. ‘‘Jason Eagle and I searched everywhere. That’s why I was late getting back. Yesterday, they were exactly where we’d put them on display in a glass case under lock and key. Today they’re nowhere to be found.’’ ‘‘What does Jason think happened?’’ ‘‘The only conclusion is that there was a theft between yesterday’s closing time and this morning’s opening.’’ She ran a hand through her hair, frowning. ‘‘Jason’s just sick about it, naturally. This sort of thing has never happened before. He feels responsible.’’ Nick’s detective mind was already considering possibilities. ‘‘I assume all the doors and windows were checked for possible break-ins?’’ ‘‘First thing. The door locks were undisturbed. The windows are permanently sealed, since the museum is climate-controlled to protect the artifacts.’’ Nick stopped their progress, letting Judas mosey over to drink from the edge of a glittering stream. ‘‘Has to be an inside job unless one of your visitors somehow man-

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aged to smuggle those blankets out inside a roomy coat or a bag of some sort.’’ ‘‘That would be hard to do, since the case locks weren’t broken, either. Only a few of us work on Saturdays, so not everyone was in today. Jason’s planning to call everyone over the weekend to tell them he’s holding a Mondaymorning meeting, then question each one separately.’’ ‘‘You have any hunches?’’ ‘‘Not really. I know everyone who works there, most for years. I can’t believe any one of them is a thief. Of course, someone may have lost their keys and the person finding them could have made duplicates. Or perhaps keys were stolen.’’ ‘‘Or someone slipped a duplicate key to someone, for a price.’’ ‘‘It’s difficult for me to believe that.’’ She looked up into eyes as blue as the overhead sky and, as always, felt that funny little hitch in the vicinity of her heart. ‘‘I know you’re pretty busy right now, but do you think you might find time to go in with me Monday and see if you can help Jason? He’s really worried. His job may be on the line.’’ ‘‘Of course I will.’’ Nick bent to place a kiss on her nose. Then, unable to resist any longer, he drew her close into an openmouthed kiss that had his heart thundering in moments. He didn’t want it to end and could sense she didn’t, either. ‘‘What do you say we climb back on Judas and go home? I want you naked on your grandmother’s quilt in front of a roaring fire.’’ ‘‘My grandmother would turn purple if she heard you say that.’’ But her pulse was pounding at the mere thought. He smiled down at her. ‘‘I doubt that. Manya’s some

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lady. I’ll bet, in her day, she wasn’t always staid and proper. She’s got this kind of lusty laugh.’’ ‘‘I understand you’ve been seeing quite a bit of her.’’ ‘‘Yeah, I’m crazy about her. Almost as crazy as I am about you.’’ He took a deep breath and decided to tell her. ‘‘Do you know what she asked me yesterday?’’ Sara came down off her tiptoes. ‘‘I’m afraid to hear.’’ ‘‘She asked when I was going to marry you.’’ Sara felt a chill wind come up quite suddenly. ‘‘It’s getting cold. We’d better be getting back.’’ Avoidance. She was a master at it. Positioning Judas so he could mount him, Nick decided that very soon Miss Sara Lewis was going to have to face a few facts. Like he was the man she was going to marry. He’d bought her a gift—a nightgown in the palest shade of peach, with tiny straps, the silk fabric caressing her every curve and ending midthigh. Sara gazed at her reflection in the mirror and felt more feminine than she ever had before. She’d never had money to indulge in beautiful nightwear. She’d brushed her hair after her bath and now reached for her fragrant lotion. Nerves skittered along her spine as she rubbed moisturizer into her skin. She was doing something she’d never truly done before, not like this. She was preparing for her lover. Lover. The very word had her blood warming. They’d ridden Judas back to Henry’s place, then stayed and talked for a little while to the lonely old man. After Henry’s second shot of his potent whiskey, Nick had gotten him to agree to see Kane at the clinic tomorrow morning, since the doctor usually stopped in on weekends, donating his time to the res. It was remarkable the way old Henry had taken to Nick.

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They’d walked over to her car then and had driven to her house. Nick had seemed to want to take over the evening plans, so she’d let him. While she’d made a salad, he’d taken a shower, then he’d grilled catfish fillets along with hush puppies that he’d picked up in town earlier. After they ate, he’d given her the nightgown and asked if she’d put it on while he built a fire. Sara put the cap back on the bottle of lotion, wondering why she was suddenly so nervous. Then it came to her. The whole evening orchestrated by Nick smacked of a goodbye scene. Had he narrowed down his suspects in Charlie Avery’s murder to one viable guilty person? Was he about to go to Judd and arrest the responsible individual, then be on his way next week? Was this to be their farewell weekend? She felt a jumble of emotional reactions. From the beginning, she’d known they were opposites, wrong for one another. Despite all the good things he was doing on the res, he would leave. And, though she knew he wanted her, love was another whole subject. She hadn’t had the courage to ask him what he’d said to Manya when her grandmother had mentioned marriage. He’d been smiling as he told her. She prayed he hadn’t laughed at Manya’s question. Even if, wild though the thought was, Nick did love her and wanted her to marry him, he’d also want her to leave Laughing Horse, to live in Butte or elsewhere with him. She couldn’t do that. She belonged here, among her own people, where she could do the most good. So it was hopeless. He would go, as she wanted him to. Didn’t she? Hands trembling only slightly, she opened the bathroom door and turned off the light. If he wanted a night to remember before he left, she would give him one, in spades.

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It was the least she could do. Squaring her shoulders, she walked into the living room. She absolutely took his breath away. Nick straightened from leaning against the mantel and just stared. He’d set the scene—built the fire, poured them each a glass of chilled apple cider and spread her grandmother’s quilt on the carpeting in front of the raised hearth. He stood there wearing a pair of his new jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. And couldn’t speak. Seeing him nonplussed gave Sara the courage she’d lacked before entering the room. Slowly, she walked to him, stepping barefooted onto the quilt where he was standing. Stopping directly in front of him, she raised both arms and slid her hands over his chest, lingering to feel crisp hair and hard muscles as she inched upward. She kept going past his shoulders, her fingers reaching to caress the curls at his nape. Rising on tiptoe, she offered her mouth. Nick took what she offered. He came out of his trance, slipped his arms around her and pulled her to him, his mouth taking hers. His hands on her back tightened and bunched in the silky material, then slipped beneath to touch flesh already heated. He inhaled her freshly bathed scent and thought he’d die from the sweet pleasure. But Sara wasn’t going to let him lead, not this time. As her mouth made love to his, her hands shoved his shirt off his shoulders, then drifted down to the waistband of his jeans. She felt his stomach muscles quiver as she tugged the clasp open. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and mated with his as her fingers slowly slid the tab of his zipper downward. She felt more than heard his tremulous intake of breath.

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With a sureness of purpose, she shoved his jeans down, then pressed a hand to his chest, indicating she wanted him to sit down on the quilt. Her eyes on his, she knelt and tugged off his pants. But when he reached to pull her to his side, she evaded his hand and instead stretched out on top of him. With her long, shiny black hair curtaining her face, she returned to plunder his mouth as his arms tightened around her. His fingers moved up to grasp handfuls of her silken hair as his tongue dived deep inside the delicious hollows of her mouth. He hadn’t thought she’d ever play the aggressor, yet he gloried in it. He hadn’t known what it felt like to be wanted with such fervor, and he reveled in it. He hadn’t known that the conqueror could be conquered so effortlessly. Hot, wild desire coursed through Sara’s veins with the speed of light as her mouth rained kisses over his face, the strong line of his throat, the muscular width of his chest. She heard the crackling of the fire as if from a distance and smelled the woodsy scent of the logs mingled with the heady fragrance of man. Her hands raced over him, frantic to touch everywhere, to know everything about him. Sensations piled on top of sensations as dark passions took over. For tonight, he was hers. He needed to get some control back, Nick thought as his hazy mind tried to concentrate. He felt his breath hiss from him as she shifted and her small, clever hands moved beneath the waistband of his briefs and shoved them off. Her mouth was back on his as her fingers closed around him. And he was lost. He wanted to see her wearing only firelight. With un-

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steady fingers, he reached for the hem of her gown. ‘‘This is beautiful on you. But I want to look at you without it.’’ Slowly, Sara maneuvered until she was astride his waist, then she paused. Taking her sweet time, she inched her gown up and over her head, tossing it aside, her dark fall of hair settling around her. Her bronze skin glistened in the light from the flames as her dark eyes met his. She saw desire there and admiration. And something else that had her frowning, trying to read it. Then it was gone and he was skimming the backs of his fingers over first one breast, then the other. They both watched as her skin warmed, with heated blood rushing to the surface. His blue eyes darkened as his arousal deepened. Again she saw that strange hint of something resembling anger in his gaze. ‘‘I hate every man who’s ever touched you before me.’’ ‘‘No man has ever touched me before you.’’ Her voice was thick, husky. ‘‘No man ever will again.’’ She knew that to be true, and could have wept with the knowledge. The need to possess her, to make her truly his, all but overwhelmed Nick as he tried to ease her onto her back. ‘‘No. Not this time.’’ This time, they’d play it her way. Rising above him, she took him inside her as they both watched, then she shifted and took him deeper. Leaning forward, she touched her mouth to his. But dark needs inside Nick compelled him to take over. His movements became desperate, frantic, slightly mad. He drove her and himself, desire-dampened skin against tender flesh. He broke the kiss so he could watch her, keeping his eyes locked with hers as they climbed together. He thought he’d remember her beautiful face flushed with passion until he was a very old man. Her eyes were cloudy with desire, but open and aware. Had

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he ever seen anything as beautiful as the sensual pleasure of watching Sara wanting him? No. Never. At last he felt her body tighten, then convulse, as her hands clenched on his shoulders. He waited a long moment, watching her eyelids turn pink with a sensual flush. Then he joined her in an explosion that had him losing himself in the sweet wonder that was Sara.

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he lay snuggled close to him on the quilt, warmed by the fire as he held her. She could feel his heartbeat slowing beneath her ear as it rested on his chest. She was quiet, letting her tangled emotions settle. Nick angled his head so he could see her face. ‘‘You surprise me, Sara. That was pretty wild. And wonderful.’’ ‘‘Mmm. I thought so, too.’’ ‘‘I hope I wasn’t too rough. A woman like you deserves tenderness and romance.’’ Oddly, his words broke her mood. Sara eased back, sitting up, reaching for the gown she’d tossed aside, feeling a sudden need for even its skimpy protective covering. Slipping it on, she shook back her hair and met his watchful gaze. ‘‘What do you know of a woman like me?’’ Nick bent his elbow and propped his head in his hand. ‘‘Not enough. Do you want to tell me more?’’ Perhaps it was time. ‘‘I want to tell you something— something about my past. Maybe then you’ll understand a lot of other things, too.’’ Like why a relationship between them would never work. He’d known she had secrets, could see them in her eyes. He was encouraged that finally she felt like revealing them. It was the beginning of trust. ‘‘All right. I’m listening.’’ It was a difficult subject, made all the harder since he lay before her, totally unselfconscious in his nakedness.

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Sara twisted her hands and searched for the right words. ‘‘I told you earlier that I’d met a man my last year in college. I didn’t mention that he was tall, blond and blue eyed.’’ Just his luck. ‘‘And every time you look at me, you see him?’’ ‘‘At first, it was like that.’’ She studied his facial features one by one, taking her time. ‘‘But not anymore.’’ She shifted her gaze to the fire, because it was easier to continue that way. ‘‘Jack came from a wealthy family. Ranchers with a huge spread, their own plane, all kinds of holdings—and he was an only son. I didn’t know any of that when we started seeing each other. He was so much fun and so romantic. I thought myself desperately in love, as only the very young can fool themselves into believing. And perhaps I was going through a rebellious stage, as well. The Native American who wins the all-American boy.’’ Nick heard the bitterness creeping into her voice and kept silent. ‘‘We became lovers. I should have guessed what was coming, but I was absolutely blinded by my feelings for him. Jack said he thought keeping our affair secret was exciting, meeting in quiet, out-of-the-way places, driving to distant motels. When I think back, I wonder how I could have been so trusting, so naive.’’ ‘‘Love makes us all behave stupidly at times.’’ Absently, Sara nodded her agreement. ‘‘There ought to be a course taught in school for the very young. Affairs of the Heart 101. Something to warn them how crushing it is to discover you’ve been in love all alone.’’ ‘‘Maybe they could make it a curriculum requirement.’’ Sara detected a hint of self-pity in her voice and cleared her throat. ‘‘I suppose you’ve guessed the ending. As

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graduation approached, my head was spinning with plans, with possibilities. When I finally found the courage to speak them out loud, I got the surprise of my life. Jack was shocked to hear I might actually have thought we had a future, that he’d take me home to meet his family. My goodness, his dear mother, who controlled the purse strings since the money originated in her family, would faint dead away at the thought of the heir apparent walking in with a real live Indian woman.’’ Nick took her hands then and felt her fingers curl around his. At least now he understood why the differences between them loomed even larger to Sara than he’d imagined. ‘‘Not all white families feel that way. Very few, actually. Certainly mine doesn’t.’’ She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘‘I was devastated and deeply humiliated. I’d been raised to be proud of who and what I am. Certainly I’d run into prejudice before, in Whitehorn and on campus, but I hadn’t been expecting it from someone who’d made love with me.’’ She stopped, swallowing, reaching for control. ‘‘I didn’t stay to attend the graduation ceremonies, much to my mother’s disappointment. I moved back home, feeling drained, soiled. And I had another shock coming. I discovered I was pregnant.’’ He caught the hitch in her voice and squeezed her hands. ‘‘I decided that my baby’s father didn’t deserve to know his child. The baby would be mine and mine alone. I didn’t tell anyone, just went about making my solitary plans. Then one night I started bleeding. Before long, I couldn’t walk, the pain was so bad. I had to tell my mother. Kane wasn’t a doctor yet and the clinic on the res hadn’t been opened. There were no Native American doctors nearby. My grandmother called the tribal medicine

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woman and she came over. Later that night, I miscarried.’’ She felt her lower lip tremble and pressed her hand to her mouth. Wordlessly, Nick gathered her to him, cradling her head, smoothing her hair. She didn’t weep, but he suspected she’d shed more than her share of tears for the loss of her child over the years. He ran his hand along her arm and her back, offering the comfort of his solid body. For a long while she stayed pressed against him, absorbing, regrouping. Finally, she straightened. ‘‘I thought you probably realized I had more than a passing interest in rushing Alice to the hospital that night. Just as you did. I’ve always wondered, and probably always will, whether, if I’d been able to get to a hospital, my baby would have lived. We’ll never know.’’ ‘‘Your mother didn’t trust the white hospital?’’ ‘‘That was part of it. Everything happened so fast. I started feeling nauseated right after dinner. I thought it was indigestion. When you’re young and you’ve never been pregnant before, you don’t know what’s normal and what isn’t. Then suddenly, there was so much blood....’’ ‘‘Don’t think about it anymore. It’s over.’’ ‘‘Is it?’’ Eyes dark with pain looked into his. ‘‘Will it ever be over? Tell me, is it for you? Tell me you can walk down a street, see a child about the age yours would now be and remain unaffected.’’ It was Nick’s turn to stare into the flames. ‘‘He’d be seven now,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Mine would be eight. Do you see what I mean?’’ Frowning, he turned back to her. ‘‘Aren’t you the one who told me I had to let go of the guilt?’’ ‘‘Yes. You shouldn’t feel guilty for something you couldn’t prevent, and neither should I. It’s the sorrow over an irretrievable loss that stays with me, not guilt.’’

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‘‘I feel that, too. But we have to get on with our lives. We’ve grieved a lot of years.’’ He gripped her hands again, needing to make her see. ‘‘The way to get over a disappointing love is to find a new one. I never thought I’d hear myself saying that, but it’s true. And one day you’ll have another child, one who’ll make the loss of the first one easier to live with.’’ She searched his eyes and saw that he believed what he was saying. ‘‘You see only what you want to see, Nick. Here on the res you found openly suspicious looks at first. Now Henry likes you because you’ve been a friend to him. And Jackson’s accepted you. Manya’s even asked when you plan to marry me. Manya knows how long I’ve been alone and sad, and she wants me to be happy. She is old and hopes you’re the answer, that she’ll see me happy before she dies. But if we were to—to get together, you might find some of these very people cooling toward you. We’re polite to temporary guests, but hospitality can wear thin after a while. My father tried for years and couldn’t find acceptance.’’ Nick shook his head. ‘‘I don’t believe that. Maybe he didn’t try hard enough, or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. People are people—that’s what I believe. If you treat them right, they won’t turn against you.’’ ‘‘People have certain prejudices pounded into them in their youth. Indians blame the white man for their current situation. Whites don’t respect Indians, have no use for them, and, since they’re a huge majority, don’t have to pretend to be nice or fair or kind. You think that if, for instance, I were to go with you to Butte or the town where your parents live, everyone there would welcome me with open arms?’’ ‘‘Yes, I certainly do.’’

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Sara rose, knowing they were getting nowhere. ‘‘Then you’re more naive than I thought you were.’’ Stamping down his anger, Nick rose and faced her, taking hold of her upper arms. ‘‘Let’s not talk about other people. Let’s talk about you and me. Look into my eyes, really look, and tell me what you see.’’ ‘‘Nick, I’m not in the mood for games.’’ He tightened his hold. ‘‘This isn’t a game. Tell me.’’ Sighing, she looked into his eyes. She would humor him. ‘‘Desire. I see desire. And I want you to know I love knowing you want me.’’ ‘‘Desire, yes, definitely. Go on. Look some more.’’ She studied the blue depths, trying very hard now to read his feelings. ‘‘I see compassion and understanding. Tolerance. But that’s you, not the people you must live among.’’ ‘‘Don’t stop.’’ He leaned toward her, very close now. ‘‘Deeper now.’’ She stared, trying to see what he meant. What she saw had her wanting to back away, but he held on to her. ‘‘I— I’m not sure.’’ ‘‘Yes, you are.’’ He’d made his point. He knew it and so did she. ‘‘You see love. I love you, Sara. I’m not Jack or your father or any other man you’ve known. I love you just the way you are. I wouldn’t change a thing, except possibly your stubbornness.’’ She wanted to believe—oh, God, how badly she wanted to believe. Moisture formed in her eyes. ‘‘Did Jack ever say those three little words to you?’’ She shook her head and two tears trailed down her cheeks. ‘‘I’m going to say them, regularly and often, until you believe them. I love you, Sara. Love you, love you.’’ His hands moved into her hair and his mouth crushed hers,

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his need to convince her taking over. Before the kiss ended, he scooped her into his arms and headed for the bedroom. On Sunday morning, the air was cold and crisp, the sun bright in the sky. Winter seemed to be holding off after its early freak storm, Nick thought, as he offered his gloved hand to Sara. They’d decided that a hike in the semiwilderness area in the northwestern section of the reservation was just what they needed to blow the cobwebs from the brain. Her booted foot slipped on a patch of frozen snow, but she kept from falling by clutching Nick’s hand. ‘‘Whew! I’m out of shape.’’ Stopping a moment, she inhaled deeply. ‘‘Is there anywhere on earth where the air is cleaner, fresher, than here?’’ Nick looked around. ‘‘I don’t think so. You okay, or do you want to rest?’’ She glanced up toward the top of the next rise and saw an eagle soar high above a Douglas fir. ‘‘Let’s keep going.’’ Her muscles might ache tonight, but she needed the exercise. Another set of muscles were pleasantly achy, she thought, hiding a smile. Nick was insatiable when it came to making love and, much to Sara’s surprise, she’d found she felt the same. Their serious and conflicting discussion the night before hadn’t dimmed their desire. Had, in fact, increased it. Hearing that he loved her had fueled her passion and warmed her heart, though she still had trouble believing it. She knew she loved him, too, with a love much stronger than any she’d known. However, she hadn’t told him, and probably wouldn’t. They still hadn’t had the really im-

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portant discussion, the one that centered around the question where do we go from here? Love, as her parents’ marriage proved, wasn’t always enough. It didn’t always overcome economic problems, racial differences, bigotry in the world around them. And then there was the problem of where they would live, should marriage be a serious consideration. From the beginning, she’d known of Nick’s wanderlust, his need to be free, to get up and go. And he knew of her commitment to Laughing Horse. Did he think he could change her mind about that, as he had about so many things? ‘‘You’re doing it again,’’ Nick commented as he glanced over his shoulder and saw her introspective expression. ‘‘You’re moving off somewhere where I can’t reach you.’’ Putting on a smile, she came alongside him. ‘‘I’m right here.’’ Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him. Suddenly they heard the crackling of twigs being trampled, and they jumped apart. ‘‘Who’s there?’’ Nick asked, peering through the thicket of tall aspens to their right. An older man with scraggly salt-and-pepper hair falling to his shoulders stepped out onto the path a short distance from them. His boots were scuffed, his jeans almost threadbare and his brown corduroy jacket ill fitting over his slender frame. His blue eyes flew from one to the other, looking kind of wild. ‘‘Who wants to know?’’ he asked in a croaky voice. ‘‘Mr. Gilmore,’’ Sara said, stepping forward, recognizing the old man. ‘‘It’s Sara Lewis from the reservation.’’ Homer Gilmore squinted at her, brushing an unclean hand over his bearded chin. ‘‘Who’d you say?’’ Sara repeated her name. ‘‘I work at the museum in Whitehorn, remember? I’m a friend of Kane’s.’’

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At mention of the doctor, the old fellow brightened. ‘‘Kane’s a good man. I always told Moriah that Kane’s a good man.’’ He shifted his narrowed eyes up at Nick. Sara introduced them. ‘‘Nick’s investigating Charlie Avery’s murder. They found his remains not far from here.’’ Homer nodded. ‘‘Charlie was always shiftless.’’ He bent to pick up a gnarled stick, then poked at the ground with it. ‘‘Don’t know why so many folks are out here these days. A man can’t have any privacy anymore.’’ Sara had always felt sorry for Homer Gilmore. Since his wife had taken his daughter away, he’d become a hermit, a man who seemed lost and alone. ‘‘We’re out hiking. It’s such a beautiful day.’’ Homer swiped at a drippy nose. ‘‘That’s what she said, too. Bird watching.’’ He gave a bark of a laugh. ‘‘Endangered species. Ain’t no special birds out here. I ought to know. Been living in these parts all my sixty-two years.’’ ‘‘Who’d you run across bird watching, Mr. Gilmore?’’ Nick asked, always curious. He recalled Sara telling him about Homer Gilmore, his daughter Moriah and Kane. Taking out a red handkerchief, Homer blew his nose before answering. ‘‘Mary Jo, that’s who. Told me she got lost, sprained her ankle and couldn’t walk back. Asked me to help her.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Don’t seem to be the sort who’d climb around on these rocks and watch for birds, do you think?’’ Mary Jo had to be Dugin Kincaid’s wife, Nick guessed. And he had to agree with Homer that the one time he’d seen Mary Jo in the Hip Hop Cafe´, well dressed and sort of delicate looking, she hadn’t impressed him as the sort who’d go hiking or bird watching. ‘‘When was this?’’ ‘‘Couple days ago.’’ Homer scratched at the frozen ground with his stick. ‘‘Said she’s marking down bird

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sightings for the Sierra Club. Can’t imagine Dugin letting her hang around with that bunch.’’ Sara didn’t think Dugin controlled Mary Jo’s comings and goings, but refrained from saying so. ‘‘You helped her find her way back then?’’ Homer nodded, his eyes on the ground. ‘‘I led her out to where she’d left her car by the road. But funny thing. When she left me, she wasn’t limping no more.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Can’t understand that woman. House like she’s got, what’s she doing marching around out here?’’ A good question, Nick thought. He might just have to satisfy his curiosity by checking out Mary Jo Kincaid. He nodded toward the crest of the hill. ‘‘We’re going to climb on up there, take in the view.’’ Homer grunted. ‘‘Not much different from down here, ’cept it’s higher.’’ Using his stick, he plodded off into the trees without saying another word. Nick took Sara’s hand and started up. ‘‘A strange duck, that one.’’ ‘‘I feel sorry for him. He’s got no one.’’ He pulled her into the circle of his arms. ‘‘You empathize with everyone. That’s just one of the reasons I love you.’’ He saw the doubt in her eyes, and the need. It would take time, he knew. He lowered his head to kiss her. Jason Eagle was a big man, every bit as tall as Jackson Hawk, but older and leaning toward flab. His dark hair was streaked with gray and worn in two pigtails, and his dark face wore a worried frown as he sat behind the desk in his office at the Native American Museum. ‘‘So, what did you learn?’’ he asked Nick as the investigator sat

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down in the chair across from him. Sara took the second one. They’d arrived early, and while Jason questioned each employee individually, Sara had taken Nick on a tour, showing him the cases where the two blankets had been on display, all windows and doors, each room on every floor. She’d answered his questions and then they’d returned to Jason’s office. ‘‘My best guess is that this has to be an inside job,’’ Nick told the head curator. ‘‘Did you learn anything questioning your staff?’’ Jason shook his head, his frown deepening. ‘‘No one knows anything, saw anything or suspects anyone.’’ ‘‘Did anyone not show up for your meeting?’’ ‘‘No. Everyone showed. All but two of our employees have been with us for many years.’’ ‘‘Who are those two?’’ Nick asked. Usually thefts from inside were committed by newer employees, often ones who’d secured the job only long enough to size up the place and commit the felony. ‘‘Amos Redfox, a teenage boy who helps out with framing, labeling, cleanup. And John Thundercloud, our handyman. Both are part-time.’’ ‘‘Do both have keys?’’ ‘‘All our employees have keys,’’ Sara explained. ‘‘We have staggered shifts. They have to be able to open up, or lock the doors at night.’’ ‘‘Do any of your employees work alone, say at night or on weekends?’’ Jason glanced at Sara before answering. ‘‘Amos and John, occasionally. But both are trustworthy. John’s a family man with a baby on the way and he works at least one other job. Amos’s father is my closest friend. I can’t believe either would steal.’’

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Nick leaned back, crossing his legs. ‘‘Someone did, Mr. Eagle. I’ve looked at the other blankets. It wouldn’t be difficult to roll them up and take them out wrapped in brown paper or a large canvas bag, even during museum hours. You have only one security guard on duty and he can’t be everywhere.’’ Sara had introduced him to Noah Breedlove, a thin man in his seventies. He’d been the only security guard at the museum for the last ten years. Nick doubted the old man’s presence would put off any determined thief. ‘‘Are the door keys the same as the keys to the glass cases?’’ ‘‘No. Those are separate. There are only three. Sara has one and so do I. The third hangs over there.’’ He indicated a keyboard on his side wall, where several labeled keys hung on silver chains. ‘‘Do you keep your office door locked?’’ ‘‘It’s open when I’m here, but locked otherwise. I’m the only one who has a key to it.’’ ‘‘You haven’t lost your keys lately, or remember leaving them around at any time?’’ Jason stood, showing a large key chain attached to a belt loop of his pants, then tucked into a side pocket. ‘‘This is how I have them, always.’’ Nick propped his fingers in a steeple thoughtfully. ‘‘Then someone had to have come into your office when you were on the premises but busy elsewhere, gotten the key to the case and had a duplicate made. Or just plain lifted it, and no one noticed that it was missing.’’ Again, Jason glanced at Sara, nervously this time. ‘‘I don’t see how that could have happened. I’m rarely far from my office.’’ ‘‘Jason, what happened isn’t your fault,’’ Sara reassured him. ‘‘Nick will find out who did it.’’ Pleased at her faith in him, Nick sat forward. ‘‘How

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difficult would it be to get something new in, either something real or a very good fake, and make it known to one and all that it would be on display soon? When it arrives, you put it in a special case. And then we wait.’’ Jason raised his brows. ‘‘You mean, set a trap?’’ ‘‘Right. Our man may not be working alone. We’ll set it up, and then you and I will find a good place to hide where we can watch the case. See if we can smoke him out. He’s gotten away with something now and probably feels fairly confident. If not too big a fuss is made over the first theft, he’ll think that the insurance will cover it, so no big loss. I believe he’ll try again.’’ Jason looked skeptical. Trusting a white man, even one recommended so highly by Sara, wasn’t easy for him. But the only other alternative would be to call the sheriff. And if he did that, he’d have to notify the insurance company. Their premiums would skyrocket and their budget was already strained. ‘‘If only we had the money to have a good security system installed. Or at least to hire more security guards.’’ He walked around his desk and paced the width of his small office. ‘‘Maybe if we catch the thief and recover the goods, we can talk the board into holding some sort of fund-raiser to obtain cash for a security system,’’ Sara suggested. Jason was a good man, one she liked working with. Too bad his hands were tied by lack of money, as was the case with so many Indian-operated facilities. ‘‘Maybe we could get some publicity from the newspapers and generate interest in tax-free contributions.’’ ‘‘Maybe,’’ Jason muttered. ‘‘And maybe it won’t snow anymore in Montana.’’ He was angry and bitter. But he had a job to do. Turning, he stopped near Nick. ‘‘Thank you for coming and for your analysis of the situation. I’d like to take you up on your offer.’’

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‘‘Great.’’ Nick stood. ‘‘Just tell me when you’ve got things set up and I’ll be here.’’ ‘‘The first robbery took place over the weekend,’’ Jason said, walking with Sara and Nick to the door. ‘‘I’ll make sure we have something special, advertised as very valuable, in here by next Friday. Maybe we’ll catch us a thief.’’ He held his hand out to Nick. Nick shook his hand, then strolled to Sara’s office with her. Inside, he closed the door and drew her into a long, satisfying kiss. ‘‘Mmm, you smell good.’’ ‘‘Thank you so much for offering to help Jason. He’s taking this all very hard, but you’ve given him hope.’’ ‘‘If only it works...’’ He checked his watch. ‘‘I’ve got to get going.’’ They’d driven in separate cars. ‘‘I’ll see you back at the house. A little after five?’’ ‘‘Better make it six.’’ She rose on tiptoe for another kiss. How was it she couldn’t seem to get enough of kissing him? ‘‘Don’t be any later or I’ll come looking for you. And I’m picking up dinner.’’ Sara watched him leave, wondering how she was going to be able to watch him walk away for good one day soon. The Kincaid house was imposing, with two pillars at each end of a sweeping porch, a separate wing on each side and beautifully kept grounds. Nick parked Sara’s Volkswagen in the circular drive and slowly got out. At the end of a side drive, several barns and other outbuildings, a couple of corrals and men at work where visible. The property stretched as far back as he could see. But then, Dugin was the wealthiest man in Whitehorn, so the vastness of his ranch came as no surprise. What he’d learned about Dugin’s wife hadn’t surprised Nick, either.

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He’d just come from a visit to the local chapter of the Sierra Club and a nice chat with two members. Both of them knew Mary Jo Kincaid by sight if not in person, and had told him she was not now nor had she ever been one of their members. They didn’t have anyone assigned to log sightings of endangered species in the wilderness area Nick had mentioned, or anywhere else. He’d come away pleased that his naturally suspicious mind had been right. Still curious, he’d decided to pay a visit on the lady herself. She’d certainly indulged in studying him in depth at the Hip Hop Cafe´ that day at lunch. It was only right he return the favor. He knew that Mary Jo had nothing to do with either the murder investigation or the museum theft. His visit was triggered simply by his inquisitive nature. Nick stepped onto the porch and rang the bell. Less than a minute passed before the large door swung open and Mary Jo stood before him, wearing an open red coat, high heels and a surprised frown. He’d been expecting a uniformed maid or butler. ‘‘Yes?’’ she asked, her voice soft. ‘‘Mrs. Kincaid, I’m Nick Dean. I’m new in town, conducting an investigation and—’’ ‘‘Yes, I know. You’re the one who thinks Charlie Avery was murdered.’’ She swung the door wide open. ‘‘I have to go out shortly, but you might as well come in for a few minutes.’’ She shut the door as he stepped in, then led him into a large living room with a massive stone fireplace at the far end. ‘‘Why, I wonder, won’t folks let poor Charlie rest in peace? The man probably fell and hit his head, and here you are, trying to make something of nothing, prying into things that happened so long ago.’’ ‘‘No, ma’am. From the angle of the wound, someone took a good-size rock to his head.’’ Nick said, watching

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her search through a handbag and come up with a pair of leather gloves. Mary Jo’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘‘Oh, my. That’s simply terrible. Just awful.’’ ‘‘Yes, I agree.’’ She hadn’t invited him to sit on the sofa or the matching love seats grouped by the fireplace, so he stood, one hand in his pocket. ‘‘His remains were found in the same area you were wandering around in a couple of days ago.’’ Her brow wrinkled prettily. ‘‘Me? Now, when could that have been? I really don’t go out all that much.’’ Nick wasn’t sure why, but something about the way she spoke didn’t ring true to him. ‘‘I believe you said you were out bird watching when you sprained your ankle and Homer Gilmore helped you find your way back.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes.’’ Her smile was sweet. ‘‘I remember now. I often help out the Sierra Club. They catalog sightings of certain endangered species.’’ ‘‘Is that a fact? I was just over there talking with Alex Morris and Pamela Brown. They said you weren’t even a member.’’ Mary Jo fussed at her nose with a lace hankie, buying a bit of time. ‘‘No, I’m not, but I give them a hand now and then. My husband, Dugin, is a prominent member of this community, Mr. Dean. As his wife, it’s my obligation to help out wherever I can.’’ She waved manicured fingers, indicating the dining room through the archway. ‘‘Would you care for a cup of tea? Dugin and I like strangers to feel welcome in Whitehorn. I’m sorry he’s not in or I’d introduce you.’’ ‘‘No, thanks. I’ve got to be going.’’ Yet he hesitated. ‘‘How did you sprain your ankle that day?’’ ‘‘Why, by looking up into the trees for birds instead of watching where I was stepping, of course. Clumsy of

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me.’’ She walked with him to the foyer and opened the door, ending their visit rather abruptly. ‘‘Tell me, how is your investigation going, or have you given up?’’ ‘‘It’s coming along. And no, ma’am, I never give up. Thanks for your time.’’ With a nod, Nick left. Mary Jo Kincaid slowly closed the door behind him and leaned against the solid wood, fighting a shiver. Face-toface with a detective—even a small-town investigator like Nick Dean—had her reluctantly remembering a period of her life she’d just as soon forget forever. But the memories popped up at the oddest times. She and Floyd working together, hopping buses and freighters when times were tough, then cars and sometimes planes when a good con job paid off. Floyd had saved her from the streets and taught her a lot. Nick reminded her of the cop that had arrested her and Floyd once. Fortunately, there hadn’t been enough evidence for a conviction. But after that, Mary Jo could always smell a cop a mile away. Nick Dean had the tenacity of all cops. That’s what worried her. The more he poked around, the more chance there was that he’d turn up something she’d just as soon leave buried—literally and figuratively. Too many people around town recalled that Floyd had shown up and been found dead right here at the Kincaid house the day she and Dugin had married. The police still hadn’t a clue about what he was or why he’d come, and Mary Jo wanted to keep it that way. Of course, when she’d thrown Floyd over way back when and had taken up with Frank Travers, that alliance had nearly killed her. Taking a deep breath, Mary Jo straightened and tugged her leather gloves on. All that had happened many years

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ago. The Past Should Stay Put, was her motto. Now she was Mrs. Dugin Kincaid, the wealthiest woman in miles. And she wasn’t about to let anyone rock her comfortable boat.

Eleven T

he rural strip mall was located on Willow Brook Road in the southern end of Whitehorn. Nick pulled the Bug into the gravel parking lot alongside a chestnut mare tethered to a hitching post. He’d been told this was the largest ranch supply store for miles around. By the looks of the crowded lot filled with vans and pickups, Melissa Avery had been right. Stepping out, he nodded to a burly cowhand who greeted him in a friendly manner, then went on into the main store. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness after the bright afternoon sunshine outside, Nick looked around. Horton’s Hardware & Feed Store was typical of many found throughout ranching communities, with crowded and cluttered shelves offering a variety of feed, tools and farm equipment. A couple of men in work clothes were wandering the aisles, two were standing at the checkout counter, their purchases on flat carts, and at the back was an open stall where grain sacks could be loaded onto trucks. Hands in his pockets, Nick strolled around until he found the section he wanted. Again he’d visited the garage where the burnt wreckage of his Blazer was being kept and had talked the police mechanic into allowing him to sift through the rubble. On his first trip there, Judd Hensley had told him that he suspected dynamite as the cause of the explosion. On careful examination of random parts of his vehicle, Nick had

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found a fragment of one dynamite stick with part of the serial code still legible. He’d copied it down before leaving, wondering if the sheriff was checking out the possible purchaser. From working in his father’s business and at various ranches, Nick knew that dynamite was sold in sticks, available in varying lengths. They were color coded by the federal government, with serial numbers on each stick and box. Purchasers had to produce a driver’s license and fill out a form to buy dynamite, the same as for guns or ammunition. Builders often used dynamite to blast out sections of solid rock before digging foundations. Ranchers used it for a variety of purposes, and nearly every ranch had dynamite in its storeroom. Now if he could only locate the purchaser of dynamite sticks marked with the serial number he’d copied down, chances were good he’d have the name of the man who’d sabotaged his truck and, perhaps, who’d killed Charlie Avery. Nick’s examination of the dynamite display revealed that the boxes were arranged numerically. In moments, he found the series he was searching for. Noticing a lull at the checkout, Nick walked over to the short, balding man behind the counter and introduced himself. Chet Horton studied Nick’s card a moment, then pocketed it. ‘‘Heard you were in town. What can I do for you?’’ ‘‘I’d like to see the book you keep with signatures of the people who buy dynamite here. I assume you list all the serial codes alongside their names?’’ ‘‘Sure do. This about your Blazer being blown up?’’ Nick had realized by now that nearly everyone in Whitehorn knew him, if not by sight then by name, small towns being what they were. Therefore, they’d have heard

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about the fire that totaled his Blazer. But he’d thought that the sheriff had said he hadn’t mentioned specifics, only that he suspected foul play. ‘‘How’d you know about that?’’ Chet shrugged. ‘‘Most folks know. Not much else can cause a fire like that ’cept dynamite. ’Less you’re talking incendiary bombs, and I don’t know as though anyone around here would know how to put one of them together.’’ He reached toward a shelf beneath the counter and pulled out a well-used ledger. ‘‘Judd know you’re here asking about this?’’ Nick decided to hedge. ‘‘Sheriff Hensley and I are working together to find the person responsible.’’ Horton paused a moment, then turned the book toward Nick. ‘‘Guess it’s all right.’’ He pointed to a small table near the back as a tall man in overalls moved to the counter to pay for his purchases. ‘‘You can go over there.’’ It took Nick less than ten minutes to find the series of numbers he was looking for. Though the last digit was missing on the scrap he’d located, the numerical order showed that the stick he’d identified had been included in a particular box bought by one specific rancher. That man was Ethan Walker. Arnie McDonald wasn’t in a friendly mood. Nick had caught up with him cleaning out horse stalls on the Tyler Ranch, where he was currently employed. It was four in the afternoon, with a chill wind blowing outside, hinting at snow in the air. Arnie was behind and still had a good three hours work ahead of him before he could quit for the day, clean up and get his supper. The last thing he wanted was to be answering questions asked by a detective who wouldn’t let him be.

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‘‘I don’t have time for you today,’’ Arnie said, raking a stall with short, rapid movements. ‘‘I got too much work to do.’’ ‘‘You can keep on working,’’ Nick told him. ‘‘I just have a couple of quick questions. You remember you told me that you’d seen Ethan Walker and Charlie Avery fighting?’’ ‘‘Yeah. So what?’’ Arnie grunted as he scooped manure into a pile outside the stall door. ‘‘You said you thought they’d fought over a woman, but Ethan says Charlie was drunk, so he hit him. Knocked him out, even. I’d like to know what really happened.’’ Arnie moved to the next stall. ‘‘Guess you got to decide which one of us you’re gonna believe then.’’ Nick propped his arms on the stall. ‘‘Let’s say it’s you I believe. I need to know if you can remember the name of that woman.’’ Arnie went on raking, quiet so long that Nick thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he glanced up at the detective, leaning on the handle of his rake. ‘‘You ever hear folks around here mention Lexine Baxter?’’ Nick came to attention, but his expression didn’t change. ‘‘Cameron Baxter’s daughter? Heard she was a wild one.’’ ‘‘That she was.’’ Arnie McDonald seemed to be struggling with his pride, before he continued, ‘‘I don’t care how many stories Ethan told you or whatever. I heard what I heard and I ain’t no damn liar. Them two fought over Lexine Baxter.’’ ‘‘Only that one time?’’ Arnie rearranged his hat. ‘‘More than once. Ethan was sweet on her and he didn’t like Charlie, an older, married man, fooling with her. Charlie laughed at Ethan’s warning. That did it. Ethan went for him. Knocked him out with

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two solid punches. Charlie went down like a sack of flour.’’ Arnie returned to his raking. ‘‘Deserved it, too, most of us felt. But Ethan’s a hothead. He don’t have many friends to this day.’’ Nick couldn’t help wondering if Arnie’s dislike for Ethan was causing him to distort his memory, or perhaps his distaste for the philandering Charlie had added embellishments. But still, there was the indisputable evidence that Ethan had purchased the dynamite that had caused the explosion to his Blazer. And if what Arnie said was true, Ethan had had a running dispute with Charlie that gave him motive. Along with the rancher’s well-known hot temper, everything added up to a viable murder suspect. ‘‘If it came to that, would you be willing to testify in court about what you just told me?’’ Arnie looked up, suddenly nervous. ‘‘Now, wait a minute. I don’t want to get involved in something that happened twenty years ago. That Ethan’s bad news. He’ll come gunnin’ for me, sure as shootin’.’’ ‘‘He won’t be able to if he’s arrested. The sheriff will protect you.’’ Nick hoped he sounded more convincing about that than he felt. So far the sheriff hadn’t exactly knocked himself out trying to solve either Charlie’s murder or his own Blazer explosion. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Arnie said with a worried frown. ‘‘I got to think that over.’’ That part would be out of his hands, Nick thought. Arnie wouldn’t be able to ignore a subpoena, not if he wanted to stay out of jail himself. He didn’t think this was the time to remind the man of that point of law. ‘‘Thanks for your help.’’ Glancing out the open barn door, Nick saw that the sky was growing darker and it had begun to snow. He would think over what he’d learned today and go to Judd with it tomorrow. ‘‘I’ll be

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in touch,’’ he told Arnie, then hurried to Sara’s car. He still had dinner to pick up and he wanted to beat her home. ‘‘I’m not sure which I love more, making love with you or lying in your arms all night long.’’ Sara sighed with contentment, a feeling she was getting all too used to. ‘‘Thanks a lot,’’ Nick said, cradling her against his body, just cooling down from their sensual lovemaking. She reached to tug playfully at a tuft of his chest hair. ‘‘Don’t let your ego get in the way here. I love how you make me feel when we make love. But there’s a peacefulness when I sleep in your arms, a feeling of being safe, that I’ve never experienced before. It’s equally wonderful.’’ And equally frightening, for it would be yet another thing she would lose when he left her. ‘‘Since you put it that way, I’ll forgive you.’’ He snuggled closer. ‘‘I feel the same.’’ Beth had preferred twin beds during their brief marriage. Having spent her growing-up years sharing not only a room but a bed with several sisters, she liked sleeping alone. ‘‘I love to hold you, to have you close to me.’’ He gazed out the window, where they’d purposely left open the drapes so they could watch the snow fall. ‘‘Especially on a night like this.’’ ‘‘I wish it would storm all night and tomorrow, too. I wish the snow would all but bury us here in this little house, much deeper than on the night we met. I wish we could stay here and hide from the world.’’ The world that would separate them. Sara blinked back a rush of tears, knowing the cause of her melancholy. Nick had told her he’d be visiting Judd tomorrow and that they’d likely be arresting Ethan Walker for the murder of Charlie Avery. His work in Whitehorn was nearly finished. She knew he’d stay long enough to help Jason trap the museum

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smuggler. Nick always kept his word. But after that he’d no longer have a reason to remain. Stacks of lumber and insulation sat under a plastic covering in her yard, waiting to be installed in several more houses, but Sara didn’t think he’d stay to finish fixing up all the places that needed repair. After all, he had a business in Butte waiting for his return and a partner who’d phoned twice during the last week to discuss several cases. Nick had a life to take up again, and she would be left with only poignant memories. Nick felt the change in her breathing, as if her restless thoughts were getting her agitated. He wished he knew what to say that would calm her. ‘‘It isn’t necessary for us to hide, Sara. We have no reason to. We can hold our heads up high wherever we go. If people don’t accept us, that’s their problem, not ours. I love you. I wish you’d believe that.’’ She wished she could, too. She lay quietly, watching the snow for several minutes. ‘‘Actually, I think I like summer storms better than snowstorms. When I was little, I used to sit on the covered porch of my mother’s house and watch the lightning flash in the sky, listen to the thunder, smell the rain. Paul didn’t like to be out when it was storming, but I did. It’s exciting, exhilarating.’’ Shifting, she turned to face him. ‘‘Being with you is like being in the center of a storm. Just as exciting. Even more exhilarating.’’ He knew she didn’t want to discuss his declaration of love or the cultural differences. She wanted to avoid it. He should probably insist, get it all out so they could get past it. But it was late and it had been a long day. He’d let it go awhile longer and try to convince her with physical loving what he so far hadn’t been able to convince her of with words.

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Gathering her close, he touched his mouth to hers. In Sara’s kitchen, Nick dialed the Sheriff’s number. He’d gotten word through Sara that Detective Sergeant Rafe Rawlings wanted him to call. Wondering what it was all about, he waited impatiently for someone to answer. ‘‘Sheriff’s Department, Rawlings here,’’ came the deepvoiced answer. ‘‘This is Nick Dean. You wanted to talk with me?’’ ‘‘Yeah, right.’’ Rafe shuffled papers on his desk until he found the one he needed. ‘‘I understand that you’ve traced the dynamite from your vehicle’s explosion to Ethan Walker. Is that right?’’ ‘‘That’s right.’’ Apparently, old man Horton from the hardware supply store had notified the sheriff that he’d been there. ‘‘Along those same lines, I’ve been out to the cave where Avery’s bones were found, re-examining the whole area thoroughly. Found a couple of interesting things.’’ Nick waited for the slow-talking man to continue. ‘‘We found an old and battered lipstick case, a broken compact and some loose change.’’ Leaning back in his chair, Nick wondered what the detective was getting at. ‘‘Sounds like a woman dropped her purse.’’ ‘‘I thought so, too, though we didn’t find one. But we did find an old class ring. The date inside goes back to the time of Charlie’s disappearance. And the initials on it are EW.’’ A horse of another color, Nick thought. ‘‘And you think the ring belongs to Ethan Walker?’’ ‘‘Don’t know. I’ve got a couple of yearbooks from the high school for that time period and we’re going through

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them now, seeing how many people have the initials E.W.’’ He doubted that very many would. ‘‘It doesn’t look good for Ethan, though everything’s circumstantial at this point. By the way, Ethan told me he had some things stolen from his barn recently. Even reported the theft to the Sheriff. Do you know anything about that?’’ ‘‘Yeah, we’ve got the report somewhere. It sure doesn’t mention an old class ring.’’ ‘‘I don’t imagine most people keep their jewelry, old or new, in their barn,’’ Nick answered. He’d never met Rafe Rawlings and wondered if he was as close-minded as the sheriff seemed to be. ‘‘Judd would like you to bring that dynamite report in to us as soon as possible.’’ ‘‘I’d planned on coming by later today.’’ ‘‘Fine. See you then.’’ Nick hung up feeling inexplicably sad. It looked very much like Ethan was their man. Which meant that his job here was finished. Oddly, he had mixed emotions about that. ‘‘You really think he’s the one who killed my father?’’ Melissa asked Nick, studying him closely from across the booth. It was late morning and the Hip Hop wasn’t very crowded, the breakfast diners already gone and the luncheon crowd not yet in. From the jukebox, Dolly Parton was telling the world about her coat of many colors. ‘‘All evidence points to Ethan Walker,’’ Nick said, repeating what he’d told her minutes ago when he’d walked in. ‘‘He had means, motive and opportunity. In talking with at least half the people who live in Whitehorn, neither Judd nor I have run across anyone else who had all three.

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And he’s the one who purchased the dynamite used in destroying my Blazer.’’ ‘‘My God! Do you mean he intended to kill you, too?’’ Melissa’s blue eyes were wide with shock. ‘‘Well, he denies both the murder and sabotaging my vehicle. But as the murderer, he’s the only one in town who would have benefited from my death, since I’d started asking around about a crime he’d thought he’d gotten away with.’’ Melissa shuddered. ‘‘He’s been in here a few times. Not much. The man keeps to himself. He hardly says two words to anyone. Used to bring the newspaper and read it while he ate. He—he doesn’t look like a killer.’’ Nick smiled. ‘‘I’ve been in police work a lot of years, Melissa. There’s no certain look to killers. They range from innocent-appearing teenagers to sweet little old ladies, and everything in between.’’ Melissa drank her coffee, trying to warm herself during this chilling conversation. ‘‘Then Ethan’s behind bars?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ Nick had gone to the Walker Ranch with Judd and one of his deputies to arrest Ethan this morning, after presenting his evidence to the sheriff. Based on the dynamite numbers, Ethan was charged with Nick’s attempted murder. He was also charged with Charlie’s murder, based on eyewitnesses who’d overheard Ethan and Charlie quarreling the evening before he’d disappeared. The sheriff had seemed eager to put someone in jail so he’d be rid of Nick and his questioning of the residents. ‘‘How’d he act when Judd went for him?’’ ‘‘He didn’t resist.’’ But his hands had balled into fists and his eyes had blazed at Nick. ‘‘The only thing he said was, ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’’’ Melissa set down her cup and shifted her gaze out the window. ‘‘Do you think we do?’’

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Nick shrugged. ‘‘It’s hard to tell. Most people arrested claim they’re innocent. This is as good a circumstantial case as I’ve ever worked on. After twenty-odd years, what more could you hope for? There’s no smoking gun that the killer buried in his backyard, no witness who saw the murder. We have to let the trial bring out all that and see if the facts prove him innocent or guilty.’’ ‘‘Are they going to search his place for the weapon? I mean, it has to be somewhere.’’ Nick nodded. ‘‘Judd’s sent a crew to dig around some more in the area where the remains were discovered, though I frankly doubt they’ll come up with much. Ground’s frozen most everywhere. Ethan could have disassembled that weapon and buried it in any of a hundred places. Or tossed it in a lake somewhere. He’d be awfully stupid to have hidden it on his own ranch.’’ ‘‘I just wish I felt better about this. More relieved instead of concerned.’’ ‘‘I know how you feel. I’m not utterly convinced myself. Still, some of the facts are irrefutable.’’ He reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘‘Don’t worry. If Ethan’s not guilty, the truth will come out.’’ Melissa sighed. ‘‘I certainly hope so.’’ She finished her coffee. ‘‘So, what are your plans? Are you leaving now that your work here is finished? Or—or do you have reason to stay?’’ Apparently Melissa, like several others, had heard rumors about Nick being seen in the company of Sara Lewis for several weeks now. Perhaps she’d even heard he’d been living with her. The owner of a cafe´ overhears more than most people. ‘‘I’m working on something local that I need to clear up before I return home.’’ The stakeout at the museum was set for this Friday night, Jason Eagle had informed Nick only this morning. ‘‘After that, I’ll be leav-

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ing.’’ Hopefully not alone. ‘‘But I’ll be back from time to time.’’ He’d already decided he wanted to finish insulating the homes on Laughing Horse, the work he’d begun. It wasn’t his way to promise to do something, then quit. And he’d determined that the only way he could convince Sara to become his wife would be if he’d agree to spend equal amounts of time on the res as they did in Butte. Nick had no problem with that. If only she’d be willing to compromise. Melissa reached into her pocket and handed him a folded check. ‘‘I believe this is the amount we agreed upon.’’ Nick looked at the check. ‘‘Wait a minute. This is way too much.’’ ‘‘No.’’ Her voice was firm. ‘‘That’s for expenses as well. And I want to know, is your insurance company compensating you for the Blazer?’’ ‘‘Yes. There’s still paperwork to fill out and send to the main office. These things take time, you know. But they’re being very fair.’’ ‘‘Good. Then I don’t feel so guilty about that loss. But please, you’ve certainly earned the rest of it—and probably more.’’ Melissa turned as one of her waitresses beckoned her to the phone. ‘‘I have to go,’’ she said, rising. She held out her hand. ‘‘Thanks, Nick. You’ve done a fine job.’’ He gripped her small hand in his. ‘‘I’ll be in touch.’’ He drained his coffee cup and stood, leaving money on the table for the waitress. He felt as he usually did after a case was closed—a mixture of sadness and elation. He’d probably be returning to testify at the trial. Would Sara be his wife by then? he wondered.

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* * * Sara sat in the dim, chilly storeroom on a heavy packing box and squinted through a small crack in the door. She could see no one in the anteroom where the delicate tapestry that Jason had on loan from an out-of-state museum was displayed. They’d decided to use it as a lure to flush out the smuggler, being careful not to make the trap too obvious. Two lights perfectly angled shone on the ancient piece, and Sara prayed fervently that they’d be able to prevent the valuable artifact from being stolen. Jason had orchestrated the publicity himself, inviting the press and even a nearby radio station to preview the new hanging, which would then be on view to the general public starting Monday. But on this Friday night, the three of them waited to see if their bait would work. Sara had insisted on accompanying Nick when he’d gone to meet Jason, saying that this was her department and she deserved to be in on anything that happened. Neither man had known how to talk her out of her stand, so here she was. Already it was three hours after Friday-night closing, and so far they hadn’t heard even a mouse stirring. Nick had warned them that they must not talk or move around, that they’d have to situate themselves as comfortably as possible, then sit tight. He’d been on many such stakeouts when he’d been with the police, so they’d deferred to his greater experience. That didn’t mean they had to like it. Sara glanced over at Jason, who was sitting on a folding chair, his expression that of a man listening hard. He also looked impatient and uncomfortable. The only one who seemed as if he could remain still as a statue for hours was Nick, who stood by the door as if ready to spring. She’d been watching him and he hadn’t so much as moved

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a muscle in hours. How he managed that, Sara couldn’t imagine, since she’d been rubbing her hands, rolling her shoulders and generally squirming without respite. In the near darkness Nick, with his light hair and fair skin, stood out much more than she and Jason did. Or was it that he fascinated her, so she used any excuse to gaze at him? Incredible that it had taken her thirty years of living to be so much in love with a man. Perhaps the old adage should read ‘‘The older they are, the harder they fall.’’ Suddenly, the sound of a voice and footsteps coming closer caught them all by surprise. Jason sat up straighter as Nick held out a silencing hand. He kept his eyes riveted to the crack in the door. The speaker was male, Sara could tell, but she didn’t recognize his voice, though he made no effort to keep it low. Whoever it was must feel awfully confident. She leaned closer to the tiny crack in the door. The anteroom was shadowy, with only faint nightlights on, plus the ones shining on the glass case. Now she heard two voices and her heart began to pound. Nick had a gun, she knew, but he was one against two, since she doubted if Jason would be of much assistance if it came to a struggle. Would the thieves have weapons, or were they so confident that they believed they could get away with two valuable smugglings in as many weeks? Undoubtedly they’d be people she worked with daily. Heart in her throat, she waited. A man she didn’t recognize stepped into the anteroom, walking directly to the case. ‘‘You got the key?’’ he asked over his shoulder. The second man stepped into view and Sara’s heart sank. ‘‘Right here,’’ John Thundercloud said. He slid the key

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into the lock of the case just before Nick slammed open the door of the storeroom with his gun drawn. ‘‘Hold it right there,’’ he ordered. ‘‘This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do,’’ Sara told Nick as they drove back to the res. ‘‘Alice’s parents are both dead and she’s never gotten along with John’s folks. They’re very old-fashioned and critical.’’ Nick turned his rental car onto the road that cut through the thick pine trees. ‘‘And she’s got that baby to worry about.’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ Sara was angry—at John, at the fates. ‘‘I know he shouldn’t have stolen, but in a way, I understand John’s frustration. Working constantly, never enough money. That broken-down house, and he’s been trying to save for the medical bills he knows he’ll have with the baby’s arrival.’’ ‘‘Do you think the fellow with him, Dave Carter, is more to blame than John?’’ ‘‘I can’t say, since I don’t know him. All John told me was that he and Dave worked together on the Gillis Ranch. Still, John had to be the one who’d taken Jason’s key and had a duplicate made. He also had to have thought up the plan, since I can’t see this Dave hanging around museums, knowledgeable enough to know what was valuable enough to risk stealing.’’ Nick sighed as he swung around the tribal center and headed for Sara’s house. ‘‘A damn shame.’’ ‘‘Yes, especially since the things they took wouldn’t be easy to sell just anywhere. They’re too easily recognized. They’d have to find some shady operator in another state or take them out of the country. They haven’t the money nor the connections.’’ She shook her head angrily. ‘‘Stupid amateurs.’’

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‘‘Desperate men do desperate things.’’ He pulled in front of her house and stopped the car. ‘‘Would you like me to go with you? I’d be glad to.’’ She touched his arm gratefully. ‘‘Thanks, but I think I should go alone. Alice won’t want to lose face in front of you. This will be hard enough on her.’’ She leaned to kiss him lightly. ‘‘You were so wonderful. Jason couldn’t thank you enough.’’ ‘‘I was just glad the whole idea worked.’’ Sara took a deep, calming breath. ‘‘I’d better get this over with. I’ll take my car and be back as soon as I can.’’ He got out with her and saw her to her Volkswagen. ‘‘It’s late. Be careful. I’ll be waiting for you.’’ She smiled wearily at him, then started her car. Sara lay staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, tired but not sleepy even though it was three in the morning. Beside her, Nick stirred slightly as he shifted in his sleep. It had been a rough evening, one she wouldn’t want to go through again. Alice had been heartbroken to learn her husband had been caught red-handed robbing the museum. She’d cried for what seemed forever, then had tried to phone him at the jail. But they wouldn’t allow her to talk with him until tomorrow. Sara had assured Alice that she’d personally go see Jackson Hawk in the morning and see about legal representation for John. Under the circumstances of his arrest, she doubted there was much a lawyer could do. But perhaps if his motives were explained, there might be some leniency. The man wasn’t stealing so he could live a wild life with wine, women and song, but rather to put food on his table. Food that he had to work twelve and fourteen hours a day to earn as it was.

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That sort of pressure had broken the back of many a man and the foundation of many a happy marriage. ‘‘Penny for your thoughts,’’ Nick said as he rolled over. He’d sensed her wakefulness and had awakened in turn, wondering if anything specific was bothering her. ‘‘You’d get change,’’ she told him quietly. ‘‘We’ll talk to Jackson tomorrow. He’ll think of something. And I’ll get started on fixing up Alice’s house as soon as I finish your mother’s place.’’ Summer Lewis had reluctantly agree to his repairs and was paying him by cooking and baking so much food that they hadn’t had to fix a meal since he’d begun there. Her head on the pillow turned toward him. ‘‘Your murder is solved and now the smugglers have been apprehended. I thought you’d be anxious to be on your way back home.’’ He moved closer, gathering her to him. ‘‘You’re wrong. I don’t want to leave. I want to marry you.’’ Only the steady ticking of the clock could be heard in the quiet of the bedroom, unless you counted a heartbeat thundering out of control. Sara couldn’t answer, couldn’t say a word. She’d been both hoping for this moment and dreading it. ‘‘Did you hear me, Sara?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Are you not saying anything because you don’t want to marry me?’’ She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. ‘‘I want to marry you with all my heart.’’ Nick felt a smile forming. ‘‘You had me worried there for a minute. I thought I’d been reading you wrong and—’’ ‘‘But it would never work between us.’’ His own stunned silence followed. Easing to a sitting

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position, Nick frowned down at her. ‘‘Haven’t we been over this ground so often as to be tiresome? I can’t believe you’re still hung up on this Indian-white thing.’’ ‘‘Not between you and me. I know you see no differences and you’ve managed to convince me. But others do. People we must live among. My people, your people. And when that sort of pressure begins, love flies out the window. I know. I’ve seen it happen often enough.’’ Nick swallowed his frustration and tried to be reasonable. ‘‘I want you to keep an open mind, to go with me to visit my family and judge for yourself. They will love you as I do, I promise you.’’ She looked at him with eyes already suspiciously moist. ‘‘You want us to live with them?’’ ‘‘Of course not. I have a place in Butte and my work is there. I’d like to build a house for us, let you help me design it. One big enough for children and—’’ Abruptly, Sara sat up. He was moving awfully fast for her. ‘‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to leave Laughing Horse. My place is here, where I can do so much more good.’’ ‘‘I have no problem with dividing our time between the res and Butte. I like it here. And besides, the work I’ve started here is far from finished. I enjoy fixing up the homes.’’ He just refused to see. ‘‘For how long, Nick? You won’t be happy here repairing shabby housing, away from all your people, from everything familiar. You’ll get frustrated and want to leave. But by then the whites won’t accept you back, and when you run out of money, what’ll you do on the res? Soon, you’ll begin to resent me.’’ Unspoken was the rest—that he’d turn to drink to drown life’s disappointments. And children. She wouldn’t want to raise children as she’d had to live, listening to arguments and afraid of her father’s drinking bouts. ‘‘How

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long do you think our love will last in that kind of atmosphere?’’ Angry now, Nick stood. ‘‘Life’s a gamble, Sara. You have to take chances. And you have to believe. In yourself, in me and in our love. I’m willing to risk it all to be with you. I’m willing to compromise to make you happy, and it’s not a sacrifice. I told you, I like it here. And if you’d give yourself a chance, you’d find you’d like it in Butte or wherever else we might wind up living part of the year.’’ He didn’t understand, would never understand. ‘‘I can’t live like that,’’ she said, her voice heavy with pain. ‘‘Won’t, don’t you mean? Won’t compromise.’’ His voice was filled with barely concealed anger. ‘‘Either way amounts to the same thing. It would never work.’’ Furious, Nick grabbed his jeans and pulled them on. ‘‘No, it never will. Not as long as you believe it won’t.’’ Gathering the rest of his clothes, he looked at her one last time. ‘‘I feel sorry for you, Sara. You’re afraid to live.’’ Turning, he stormed out of her room and closed the door behind him. Slowly, Sara laid her cheek on her bent knees and let the tears fall. In the morning, when she left her room, he was gone.

Twelve A

cold December wind tossed light snow against the third-floor windows of Nick’s office as he leaned back in his chair and watched. Down a few stories on the slick streets of Butte, the Christmas shopping frenzy had already begun and shopkeepers were open longer hours to accommodate the crowds. Carols could be heard being piped into stores and out onto the streets as bundled-up shoppers rushed about carrying gaily wrapped packages and lugging heavy shopping bags without complaint. It was the time of year when people set aside their differences, were warmer to one another and smiled more frequently. Nick’s frown deepened. He didn’t feel like smiling or shopping, nor was he thinking about goodwill toward men. He was mad at the world, at himself, at the capricious fates and everyone else. The door to the office opened and Nate Upton came in, snowflakes dotting his dark hair. ‘‘Hey, buddy,’’ he said in greeting as he shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket. ‘‘You still sitting there contemplating your navel the same way you were when I left?’’ Nate settled his lanky frame into his swivel chair at the desk across from Nick’s and wrinkled his brow at his partner, whose eyes were riveted on the window. ‘‘You sure you’re all right?’’

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Nick straightened and half-heartedly picked up a file. ‘‘Yeah, I’m terrific. What’d you find out?’’ Nate spent the next few minutes updating Nick on a worker’s-compensation fraud case he’d finally cracked. Nick listened halfheartedly, the same way he did most everything these days. ‘‘Nice work.’’ He yawned expansively. ‘‘I’ve been going through our pending file. Not much to be done on any of these until after the holidays.’’ It was traditionally a slow time of year for private investigators, with most people too caught up in holiday plans to worry about other problems. January usually meant a rash of calls. ‘‘I think I’ll take some time off.’’ He glanced at his partner to catch his reaction. Nate was digging through his file drawer. ‘‘I think that’s a good idea. You haven’t been yourself since you got back, if you want to know the truth.’’ Scowling, Nick straightened the few folders on his desk. ‘‘Are you saying I’m not holding up my end of things?’’ Nate released a heavy sigh. ‘‘Don’t get testy. I didn’t mean about work. I meant personally.’’ The two of them went back a long way and their friendship was solid. Which was why Nate felt comfortable in telling Nick the truth. ‘‘Something more happened in Whitehorn than the murder case you solved over there. I realize that having your Blazer blown up while you were in it and having the hitchhiker die must have been traumatic. But there’s more. I can see you’re not happy. No, it’s more than that. You’re unhappy.’’ When Nick didn’t reply but instead began clearing his desk, Nate knew his partner wasn’t ready to talk about whatever was bothering him. ‘‘Look, we’ve never pried into each other’s personal lives, and I’m not going to start now. I just want you to know I’m here if you need to talk.’’ Bending to his files, he busied himself.

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How would Nate ever understand what he was going through, the frustration? Nick asked himself. Nate had been happily married with two sons for years now. Then again, his friend had been very supportive when Nick had had it rough after his divorce from Beth. Maybe he should run a few things by him. Finished straightening his desktop, Nick swiveled to face his partner. ‘‘Nate, how do you feel about Indians?’’ Nate’s dark, shaggy brows rose. ‘‘Indians? I know several. They’re good people. I’ve also known a few who were losers. Why?’’ ‘‘Let’s just say I brought a woman here who was a Native American and told you I loved her and planned to marry her. And that we’d be living here in Butte. What would you say?’’ Nate broke out in a grin. ‘‘I’d say it’s about damn time you found someone. Who is she?’’ He’d gotten the reaction he’d hoped for. But there was more. ‘‘Would you accept her easily? Would you and Karen have us over for dinner? Would you want our kids playing with your kids?’’ ‘‘Hell, yes, to all three questions.’’ Nate ran a hand over his beard, looking confused. ‘‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. You know I’m not prejudiced. There’re good Indians and bad Indians, just like there are good whites and bad whites. Is that what’s got you in knots—that you think your friends won’t accept this woman?’’ Nick shook his head. ‘‘No. I always believed you’d react just as you did. And most everyone else I know would, too. She’s got this hangup that mixed marriages don’t work. Her father was white and her mother’s Northern Cheyenne. Things didn’t work out for them, or for some others she knows. Sara is hung up on our differences.’’

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Nate leaned back thoughtfully. ‘‘Do you love her?’’ ‘‘Yes. More than I ever thought I could.’’ ‘‘And how does she feel?’’ ‘‘She never said the words, though I know she cares. But she’s afraid. She had a bad experience with a white man back in college. She can’t get past that.’’ ‘‘Can’t or won’t let herself?’’ ‘‘Yeah, that’s what I think, too.’’ He pushed back his chair and stood. ‘‘I think I’ll go visit my folks for a while, work with my Dad.’’ It bothered Nick that he’d left so much work unfinished back at Laughing Horse. It was the only time he’d ever walked out on a commitment. But staying had become impossible. Maybe he could work something out with his father and send some men to finish what he’d started on the res. If Jackson and the others would allow that. ‘‘Okay, buddy.’’ Nate rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter. ‘‘Keep in touch.’’ ‘‘I will.’’ Nick grabbed his jacket and left the office. The applause in the main room of the day-care center was loud and enthusiastic. The kindergarteners had just put on their first ten-minute play, entitled ‘‘Billy Goats Gruff,’’ and were giggling and bowing to the delight of their audience, which consisted of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings. The construction-paper hats complete with little goat horns were all askew, but no one cared. Then, as the piano music ended, the children rushed to surround their teacher, pushing and shoving to get close. Sara Lewis held out her arms and hugged as many as she could reach, smiling her pleasure at the upturned little faces that were so pleased with their accomplishments. Finally, the excited participants, along with their ad-

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miring public, filed into the outer room for cookies and punch before the evening ended. Bending to gather up some of the makeshift props, Sara stifled a yawn. Frankly, she was ready for the evening to end right now. ‘‘They wear you out?’’ Jackson Hawk asked, pushing away from the doorway where he’d been watching and strolling over to join her. Sara glanced up at him and nodded. ‘‘If only we could bottle their energy. I’d be first in line to buy some.’’ Jackson smiled, but his dark eyes were concerned. ‘‘You look a little peaked, Sara. Just working too hard?’’ He had a feeling it was much more than that, but he wanted to hear what she’d say. ‘‘Probably.’’ Sara went about lining up the small chairs and putting away odds and ends. ‘‘Can you leave that for later and come have a cup of coffee with me?’’ She could use a little caffeine jolt, at that. She wasn’t concerned that drinking coffee in the evening might keep her awake. With or without caffeine, she hardly slept these nights. Turning, she walked with him to the small pot she kept on the burner in the back room. ‘‘Where’s Maggie?’’ ‘‘At a meeting over at the tribal office, coordinating some sort of social program for Christmas.’’ He took the mug from her and sat down at the small table along the back wall. ‘‘Speaking of the holidays, can you believe it’s only two weeks away? Have you got your shopping done yet?’’ His dark eyes watched as she sat down opposite him. Sara set down her cup without tasting the coffee. ‘‘I can’t seem to get into the Christmas spirit this year.’’ She seemed paler than usual to him. Perhaps it was fatigue or the beginning of the flu. Or maybe there was

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something missing in her life that had stolen the color from her world. It had been exactly three weeks since Nick Dean had suddenly left the res early one morning, Jackson knew. The only explanation Sara had given anyone was that he’d finished his work in Whitehorn and had to get back to his life in Butte. Jackson didn’t buy that story for a minute. ‘‘Do you want to tell me what happened, Sara?’’ She frowned, staring down at her untasted coffee. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘Don’t insult my intelligence or our friendship. You know perfectly well what I mean.’’ Sara let out a ragged breath. ‘‘I told you, Jackson. Nick solved Charlie Avery’s murder and even managed to apprehend John Thundercloud smuggling goods from the museum. His work here is finished, so he left. End of story.’’ Not by a long shot. He gazed out the window toward the streets were Nick had started to repair homes. ‘‘What about the work he’d begun out there? Everyone’s asking. It had all been his idea and he’d seemed eager to help. Nick Dean doesn’t strike me as the type who’d walk away from a commitment.’’ She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘‘Guess you don’t know him as well as you thought.’’ Jackson’s dark eyes narrowed as he studied his friend. Her hand trembled as she finally picked up her mug and took a disinterested sip. Her eyes were suspiciously moist and she couldn’t seem to raise them to meet his. She was wearing wool slacks and a bulky sweater, but he could swear she’d lost weight beneath all those clothes. ‘‘I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’ve found that I’m seldom wrong.’’ ‘‘Good for you. I wish I could say the same.’’

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Jackson leaned forward. ‘‘You misjudged Nick? Did he do something to hurt you?’’ Slowly, she shook her head. ‘‘No. I did something to hurt me. I knew things would never work out between us and I still let it go on. I should have walked away that first day, but I didn’t. At least the first time I was young and stupid. This time I was just plain stupid.’’ ‘‘Do you think it’s stupid to fall in love?’’ Now her eyes did raise to his. ‘‘Twice with the wrong man? Yes, I’d call that pretty stupid.’’ ‘‘Who is the right man for you, Sara?’’ She set down the mug heavily and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. ‘‘Maybe such a person doesn’t exist. Perhaps I’m destined to live alone.’’ ‘‘Oh, bull!’’ Melodrama, yet! This wasn’t like Sara. ‘‘It’s true, Jackson.’’ Her voice was tremulous so she cleared her throat. ‘‘Why can’t there be some good Native American man of strong character right here on the res, someone I could work alongside happily? Someone like you.’’ ‘‘Hey, you had your chance with me, lady.’’ But he saw even his small attempt at humor didn’t make her smile. ‘‘Are you afraid of being hurt again, or are you just plain afraid of being loved?’’ Sara frowned at him. ‘‘Why would anyone be afraid of being loved?’’ ‘‘Lots of reasons.’’ He crossed one long leg over the other and prepared to enumerate them. ‘‘Commitments are scary. The thought of forever is frightening. Living alone, you more or less do as you please. When someone shares that home, you have to learn to compromise on everything from what to have for dinner to how many children to have. Or where to live. Or who will our friends be.’’ He could tell that his words were hitting the mark.

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‘‘As I see it, those compromises are difficult enough without having to struggle against racial differences as well.’’ ‘‘I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. Not every white man’s like that guy who hurt you years ago. I got a very strong feeling that Nick’s good and honorable. The folks who live on Laughing Horse, they don’t take to strangers easily or often. Nick managed to win quite a few over without half trying. Your own grandmother, a lady whose judgment I trust, told me she wished he’d come back, that she missed talking with him, that he’d be good for you.’’ ‘‘So I should marry him because my grandmother likes him?’’ ‘‘No. But maybe you shouldn’t let him go quite so easily, either.’’ Eyes full of anguish looked at him. ‘‘Easy? You think letting him go has been easy?’’ She turned away, willing herself not to cry. ‘‘You of all people should understand that mixed marriages have little or no chance to survive. I don’t like those odds.’’ Jackson wrinkled his brow. ‘‘Wait a minute, Sara. My first marriage didn’t end because she was white and I’m an Indian. That’s not what caused our divorce. It was because we had a different set of values, which have nothing to do with being white or red. Maggie and I have the same values, and it just so happens we’re both Indian. Think about it. Do you and Nick share the same values, such as a love of family, a desire to make a home and have children, a sense of responsibility to others less fortunate, a caring nature, a basic honesty? Do any of those things ring a bell? You have them. Does Nick?’’ Sara had to admit that he did—every one and several more Jackson hadn’t listed. ‘‘I suppose so. But Jackson,

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what about his family? All right, so Nick’s accepted here. How will it be when he takes me to his home?’’ ‘‘Did you talk about it? What did he tell you of his family?’’ She gazed off into space, remembering. ‘‘That they were close and loving, that they’d accept me. His father helps his mother with the dishes every night.’’ She smiled. ‘‘Can you believe that, after years of marriage?’’ ‘‘Well, then. What are you afraid of?’’ She thought a moment, then answered him honestly. ‘‘Of history repeating itself, I guess.’’ ‘‘It needn’t. You have the power to change that.’’ Sara felt a tiny bubble of hope forming inside where before there had been none. She looked at him, praying he was right. ‘‘Do you really think we could make it work?’’ Jackson rose, took her hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘‘Listen to your heart, Sara. In the dark of night, when you can’t sleep, whose face fills your thoughts? Who do you wish was alongside you when you see a beautiful sunset? Whose arms do you wish were holding you when you feel lonely?’’ He saw the answer in her face. ‘‘Then go find him. I think he’s the real thing, Sara. Don’t let him get away, not if you love him. Tell him you’re willing to risk it all if he is. Because life’s a gamble. None of us knows how the book will end.’’ ‘‘That’s more or less what Nick said.’’ She hugged Jackson’s solid strength, blinking back tears. ‘‘Thank you.’’ ‘‘It doesn’t look like we’re going to have a white Christmas,’’ Doris Dean commented as she rolled out dough for pies. She glanced toward her kitchen table, where her son was letting a cup of coffee grow cold as

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he stared out the window that faced the small barn and corral out back. When he didn’t say anything, she frowned as she picked up a circle of dough and placed it in a pie plate with expert hands. This had gone on long enough, she decided as she fluted the edges. Nick had been home a week, silent and brooding, working with the construction crew for long hours at a time, then sitting around the house and staring at nothing. Yesterday his father had coaxed him out to look at cars and trucks, since the insurance check had arrived from his Blazer accident. But Bill Dean hadn’t gotten much further with him than she had, and they’d returned without a purchase. Nick couldn’t seem to make a decision, her husband had informed her with a worried look. Finished with the shell, Doris scooped some of the pumpkin mixture she’d prepared earlier into it and put the pie into the oven to bake. Dusting off her hands, she took her coffee cup over to join him. He didn’t glance up, just kept his eyes on the scene outside, where clouds inched their way through a winter sky. His lean jaw wore a stubble that he hadn’t bothered to shave off this morning and his blond hair—so like his father’s—was tousled from frustrated fingers pushing through it at frequent intervals. Something was surely wrong and Doris meant to get it out of him. ‘‘This isn’t like you, Nick,’’ she began. Taking in an aggrieved breath, Nick shifted in his chair. He’d been grateful that, so far, his folks hadn’t questioned him since his return. They’d let him talk when he wanted to and be silent when he didn’t. But he’d been aware of the quiet, worried looks that passed between them. He should have known that their patience wouldn’t last forever. He supposed he owed them some sort of explanation.

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‘‘I guess not,’’ he answered, his finger tracing the rim of his cup. ‘‘Just kind of a low point in my life, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.’’ Or a couple of years. ‘‘Would you tell me what brought you to this low point?’’ Doris thought she already knew. The only other time she’d seen Nick—who was usually fun-loving, confident and upbeat—like this had been when his baby hadn’t lived and his marriage had broken up. She had a feeling this recent depression also involved a woman. Nothing else ever took the sparkle from a man’s eyes quite the way woman problems could. ‘‘Not much to tell, Mom.’’ She leaned forward, intent on prying it out of him if she had to. ‘‘Nick, you know I don’t ask about your personal life. But I hate seeing you like this. Please tell me what happened.’’ So he did, giving her the bare-bones version and ending with what he felt was an honest assessment. ‘‘It seems I fell in love with a woman who doesn’t love me enough in return.’’ He gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘‘Twice now I’ve done that. Seems like I never learn my lesson.’’ Doris had listened quietly without interruption. She also tried to read between the lines, since she felt there was much he wasn’t saying. ‘‘Sara doesn’t sound like a woman who doesn’t love you, from what you’ve told me. I’d say she sounds like someone afraid of being hurt again.’’ ‘‘I know that. But I tried to tell her that it would be different between us, that you and Dad and all my friends would have no problem accepting her.’’ He ran a weary hand over his face. ‘‘She insists it wouldn’t work.’’ ‘‘But you do love her?’’ It hurt to admit how much. ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Then you need to go to her and talk some more. If

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you feel that you two have a good chance, then convince her. You can be very persuasive, Son.’’ He shoved the coffee cup aside and stretched out his long legs. ‘‘Experience has taught me that, when in doubt, it’s best to do nothing. Remember how I went after Beth, tried to tell her how sorry I was about not being there when she went into labor? She all but threw me out of her parents’ home. Sometimes, Mom, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie and get on with your life.’’ She reached over and touched his hand. ‘‘But Nick, you’re not getting on with your life. You’re sitting here in pain.’’ Doris decided to try another tactic. ‘‘Do you feel there’s a similarity between Beth and your Sara?’’ Nick shook his head. ‘‘They’re not at all alike. Beth was young, needed constant attention I didn’t give her and was selfish enough to want things her way most of the time. Sara’s generous and giving and wants to help everyone and anyone.’’ Doris had always felt that Beth had been unfair in judging her son, but she’d kept those feelings to herself. ‘‘Are you still wrapped in guilt over not being there when Beth went into labor?’’ He’d spent a lot of hours going over the subject, so he could answer her from his recent reexamination. ‘‘No. I realize that I did everything humanly possible. I had no way of knowing she couldn’t contact me or that she’d go into labor so early. She probably should have called sooner to have someone else drive her to the hospital when I couldn’t be reached. But I don’t blame Beth, either. She was young and frightened. Funny thing is that it was Sara who made me see that I had to let go of my guilt.’’ He swallowed hard, wondering how he’d go on from day to day without Sara. ‘‘Sara sounds like a good woman, Nick. Isn’t there

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some way you two can work things out?’’ Doris wasn’t one to give up easily and hadn’t thought her son was, either. ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe in time. It’s up to Sara, I feel. I asked her to marry me, but she wouldn’t. If she changes her mind, she knows where to find me.’’ Nick stood and stretched. He needed exercise, something to do that didn’t involve thinking. ‘‘I think I’ll take a ride on Flame before it snows again. We could both use a workout. See you later, Mom.’’ He walked toward the back door, grabbed his jacket and went outside to saddle his mother’s mare. Doris sat for several minutes staring after her son. She was not the interfering sort. Never had been. But there were times when a person had to act out of character. Keeping an eye out the window on her son as he led Flame out of the barn, Doris Dean picked up the phone. The wind was cold as it slapped at his face, but it felt good. Nick urged Flame on with a gentle nudge of his knees and the mare responded quickly. She was getting used to their daily rides and looked forward to them as much as he did. Since he’d talked with his mother three days ago, Nick had taken Flame out every afternoon as part of his routine. He’d go to work mornings with his father to the site west of town where Dean Construction was putting up a new subdivision, doing mostly indoor-finish carpentry work. Then he’d leave about two and go for his ride on Flame across the frozen fields. As long as the snow held off, they’d be able to go daily. There was comfort in routine, in hard work and in exercise. And it tired the body so a man could sleep nights. A few more days and it would be Christmas. He’d finally forced himself to do a little shopping. Several items

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for his parents to put under the tree. Some gifts for Nate, Karen and the boys, which he had sent to them. And then, on the spur of the moment, he’d bought a soft handknit sweater for Summer in blue and a crocheted shawl for Manya, wrapping and mailing the packages himself. He’d enclosed just his card, with no note. He hoped they would wear them and remember him. He’d wanted badly to send something to Sara, but at the last minute he’d walked out of the jewelry store. She didn’t want his gift, didn’t want him. The sooner he realized that, the sooner he’d be able to forget. Liar, he thought. He’d never forget her. Flame spotted the small barn up ahead and put on a burst of speed. Bareback, Nick crouched low and held on. He had to stop sitting around feeling sorry for himself and worrying his parents, he thought. As soon as Christmas was over, he’d already decided, he’d go back to Butte and throw himself into his work. Keeping busy was the answer. The days would pass, one after another, and he’d get through them somehow. How? was the question. He was perhaps three hundred yards from the corral fence when he realized someone was standing there watching him. A woman with coal black hair blowing every which way in a strong breeze. As he slowed Flame, he saw that one booted foot was propped on the lower rung of the fence as she leaned on the top one. She had on jeans and an open sheepskin jacket. Nick blinked several times to assure himself he wasn’t hallucinating. No, it was her, all right. Sara. Slowing to a walk, he let Flame take him to the railing, then slid from her, allowing the mare to find her own way into the barn. Heart pounding, he stood looking at Sara across the fence.

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Sara swallowed around a dry throat, wondering if she’d done the right thing, after all. Nick’s mother had been so sure, so convinced that he’d welcome her with open arms. But the blue eyes she loved were hesitant, wary. ‘‘Hi,’’ she managed to say, her voice husky with emotion. ‘‘Hi.’’ He stuck both hands into the back pockets of his jeans and took two steps closer. ‘‘A little far from home, aren’t you?’’ She squinted up at him, silhouetted as he was against a hazy afternoon sky. ‘‘Am I?’’ ‘‘Yeah. I thought you never strayed more than a couple of miles from Laughing Horse. Or you’d turn into a pumpkin if you did.’’ She stepped back, holding her arms out at her sides. ‘‘Then I guess I’m a pumpkin.’’ She hadn’t rehearsed what she’d say, only knew that she’d had to come, had to be with him. Jackson had convinced her to try and Doris Dean’s phone call had finalized her plans. She hadn’t been sure her Bug would make the trip, but it had. Now here she was, face-to-face with the one man she needed more than the air she breathed, and she was scared to death. Nick didn’t smile, didn’t move a muscle. ‘‘I’ve missed you,’’ Sara began, knowing it would be up to her. She’d sent him away and she’d have to win him back. Don’t punish her, he warned himself. If she’d come this far—which couldn’t have been easy for her—and probably had already been through a question-and-answer session with his mother, the least he could do would be to meet her halfway. ‘‘I’ve missed you, too.’’ Encouraged, she met his eyes. ‘‘I was wrong, Nick. I don’t care anymore about what people think. We are the only ones that matter. I want to be with you—if you still

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want me.’’ Why didn’t he move, why didn’t he say something? Oh, God, was she too late? Slowly, Nick pulled his hands from his pockets and moved closer to the fence. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ Sara nodded. ‘‘Very sure.’’ With one quick leap, he was over the fence and standing very near. ‘‘Why do you want to be with me?’’ he asked, knowing his future hung on that one question. ‘‘Because I love you.’’ The right answer. Yet there was more. ‘‘But you love the res....’’ ‘‘Yes, I do, with all my heart. But I love you more.’’ She dared to take a step closer, slipping her arms around him, looking up into those wonderful blue eyes. ‘‘Do you still care a little for me?’’ Nick let out a rush of air as he pulled her into his arms. ‘‘Only more than life itself.’’ And he bent his head to kiss her. Her remembered fragrance wrapped around him and he felt at last as if he’d come home. His hands thrust into her magnificent hair and her pliant mouth moved under his. The kiss went on and on, neither able to get enough. By the time it was over, they were laughing and crying all at the same time. ‘‘I was so afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore.’’ ‘‘Never. That would never happen.’’ She was back in his arms. He would never let her go again. ‘‘I’ve been such a fool. I still don’t think it’ll be smooth sailing all the way, but I don’t care. Our love is worth fighting for.’’ She snuggled against him, knowing she held the world in her arms. ‘‘You never doubted that and I’m so sorry I did.’’ ‘‘I had concerns, too, you know.’’ She leaned back to look up at him. ‘‘About me?’’

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‘‘No, about me. I wondered if that old urge would return, that when things got uncomfortable, I’d run.’’ ‘‘Do you want to run now?’’ ‘‘Yeah.’’ He smiled down at her. ‘‘I want to run—to you. Right to you. You are my home, Sara. On the res, off, wherever. All I want is to be with you. All I need is to know you love me.’’ ‘‘I do. With all my heart.’’ ‘‘Then you’ll marry me?’’ ‘‘Any day you name.’’ ‘‘Great. And it’s going to make that lady who’s watching us from her kitchen window awfully happy, too.’’ They both turned to wave to Doris Dean, then Nick bent his head and kissed his bride-to-be once more. It was a kiss filled with promise for the future they’d share together. *

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Way of the Wolf Rebecca Daniels

Published by Silhouette Books

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

One ‘‘Looks like you got your man this time, huh, Wolf Boy?’’ Detective Sergeant Rafe Rawlings stopped when he heard the familiar nickname and felt the strong tug on his jacket sleeve. He cringed, however, when he turned and found himself snared in Lily Mae Wheeler’s iron grip. She smiled up at him, but Rafe remembered all too well the times he’d been victim of her vicious gossip. ‘‘That’s up to the jury to decide, Mrs. Wheeler. Will you excuse me, please?’’ he said politely, pulling the sleeve of his corduroy jacket free of her hold as tactfully as possible. ‘‘I’ve got to keep moving.’’ Rafe continued pushing his way through the crowd of spectators that lined the courthouse corridor. He didn’t have time for idle chitchat—especially not with a meddlesome busybody like Lily Mae. He had more pressing things on his mind at the moment—like trying to stay as far from Raeanne Martin as he could. But he knew that wouldn’t be easy. They would be sitting on opposite sides of the courtroom, but as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t far enough. Seven years ago, he had stood on the platform of the Whitehorn bus station and watched a shiny silver Greyhound carry her out of town and out of his life. She’d left for California, for law school and for a new life that didn’t include him and he’d never expected to see her

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again. But three months ago, all that had changed. She was back now—looking stronger, more confident and more beautiful than ever. He’d had seven years to get her out of his system—to forget how smooth her skin felt, how soft her voice sounded. Seven long, torturous years to forget just how much he’d loved her. ‘‘Hello, Detective Rawlings.’’ Rafe glanced down, surprised to find Whitehorn’s demure and very proper, town librarian, Mary Jo Plumber Kincaid, standing in the crowd beside him. ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Kincaid,’’ he said, inwardly cursing his luck. He wasn’t any more interested in small talk than he was in gossip, but the crowded corridor made it impossible to judiciously escape. Forcing himself to smile, he gave her a tiny, polite bow of the head. ‘‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in all of this.’’ Mary Jo smiled, her cheeks blushing prettily. ‘‘Well, I might be relatively new to Whitehorn, but I’m interested in everything that happens in my community. And my husband, Dugin, has told me about Charlie Avery and all the stories about him. He worked by my husband’s ranch when he died, you know.’’ Rafe smiled. ‘‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’’ The color in Mary Jo’s cheeks deepened. ‘‘Of course, you would be.’’ As they moved with the crowd for a few steps, the smile on Mary Jo’s face faded. ‘‘Uh, Detective Rawlings?’’ ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘I met him once—Ethan Walker, that is—in the library.’’ ‘‘I see.’’ ‘‘And I must say, he frightened me,’’ she confessed, twisting the handle on her purse. ‘‘Well, you don’t need to be afraid any longer, Mrs.

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Kincaid,’’ he said, noticing how the muscle near her jaw clenched tight. ‘‘Walker’s not going to be able to hurt anyone else again.’’ ‘‘But he’s...he’s never confessed, has he?’’ ‘‘No, that’s true.’’ ‘‘But you think he’ll be convicted anyway?’’ ‘‘That’s what the district attorney seems to think, Mrs. Kincaid.’’ ‘‘Oh, I hope so,’’ she said with a shudder. ‘‘The thought of someone like him on the loose...’’ She thought for a moment, then looked up at him. ‘‘This Miss Martin, though—Raeanne Martin, his lawyer? I hear she’s very good. You aren’t concerned she might...well, you know, get him off?’’ Rafe’s dark eyes narrowed, marveling at the depth of still waters. In a million years, he wouldn’t have suspected that this quiet, reserved librarian possessed such a peculiar interest, or such a morbid concern. ‘‘I think the prosecution has a strong case,’’ he said diplomatically. ‘‘And the rest, I’m afraid, is up to the jury.’’ ‘‘Yes, well, of course you’re right,’’ she said, slipping the handle of her handbag over her arm. Mary Jo stepped quietly aside and watched Rafe as newly hired Journal reporter Sandra Wilson rushed up to interview him. Handsome, she thought as she listened to Rafe deftly avoid the reporter’s questions, and smart, too. Her mind wandered back in time and a sly smile curved the corners of her pink lips upward. Handsome and smart, she mused, pleased. Certainly not traits he’d inherited from his father. But she didn’t have to worry about him any more. Ethan Walker was the one that she had to be concerned about now. She thought of the man

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who stood accused of murder. Would he tell all he knew before the trial was over? She didn’t think so. No man was ever anxious to admit he’d been made a fool of. Ah, Mary Jo thought to herself with her smile widening, the male ego. What would she do without it? With flattery a man was putty in your hands. Add a little bit of blackmail and he would do anything you wanted. ‘‘Okay,’’ Sandra said with a frustrated sigh. ‘‘If you don’t want to comment on the trial, what about Raeanne Martin’s return to Whitehorn? How does it feel going up against an old friend? What kind of job do you think she might do?’’ ‘‘Sorry, Sandy—’’ Rafe began. ‘‘Don’t tell me,’’ she said, interrupting him with a shake of the head. Taking a deep breath, she joined him as he told her, ‘‘No comment!’’ Rafe almost smiled, but then he spotted a sudden gap in the crowd. In one smooth motion, he made his move. ‘‘Ladies, I’m sorry,’’ he said quickly as he stepped through the momentary break. ‘‘I really have to go. Excuse me.’’ Almost instantly, the crowd swallowed him up and he breathed a sigh of relief. He walked quickly, not anxious to be stopped again by any more reporters or curious spectators. The last thing he wanted was more idle chitchat—or to be asked to comment to the press on his thoughts concerning Raeanne Martin’s return. Besides, if he was to say what he really felt about Raeanne’s moving back to Whitehorn, it would no doubt make headlines. Damn—why did she have to come back? Why couldn’t she just have stayed in L.A., stayed out of his life once and for all? After seven years, he’d managed

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to convince himself he was over her, but that hadn’t made the past three months any easier. He wasn’t sure if it was some perverse act of providence, or just plain bad luck, that Raeanne Martin had been appointed defense counsel on this particular case. All he wanted was to stay out of her way, but as chief investigator for the prosecution, he would have to be in court throughout the entire trial and that would make avoiding her a little tough. When she first moved back to town, he’d managed to keep their meetings to a minimum—short, casual encounters, impersonal and unimportant. He would have liked to avoid her completely, but that had been impossible. For all its big-city problems and urban sprawl, Whitehorn was still a small town and they were, after all, old friends. They had known each other since they were kids and to ignore her completely would have set too many tongues wagging. Everyone in town knew there was a history between them. They all knew Raeanne Martin had married his best friend. Rafe stepped into the jammed courtroom. The spectators’ section was nearly filled to capacity and the center aisle was packed. Of course, he wasn’t surprised by the mob. The publicity about the trail had been building for weeks and it was only natural that all of Whitehorn wanted to be there to hear every grisly detail. Not that he blamed them, exactly. It wasn’t every day that one of the town’s most puzzling mysteries was solved. Rafe had to admit that being called upon to investigate a homicide twenty-seven years after the fact wasn’t exactly routine. He’d been found abandoned soon after Charlie Avery disappeared, over a quarter century ago, but he’d grown up hearing the rumors about it. Married, with two young children, Avery had hardly seemed the

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type to abandon his family and take off without a trace. But when week after week passed and no body turned up, no crime was uncovered, the rumors had begun to fly. There had been talk of drinking and bar brawls, of rowdy feuds and womanizing. For the next twenty-seven years, the folks around Whitehorn had speculated on what—or who—had caused Charlie Avery to desert his wife and children. But nine months ago a horrifying discovery had been made and the community was still reeling from its effects. Human remains unearthed on the Laughing Horse Indian Reservation outside of town had later been determined to be Charlie’s. Suddenly, a longtime missing persons case had become an unsolved homicide. Assigned by Sheriff Hensley to the nearly impossible task of finding a killer almost thirty years after the crime, Rafe had discovered, to his surprise, that even though the trail to the murderer was an old one, it was far from cold. While it had been obvious that the killer had taken care to hide his tracks, there had been physical evidence found at the scene. Near where a broken lipstick container and compact case had been discovered, a battered and badly tarnished Whitehorn High School class ring had been found. Of course, it had been impossible to trace the lipstick and compact, but the class ring had revealed a great deal. Engraved on the inside of the ring were the letters E.W., and after meticulous probing through school archives and a careful process of elimination, that had led him directly to Ethan Walker. But while the ring was damning, it hadn’t been enough for an arrest. Still, it had placed Walker at the top of the list of suspects. A hotheaded teenager at the time of Avery’s disappearance, Walker had been known

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for his explosive nature and the two men had a history. Avery had accused the Walkers more than once of rustling cattle from the Kincaid ranch and that had enraged Ethan. Rafe had interviewed a dozen or so witnesses who remembered seeing the two men arguing violently in the weeks before Avery’s disappearance. But it had only been after private investigator Nick Dean, whom Charlie’s daughter Melissa had hired to investigate her father’s death, helped trace the explosive used to bomb Dean’s car to a lot purchased by Walker, that Rafe had the proof he’d needed. Ethan Walker was their killer. And now, twenty-seven years after his death, Charlie Avery was about to exact his revenge. Ethan Walker was on trial for his life and the only thing that stood between him and the gallows was Raeanne Martin. Rafe’s thoughts turned again to Raeanne. She was a public defender now, but that hardly surprised him. She’d been defending the underdog since they were both in Mrs. Whitney’s fourth-grade class. Only he’d been her underdog back then—the poor Wolf Boy all the kids feared and teased and ran away from. But Raeanne had never been afraid, had never feared Wolf Boy as the others did. She had stuck up for him, had fiercely defended him against the others when they’d teased and taunted. Now she would do the same for Walker. She would plead his case before the jury, make an ardent and impassioned argument before the court. Only this time Rafe was determined to see that argument fail. For as far as he was concerned, Ethan Walker was a murderer and he was going to hang. Rafe made his way down the center aisle of the courtroom. He thought again of the quirky twist of fate that

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had brought him to this point. Solving the Avery case and delivering Ethan Walker to justice after nearly thirty years had been quite a coup for him. But victory never seemed to come without a price and his was going to be a big one. Seeing Raeanne in court every day wasn’t going to be easy. It would mean being on a collision course with the past—a past he’d worked to forget. ‘‘Well, here goes nothing.’’ Startled, Rafe looked up. Resting in a heavy wooden chair at one of the two counsel tables at the front of the courtroom sat Blue Lake County’s district attorney, Harlan Collins. ‘‘Nothing?’’ Rafe asked skeptically. He walked through the narrow gate in the railing that separated counsel from the spectators and took a chair beside the lawyer. ‘‘Don’t you mean here goes something?’’ ‘‘Actually, what I mean is here goes everything.’’ Harlan took a deep breath and shook his head solemnly. ‘‘I tell you, I think my butterflies have butterflies.’’ Rafe smiled, the almost reluctant movement breaking the rigid line of his jaw. The two men had worked closely together in the past few months—Rafe as chief investigator and Harlan as chief prosecutor—and Rafe had come to have a grudging respect for the portly prosecutor. Rafe found his courtly, easygoing manner refreshing and had soon learned it masked a quick wit and a razor-sharp mind. But Harlan looked anything but easygoing this morning and that only made Rafe’s smile widen. ‘‘Now, don’t tell me you’re nervous,’’ he said, nodding toward the stack of files piled on the table in front of them. ‘‘You look like you came armed for bear.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’m quite prepared,’’ Harlan assured him, making a face. ‘‘But you never quite get over the jitters.’’

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Glancing back, he motioned toward the line of people filtering into the seats behind them. ‘‘And I could have done without the crowd. Nothing like having the entire community in attendance to watch you fall on your face.’’ ‘‘Well, you knew this would have them coming out of the woodwork,’’ Rafe pointed out. ‘‘Let’s face it, you can’t solve a case that’s kept tongues wagging around here for nearly thirty years without people being a little curious.’’ ‘‘I know, I know,’’ Harlan conceded. ‘‘But did the whole damn town have to show up? The mayor’s here, for God’s sake and practically the entire city council. I saw you talking to Mary Jo Kincaid. She didn’t even live in Whitehorn when Charlie Avery disappeared. What possible interest could she have in this case?’’ Rafe looked back through the crowd to see Mary Jo, sitting in one of the middle rows, just behind the victim’s family. He acknowledged her smile and wave with a slight nod of his head. Still waters, he thought, remembering her curiosity. ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe she wants to write a book or something, or—’’ He stopped and turned back to Harlan, seeing the tension in his face and smiling again. ‘‘Or maybe she’s just got a thing for prosecutors...old prosecutors.’’ ‘‘I think the word you’re looking for is mature.’’ Harlan gave his bushy gray mustache an indignant twist. ‘‘And you’re not helping.’’ ‘‘Sorry,’’ Rafe said with a laugh, swinging around in his chair to face the front of the courtroom. He checked his watch, feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten. He was dealing with his own butterflies, but they had nothing to do with the crowd. The mob in the courtroom didn’t bother him. There was only one person

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whose presence was going to give him a problem. But that was something he’d have to deal with on his own. For when it came to his feelings for Raeanne, Rafe shared them with no one—not even her. He glanced back through the crowd, toward the heavy wooden doors that hung open, allowing the throng of people and reporters to flow in and out of the courtroom. Like it or not, she would be walking through them any moment now and he would have to find a way to deal with it. Taking a deep breath, he marshaled his emotions, concealing them well beneath the surface, in that secret spot where no one would ever think to look. He was good at hiding what he felt, at burying his feelings. God knew he’d had enough practice. He’d been doing it his whole life. Everyone in Whitehorn knew Wolf Boy was hard, Wolf Boy was tough and Wolf Boy didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything. How he wished that was true. The problem was, he did feel—more than he wanted, more than he should—but he never would allow it to show. If it bothered him now to see Raeanne, no one would ever know. He would tuck his feelings away, assemble them behind the rigid facade, confident that there they would never betray him. For in what seemed like a lifetime of loving her, he knew, she’d never suspected how he felt—and she never would. Raeanne stared down at the swirling water in the bowl. She concentrated on moving air in and out of her lungs and forced herself not to think about the rolling and pitching in her stomach. She let go of her death grip on the wall of the stall long enough to check the time on her wristwatch. Wonderful. She was off to a great start. Court was about to

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convene and if she didn’t get in there soon, she was going to start the trial by being held in contempt. Gingerly she stood up straight, rubbing her moist palms on the thin, smooth wool of her suit coat. She would be okay now, she told herself calmly. The rolling in her stomach had stopped and the queasiness had passed. She was ready to go in there, ready to get down to business, ready to— Just then, another wave of nausea rocked her. With deep gasps, she began breathing in earnest, no longer concerned about being late. The way she felt at the moment, she would rather risk jail on contempt charges than walk into open court and lose what little was left of her breakfast. In, out, in, out, she breathed. In with the good air, out with the bad, she chanted silently. In, out, in, out. Gradually she began to feel better and she stepped out of the bathroom stall. Walking to the row of sinks that lined the opposite wall, she dampened a paper towel and cooled her forehead and cheeks. Glancing up, she stared at herself in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent light showed every blemish, every flaw and she wished now that she’d never looked. Her eyes looked sunken and hollow and her long, dark hair was disorderly. She should have worn it in a bun— anything to make her feel more professional and as though she might actually know what she was doing. But of course Raeanne Martin did know what she was doing. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was her abilities in the courtroom. She would be fine once the proceedings had begun. Still, this was her first trial since she’d moved back to Whitehorn and it didn’t help that the whole town had shown up to watch. Picking up her heavy briefcase, she started for the

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door. In four years with the public defender’s office in Los Angeles, she’d tried enough cases to have earned her spurs as a trial lawyer. She’d learned early in her career that nerves were healthy. They kept you on your toes, kept you sharp, alert. But the trial and the hometown crowd, were only part of the reasons for her nerves this morning. Rafe Rawlings was going to be sitting in the courtroom today and the thought of his stern, dark eyes watching her every move made the blood run cold in her veins. She didn’t particularly care what the town thought of her performance as a lawyer, but Rafe... What Rafe Rawlings thought of her mattered very much. Raeanne would never forget the first time she’d seen Rafe Rawlings. He’d walked into Mrs. Whitney’s fourthgrade classroom and every kid in the room had begun to whisper and titter. Well, every kid except one. She’d been unable to do anything but stare. There wasn’t anyone in Whitehorn who hadn’t heard the tales of Emma Rawlings and her ‘‘wolf boy.’’ Everyone knew the stories of how Rafe had been left in the woods as an infant, how he’d been raised by wolves, rescued from a wolf’s den and adopted by the widow Rawlings. Of course, the fact that those stories weren’t true had done little to stop them from spreading. Rafe had indeed been found as an infant, abandoned in the woods beyond what used to be the old Baxter ranch, but there had been no wolves and no dramatic rescue from a wolf’s den. He’d been affectionately nicknamed ‘‘Wolf Boy’’ by a rescue worker and because of that and his later fondness for the dogs he raised, the nickname had stuck, fueling rumors and spreading outlandish tales. But Raeanne had never believed any of those stories.

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She’d hated it when the other kids teased and taunted him. It had broken her heart when they called him names and treated him like a freak with no feelings, no emotions. Raeanne had seen the look in his eyes and had felt his pain. She knew he had feelings and she knew he could be hurt. More than once she had seen the way he used that tough exterior to protect himself from being hurt and even as a child it had struck at something very deep in her. She’d wanted to shield and protect him, to take his pain away. As the years passed and they moved from elementary to high school, the teasing of their classmates had turned into a begrudging respect for Rafe. Raeanne couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened, but she’d found her own feelings for Rafe had changed, as well. The Wolf Boy legends might be untrue, but there was something feral and untamed about him. More than once, his dark, brooding image had filled her adolescent dreams. She’d imagined the most romantic of scenes with him—him holding her, touching her, kissing her. But Rafe had never wanted her. Through the rest of their school years together, he’d remained politely distant. And yet, try as she might, she’d never quite been able to get him out of her head. Even on the day she became Andy’s wife, it had been Rafe who had filled her dreams. Andy. Over seven years had passed since that awful night, since the night he’d been found floating facedown in that pool. Andy had died as he’d lived—rashly and carelessly. Drowned during one of his long nights of partying—dying as much from his unhappiness as from the water that filled his lungs. Andy had lived the American dream—and the American tragedy. He’d been the high school football star,

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every girl’s dream date, big man on campus. But the transition to real life had been difficult for him. After their wedding, he’d missed the limelight, the cheers from the crowd, the adoration of his peers. He’d begun drinking, hoping to find solace in the bottle and in the arms of other women. But it had done no good. Nothing he did could bring it back. But that was ancient history now. Their brief, turbulent marriage was over and she wanted to put all those painful memories behind her. She stood at the doors of the packed courtroom, catching sight of Rafe’s dark, shaggy mane through the crowd. Why had she come back to Whitehorn? Why had she given up a job she loved, a life she’d created for herself, to take a giant step into the past? Had it been because she wanted a change, as she’d told all her friends? Or had it been her inability to forget about Rafe? Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and started down the center aisle toward the defense table. She had a job to do and dredging up old memories wasn’t part of it. Ethan Walker was innocent of the charge of murder and it was about time she made the community of Whitehorn understand that. ‘‘Any luck on finding...what’s his name?’’ Harlan flipped through several pages in the open file in front of him. ‘‘Uh, where is it? Here. O’Brien?’’ ‘‘Rusty O’Brien.’’ Rafe shook his head. ‘‘We’re working on it, but don’t hold your breath. You know these cowboys—they drift from one place to the next. And it’s been almost thirty years. Once he left the Kincaid ranch, there’s no telling where he wandered.’’ ‘‘Are we even sure he’s still alive?’’ Harlan asked.

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‘‘Fairly sure. At least he was up until a few years ago. He was arrested up in Wolf Point on a DUI. The sheriff there seems to think he might still be working some spreads up in that area—he was going to check it out for us. But like I said, don’t hold your breath.’’ ‘‘Well, it’s a long shot, but I still wouldn’t mind talking to him.’’ Harlan sighed, flipping the file closed. ‘‘He’s the only one who worked with Avery that we haven’t interviewed. You know how I hate loose ends.’’ He tapped the table with the file. ‘‘Especially when the defense counsel is known for throwing curves from time to time.’’ Rafe sat up. ‘‘She is?’’ Harlan smiled, tweaking the end of his mustache. ‘‘I called the D.A. in L.A.—you know, to see what he thought of her.’’ ‘‘And?’’ Harlan chuckled. ‘‘He told me to watch my back. Told me she can melt you with those sexy legs of hers, but to watch her in the clinches.’’ Harlan leaned back in his chair and his smile broadened. ‘‘Of course, a stab in the back just might be worth it. Hey.’’ He sat up again. ‘‘You know her, don’t you? I mean, didn’t she marry a friend of yours or something?’’ ‘‘Yeah.’’ Rafe shifted his weight uncomfortably in the chair. ‘‘Andy Peyton.’’ ‘‘That’s right.’’ Harlan nodded, remembering. ‘‘Played football.’’ ‘‘Wide receiver.’’ ‘‘I remember now. Died a while back.’’ ‘‘About seven years ago,’’ Rafe explained, remembering it as if it had happened yesterday. ‘‘Drowned in a swimming pool. I was still in a patrol car, was one of the first on the scene.’’

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‘‘Tough break,’’ Harlan said, shaking his head. ‘‘So tell me, what’s she like—Raeanne, I mean?’’ ‘‘I don’t know.’’ Rafe shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. ‘‘You’ve talked to her. You know.’’ ‘‘Just a few times during jury selection and just about the case,’’ Harlan pointed out. ‘‘What’s she really like?’’ Rafe ran a hand through his black hair, trying to think of something to say. How did he describe a woman who could get under your skin and stay there? Masking his discomfort as easily as he could mask his emotions, he turned to Harlan and shrugged nonchalantly. ‘‘Your usual women’s-lib type—the young urban professional who’s moved back to the country because it’s now considered chic.’’ Harlan’s eyebrows arched with surprise at his rather caustic description. ‘‘I thought I’d heard you two were friends, that you liked her?’’ ‘‘I like her as well as I like any bleeding heart who takes home lost puppies, feeds stray cats and constantly roots for the underdog,’’ he said simply, making the lie sound so believable. ‘‘Well, she’s got a real underdog this time,’’ Harlan said, reaching for the file in front of him again. ‘‘But he’s one lucky underdog.’’ Rafe looked at Harlan and made a face. ‘‘Lucky? I wouldn’t exactly call the guy lucky.’’ ‘‘No? Then what would you call it?’’ Harlan asked. ‘‘The son of a bitch very nearly gets away with murder. Then, when he’s finally caught, he claims he’s innocent, that he’s being framed and refuses to hire a lawyer. Says he can defend himself against ‘trumped-up charges.’ Puts me in the position of having to request the court appoint him a lawyer so the damn case doesn’t get tossed back from the appellate court for retrial because he was

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denied adequate counsel.’’ Harlan tossed the file back down and smiled, shaking his head. ‘‘Not only am I busting my hump to put the guy away, but as a taxpayer, I’m picking up the tab for the bastard’s defense.’’ He laughed loudly, giving Rafe a wink. ‘‘God, I love the American judicial system.’’ Rafe found nothing amusing about the situation and he glared at Harlan, disgusted. ‘‘Lawyers. You’re all weird.’’ ‘‘Then what does that make cops?’’ The sound of her voice behind him brought Rafe up short. Turning around, he came slowly to his feet. ‘‘Raeanne.’’ ‘‘Hi, Rafe,’’ she said, smiling broadly and hoping like hell he didn’t notice the quivering of her lip. ‘‘Ah, my learned colleague,’’ Harlan said, coming to his feet and graciously extending a hand. ‘‘Mr. Collins,’’ Raeanne said, slipping her slender hand into his soft, chubby one. ‘‘I don’t suppose you’ve come to your senses and decided to forget all this nonsense?’’ ‘‘What? And disappoint these good folks who’ve come here to see their local officials in action?’’ Harlan asked, gesturing grandly toward the spectators. ‘‘Harlan, Harlan.’’ Raeanne smiled. ‘‘I heard you were quite a showman.’’ ‘‘I was afraid you’d decided to throw in the towel,’’ Harlan said, checking his watch. ‘‘Cutting it a little close to the wire, aren’t we?’’ ‘‘Not really,’’ she said breezily, pushing aside thoughts of her queasy stomach. ‘‘I like making an entrance. Besides, I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see the legendary Harlan Collins in action.’’ ‘‘Legendary? My, my, I must say I like that. And

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flattery will, by the way, get you everywhere with me, my dear.’’ Harlan beamed. ‘‘But from what I hear from my friends in Los Angeles, this old dog just might learn a few tricks from you.’’ ‘‘I’ll see what I can do,’’ Raeanne laughed. Turning back to Rafe, she said, ‘‘I ran into Emma the other day. She looks great, seemed as busy as ever.’’ Rafe smiled, thinking of the woman who had taken him in as an infant and raised him as her own. ‘‘Mom’s too ornery to slow down. She must have been surprised to see you. I don’t think she’d heard you moved back.’’ ‘‘No, she hadn’t,’’ Raeanne said, her smile faltering just a little. Apparently he’d found the news so unimportant he’d failed to mention it to his mother. Looking quickly away, she turned to Harlan again, reaching into her briefcase and extracting a sheet of paper. ‘‘I thought you might like a list of the witnesses I intend to call and their order—just so you can be ready.’’ ‘‘Well, yes, that would be nice,’’ Harlan said, impressed by the courtesy. He quickly scanned the names. ‘‘I see your client’s name is missing.’’ Raeanne was aware of Rafe’s dark gaze on her and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. ‘‘That’s right.’’ ‘‘So I take it you don’t intend to have him testify?’’ Harlan seemed to be deliberately keeping the tone of the conversation light, even though the business between them was anything but. Being a good game player herself, Raeanne smiled with a confidence that was completely without foundation. ‘‘We haven’t decided on that yet.’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Harlan said, one gray, bushy brow arching with interest. Just then a bailiff appeared, escorting Ethan Walker to the counsel table. The judge wouldn’t be far behind.

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‘‘Ah...’’ Harlan smiled, rubbing his hands together. ‘‘We’re about to begin. Good luck, my dear. You’re going to need it.’’ ‘‘Oh, I never rely on luck, Harlan,’’ Raeanne said with a sly smile. ‘‘Just reasonable doubt.’’ She looked up at Rafe and winked. ‘‘Keep an eye on him. I don’t think we can trust him.’’ ‘‘All rise,’’ the court bailiff called. ‘‘Hear ye, hear ye. The county court of Blue Lake, in the state of Montana, is now is session. The Honorable Clarence P. Matthews presiding.’’ As the proceedings began and the formal charges were read, Rafe settled back into his chair. A mixture of emotions churned inside him, but it was anger that gained control. He was angry that she could still get to him, that she could still stir him up, unsettle him. He was used to being in control, but when it came to Raeanne Martin, he seemed to have none. He watched her as she worked, as she addressed the jury, talked with her client, leafed through her notes. She was capable, confident and thoroughly at home in the courtroom, which only served to infuriate him even more. After Andy’s death, she’d leaned on him, depended on him, needed him and for a while he’d thought he might have a chance. But he’d been a fool. She didn’t need him, she didn’t need anyone. To her, he would forever be one of her strays, one of her underdogs, one of her charity cases. Rafe closed his eyes. Why couldn’t she just have stayed away? Why had she returned and brought all the old memories to the surface again? She was part of his past, part of a fantasy he’d held on to for too long. He no longer had room in his life for dreams. He lived in the real world and in the real world the past was dead.

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Maybe he would always be curious about her because she was the one who’d gotten away, the one he’d never had. But the reality was, she would always be Andy’s wife—Andy’s widow. He opened his eyes just then to find her looking at him from across the courtroom. A sudden surge of emotion swelled in his heart. Why was it so hard for him to let go?

Two ‘‘Just promise me you’ll think about it.’’ ‘‘There’s nothing to think about,’’ Ethan insisted. ‘‘I told you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’’ Raeanne dropped her head, feeling the dull throbbing at her temples spread to her nape. The first day of a trial was never easy, but this one had been exceptionally difficult. She just wanted to go home and crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and never get up. The judge hadn’t done her any favors today. His rulings had been swift, harsh and usually in favor of the prosecution. And despite Harlan Collins’s impeccable charm and easygoing style, he was as tough as they came. She’d had to be on her guard constantly. Add to that the fact that there hadn’t been a moment today when she wasn’t aware of Rafe watching her with that cold, dark gaze of his and it was a miracle she’d been able to concentrate at all. She closed her eyes, willing the pounding in her head to go away. At least she could be grateful that he’d left immediately after court was adjourned for the day. She just wasn’t up to another awkward meeting with him. The courtroom was nearly empty now, except for the clerk, the bailiff and a few lagging spectators. The deputies from the jail would be in any moment now to put the shackles on Ethan again and escort him from the

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courtroom to his cell for the night and that wasn’t nearly enough time for her to get through to him. Turning her head, she stretched the tight muscles of her neck and shoulders. Between Rafe Rawlings’s watchful stare and Ethan’s stubbornness, this was turning out to be one hell of a day. ‘‘Okay, look,’’ she said finally, with a long, tired sigh. ‘‘I’ll come by the jail later. Get some rest and have something to eat. We can talk about this then.’’ Ethan Walker’s strong, etched features cracked a half smile and his dark eyes narrowed. ‘‘First they frame me with these phony charges, then they send me a lawyer who’s still wet behind the ears and thinks she can tell me what to do. You know, little girl, I was making my own decisions while you were still messing in your drawers.’’ Seeing two marshals step into the courtroom from a side door, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘‘And I’ve decided we’re not going to talk about this again. The subject is closed.’’ Raeanne said nothing, waiting instead while the officers slipped the shackles on his wrists and ankles. But once that was done, she rose to her feet. Stepping close, she looked up into Ethan’s rugged face. She understood why people called him stubborn—stubborn, tough and unreasonable. He could be all those things. But there was a decency behind those lean, hard features and a kindness he couldn’t quite keep from showing through. She’d let him push her, but only so far. She wasn’t about to let herself be backed into a corner. He wasn’t the first difficult client she’d had and no doubt he wouldn’t be the last. She’d tolerated his obstinate pigheadedness during the pretrial stage, but they were in trial now and all bets were off. This was serious business and it was time he understood that.

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‘‘I’m going to say this only once,’’ she said in a low voice, ‘‘so I want you to listen. This is a courtroom, not a cattle ranch. You’re in my territory now and until this trial is over, I’m the one calling the shots. We talk about what I say we talk about. Is that clear?’’ Ethan’s eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t give him time to respond. ‘‘You’re a smart man, Ethan. Be smart enough to let me do my job. It’s going to take more than you saying you’re innocent to convince those twelve people on the jury—a lot more. And like it or not—’’ she reached down and began stacking her files together ‘‘—I’m the best chance you’ve got to do it.’’ Ethan stared down at her for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing. ‘‘Sunflower seeds.’’ Raeanne blinked, staring up at him in surprise. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’ ‘‘I want sunflower seeds. Roasted, with lots of salt. Bring some with you tonight.’’ Raeanne smiled. It wasn’t exactly a promise to fully cooperate, but from Ethan Walker, it was as close as she was going to come. ‘‘See you later.’’ She watched as the deputies led him out, the shackles restricting his movements and causing him to shuffle rather than walk. He was full of anger and she had the uneasy feeling he was hiding something from her. And she was sure a jury would see it as well. Like it or not, angry people with secrets looked guilty. Of course, she understood that as an innocent man Ethan had every right to be upset and angry at having been accused of a crime he hadn’t committed. But anger could be a powerful motivator in people, oftentimes making perfectly sensible people do pretty despicable things. Killing someone in a fit of anger wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence in homicide cases and the prosecution would have

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plenty of witnesses to testify to Ethan’s short temper and angry outbursts. She tried her best to stuff the last of her files into one of the two already crammed accordion satchels she’d brought with her. She wished she could pack away her thoughts about the trial as easily. They were troubled and they weighed heavily on her mind. Ethan’s short temper was one reason she hadn’t been able to decide whether she wanted him to testify or not. She thought of seeing him at the jail this evening, imagined their conversation and began plotting her strategy. Ethan had already made up his mind about testifying—he simply wasn’t going to do it! As far as he was concerned, it was up to the prosecution to prove his guilt, not up to him to prove his innocence. And Raeanne had to admit that, given his pigheaded way of thinking, that made sense. But too many times she had seen juries interpret a defendant’s decision not to testify as a silent admission of guilt. So what did she do—put Ethan on the stand and run the risk of an angry outburst during cross-examination, or let him have his way and not testify and let the jury think what they would? The throbbing in her head increased a degree and the empty feeling in her stomach reminded her just how long it had been since she’d eaten—and managed to keep anything down. Wondering what the Tuesday-night special at the Hip Hop Cafe´ was, she began gathering up her things—coat, briefcase, purse, satchels, notes, pens, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Good Lord, she thought as she juggled the armload of supplies, how was she ever going to get all this stuff back to her office? Rafe watched as long as he could. When he first stepped from the clerk’s office and saw Raeanne walking

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toward the elevators just ahead of him, his impulse had been to duck inside the office and wait until she was gone. After the long day in court, the last thing he’d wanted was time alone with her. But watching her struggle with the huge armload of files seemed so callous. Without his consciously being aware of it, his pace quickened and he began to catch up with her. They lived in a small town, he reminded himself again as he saw one of the stuffed satchels she balanced start to slip. They were bound to run into each other from time to time. Sooner or later he would have to deal with it. ‘‘Oh, no,’’ Raeanne groaned, feeling the load in her arms begin to list dangerously. Completely helpless, she felt a satchel start to fall. ‘‘Got it.’’ Raeanne turned just as Rafe reached around from behind to catch the heavy packet before it hit the floor. ‘‘Oh, thank you...’’ She let the words out in one long breath, pushing an errant strand of hair out of her face. ‘‘Let me help you with those,’’ he said, tucking the satchel under his arm and reaching for the other. She watched in a sort of trance as he relieved her of her burden, too tired to even try to stop him. She marveled at her luck—or rather her lack of it. This really wasn’t her day. She was exhausted and she had about a million things to do before she could go home and get some rest. The very last thing she needed right now was to be alone with Rafe Rawlings. ‘‘I don’t even want to think how long it would have taken me to sort all this out if it had fallen,’’ she said, struggling to keep her tone light. ‘‘I guess I should have made two trips, but I was just so tired.’’ ‘‘It’s been a long day,’’ he commented quietly, trying to pretend he didn’t see the exhausted look in her eyes.

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She seemed so small standing there, so vulnerable, as if she might need someone to lean on, someone to help. Bending down, he pressed the call button for the elevator. ‘‘Headed for the parking lot?’’ ‘‘The office,’’ she told him with a small shake of the head. ‘‘I’ve got some things I want to go over before I see Ethan at the jail tonight.’’ Rafe nodded, reminding himself to stay away from the jail tonight. He purposefully directed his attention away from her, concentrating on keeping his eyes glued to the closed elevator doors. But he didn’t need to see her to react to her presence. He could feel her standing beside him. Only a few hours ago she’d had him on the witness stand, grilling him on the evidence he’d found at the scene, on the details of his investigation and the methods they’d followed to trace the explosive used to blow up Nick Dean’s car to Ethan Walker. It hadn’t been easy to sit there and answer her questions, to have her meticulously pick apart everything he said. She’d watched him with such cool skepticism, such controlled reserve, he’d felt like a bug under a microscope. The corridor grew quiet as they waited, the silence stretching out around them like a thick, ominous fog. Rafe could hear her soft breathing beside him and he swore violently under his breath. Was that damn elevator ever coming? All he wanted was to get downstairs and away from her as fast as he could. ‘‘Sounds like you’ve got a long night ahead of you,’’ he said suddenly, no longer able to stand the quiet. Raeanne nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘‘It seems like they’ve all been long lately.’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, giving her a brief glance before

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quickly shifting his gaze back to the doors again. ‘‘I know the feeling.’’ For one horrifying moment, he thought they would lapse into silence again. However, as his mind scrambled for something else to say, the elevator finally arrived. With a quiet sigh of relief, he stepped to one side to allow her to pass, then followed her inside. Raeanne stepped reluctantly into the elevator. She wasn’t entirely sure how much more of this strain she could take. It had been awkward and difficult to crossexamine him earlier, but as bad as that had been, it had been better than this. What was the matter with her? Where was her self-confidence, where was her selfassurance? She felt so awkward, so stupid and her mind had suddenly become completely devoid of anything to say. If nothing else, Rafe had always been her friend and they’d always been able to talk—at least about superficial things. Had they changed so much that a simple conversation was now impossible, or had fatigue dulled all her senses? Like the corridor, the elevator was deserted and Rafe silently pushed the button on the control panel for the lobby. He couldn’t help noticing how even under the harsh overhead lighting her skin looked flawless and perfect and that only served to make him more uncomfortable. Clearing his throat loudly, he turned to her, about to speak, only to realize she was about to say something herself. Raeanne laughed nervously when they both started to speak at the same time. ‘‘Oh, I’m sorry.’’ ‘‘That’s all right,’’ Rafe assured her, surprised to realize he was actually smiling. ‘‘Go ahead.’’ ‘‘No, that’s okay. It wasn’t important,’’ she insisted, thinking anything was more important than the inane

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question she’d been about to ask concerning the weather. ‘‘What were you going to say?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Nothing really. I just wondered if you didn’t find Whitehorn a little dull after the big city.’’ Raeanne laughed, motioning with her chin toward the files he held for her. ‘‘I haven’t had a lot of time to get bored.’’ She paused for a moment and when she spoke again her voice was reflective. ‘‘The cold was a little hard to get used to again, but it’s funny, you know? Now that I’m back, it’s as though nothing’s changed. I almost feel like I’d never left.’’ Except now she didn’t have a husband, he thought darkly. Now she was strong and independent, with a promising career and life of her own. Her future was bright and needed nothing from a Wolf Boy with no past. ‘‘So you plan to stay for a while?’’ The elevator stopped at a lower floor to allow several more people to board, but Raeanne hardly even noticed them. She was looking up into his dark eyes, thinking of all the times she’d seen them in her dreams. ‘‘It’s home. My friends are here, my family.’’ ‘‘And Andy’s family,’’ he said. Raeanne smiled sadly, thinking of the modest, unassuming couple, who had quietly gone to pieces at the loss of their only son and of the guilt she felt whenever she visited them. ‘‘Yes, and Andy’s family.’’ She shook her head, dispelling the unpleasant memories. ‘‘Emma tells me she’s hired a ranch hand?’’ ‘‘Yeah.’’ Rafe smiled, shaking his head. ‘‘And it was like pulling teeth. But the place was getting too much for her to handle alone and I don’t really have the time to help out like I used to.’’ He rolled his eyes. ‘‘But you know her, always wants to handle everything herself. She wasn’t easy to convince.’’

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Raeanne laughed. ‘‘I can imagine. How about Call?’’ she asked, remembering the giant shepherd-mix hound that had been the latest in his long succession of dogs. ‘‘Do you still have him?’’ Rafe shook his head. ‘‘No, Call died about a year ago.’’ ‘‘Oh, no,’’ she said, looking up at him. For a moment she’d thought she saw something in his cold, black eyes—a flicker of emotion, a flash of regret—but it had been so quick, so brief she could have been mistaken. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Rafe shrugged. ‘‘He was old. He’d led a good life. I have his daughter, though. Crier. She’s expecting her first litter.’’ ‘‘Oh, that’s exciting,’’ Raeanne said, nodding. Call, now Crier. She thought of the names of his dogs over the years—Whisper, No Place, Lone Boy, Bad Girl. Had she ever noticed what sad names those were before? Or what questionable mongrels all his dogs had been? ‘‘I see your dad down at the drugstore from time to time,’’ Rafe continued, scattering her thoughts. ‘‘I suppose your folks were glad to have you back. Especially with the holidays coming and everything.’’ Raeanne drew in a deep breath. She’d put her parents through a lot. It had been difficult for them to stand on the sidelines and watch her marriage crumble. They’d worried about Andy’s drinking and about his abusive behavior, but they’d never interfered, never pressured or pushed her. They’d just been there for her when she needed them. She let out the breath in one long, slow sigh. ‘‘Yeah, it’s been nice. I’ve missed Montana Christmases, too. Oh, say! Do you know who I ran into the other day?’’ The elevator stopped again to allow several passen-

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gers off and a number of others to enter, but Rafe and Raeanne barely took notice. They automatically stepped closer as the elevator became crowded, deep in conversation about old friends and the latest gossip. When the doors quietly opened at the lobby, they followed the crowd out, crossing over the gleaming golden Blue Lake County seal embedded in the courthouse’s shiny marble floor. At the doors, Raeanne peered outside and slipped into her coat. ‘‘Brrr...look at it out there.’’ She shivered, pointing to the tan corduroy sport coat Rafe wore over his blue chambray shirt and striped tie. ‘‘Don’t you have a coat? You’re going to freeze out there.’’ She reached for the files he held. ‘‘Let me take those now.’’ ‘‘I’m okay,’’ he insisted, shrugging off her concern and pushing open the door. ‘‘I’ll walk them over for you.’’ He didn’t realize until he’d stepped to one side to allow her to pass him that he’d let a perfectly good opportunity to get away slip through his fingers. Five minutes ago, all he could think about had been getting as far away from her as he could, but now...well, now he didn’t want to think about what had him changing his mind. ‘‘Oh, I forgot,’’ she was saying, pulling her coat around her tight. ‘‘You big, tough Montana cowboys are immune to the cold, right?’’ ‘‘You call this cold?’’ His breath created a long white plume as he spoke. ‘‘Hell, lady, this is practically spring.’’ He paused, then made a face. ‘‘But do you think we could walk just a little faster?’’ ‘‘Cowboys,’’ she said with a smile, hurrying down the steps after him. They dashed along the street, rushing over the wet

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pavement and carefully stepping through the dirty mounds of snow left behind by the snowplows. The public defender’s office was housed in a crowded corner of the second floor of Blue Lake County’s administration building. Depositing Raeanne’s files on her desk, Rafe gazed around her tiny cubicle. ‘‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in the public defender’s office before,’’ he said, noting that the photos on her desk were of her nieces and nephews and not her dead husband. ‘‘No? Well, by all means, let me give you the grand tour,’’ she said, gesturing toward her crowded bookcase, tiny window and cluttered desk. ‘‘Does the county know how to lavish comforts on its hardworking public defenders, or what? I hope you’re impressed.’’ His dark eyes shifted, gazing at her from across the small office. ‘‘I am.’’ The look in his eyes had heat rising in her cheeks. ‘‘Oh, right.’’ She quickly looked away. ‘‘I know what cops think of lawyers.’’ ‘‘What?’’ Rafe smiled, feigning innocence. ‘‘I don’t know what you mean.’’ ‘‘Oh, I think you do,’’ she said, her dark brown eyes narrowing. His smile broadened. He’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed her wit and her sense of humor. It had been so awkward and difficult between them at first, standing in the corridor waiting for the elevator. He’d thought that maybe there had been too many changes in the past seven years for them to ever be able to talk again. But it seemed that once they broke the ice, once they got over those first few clumsy moments, all the old feelings had come back—maybe too many of them. He picked up a heavy law book from her shelf and

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began flipping through the pages. ‘‘You know, he’d be proud of you—Andy, I mean. All that you’ve accomplished.’’ The smile faded slowly from Raeanne’s face. Andy hadn’t exactly encouraged her interest in the law. She remembered too many times, when he’d been drinking, that he’d mocked and ridiculed her career goals. She closed her eyes against a familiar surge of guilt. ‘‘Do you think so?’’ ‘‘Of course.’’ He sensed her discomfort immediately. Was talking about Andy still too painful for her? He returned the book to the shelf and sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk. ‘‘You doubt it?’’ She shrugged, slipping into her chair. ‘‘I don’t know. Andy never thought much of women having careers,’’ she said, remembering all too well his drunken cracks about women and keeping them in their ‘‘place’’—a view she’d come to believe came from his insecurities about a woman being strong and successful. ‘‘I think he would rather have had me just stay home and raise kids.’’ Rafe showed no sign of the rush of emotion that swelled in his chest. He picked up a paperweight and began casually tossing it back and forth between his hands. ‘‘Maybe that’s because it’s what he thought he could give you.’’ Raeanne met his cool gaze from across the desk. ‘‘But what about what I could have given him?’’ The sudden warble of the telephone cut the silence, sounding unusually loud and harsh in the small office. With a brief, confused shake of the head, Raeanne picked up the receiver. She listened intently, picking up a pencil and jotting down a few notes.

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‘‘Well, thanks for trying, Wes,’’ she said, a frown causing the lines between her brows to deepen. ‘‘Trouble?’’ Rafe asked after a moment. Raeanne leaned back in her chair and tossed her pencil on the desk. ‘‘When is it ever anything else?’’ ‘‘Wes Simon?’’ he asked, recognizing the name of the public defender’s chief investigator. ‘‘Yeah,’’ she sighed, sitting back up. ‘‘I’d hoped he could get Nan Avery to agree to an interview with me, but she’s not being very cooperative.’’ ‘‘What? Charlie’s wife?’’ he said with a surprised laugh, abruptly catching the paperweight and putting it back on the desk. ‘‘Yeah. What’s wrong with that?’’ she asked, a little too defensively. ‘‘Nothing, I suppose.’’ He shrugged, picking up on the tension in her voice. ‘‘A little insensitive, maybe.’’ ‘‘Insensitive?’’ she repeated, offended now. ‘‘How do you figure?’’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘‘You’re Ethan Walker’s lawyer. Can you blame her for not wanting to talk to you?’’ ‘‘No, of course not.’’ She found his cynical, combative tone thoroughly annoying. ‘‘But I think she could at least understand why I’d be interested in talking to her.’’ ‘‘Frankly, if I was Nan Avery, I’d tell you to take a flying leap.’’ She gave him a cool look. ‘‘Well, I don’t doubt that you would,’’ she said, irritated by his flippancy. ‘‘But I’m hoping Nan Avery is more interested in getting to the truth than you apparently seem to be.’’ She paused for a moment, challenging him with a look. ‘‘If she’s got nothing to hide, she’s got nothing to be afraid of.’’ ‘‘That’s stupid,’’ he said, hating that cool courtroom

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manner of hers. ‘‘Your client murdered her husband. You honestly expect her to help you?’’ Raeanne bristled, coming slowly to her feet. Stupid? No one called her, or the job she did for her clients, stupid. For a moment there, she’d almost thought she had reached him, that he might actually have been impressed by her and by her accomplishments, but now he just sounded like...like a pigheaded cop. ‘‘Would you rather I subpoena her?’’ ‘‘Lawyers,’’ he snorted, glaring at her from across the desk. ‘‘Is going after the victim’s family something they teach you in law school, or do you just get some kind of thrill messing with innocent people’s lives?’’ ‘‘Oh, and you’re not messing with Ethan Walker’s life?’’ ‘‘Ethan Walker isn’t innocent.’’ ‘‘That’s bull,’’ she said in a firm, unflagging voice. ‘‘There’s more to this so-called feud between Ethan and Avery than a class ring and a few sticks of dynamite. And I’ve got a feeling Nan Avery knows what it is.’’ ‘‘If you’re talking about all those old rumors—’’ ‘‘What I’m talking about, Detective Rawlings—’’ she picked up the pencil and jabbed it in his direction to emphasize her point ‘‘—is that it’s been alleged that my client killed Charlie Avery and despite what you and the rest of the Whitehorn Police Department seem to think, a person is still innocent until proven guilty—even in Blue Lake County.’’ The emotion in her voice sent an icy finger traveling down Rafe’s spine. Raeanne was never better, never more passionate, never more articulate, than when she was defending one of her strays. The same passion she’d once used to defend Rafe from the kids at school, she now used to defend creeps like Walker.

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But it had been so different with Andy. She’d never pitied him, never gone running to protect him. She hadn’t needed to. She’d looked up to Andy, admired him. Rafe recognized the familiar gnawing in the pit of his stomach. How many times had he wanted Raeanne to look up to him, to think of him as her hero? He thought of her skill in the courtroom, how strong and competent she’d appeared and the anger swelled in his chest. For some thoroughly irrational and totally absurd reason, her strength and competence made him furious, made him want to strike out and to hurt. He didn’t want to be lumped together with all the rest of her losers and charity cases. He wanted to be someone special in her life and it made him angry and frustrated to know that would never happen. He came slowly to his feet, bringing his palms down flat on her desk and leaning across it. ‘‘Ethan Walker murdered Charlie Avery,’’ he said in a cold, unemotional voice. ‘‘And now he’s going to pay for it. And there isn’t anything your bleeding heart can to do stop it.’’ ‘‘Oh, no?’’ she asked through gritted teeth. ‘‘No,’’ he said coolly. ‘‘The prosecution’s case is airtight, the police investigation is flawless and there are no loopholes, no technicalities, no rabbits you can pull from your hat to change that. So go ahead, give the jury the best argument you can—plead and implore them, paint the prettiest picture you can, it’s not going to do any good. Slime is still slime and like it or not, lady, Walker is guilty on this one.’’ Raeanne leaned forward until they were practically nose to nose. She knew all too well the reputation Rafe

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had for being intimidating, but she wasn’t about to be pushed around. ‘‘Stick around, Detective Rawlings. We’ll just see about that.’’

Three It had been there. Damn it, it had been there. She’d seen it and she’d felt it—at first, anyway. It had been in his eyes, in the tone of his voice and in the way he looked at her. It had been there, she was sure. Raeanne sat at the small Formica table in the crowded Hip Hop Cafe´ sharing a much needed drink and a deliciously greasy meal with four of her female co-workers. Out of the twenty attorneys in Blue Lake County’s public defender’s office, the five of them represented the entire female population of the office, which made them a close-knit group. But Raeanne had trouble concentrating on the lively conversation of her friends. It wasn’t the raucous atmosphere or the melancholy country tune wailing from the jukebox that had her mind drifting. Actually, the noise and clutter of the Hip Hop were what she’d been in the mood for after the long, tense day she’d had. What had her troubled and unable to concentrate was Rafe and the argument they’d had in her office. After he stormed out, she’d stood at her tiny window and watched him in the street below. Bracing himself against the frigid wind, he’d walked down the street, past the courthouse, toward police headquarters. A hard knot of emotion had twisted in her stomach as she watched his tall frame disappear around the corner. It had all happened so fast. One moment they’d been talking—

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carefree and easy, like two old friends—and the next...well, the next it had been as if they were the bitterest of enemies. Raeanne closed her eyes, blocking out the ambient noise and hearing his harsh words in her mind. They had been cruel, unfeeling words, letting her know in every way possible how little he thought of her and the work she did. She knew everyone thought of Rafe as tough and unyielding and that no one else would have been surprised by his harsh appraisal. But it had always been different between them—or at least she had thought it was. She’d seen the compassion beneath that macho exterior of his, seen the feelings, even though he tried to mask them. Only there had been no compassion in his cold, dark eyes today. He’d leaned across her desk and glared at her as though she were the lowest form of life, as though he despised her and all that she stood for. Did he hate her? Did he see her only as the widow of his best friend? Raeanne opened her eyes and took another bite of her hamburger. No, she thought, oblivious of the taste of the food in her mouth. He didn’t hate her. He’d been angry when he left, they’d been arguing. But before that, it had been different. Before that, she’d seen it. It. That was how she’d come to think of it—that strange awareness, that mysterious intuition, that puzzling feeling she got whenever they were together. It was something she’d felt as far back as she could remember, something she’d never actually been able to see or explain, but something she was convinced was there. It was just... If it hadn’t been for...it...she might have gotten over him long ago, she might have been able to forget and

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move on. She was too much of a realist to allow schoolgirl dreams to cloud her judgment. Rafe had never shown her any encouragement, never given her any reason to think he had feelings for her. But something had started the wheels in motion, something had encouraged her and spurred her on, something had kept her coming back when there were no visible signs of hope. She’d felt it—felt something between them from the first, something strong, something special. It was what had kept her coming back, what had made her refuse to give up and it was what she had felt again in her office today. How many times had she called herself crazy? How many times had she tried to convince herself it was all in her head, a figment of her imagination, something she wanted rather than what was really there? But then she would see him, talk to him and it would start all over again. She knew Rafe had trouble expressing his feelings. He’d spent a lifetime hiding behind Wolf Boy—a ridiculous front that made him think he was different from others, impervious to human emotions. But she’d never believed that image of him, any more than she did the outlandish stories about him being reared by a pack of wolves. As far as she was concerned, Rafe Rawlings was a man, with all the desires and all the needs of one. He might not be able to express his feeling, but she’d sensed they were there. And that was why she’d never been able to forget, why his image still haunted her and why she couldn’t get him out of her head. It wasn’t what Rafe Rawlings said to her, it was what he didn’t say. It was the way he looked at her, the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes. It had been there when they were students at White-

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horn Elementary School, it had been there the night she became Andy Peyton’s wife and for a while today in her office it had been there. Was she just a fool? Were her instincts about him real, or was she just seeing things that weren’t really there? ‘‘Are you going to finish those fries?’’ Karen McGuire asked, giving Raeanne’s sleeve a little tug. ‘‘I’m still hungry.’’ ‘‘Hmm...what? Fries?’’ Raeanne stammered, her troubled thoughts scattering. Glancing at her plate, she made a face. She’d been ravenous when the meal came, but now the giant hamburger and country fries looked anything but appetizing. Shaking her head, she shoved the plate toward Karen. ‘‘No, help yourself.’’ ‘‘You hardly touched your food,’’ Cinda Cox said accusingly, reaching for her glass of wine. Cinda was the mother hen of the group and worried about each of them. ‘‘I thought you said you were hungry.’’ ‘‘I ate enough,’’ Raeanne mumbled, rubbing at her temples. Her headache was back. ‘‘You’ve been working too hard,’’ Helen Stein said as she reached across the table for a french fry. ‘‘She’s right,’’ Cinda agreed. ‘‘You get finished with this Walker thing, you should think about taking some time off.’’ ‘‘Oh, right,’’ Raeanne said drolly. ‘‘I’m sure that would go over real big with administration. I’ve been on the job exactly three months and already I want a vacation.’’ ‘‘It’s been my experience that nothing goes over very big with administration,’’ Cinda said dryly, draining her glass of wine in one gulp. ‘‘But seriously, you should really try and relax a little.’’

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‘‘Relax,’’ Raeanne murmured with a tired smile. ‘‘I’m not sure I remember how to do that anymore.’’ ‘‘We all need to do something different. When was the last time we all went anywhere just to have some fun?’’ Debbie Browning asked, picking a sprig of parsley off her plate and tossing it across the table toward Cinda. ‘‘I mean, look at us, will you? It’s nearly eight o’clock, none of us has a home life and all we do when we get together is talk shop.’’ She shook her head, disgusted. ‘‘It’s pathetic.’’ ‘‘What’s pathetic is that if we didn’t talk shop, we wouldn’t have anything to talk about at all,’’ Karen complained. ‘‘I mean, when was the last time any of us spent some time with a man?’’ There was a collective groan from all of them. ‘‘Well, now, wait a minute,’’ Debbie pointed out thoughtfully. ‘‘When you say spend time with a man, exactly what are you referring to?’’ ‘‘I’m not talking about paying the paperboy,’’ Karen said darkly. ‘‘Or having lunch with your dad,’’ Helen added. ‘‘So we’re talking about a man, actually over the age of sixteen, who isn’t married, or gay and who isn’t a client? Is that right?’’ Debbie asked. ‘‘You mean there are still some of those around?’’ Helen asked cynically. ‘‘See what I mean?’’ Karen laughed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. ‘‘We’re all pathetic.’’ ‘‘Well, maybe not all of us,’’ Cinda said cryptically, turning a knowing eye on Raeanne. ‘‘If I’m not mistaken, one of us had quite a recent exposure.’’ ‘‘What’s this?’’ Karen demanded, perking up. ‘‘Oh, no,’’ Raeanne groaned, narrowing her eyes and

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glaring at Cinda. She knew what was coming. ‘‘I’ll get you for this.’’ ‘‘Oh,’’ Cinda went on breezily, unaffected by Raeanne’s threat, ‘‘just that one of us actually had a man in her office today. You know, for a little private confab?’’ ‘‘You mean a full-grown heterosexual single male?’’ Karen gasped. ‘‘In the flesh,’’ Cinda announced proudly. ‘‘One of Whitehorn’s finest, I might add.’’ ‘‘You don’t mean Detective Sergeant Rafe Rawlings, do you?’’ Karen asked. ‘‘What?’’ Debbie gasped, turning to Raeanne in surprise. ‘‘The infamous Wolf Boy?’’ ‘‘Don’t call him that,’’ Raeanne moaned, realizing she still felt the need to stick up for him. ‘‘And he just helped me carry some files over from the courthouse.’’ ‘‘Who cares what the excuse was?’’ Karen said, pouring them all some more wine. ‘‘It worked, didn’t it? You were actually alone with Rafe Rawlings. Are you aware that the majority of women in this town would be willing to commit a major felony just to be hauled into jail by that man? So come on, give us all the gory details.’’ ‘‘All the what?’’ Raeanne said, feeling herself go warm all over. ‘‘There are no details. Nothing happened. He’s an old friend, that’s all. We went to school together. He’s Harlan Collins’s chief investigator on the Walker case. That’s it.’’ ‘‘That’s it?’’ Karen said dubiously. ‘‘You sure you two don’t have a little investigating of your own going on the side?’’ ‘‘You guys stop this,’’ Raeanne insisted. But, to make matters worse, she felt the color in her cheeks begin to deepen, which only added fuel to their fire.

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‘‘Look at her, she’s blushing!’’ Cinda howled, pointing. ‘‘There is something going on with you two, isn’t there?’’ ‘‘There’s nothing going on,’’ Raeanne said. ‘‘Oh, no, nothing...’’ All four women chimed in together, raising their glasses and clinking them together. ‘‘We’re just friends,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Just friends!’’ her friends hooted, falling back in their chairs. ‘‘That’s it,’’ she stated flatly. There was more hooting and laughing and in frustration, Raeanne raised her voice. ‘‘That’s all there is!’’ But by this time, all control had been lost and there was no talking sense. Giving in to fatigue, high spirits and wine, she picked up her glass, toasted her friends and joined in their laughter. ‘‘See, I told you. We’re pathetic,’’ Karen cried, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘‘We’re hopeless. We can’t get a man and Raeanne has one and doesn’t even know it.’’ Just then Debbie spotted Winona Cobbs weaving through the tables toward them. ‘‘Oh, look, there’s Winona. She’ll help us. Let’s ask her what she sees for us.’’ Short, stocky, eccentric Winona, with her Stop ’n’ Shop, was something of a fixture around Whitehorn. For the majority of her seventy-odd years, she had lived in her trailer just outside town, collecting and selling her ‘‘treasures,’’ which most people just called junk. But Winona’s greatest treasure was her gift for palm reading and just about everyone in town had at one time or another had their fortunes told by her. Her predictions were sometimes kooky and most of the time they were offbeat, but there were times when she was eerily correct.

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‘‘Hey Winona!’’ Debbie called, waving her hand. ‘‘Over here!’’ Winona deftly maneuvered her considerable girth between the crowded tables. Smiling broadly, she pointed to the nearly empty bottle of wine. ‘‘My, my, my... Doesn’t it look as though the spirits are lively tonight?’’ ‘‘But, Winona, we need help,’’ Debbie moaned. ‘‘Look into your crystal ball and tell us what you see in our futures. We need some men in our lives.’’ ‘‘Lord help them, they want men,’’ Winona lamented, turning her eyes heavenward. ‘‘Although God knows what for. They’re not good for much. I’ve never known a man yet that didn’t just complicate a woman’s life.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘No, no, trust me, you’re better off without them.’’ ‘‘But, Winona, what about love?’’ Debbie asked. ‘‘What about romance?’’ ‘‘Romance? You mean five young, modern professionals still want that? I’d hoped all that had gone out of style when we burned our bras,’’ she said teasingly, joining in their high spirits. ‘‘Well, it’s making a comeback,’’ Cinda explained. ‘‘After all, winter nights in Montana are so cold. Tell me there’s someone tall, dark and handsome out there who will help to warm me up.’’ ‘‘Well, okay, but I can’t make any promises,’’ she warned. Playing along, Winona squeezed her eyes tight and hummed for a couple of seconds. ‘‘Nope,’’ she said, stopping abruptly, a smile tugging at her thin, crinkled lips. ‘‘There’s nothing. Blank. You’re all hopeless.’’ The women wailed before breaking into laughter. ‘‘Join us for a glass,’’ Cinda said, grabbing the bottle of wine and holding it up to Winona. ‘‘Oh, no, thank you, ladies,’’ she said, raising a hand.

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‘‘Never touch the stuff.’’ She touched a knowing finger to the side of her nose, winking. ‘‘Dulls the senses, if you know what I mean.’’ She glanced down at Raeanne, slipping a familiar arm around her shoulder. ‘‘Glad to see you back around these parts again. It’s been a long time.’’ Raeanne’s smile faltered a little. She was surprised by Winona’s recognition. Driving out to the Stop ’N Swap and having Winona tell your fortune was almost a rite of passage for kids who grew up in Whitehorn and like everyone else, Raeanne had participated in the ritual back in high school. But that had been years ago and she would have hardly expected Winona to remember. ‘‘Well, it’s good to be home again,’’ Raeanne mumbled, feeling just a little uneasy. ‘‘Ah, yes, home,’’ Winona said, nodding and bending close. ‘‘A happy home. You know, we all look for happiness,’’ she said in a low voice. ‘‘But first we need a clear path. Oftentimes we let old conflicts clutter the way and emotional scars sometimes can make us stumble and fall short.’’ Winona straightened up, stretching her creaking joints and sighing heavily. ‘‘Yes, we’re all looking for happiness. It’s really what we want—deep down, I mean. But you have to clear the path first. Resolve the conflicts and clear the path.’’ She patted Raeanne maternally on the shoulder and waved to the others. ‘‘Well, good night, my lovelies.’’ Raeanne thought about Winona’s words long after the diviner had left and the conversation at their table had turned to other things. She knew a lot of people thought Winona Cobbs was little more than a kook, an odd duck who had lived alone for far too long. They saw her ‘‘visions’’ as delusions and her fortune-telling as little more than wishful thinking. But Raeanne had read the reports

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of the criminal cases Winona had assisted on and the help she’d given the police on those cases couldn’t be denied. But just what vibes had Winona been picking up on tonight? She had talked about old conflicts and emotional scars. Raeanne thought about Rafe, about the years she’d spent in love with a man who didn’t want her and about the way she’d felt the day she realized her marriage to Andy was a mistake. God knew she had her share of past conflicts and emotional scars, but were they blocking her way to happiness? Raeanne finished the rest of the wine in her glass. Winona had said the path to happiness had to be cleared, but with so many painful memories and so many past mistakes, would her way ever be clear? Raeanne pulled into the narrow drive and coasted to a stop. It was late and she wasn’t sure she had the energy needed to take her out of the car and up the steps into the house. After the Hip Hop, she’d visited Ethan at the jail and while she felt they’d made some progress, there was still a long way to go. Again and again she had pressed him to explain the hostility between him and Avery, why the two of them had hated each other so much and what it was they had been seen arguing about so many times before Avery disappeared. Ethan insisted their arguments had been about the cattle-rustling charges Avery had made, but Raeanne was convinced there had to be something more, something Ethan wasn’t ready to talk about, something he was hiding. But what it was and why Ethan refused to tell her, she couldn’t guess—especially tonight.

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With a tired sigh, Raeanne grabbed for her purse and her briefcase and stepped out of the car. She crossed the drive and had just started up the narrow walk toward the porch when she came to an abrupt halt. Standing before her on the sidewalk was a huge black dog, its dark eyes glowering at her and a low growl rumbling from its throat. ‘‘Lobo, don’t be a bully.’’ Raeanne jumped at the sound of Rafe’s voice. She looked up, to find him perched on the top step of her porch. ‘‘Didn’t feel you got in enough licks in my office this afternoon, so you brought your dog by to finish me off?’’ ‘‘If I’d wanted to do that,’’ he said dryly, coming slowly to his feet, ‘‘I’d have brought one of the mean ones. Lobo here is a pussycat.’’ Pussycat? Raeanne glanced down at the giant dog in front of her, with its strong jaw and powerful build. Somehow she doubted that. Still, with his tail wagging back and forth now, he did look much friendlier and she relaxed a little. ‘‘I take it you’re here to see me about something?’’ she said, slipping her purse over her shoulder. With her hand free, she reached out hesitantly and patted the dog’s large, flat head. ‘‘Yeah, but I was just about ready to give up,’’ Rafe said, checking his watch. ‘‘Late night tonight.’’ Lobo nuzzled Raeanne’s hand and she scratched behind one thick, pointed ear. ‘‘Afraid I’m not giving the taxpayers of Blue Lake County their money’s worth?’’ Rafe hadn’t missed the sarcasm in her voice and he knew he’d had it coming. ‘‘I never doubted it for a minute.’’ Raeanne stepped around Lobo and started up the

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porch steps. At the top, she stopped and looked up at Rafe. ‘‘Then what are you here for?’’ ‘‘I forgot to tell you something earlier,’’ he said, motioning to Lobo, who had followed Raeanne to the porch. ‘‘Something I wanted to say.’’ Raeanne’s shoulders slumped. ‘‘Look, Rafe, if you’re interested in going another couple of rounds, I’m not in the mood.’’ She walked to her front door and slipped the key into the lock. ‘‘If you’ve got something else to say to me, catch me before court in the morning.’’ ‘‘This won’t wait.’’ She turned back to him slowly and took a deep breath. ‘‘I’m really not up for another argument.’’ ‘‘Good,’’ he said, glancing down at the dog. ‘‘That’ll make this a lot easier.’’ ‘‘Make what a lot easier?’’ He lifted his gaze and looked at her. ‘‘Apologizing.’’ Raeanne felt a little tremor rumble through her. An apology? She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from him—another argument maybe, more harsh words or accusations, but certainly not an attempt to make amends. ‘‘You came here to apologize?’’ ‘‘I felt lousy about the way we left things earlier.’’ She looked up at him. Even in the glow of the porch light, his eyes looked dark and searching. ‘‘I didn’t feel too good about it, either.’’ ‘‘I’m...I’m sorry,’’ he said, stumbling over the words. He took a few steps forward. ‘‘Look, I said a lot of stupid things before.’’ Lobo nudged his leg and he reached down and stroked the dog’s neck. ‘‘Things I guess I didn’t really mean.’’ ‘‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about Ethan?’’ He laughed. ‘‘I said I was sorry, not delusional.’’ The

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smile faded slowly from his lips. ‘‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that I realize we’re on separate sides of the fence on this thing. You’ve got your job to do and I’ve got mine. It’s silly for us to try to argue it out. How about we just leave that for the jury to do.’’ He offered her his hand. ‘‘Deal?’’ Raeanne could appreciate the point. It was, after all, the right and practical thing to do. They were both adults, both professionals who just happened to be on opposite sides of an issue. It was something that happened all the time in her line of work. To take it personally was not only foolish, it was unreasonable. Only try as she might to pretend otherwise, this time it was more than just business for her. While she appreciated his showing up on her doorstep, appreciated the apology and his efforts to put things in perspective, she couldn’t help feeling a little let down. He wasn’t just another business associate to her, he was Rafe Rawlings and anything concerning him she took personally—very personally. ‘‘Yeah, okay,’’ she said in a tight voice, slipping her hand in his. ‘‘Deal.’’ She felt uncomfortable holding his hand and withdrew hers awkwardly. ‘‘Uh...would you like to come in for a while? Have some coffee?’’ What he wanted was to forget about that stupid argument, to forget about Ethan Walker and Charlie Avery, about Andy and the past and sweep her up into his arms. He wanted to mean something to her, something more than just a loner with no past. But that was impossible. What he had to do was learn to see her, be around her and try not to think about those things. ‘‘No thanks,’’ he said, shaking his head. He turned and started down the steps, signaling for Lobo to follow.

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‘‘Get some rest, Counselor. You’ve got your work cut out for you.’’ Raeanne watched as he crossed the snowy lawn to his pickup parked at the curb. He unlocked the door, holding it open for Lobo, who bounded into the cab in one powerful leap. Within moments, they were gone, the taillights of the truck disappearing into the maze of lights and traffic. She knew she should be pleased that he’d apologized, pleased that he had cared enough to set things straight between them. And yet all she felt was a cold, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. He’d said some terrible things to her this afternoon—harsh, angry words. And yet, in an odd, crazy sort of way, the apology had been even worse. At least his anger had been some indication that what she thought mattered to him, that at least he cared enough about her to get angry. But tonight...tonight there had been no emotion in the cool, clipped professional tone he’d used to explain away their conflict, no sign of any caring or concern. She turned and slowly walked into the house, feeling more defeated than she could ever remember. She hadn’t been happy about the argument, but the apology just might make her cry. Raeanne turned the idea over in her mind as she watched Melissa North help her mother out of the row of seats and into the courtroom’s center aisle. She’d been trying for weeks to get Nan Avery to agree to an interview, but Charlie’s widow had ignored each inquiry her investigator had made, each politely written request she had mailed. But Raeanne suspected that if she was to walk over to the woman now and personally request an

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interview, Nan Avery would have a difficult time ignoring that. An extremely proud woman, Nan Avery had escaped to California years before, leaving behind the humiliation of being a deserted wife. But with Ethan Walker’s arrest, she had returned to Whitehorn to watch the trial of the man accused of his murder. Staying at the sprawling ranch of her daughter and son-in-law, Melissa and Wyatt North, she attended the proceedings each day, stoic, proud and faintly bitter. Raeanne remembered how Rafe had ridiculed her frustration with Nan’s refusal to be interviewed by the defense. It had been two weeks since he walked her to her office, since they argued and he’d offered her his apology. She’d seen him almost every day in the courtroom since then and he’d meticulously kept his word. Each day he’d been polite and professional—treating her to the same cool courteousness he did all the other court personnel. She’d told herself dozens of times in the past fourteen days that this was best and yet she couldn’t help feeling hurt. They had a history, a past and to be relegated to the same treatment as other acquaintances was not an easy thing for her to accept. Raeanne watched as Mrs. Avery started down the aisle toward the corridor. Dealing with a victim’s family was never something Raeanne looked forward to. Understandably, the families of crime victims always harbored a degree of contempt for the defense team and no matter how polite or how tactful you were, the episodes were often emotional and difficult. Raeanne had come to accept that it was part of her job. Still, she had to admit it wasn’t a part she’d come to relish. It had been a long day in court and a difficult one. Forensic anthropologist Tracy Hensley’s testimony had

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been long and complicated, as she’d explained how the bones were examined, how they were identified as the remains of Charlie Avery and exactly how the cause of death was determined. The blow to the back of the head that had killed Charlie Avery was a key point in Raeanne’s defense plan. She wanted to make it very clear to the jury, through Tracy’s testimony, that the trajectory of the fatal blow had been at an angle that would have made it very difficult for someone of Ethan’s height to accomplish. With careful skill and despite the prosecution’s attempts to stop it, Raeanne was able to inform the jury that it was Tracy’s opinion, based on the evidence she’d examined and the angle of the injury, that it would have been difficult for someone of Ethan Walker’s height and stature to administer the fatal blow. Just as she’d expected, Tracy’s testimony had a considerable impact in the courtroom and that didn’t make the prospect of approaching Nan and the Norths any easier for her. But time was running out. The gloves were off now. She had to find a way to poke as many holes in the prosecution’s case as she could, or Ethan wouldn’t stand a chance with the jury. ‘‘Excuse me, Mrs. Avery?’’ Raeanne said politely, catching up with them at the door of the courtroom. ‘‘If you have just a moment, I’d appreciate—’’ ‘‘No, I’m sorry, Miss Martin, I don’t have a moment,’’ Nan Avery said coolly, cutting her off. ‘‘And I would appreciate it if you and the representative from your office would stop harassing me.’’ Raeanne’s gaze darted across to Melissa North and then to her husband, Wyatt. She saw none of the contempt in their faces that was so obvious in Nan’s. ‘‘I’m sorry if you think I’m harassing you,’’ she said,

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careful to keep her tone respectful and considerate. ‘‘I don’t mean to. It’s just that this is so important. A man’s life is at stake. I would simply like the opportunity to talk with you for a little while.’’ ‘‘As I’ve told your people before, I have no interest in talking to you,’’ Nan reiterated, slipping her arms free of her daughter’s hold. Turning, she confronted Raeanne, face-to-face. ‘‘And, frankly, I’m surprised at you, Miss Martin, taking a case like this. How do you do it? How can you sleep at night? Helping someone like...like him, who could kill another human being, then just walk away.’’ ‘‘Mrs. Avery,’’ Raeanne said quietly, ‘‘I’m just trying to get at the truth.’’ ‘‘The truth?’’ Nan snorted. ‘‘You mean just twist the truth.’’ She shook her head, her eyes narrowing. ‘‘No, I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you take my family’s name and drag it through the mud, I won’t let you embarrass me and my children any more than we have been already. We’ve provided the town of Whitehorn with enough gossip over the years. I refuse to give you any more.’’ She turned and walked proudly from the courtroom. ‘‘Please don’t bother me again.’’ Even though the courtroom was nearly empty, Nan’s cool dressing-down had attracted the attention of the few spectators who remained. Raeanne drew in a deep breath and turned to Melissa. Even though Melissa Avery North had been several grades ahead of Raeanne in school, they’d known each other and they’d been friends. Knowing Melissa and liking her, just made Raeanne’s job all the more difficult. ‘‘Look, Melissa, I’m sorry. I really don’t want to upset her,’’ Raeanne said apologetically. ‘‘I know.’’ Melissa nodded, smiling. ‘‘And I know

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you’re just trying to do your job. It’s just...’’ She paused, shrugging a little. ‘‘This whole thing...it’s brought back a lot of memories—bad ones. It’s been pretty hard on her.’’ ‘‘I understand and truly, I don’t want to make it any worse,’’ Raeanne said, reaching into her briefcase and pulling out a business card. She handed it to Melissa. ‘‘If she changes her mind, give me call. I’d hate to have to subpoena her.’’ Raeanne watched as Wyatt and Melissa caught up with Nan and escorted her the rest of the way to the elevator. Raeanne sighed, feeling tired and defeated. Tomorrow was Friday and she looked forward to the weekend break. She hated feeling like a bully, feeling like the bad guy just because she had a job to do. The last thing she wanted was to cause Nan Avery and her family any further pain. They were good people and they’d been through enough already. But she wasn’t about to give up. Nan Avery was a fiercely proud woman and Raeanne was convinced she was hiding something behind all that pride. And the fact remained that Ethan’s life depended on her and at the moment it was more important for her to do a good job than to worry about what the Avery’s thought of her. She gave a tired sigh, starting back to gather her things. But as she turned, she caught sight of Rafe. He was standing near the judge’s bench, talking with a court bailiff and it was obvious they both had witnessed the entire episode with Nan Avery. The two weeks since they’d talked in her office had been difficult ones for her. To see nothing in his eyes, to have him watch her with no more interest than he did anyone else... The way he was staring now. Raeanne quickly looked

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away, making her way back to the defense table. She began to gather up her things, telling herself it was better this way. His indifference was preferable to other emotions he seemed able to stir in her. ‘‘Miss Martin?’’ Looking up, she was surprised to see one of the deputies who had earlier escorted Ethan from the courtroom. He was a young man—clean-cut and good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes and a serious, somber expression. ‘‘Yes?’’ she said guardedly. ‘‘Your client...’’ he started hesitantly. ‘‘What is it?’’ she demanded, growing uneasy. ‘‘Uh, he, uh...’’ ‘‘Is everything all right?’’ she asked quickly, rising to her feet. ‘‘Oh, yeah. He just asked if I could remind you to bring him more sunflower seeds.’’ Raeanne breathed a sigh of relief, remembering the huge bag of salted seeds she had brought several weeks ago. For one horrifying moment, she’d thought... She shook her head. She was ashamed to admit it, but for a moment she thought Ethan might have done something really dumb—like try to escape. He was normally so stubborn, so hotheaded—arguing with her on each and every point. But the past several days, he’d been so compliant, so agreeable and his sudden change in attitude had bothered her. Past experience told her that could be a sign of trouble. When a client lost interest in his own trial, it could mean he wasn’t planning on being around for the rest of it. But she shook off the troubling notion, looking up at the young officer and smiling. ‘‘Sunflower seeds. Yes. Yes I will. Thank you.’’

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The young officer smiled back at her, showing her a perfect row of gleaming white teeth. ‘‘Did you want me to give him a message—your client, I mean?’’ Raeanne thought a moment. ‘‘Not really, thanks. Just tell him I’ll be by the jail tonight.’’ The young man nodded, but made no attempt to leave. ‘‘I sat in for a while today,’’ he said finally, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘‘On the trial.’’ ‘‘Oh, you did?’’ Raeanne asked, aware of Rafe’s dark gaze watching from across the room. ‘‘What did you think?’’ ‘‘I thought you were great,’’ he blurted out, his cheeks flooding with color. ‘‘Ethan seems like a decent guy. He’s lucky to have you in his corner.’’ ‘‘Well, thank you. I appreciate that,’’ Raeanne said, knowing the young officer had no idea just how much she did. The encounter with Nan Avery had left her pretty low and more than a little discouraged. The young man’s smile had been so genuine and the compliment so sincere and unsolicited, it was all she could do to stop herself from gushing with gratitude. ‘‘I...I’m starting law school myself—next fall, over in Billings.’’ ‘‘Really?’’ Raeanne smiled. She could see Rafe’s tall frame at the edges of her peripheral vision and it made her feel awkward. ‘‘That’s great. What kind of law are you interested in?’’ ‘‘Criminal.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Defense, maybe, like you. I’m not sure.’’ ‘‘Well, good,’’ she said absently, trying not to think about the dark eyes watching her. ‘‘I hope everything works out for you.’’ ‘‘Thanks,’’ the young man said, a broad smile break-

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ing across his face. ‘‘Who knows, maybe we’ll be working together someday.’’ ‘‘Maybe,’’ she answered with a laugh. ‘‘Good luck.’’ The officer nodded, turning to leave. ‘‘Same to you. And don’t forget the seeds.’’ ‘‘I won’t.’’ She watched as the young man disappeared through a side door to the holding cells. When she turned back, she was a little disappointed to find that Rafe had disappeared, as well. Slowly she gathered up her things and walked down the corridor to the elevators. She felt depressed and alone. For years she’d told herself she wanted to know where she stood with Rafe and now it looked as though she did. She thought of him standing in the courtroom, watching her with his cold eyes and unemotional expression. At least, before, she’d been left with some hope. Now, all hope was lost.

Four He watched her from a distance. Standing in the lobby of the Blue Lake County jail, Rafe peered through the glass partition beyond the main reception desk, through the wired window of a worn wooden door and into the prisoner interview room. He could see her inside, sitting at a table across from her client—back straight, head bent, hand clutching a short yellow pencil. Even in the bare, dingy setting of the interview room, she looked perfectly at ease and in command. She was listening intently to Ethan, her head bending close to catch every word, as though she were contemplating and analyzing everything he said. From time to time, she would stop, just long enough to make an occasional note on the legal pad in front of her and then she would resume her position again. Nothing had changed, he thought darkly, drawing in a deep breath. His whole life he had watched her and here he was watching her again—always from a distance, always on the outside. For as far back as he could remember, there had been something that stopped him from getting close, stopped him from making a move. When he was a kid it had been the teasing and the Wolf Boy tales and later it had been Andy and the marriage that followed. But even though the stories and the teasing had stopped long ago and Andy and the marriage were gone, little had changed. Now, a courtroom, a cli-

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ent and professional differences had replaced the old obstacles and put him on the outside again. Raeanne Martin seemed to possess a strange power over him. She could stir emotions in him, fill him with a desire he wanted to forget, a longing he wanted no part of. He’d wanted to curse at her, wanted her to stop being the person she was, stop being the woman he found himself wanting day after day, year after year. Rafe released his breath in a long, slow sigh. It was late and he’d been up since dawn. He should leave, should turn around and get the hell out of there while he still could. Maybe he’d drive out to his mother’s ranch—check on Crier and the litter of pups she’d just had. Or maybe he should just return to the small, cramped apartment above a dry cleaner’s that he kept. But neither option held much interest. Besides, he didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to go to bed. He’d only lie there and think back on the day, only remember things he’d rather forget. Rafe thought of the courtroom and of the exchange he’d witnessed between Raeanne and Nan Avery at the close of the day. He’d heard Mrs. Avery’s cool, abrupt words. He understood the woman’s bitterness, sympathized with her pain and her pride, but that hadn’t made it any easier to watch her strike out at Raeanne. He’d seen the expression on Raeanne’s face—the empathy and the distress. It had been all he could do to stop himself from barreling across the courtroom to come to her defense. He almost smiled—almost—and ran a weary hand through his long hair. Nothing had changed. Maybe nothing ever would. He was still standing on the sidelines of her life, watching, waiting for a sign, or for a signal that she needed him, waiting for the moment

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when he could ride up on his white horse and rescue her. Only Raeanne wasn’t a woman who needed rescuing—not by anyone and certainly not by him. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and she’d proven it to him over and over again. If he could only make himself remember that. He glanced back through the glass barriers. Raeanne was standing now, looking down at Ethan and talking. How many nights had he lain awake in his bed, trying to forget, trying to convince himself he didn’t care? He felt a familiar rush of anger—anger at a woman who needed nothing from him and anger at a stranger who had abandoned him and left him only a legacy of questions and doubts. ‘‘Something I can do for you, Rafe?’’ Rafe jumped, glancing down at Sergeant Ollie Benson with an uneasy scowl. ‘‘I...uh...I’m just waiting.’’ Ollie turned his head, following Rafe’s gaze through the yellowed venetian blinds to the occupants of the small interview room beyond. With a crook of his head, he looked back at Rafe. ‘‘She’s a looker, ain’t she?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Rafe mumbled, unreasonably annoyed by the innocent comment. He thought of the young deputy who had stood and talked with her in the courtroom earlier, remembered the unpleasant and unwelcome burst of jealousy it had caused. ‘‘She’s okay.’’ ‘‘Okay?’’ Ollie snorted, giving Rafe a suspicious look. ‘‘Boy, your eyes need fixin’? I’d say she’s a mite better than okay.’’ Ollie reached down and picked up a glittery piece of tinsel that had fallen from the tiny Christmas tree perched at the end of the counter. Examining it carefully, he tossed it over one of the small branches, which were already sagging under their load

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of decorative ornaments. ‘‘Nosiree, when they look like that, I don’t mind it one little bit when they come to visit their clients.’’ ‘‘She down here very often?’’ ‘‘To see Walker?’’ Ollie shrugged, gathering up a pile of papers lying on the counter and tapping them into a neat pile. ‘‘Three, maybe four times a week.’’ He stopped and looked up at Rafe, two gray, bushy eyebrows arching with curiosity. ‘‘Think maybe she’s got a thing for him?’’ Rafe glowered down at the short, round sergeant. ‘‘No,’’ he said crossly. ‘‘What the hell are you talking about?’’ Ollie shrugged, feigning wide-eyed innocence. ‘‘Well, you never know. Some women really like a man in the joint.’’ Rafe shook his head. ‘‘You’ve been down here too long, Benson. You’ve lost it.’’ ‘‘You might be right, Rafe,’’ Ollie snorted, obviously pleased with the fact that he could tweak the cool, collected Wolf Boy every now and then. Still chuckling, he picked up the stack of papers and headed for an ugly brown file cabinet. ‘‘You just might be right.’’ Rafe ignored Ollie’s clowning, instead glancing back at Raeanne. Ollie was right, she was a looker and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that every man who laid eyes on her would agree. He thought again of the young officer in the courtroom. Rafe had thought he’d gotten beyond his discomfort at seeing her with someone else. After all, he’d spent years watching her with Andy. And while it hadn’t been easy to stand back and see them together, Andy had been his best friend—one of the few true friends he’d ever had in his life—and for the sake of that friendship, Rafe

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had learned to endure the pain of seeing him with Raeanne. Of course, on their wedding night it had been a different story. It taken a considerable amount of whiskey before he managed to successfully block out the images of the two of them together in his head. But that had been Andy and that had been different. Seeing this...this kid with her had been something else entirely. Rafe remembered the fierce wave of possessiveness that had engulfed him. It had surprised and disturbed him. He had no reason to feel protective of her. There was nothing between them. She could talk to whomever she wanted, it was no business of his. And yet the incident bothered him, just as the one with Nan Avery had. What a fool he was, he thought darkly, watching as a uniformed officer appeared at the door of the interview room to escort Ethan back to his cell. Once again he’d found himself wanting to be her white knight, wanting to rush in and save her when she was more than capable of saving herself. He watched as she slipped into her long wool coat. It was well after nine o’clock and a cold snow was swirling outside, but she still wore the same pale gray suit she’d worn in the courtroom. As she started down the corridor, past Ollie and the main reception desk, she looked up and spotted him. Raeanne glanced across the reception area and felt all the air slip from her lungs. Another tense encounter with Rafe Rawlings was not what she needed right now. She didn’t have the energy and after the day she’d had, she didn’t have the fight. She glanced around. Was there any possible way she could avoid him? She took a step forward, then hesitated. Her large

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brown eyes stared up at him and Rafe felt a pressure building in his chest. It was obvious she wasn’t pleased to see him and he took it like a bullet to the chest. The trial of Ethan Walker had put a strain between them, had put them on opposite sides of the judicial fence. But it had been just the latest in a long string of people and events that had served to put time and distance between them. Their past was like a lost and forgotten highway, littered with memories and blocked by uncertainty. But standing beneath the bleak, dreary lighting of the jail’s reception area, Rafe couldn’t seem to make himself remember all of that. He slowly walked toward her. She looked weary and alone, helpless and utterly vulnerable. She looked nothing like his enemy and everything like his friend. ‘‘You look tired,’’ he murmured. ‘‘Is that your subtle way of telling me you think I’m wasting my time down here?’’ she asked, her chin rising defensively. She heard the sarcasm in her voice, but didn’t care. He looked strong and solid standing there, rugged and handsome in his flannel shirt and warm down vest and that made her mad. She didn’t want him strong, she wanted him miserable, as she was. ‘‘No,’’ he said carefully, noticing her dark lids and drawn expression. Raeanne was tall and slender, but tonight she looked so small, so...defenseless. He could see faint circles of fatigue below her eyes and felt the muscles in his stomach tighten. ‘‘Apparently it’s my not-sosubtle way of saying that it looks like you’ve had a long day.’’ Feeling like a battle-weary warrior whose foe has just held up a white flag, she exhaled slowly. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she mumbled, giving her head a shake. ‘‘You’re right, it has been a long one.’’

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‘‘Heading home, or back to the office?’’ ‘‘I just have to pick up a few things from the office, then I’m heading home—finally.’’ She sighed, glancing down at her wristwatch and groaned loudly. She thought of the pages of trial transcripts that still needed reviewing before morning and the two large bags of Christmas presents she’d intended to get wrapped. ‘‘I didn’t realize how late it was. You know, it’s a good thing I don’t have a cat. The poor thing would starve waiting for me to get home.’’ As if responding to a silent, mutually agreed-upon command, they both turned and slowly started for the door. ‘‘Ollie says you’re down here a lot,’’ he said in his normally guarded tone. ‘‘You checking up on me?’’ ‘‘No.’’ Rafe smiled, just a little, his mouth feeling strange and out of practice with the movement. He pulled his leather gloves from the pocket of his jeans and looked down at her. ‘‘Would you mind if I was?’’ The quiet tone of his voice had the steady rhythm of her heart stumbling just a little. ‘‘I guess that would depend.’’ ‘‘On what?’’ ‘‘On what you suspect me of.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Lawyers,’’ he said with a small laugh. ‘‘So suspicious.’’ ‘‘Only because cops are always looking for trouble,’’ she retorted. ‘‘Well, I’m not—not tonight, anyway,’’ he added, holding up one gloved hand in a gesture of innocence. ‘‘Ollie just mentioned that he sees you visiting Walker a lot.’’ ‘‘We don’t get much of a chance to talk in court,’’

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Raeanne said, rubbing at her tired, scratchy eyes. Cops rarely understood the unique relationship between attorney and client and Rafe Rawlings had been sounding an awful lot like a cop lately. ‘‘I like to come down and go over the day with him, make sure he understands everything, answer any questions he might have.’’ Rafe regarded her carefully, thinking about Ollie’s tasteless crack. ‘‘Do you give all your clients such consideration, or is this just something special with Walker?’’ ‘‘Oh, it’s pretty much the standard service,’’ she said dryly, thinking it was a strange question for a cop to ask. ‘‘But I understand being locked up and on trial for your life is a scary thing. It helps to have someone to talk to.’’ ‘‘Ethan Walker doesn’t exactly look scared to me,’’ he said sarcastically. ‘‘Oh, he’s scared all right,’’ she said simply, ignoring his cynicism. ‘‘He’s not nearly as tough as he makes out.’’ ‘‘Bull. Walker’s as tough as nails.’’ She looked up at him, shaking her head. She was too exhausted to argue. ‘‘So typical.’’ Rafe looked down into her eyes. They had the same lost, forlorn look Lobo’s had had when he found him starving by the roadside. ‘‘Oh, what’s this? What’s so typical?’’ ‘‘You,’’ she said. ‘‘So typical of a cop to see only what’s on the surface.’’ ‘‘Oh? And your lawyer’s sensitivity is going to tell me Ethan’s really just a big, cuddly teddy bear under that tough hide?’’ ‘‘No,’’ she said, having to smile just a little at the analogy. ‘‘But he is a human being, with feelings and

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emotions and beneath that thick hide and those rough edges is one scared man.’’ ‘‘Well, if he is, he’s got good reason to be,’’ Rafe told her. ‘‘Which is exactly why I like to come down and just sit with him sometimes,’’ she said, making her point. She looked back to the empty interview room, then glanced at Rafe. ‘‘We talk, but mostly I’m here because I know how he feels, even though he can’t seem to tell me.’’ Rafe quickly looked away. How many times had he wanted to tell her what was in his heart? How many times had the words stalled in his throat? They walked a few steps in silence, past Ollie’s tiredlooking Christmas tree and Rafe wondered if she’d ever suspected, if she’d ever guessed how he felt. He felt a mixture of emotions forming in his throat—a tight knot of anger mingled with frustration and a desire held too long at bay. He swallowed hard, pushing the emotions back. ‘‘So I guess all that insight into your client makes for the late nights, then?’’ ‘‘It’s just trial mode.’’ She shrugged, suppressing a yawn. ‘‘You’d think I’d be used to it by now. There always seems to be something that needs doing.’’ ‘‘Are you anxious for it to be over?’’ She looked up at him. ‘‘That all depends, I guess.’’ ‘‘On?’’ ‘‘On what kind of verdict the jury brings back.’’ Rafe gazed down at her, remembering their fierce difference of opinion on what that verdict should be. He remembered how angry he had been in her office, angry at her strength, at her convictions. But now she looked anything but strong. She looked soft and extremely susceptible—nothing like the cool,

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competent lawyer she was in the courtroom. It made him want to reach out, to touch, to comfort, to offer her some of his strength. But the knot in his throat tightened and had him turning away. ‘‘Looks like it’s finally stopped snowing,’’ he said, pushing the thick glass door open. ‘‘But I’ll bet the roads are still icy.’’ Raeanne pulled her coat more tightly around her and shivered at the blast of frosty air that met them at the door. ‘‘Damn, it’s cold,’’ she muttered, teeth chattering. ‘‘It almost makes me miss California.’’ ‘‘Looks like you brought a few bad habits home with you,’’ he said, pointing to her soft leather pumps. ‘‘Your feet are going to freeze in those—that is, if you don’t fall down first.’’ Raeanne looked down at her shoes, remembering the pair of insulated boots she’d forgotten by the front door when she rushed from the house this morning. ‘‘You’re right. I guess I forgot.’’ ‘‘Come on,’’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘‘I’ll help you.’’ Raeanne stared down at his proffered hand, uneasy about taking it. He’d said nothing about the argument they’d had in her office, nothing about the strain that had existed between them since the start of the trial. She felt uncertain and awkward, unsure of what to do. Was she just suppose to forget about it? Pretend it had never happened? Reluctantly she took his hand, allowing him to maneuver her cautiously down the concrete steps and through the snow-and-ice-slick parking lot to her car. Waiting while she unlocked the door, he pulled it open for her. ‘‘Thanks,’’ she said, slipping in behind the wheel. The

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snow had stopped and the black sky was alive with stars. She looked up at him, saw his tall frame silhouetted against the night. Like Ethan Walker, Rafe was a tough, hard man. But she’d managed to crack Ethan’s tough outer shell. She’d tapped into his core of emotions. But Rafe’s hold on his feelings was stronger and much better guarded. In all the years, she’d never broken through, never penetrated his cache of emotion. She looked up into his eyes. He might be able to bury his feelings deep, but she knew they were there. She felt them, just as she felt the cold December wind that raged about them. But she couldn’t live on hunches or sensations, couldn’t survive on hopes and ideas. She needed something real, something solid, something she could touch and hold on to. And that was something he would never give to her. She reached for her seat belt, quickly looking away to escape his dark gaze. ‘‘Well, good night,’’ he said, taking a step back. ‘‘Good night.’’ She reached for the door, starting to pull it shut. ‘‘Uh...Raeanne?’’ His hand on the door made it impossible to close it. ‘‘Yes?’’ He stared down at her. He wanted to tell her how much he hated the strain between them. He wanted to tell her that he thought about her all the time, that he wanted her to think about him. But her eyes were so big, so brown and they searched his face so earnestly. ‘‘What is it, Rafe?’’ she asked. The look on his face had her heart pounding in her chest. ‘‘I’m...I...’’ In frustration, he pushed himself away

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from the car, releasing his hold on the door. ‘‘Drive carefully.’’ ‘‘I will.’’ She stared up at him. Whatever she thought she’d seen in his face was gone now. Whatever it was he’d been about to say, he’d changed his mind. His expression was stone-cold, closed tight against any emotion, any sign of feeling. She’d allowed herself to be taken in again, let her hopes begin to rise, only to be let down again. She’d been a fool. To hell with Rafe Rawlings, to hell with Wolf Boy, to hell with intuition and instinct, to hell with—it. She slammed the door shut, twisting the key in the ignition and tossing the car into gear. She pulled away a little too fast and the rear tires skidded causing the back of the car to fishtail. In the rearview mirror, she saw him, standing alone in the darkness. Rafe swerved to avoid the cat, which stood in the middle of the road with eyes ablaze, hypnotized by the headlights of his sturdy four-wheel-drive truck. As he turned the wheel back to correct his course, one of the truck’s oversize tires hit a pothole filled with dirty, slushy water, sending him jerking violently against the door. ‘‘Damn!’’ he swore, cursing the cat, the pothole and the wet, muddy road. But his mind wasn’t on his driving or the condition of the road. He was thinking about Raeanne. He’d almost done it again, almost been taken in, almost made the same old mistake. He thought about how she had looked, how soft and vulnerable. But it had all been an illusion. He’d been seeing what

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he wanted to see, what he needed to see. He couldn’t seem to make himself understand that Raeanne Martin didn’t need him, that he had nothing to offer her, nothing she wanted. Just then, his police radio crackled loudly, but he barely took notice. It was his custom to monitor the radio—on duty or off—and its sudden outbursts were something he’d gotten used to a long time ago. But when it crackled again, there was something that had him sitting up, something that had him taking notice. The address broadcast over the frequency had caught his attention—311 Coyote Path. He recognized the numbers immediately. It was Raeanne’s address. Rafe braked hard, the huge tires of his truck skidding noisily on the wet, cracked pavement. He turned the wheel sharply, spinning all four wheels around and headed back for town. He grabbed for the handset, radioing the dispatcher for details, but his mind was already moving too fast to listen. He wasn’t interested in details or response times, he wasn’t concerned about procedures or protocol. All he knew was that Raeanne was in trouble, she needed help and wild horses weren’t going to keep him away.

Five Raeanne trembled, the shaking having nothing to do with the wet sleet soaking through the soft leather soles of her shoes and causing her toes to go numb with cold. The two squad cars parked nose to nose in front of her house had their lights flashing, turning the snow that blanketed her neighborhood a brilliant shade of red. She looked down at the scattering of pine needles and ribbon strewn across the porch steps and the lawn, the meager remnants of the beautiful Christmas wreath that had once adorned her front door and felt her stomach roll uneasily. Ugly streaks of black and red paint formed unintelligible letters and words, marring the beveled glass and varnished wood where the wreath had once hung and a lone string of Christmas lights now dangled forlornly from around the frame of the door. Bending down, she picked up a small shred of ribbon, rubbing its satiny smoothness between her fingertips. Who would do such a thing? she thought, repulsed by the senselessness of the act. What kind of sick mind got a thrill out of destroying something just for the sake of destruction? ‘‘There’s a can of spray paint and some Magic Markers over there underneath the bushes,’’ Terry Gaines said, his breath blowing out in a long pink plume as he spoke. He’d been driving a squad car for the Whitehorn Police Department for only six months and he took his

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job very seriously. ‘‘Tracks in the snow lead off down the street. You don’t remember seeing anyone around when you drove up?’’ Raeanne shook her head, shivering. ‘‘No, not really. I don’t remember. But, to be honest, I really didn’t pay that much attention.’’ She squeezed her eyes tight in an effort to block everything out. ‘‘I—I didn’t even notice anything was wrong until I was halfway up the steps.’’ He nodded, making a notation in the small tablet he held in his gloved hand. He pulled a long black flashlight from his belt and clicked on the beam. ‘‘I’m going to give the back—’’ But the screeching of tires from the street behind them drowned out his words and had them both turning around. Raeanne recognized Rafe’s truck immediately and her heart lurched violently in her chest. ‘‘I heard the call on the radio,’’ he said, ignoring Gaines and walking directly to Raeanne. ‘‘You all right?’’ ‘‘I’m fine,’’ Raeanne said, feeling ridiculously better now that his comforting arms held her lightly, his strong hands on her upper arms. ‘‘A lot better than my house.’’ Rafe turned around, taking in the torn and broken Christmas decorations and the defaced door and walls. Feeling her tremble beneath his touch, he turned back to her. ‘‘You’re freezing. Why don’t you wait inside?’’ Raeanne shook her head. ‘‘It hasn’t been checked out. I called from a neighbor’s. They told me on the phone to wait until the officers had a chance to check inside.’’ Rafe’s dark eyes shifted to the officer. ‘‘You haven’t done that yet?’’ ‘‘We were just about to,’’ Officer Gaines explained defensively. ‘‘Forget the inside,’’ Rafe told him curtly. ‘‘I’ll take

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care of it. Look around back, let me know if you see any sign of a break-in.’’ The officer nodded, taking off around the side of the house with the beam of his flashlight zigzagging in the darkness. ‘‘Come on,’’ Rafe said after a moment, giving Raeanne’s arms a slight squeeze. Raeanne let him guide her up the steps, carefully avoiding as much of the debris and wet paint as they could. She tried not to think about the painstaking care and the time she’d spent stringing lights and putting up holiday decorations only days before. Her weekend had started out so miserably. The stress of the trial had been getting to her and she knew she’d been letting the strain with Rafe bother her more than she should. Desperate for a diversion, she’d forced herself into the holiday spirit and gone Christmas shopping. She’d bought ridiculously extravagant gifts for family and friends and enough Christmas ornaments and lights to decorate several households. The shopping had proven a satisfactory distraction and, still caught up in the holiday spirit, she’d stopped on her way home and picked out a huge Christmas tree. She’d spent the rest of the weekend trimming her tree, hanging her wreath and garlands and stringing lights outside the house. But now the lights that had framed the porch and her living room window crunched beneath her feet, lying broken amid shredded pine boughs. But it wasn’t until she reached her front door that the despair hit. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Rafe asked, hearing her strangled gasp. ‘‘My door,’’ she moaned, pointing to the wet, dripping streaks of paint trickling down the glass and defacing the rich wood grain. She looked up at him, shaking her head. ‘‘Why would someone do that?’’

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‘‘Why do sickos do anything?’’ Rafe asked, reaching for her house key. Releasing his hold, he set her away from him. ‘‘Stay here for a minute. Let me check things out inside.’’ He stepped in the door, his eyes carefully scanning for signs of broken glass or forced entry. He made a swift but thorough check of the small wood-frame house, doing his best to ignore the warm furnishings and appealing decor. He returned to the porch just as Terry Gaines was climbing the front steps. ‘‘What have you got?’’ he asked, stepping from the small foyer onto the porch. ‘‘No sign of anything—no paint, no break-in.’’ The officer shrugged. ‘‘Not even any footprints.’’ Rafe turned to Raeanne, holding open the door. ‘‘Why don’t you go inside and get warm? I’ll stop in after I finish up out here.’’ Exhausted, Raeanne nodded, walking past him and into the warmth of the small foyer. As the door closed behind her, she slipped out of her wet shoes, kicking them into a corner beside the insulated boots she’d forgotten that morning. Hugging her coat around her, she tiptoed down the short hallway toward her bedroom, stopping just long enough to reset the temperature on the heater’s thermostat. The natural-gas-burning monster leapt to life, shooting air through the vents and causing them to creak and moan ominously. In the bedroom, she searched through the drawers of her chest until she found a pair of warm, woolly socks. Slipping them on over her numb toes, she then stepped into a pair of well-worn slippers. The combination of the socks and slippers looked crazy and out of place with her long wool coat and sedate business suit, but she was beyond being concerned

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about appearances. By the time she headed back down the hallway toward the living room, warm air was streaming from the heater vents and she slipped out of her coat. She had just hung it on a large brass hook on the hall stand when she heard a tap on the door. Seeing Rafe’s familiar silhouette through the paintspattered window, Raeanne opened the door and motioned him inside. ‘‘You all right?’’ Rafe asked, leaning just inside the threshold. ‘‘Well, I’m warmer, anyway,’’ she said, pointing at the bulky socks and old slippers. ‘‘Come in and warm up. I’ve turned up the furnace.’’ ‘‘Thanks,’’ he said, rubbing his gloved hands together as he stepped through the small entry and into the living room. ‘‘That heat feels good.’’ ‘‘Find anything out there?’’ ‘‘Nothing, really,’’ he said, slipping off the gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his vest. ‘‘It doesn’t look like they intended to break in. Just mess the place up.’’ ‘‘Well, they managed to do that pretty good,’’ Raeanne said dryly. ‘‘Could have been worse,’’ he said, stepping across the soft carpet to the huge Christmas tree in front of the picture window. ‘‘But it looks like you might have scared them off when you drove up.’’ He poked at one of the small crystal ornaments, causing the cut-glass edges to catch the light and sparkle. ‘‘Gaines said you didn’t see anything?’’ ‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ she mumbled, noticing that despite the tree’s size, he looked big and imposing standing beside it. ‘‘Probably kids,’’ he said with a heavy sigh, turning back to her. ‘‘Taggers, people who vandalize buildings

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and such, usually with paint, though the main object is destruction. We’ve been seeing some of that lately. We’re going to increase patrols in this area, though, just to be on the safe side.’’ He looked back at the tree. ‘‘This is nice.’’ She smiled. ‘‘Thanks.’’ ‘‘You do it all by yourself?’’ ‘‘You sound surprised.’’ ‘‘I guess I am,’’ he confessed. She laughed. ‘‘It’s been seven years since I had good old-fashioned traditional Christmas. I guess maybe I went a little overboard.’’ He nodded. ‘‘Not much on tradition in L.A.?’’ ‘‘Not much on snow, anyway.’’ She shook her head, shrugging just a little. ‘‘It’s hard to believe Christmas is just a few days away. This trial has really screwed me up.’’ ‘‘Planning on spending it with your folks?’’ She smiled. ‘‘Well, I’d hoped to have them and all the relatives here for Christmas dinner. You know, show off my culinary skills a little, give Mom a break.’’ She paused, thinking. ‘‘But with the trial and everything and now this...’’ She pointed outside, at the mess on her porch. ‘‘I don’t know. But how about you? I’ll bet Emma’s been baking up a storm. She still make her almond cookies and fruitcakes?’’ ‘‘I guess.’’ He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘‘I just try to stay out of her way this time of year.’’ ‘‘Well, it wouldn’t be Christmas without them,’’ Raeanne said, remembering the years Rafe had delivered the holiday goodies to her family’s door for his mother. Every year she had hoped he would accept her invitation to come inside, but he never had. The play of emotions across her face had his stomach

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tightening again and he cleared his throat, uneasy. ‘‘I’m afraid those lights outside are goners,’’ he said, pointing to the strands of broken and drooping lights they could see through the glass that once framed the window. ‘‘Should be replaced.’’ Raeanne peered through the glass, taking in a deep breath. ‘‘Such a mess,’’ she murmured. ‘‘Well, at least it will clean up,’’ he told her optimistically, but he clenched his jaw tight. At the jail, she’d looked so lost and vulnerable, but now, standing in the warmth of the comfortable little house and staring at the results of such a senseless act of destruction, she just looked frightened. For all her modern ideas, for all her sophistication and professionalism, she was really such an innocent. As far back as he could remember, she’d seen good in everyone. Maybe that was why he’d always wanted to protect her. He knew about cruelty, he knew that sometimes there wasn’t anything good to find. He’d experienced fear and pain firsthand and he’d wanted nothing more than to protect her from all that. The need to reach out swelled like a tidal wave inside his chest. He wanted to grab her, to shield her with his strength, protect her with his power. He wanted her to lean on him, depend on him, wanted to make the fear and hopelessness disappear from her eyes once and for all. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he said quietly. Raeanne turned away from the window and looked up at him. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘There’s something I...something I think we should talk about.’’ ‘‘Wha—’’ Her voice broke and she swallowed hard.

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Could miracles happen? Could he finally be opening up to her, sharing his feelings? ‘‘What is it?’’ ‘‘I want...’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘I think maybe it would be a good idea if...well, if I hung around outside tonight.’’ She blinked, confused. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘You know, stake the place out,’’ he said, reaching for his gloves and slipping them back on again. ‘‘Just to be on the safe side, in case our friends decide to come back.’’ Raeanne came crashing back to reality with a hard thud. She’d thought...she’d hoped... But it no longer mattered what she’d thought, it didn’t matter what she’d hoped—it was obvious she’d been wrong. She gave her head a small shake in an attempt to cushion the blow. ‘‘You said it was a bunch of kids,’’ she pointed out, making a conscious effort to keep any trace of emotion from her voice. ‘‘Why would they come back?’’ ‘‘I said it was probably kids,’’ he said, hating that unemotional courtroom voice of hers. ‘‘How do we know for sure? It could be...something else.’’ ‘‘Something else?’’ she repeated. Suddenly the room felt uncomfortably warm, even though gooseflesh rose on her arms. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’ He looked down at her, his dark eyes narrowing. Why was she making this so difficult? Didn’t she know that all he wanted was to keep her safe? Why couldn’t she just accept the fact that he wanted to help? Why couldn’t she trust him to know what was best for her? ‘‘There are a lot of people in this town who don’t like it that you’ve been poking your nose around, asking a lot of questions, stirring up a lot of trouble.’’ ‘‘Is that right?’’ she said, folding her arms across her

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chest. ‘‘So you’re going to stake out my house because some redneck got his feathers ruffled?’’ ‘‘You’re representing a killer. A lot of people think Walker’s gotten away with murder for too long as it is. They want to see him pay for what he did.’’ ‘‘Then there are a lot of people in this town who are going to be disappointed,’’ she pointed out deliberately. He glared down at her, his breath coming in deep gasps. ‘‘Did you forget everything about real life living in L.A.? This isn’t California. People here don’t like it when criminals go free. They don’t like it when a bleeding-heart lawyer defends one loser after another—even if she is a hometown girl. It makes people mad.’’ Loser. The word had her seeing red. She was stupid to think he might understand, stupid to think he had any compassion—or any feelings at all. ‘‘What are you saying? You’re afraid they’re going to run me out of town on a rail?’’ she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘‘Come on, Rafe. This is Whitehorn, Montana, not Dodge City.’’ ‘‘Fine, go ahead and make fun of the dumb country cop,’’ he told her, his hands curling to fists at his side. ‘‘But see how much you laugh when one of these rednecks decides to take the law into his own hands.’’ ‘‘My clients are entitled to the best defense I can give them,’’ she told him coolly. ‘‘That happens to be the law. And nobody is going to scare me away from doing my job.’’ ‘‘Well, somebody left you a little message tonight,’’ he said, jerking a thumb toward the vandalized window. He took a step closer, glaring down at her. ‘‘And maybe next time they won’t be satisfied to scrawl a few messages across your door.’’ ‘‘If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working.’’

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‘‘I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just trying to do my job,’’ he said, carefully controlling his voice. He drew in a deep breath. Anger mixed with frustration and he swore violently under his breath. ‘‘You could be in danger, whether you want to admit it or not. And it’s my job to protect you.’’ ‘‘I can protect myself,’’ she said, walking to the small desk in the corner. Retrieving a key from the ornamental ceramic jar sitting on top, she unlocked a side drawer and pulled out a black .32-calibre Beretta 90. ‘‘A gun,’’ he said, his bland tone masking his surprise. ‘‘Don’t worry,’’ she said caustically. ‘‘It’s licensed.’’ ‘‘You’d use a gun?’’ ‘‘If I had to,’’ she said, cocking the pistol. ‘‘Just because I don’t strap it to my side, or shoot the place up from time to time, like the rest of you crazy cowboys, doesn’t mean I’m afraid to use one.’’ Crazy cowboys. The words hit him like a physical blow. She was right, he was a crazy cowboy. That was how she thought of him and that was what he was—crazy to think she’d needed him, crazy to think she ever would. In a weak moment, he’d been taken in again. He’d heard the report over the radio and came barreling over to her house like the cavalry riding to save the wagon train. He’d had one thought in mind—protecting her. Only...she didn’t need his protection, she didn’t want his help, she simply didn’t need him. ‘‘I give up,’’ he said, stalking back across the living room. ‘‘I’ll be outside, whether you need anything or not.’’ Raeanne stared after him as he stormed through the foyer and out the door. ‘‘I won’t!’’ she called out, but

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he had already disappeared down the steps. ‘‘I won’t,’’ she said again, in quiet voice. She wouldn’t need him for anything, because what she wanted from him, he would never give. Damn him, she cursed silently, turning the lock on the door and walking slowly down the hallway, toward her bedroom. Tears burned in her eyes and a heavy knot of emotion swelled in her throat. Damn him and damn her, too, for being such a fool. When was she finally going to get it through her head, when was it finally going to sink in? There was no special feeling, no special link between them. Realizing she still held the gun in her hand, she held it up, finding its brutal black lines and cold feel oddly beautiful, in a perverse sort of way. Cold, hard steel— that was her protection, she thought, slipping the gun into the drawer of her nightstand. As cold and as hard as Wolf Boy’s heart. She slipped out of her suit coat, tossing it carelessly on the bed and ambled toward the bathroom. The evidence on Rafe was in and she didn’t need to be a legal expert to realize her case didn’t look good. She was ready to admit defeat, ready to stop relying on dreams and face the fact that if Rafe Rawlings had wanted her, he’d had more than enough time to do something about it. How much more proof did she need? Once she’d thought she could let her feelings for Rafe go unresolved, let them just linger out there in a permanent state of limbo. But she’d been wrong. She’d tried that once and it had been Andy who paid the price for her mistake. Winona had said there were old issues she needed to resolve. Maybe this was what she’d meant. But how did she do that? How did she just forget the feelings of a

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lifetime and how was she supposed to live with the resolution? Mary Jo slipped into the courtroom, which was nearly empty at this early hour. She found a seat toward the back and settled in. A smile broke wide across her face. She couldn’t be more pleased. The trial was going just as she’d hoped. The prosecutor was throwing his stones and Ethan was doing very little to dodge them. Raeanne Martin, however—she was another story. The woman was quick and smart—maybe too smart for her own good. Still, Ethan was stubborn and as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t spill the beans, there was little his lady lawyer could do to pull the truth out of him. The truth. Mary Jo’s smile widened. Just what would the fine folks of Whitehorn do with the truth? It would almost be worth sticking around to find out—almost. Mary Jo looked up as Rafe walked in and the smile faded from her lips. Wasn’t it ironic that, of all people, she had Rafe to thank for the way the trial was turning out? But she also knew that the handsome young lawman could turn out to be her worst enemy. As he walked by her though, she couldn’t resist speaking to him. And she had other plans—plans that didn’t include getting mixed up in a murder investigation. ‘‘You were right.’’ She reached out and touched his sleeve. Rafe stopped to find Mary Jo Kincaid beaming up at him. It was early and much of the courtroom was still empty. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’ ‘‘About the prosecution’s case,’’ she explained. ‘‘On

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the first day of the trial, you said the prosecution had a strong case. You were right.’’ Rafe remembered how she’d commandeered him that first day in the corridor and her curious array of questions and concerns. ‘‘Well, let’s hope you feel the same way once the defense gets through with their case.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’m sure I will,’’ Mary Jo said breezily. ‘‘After all those witnesses who saw Ethan arguing with Mr. Avery and the testimony about the cattle rustling and all. I mean, how could the jury not convict him?’’ Rafe’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘Well I don’t see how they could, either, if they’ve followed this case as closely as you have, Mrs. Kincaid.’’ Mary Jo’s eyes widened and color rose to her cheeks. ‘‘Well, I find all this all so fascinating. Real human drama, you know?’’ Rafe stood and watched as she gave him a cute little wave, slid down one of the rows of spectators’ seats and sat down. She interested him, mostly because he couldn’t quite figure her out. As a cop, he was used to categorizing people, stereotyping them—creeps, criminals, pimps, perps, liberals, losers, et cetera. But he couldn’t seem to get Mary Jo Kincaid to fit in anywhere. While Ethan Walker’s case had caught the interest of a lot of people in Whitehorn, the curiosity of this quiet, demure librarian seemed oddly different. After all, it wasn’t as though she were like Lily Mae Wheeler, who made gossiping about others a way of life. And yet, each day for over two weeks, Mary Jo had conscientiously attended the proceedings. What was it about a twenty-seven-year-old murder that had her so interested? Why was she so curious about the fate of a man she’d never met? He was still thinking about Mary Jo when he started back down the aisle. But after one step, he was brought

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up short when he felt his boot come down on an unsuspecting foot. ‘‘Excuse—’’ But whatever else he’d planned to say just drifted from his mind as he turned and looked down into Raeanne’s face. It took him a moment to recover from the shock. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he then said, automatically reaching out a steady hand. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Raeanne clutched at his arm, steadying herself and taking a few painful steps. ‘‘Is the prosecution so uncertain about its case you feel you have to cripple me now?’’ He gave her a deliberate look. ‘‘Actually, I’m operating at a bit of a disadvantage this morning. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’’ Raeanne remembered the dozen or so times during the night she’d peeked out her window to see Rafe’s truck parked at the curb in front of her house. ‘‘Too bad. I’ll bet there are some kids out there with paint on their hands who got a full eight hours.’’ Rafe glared down at her. He wouldn’t have minded debating the pros and cons of playing it safe, but he was interrupted by a tug on his arm. ‘‘Was that my son I saw who nearly steam-rollered over you?’’ Emma Rawlings’s round, weathered face beamed, full of life and energy. Turning to Rafe, she gave him a playful swat. ‘‘I thought I’d raised you better than that.’’ ‘‘Ma,’’ Rafe said, flinching as she swatted. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ ‘‘This trial is open to the public, isn’t it?’’ Emma snapped, her rough tone edged by true affection. ‘‘Well, I’m the public. Besides, I’ve been hearing how this young wisp of a girl is giving you big strong men a run for your money. I thought that was worth a trip into town

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to see for myself.’’ She turned to Raeanne and gave her a hug. ‘‘How’s it going, darlin’?’’ ‘‘Well, when I’m not being accosted by the prosecutor’s chief investigator, it’s going pretty good,’’ Raeanne lied, slipping her arms around Emma’s sturdy frame. ‘‘I told your father I would stop by the pharmacy on the way home and tell him everything.’’ She gave Raeanne a stern look. ‘‘I’ve heard you’ve banned your poor parents from coming to watch.’’ Raeanne grimaced guiltily. ‘‘It’s true. It makes me too nervous.’’ Rafe’s eyes widened with surprise. He wouldn’t have thought anything could rattle her in a courtroom. ‘‘Careful, Counselor, it sounds like you’re not very proud of what you do.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’m proud, Rafe,’’ Raeanne said, trying very hard not to let the tasteless remark upset her. ‘‘I’m just not perfect. Believe it or not, I sometimes get a little jittery when I know someone I care about is watching.’’ He glared down at her. Could she have made her point any clearer? He’d been watching her for weeks in court and she’d looked anything but jittery. ‘‘Well,’’ Emma said quickly, with a wave of her hand, ‘‘I know they’re awfully proud of you.’’ ‘‘I know they are, too,’’ Raeanne said. ‘‘And if this one keeps giving you a hard time, just let me know,’’ Emma advised her, motioning to her son with a nod of her gray head. ‘‘He gets a little too full of himself from time to time, but I can still put him in his place. They’re never too old to get a scolding from their mothers.’’ ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind,’’ Raeanne said, watching the look mother exchanged with son. Only last night Raeanne had decided Rafe Rawlings was incapable of

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feelings, that the emotional, vulnerable side she’d once believed he hid behind the Wolf Boy facade didn’t exist at all. But there was love for his mother in his eyes, despite his impatience, despite his irritation and despite how he tried to hide it. ‘‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about the lady lawyer, Ma,’’ Rafe said, as he began to back away. ‘‘She can take care of herself. Ask her about the friend she keeps with her for protection.’’ ‘‘What’s this?’’ Emma asked, but he was already down the aisle and through the gate to the counsel table at the front of the courtroom. Emma turned back to Raeanne. ‘‘You have a friend living with you?’’ ‘‘No,’’ Raeanne said, thinking of the Beretta she’d returned to the desk drawer this morning. ‘‘It’s nothing, Emma. Just Rafe’s idea of a joke.’’ ‘‘Not a very funny one, I take it.’’ Raeanne looked down at the woman who had taken in an abandoned baby and raised him as her own. Emma had raised her son to be strong and tough in order to face the hard realities of his birth. But she had also raised him with a mother’s love and tenderness. It was easy to see the strength his mother had given him—but what had happened to all the love? ‘‘You’re right,’’ Raeanne said, smiling down at Emma. ‘‘Not a very funny one, I’m afraid.’’ Emma reached into her old canvas handbag, pulling out a foil-wrapped package. ‘‘Christmas is in a few days. This is for you and your folks.’’ Raeanne gazed down at the shiny package, with its bright Christmas bow. ‘‘Almond cookies?’’ ‘‘And a fruitcake,’’ Emma added. ‘‘What else?’’ Raeanne hugged her again, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. ‘‘Thank you, Emma.’’

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Emma sighed, glancing at her son, who sat with his back to them at the counsel table, with Harlan. ‘‘You know, I think Rafe half believes those foolish old stories about himself—so tough, so cold, different from everyone else. A wolf boy.’’ She snorted, glancing back up at Raeanne. ‘‘Such nonsense. Men—how they complicate our lives.’’ She gave Raeanne a small squeeze. ‘‘I’m glad you decided to come home again. This is where you belong.’’ She turned and started down a row of seats. ‘‘Now go and teach those men a thing or two.’’ Raeanne smiled and turned to the counsel table. But when she caught Rafe’s dark gaze from across the courtroom, the smile faded slowly from her face. Maybe it had been a mistake to move home again, to try to make a life for herself among all the memories and mementos of the past. Things had been so strained between them, so difficult and not just because of the trial. Did he blame her for Andy’s death? Was that where all the hostility came from? Had they grown to be such different people that they could no longer be friends? They said you could never go home and she was beginning to think that it was true. She pulled her gaze away, feeling a dull, empty ache inside. She set her briefcase down on the table, lifting her heavy files out and slipping the package of Emma’s Christmas goodies in their place. The courtroom was nearly filled with spectators now and the noise level had risen considerably. She scanned the list of witnesses scheduled to testify, knowing Harlan was getting very close to resting his case. That only depressed her more. She was still trying to put her case together and she hadn’t decided whether to put Ethan on the stand. ‘‘Excuse me, Raeanne?’’

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Raeanne jumped at the faint tap on her shoulder ‘‘Melissa! H-hello,’’ she stammered in a raspy voice, surprised to find Melissa North standing behind her. She came quickly to her feet. ‘‘I talked to her,’’ Melissa said quietly. ‘‘My mother, I mean.’’ Raeanne’s heart lurched violently in her chest. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘She’s agreed to meet with you. Could you be out at our place tomorrow, around noon?’’ ‘‘Saturday at noon. Absolutely,’’ Raeanne assured her, thinking maybe miracles could happen after all. ‘‘And, Melissa?’’ Melissa stopped as she turned to leave. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘Thank you.’’

Six Raeanne bit

into the crescent cookie, its powderedsugar coating fluttering down her chest and dusting her dark teal parka with a sprinkling of white. She released the steering wheel just long enough to brush it away, thinking of Emma and her yearly Christmas baking. She’d missed the holiday tradition of exchanging homebaked gifts during the years she lived in L.A., missed the closeness of family and friends. She swallowed, popping the rest of the cookie into her mouth and savoring the rich, delicate flavor of almonds and butter. Tradition was important to her, even though she knew that would probably come as a surprise to some people in Whitehorn. Some people? Or just Rafe? Despite the fact that they’d known each other for years, she was beginning to feel they didn’t really know one another at all. She knew he saw her as a cold, hardnosed professional—a career woman who needed no one and nothing else. She almost had to laugh—but not because there was anything funny about that, but because it was so sad. If only he knew how needy she could be, if only he knew how frightened and alone she felt. Yet maybe it was her fault, too. It had been important to her that he know she was capable of taking care of herself. He was so strong

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and so forceful, she’d couldn’t imagine him wanting anyone who wasn’t the same way. She thought of the things he had said about her clients and the job that she did, how arrogant and unfeeling he had been. Was that how he really felt? Did he really have so little respect for the job she did, or was it just that he had no respect for her? She took a deep breath, clearing her lungs and giving her head a little shake. She wasn’t going to think about all that now. Whether Rafe Rawlings thought much of it or not, she had a job to do and it deserved her full attention. Raeanne eased her foot onto the brake, slowing the car to a crawl and maneuvering around a large depression in the road. She almost wished now that she’d listened to her dad. He’d offered her his truck when he came by earlier to help her clean up her front porch. He’d pointed out that it was better equipped to handle the wintry country roads than her sedate Volvo sedan. But Raeanne had refused. When she was fifteen, she’d learned to drive in her dad’s creaking, cumbersome old truck—which had been no small feat. With no power steering, no shocks, a sticky clutch and an engine that sounded like a beast from hell, it wasn’t exactly a joy to drive. Just then she was bounced abruptly against the door and she heard the sound of scraping as her bumper caught the edge of a muddy pothole. Making a face, she braked again and slowly continued on. Montana ranchers drove trucks. The country roads could be treacherous, especially in the winter. She carefully steered around a puddle that took up most of the rutted drive that led through the North property to their luxurious ranch house. At least it wasn’t

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snowing, she thought as she squinted up at the sky. As much as she’d missed the beauty of a winter landscape while she lived in L.A., she hadn’t missed driving in snow and sleet. As she inched along, she kept a running check of the time on the clock in the dash. Impatience had her wanting to hurry, had her wanting to gun the engine, to race over the rough road and get to the North ranch any way she could, but the fact was, even at the snail’s pace she was going, she’d be there in plenty of time. Patience, she cautioned herself. Just be patient. But it wasn’t easy. Ever since Melissa North told her yesterday in court that Nan had agreed to an interview, Raeanne’s mind had been racing. She’d been up most of the night, going over questions, developing a strategy, outlining a game plan. The woman would be hostile, but that was to be expected. She’d dealt with her share of hostile witnesses before. But this wasn’t a courtroom and a certain amount of tact and finesse would be necessary. She didn’t want to appear too pushy, or too anxious. And she certainly didn’t want to give Nan Avery any idea that the entire case for the defense might very well hinge on what she had to say. Raeanne thought about Ethan, about his dark moods and surly temper. The Walkers had lived in Whitehorn for years—scraping out a living on their small ranch out on Mountain Pass. They had always been a wild lot and there were others in Whitehorn who’d had run-ins with them from time to time. But those had been minor fracases, nothing serious, nothing like Ethan’s run-ins with Charlie Avery. Raeanne shook her head. She still had trouble putting it all together. Ethan had been just a kid when Avery was killed. What would make someone like Charlie Av-

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ery go after a teenager? It just didn’t make sense. And while the Walkers might be eccentrics, they were far from being killers. Cattle rustling was a serious charge in these parts, but would it have been enough to get a young Ethan angry enough to kill? No, Raeanne decided. Something was missing. There had to be something more and someone had to know. Was it Nan Avery? And would she be willing to tell? Raeanne glanced down at the clock again, then a distance up the road. It wasn’t much farther. She would be early, but that was all right, too. She’d hoped to have time after the interview to drive to the site on the Indian reservation where Charlie’s remains had been discovered. After FBI forensic anthropologist Tracy Hensley’s testimony earlier in the week, there were some questions in her mind as to exactly how the body had been disposed of and she wanted to recheck the location herself. Her mind turned again to Ethan, sitting in his cell at the county jail. She’d hoped to have time later to visit him, too. She’d decided not to tell him about the interview—not right away, anyway. Besides, she wanted to see what she learned from Nan first. They’d come a long way in the weeks since the start of the trial, she and Ethan and even though he said little and he could be gruff and obstinate, Raeanne was convinced he’d finally come to trust her—as much as he could trust anyone. Still, he could be difficult and despite her careful probing, he’d opened up very little on the subject of Charlie Avery. Her tire sank into a mud-filled pothole, jostling her roughly against the seat belt and sending her thoughts fleeing. The ranch house was just ahead and a knot of apprehension began to form in the pit of her stomach. The almond cookies she’d been munching on suddenly

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came back to haunt her, their richness making her feel queasy and uncomfortable. She pulled into the large circular drive, bringing her car to a stop near the large stone steps that led to the wide covered porch that stretched the length of the house. There were several trucks parked along the drive, but she paid little attention to them. She was too busy thinking about how she would handle the situation, what she would say. She stepped out of the car and straightened her long parka, making sure all trace of the powdered sugar was gone. It had taken her a long time this morning to decide what to wear. She wanted to keep things casual and relaxed, but it was still business—serious business—and she felt a certain degree of decorum was in order. Thinking jeans or slacks would be too casual, despite the wintry conditions, she’d finally decided on a long denim skirt and a pale blue chambray blouse, worn with a pair of rugged leather knee boots. Retrieving her briefcase from the back seat of the car, she took a deep breath and climbed the steps up the porch. Pushing the small button beside the door, she heard the faint sound of a bell from somewhere inside the house. She told herself to relax, to breathe evenly, but she still felt jumpy. She stared at the beautiful Christmas wreath hanging on the Norths’ door, remembering the torn remains of her own holiday wreath, which she and her father had cleaned up from her steps and porch. She thought of the vandalism of her home, of Rafe arriving and of the harsh words they’d exchanged. He’d told her someone in Whitehorn might want to hurt her. Had he honestly believed that, or had he just been trying to frighten her? But just

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then the door opened and her thoughts scattered like the torn remains of her wreath. ‘‘Hi, Raeanne,’’ Melissa said, pulling the door open wide and motioning her to come in. ‘‘Thanks for coming.’’ Raeanne walked inside, the warmth from the house surrounding her immediately. A huge Christmas tree stood silent and beautiful in the living room and the smell of cinnamon and bayberry filled the air. ‘‘I should be the one thanking you.’’ ‘‘I didn’t do anything,’’ Melissa insisted, helping Raeanne out of her parka and hanging it on a hanger. ‘‘Not really. My mother doesn’t mean to be difficult or anything. It’s just that this whole thing has been so hard on all of us.’’ ‘‘I understand that,’’ Raeanne said, meaning it. ‘‘And I promise, I’ll try and make this as painless as I can.’’ ‘‘I know you will,’’ Melissa said, smiling. ‘‘I believe you when you say you’re interested in getting at the truth. I’m interested in the same thing. That’s why I hired Nick Dean in the first place. I have to tell you, I don’t know whether Ethan Walker murdered my father or not. I know the police think he did, I know my mother does, too. And if he did, no one wants to see him punished more than me. But if he didn’t...’’ She stopped, letting her words drift for a moment. ‘‘If he didn’t, I want to find the person who did.’’ Raeanne regarded Melissa Avery North carefully, feeling tremendous admiration for the woman. In a gesture that belied the professionalism she was determined to maintain, she reached out and touched Melissa’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘‘I want that, too.’’ ‘‘So,’’ Melissa said, taking a deep breath and patting

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Raeanne’s hand, which rested on her arm. ‘‘They’re waiting for us in the den. Shall we go in?’’ They? Raeanne picked that up as soon as Melissa said it, but she just assumed she was referring to her mother and her husband. It wasn’t until she walked down the short hallway and stepped into Wyatt North’s masculinelooking den that she realized that wasn’t what Melissa had meant at all. Nan Avery sat straight in a wingbacked chair before a roaring fire and behind her chair stood Rafe. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ Melissa was saying from behind her, ‘‘you know Rafe, of course.’’ ‘‘Of course, but I don’t understand,’’ Raeanne said, confused. She stopped, looking first to Rafe, then Nan Avery. ‘‘What is he doing here?’’ ‘‘Mrs. Avery asked me to sit in on the interview,’’ Rafe said, stepping slowly from around the chair. ‘‘Do you have a problem with that?’’ Actually, Raeanne had a lot of problems with that, but she merely turned and looked at Melissa, who shrugged apologetically. ‘‘It was the only way she’d agree.’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Raeanne said, turning back and glancing down at Nan, whose stern expression had stiffened. ‘‘I have no problem with Rafe being here. But you really have nothing to fear from me, Mrs. Avery,’’ she said, struggling to keep the anger out of her voice. ‘‘It wasn’t necessary to involve the police.’’ ‘‘Rafe is here as a friend,’’ Nan said in a tight voice, twisting the small hankie she held in her hands. ‘‘I asked him to come because I trust his judgment.’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Raeanne said. She didn’t like being pushed into a corner, but her options at the moment appeared limited. She could create a scene, start making demands, but what good would it do? She’d only end up blowing

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any hope she had of getting information out of Nan. And while there was a likelihood that Rafe’s presence would inhibit Nan’s comments, the alternative was to leave with nothing. In the courtroom, she’d always prided herself on knowing when to press a point and when not to. This was a time not to. ‘‘Okay, then, shall we get started?’’ Rafe had seen the look on her face when she walked in and saw him and it had felt a little like a hot branding iron on his flesh. After seven years he knew he couldn’t love her any longer and after weeks of trial he wasn’t even convinced they were still friends. But he hadn’t thought she hated him. He’d known when Nan Avery asked him to come that Raeanne wouldn’t be happy about it. He had expected her to be angry, had prepared himself for it, had even begun to look forward to taking on her fiery wrath. What he hadn’t expected was that cold look of contempt in her eyes. He could take her anger, but he wasn’t sure he could take her disdain. He’d always said he wanted her out of his life. Now, maybe, he’d finally done it. Maybe he’d finally pushed hard enough, finally gone far enough to push her away for good. He watched her as she talked with Mrs. Avery and felt a heavy weight on his chest. She sat on a straightbacked chair, listening intently to what the woman had to say. He remembered watching her at the jail and how she’d listened to Walker with the same intense concentration. Only this time the soft light of the fire shone on her hair, making the long brown strands look warm and golden. She sat with her hands in her lap, resting atop a blank legal pad. She held a long black pen and as she

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listened, she absently wove it in and out between her slender fingers. There was nothing confrontational or insolent in her manner, nothing inappropriate or impolite. She displayed none of the stereotypical behavior he’d come to expect from cutthroat defense attorneys on the attack. He was completely impressed and he felt it was probably lucky she wasn’t questioning him. Feeling as he did, he would no doubt have told her anything she wanted to know. He remembered again the look she’d given him when she first walked in the room and felt himself go cold all over. Even standing before a roaring fire, he’d felt the chill of her scorn. Not that he blamed her. He’d said some pretty awful things to her lately—stupid things, things he hadn’t really meant. It had just been so much easier to be angry, to be cruel, than to tell her how he really felt. ‘‘You were there last week, when Pete Riddick testified?’’ Raeanne asked, leaning forward just a fraction as Nan nodded. ‘‘Mr. Riddick had said it wasn’t unusual for your husband to stop in at the Sundowner Saloon a couple of times a week, is that right?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ Nan said, nodding again. Raeanne’s sharp ear heard the slight edge in Mrs. Avery’s voice. She’d kept the questions fairly general up to this point, in an effort to get Nan to relax and open up a little. But that was all about to change. The questions she now needed to ask were sensitive and very personal. It would be important to tread carefully. ‘‘This was something that didn’t bother you?’’ she asked, purposely keeping her voice at a monotone. ‘‘Having your husband frequenting a bar?’’ ‘‘Why should it?’’ Nan snapped defensively. ‘‘I mean, the man had a right to relax after a hard day, didn’t he?’’

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‘‘Oh, absolutely,’’ Raeanne assured her quickly. ‘‘I just imagine there are a lot of wives who wouldn’t be so understanding. After being home all day long with two small children, they’d want their husbands home. ‘‘But were you aware of the fight your husband had with Ethan Walker at the Sundowner? I mean, before Pete Riddick testified about it?’’ Nan turned back to her, her face stiffening. ‘‘Well, I’d seen bruises, if that’s what you mean.’’ That wasn’t what Raeanne meant and Mrs. Avery knew it. But if she wanted to play games, Raeanne was more than willing to go along with her. ‘‘So you’re saying you knew they came from a fight with Ethan Walker, is that right?’’ ‘‘I guess,’’ she mumbled. She shook her head, twisting the hankie. ‘‘It was so long ago, how can I be expected to remember?’’ But she did remember, Raeanne thought. She remembered exactly where Charlie’s bruises had come from and why. Raeanne would have bet her life on it—or rather she was betting Ethan’s. Still, she understood the woman’s reticence and she smiled pleasantly. ‘‘You’re right, it was a long time ago,’’ Raeanne agreed. ‘‘But do you happen to remember if you knew what the fight was about?’’ Nan took a deep breath, rolling her eyes. ‘‘He might have said something—about the cattle rustling, I think. Something like that. I don’t remember.’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Raeanne said, taking her pen and making a short notation on the tablet. ‘‘So you knew there were hard feelings then between your husband and Ethan because of the...rustling.’’ ‘‘Of course I knew,’’ Nan snapped. ‘‘We were married. We shared everything.’’

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‘‘Calm down, Mama,’’ Melissa said, reaching out a comforting hand. ‘‘It’s okay.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’’ Nan said, closing her eyes and sighing heavily. Taking another deep breath, she looked back to Raeanne and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘‘Go on.’’ Raeanne glanced up at Rafe, who stood leaning against the hearth. She’d half expected him to spring into action at any moment, to go on the attack and jump down her throat for bullying Mrs. Avery and yet for the past thirty minutes he’d stood quietly watching her every move with his cold, dark eyes. She glanced back to Nan, giving her another pleasant smile. ‘‘I guess what I want to know is if you ever got the impression that there was something more to the fight between your husband and Ethan—more than the cattle rustling, I mean.’’ ‘‘Of course not. What more could there be? Ethan Walker was just a boy,’’ Nan pointed out, leaning forward to make her point. ‘‘My husband wasn’t in the habit of getting into fights with teenage boys.’’ ‘‘Oh, I understand that,’’ Raeanne said, nodding. ‘‘But it does seem strange, though, doesn’t it? I mean, he argued only with Ethan, not any of the other Walkers. Could it have had anything to do with Ethan’s sister, Marilee?’’ ‘‘Just what are you trying to imply?’’ Nan demanded. ‘‘Nothing,’’ Raeanne said quickly. ‘‘I was just speculating.’’ ‘‘Well, there’s nothing to speculate about. None of this was Charlie’s fault,’’ Nan maintained. ‘‘Ethan Walker was a hothead, even as a boy.’’ ‘‘That’s what I understand,’’ Raeanne said, feeling a little as if she were walking a tightrope. ‘‘Did your hus-

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band ever say anything to you about Ethan?’’ She laughed a little, hoping it sounded natural and not nervous. ‘‘About what a pain in the neck the kid was, or anything like that?’’ Nan thought for a moment. ‘‘He might have said something once. I don’t remember what, exactly.’’ She looked at her daughter, then turned and looked up at Rafe. ‘‘He’d been drinking. I’m—I’m not sure he even knew what he was saying.’’ ‘‘Did your husband drink very often?’’ Raeanne asked casually, but her hold on the pen tightened. ‘‘Once in a while,’’ Nan said, defensive again. ‘‘A lot of people do, you know.’’ ‘‘So it was never a problem for him—alcohol, I mean?’’ ‘‘Of course not,’’ Nan snapped. ‘‘It wasn’t a problem. Charlie drank sometimes, but he just did that to unwind, that’s all. He used to work hard, put in long hours. He needed a little help relaxing.’’ ‘‘Mama, please. You’re getting upset again,’’ Melissa said, moving to the arm of her mother’s chair and slipping a supporting arm around Nan. ‘‘Maybe we could take a break,’’ Raeanne suggested. She desperately wanted the interview not to stop, but she sensed that Nan was closing up. ‘‘Maybe that would be a good idea,’’ Rafe said, stepping away from the hearth and glancing down at Mrs. Avery. ‘‘There’s no hurry with this, you know.’’ ‘‘No,’’ Nan insisted. ‘‘I want it over with.’’ Rafe turned to Raeanne. He lifted an arm up and rested it on the mantel, his dark eyes alert and attentive. ‘‘I guess the ball’s still in your court, Counselor.’’ ‘‘Okay, then,’’ Raeanne said, taking a deep breath. ‘‘I’ve just got a few more things here. You said you

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thought Mr. Avery had said something about Ethan. You can’t remember what that might have been?’’ ‘‘It was nothing, really,’’ she insisted again. ‘‘I just remember him saying something about putting him in his place.’’ ‘‘Putting Ethan Walker in his place?’’ Raeanne repeated. ‘‘Yes, Ethan Walker,’’ Nan snapped back. ‘‘That is who we’re talking about, aren’t we?’’ Raeanne thought for a moment. She had reached the point of no return—or maybe she’d already gone a little beyond it. It was apparent that Nan Avery was becoming more agitated and more defensive with each question and while Charlie Avery’s widow had opened up a little, the lid could snap closed at any moment. There was no sense in holding back. She might as well bring out the big guns. ‘‘Mrs. Avery,’’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘‘what was your relationship like with your husband?’’ From the corner of her eye, she saw Rafe step away from the hearth, but she consciously kept her eyes glued to the woman in front of her. ‘‘I beg your pardon!’’ Nan Avery gasped. ‘‘Would you say you had a good marriage?’’ she asked. ‘‘Did your husband ever give you any reason not to...trust him?’’ ‘‘What are you implying?’’ Nan demanded, leaping to her feet. The delicate lace hankie she’d been clutching in her tightly clenched fists drifted to the floor. ‘‘Just what is it that you’re trying to say?’’ She turned to her daughter, who was trying to comfort her. ‘‘I don’t know what she’s talking about.’’ ‘‘I know you don’t, Mama,’’ Melissa said in a soothing voice. ‘‘Don’t get upset.’’

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‘‘I’m already upset. It’s those awful rumors again. Those awful, hateful lies about Charlie and—’’ Nan pushed Melissa away, turning to Rafe. ‘‘I don’t want to answer any more questions. I don’t have to, do I? She can’t make me, can she?’’ ‘‘Of course not,’’ Rafe said. He looked at Raeanne, who was already gathering up her things. ‘‘I’m sure Miss Martin won’t mind.’’ ‘‘Not at all,’’ Raeanne said quickly, zipping her briefcase closed. ‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Avery, for agreeing to see me. I appreciate your taking the time.’’ She looked at Melissa, who was helping her mother back into the chair. ‘‘Thank you. I’ll see myself out.’’ Raeanne slipped out the door and down the hall, stopping just long enough to retrieve her parka. She was out the door and down the porch before she realized Rafe was behind her. ‘‘Raeanne, wait!’’ he called, catching up to her as she reached the door of her car. He reached for her arm, stopping her. ‘‘Can’t you wait a minute?’’ ‘‘Look,’’ she said, spinning around and knocking his hand away, ‘‘I’m not in the mood for another sparring match with you. I’ve got too much to do.’’ ‘‘Sparring match?’’ he asked, noticing how the cold winter temperatures had brought up the color in her cheeks. He thought about how soft it would feel beneath his touch, how silky and smooth. Awareness of her assailed his senses and he felt his body react. ‘‘Is that what we do? Spar with each other?’’ ‘‘Well,’’ she asked, pulling her car keys from her purse, ‘‘what would you call it? We don’t exactly have conversations anymore.’’ He smiled a little, hoping to lighten her angry mood. ‘‘Couldn’t we just think of it as lively debate?’’

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She gave him a killing look and started to pull the car door open. ‘‘I’ve got to go.’’ ‘‘Wait,’’ he said, the smile fading from his lips. He reached out and pushed her car door closed again. ‘‘Couldn’t we just try—to talk, I mean?’’ ‘‘What have we got to talk about?’’ she snapped impatiently. ‘‘Do you want to tell me again how slimy my clients are, or give me another lecture about the moral corruption of lawyers?’’ He recoiled, remembering the stupid things he’d said to her out of anger. ‘‘Stop it.’’ ‘‘What’s the matter, Rafe? I thought you said you wanted to talk.’’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘‘I’ve got to go.’’ ‘‘What’s the big hurry?’’ he asked, her caustic tone leaving him stinging. ‘‘A date? I wouldn’t think you’d have much time for socializing with the way Walker’s trial is going.’’ She gave him a scathing look. ‘‘Go to hell.’’ She yanked open the door again, but before she could toss her briefcase inside, he slammed it again. ‘‘Look,’’ he said, drawing in a deep breath. Jealousy was something new to him and it had him lashing out, talking stupid. ‘‘That was...’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I’m...I’m sorry.’’ Raeanne knew it had been a difficult admission for him. ‘‘So much for conversation,’’ she said wryly. ‘‘Debate.’’ She smiled, in spite of herself. ‘‘Whatever,’’ she said, reaching for the door handle again. ‘‘I really have to get going.’’ ‘‘Where you headed?’’ he asked, purposely keeping his tone casual and conversational. He’d gone overboard

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with that comment about Walker and he didn’t want to make that mistake again. ‘‘I thought as long as I was out in this direction, I’d drive to the reservation. There are some things I want to check out at the place where Avery’s remains were found.’’ ‘‘I’ll take you,’’ he offered, pointing back to his fourwheel truck. ‘‘You’ll never make it in that...that yuppiemobile you drive.’’ ‘‘I’ll be okay,’’ she said, pulling the door open. ‘‘You’ll get stuck,’’ he declared, thinking of the rough terrain and the rugged logging road. ‘‘No, I won’t,’’ she said adamantly, not liking his tone. ‘‘Yes, you will,’’ he insisted. ‘‘And then you’ll freeze your briefs off out there.’’ ‘‘I’ll be fine,’’ she told him in a tight voice, telling herself she wasn’t going to let herself get angry. ‘‘Stop being so stubborn,’’ he said, raising his voice. ‘‘Then stop bullying me,’’ she said, raising hers. ‘‘I’m not bullying you.’’ ‘‘Yes, you are.’’ ‘‘No, I’m not,’’ he insisted, but he stopped and took a deep breath. ‘‘I’m...I’m just...’’ ‘‘Sparring?’’ she inserted smugly. He looked down at her, his lips parting in a small smile. ‘‘Yeah, well, maybe this time.’’ ‘‘See you later, Detective,’’ she said, tossing her briefcase across the seat. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he said, stopping her as she started to get in the car. ‘‘Yes?’’ He stared down at her, seeing the face of the woman he knew he’d never stop wanting. He wanted to tell her

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how impressed he’d been with the way she handled the interview, how taken he was with her sensitivity and her professionalism. He wanted to tell her she had sympathy and understanding, style and finesse. He wanted to tell her how much he liked seeing her, how much he enjoyed sparring with her and teasing her and just standing there staring at her. But, as always, the words wouldn’t come. He felt them become tangled and confused and his nerve start to cower and collapse. And so, like a hundred times before when he’d been afraid of revealing too much, he opted for silence and revealed nothing at all. Raeanne watched the play of emotions across his face. It was happening again. There was something there—in his eyes, in his face, in the very way he looked at her. Once again she felt that old feeling, sensed he wanted to tell her something. ‘‘Rafe, what is it?’’ ‘‘Nothing,’’ he said quietly after a long moment. He shook his head, letting out a slow breath. He knew that for all his bravado, he had his own brand of cowardice. He could face bullets and brawn, outlaw and outcast, but the eyes of Raeanne Martin, the feelings she stirred in his heart, had him heading for cover every time. He released his hold on her arm and turned away. ‘‘Forget it. Never mind.’’ Raeanne watched as he started for his car. Anger coursed through her veins. She didn’t want to forget it, she wasn’t about to ‘‘never mind.’’ They’d been going through this little routine for too long and he’d walked away from her too many times. But not now, not this time. She stalked after him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around to face her. She glared up at him, her breath coming in huge, heavy gasps. ‘‘No, you don’t. You were

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going to tell me something. What was it? What were you going to say?’’ Rafe felt emotion thick in his throat. He wanted to say everything, he just didn’t know where to start. Words were like emotions for him—deep and hard to find. They represented too much and he’d lived with silence for so long. Vanquished and defeated, he merely shook his head. Raeanne felt the sting of tears burn her eyes. She raced back to her car, slamming the door. She’d been a fool for the last time, she decided. The very last time. Rafe stood and watched the small sedan bounce and rebound down the drive until it disappeared in the distance. This wasn’t the first time he’d been unable to tell her how he felt. He knew his silence would never win her love, but he hadn’t realized until today that it just might make her hate him.

Seven T

he road narrowed to little more than two muddy ruts in the frozen ground. She was lucky that it hadn’t snowed in several days, otherwise the trail would have been impassable. The car rocked wildly, throwing Raeanne hard against the side of the door. The small logging road that cut through the rugged Laughing Horse Indian Reservation to the spot where Charlie Avery’s skeletal remains had been found was narrow and rough and Raeanne hoped like hell she wouldn’t get stuck. She’d been to the site before—but that had been several months ago, soon after she’d been assigned Ethan’s case and before a foot of snow had blanketed the entire area. Everything looked different to her now. She glanced down at her copy of the map she’d taken from her file, drawn by a sheriff’s deputy during an initial stage of the investigation. Glancing quickly back up, she scanned the landscape again. If she wasn’t mistaken, she was where she was supposed to be—or at least close. The road grew worse, causing both her and her car to bounce wildly. When she heard the loud grinding noise that sounded when a large rock made contact with something on the bottom of her car, she decided enough was enough. She’d gone as far as she could with the car and would have to make it the rest of the way on foot. Bringing the car to a stop, she sat for a moment, getting her land legs again after the rough ride. She shifted

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the car into Park and turned off the ignition, letting the silence of the area surround her. It was a desolate place, wooded and lonely, miles from anywhere or anything—a spot perfect for keeping the secrets of a killer for years on end. She opened the door, stepping out onto the cold, hard ground. Despite the clear sky and the sunny afternoon, a chill ran up her spine. Somewhere in the distance there was the lonely cry of a bird—a forlorn creature lost from its flock, diverted from its journey south and now destined to weather a frigid winter in this harsh, icy environment. Carefully she made her way up what remained of the road, which ended somewhat abruptly near a bluff. Below, she could hear the quiet trickle of Beartooth Creek as its icy waters cut a narrow swath through the snow. It was mostly frozen now, as was Lovers Lake, nearby, where Andy had taken her ice-skating once with a group of friends. She thought back to that day. She and Andy had only just started dating and she’d gone thinking Rafe would be there, too. But of course he hadn’t. She’d been terribly disappointed and Andy had spent the whole afternoon drinking beer and showing off. Raeanne stopped, bracing herself against a strong and decidedly unpleasant pang of guilt. Andy. Her life would have been so simple if she just could have loved him. Maybe she could have helped Andy keep his drinking in check and maybe he wouldn’t have become so abusive. ‘‘No, no, no, no,’’ she said aloud, shaking her head. Her voice sounded small and lonely, reverberating through the trees. ‘‘I will not think about that now. I will not.’’ She did her best to push the troubling memories aside.

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After her encounter with Rafe, she was having a hard enough time concentrating on business. The last thing she needed was to start rehashing her entire life with Andy. She thought about the episode at the Norths’ ranch, thought about how Rafe had looked at her and the things he had said. He’d done it to her again—started to tell her something, only to change his mind at the last minute. It was driving her crazy. Maybe that was why she’d confronted him, why she’d tried to push him, to force him to talk. But she should have known that wouldn’t work. No one could push Wolf Boy Rawlings and it was time she just accepted it. She took a deep breath, feeling lonelier at this moment than she had in her whole life. At the bluff, she turned and made her way toward a clearing off the road, as her small map indicated. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for something familiar—but nothing seemed to be. Frustrated, she turned the map one way, then the other, but nothing seemed to help. With the snow, everything looked different. The place had a quiet, eerie feel and it sent a shiver up her spine. She suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched, that she wasn’t alone. She turned her head slowly, a cold, dead feeling spreading through her veins. Standing just up the ridge to her left were two timber wolves—their icy black eyes watching her every move. Raeanne didn’t dare move, didn’t even breathe. A wave of panic rendered her mind momentarily useless and her ears rang with the sound of her own strangled breath. Should she try to run, should she try to make a break for the car? What was she supposed to do? She slowly let out her breath, the air leaving her lungs

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sounding like the roar of the wind in the quiet forest. She moved one foot, intending to make a slow turn, but the ears of both wolves perked up. The closest one took several steps down the ridge toward her and Raeanne froze again. Involuntarily a quiet sob escaped her paralyzed lungs, the sound causing the ears of her curious companions to perk up again. She watched in horror as they carefully wandered down the ridge toward her. ‘‘They won’t hurt you.’’ Raeanne spun around at the sound of a voice behind her, nearly stumbling. When she saw Rafe’s tall, muscular frame walking up from the road, her entire body sagged with relief. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she said in a breathless gasp, her hand covering her pumping heart. ‘‘Wh-what do I do?’’ ‘‘Just stay calm,’’ he told her, stepping with a sure foot over the rough terrain. ‘‘They’re just curious.’’ He stepped in front of her, staring across the snowy expanse at the pair of inquisitive animals. Raeanne peeked around from behind him, her legs trembling so badly they threatened to collapse beneath her. She didn’t know exactly what it was he did—a look, a gesture, a nod of the head—but something passed between. Some kind of sign or communication traveled between man and animal, causing the two wolves to turn and disappear beyond the ridge. ‘‘You frightened them,’’ he said, turning around to face her, taking her by the arm. ‘‘I frightened them?’’ She choked the words out, her eyes widening. ‘‘They scared me to death. That one was so big and looked so mean.’’ ‘‘He was just protecting his mate,’’ Rafe explained,

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watching the color returning to her cheeks. ‘‘He didn’t want to see her hurt.’’ ‘‘Oh, and you were able to tell all that from just looking, I take it.’’ ‘‘I was raised by wolves—or don’t you remember?’’ ‘‘Yeah, right,’’ she said, rolling her eyes. She felt better now and the sarcasm felt good. ‘‘I forgot about the Wolf Boy mysticism—communing with nature and all that.’’ Rafe ignored her sarcasm. ‘‘What are you doing over here, anyway?’’ Raeanne took a deep breath, feeling her heart slowly begin to quiet in her chest and gave him a deliberate look. ‘‘I told you. I wanted to see where Charlie Avery’s bones were discovered.’’ ‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ he said, watching as annoyance replaced the fear in her eyes. ‘‘So what are you doing wandering around up here?’’ Raeanne shook her head, the hand on her hip betraying her impatience. ‘‘Aren’t you listening? I already told you.’’ ‘‘You told me you were looking for the place where Charlie Avery’s bones were found.’’ ‘‘That’s right.’’ ‘‘Charlie Avery’s bones were found over there.’’ He pointed to a grade twenty feet behind her, in the opposite direction. Raeanne followed the line of his gaze, spotting a small piece of yellow police tape hanging from a tree limb that had once cordoned off the area. She stared at the dangling tape for a long moment, not realizing until she turned back to Rafe that her jaw had actually dropped open. But when she saw the amusement in his eyes, it snapped shut again. She felt a little like Alice after she

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drank the magic potion, shriveling and shrinking to just inches in height. ‘‘Oh,’’ she said meekly, feeling more than a little foolish. He regarded her for a minute, watching the wheels turn and her expression go from angry to abashed. ‘‘You okay?’’ ‘‘What do you mean, am I okay? Of course I’m okay,’’ she snapped, yanking her arm away. But she wasn’t okay, she was embarrassed and it had her testy and defensive. ‘‘I’m fine.’’ She turned and started for the spot he’d indicated, stumbling as she went. ‘‘Just fine.’’ Rafe let her pass, watching as she stalked off. He wasn’t sure exactly why he’d followed her out here from the Norths’. He’d gotten into his truck with every intention of returning to town, but for some reason he just hadn’t been able to. He’d told himself he was merely concerned for her safety, that he was concerned that something might happen to the car, or to her and that she’d be stuck out here alone. But those weren’t the real reasons. There was unfinished business between them and it bothered him. ‘‘You’re not going to see much,’’ he said, turning and following her. ‘‘The snow has pretty much obliterated everything.’’ ‘‘I’m not really looking for anything in particular,’’ she mumbled, scanning the small clearing. ‘‘I didn’t remember much of what it was like around here. I guess I just wanted to get the feeling of the place.’’ ‘‘So what kind of feeling do you get?’’ She stopped and gave a careless shrug. ‘‘I’m not sure.’’

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Rafe kicked at a snow-covered branch that had fallen to the ground. ‘‘It’s a lonely place.’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Raeanne agreed, thinking it didn’t seem nearly as lonely as it had before Rafe arrived. ‘‘And apparently the perfect place to hide a body.’’ She watched him as he bent down and picked up a small rock and threw it over the bluff. ‘‘Why did you follow me?’’ ‘‘You mean besides to rescue you from a pack of wolves?’’ he said lightly. ‘‘Or point you in the right direction?’’ Embarrassed, she had to smile at his reply. ‘‘Thanks, by the way,’’ she said with a deep sigh. Breaking off a small twig from a low-hanging limb, she began breaking it into tiny pieces. ‘‘Anytime,’’ he said. She looked up at him, tossing the small bits of twig to the ground. His dark eyes showed nothing. Why had he come? He wished he could answer that himself. He turned and walked to the edge of the bluff, looking out across the landscape to the densely wooded horizon. ‘‘That’s where they found me,’’ he said, ignoring her question and pointing out across the plateau. ‘‘In the woods over there.’’ Raeanne walked over to where he stood, gazing over the countryside. ‘‘Isn’t that part of the Kincaid ranch?’’ ‘‘Yeah, near where the old Baxter place used to be.’’ ‘‘Baxter,’’ Raeanne repeated slowly. ‘‘I remember my mom and her friends talking about the Baxters. Wasn’t it a Baxter that was rumored to be Charlie’s...’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Rafe said when her words drifted off. ‘‘The daughter—Lexine.’’ ‘‘Lexine Baxter,’’ Raeanne murmured. ‘‘What was it about her that got people talking so?’’

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‘‘From what I remember hearing, plenty,’’ Rafe said, glancing back out across the panorama. ‘‘When I was little, Tracy Hensley’s dad used to come out and talk to my mom a lot—you know, about people around these parts, stuff like that. I think he was doing a book or some kind of research, I don’t remember exactly. But I remember hearing them talk about Lexine. She was pretty wild.’’ ‘‘Really wild? Or wild for Whitehorn?’’ Rafe smiled. ‘‘From what I remember, I think old Lexine could have held her own even in L.A.’’ ‘‘That wild, huh?’’ She laughed, not taking offense at the jab. ‘‘But you know how people around here love to talk.’’ He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘‘Better than most.’’ The bitterness in his voice surprised her. ‘‘But those stories about you were so ridiculous. I mean, look back at it. A baby raised by wolves? That’s nonsense. No one really believed any of that.’’ ‘‘A lot of people did at the time. You forget, people used to be afraid of me.’’ ‘‘Kids,’’ she said dismissively, with a shake of the head. ‘‘Not just kids.’’ ‘‘There are people who think Elvis runs a karaoke bar in Missoula, too,’’ she drawled. ‘‘So what does that tell you?’’ He turned and stared down at her. ‘‘There are some who are still afraid.’’ She looked up at him, seeing something flicker in his eyes. Uneasy, she glanced away, making her way down, away from the bluff. ‘‘I would bet that has more to do

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with the fact that you’re a cop than you being some kind of wild wolf boy.’’ ‘‘You were never afraid.’’ She turned and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved, just stood staring at her from a distance. She didn’t want to talk to him—not about the past. ‘‘No, I wasn’t.’’ He turned and started down the bluff toward her. ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘Why what?’’ she asked uncomfortably. ‘‘Why wasn’t I afraid?’’ ‘‘Everyone else was,’’ he said, coming close. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she said with a small, nervous laugh, ‘‘why are we talking about this? It’s silly.’’ ‘‘Is it?’’ he asked simply. ‘‘I still want to know. You were always different. You never teased or heckled me, you never made fun. Why not? Why weren’t you afraid of me?’’ ‘‘This is ridiculous,’’ she insisted, but the quiver in her voice threatened to betray her true feelings. ‘‘Why would I have wanted to tease you?’’ ‘‘Because I was different. Because everyone else did.’’ ‘‘This isn’t even worth discussing.’’ She stumbled back a step, feeling uneasy and uncomfortable. She didn’t want to talk about this and didn’t like that he was pushing it on her. They could barely speak about the present without arguing—what good would it do to dredge up the past? ‘‘Even Andy,’’ he went on. ‘‘He even admitted he used to be afraid of me, used to tease and run away— before we became friends.’’ ‘‘I’m going,’’ she said, gesturing with a sweep of her hands to indicate that the subject was closed. ‘‘Why? Because I mentioned Andy? Does it bother

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you to talk about your husband with me? We were friends, or have you forgotten?’’ She glared up at him. Andy... He was a large fragment in their littered past and even seven years after his death, he still stood between them. ‘‘You used to be my friend, Rafe—before Andy, before everything else.’’ ‘‘Was I?’’ he asked, reaching out and grabbing her by the elbow. ‘‘Was I really?’’ He glared down at her, his dark eyes wild. ‘‘Why did you want to be friends with Wolf Boy, when everyone else ran away? How come I frightened everyone else away and not you?’’ Raeanne glared up at him, angry that she was the one being confronted now. What was she supposed to tell him, what did she say? How could she explain the special place he’d always had in her heart? What could she reveal without revealing too much? ‘‘I thought it was mean,’’ she said finally, after a long silence. ‘‘I thought it was cruel what they said to you, the names they used to use. It made me feel sad. I knew it hurt you and it hurt me, too.’’ Her words were eloquent and thoughtful, but Rafe took no solace in them. Instead, they felt like a piercing sword in the chest. The pain was crippling and he felt he would bleed for the rest of his life. He saw the emotion in her face, saw the sympathy and the compassion in her eyes, but it made him feel cold and defeated inside. It was as he’d guessed, as he’d always suspected. She’d felt sorry for him. She’d championed his cause out of sympathy—sympathy for the poor boy without a past, for the child whose mother had thrown him away, the baby who’d been suckled by wolves and weaned on the wild. ‘‘I never wanted your pity,’’ he told her in a bitter voice, tightening the hold on her arm.

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Something in Rafe’s black eyes flared—a spark, an ember—and Raeanne felt a shiver travel down her spine. It had been something harsh, something angry, but also something hot and alive. ‘‘Pity,’’ she repeated, struggling against his hold. ‘‘I never pitied you.’’ ‘‘Didn’t you? A stray, with no background? The mistake someone had just tossed away?’’ ‘‘It wasn’t like that,’’ she insisted, trying to wrestle her arm free. ‘‘A wolf boy to be pitied and apologized to,’’ he continued, his voice growing harsher. ‘‘Stop it,’’ she demanded. ‘‘A misfit,’’ he continued, sneering. ‘‘A loser you could defend and make excuses for.’’ ‘‘Stop it!’’ she screamed, finally pulling herself free. She looked up at him, her chest heaving with emotion. ‘‘Stop it right now!’’ ‘‘Maybe you should stop,’’ he said, anger and pain making him go a little crazy. ‘‘Maybe you should stop feeling so sorry for me.’’ He reached out suddenly, grabbing her again. He used both hands this time and the force of his strength brought her crashing against him with a violent jolt. ‘‘Think about it,’’ he said in a low voice. ‘‘You’re alone out here with me. There are those in town who would fear being alone with a man who’d been raised by wolves.’’ He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her close and holding her tight. ‘‘Maybe you would do good to fear me just a little.’’ Rafe brought his mouth down hard on her soft lips. He was angry and hurt, the thought of her pity making him furious. He wanted to make her feel his pain and to understand his anger. He wanted to be rough to show

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his contempt, wanted to be crude to pay her back for her charity. But when he felt the velvety softness of her mouth against his, something changed. Raeanne was in his arms—the woman he’d wanted for longer than he could remember—and the realization had his anger melting away. What he’d only imagined, he now could touch. What he’d only dreamed about, he now could feel and taste. He forgot about pity and charity, forgot about sympathy and sorrow and picking up strays. The bitterness scattered from his brain, like dry, forgotten seeds scattering in the winter wind. Without the anger, he was left with only needs and an ache inside that he’d carried with him for far too long. Raeanne wasn’t afraid, she was terrified. His mouth had captured hers with a force that took her breath, that mastered her will and sent her thoughts fleeing. He’d never kissed her before—not once, not even on her wedding day. But his lips settled over hers now as though they’d been made for that purpose. For years she had waited, for a lifetime she’d anticipated and now she knew the dizzying reality of his kiss. She stopped struggling against him and turned the battle inward instead. She’d held her feelings in for so long, sharing them with no one else. But as if a floodgate had been opened after a long winter’s rain, needs flowed from her in a torrent, carrying her so far, so fast, she feared she’d never find her way back. Rafe forced her lips apart, tasting her magic and feeling himself grow dizzy and weak. He was not a man who gave his heart lightly, he was not a man who tarried on the surface of emotion. He dived deep, reaching out from the depths of his soul to find solace and intensity in hers.

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He pulled her closer and closer, wanting to confiscate and hoard every breath, every sigh, every precious moment. Somewhere in the back of his brain he heard her soft moan, tasted the nectar in his mouth, before it ricocheted through his system like an exotic and powerful opiate. He was a man with no past and an uncertain future, but for the moment he knew he held all he’d ever really need. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers. ‘‘Raeanne, Raeanne.’’ His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper and his breathing was labored. Beneath him, he felt the ground list and heel and his heart roared like thunder in his ears. He let her hair fall across him, feeling cool and silky against his heated skin. He buried his face in the warmth of her neck, feeling her soft skin against his lips and her body trembling beneath her bulky clothes. He’d thought he’d known what it was to want her, but he’d never imagined this. ‘‘Rafe.’’ He heard his name escape from her lips, a breathless plea that drifted in the silence of the snow and the trees. He captured her lips again, his hand finding the zipper of her parka and pulling it open. She was so warm, her waist was so slender and he pulled her to him tight. He wanted her right here—in the snow, in the wilderness. He wanted to tear away all barriers that separated them—clothing, consciousness, opinion, the past. He wanted nothing to stand in the way of making her his own. Raeanne felt her world careening out of control. She was adrift, beyond her jurisdiction, in over her head. She struggled for composure, wrestled to take command, but being in his arms was more than she could take. There was no foothold to steady her, no firm support to grab

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on to. He’d overwhelmed her completely and the helplessness she felt terrified her. He had taken her power with his passion, assumed all command with his desire. He was too strong, he wanted too much and she feared she didn’t have enough to give. If he’d wanted to prove his point, he’d done it. If he’d wanted to show her how afraid she was, he had. She was afraid—but not of Wolf Boy. She was afraid of herself and the way he made her feel. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she whispered, pushing away and gasping for air. Rafe felt the withdrawal and struggled against it. ‘‘Don’t,’’ he murmured, pulling her back. ‘‘No,’’ she cried, desperate, staggering back a step. ‘‘No, I can’t.’’ He let her go, the sound of her voice piercing through the cloud of desire. With the taste of her still on his lips, he saw the fear in her eyes and felt something go dead inside. ‘‘Can’t, or won’t?’’ ‘‘It doesn’t matter,’’ she said in a small voice, a tear spilling down her cheek. ‘‘You were wrong. I am afraid, Rafe. I’ve always been afraid.’’ She turned and stumbled down the rocks and across the snow to her car. Rafe heard the sound of the engine, watched her steer the car over the rough terrain until she’d disappeared from view. As he watched, he felt a wall of ice slowly close in around him, a frigid barrier keeping him from the warmth he craved. The fear he’d seen in her eyes haunted him. He’d lived with fear his whole life, seen it enough times in the eyes of friend and foe alike to know it and recognize it. But the terror he’d seen just now had nothing to do with legends and mistakes from the past. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, savored

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the taste of her in his mouth. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself against the rush of emotion that gripped him. She had wanted him. He’d felt her body tremble, heard her soft moans of need. Opening his eyes suddenly, he started down the hill toward his truck at a run. She’d been afraid, all right, but not of him. But something had put that fear in her eyes and he wasn’t going to rest until he found out what it was. ‘‘I’m not sure what it is, Daddy,’’ Raeanne lamented, switching the phone to the other ear. ‘‘It’s just making a mess all over the driveway.’’ ‘‘Could you have run over something?’’ Raymond Martin asked over the line. ‘‘It sounds like you might have cracked the oil pan.’’ Raeanne remembered how carelessly she’d driven the reservation road back to the highway and the numerous scrapes and crunches she’d heard. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she muttered evasively, preferring not to go into detail. ‘‘I might have.’’ ‘‘Well,’’ Raymond said slowly, ‘‘I’ll see what I can do. But you know, with it being Sunday tomorrow and Christmas on Tuesday, it’s not likely there’s much we can do for the next few days. Why don’t I drop the old truck by in the morning? You can use it until we get your car straightened out.’’ Raeanne thought of bouncing around town in that ancient contraption and felt her head begin to throb. ‘‘Let me call around in the morning,’’ she said finally, loving her father for offering, but hating the thought of rattling around in the hellish vehicle. ‘‘Maybe I can find a garage open.’’ She heard her father chuckle over the line. ‘‘You for-

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get, honey, this is Whitehorn, not Los Angeles. Everything around here isn’t open twenty-four hours a day.’’ He paused a moment to chuckle again. ‘‘But I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We’ll figure out something. Good night, sweetie.’’ ‘‘Good night, Daddy,’’ she mumbled, dropping the phone onto its cradle. She glanced out the dining room window to the dark driveway where her car was parked. It was too dark to see the huge oil stain that had spread from beneath it, but she knew it was there. It had been foolish to drive so recklessly along the rugged road that led through the reservation, but she hadn’t exactly been thinking straight at the time. Raeanne took a deep breath, thinking of Rafe and the way he’d held her, the way he’d kissed her and the way he’d made her feel. How many years had she fantasized and daydreamed about that happening? How many nights had she lain awake in bed, longing for him to kiss her in that very way? But all her wishes and dreams hadn’t prepared her for the violent reaction she’d had to his touch. He’d stirred feelings in her she’d never known existed, feelings she seemed powerless to control and helpless to stop. Maybe he’d been right when he told her she should fear him. Because what she had felt when he held her in his arms scared her to death. With a tired sigh, she turned away from the window, giving her head a small shake in an effort to stop herself from remembering. She wanted desperately to forget, but it didn’t do much good. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget the feel of his hands on her, his lips hot and urgent and his voice rough with need. She reached for the package of brightly colored

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Christmas bows that lay amid the cluttered array of wrappings and ribbons that littered her small dining room table. Pulling a large, shiny red bow from the bag, she finished up the package she’d been wrapping when her father called. When she was done, she added the present to the stack of others she’d completed earlier and, gathering them all up into her arms, she carried them into the living room and arranged them beneath the tree. She stepped back and admired the festive scene. It looked like something from a Currier and Ives Christmas card—the room lit only by the lights of the tree, reflecting off the ornaments and framed by the brightly wrapped presents scattered below. Still, despite the tree and all its trimmings, it was hard to believe Christmas was in just three days. She felt anything but festive. She meandered back into the dining room, reaching for a large shopping bag that rested on a press-backed chair. Inside, one lone package remained. Rafe’s present. Almost reluctantly, Raeanne reached into the bag and pulled out a small black box. Flipping open the top, she stared down at the rugged, all-weather sports watch inside. What had ever possessed her to buy it? It had been an impulsive and stupid thing to do, but it seemed as though she’d been doing a lot of stupid and impulsive things lately. Buying him a present hardly seemed appropriate, given their on-again, off-again friendship, so why had she done it? Why had it pleased her to shop for him and pick out something special? Glancing down at it, she shook her head. And what was she going to do with it now? She squeezed her eyes tight, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes and a hopelessness in her heart. She was so

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confused, so alone. He’d kissed her and awakened in her a passion she hadn’t known herself capable of. He’d shown her desire, intensity, but very little else. He’d said nothing to her, made no declaration, given her no real clue as to how he felt. So why had he kissed her? Because he cared? Because he wanted her? Or because he’d wanted to prove a point, because he’d wanted to make his case and put her in her place? Rafe had a reputation for being cold, but could he be that cold and unfeeling? And yet how well did she know him? People could change a lot in seven years. Had too much time passed? Had he changed so much that he was a stranger to her now? She took a deep breath, batting away a tear as it spilled down her cheek. Slamming the lid of the watch’s box down hard, she reached for the wrapping paper. She wrapped it quickly, then took it with her into the living room and tossed it carelessly beneath the tree. ‘‘Maybe Dad would like it,’’ she said aloud, the sound of her own voice in the quiet house making her feel even more lonely and discouraged. The clock above the mantel chimed the half hour— nine-thirty—and yet she felt as though she’d been up for days. The emotional upheaval of the day had left her drained and she hadn’t even given the interview with Nan Avery a thought. She glanced at her briefcase in the foyer. There was so much work that needed to be done—notes to review, transcripts to go over, questions to prepare—and just thinking about it made her feel worse. She didn’t have the energy to look at her notes tonight, to think about Ethan and the trial and the defense she would have to prepare. Thank goodness Judge Matthews had recessed

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the trial until the day after New Year’s. She could use the time and all this could wait at least until the morning. All she wanted now was a hot shower and a warm bed. The shower felt wonderful and she stood beneath the hot spray, letting its warmth penetrate deep. She dried off, wrapping herself in a bulky robe and blowing her hair dry. By the time she’d slipped the dryer back on its hook beside the sink and flipped the bathroom light off, she could barely keep her eyes open. She stumbled through the darkness, too tired to bother with the lights. She ambled into the living room, pulling the plug on the Christmas lights, shutting the drapes and closing the blinds. She’d just finished checking the lock on the front door and started back through the house when something had her forgetting about how tired she was and brought every muscle in her body to full alert. She froze, standing in the darkness and listening to the roar of the silence against her eardrums. Through the dining room windows, she caught a glimpse of movement outside on the drive and her heart made a spectacular leap from her chest to her throat. An icy shiver traveled the length of her spine and she shuddered where she stood. Someone was out there.

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ife seemed to come back into her petrified body in a burst of action and fury. Raeanne moved through the house, silent and alert. In one smooth motion, she grabbed the cordless phone from the desk and the gun from the drawer. Her fingers felt cold and clumsy on the buttons of the telephone as she dialed 911. The soft, muted tones that sounded as she punched in the keys were like sirens in the dead silence. Waiting for the first ring seemed to take an eternity and she peeked around the corner, seeing a shadow travel the length of her dining room, around the house, and up her back stairs. A million scenarios passed through her mind—all violent and frightening. Headlines sprang into her head and she saw her name in print—as the victim of a criminal act. The flat monotone of the first ring exploded in her ear, and she bolted violently. She tiptoed down the hall, creeping toward the kitchen. She thought of what Rafe had said, about Ethan and the trial, about her job and the questions she’d raised. He’d talked about people being upset, about people wanting justice, about the possibility of someone extracting his own form of revenge. The second ring came after what seemed like an eternity, just as a tall shadow covered the window of her

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back door. Raeanne’s breath caught in her throat and she held it in a strangled sort of gasp. A third ring sounded in her ear, but she was only vaguely aware of it. Every nerve, every cell, every ounce of her being, was watching the handle on the back door. With a chilling clarity, she remembered pulling the trash can from under the sink and carrying it to the Dumpster out back. And with a certainty that could come only from a system high on adrenaline, she knew for a fact that she’d forgotten to lock the door. She forgot about the telephone, and stared down at the gun in her hand. She remembered her brave words to Rafe, boasting about her willingness to use a gun— tough, fearless words from someone who’d never even come close to having to. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she’d use it if she had to, but she’d never had to before and the thought that she might have to now terrified her. She watched the knob turn and the door swing open in an aberrant, eerie motion that was slow and prolonged, not like normal action at all. She forgot about the telephone, letting the line go dead and the handset slide unnoticed to the floor. With both hands, she grabbed the Beretta, bringing it up into position to fire, and felt the blood in her veins turn to ice. The moonlight outside made the night sky bright, and cast the dark shadow of a stranger across her kitchen floor. He stepped inside, a rush of cold wind following in his wake. He looked up, seeing her standing in the hallway across from him, a gun leveled at his chest. ‘‘Don’t be frightened.’’ At the sound of the gruff whisper in the darkness, Raeanne dropped the gun to her side. ‘‘Rafe.’’ The door slammed behind him, throwing the kitchen

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into darkness and erasing his shadow from the floor. He moved across the room, drawn by the scent of the woman he’d come for, the absence of light a mere impediment of the moment. He found her in the darkness with unerring ease, reaching down slowly and slipping the gun from her hand. Raeanne stared up at him, his dark eyes bright, in defiance of the night. He said nothing else, made no confession, offered no excuse. He merely stared down at her, telling her his secrets with his eyes alone. ‘‘I don’t want you to be afraid,’’ he whispered again, but he wasn’t talking about her fear of an intruder. But Raeanne wasn’t afraid, not any longer and she wouldn’t be ever again. He was here and that was all that mattered. Maybe there were things they still needed to talk about, maybe there were words she still needed to hear from him, but all that didn’t seem to matter. He’d come to her and for now, in the darkness, that was enough. She stepped close, letting her arms travel slowly along the quilting of his down vest. Rising on tiptoe, she rested her hands on his shoulders and brought her lips to his in a soft, tender kiss. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he murmured against her lips, his body reacting violently to the softness of her touch. ‘‘Raeanne, I—’’ ‘‘No,’’ she said, stopping him with another gentle kiss. ‘‘I don’t want to talk. Not tonight.’’ She slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. ‘‘Not tonight.’’ The feel of her soft body against his was almost more than he could take. He’d come wanting to talk, wanting to clear the air between them once and for all. He’d wanted to ask her why she’d been frightened and to as-

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sure her that, despite what he’d said, she had nothing to fear from him. But her hands were on him now, she was touching him and all the rest seemed so unimportant. He’d seen her car in the drive, but when he was unable to get an answer at the front door, he’d come around to the back of the house in search of her. Seeing her standing in the hallway with a gun leveled at his chest hadn’t frightened him nearly as much as the thought that something might have happened to her. Slowly and deliberately, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her to him tight. Staring into her dark eyes, he let her feel his hard body, let her feel what it was she did to him. Her dark eyes grew wide and filled with emotion, but nowhere in them could he find any fear. He saw only life and challenge and need. He brought his mouth to hers, the storm within him turning violent from years spent waiting. He pushed her lips apart, kissing her long and deep and feeling himself grow dizzy and weak. He’d been cold for so long—a lone wolf on the prowl in a desolate winter landscape. But holding her in his arms, feeling her soft body against his, it was as though he’d suddenly found the sun. His heart pounded and he felt the blood pumping hot through his veins. He could feel her beneath the bulky robe—soft, smooth and bare. A shudder traveled through him. He felt shaky and weak and yet never in his life had he wanted more to be strong. Raeanne surrendered to the violent storm of his kiss. She didn’t flinch, nor did she cower away. She met the furious energy of his embrace with a fervent, urgent need of her own. She felt the need arise in her, soaring up from that private place where she’d hidden it away. It tore through

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her now, coursing through her veins like fire through a drought-ravaged forest. When he kissed her earlier, on the Indian reservation, the breadth of her feelings had frightened her. The chemistry between them had been so strong, so potent. It terrified her that he had that kind of power over her. But she was frightened no more. She knew what she wanted and she wanted it now. If things weren’t settled between them, so be it. If he still denied her the words she longed to hear, who needed them? She’d waited her whole life for this man and she would wait no more. She tore at his vest, sending it tumbling to the floor. She felt strong and confident, ready to face her destiny head-on and not run for cover. She had seen him standing in the darkness, had felt his need reaching out to her and something magical had happened inside her. A fountain had burst to life within her—a wellspring of energy and strength. She’d tapped into the source itself—her power, her instincts, her ability, as a woman. She wasn’t afraid, she was delirious. She was in the arms of the man she loved, secure in the knowledge that she could please him, and please herself, as well. He might not have been able to say the words she’d longed to hear, but it wasn’t important. He needed her— she’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in his touch and tasted it in his mouth. And she needed him, too. For now, the knowledge was enough. There would be time later for words and explanations, for confessions and declarations. Now there was only the man she loved and a need so great between them that nothing else mattered. Rafe tore at the belt of the robe, wanting to devastate and destroy all barriers that separated him from what he wanted most. He labored with hands made weak by need, ripping and tearing until the constricting sash gave

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way, falling silently to the floor. This afternoon he’d endured the bulky coats and layers of clothing, but now he would tolerate nothing. He yanked the robe apart, feeling the breath in his lungs stall and his heart forget to beat. He tore his mouth from hers, leaving her gasping and desperate. The hands that reached for her trembled, but never had he felt more alive. Her skin was like velvet, soft beyond belief. His hands drifted over her—caressing, exploring. Her breasts were full and round, her hips supple and firm. He told himself this had to be a dream, because life for him had never been this good. But Rafe had stopped believing in dreams long ago. He believed only in what he could see, what he could touch and what he could feel. And at the moment Raeanne was all of that. Her slender body torched his senses, her soft sighs inflamed his soul. She was tangible and real and she belonged to him. He lifted her to him, burying his face in the sweet valley of her breasts. With hands and mouth, he worshiped and explored. Her body blossomed beneath his touch, her hard nipples inciting and fueling the inferno building in him. Her soft groans sounding in his ears were a salacious symphony of need and desire. ‘‘I want you,’’ he growled against her heated skin. His tongue tasted the length of her neck, leaving a path of hot, wet kisses in its wake. He’d never felt like this before—so alive, so strong, so needy. ‘‘Rafe.’’ The sound of his name on her lips had the fire within him flaring. His whole life, she’d been his ideal—unattainable and out of reach. And yet he’d wanted her— Lord, how he had wanted her. The long, torturous nights, the cold, cruel days, he had endured. An empty life.

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She’d been everything he hoped for and all he knew he could never have. He knew what it was to face his worst fear, to greet the demon and stare it squarely in the eye. He’d had to stand back and watch while she married his best friend. He’d hated himself for wanting his best friend’s wife, but a part of him had hated his friend for taking her away. But Andy was gone, and she belonged to him now— for the moment—and that would have to be enough. It was more than he’d ever hoped for, more than he deserved. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she moaned again, her body impatient and restless with need. She wrapped her legs around him, the bulky robe that dangled from her shoulders falling to the floor. The feel of the rough denim against her legs had the craving in her spiraling, spinning out of control. His hands on her body were driving her mad and the desperation grew critical. She tore at his flannel shirt, pulling it free of his jeans and sending buttons scattering across the carpeted floor. Rafe carried her with him, finding the bedroom and staggering to the bed. He pulled off his shredded shirt, tossing it aside, but her urgent hands dragged him back into her arms. She grabbed for his jeans, yanking them apart. He was ready to explode, the need in him like a beast that grew more potent and more determined with every stroke of her hand. His head spun and his spirit cried out. He needed her more than he needed his next breath. Raeanne stared up into his dark eyes. How could she have ever thought they were cold and unfeeling? Their shadowy depths burned her now, disclosing more clearly the love in his heart than any words she could ever hear.

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She was staggered by the strength of him and bolstered by his desire. He was a wolf boy—wild, untamed and savage. And he was hungry for her. ‘‘W-we have to be careful,’’ she murmured, knowing she had to be responsible, even though coherent thought seemed impossible. ‘‘I know, I’ll take care of it,’’ Rafe assured her, and he did with speed and efficiency. Ground zero. It came for them both in a union of mind and body, heart and soul. Rafe forgot about what clothing remained. There was no time left for that. He pushed into her—one mighty thrust that sent her reaching, grabbing, wanting. She was not a virgin. Andy had taken that from her years before. But the force driving her was something she’d never experienced before. For a moment, Rafe couldn’t move. He could only close his eyes and succumb to the rush of feelings bombarding him. He stared down at her, watching the play of emotion across her face. He saw no fear, only hunger and need and it made the craving in him all the more unstable. She fit him tightly, like a glove, her body expanding and accepting his intrusion. He knew, as his body instinctively began to move, that he would never forget this moment. It was carved in his soul, like an etching on a rock. It was pure, it was pristine and it was as close to heaven as he was ever going to get. ‘‘Love me,’’ she murmured, reaching up and wrapping her arms around him tight. ‘‘Rafe, please, love me.’’ ‘‘I do,’’ he whispered against her lips, kissing her deeply. He forgot about inhibitions and inabilities. He wasn’t thinking about masking feelings or hiding the truth. At that moment, all there was for him was Raeanne and the glorious motions of their bodies together.

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With each powerful push of his body, Raeanne felt her hold on the real world falter and slip. She didn’t know if she was on the road to madness or bliss and she no longer cared. The need in her had become a holocaust, making her wild and desperate. He was Wolf Boy, but she was the savage. She moved intuitively, instinctively, journeying closer to that magic place, that elusive spot where misery met ecstasy, hunger met need. The world tilted wildly on its axis, spinning faster and faster and her heart beat erratically in her chest. She let his passion carry her out of herself, over the edge and into the void. Rafe pulled his mouth from hers, feeling her arms contract and her legs spasm tight. His own body shuddered as he tried valiantly to help her through the labyrinth of pleasure, but it was no use. He couldn’t hold on any longer. Her movements, her soft moans of satisfaction and the feel of her beneath him, were like gas to a flame—they ignited him, pushing him beyond the limits, beyond all human constraints. His body exploded, hurling him forward and into the white light of rapture. The world took its time returning, and Rafe found that he was in no hurry for its arrival. He drifted back slowly—inch by inch, breath by breath—listening to the steady, even beating of his heart blending with hers. She held him, her arms around his neck anchoring him to her, though they needn’t have. He had no intention of going. His hand languidly stroked her long, silky hair, which spilled out across the bedspread like a burst of light around the sun. Every now and then his body would tremble, quaking testimony to the fury that had shaken him to his core. Outside, the wind howled, cold and

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bleak, but he’d never felt warmer or more content in his life. If he died right now, he wouldn’t complain. He was in Raeanne’s arms and he knew he could ask for no more. Raeanne sighed, closing her eyes and letting the warmth of his hard body surround and protect her. They were still locked together, their bodies entwined in an intimate embrace, but their passion had graduated from conflagration to contentment long ago, and she was satisfied to just hold him. She would have been happy to stay that way forever, but she knew the real world awaited. She thought of the way he had held her, of his touch and his desire and she felt a stirring inside of her. She knew now that this was why she had come home, why she had returned to Whitehorn after so many years. She’d come back for him. She loved Rafe Rawlings, her wild, untamed Wolf Boy, and she always had. ‘‘You’re cold,’’ he murmured against her cheek, feeling her shiver beneath him. ‘‘Not really,’’ she whispered, not wanting the moment to end. But he was already moving. Lifting himself up, he stood, sliding his jeans to his waist. Reaching for the bedcovers, he placed her between them. Raeanne laid back against the cool sheets, letting him draw the blankets around her tight. But when he picked up the rest of his clothes, she sprang up. ‘‘Stay,’’ she said, placing a hand over his. He regarded her in the darkness, the sight of her naked in the bed causing his body to react again. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ She lifted herself up to her knees, letting the covers fall carelessly away. She let her hands travel up his

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chest, her flat palms brushing the coarse, dark hair. ‘‘Very sure.’’ His boots, socks and jeans slipped to the floor, followed by his shorts. Lowering her back onto the bed, he drew the covers over them both. Pulling her soft, warm body into his arms, he kissed her. ‘‘I’m sure, too.’’ ‘‘Are you awake?’’ Rafe cracked a lid. The light streaming in through the miniblinds was blinding, and he quickly closed it again. ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘Yes, you are.’’ Raeanne laughed, giving him a playful push with her hand. Rafe had to smile. She felt so soft and warm beneath the covers and their bodies fit so well together. He’d actually awakened long before she had, but he hadn’t wanted to move. It had felt so good just to hold her, to have a few moments to reflect and absorb all that had happened, to go back over it and savor it. He’d felt her body stir, felt her slowly find her way to wakefulness, but still he’d made no move to rise. He’d been too content, too satisfied, too happy. Contentment. Satisfaction. Happiness. The concepts of those things didn’t strike him as particularly odd, except that he was a man who’d known very little contentment, very little satisfaction, and very little true happiness in his life. He peeked through slitted lids at her, lying beside him, her hair spilling over his chest. He felt almost giddy. How could things change so dramatically in such a short time? Yesterday morning he’d gotten up and driven to the Norths’ ranch, knowing she would be anything but pleased to see him there. He opened his eyes wider, looking at her beautiful

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face and bright smile. She hadn’t been pleased then, but she looked pleased now. ‘‘See, I was right,’’ she said, cuddling close. ‘‘You are awake.’’ ‘‘What time is it?’’ he asked, stretching lazily before pulling her close and pressing a kiss to a corner of her mouth. ‘‘I don’t know.’’ She smiled, kissing him back. ‘‘Where’s your watch?’’ He glanced down at his bare wrist. ‘‘Oh,’’ he groaned, remembering the broken band that had sent his old, battered watch flying to lie in a heap on the pavement outside the station house. ‘‘I don’t have one anymore.’’ Raeanne lifted herself up onto her elbow and gazed down at him. Smiling broadly, she thought of the present she’d tossed so carelessly under the tree. ‘‘What?’’ he asked suspiciously, seeing the full smile and dancing eyes. ‘‘You don’t have a watch?’’ ‘‘No,’’ he said, reaching up and caressing her cheek. ‘‘Is that a problem?’’ She turned her face, pressing a kiss into his palm and smiled. ‘‘What’s so funny?’’ She just looked down at him and smiled more widely. ‘‘Nothing.’’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘‘Why don’t I believe you?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, why don’t you?’’ she asked breezily, laughing. She glanced over to the clock radio beside the bed, and gasped. ‘‘My God, I can’t believe it. It’s after eight. I never sleep this late.’’ ‘‘Well, we haven’t exactly been doing a whole lot of sleeping,’’ he said with a wicked smile, pulling her close

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and letting their bodies brush together. ‘‘You have somewhere else you have to be?’’ Moving forward, she pushed him into the pillows, settling herself atop him. ‘‘No,’’ she murmured, pressing his arms back onto the mattress and brushing a kiss over his lips. ‘‘But there is something I have to do.’’ She kissed him, slipping her tongue between his lips and taking command. She moved over him—slow, sensuous movements that left him breathless and desperate. He groaned, his hands moving the length of her. ‘‘Raeanne, you’re...you’re driving me crazy.’’ ‘‘Hold on, then,’’ she murmured against his lips. ‘‘’Cause you haven’t seen anything yet.’’ She rose up, her hair tumbling past her shoulders, her legs straddling his long, lean body. She found him hard, and ready for her and she lowered herself onto him in one strong, determined motion. Rafe fought the urge to close his eyes—even though the rush of pleasure flooding his system was almost overwhelming. But he resisted, wanting to see her above him, wanting to imprint the image in his brain. She was strong and majestic as a goddess, skilled and sensual as a courtesan, yet to him she was an angel. It was a long time before they left the bed, before they stumbled for the bathroom and into the shower. After a shower that left her small bathroom filled with huge clouds of steam, they dried one another off and headed for the kitchen. Raeanne tightened the sash of her robe, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of eggs. Her gaze drifted to Rafe, who was making coffee at the counter and a shiver traveled up her spine. He looked so handsome standing in her kitchen—hair tousled, feet and

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chest bare, dressed only in jeans. She’d never seen him like this before. She’d known him most of her life. They had talked and kidded and laughed and argued together. His strong, handsome features were no mystery to her. They were dear and familiar. They had filled her dreams, haunted her consciousness and taken up residence in her heart. But standing in her kitchen after a long night of love, he looked different to her now—the same, yet different. He had come to her, he had taken her in his arms, he had kissed her and loved her and somehow she knew nothing would ever be the same again—for either of them. She could hardly believe last night had happened, that he’d actually stayed the night, was actually standing in her kitchen now. And yet it seemed as though her whole life had been moving toward this point. She cracked the eggs, dropping them into the frying pan and whipping them together. She felt herself smiling—actually, she felt like humming and singing and jumping for joy and dancing around the kitchen, but she wasn’t sure what Rafe would make of all that. So, for the time being, a smile would have to do. It had been there. All this time, all these years, she’d somehow just known this would happen. There was something between them—there always had been and there always would be. It had been there in Mrs. Whitney’s classroom and it had been there last night when he took her in his arms. It was in his eyes, in his touch, in every move he made. They belonged together, were a part of each other—now and forever. She and Rafe together. It seemed impossible, unbelievable and yet it was true. This was what she had wanted since that first day she laid eyes on him. She

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remembered Winona, and her cryptic words that night at the Hip Hop Cafe´. Winona had talked about resolving old problems and making a clear path to happiness. She glanced at Rafe and then back to the pan on the stove. There were issues still unresolved between them, their paths remained littered with ghosts from the past. But she was so happy now. There would be time later to tackle all those things. None of it seemed important right now. Being with Rafe felt like the most natural thing in the world—it was where she belonged, where she wanted to be. She’d dreamed of being with Rafe hundreds of times over the years. She’d imagined how it would happen and what would occur. Last night had been nothing like she’d imagined, nothing like she’d dreamed, yet it had been more than she’d ever hoped it would be. ‘‘Yum, smells good,’’ Rafe murmured, reaching around from behind and nuzzling her neck. Carefully bringing his arm around, he held up a mug of coffee. ‘‘This is for you.’’ ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said, taking the cup from him and giving it a sip. She turned in his arms, smiling up at him. ‘‘Delicious.’’ He bent down and kissed her, tasting the coffee on her lips. ‘‘You’re delicious,’’ he murmured, kissing her again. Raeanne thought of herself as a sensible, responsible person, but Rafe Rawlings had a strange effect on her. She marveled at it. One kiss, and she could forget everything—including the eggs on the stove. ‘‘Wait!’’ Raeanne screamed after a moment, pushing him away, when she smelled the aroma of burning food. ‘‘Oh, no,’’ she moaned, batting away the smoke and looking down at the eggs. ‘‘I’ve ruined them.’’

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‘‘I like blackened food,’’ Rafe murmured, taking the pan from her hand and dropping it in the sink. ‘‘But I’m not hungry now, anyway—for eggs, that is.’’ He pulled her close, lifting her off the floor and onto the counter. ‘‘You’re the only thing I want,’’ he whispered against her lips, pulling the robe apart. ‘‘The only thing I’m hungry for.’’ Raeanne gave in to the maelstrom of emotions that ravaged her. His words, his touch, his very presence, had her wanting him and it was as though she couldn’t get enough. Her need for him was enormous, her hunger immense. She wanted him more with each touch, with each kiss. She’d spent years waiting, years doing without and it would be a long time—a very long time—before the hunger would be appeased. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she murmured, her hands moving restlessly over his chest, his arms, his shoulders. ‘‘You’re mine now,’’ he whispered, his hard chest heaving with emotion. He pulled her to him, sliding her across the counter until she was wrapped around him. ‘‘Mine.’’ ‘‘Yours.’’ Raeanne sighed, giving in to a fate she had prayed would be hers. ‘‘Yours.’’ ‘‘Raeanne? You awake? Raeanne?’’ Both Rafe and Raeanne jumped at the sound of her name and the pounding on the door. For a moment, neither of them could move. Then the pounding sounded again. ‘‘Hey! You in there? Raeanne? Open up.’’ ‘‘Oh, my God!’’ Raeanne gasped, pushing Rafe away and snatching her robe together. ‘‘It’s my dad.’’

Nine ‘‘D

addy,’’ Raeanne said, her attempt at sounding bright and chipper making her voice higher than usual. ‘‘My goodness, what are you doing here?’’ ‘‘Well, there you are,’’ Raymond Martin said testily, stepping into the kitchen and wiping his feet on the mat. His cheeks were bright from the cold and a stocking cap covered his bald head. ‘‘Where the Sam Hill you been, child? I’ve been pounding out here for ten minutes.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry, Dad.’’ Raeanne cringed, feeling her face flush hot. ‘‘I...uh...’’ She shrugged, gesturing toward the robe wrapped around her. ‘‘I was in the shower.’’ ‘‘Whose truck is that parked out front?’’ Raymond asked, doing a double take after spotting the pan full of burned eggs in the sink. ‘‘It sorta looks like the one Rafe Raw—’’ But Raymond’s voice trailed off when he caught a glimpse of movement from the far side of the room. ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Martin,’’ Rafe said, stepping into the kitchen from the small hall and extending a hand to Raeanne’s father. Raeanne just wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. This couldn’t be happening. She dared not look at her father and she was half-afraid to look at Rafe. If his shirt was still off, she knew for sure she would die from embarrassment. She tried to reason things out, reminding herself she was an adult—unattached and in-

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dependent and she had every right to entertain whoever she wanted in her own home, whenever she wanted. She didn’t need to make excuses or explanations to anyone for her behavior. She was a free agent, wasn’t breaking any laws, wasn’t hurting anyone. But this was her father! And he’d practically caught them in the act. If humiliation could be fatal, she was doomed. ‘‘Well, Rafe, that is your truck out front then,’’ Raymond said, taking Rafe’s outstretched hand and giving it a hearty shake. ‘‘I didn’t expect to see you here today.’’ Raeanne looked up guiltily, relieved to see Rafe in a shirt—despite the fact that it was missing several of its buttons—with the tails neatly tucked in. ‘‘He...uh, I...uh, called Rafe this morning to see if he would mind...you know, looking at my car,’’ she blurted out nervously. Rafe looked at Raeanne, raising his eyebrows slowly and giving her a slow smile. Raymond Martin looked at his daughter, surprised. ‘‘Well, now, why’d you do that? I told you I’d be over to look at it.’’ He shook his head, looking back at Rafe, ‘‘You didn’t need to drive all the way into town just for that. I could have taken care of it.’’ ‘‘I didn’t mind,’’ Rafe said casually, looking back at Raeanne. ‘‘Besides, she offered to fix me breakfast.’’ ‘‘Well, I hope you’re having better luck with the car than she is with those eggs,’’ Raymond said dryly, pointing to the pan in the sink. Rafe smiled, watching the color darken even more in Raeanne’s cheeks. He knew she, too, was remembering how those eggs had gotten ruined. Raeanne felt her mouth go dry and nervous perspira-

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tion break out along her upper lip. The whole situation was just going from bad to worse. ‘‘So, what do you think it is?’’ Raymond asked, seemingly unaware of the tensions flying around him. Rafe turned back to Raymond, giving him a blank stare. ‘‘Hmm? What about, sir?’’ ‘‘The car. What does it look like to you?’’ ‘‘The car,’’ Rafe repeated, shooting Raeanne a quick glance. ‘‘Uh, I’m not sure yet.’’ ‘‘Sounded like a crack in the oil pan to me,’’ Raymond went on, pulling a mug from the dish rack and pouring himself a cup of coffee. ‘‘’Course, it could be a seal. You never know with those foreign jobs.’’ ‘‘More like a cracked pan, I think,’’ Rafe said, remembering Raeanne plowing over the rugged reservation road and putting two and two together. Raeanne watched as the two of them chatted for a while. She was calming down and was able to think straight again. Her father, bless his heart, seemed to suspect nothing and she breathed a little easier. Still, she wished he would go. ‘‘I thought I’d get at it after breakfast,’’ Rafe was saying, pouring himself another cup of coffee and offering some more to Raymond. ‘‘Breakfast, yes,’’ Raymond mused absently, glancing down at the sink again. He shook his head at Rafe’s offer to refill his cup. ‘‘No, no. No more for me, thanks. Well, honey,’’ he said, putting his empty cup down on the counter and giving his daughter a peck on the cheek, ‘‘sounds like you’re in good hands here. I’ll just get along home then, let you two get to your...breakfast.’’ ‘‘Thanks for coming by, Daddy,’’ Raeanne managed to say, pulling the robe around her more tightly as she walked her father to the kitchen door.

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‘‘Sure you don’t want me to leave the old truck?’’ ‘‘No, honestly,’’ she insisted. ‘‘I’m—I’m sure we’ll get my car running.’’ ‘‘Okay, then,’’ he said, patting her on the hand. ‘‘See you later.’’ Looking over his daughter’s shoulder, he raised a hand to Rafe. ‘‘Good seeing you again, Rafe. Our best to your mother.’’ ‘‘Mr. Martin,’’ Rafe said politely. ‘‘Good seeing you, too.’’ After promising to telephone later, Raeanne closed the door behind her father, leaning back against it. ‘‘Do you think he suspected anything?’’ ‘‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’’ Rafe said, slowly starting across the kitchen toward her. Raeanne squeezed her eyes tight. ‘‘I’m so embarrassed. I’d just never live it down if he knew.’’ ‘‘Never?’’ She opened her eyes and grimaced. ‘‘Do you think he knew?’’ ‘‘No,’’ he said, reaching for the sash of the robe, pulling on it until she came to him. ‘‘Not unless...’’ ‘‘Unless what?’’ ‘‘It’s nothing,’’ he said, brushing her lips with his. ‘‘Forget about it.’’ ‘‘What?’’ she insisted, pulling back and looking up at him. ‘‘Tell me.’’ He glanced down, then back up at her, and shrugged. Raeanne followed his gaze, horrified to see that his feet were bare. ‘‘Oh, no,’’ she groaned. He began unknotting the belt of her robe. ‘‘Your daddy doesn’t own a gun, does he?’’ Raeanne let him brush her lips with his, thinking

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maybe being caught with Rafe wasn’t so bad after all. ‘‘No,’’ she purred against his lips. ‘‘But I do.’’ Even as he kissed her, he smiled. ‘‘Okay, you can open your eyes now.’’ Raeanne slowly lifted her lids. For a moment, she was confused and disoriented and it took her a minute to realize that the soft brown eyes she was staring down at were not Rafe’s. It wasn’t until a wet tongue snaked out and left a wet trail across her nose that everything registered. ‘‘A puppy!’’ she shrieked, lifting the hefty little ball of brown fur from Rafe’s arms and into her lap. She looked up at Rafe, her face beaming. ‘‘Is she one of Crier’s?’’ ‘‘He.’’ Rafe pointed to a pertinent part of the puppy’s anatomy. ‘‘And yes, he’s the runt.’’ Raeanne lifted the wiggly little pup up, testing his weight. ‘‘He doesn’t feel like a runt.’’ ‘‘I think his daddy might have been part wolf.’’ Raeanne reached up, slipping a free arm around his neck. ‘‘Like you?’’ ‘‘Maybe,’’ he murmured, pulling her close and brushing a kiss across her lips. ‘‘But be careful—you know what savages we wolves can be.’’ Raeanne smiled even as he kissed her. She seemed to lose all track of time, all semblance of reality, when Rafe kissed her, but the wiggly little dog in her arms was hard to ignore. He squirmed, licking them both. ‘‘What’s his name?’’ she asked, giggling. She sat down on the floor and let the puppy romp across the rug. ‘‘He’s yours,’’ Rafe said casually. But there was nothing casual in the way he watched her. He loved her

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gentle manner with the puppy, her loving nature. ‘‘You can call him anything you want.’’ ‘‘Anything?’’ she asked, looking up at him and slowly raising her brow. He made a face at her. ‘‘Well, as long as it isn’t one of those foo-foo California names. You’re not going to call one of my dogs Biffy or Buffy or something like that.’’ Raeanne laughed. ‘‘I see. Then how about something studly and macho, like...Joe?’’ She raised a suggestive eyebrow. Rafe pretended to think about that, lowering himself to the floor and pulling her close. ‘‘I like it,’’ he said, kissing her cheek, her shoulder, her neck. ‘‘That way you’ll always have a Joe around to protect you.’’ It had been a glorious day. Raeanne stroked the sleeping puppy beside her on the sofa, thinking she’d never felt more content in her life. She watched as Rafe added a log to the fire, coaxing it to a roaring flame. The small living room glowed golden, the light from the fire causing shadows from the Christmas tree and ornaments to dance wildly over the walls and ceiling. Of course, they never had gotten around to having breakfast, and somehow Rafe had never gotten out to look at her car, but then, there had been more important things to do. There had been years to catch up on—all the times they’d denied themselves to make up for. After the long morning, and a leisurely lunch, Rafe had managed to get in touch with Arnie Henderson, who serviced the squad cars for the department and he’d promised to send a tow truck over to pick up her car first thing in the morning. She watched Rafe stoke the fire with the poker, send-

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ing flames flying up the flue. They’d been practically inseparable. He’d left only for a short time—which she knew now had been for a quick change of clothes and to pick up the puppy. Apart from that, it had been a day devoted entirely to one another. They had taken the puppy for a long walk in the snow, built a snowman out back, watched a Bogie-and-Bacall movie on TV and they had made love—as long and as often as they wanted. Rafe stood and stretched, his tall frame silhouetted in the delicate light from the burning logs. Raeanne watched him, admiring the hard, masculine lines and felt a thrill of excitement travel up her spine. It had been a wonderful day. Of course, there were still things between them that troubled her. Sooner or later they would have to sit down and talk it all out—Andy, the past, their feelings, the future. But not now. Things were so perfect now, so new and she was reluctant to do or say anything that might spoil it. They were just getting started and she consoled herself with the fact that there would be time later for sorting through the debris and clearing away all the litter from the past. For now, all she could think about was the moment and the man she loved. ‘‘Warm enough?’’ he asked, sliding onto the sofa and gathering her up in his arms. ‘‘Now I am,’’ she murmured, feeling as contented and relaxed as the puppy on her lap. The mantel clock above the fire chimed the hour and she turned to read its dial. Nine o’clock. ‘‘I should be getting home,’’ Rafe said, brushing an errant strand of hair from across her face and feeling her body tense beside him. ‘‘Oh, I thought—’’ she began, every ounce of warmth

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leaving her body. She suddenly felt very foolish. She’d been so happy, so satisfied being with him, she’d just assumed he felt the same way. ‘‘What is it?’’ She shrugged, looking away so that her feelings wouldn’t betray her. ‘‘I thought maybe...’’ ‘‘Yes?’’ She looked up at him. The feelings were there, she couldn’t hide them. ‘‘That you’d stay.’’ The emotion in her eyes had his heart quaking in his chest. He wanted to stay—forever, if she’d let him—but it had been important to them both to know there was an option. ‘‘Are you asking?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered. He pulled her beneath him, kissing her. ‘‘Then I’m staying.’’ ‘‘Did he?’’ Rafe put the sleepy puppy back in the blanket-lined box beside the bed, then crawled beneath the covers beside her. ‘‘Finally. But I think I’ve got frostbite.’’ Raeanne gasped when she felt his cold hands on her. ‘‘You’re freezing.’’ ‘‘But it doesn’t take me long to warm up,’’ he murmured, pulling her close. ‘‘Stop!’’ she shrieked, but the cold didn’t really bother her. She loved the feel of their bodies together. ‘‘Stop or I’ll scream and wake the dog.’’ Rafe glanced down at the box and shook his head. ‘‘No, I’ve convinced him it’s time for him to sleep.’’ Raeanne gave him a deliberate look. ‘‘More of your strange powers?’’ He wiggled his eyebrows up and down. ‘‘Watch it, or I’ll turn my wild, feral ways on you.’’

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‘‘I think you already have,’’ she murmured, brushing his mouth with a kiss. He started to pull her to him for another kiss, but she shook her head, pushing him away. ‘‘No, no. We were talking about the case.’’ ‘‘Ah, yes, the case.’’ Rafe sighed, falling back against the pillows. ‘‘You were about to tell me what makes you so all-fired sure that there was something deep and dark between Walker and Avery.’’ ‘‘Not deep and dark,’’ Raeanne protested, picking up the conversation where they’d left it before the puppy interrupted with its whining. ‘‘Just something else.’’ ‘‘What makes you think so?’’ She shrugged. ‘‘A feeling.’’ It was late, sometime after two, but neither of them was sleepy. For the better part of the past hour, they’d been talking—lying in the bed, whispering in the darkness, like kids at a slumber party. They’d talked mostly about casual things—movies and sports and people they knew. But then the conversation had taken a turn and they’d begun discussing the trial in which they worked on opposite sides. ‘‘A feeling?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ she said, hearing the skepticism in his voice. ‘‘I do get them sometimes, you know.’’ ‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ he said with a deep, satisfied breath. He reached up and stroked her cheek with the back of his finger, letting the finger slide to the tip of her breast. ‘‘I...know.’’ ‘‘Now stop that,’’ she chided him, pushing his hand away. ‘‘I’m serious. I can’t believe you’re satisfied with this...flimsy story of cattle rustling. I’ve gotten to know Ethan Walker pretty well and the guy’s just not a killer.’’ ‘‘The guys’s a hothead,’’ Rafe reflected, his mind jealously imagining the two of them together in the small

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interview room at the jail. ‘‘Even as a teenager, he was big, and tough, and was known to have one hell of a temper.’’ ‘‘A lot of people have bad tempers,’’ she said pointedly, giving him a look. ‘‘If you know what I mean.’’ ‘‘You’re so subtle, but I think I get your drift,’’ he said dryly. ‘‘But regardless of why, Walker hated Avery, you can’t deny that.’’ ‘‘I don’t,’’ she said, raising herself higher on her elbow. ‘‘In fact, I’ll go so far as to admit that he still hates Avery, which only proves to me that Ethan—like just about everyone else in this town, including his wife— assumed Avery was alive all these years.’’ She thought a moment, absently shaking her head. ‘‘And it would take more than being accused of cattle rustling to keep those feelings alive for almost thirty years.’’ ‘‘Okay,’’ Rafe conceded, believing her wrong, but not wanting to argue the point. ‘‘So tell me what Nan Avery said that made you think you’re on the right track.’’ ‘‘You heard her yourself,’’ Raeanne said, reaching out and pushing his long hair away from his forehead. ‘‘She said she remembered Charlie saying he wanted to put Ethan in his place.’’ ‘‘And you think that helps your case?’’ ‘‘No,’’ she admitted, letting her finger drift down his cheek and around his chin. ‘‘But it sounds like Avery just might have had it in for Ethan, rather than the other way around.’’ ‘‘How do you figure?’’ She smiled smugly, settling against him. ‘‘Do you remember how Nan started getting really uncomfortable toward the end there?’’ ‘‘Yeah. What about it?’’ ‘‘Do you remember what we’d been taking about?’’

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‘‘Yeah, you started poking your nose into her relationship with her husband,’’ he said, rising up and placing a kiss on her nose. ‘‘Something you had no business doing.’’ ‘‘Oh?’’ she queried. ‘‘Not even when it might pertain to my case?’’ ‘‘What could Charlie Avery’s relationship with his wife have to do with helping your client?’’ ‘‘You remember all those old rumors—about Avery and the Baxter girl. Before Charlie’s bones were found, just about everyone in Whitehorn assumed he’d run off with her.’’ ‘‘Those were just a bunch of old rumors,’’ he said. ‘‘Something Lily Mae Wheeler and her old-biddy friends liked gossiping about—like babies being raised by wolves and things like that.’’ ‘‘Maybe,’’ Raeanne conceded, detecting the anger in his voice. He, of all people, knew how ugly rumors could be. ‘‘But it was only after it had been determined that Avery had been dead all this time that anyone began to think anything different.’’ She lowered her head to his shoulder, staring out into the darkness. ‘‘Nan admitted it herself that Charlie drank, he stayed out nights. I don’t know how all those old rumors got started, but you can bet things between the Averys were far from perfect.’’ ‘‘Okay, let’s say you’re right. Charlie Avery was a real bastard—drank, chased women, abused his wife, kicked puppies and stole candy from babies—whatever! I still don’t see how this proves Ethan Walker didn’t kill him.’’ Raeanne took a deep breath. He was right. None of that proved anything—least of all Ethan’s innocence. But that wasn’t the point. Despite the fact that she be-

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lieved he was innocent, it wasn’t her job to prove it. All she wanted was to place enough doubt in the minds of the jury to make it impossible for them to convict Ethan Walker. To make them think twice about Charlie Avery—about the kind of man he was, the kind of husband and father he’d been. ‘‘It doesn’t,’’ she admitted on a long sigh. ‘‘So how come you’re so sure you’re right?’’ She raised up on her elbow again and looked down at him. ‘‘A feeling.’’ He smiled. ‘‘So we’re back to that again, huh?’’ ‘‘What’s the matter, you don’t trust your feelings?’’ Even though her tone was playful, she felt the slight tension in his body. ‘‘I trust my feelings,’’ Rafe said, his voice devoid of any emotion. ‘‘It’s just everyone else’s I have a problem with.’’ ‘‘That sounds so jaded,’’ she said, lowering her head to his shoulder again. ‘‘Is that the cop talking, or Wolf Boy?’’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘‘Maybe a little of both. But if I’m jaded, you have to admit, I’ve got cause. Think about those stories about me—feral child, nursed by a she-wolf and raised in the wild.’’ She remembered, and her heart twisted painfully. ‘‘People tease when they don’t understand.’’ ‘‘Oh, was that it? They didn’t understand?’’ he asked cynically, his smile fading in the darkness. ‘‘I’m the one who doesn’t understand. How do you understand a mother who leaves her baby in the woods—who just tosses him away like so much trash, who walks away and never looks back? Even a dog doesn’t do that, no matter how small the runt, or how sick.’’

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Raeanne heard the emotion in his voice and squeezed her eyes tight. ‘‘You don’t know that’s what happened.’’ ‘‘You’re right,’’ he acknowledged, drawing in a deep breath. ‘‘I don’t know. I don’t know any of it—I don’t know exactly when I was born, I don’t know exactly where. I don’t know if I have a brother, or a sister, why I was born...or why I was left behind.’’ He exhaled, letting the breath out in a long, labored sigh. ‘‘What was it about me that she didn’t want?’’ ‘‘It wasn’t you at all,’’ Raeanne insisted. ‘‘No? How can you be so sure?’’ ‘‘I can be sure because you were an innocent little baby, that’s why,’’ she went on passionately. ‘‘You’d done nothing. Being abandoned isn’t even about you. It’s about her.’’ ‘‘Maybe,’’ he conceded quietly, after a moment. ‘‘I thought about that. Maybe she was young, alone, maybe her husband had left her, maybe she’d been raped—who knows? The point is, I don’t know. I don’t know any of it.’’ He turned to her in the darkness. ‘‘Do you have any idea what that’s like? Do you know what it’s like to look back and see nothing?’’ He laughed in the darkness. It was a sad, solemn sound that bore no resemblance to humor. ‘‘I almost wish sometimes those stories about me were true. A pack of wolves might sound strange, but it’s better than having nothing, better than all the questions.’’ ‘‘There are a lot of questions,’’ she admitted. ‘‘But there is also Emma, and the wonderful life you’ve had with her. She loves you—as much as if she’d given birth to you. And you love her, too, Rafe. In the end, that’s all that matters.’’ Rafe shrugged. ‘‘You’re right, I know. It’s just... when you’ve been tossed away once, I guess you start

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expecting it to happen again.’’ He reached out, stroking the silky length of her hair. ‘‘I guess that’s why I get a little suspicious of people’s motives.’’ The moonlight coming through the miniblinds made crazy patterns on the ceiling, and Raeanne watched them, thinking of what had happened between them at the reservation. ‘‘Are you suspicious of me?’’ Rafe moved, pulling her beneath him and staring down at her. ‘‘Should I be?’’ Raeanne felt a flame in her belly flare. She slipped her arms up and encircled his neck. ‘‘What ulterior motive would I have for wanting you here—like this?’’ He stared down at her for a long moment, his face pale in the moonlight. ‘‘Why do you want me here?’’ She reveled in the strength of his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and felt the flame within flare higher. ‘‘You don’t know?’’ ‘‘I don’t like guessing games.’’ She stared up at him, his expression hidden by shadows. ‘‘Is that what this is to you? A game?’’ ‘‘Now who’s sounding suspicious?’’ ‘‘Maybe I’m just scared.’’ ‘‘Did Andy scare you?’’ She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about her dead husband now, not when she was in the arms of the man whose love she’d wanted even when she was another man’s wife. ‘‘Sometimes, when he was drinking.’’ ‘‘Did he ever...hurt you?’’ Raeanne thought of the times when she’d run from her husband, from his rages and violent temper. She was ashamed when she remembered how she’d allowed his verbal abuse to continue, too embarrassed to admit she

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hadn’t had the courage to leave. ‘‘Just in the things that he said.’’ Rafe gathered her close, hating the friend he’d entrusted with the woman he loved. ‘‘I never knew.’’ ‘‘Andy was the one person you were never suspicious of.’’ ‘‘I know,’’ Rafe whispered, slipping her legs apart and settling between them. ‘‘But maybe he should have been suspicious of me.’’ She looked up at him in the darkness, surprised. ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘Because I wanted his wife.’’ Rafe pushed into her, and Raeanne felt her world spin out of control. ‘‘She wanted you, too.’’ ‘‘I better get going.’’ Raeanne watched Rafe as he paced restlessly back and forth across the living room floor, and her grip tightened nervously around her coffee mug. She knew he had to leave, they’d talked about it last night. It was Christmas Eve, and they both had family obligations—she with her family, he with his. But they’d barely finished their morning coffee. They had hours before those commitments were to begin. ‘‘So soon?’’ she asked, trying with some difficulty to keep her tone light. ‘‘It’s early yet.’’ ‘‘It’s going to start snowing soon,’’ he said, walking to the window and glancing up at the storm clouds moving across the sky. ‘‘And I have to check in at the station before heading out to my mother’s.’’ Raeanne’s heart sank. He wanted to leave—in fact, he could hardly wait. What had happened? Last night had been so special, they’d been so close, had shared so

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much. But he’d been quiet and withdrawn since they’d gotten up. What had changed? ‘‘I—I still don’t understand why you have to be the one to work tomorrow,’’ she said, stammering just slightly in her effort to keep the worry out of her voice. ‘‘I mean, it’s Christmas. You’re a detective. Don’t you have seniority or something? Surely there’s a rookie or someone who could work that shift?’’ Rafe shrugged, returning his coffee mug to the low table in front of the sofa and reaching for his jacket. ‘‘Most everyone else is married,’’ he said simply. ‘‘If I work, it frees up one of them to be with their families.’’ Raeanne set her mug down beside his, it’s bitter flavor suddenly making her stomach feel uneasy. ‘‘Why didn’t you?’’ Rafe straightened up and looked at her. ‘‘Why didn’t I what?’’ ‘‘Marry?’’ She looked up at him, but couldn’t quite make eye contact. ‘‘Surely there must have been opportunities?’’ The hand on his jacket hesitated only momentarily, but it was enough for her to notice. ‘‘Just not the type, I guess,’’ he shrugged after a moment, lifting his jacket off the back of the chair. She quickly looked away, blinking to force back the sting of tears. Why was she acting like such a fool? What was she getting so emotional about? They’d had a wonderful few days together, why did she insist on making more of it than it was? What had she expected him to say—that he’d never married because he always wanted her? That he’d pined away waiting for her all these years? But as ridiculous as it seemed, that’s exactly what

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she’d wanted, and last night she’d begun to believe it might actually be true. ‘‘Maybe you just never found the right person,’’ she said, busying herself by picking up the cups and napkins. He looked across the room to her. If he could just tell her what he was feeling, tell her how clumsy and alone he felt. He’d opened up to her last night, poured out his heart, telling her things he’d never told anyone else— things about his past, about his abandonment. He wasn’t used to sharing his private life with anyone, and remembering the things he’d said, the secrets he’d revealed, made him awkward and uncomfortable. He’d taken a lot for granted last night—like the fact that she might love him. Now he truly doubted that was so. He was kidding himself to think that taking her to bed had changed things. ‘‘Maybe I never will,’’ he said in a cold, flat voice. Raeanne searched his face. A cold feeling spread through her, like icy flood waters from a frozen stream. Nothing had changed. He didn’t love her, and he never would. If he’d had any feelings for her, she’d given him every opportunity to say so, but all he wanted was out— to run away—to put as much distance between them as he could. ‘‘Look,’’ he said, shrugging into his coat and heading for the door. ‘‘I’ll...uh...I’ll call you.’’ Raeanne rose slowly to her feet, turning to face him. ‘‘Just tell me one thing, Rafe.’’ He stopped in the small foyer and turned back to her. ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘Why did you do it?’’ He regarded her for a moment. ‘‘Why did I do what?’’ ‘‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’’ she said, the emotion spilling out in her voice. She wasn’t

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sad any longer, she was angry. How dare he do this to her again, how dare he withdraw and leave her? ‘‘I’m talking about last night, and the night before that.’’ She lowered her head, taking a deep breath. ‘‘Why now? Why after all these years?’’ ‘‘I thought it was something we both wanted.’’ She looked up. ‘‘Was it? Or was it just you satisfying an old curiosity?’’ He took a step closer, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘‘Is that what you think?’’ ‘‘What else am I supposed to think?’’ she demanded. ‘‘Well, I guess you got what you came for anyway, right?’’ ‘‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’’ he demanded, defensive now. ‘‘You’re smart, you figure it out.’’ He stalked across the room, stopping just in front of her. ‘‘Well, I figure maybe I wasn’t the only one who was curious.’’ Raeanne stared up at him, hardly believing this was the same man who only a few short hours before had made her feel like the most important person in his life. Is that all she was to him—a curiosity? The one who’d gotten away? Didn’t he know that she loved him, couldn’t he tell? ‘‘Well, you said you always wanted Andy’s wife,’’ she said in a cold, harsh voice. ‘‘Now you’ve had her. I think it’s time for you to leave.’’ Rafe’s jaw clenched tightly, his dark eyes piercing through squinted lids. He turned and stalked back across the room, angrily yanking the door open. ‘‘And don’t bother coming back,’’ she said as she followed him through the small foyer.

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‘‘Don’t worry,’’ he said, stopping on the porch and looking back at her. ‘‘I won’t.’’ Raeanne closed the door behind him, turning her back so she didn’t have to see his image through the glass. She walked back into the living room, straightening the magazines on the table and collecting their empty coffee cups. She stopped when she heard the sound of his truck starting up out front, but only for a moment. She’d made a mistake, misrepresented the situation, but she knew the truth now. He was gone, and she’d get over it. It was strange, she thought as she headed for the kitchen and placed the dirty dishes in the sink. She’d come back to Whitehorn to resolve her feelings for Rafe, once and for all. And she’d done that. It was over between them, it had ended—not with a bang, but a whimper. But she didn’t feel like breaking down, she didn’t feel like crying, or yelling, or screaming. She just didn’t...feel. Was this what it was like, she wondered as she tidied up her small kitchen. Was this what it was like to be a wolf boy—no tears, no emotion, no regrets? Was this what it was like to have no feelings at all? Grabbing a large shopping bag, she walked back into the living room, the puppy following playfully, nipping at her heels. She began collecting the Christmas presents from around the tree, and placing them in the bag. She would have to leave for her parents’ house in a few hours to help her mother prepare for the gathering of relatives and friends. She’d take the puppy with her, her parents would love him. She stacked the presents carefully into the bag, her mind busy with what she would wear—which sweater would go with which pair of slacks. Suddenly she real-

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ized she held the package she’d wrapped for Rafe, the watch she wrapped and placed under the tree. She didn’t even feel the shopping bag slip from her hands. She wasn’t even aware of the loud thud it had made when it dropped to the carpeted floor and spilled the packages at her feet. All she remembered was reality crashing down on her, and feeling coming back in a rush. She moved toward the sofa, stumbling over packages and bumping into the coffee table. Dropping down onto the cushions, she reached for the watch. He didn’t love her, he never had. She’d been a curiosity to him, the one that had gotten away. But he’d gotten what he wanted and now he was gone. She wasn’t aware of her tears until they spilled down onto the package, blurring the colors and the crinkling the paper. Rafe was gone. It was over. And she’d never felt more alone in her life.

Ten ‘‘You think it’s the same guy?’’ Rafe stepped out of the elevator and shrugged. ‘‘Could be. Description fits, age is about right.’’ The lines across Harlan’s florid forehead deepened. ‘‘Your friend give you any reason for the alias?’’ ‘‘Not really. As far as we know, there are no outstanding warrants. He’s not wanted for anything.’’ Harlan massaged the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. ‘‘I don’t know. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. See what he knows.’’ Rafe cocked his head to one side, giving Harlan a deliberate look. ‘‘I thought you were the one who wanted to leave no stone unturned.’’ Harlan laughed, making a face. ‘‘I know, I know. But that was before we rested our case. Now I’d hate to upset the apple cart.’’ Rafe almost smiled at the lawyer’s nervousness—almost. ‘‘Want me to bring him in?’’ Harlan nodded to several spectators standing in the corridor and reached for the courtroom door. ‘‘I suppose you better.’’ ‘‘Good morning, gentlemen,’’ Winona said, reaching the door just as they did. ‘‘Miss Cobbs,’’ Harlan said graciously, opening the door and stepping back to allow her to pass. ‘‘Lovely to see you, as always.’’

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‘‘What’s the matter, Harlan? You look worried, for a man who’s convinced he’s got a winning case.’’ ‘‘Is that wishful thinking, dear Winona, or are you treating us to more of your second sight?’’ Harlan asked with a smile that threatened to crack. ‘‘Just an observation,’’ Winona smiled. She turned to Rafe. ‘‘So, Rafe, it’s been ages since we’ve talked. How were your holidays?’’ ‘‘Very pleasant, Winona,’’ Rafe answered with a polite nod. ‘‘And yours?’’ He heard as she rattled on about an aluminum tree and a broken string of lights, but he didn’t hear much of what she said. Winona Cobbs made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he bought about all the talk of her ‘‘special talents,’’ but he had to admit the old woman made him uneasy. Psychic abilities or no psychic abilities, that smug smile of hers always gave him the uncomfortable feeling she knew more than she was saying. ‘‘Well, I better find myself a seat,’’ Winona said after she finished. She stepped into the courtroom, then stopped and turned around. ‘‘Oh, Rafe,’’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘‘Do you have the time?’’ Rafe immediately thought of Raeanne and how she’d asked him about his watch. The hair at the back of his neck prickled. ‘‘Uh, no. Sorry Winona, I don’t.’’ ‘‘It’s 8:19,’’ Harlan chimed in, pointing straight up, to the wall clock just above the courtroom door. Winona glanced up at the clock, and then back to Rafe and smiled—the very smile that made him so uncomfortable. ‘‘Thanks.’’ ‘‘Old bat,’’ Harlan mumbled as they watched her amble down the center aisle and into a row of seats. He glanced up at Rafe. ‘‘Just what I need on a Monday

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morning—a close encounter with the spirit world. What was all that about the time?’’ ‘‘Beats me,’’ Rafe lied, unable to shake the uneasy feeling. ‘‘But she always did give me the willies.’’ ‘‘I know what you mean,’’ Harlan agreed, starting down the aisle. ‘‘But, getting back to what we were talking about, why don’t you give your friend up in Wolf Point another call? Tell him to pick up our fellow, so we can have a little talk with him.’’ ‘‘Will do,’’ Rafe said. He followed Harlan through the gate to the counsel table, but then, reaching for his chair, he glanced back—just in time to see Raeanne walk into the courtroom. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her in the nine days since she’d ordered him out of her house and out of her life, but it didn’t seem to get any easier. The trial had resumed the day after New Year’s, and for three agonizing days last week he’d had to sit opposite her in the courtroom and watch her work. If she was bothered at all by any of what had happened between them, she certainly hadn’t shown it. She’d been as cool and in control as ever, hovering over her client and determinedly protecting his rights. He had noticed one difference, however. Before they had... He stopped and scowled. Before they’d what? Made love? In light of what had happened, love hardly seemed the right word to describe what had gone on between them. She didn’t love him. She’d come right out and told him she felt sorry for him. So whatever it was that had gone on between them, love hadn’t been a part of it. But, regardless of that, before they...were together, she at least had acknowledged him—he’d either been her

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friend or her foe, her ally or her adversary. Now, on those rare occasions when she did turn those velvety brown eyes toward him, they simply stared right through him as if he weren’t even there. Rafe felt a painful tightening in his chest. He couldn’t deny it hurt to be relegated to nothing in her eyes. He knew he should feel relieved. At least it was over now— finally. He’d finally scratched the itch, finally caught the one who’d gotten away. Now if he could just find a way to forget and move on... He watched her as she slipped into her seat and opened her briefcase. He remembered holding her, waking up with her in his arms. He remembered the feel of her body, the touch of her skin, the soft sound of her moans. Rafe closed his eyes against the sudden rush of emotion. He reached for his chair, pulling it from the table and quickly sitting down. He felt winded and a little dizzy, as if he’d just taken one to the stomach. He was Rafe ‘‘Wolf Boy’’ Rawlings, he reminded himself, and Wolf Boy needed no one. So why did every cell in his body feel hungry? Why did every nerve, every muscle, crave her touch and ache for her magic? Judge Matthews’s gavel came down swiftly. The sudden crash had Rafe’s head jerking up, and his thoughts scattering. ‘‘As the jury will recall, the prosecution rested its case Friday afternoon. Defense counsel, are you ready to begin?’’ Rafe turned his head, watching as Raeanne came swiftly to her feet. ‘‘We are, Your Honor.’’

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* * * Raeanne put down the transcript, the long, continuous folds of paper spilling off her lap, across the sofa and onto the carpeted floor. She rubbed her tired eyes. They were itchy and red from the long hours of reading, but she couldn’t afford to stop. With the prosecution’s case over, the ball was in her court now, and she couldn’t afford to lob it. She reached down, stroking the sleeping puppy nestled beside her. She envied his peaceful rest and seemingly stress-free existence. What she wouldn’t give for a little of that simplicity right now. Raeanne thought of the case she would present to the jury—such as it was. She didn’t have much to work with—a few experts to testify about times and dates, several witnesses to testify that they’d seen both Charlie Avery and Ethan Walker arguing with other people, and a few more witnesses to testify to Ethan’s character. She was still pondering the possibility of putting Ethan on the stand, unable to come to a decision yet. Over the weeks, he’d mellowed some, but not nearly enough to make her comfortable putting him before the jury. Attitude never played well with juries, and Ethan had a big one. And enough attitude could just lose this one for them. She glanced down at the transcript, knowing she should review it again. Her case wasn’t much, and she couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Missing something would be a mistake. A mistake. She put her pen down, resting it in her lap. The only mistake she’d made so far was fooling herself into thinking Rafe Rawlings might actually have some feelings, that he might actually admit to being human like everyone else. She thought of him in the courtroom

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today. She hadn’t had to look at him to know he was watching her. She’d been grateful for the break in the trial Judge Matthews had called for the holidays—for more than just professional reasons. While it had been good to have the additional time to review and prepare her case, what she’d really needed was time to pull herself together after Rafe stormed out of her life. Christmas had been awful, and even though she’d tried her best to put on a brave front before her parents, they had immediately sensed something was wrong. She was thankful they hadn’t pushed, and had spared her the agony of poring over everything again. Somehow she’d gotten through the holiday festivities and the family parties, and the visiting relatives, the presents and the meals, but it hadn’t been easy. She’d passed through them in a numb, unfeeling sort of haze. She picked up the transcript once more, making an attempt to gather it into a containable stack. The irony was that ultimately the thing that been keeping her going through the past nine days was this damn trial. It had helped to occupy her mind. She’d thrown herself into it completely, working obsessively day and night, writing motions, citing cases, and researching precedents—anything and everything to keep busy and stop thinking about Rafe. Some of the time it worked, but most of the time it didn’t. There were those moments when she became absorbed, when she became wrapped up in what she was doing and forgot for a while, but unfortunately that didn’t happen often. Most of the time he was right there, on the outskirts of her consciousness—haunting and hurting. Still, as difficult as the days had been, the nights had

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been much worse. In the darkness of her bed, she’d been alone, with nothing but her thoughts—and they all were filled with Rafe. Raeanne shook her head, trying to concentrate on the transcript in front of her. There would be time later to dredge all this up, long hours in the night to think of Rafe and play back in her mind, chapter and verse, all the mistakes she had made. She reached for her coffee cup, surprised to find it empty. She stared down at the mug, considering for a moment whether she needed more caffeine. Glancing up at the mantel clock, she shook her head slowly and decided to make another pot. It was only a little after eight, and already she was having trouble concentrating. She needed something to perk her up. She’d just gotten to her feet and started for the kitchen when the telephone rang. ‘‘Hello?’’ ‘‘Raeanne?’’ For a moment she could do nothing, just stand there and listen to the roar in her ears grow louder and more fierce. She felt breathless and faint, and visions sprang to life in her head—moonlight, darkness, dark eyes, hard bodies and twisted sheets. ‘‘Are you there? Raeanne?’’ ‘‘Uh—y-yes, I’m here.’’ Rafe closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was barely above a whisper, and he pulled the phone close in an effort to block out the noise from the squad room. ‘‘I’ve got someone down here. I think...I think you might want to talk to him.’’ Raeanne took a deep breath, the sound of his voice on the line feeling like a hot dagger in her heart. She thought for a moment. ‘‘Who is it?’’

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‘‘Well, twenty-seven years ago he was Charlie Avery’s best friend.’’ Raeanne set her coffee cup down. ‘‘Oh, yeah?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Rafe said. ‘‘And he has a lot to say about why he hated Walker so much.’’ ‘‘Where are you, at the jail?’’ ‘‘No, the police station.’’ Rafe rubbed at the pressure building at his temples. ‘‘My office.’’ ‘‘I’ll be right there,’’ she said, knowing from the sound of his voice it was serious. ‘‘Uh—Raeanne?’’ She stopped, holding her breath. ‘‘Yes?’’ ‘‘Uh...’’ Rafe closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. A million things swelled in his heart, things he wanted to tell her, things he wanted to say. But he swallowed them. ‘‘It’s dark. Be careful.’’ Raeanne heard the line go dead and let her breath out in a long sigh. Dropping the receiver onto its cradle, she headed for the foyer. Finding her boots on the rail of the hall stand, she carried them back to the sofa. What was she doing? she thought as she laced them up. Why was she going? She hadn’t even asked him what this was about. She thought of his short, no-nonsense words, the sound of his voice. She knew one thing for certain. Rafe Rawlings might be a cold, unfeeling bastard, but he was a damn good cop. If he said it was important, she knew it must be important. Automatically reaching for her briefcase, she pulled out her keys and headed for the door. At least it better be important, she thought as she leapt down the porch steps. Because seeing Rafe would cost her. Rafe stared down at the telephone on the desk. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the painful

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throbbing at his temples. Suddenly he turned and yanked open a side drawer, reaching inside for a bottle of overthe-counter pain relievers. Struggling with the childprotective cap, he snapped off the cap and popped two tablets into his mouth. The caustic taste of the pills was bitter, but oddly satisfying. It matched his mood, which was pretty bitter, too. He closed his eyes again, rubbing his temples, and heard the sound of her voice in his head. She’d be walking in here in a little while and he didn’t want to think about how hard that was going to be on him. But he was going to have to find a way to deal with it. He took a deep breath, pushing himself away from the desk and crossing the noisy squad room to the window. He stared out into the darkness, where the streetlights illuminated the snowy walks and wet streets. There were no Christmas lights, no holiday decorations adorning the lampposts and storefronts any longer. That was all over with now. He thought of the miserable holidays he’d spent—the lonely, empty days and the long, endless nights. There had been friends, and family, and traditions to follow, but he’d felt a part of none of it. He’d just wanted to be left alone, to be with his dogs, to help Crier with her pups and to hide away from the rest of the world, lick his wounds and deal with the pain as best he could. But his best hadn’t been very good. It still hurt, and he suspected it always would. He’d spent a lifetime on the outside looking in, wanting a woman he’d convinced himself he could never have. He’d endured the pain, standing aside while she made a life for herself—first with his best friend and then with a career. But as difficult as those years on the sidelines of her life had been,

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they were nothing compared to what he’d endured in the past nine days. From the window, he watched a pickup slide through a red light, and a squad car take off after it, sirens blaring. He watched the warning lights on the squad car flash and turn, thinking of all the warning lights he’d ignored. For the past seven years he’d convinced himself that if he could just be with her, if he could just satisfy his curiosity about her once and for all, he’d finally get over her. But now he realized how naive that thinking had been. Being with her had nothing to do with curiosity, with scratching an itch. He just wished he’d realized that before he went to her house that night eleven days ago. All the warning signs had been there, but he’d ignored every one. He’d been thinking with his heart and not with his head and now he was paying the price. He ran a hand through his hair and walked back to his desk. She would be arriving soon, and he had to try and prepare himself for that. He hoped like hell he knew what he was doing. Harlan was going to hit the roof when he found out, but he’d deal with that when he had to. He’d done what he had to do, what he knew was right. But that wouldn’t make seeing her any easier. ‘‘O’Brien?’’ ‘‘Right. Except the last year or so he’s been using the name Bryant. That’s why it took us so long to locate him.’’ Raeanne looked through the glass door at the ruddyfaced, weather-worn cowboy sitting behind the desk. ‘‘And he worked for the Kincaids?’’ ‘‘For Avery, to be exact,’’ Rafe filled in. ‘‘He and Charlie were pretty good buddies, from what I understand. After Charlie left, Kincaid fired him. He’s

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bummed around here and there. Been working up near Wolf Point the last few years.’’ Raeanne turned the information over in her mind. ‘‘Harlan been down to talk to him yet?’’ Rafe hesitated a minute before answering. ‘‘No.’’ Raeanne looked up at him. His handsome profile made it almost too painful. ‘‘Why’d you call me?’’ He slowly turned and looked down at her. ‘‘Talk to him. I think you’ll understand.’’ Raeanne felt a swell of emotion in her throat, and a little of the steadiness seemed to leave her legs. ‘‘Well,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘Let’s do it, then.’’ Rafe opened the door, stepping aside to allow her to pass. ‘‘Rusty. There’s somebody I want you to meet.’’ The vile odor of stale beer and sweat assaulted Raeanne’s senses the moment she stepped into the room, but she ignored it. She’d interviewed too many clients in smelly holding cells and stinky lockups to be shocked. Still, it was hardly something one became accustomed to. According to his expired driver’s license, Rusty O’Brien, a.k.a. Rusty Bryant, was only fifty-three, but hard living, and hard drinking, had made him appear years older. His long hair was gray and matted and a florid complexion peeked through a grizzled beard and a tobacco-stained mustache. When he spotted Raeanne, his tired, watery eyes opened wide. ‘‘Hi, Rusty,’’ Raeanne said, offering him her hand with the faint hope that he wouldn’t take it. ‘‘Well, will you get a load of this...’’ Rusty said, his smile revealing several teeth missing. He reached out reverently and shook Raeanne’s hand. ‘‘If I’da known they had such pretty-lookin’ lady police back here in Whitehorn, I’da never left.’’

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‘‘Rusty, this is Raeanne Martin,’’ Rafe said, removing Rusty’s hold on Raeanne’s hand. ‘‘She’s a lawyer.’’ Rusty glared up at him. ‘‘Hey, I thought you said I wasn’t under arrest.’’ ‘‘Oh, you’re not,’’ Rafe assured him. ‘‘Miss Martin represents Ethan Walker. Remember, I told you about him?’’ Rusty sat back in his chair, nodding his head. ‘‘Yup. Accused of killing poor Charlie.’’ ‘‘Detective Rawlings tells me you knew Charlie Avery pretty well,’’ Raeanne asked, pulling up a chair from the other side of the desk. ‘‘Sure did,’’ Rusty said, nodding again. ‘‘Me and Charlie, we was just like that.’’ He held up two grubbylooking fingers, pressing them close. ‘‘I see,’’ Raeanne said, glancing up at Rafe, then back to Rusty. ‘‘What about my client, Ethan Walker? Did you know him, too?’’ Rusty shrugged. ‘‘Like I told the officer here, I knew of him.’’ ‘‘Because of Charlie?’’ ‘‘Yeah, because of Charlie.’’ ‘‘Did you and Ethan get along?’’ ‘‘Me and the kid?’’ Rusty asked, thinking. ‘‘I don’t know. As I remember, he was kind of cocky for my tastes. One of those big, hotheaded, pain-in-the-butt kids, if you know what I mean.’’ Raeanne smiled. ‘‘Yeah, I think I do.’’ ‘‘But he and Charlie...’’ Rusty hooted, showing his toothless grin. ‘‘Boy I tell ya, those two had it in for one another—big-time.’’ Raeanne glanced up at Rafe again, and he urged her on with a nod of the head. She looked back at Rusty and

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smiled. ‘‘Did you know that cattle was being rustled from the Kincaid’s ranch?’’ ‘‘Yeah, I remember.’’ Rusty snorted. ‘‘Old man Kincaid was pissed. He crawled all over Charlie’s ass—’’ He stopped, giving her a sheepish grin. ‘‘Pardon the language, ma’am. I guess I’ve spent too much time with foulmouthed cowboys to know how to speak to a lady like you.’’ ‘‘It’s okay, Rusty,’’ Raeanne said, dismissing his concern. ‘‘You were telling me about Mr. Kincaid.’’ ‘‘Oh, yeah, right.’’ Rusty nodded. ‘‘Well, as I was saying. Old man Kincaid was...pretty mad. He told Charlie he better find out who was doing it, or he’d be out of a job.’’ ‘‘So he put a lot of pressure on Charlie?’’ Rusty nodded again. ‘‘Yeah, you could say that.’’ Raeanne thought for a moment. ‘‘Did you ever see Charlie and Ethan Walker fight?’’ ‘‘Hell, yes, I did.’’ Rusty snorted again, running a hand across his scratchy beard. ‘‘Me and half the town. Those two had a couple real wingdings, as I remember.’’ ‘‘And that was because of the rustling, of course, right?’’ Rusty’s hand stopped, and he cocked his head to one side. ‘‘The rustlin’?’’ ‘‘The Kincaid cattle,’’ Raeanne said. ‘‘Charlie accused the Walkers of stealing the cattle.’’ ‘‘That?’’ Rusty snorted, his shoulders shaking with a silent chuckle. ‘‘That was just what Charlie told old man Kincaid to get him off his back.’’ Raeanne’s gaze shot to Rafe, and he gave her a knowing shrug in response. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Rusty. ‘‘Are you saying that Charlie and Ethan never fought over stolen cattle?’’

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‘‘Well, I suppose they coulda, but I never seen ’em,’’ Rusty said thoughtfully. He looked up at Rafe, giving him a toothless grin and a wink. ‘‘There’s only one thing that gets two young bucks as hot as they was, and it sure as hell ain’t no bull.’’ Raeanne felt her heart lurch in her chest. ‘‘What did they fight about, then?’’ Rusty looked across the table at her, the deep, weathered lines around his mouth and eyes deepening. ‘‘A woman.’’ Raeanne sat back in her chair, and glanced up at Rafe. She felt oddly winded, and a little dazed. A woman. Somehow, she had just known that had to be it. It was the only thing that made sense. The animosity between Avery and Ethan had been too deep, too...passionate to be explained away by a few head of cattle. ‘‘Do you know who it was?’’ she asked after a moment. ‘‘No,’’ Rusty said, shaking his head. ‘‘But I know she was young.’’ Rusty laughed. It was a funny, wizenedsounding laugh that ended in a cough. ‘‘And she had old Charlie in a state, I can tell you that.’’ ‘‘And Ethan Walker?’’ Rusty laughed again. ‘‘When Charlie found out his little filly had been seeing some young buck, well...he got mad, I’ll tell you. Really mad.’’ Raeanne leaned forward in the chair again, resting her elbows on the desk. For years it had been suspected that Charlie Avery had run off and deserted his wife and family for another woman. But once Avery’s remains were found and identified, it had been as if all those old rumors had been forgotten. ‘‘Did you know that Charlie Avery was married?’’ she

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asked after a moment. ‘‘Did you know he had a family?’’ Rusty looked across at her and made a face. ‘‘’Course I did. Me and Charlie, we were like this.’’ He raised his fingers again, demonstrating their closeness. ‘‘Do you know if his wife knew about this other woman?’’ Rusty’s face sobered. ‘‘Now, that I don’t rightly know. Charlie and me...well, we were good buddies all right, like I said. Worked together, drank together, you know? But...well, we didn’t go stickin’ our noses into each other’s personal business, if you know what I mean.’’ Rusty looked up at Rafe again and shrugged apologetically. ‘‘But Nan now, she always sounded like a real nice woman to me. A real lady.’’ ‘‘And you say you have no idea who this other woman was?’’ Raeanne went on, her mind racing. She thought back to the evidence found at the scene— Ethan’s class ring, and the matching compact and lipstick. Rusty looked back at her and shook his head. ‘‘Nope. Charlie was real tight-mouthed about it, except...’’ ‘‘Except?’’ Raeanne said when his voice trailed off. ‘‘Oh! Well...except,’’ Rusty repeated thoughtfully. ‘‘I kinda think ol’ Charlie was...well, I think he was almost...proud of it, you know? He wouldn’t tell me who he was seeing, but he still wanted me to know about it, if you know what I mean. Like he wanted to...’’ ‘‘Boast about it?’’ Rafe suggested when Rusty’s words faded again. ‘‘Yeah, that’s it,’’ Rusty said, snapping his crooked fingers together and nodding his head. ‘‘Yeah, boast. That’s it, that’s what he did.’’

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Rafe turned to Raeanne, who sat looking up at him. ‘‘You have any more questions?’’ Yeah, she thought to herself, she had a million of them—for Ethan. She was convinced he’d been keeping something from her—something or someone he wanted to protect. Could it be this woman? And was it the same woman who had lost the compact and lipstick at the sight of the murder? She glanced back at Rusty, and shook her head. ‘‘Thanks, Rusty,’’ she said, coming slowly to her feet. She reached across the desk, offering him her hand. ‘‘I appreciate you talking to me.’’ ‘‘Oh, it was my pleasure, little lady,’’ Rusty said, standing quickly and taking her hand. He gave her a stiff, courtly bow. ‘‘My pleasure indeed.’’ Rafe followed her out of the small office and into the corridor. ‘‘Well, what do you think?’’ Raeanne took a deep breath, her mind reeling with possibilities. ‘‘I’m not sure what to think.’’ He turned and followed her as she started down the corridor toward the door. ‘‘At least you were right about the cattle rustling.’’ ‘‘I guess I was,’’ she muttered, staring down at the worn linoleum floor and trying not to think about the night in her bed, when they’d talked in the dark. ‘‘The other stuff, though.’’ He sighed, looking down into her large, dark eyes. ‘‘About the woman. Sort of adds fuel to the fire, doesn’t it?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Raeanne mumbled glumly. ‘‘And the last thing we needed was more motive.’’

Eleven ‘‘Why did you do it?’’ Rafe’s head snapped around, his gaze colliding with Raeanne’s dark, questioning eyes. His heart lurched suddenly, and the warmth drained slowly from his body. She’d taken him by surprise, voicing the question he’d been asking himself a million times in the past nine days. Why had he stormed out of her house? Why hadn’t he given her a chance? Why had he thrown out obstacles and created problems? Why had he walked out on his only chance at happiness? The nights he spent with Raeanne had been the best in his life, been better than any he’d ever hoped he’d have. So why had he been so afraid? He knew why. He knew why, and it tore him up inside. He loved her—it was as simple as that. Rafe Rawlings loved Raeanne Martin, and he wanted desperately for her to love him back. He’d spent years wondering, a lifetime waiting, but when it came right down to it, he realized he didn’t have the courage to face the answer. And so he’d chosen the coward’s way out. He’d walked away, choosing to live the rest of his life in a void, not knowing, rather than risk a truth that would make living unbearable. ‘‘Tell me,’’ Raeanne demanded. ‘‘Why did you call me? Why did you let me talk to him?’’ Rafe closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. What

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an ass he was—jumping the gun and jumping to conclusions. She didn’t want to know about them, wasn’t concerned about what had happened—or why. She’d already put their...their episode to rest. Why couldn’t he? ‘‘I thought you should know,’’ he said simply. ‘‘It’s more ammunition Harlan will use against Walker to strengthen his case.’’ Raeanne looked up at him. It did look as if Ethan had even more reason to want Avery dead. But her instincts told her there was more to the story, something that might actually help their case instead of hurt it. ‘‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to find some way to see that it doesn’t.’’ ‘‘That might be hard to do.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘All it really shows is that there was a woman involved in all of this. It still doesn’t prove that Ethan killed Avery.’’ He regarded her for a moment. Her determination amazed him, and, grudgingly, he was impressed. Her case had just been dealt a powerful blow, and yet she was going down fighting. ‘‘It gives him a powerful motive to want the guy dead.’’ ‘‘Does Harlan know?’’ ‘‘About Rusty? Of course.’’ ‘‘No, I mean about tonight. About me.’’ Rafe pushed the door open and followed her outside. ‘‘Not exactly.’’ Raeanne supposed it wasn’t unusual that he walk her to the car, but still it made her uneasy. It was a courtesy, a friendly gesture, but she hardly considered them friends any longer. It made her uncomfortable. Dealing with him in the sterile, well-lit environment of the police station was one thing, but in the quiet darkness of the deserted parking lot, it was another entirely. It was ob-

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vious he wasn’t anxious to spend any more time with her than necessary, so why had he followed her out? The night was cold, and a chill ran through her. She shivered, pulling her jacket tight. The parking lot was empty, and their footsteps sounded loud and forlorn on the pavement. ‘‘Not exactly?’’ she asked, glancing back at him. ‘‘What is that supposed to mean?’’ ‘‘It means he knows we’ve brought him in, it means he knows we’ve talked to him,’’ he explained, flipping the collar up on his corduroy sports coat and slipping his hands into his pockets. ‘‘He just doesn’t know you’ve contacted me, right?’’ He looked down at her and shrugged nonchalantly, his breath showing white when he talked. ‘‘You seem to have all the answers. Why are you asking me?’’ She stopped at her car and turned to him. ‘‘This could be bad for you. Harlan’s going to kick.’’ ‘‘I can handle Harlan,’’ he said. He just wasn’t sure he could handle the soft, sad look in her eyes. She looked away quickly. His dark gaze was too penetrating, too probing, and she was afraid she would reveal too much—too much about the tears she’d cried and the long nights she’d spent awake and alone. She reached into her pocket and fished out her keys. Turning the lock, she pulled the door open and tossed her briefcase onto the seat. But before she could get in, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘‘Wait,’’ he murmured, as the car door swung closed. Alone with her, he felt a tremor reverberate through him. Inadvertently he tightened his hand on her arm and pulled her a step closer. ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered, a pressure swelling in her throat. It was there again, in his eyes—the emotion, the

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awareness. She could see it as plainly as she’d seen the truth through all the lies that had been told about him. But she didn’t trust her feelings anymore. ‘‘How’s...uh, how’s the car running?’’ he asked, his hand still on her arm. ‘‘F-fine,’’ Raeanne stammered, nervously clearing her throat. ‘‘Arnie did a good job.’’ ‘‘Good,’’ he said absently. He looked down at her, feeling an urgency and an ache spreading throughout his body. It would be so easy to pull her into his arms, so easy to smother her with kisses and overwhelm her with passion. He could make her melt in his arms, could make her sigh with contentment and go weak with need. What did it matter whether she loved him or not? What did he care if she pitied or prized him? Why couldn’t he just take what she offered, hold her as long as she’d let him and accept what pleasure he could? Because he was a coward. Because living without her was easier and safer—it required no chances and resulted in no losses. If it hurt, what did it matter? He’d borne the pain of his love for so long, he wasn’t sure he would recognize anything else. Still, for a moment, in the cold desolation of the empty parking lot, he let himself imagine. For a moment, he let himself dream. He granted himself an instant of recollection, a flash of remembrance of the touch and the taste of her and the feel of her beneath him, in his arms. ‘‘Rafe?’’ she whispered, the hard, rigid expression on his face sending another chill down her spine. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said, giving his head a shake and dropping the hold on her arm. He stepped back a pace, feeling oddly dazed and annoyed. It had been stupid to touch her, stupid to remember the two of them together. He was too raw, too vulnerable. It would be too easy to

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slip, to let down his guard, to say too much. ‘‘I—uh, I just wanted to ask about the dog.’’ A cold realization hit her hard, causing her breath to catch in her throat and the blood to turn to ice in her veins. ‘‘Do you want him back?’’ she asked suddenly, defensive and defiant. ‘‘Is that why you followed me out here?’’ The anger felt good, and Rafe let it course freely through his system. It gave him a good, safe haven to channel all the emotions churning around inside of him, and focus them sharply. ‘‘You don’t want him?’’ ‘‘Not if it’s going to make you uncomfortable,’’ she snapped, her voice raising a notch. ‘‘He belonged to you. If you want him back, just say so.’’ ‘‘I’m not the one who’s uncomfortable,’’ he said angrily. ‘‘Of course I should have asked if having a mutt would bother you. Maybe what you really want is a pedigree.’’ ‘‘What?’’ She was yelling by now. ‘‘Don’t try and put this thing off on me! If you want him, take him!’’ ‘‘I gave him to you,’’ he said, raising his voice to match the level of hers. ‘‘I don’t want him.’’ ‘‘Well, I don’t want him either!’’ she screamed, her hands on her hips. ‘‘Look,’’ he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady, ‘‘I don’t want to argue.’’ ‘‘Neither do I,’’ she admitted in a tight voice. ‘‘I was just curious how you and the puppy were getting along, that’s all.’’ He stopped for a moment, struggling. ‘‘I...want you to have him.’’ Raeanne looked away quickly. She felt silly now. She’d been edgy and awkward, being with him alone in the dark and it had caused her to overreact. ‘‘We’re fine,’’ she said clumsily, wanting nothing

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more than to just forget all about this ridiculous conversation. ‘‘Actually, we’re...we’re becoming pretty good friends.’’ Rafe cursed himself under his breath, choosing the harshest, cruelest words could think of. He sensed her discomfort, and it only made him feel worse. It had been stupid to say what he had about a pedigree. He’d sounded pathetic and petty, and revealed far too much. ‘‘That’s good,’’ he murmured uneasily. His throat felt dry and tight, and he cleared it. ‘‘He’ll be a good watchdog.’’ ‘‘Well, right now I’d just settle for housebroken.’’ Rafe closed his eyes, remembering the night he’d nearly frozen outside her house, waiting for the puppy to take care of business. He hadn’t really minded. Running back inside and slipping into bed beside her had made it worth it. Her warm, beautiful body had made him forget about the cold night, had made him forget about all the cold nights he’d ever spent alone and unhappy. The sudden stab of longing was almost overwhelming, and it left him reeling. It was so quiet, so still. There wasn’t a sound to disturb the silence—not a car, not a dog, not even any noise from the station behind them. It was as if the world had suddenly paused, as though everyone waited and held their breath. He took a step closer, his hands reaching out to pull her to him. ‘‘No,’’ Raeanne whispered, but even to her own ears her voice sounded faint and far away. She was mesmerized by his eyes, by the look on his face. She remembered the hypnotic power he’d had over the wolves, how he’d spoken to them with his eyes alone and wondered

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if he was performing the same magic on her. ‘‘No, Rafe, don’t.’’ But he ignored her plea, he ignored her pitiful struggle, and the fear in her eyes. He pulled her close, bringing his lips close to hers. ‘‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’’ he whispered against her mouth. The hand at her waist trailed down to her bottom, pressing her into him. Raeanne gasped, feeling him hard against her. She wanted to run, to hide, to scream in terror, but she could do none of that. Her legs were weak, her arms felt useless, and the hunger in her was so strong it threatened to block out all reason. ‘‘I think about you—about us,’’ he murmured, his voice rough and strained with need. He moved against her, feeling her body tremble and the breath catch in her throat. ‘‘About holding you, and touching you.’’ He brushed her lips with a kiss, his voice becoming a whisper. ‘‘About being inside you.’’ ‘‘No, no,’’ Raeanne begged, but the words came out more like a whimper. ‘‘Yes, Raeanne,’’ he groaned, pressing his mouth to hers. He pushed her lips apart, letting his tongue taste and explore. She tasted heady and rich, and he felt as though he’d been hungry forever. He forgot about the frosty winter air, forgot the other officers who could see them from the windows. He forgot they were in a parking lot, that there had been hard feelings and harsh words between them. He forgot who he was and that she could never be his. Raeanne resisted, but her struggles were feeble. She knew she had to stop him, knew this whole thing had to cease, but she couldn’t seem to make herself move toward that end. His need was so great and his mouth so

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fierce on hers, that she was swept up and pulled along. The path between them was scattered with hazards and risks. They had to steer clear of trust, avoid all honesty. Nothing had been settled, nothing clarified. Issues remained uncertain, conditions unstable. And yet she couldn’t deny the passion. It was there between them, it was real, and it was strong. She wanted to walk away, wanted to get on with her life—it was something she needed to, something she had to. But with his hands on her, with his body so close and his kisses so urgent, it seemed impossible. Was it so wrong to want him? She’d lived her whole life loving him. Was it such a sin to want his touch, to want his kiss, to want his passion, when there was so much left unsettled between them? ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he murmured against her lips. ‘‘I want you. I want you so much.’’ He wanted her. She hadn’t needed to hear the words to know it was true. He wanted her—her lips, her arms, her body. He wanted her here, now, while passion was high and desire threatened to spin out of control. He wanted her...but not her love. She wished she could just accept that, wished she could be happy with what he offered and learn to live without the rest. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t take the hurt, couldn’t accept him running away every time they started to get close. She not only wanted his love—she needed it. And without it, all the desire, all the passion, just wasn’t enough. With what strength she had left, she pushed out of his arms. ‘‘No,’’ she gasped, shaking her head. ‘‘I want you,’’ he whispered again, ignoring her protests and reaching for her again. ‘‘No!’’ she said again, stronger and louder. She knew

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he’d heard her, knew he understood this time, for his whole body went rigid. She took a deep breath and looked up into his eyes. ‘‘I don’t want this.’’ Rafe felt a chill travel through him, a squall storming through his system, bringing him back to earth, back to reality. He steeled himself against the upheaval, willing his breathing to slow and his heart to return to normal. ‘‘No,’’ he said, resigned, dropping his hands to his side. ‘‘I know you don’t.’’ He didn’t stop her when she pulled the car door open again and slid in behind the wheel. He didn’t want to. He wanted her to go. He didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to be reminded of what a fool he’d made of himself. He stood in the deserted parking lot long after her car had sped past and its taillights had disappeared into the night. The wind gusted around him, cutting through his corduroy sport coat and buffeting his hair into his face. The frigid winter cold felt harsh and biting against his skin, but he made no move to go inside. Its iciness suited his mood. He needed something brutal and unmerciful to make him forget about how warm she had felt, how hot her breath had been against his cheek and how feverish the taste of her had made him. He wasn’t sure he could sink any lower. He knew she didn’t love him and yet there he’d been—clutching at her, willing to grab at any crumbs she would give him. ‘‘Hey, Rawlings.’’ Rafe turned around at the sound of the voice. A uniformed officer stood in the open doorway of the station, peering through the darkness. ‘‘Yeah?’’ ‘‘Collins on the horn for you. Line two.’’ ‘‘Got it,’’ Rafe said, starting slowly back across the lot. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the call. Harlan

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was going to hit the roof, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He heard his mother’s voice in his head. Emma had always told him, A man has to do what a man has to do. And that was exactly what he’d done. He’d given Raeanne the information, let her interview Rusty O’Brien, because he knew he had to. Her instincts had been right and she’d deserved to know. If it blew their case out of the water, then so be it. But explaining that to Harlan was going to be a little difficult. He glanced back for a moment, down the street where her car had sped and disappeared. He’d called her because he had to, but touching her had been way out of line. Touching her had been a mistake, a mistake that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. ‘‘Your Honor, I object.’’ Harlan hauled himself up and out of his chair with a speed that seemed to defy his portly frame. ‘‘This is highly irregular.’’ ‘‘It’s highly regular, Mr. Collins,’’ Judge Matthews pointed out in a patient voice. ‘‘Objection overruled.’’ ‘‘But this witness has no relevant testimony to offer,’’ Harlan continued, his mustache twitching from side to side as he spoke. ‘‘I’d ask for an offer of proof.’’ ‘‘Mr. Collins is well aware of what this witness is testifying to,’’ Raeanne said. ‘‘This is just an attempt by the prosecution to delay.’’ ‘‘Which is something I will not tolerate in my courtroom,’’ Clarence Matthews decreed, turning and signaling to the bailiff. ‘‘Please ask the jury to return.’’ Raeanne forced herself not to react, schooling her features and demeanor to remain passive, but inside she was a bundle of raw nerves. She nonchalantly slipped her

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hands beneath the table, rubbing her sweaty palms on her wool skirt. So far, so good, she told herself as she watched the jury shuffle back into the box. Just slow and easy. Slow... She took a deep breath and attempted to calm her racing heart by sheer willpower. Inhale. Exhale. ...and easy. Judge Matthews turned to his clerk and nodded. ‘‘The court calls Russell ‘Rusty’ O’Brien,’’ the court clerk announced in a colorless monotone. Raeanne’s heart raced, despite her best efforts. She watched as the bailiff escorted Rusty through the doors of the courtroom and down the center aisle. He looked jittery, and his watery eyes darted nervously around the courtroom. The plaid shirt he wore looked new and so did his jeans and the long strands of his wiry gray hair were plastered down slick against his head. Slow and easy, Raeanne reminded herself, watching him with a careful eye. She had a lot riding on his testimony and she hoped like hell he hadn’t decided to take a little ‘‘nip’’ to calm his nerves this morning. Nerves. She knew all about them. It had been a grueling two weeks since she’d first interviewed Rusty at the police station and she felt every long, exhausting minute of it in her taut, tense muscles as she watched him climb behind the bench and take the witness stand. She’d reworked and reorganized her entire case after that interview, carefully analyzing and evaluating to settle on the most tactically appropriate time to introduce his testimony. And now the time had come. Of course, Harlan had fought her, as she’d expected him to, requesting that the judge not allow Rusty to testify. But Judge Matthews had ruled against him and now it was all on her. If every-

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thing went the way she hoped, Ethan had a good chance of walking out of here a free man, but if not... Well, she wasn’t going to think about that now. She glanced across the courtroom to find Rafe’s dark eyes watching her. She felt her heart speed up even more and quickly looked away. She’d almost been grateful for the intense demands and punishing work load of the past couple of weeks. At least they had kept her from thinking about him and about what had happened in the police parking lot that night. She thought about the way he’d held her, how he’d kissed her and how much he had wanted her. It would have been so easy to just give in, to embark on an affair. She almost wanted him that much—almost. She closed her eyes tight, feeling an unpleasant strangling sensation in the back of her throat. She wasn’t going to think about that now, either. ‘‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’’ the clerk asked, swearing Rusty in. ‘‘I—I do,’’ Rusty said solemnly, nodding his head. ‘‘I certainly do.’’ Rafe had discovered after nearly eight weeks in a courtroom that he loved to watch Raeanne in action. He liked the confidence, the solid command, the style, she possessed. For some absurd and totally irrational reason, he took pride in watching her, as though they were a part of one another’s lives and shared in each other’s triumphs and failures. He felt his head throbbing painfully at the temples. What a fool he was. There was nothing between them— no special feelings, no special ties, nothing! And two weeks ago, in that parking lot, she’d managed to con-

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vince him a physical attraction wasn’t enough. She simply no longer wanted any part of him. And yet he was finding he couldn’t quite let go of her. She’d been with him too long—in his heart and in his head. She was a part of him—like a wish, or a dream— and something inside just wouldn’t let go. He watched her as she questioned Rusty on the stand, noting the skillful way she focused on his answers, the artful manner in which she pulled from him what she wanted the jury to hear. She directed her entire being to that purpose, using mind, body, heart and soul. He glanced at the faces of the jury—twelve men and women who were completely captivated by the drama she masterfully unfolded before them. He was the one who was suppose to have special powers. He was Wolf Boy and Wolf Boy conversed with the animals, Wolf Boy communed with nature, Wolf Boy was in tune with the earth and the skies. What a joke. He watched her as she listened to Rusty, watched her weigh and evaluate every word he said. She was the one who was special. She was the one with the power. He was simply a man—a man who dreamed the impossible, a man who needed the woman he loved, a man who had to learn to live without her. ‘‘What the hell is she doing?’’ Harlan asked, leaning over and whispering in his ear. ‘‘I think it’s called kicking our asses.’’ Harlan shot him a look that let him know he was responsible if that was indeed the case, then rose to his feet. ‘‘Objection. Judge, she’s leading the witness.’’ ‘‘Objection overruled,’’ Matthews said, tapping his gavel once, lightly. ‘‘Continue.’’ Raeanne waited until Harlan had sat down again, her eyes briefly holding Rafe’s, before she turned around

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and started again. ‘‘So, Mr. O’Brien, essentially what you’re saying is there is no foundation for the charge Avery made against the Walkers, is that right?’’ ‘‘Right,’’ Rusty said, nodding. ‘‘Charlie made it up. The whole thing.’’ A low rumble moved through the courtroom as the information was absorbed by those who were listening. Judge Matthews rapped his gavel several times in protest against the disturbance. ‘‘Order in the courtroom. Order!’’ Raeanne took her time walking back to the counsel table, waiting for the right moment. When she thought it had come, she glanced purposefully at the prosecutor’s table. Unfortunately, though, instead of Harlan’s shrewd eyes, her gaze locked onto Rafe’s and faltered for a moment. She couldn’t let herself be distracted, couldn’t let her concentration be broken. There was too much at stake, too much was riding on this, for her to drop the ball now. But Rafe Rawlings did distract her. She couldn’t concentrate when she looked at him. So, taking a deep breath, she forced her gaze away, turning to Harlan and smiling, just as she’d planned. ‘‘Your witness, Counselor.’’ There was a moment when she thought Harlan might not have heard what she’d said, for he stared up at her with a startled, confused expression. It was obvious she’d taken him by surprise and she couldn’t help feeling just a little smug. After getting kicked around in the courtroom for weeks on end, it felt good to be the one in control for a change. Slow and easy, she reminded herself as she sat down and turned her eyes to the bench. Beside her, she heard Harlan scrambling through papers and files. He had no

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doubt been expecting the worst from Rusty’s testimony, assuming everything would come out about Charlie’s involvement with another woman. The fact that she hadn’t asked Rusty about any of that had thrown the prosecutor an obvious curve. ‘‘Are you ready on cross?’’ Judge Matthews asked testily. ‘‘Yes, Your Honor,’’ Harlan said after a moment. ‘‘Ready.’’ Raeanne watched and listened carefully as Harlan cross-examined Rusty on superficial details and tidbits of information. He questioned Rusty in detail about the cattle rustling, but stopped him when it looked as though he were about to say something about Avery’s drinking or infidelity. As Rusty talked, Harlan looked back at her and smiled. Raeanne smiled back, thinking Harlan probably thought he’d really gotten away with something. But that was just fine with her. He was never more vulnerable than when he was playing the flashy, flamboyant lawyer. He got cocky then and sloppy and that only made it better for her. She wanted him to get good and comfortable, wanted him to think she’d made a critical error, or blown an opportunity. He’d know soon enough what she had in mind. Then they’d see who was smiling. She glanced across the courtroom at Rafe, whose dark eyes were watching the testimony carefully. Any good feelings she’d had from outmaneuvering Harlan faded at the sight of his handsome profile. Was it always going to be like this? Was everything else going to take second place because she didn’t have him in her life?

Twelve ‘‘I’ve decided,’’ Ethan said, walking restlessly to the window and peering through the dusty venetian blinds into the reception area. ‘‘I’m not going to.’’ Raeanne closed her eyes and slowly lowered the file she was holding to the table. It was late, and they’d been talking for hours. She’d told him about Rusty, about what she’d learned about Avery and about the woman involved with them both. What she needed from him was answers, not for him to close down. ‘‘What do you mean, you’re not going to?’’ ‘‘I mean I’ve decided not to testify,’’ he said, with his back still to her. ‘‘It’s my choice, and I’ve decided I don’t want to.’’ ‘‘Wrong,’’ Raeanne said, rising slowly to her feet and jamming the file into her stuffed briefcase. ‘‘We’ve gone through this, it’s already been decided. You’re going to testify.’’ Ethan spun around. When he was mad, he could be formidable and he was furious now. ‘‘Like hell! Don’t forget, you work for me. It’s my decision, and I’m not going to do it.’’ Raeanne pinched the bridge of her nose, trying without much success to relieve some of the pressure building there. ‘‘Look,’’ she said reasonably, taking a deep breath. ‘‘I thought we’d gotten past that ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ routine a long time ago.’’

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She walked across the small room to where he stood glowering down at her. She knew him better now and the anger in his eyes no longer concerned her. It did no good to argue with him, it only made him dig his heels in deeper. Her only hope was to reason with him. Ethan Walker might be a hothead, he might be a loner with a reputation for being difficult, but he was smart. And one way or another, she was going to have to make him understand. ‘‘We’re down to the wire here, Ethan. This is it,’’ she said. ‘‘We’re at the one-yard line, and the ball’s been snapped. I have got to find a way to put a doubt in that jury’s mind, I’ve got to find some way to cloud the issue, to put a question in their mind as to who really did kill Charlie Avery.’’ ‘‘But what about the blow to the head?’’ Ethan insisted. ‘‘Tracy Hensley all but said it would be impossible for someone my size to have done it.’’ ‘‘That’s a start,’’ Raeanne acknowledged. ‘‘But we need more. I need for you to get up on that stand and let the jury see you couldn’t have done it. I need for you to tell me everything—about Avery, and about the woman Rusty told me about.’’ Ethan looked down at the delicate hands that gripped his work-worn ones. ‘‘I—I’m not sure I can do that.’’ Raeanne had gotten to know Ethan well enough in the past couple of months to know that had been a difficult confession for him to make. He was a man who had always done what he had to do, who had always relied on his own strength, his own abilities, to maintain control. But since this whole nightmare began, he’d been in control of nothing. It hadn’t been easy for him to sit back, to take to the sidelines, to step aside and trust his

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fate to her and a justice system that had shown him nothing but accusations and indifference. She thought of Rafe—of his tough exterior, his suspicious nature and his distrust of others. They were really very much alike—Rafe and Ethan—even though she doubted either would ever be able to see it. Maybe that was why they didn’t get along, why they didn’t trust one another. They were both men who were used to being in control and who didn’t like relying on others. Rafe would never rely on her, she knew that now. Maybe he was incapable of it, maybe it just wasn’t in his nature to do so—it didn’t matter. She knew it now and she would have to find a way to move on. What was important now was that Ethan rely on her, that he trust her to know what was best for him. ‘‘Tell me, Ethan—now,’’ she insisted. ‘‘You have to tell me everything.’’ ‘‘There’s nothing to tell. There was a girl, we dated a few times, that’s all.’’ ‘‘And you found out she was seeing Avery, as well?’’ Ethan lowered his gaze to the table. ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Did this bother you?’’ ‘‘What do you think?’’ he snapped, glaring up at her. ‘‘I think that’s a pretty good motive for wanting to kill someone.’’ His eyes narrowed. ‘‘Is that what you think?’’ ‘‘I think you’re keeping something from me.’’ ‘‘I’ve told you everything you need to know.’’ ‘‘Oh, I see,’’ Raeanne said, holding up a finger. ‘‘You’re the one deciding what I need to know and what I don’t, is that it?’’ Ethan dropped his gaze back to the table. ‘‘I’ve got nothing else to say.’’ Raeanne struggled to control her frustration. ‘‘Well,

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I’ve got plenty. The way I see it, you gave that girl your class ring, didn’t you? That’s how it got up there with Charlie.’’ ‘‘I told you, I don’t know how it got up there,’’ Ethan insisted, pounding his fist on the table. ‘‘You gave it to her and she left you and went to Charlie,’’ she went on, undeterred by his display of anger. ‘‘It was probably her lipstick and compact that was found, right?’’ ‘‘You seem to have all the answers.’’ ‘‘Who was she, Ethan?’’ she demanded. ‘‘That’s not important.’’ ‘‘Was it...Lexine Baxter?’’ Ethan pushed back from the table with such force the chair fell back against the floor. ‘‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’’ ‘‘But we are going to talk Ethan,’’ Raeanne said calmly, walking around the table and righting the chair. ‘‘We’re going to talk right now.’’ ‘‘Want me to freshen that for you?’’ Rafe glanced down at the drink he’d been nursing for well over an hour. ‘‘No thanks Pete, this is fine.’’ Pete Riddick shrugged, and reached for another glass to dry. It was almost closing time and the Sundowner Saloon was nearly deserted. A slow country tune played on the jukebox, sounding sad and mournful and the big-screen TV in the corner stood dark and silent. A small group filled a far booth, their occasional outbursts of laughter the only thing that disturbed the tranquil atmosphere. But that was fine with Rafe. The quiet, lonely darkness suited him. Pete shrugged. ‘‘Not on duty tonight, I take it?’’

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Rafe shook his head slowly. ‘‘Not tonight.’’ Pete arranged the clean glasses in an even row above the bar. ‘‘You know they got me the other night.’’ Rafe looked up from his drink. ‘‘Got you?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ Pete said, wiping his hands on the towel. ‘‘Damn kids. Spray-painted the whole side of my place. Left a big mess, I’ll tell ya. Brother, what I’d give to get my hands on those damn hooligan punks.’’ ‘‘Taggers.’’ Pete slung the towel over his shoulder. ‘‘What was that?’’ ‘‘Taggers,’’ Rafe repeated, taking another sip of the drink. ‘‘That’s what they call themselves now—taggers.’’ Pete snorted. ‘‘They’re still punks, as far as I’m concerned.’’ ‘‘Yeah, well...’’ Rafe mumbled. ‘‘How’s the trial going?’’ Pete asked conversationally, refilling a bowl with beer nuts and returning it to the bar. ‘‘The Journal says it’ll be going to the jury pretty soon.’’ Rafe nodded, reaching for a handful of nuts and popping them into his mouth. ‘‘Pretty soon.’’ ‘‘So, you think they’ll do it?’’ Pete asked, resting his elbows on the bar. ‘‘Think they’ll convict him?’’ Rafe shrugged. ‘‘Don’t know.’’ Pete shook his head and sighed. ‘‘Ethan Walker, that was a shocker, I don’t mind sayin’ it. I mean, he was always kind of a troublemaker, I’ll admit it, but I gotta tell ya, I wouldn’t have pegged him as a killer. And I’m usually pretty good at that kinda thing.’’ He pushed himself away from the bar and shook his head again. ‘‘Nope, never in a million years,’’ he said as he turned and

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headed down the bar with a broom in his hand. ‘‘Not Walker, not a killer.’’ ‘‘No,’’ Rafe muttered darkly, finally finishing the rest of his drink. He watched as Pete rounded the end of the bar and began sweeping up around the empty booths. ‘‘Walker’s just a prince of a guy.’’ Rafe considered another drink, then decided against it. There wasn’t enough whiskey in Pete’s well-stocked bar to help him forget the woman he wanted to forget. He thought back to the nights he’d spent with Raeanne—in her bed and in her arms. He remembered the long hours of lovemaking, the times they’d spent just talking or laughing, of the ease and good feeling between them. Those few short days he’d spent with her were like no others he’d ever spent in his life. He’d been happy, relaxed and content. He’d forgotten about Wolf Boy and the legends that had followed him from childhood. He’d forgotten about the blank slate he carried with him and all the questions he had about his past. With her he’d felt whole, he’d felt complete and he knew he’d never feel that way again. This wasn’t the first time he’d been relegated to the sidelines of her life. He’d spent most of his life there. He would have thought he’d be used to it by now. But it was different this time and that bothered him. He’d spent years watching her, but watching her then had been very different from watching her now. Before, he hadn’t known her, hadn’t held or caressed her, hadn’t felt her special magic in his heart. But now he had. He knew with painful clarity exactly what it was he was missing and it tore him up inside to know she was lost to him for good. ‘‘Hi.’’ Rafe looked up as the tall blonde from the group in

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the booth approached the bar. Rafe raised his glass, and gave her a silent nod. ‘‘You drinking to celebrate, or drinking to forget?’’ she asked, signaling to Pete to refill the empty mugs she carried. Rafe wished he could forget. ‘‘Just drinking.’’ As Pete refilled the mugs at the tap, she strolled down the bar, moving closer. ‘‘I know you, don’t I?’’ she asked, squinting at Rafe. ‘‘You’re that wolf boy, aren’t you?’’ Rafe set his glass down and looked at her. She was young, maybe too young to be ordering beer in a bar, but he didn’t feel like being a cop tonight. She was pretty, despite the thick makeup that caked her face, and still young enough not to show the signs of a life filled with too many late nights in too many bars. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he answered in a low voice. ‘‘That’s me. Wolf Boy—in the flesh.’’ Her smiled broadened, showing off a row of straight, even teeth. ‘‘They say you were raised in the woods.’’ ‘‘Did they also tell you I can talk to the wolves and cast spells on people?’’ Her eyes widened. She obviously was not entirely sure if he was serious. ‘‘Wow! No, but I heard you could make a person do what you wanted just by looking at them.’’ Not bad, Rafe thought hearing this newest twist. The stories about him seemed to go farther and farther and get better and better, with each generation. He looked up at her and smiled. ‘‘Then you better be careful.’’ ‘‘Oh?’’ she asked, giving him a coquettish smile. ‘‘What would you make me do?’’ Rafe regarded her for a moment. He felt depressed and alone and there was something about her standing

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there in the dark, deserted saloon that seemed so poignant and sad. Montana was filled with women like her—girls who went from bar to bar, cowboy to cowboy, town to town. He knew all he would have to do was offer and she’d be his. He thought of Raeanne and the offer he’d made to her in the darkness of a parking lot. But what he’d offered, she hadn’t accepted and she would never be his. ‘‘Your beers are ready,’’ he said, nodding to the end of the bar. ‘‘Oh,’’ she said, her smile breaking into a full grin. ‘‘Okay. If you’re not busy, come by and join me and my friends.’’ She lifted a hand, giving him a little wave. ‘‘Bye, Wolf Boy.’’ Rafe nodded, watching her as she walked away. It would have been so easy. He could have her back in his truck and back to his small apartment above the dry cleaner’s in a matter of minutes. She would open her arms to Wolf Boy, she would want him because she believed him to be half man, half magic. There would be no pity in her eyes, no look of sympathy, no charity for a stray. It would have been so easy—so easy. So why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he taken her to bed, why hadn’t he used her round breasts and slender legs to purge all the memories, all the nightmares, from his head? He thought of Raeanne again and slammed his fist down hard on the bar. His glass jumped and turned over, rolling toward the edge. ‘‘Hey, go easy on the furniture, will ya?’’ Pete said, reaching out and catching the glass before it hit the floor. He sat it down and returned to his sweeping. ‘‘Sorry,’’ Rafe mumbled, stepping down off the stool and tossing some money on the bar.

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‘‘You okay?’’ Pete asked carefully. He leaned the broom against the table he’d been sweeping under and took a cautious step forward. ‘‘You don’t look so good. Want me to call someone for you?’’ Someone, Rafe repeated to himself. There was only one person he wanted, only one person who could really make him feel happy and like living again. But he had to forget about all that. The woman he wanted would never be his and he couldn’t flood his system with enough alcohol, or surround himself with enough women to make him forget that. It was something he just had to accept and something he had to learn to live with. ‘‘No,’’ he called back to Pete, whom he’d left standing at the bar. ‘‘There’s no one.’’ Raeanne rushed across the parking lot, carefully jumping slushy puddles and muddy patches. The snow was deep, still covering everything, but it hadn’t stormed for days, and Raeanne was convinced the wind felt warmer. There was definitely a chill in the air, but after the long, difficult winter, the milder temperatures felt like an outright declaration that spring was on its way and that was enough to give her spirits a boost. Today was going to be a big day and she needed all the help she could get. She rounded the corner of the lot and stepped onto the sidewalk, surprised to see several squad cars and a small crowd gathered at the entrance to her office building. The puppy in her arms barked with excitement and Raeanne quickly soothed him. ‘‘Shh, calm down,’’ she said quickly, quieting him with a mollifying pat on the head. ‘‘It’s okay. It’s all right.’’ But as she walked closer, she saw what it was that

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was drawing all the attention. Broken glass littered the walk, and ugly black streaks of paint marred the sedate gray stones along the entrance to the Blue Lake County administration building. ‘‘Taggers.’’ Raeanne jumped at the sound of Cinda’s voice behind her. ‘‘It’s awful. What a mess.’’ ‘‘Looks like they might have caught them, too,’’ Cinda said, nodding toward three young men looking quiet and downcast as they stood near the squad cars. ‘‘I don’t know, but I think I recognize that tall one. I think I represented him on a juvenile charge.’’ Raeanne surveyed the damage and shook her head. ‘‘Looks like you might be again.’’ ‘‘What are you doing in so early?’’ Cinda asked, reaching over and giving the puppy a scratch behind the ear. ‘‘It’s not even seven-thirty.’’ Raeanne gave her a deliberate look. ‘‘I could ask you the same thing.’’ Cinda smiled, knowing her reputation around the office and the courts for being chronically late. She opened her coat to reveal a sweat suit and running shoes. ‘‘I’m running the stairs.’’ ‘‘Running the stairs,’’ Raeanne repeated, rolling her eyes. ‘‘Since when have you been a health nut?’’ Cinda scowled. ‘‘Since I pulled out a pair of Bermuda shorts I wore last year and couldn’t get them zipped up.’’ She looked at Raeanne. ‘‘So now you know my excuse. What’s yours?’’ Raeanne drew in a deep breath. ‘‘Ethan Walker takes the stand today. I just want to check things—make sure everything goes as smoothly as it possibly can.’’ ‘‘Sounds like you’re almost ready to go to the jury. Expecting to close today?’’

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Raeanne shrugged. ‘‘That depends on how long Harlan’s cross takes, but I think it looks good. I don’t think Harlan is going to want the jury to hear what Ethan has to say more than once.’’ Cinda sank her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. ‘‘It’s been a long trial.’’ ‘‘Too long,’’ Raeanne said with a tired sigh. Cinda studied her carefully. ‘‘This really is getting to you, isn’t it?’’ Raeanne shrugged again, not feeling comfortable with the concern. ‘‘I’m okay. I’m just anxious to have it over.’’ Cinda nodded, but still looked skeptical. ‘‘Client still giving you trouble?’’ ‘‘Ethan?’’ Raeanne shook her head. ‘‘No—his bark is much worse than his bite. We’ve developed an understanding.’’ Cinda considered this. ‘‘Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him pretty well.’’ Raeanne smiled bleakly. ‘‘Yeah, there’s something about a murder trial that does that to you.’’ When they both laughed, the puppy barked again. ‘‘Hey, puppy, what are you barking at?’’ Cinda asked, grabbing one of the dog’s paws and giving it a playful tickle. ‘‘You’re a cute little fella, you know that?’’ She glanced up at Raeanne. ‘‘When did you get a dog?’’ Raeanne felt herself tighten. ‘‘Oh, uh, a...friend gave him to me.’’ ‘‘A present?’’ Cinda asked, looking up at her. Raeanne shook her head. Cinda was suspicious enough about Rafe. There was no sense giving her any more ammunition. ‘‘What’s his name?’’

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‘‘Joe.’’ Raeanne gazed down at the wiggly little dog in her arms and let him lick her chin. Cinda looked around quickly, lowering her voice. ‘‘You’re taking him to work?’’ ‘‘Well—’’ Raeanne looked guilty ‘‘—he gets so lonesome shut up in the house alone all day.’’ ‘‘Oh, brother,’’ Cinda said, rolling her eyes heavenward. ‘‘A nervous mother.’’ ‘‘I’m not nervous,’’ Raeanne protested, but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘‘I just worry about him.’’ ‘‘You know,’’ Cinda said dryly, ‘‘I think there’s a county ordinance or something about animals in the building.’’ ‘‘I don’t care. It’s just this once,’’ Raeanne said, giving the pup another little hug. ‘‘I’ll sneak him in early and shut him up in my office while I’m in court. No one has to know. And I can at least see him at lunch, maybe take him for a walk or something.’’ Cinda gave a conspiratorial look around, and leaned in close. ‘‘It’s just a dog, Raeanne,’’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘‘You realize that, don’t you?’’ Raeanne laughed. Cinda was right, of course. The pup was ‘‘just a dog.’’ But she adored the little guy and the fact that he’d been one of Rafe’s dogs...well, she couldn’t deny that made a difference. ‘‘Yes, I realize that.’’ Cinda looked at her and shook her head in wonder. ‘‘This trial better end soon. You’re going off the deep end.’’ ‘‘Is the public defender offering curbside service now?’’ Both women turned at the sound of the deep male voice behind them, and the puppy barked excitedly. ‘‘Actually, Detective Rawlings,’’ Cinda said in an of-

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ficial voice, ‘‘there isn’t enough business coming across our desks, so we thought we’d come down here and see what we could drum up.’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Rafe said, his gaze shifting to the crime scene before them. ‘‘Looks like you got lucky.’’ ‘‘It’s a mess, all right,’’ Cinda said, turning back and giving Rafe a deliberate look. ‘‘Where’s there a cop when you need one?’’ Rafe smiled. ‘‘Probably out chasing all the creeps you keep putting back on the street.’’ He turned to Raeanne, his gaze dropping to the puppy in her arms. ‘‘He’s getting big.’’ Raeanne started to answer, but Cinda interrupted. ‘‘No, he’s lonesome.’’ Rafe turned to her, his brow arched. ‘‘Excuse me?’’ ‘‘You heard me,’’ Cinda said drolly. ‘‘He is lonesome. It gets lonely being home alone all day, so she’s bringing him to work.’’ Raeanne felt silly. When he turned and looked back at her, she felt her cheeks fill with color. ‘‘I—uh...just thought once...you know.’’ Rafe’s gaze dropped to the dog in her arms. He couldn’t help noticing how she held him—her long, slender hands holding his sturdy little body with such care, such regard. Rafe glanced up again, feeling a strange, constricting sensation in his chest. ‘‘Does he eat much?’’ ‘‘Anything that’s in his reach,’’ Raeanne said, glancing down affectionately at the pup. ‘‘Which includes two pillows, a potted plant and my favorite pair of slippers.’’ ‘‘His mama was the same way,’’ Rafe said, reaching out to give the dog a pet. Just at that moment, Raeanne reached to stroke the dog, too, and their hands brushed briefly. At the instant of contact, their eyes met and it was as

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if the world had stopped, as though time had come to a standstill and the course of everyday living skittered to a stop. Scenes came alive—recollections of places and locations, of feelings and emotions, of touching and sharing. After being apart for so long, that glorious millisecond of hand touching hand felt tantamount to an act of love. ‘‘His mama?’’ Cinda asked, watching with curiosity the tense interplay between them. ‘‘This is one of your dogs?’’ Raeanne snatched her hand away at the sound of Cinda’s voice and Rafe watched her expression tighten. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said after a moment, turning back to Cinda. ‘‘After Raeanne’s house was hit before Christmas, I thought she might like a watchdog.’’ ‘‘Good idea,’’ Cinda said, gesturing to the three youths being loaded into the back of the squad cars. ‘‘Think these might be the same guys?’’ Rafe surveyed the damage, and shrugged. ‘‘Doesn’t really look the same, but it’s hard to tell. Unfortunately, there seems to be more than one group ‘expressing’ themselves all over town like this.’’ Cinda nodded, her eyes shifting from Rafe to Raeanne, then back to Rafe again. ‘‘Well...’’ she said with forced enthusiasm. ‘‘Look, you two, I’ve got to be running—up six flights, to be exact.’’ She turned and trotted for the one remaining undamaged door of the building. ‘‘See you later.’’ ‘‘Bye,’’ Raeanne called after her. She turned and gave Rafe a brief glance. ‘‘Well, I better get going, too. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’’ ‘‘Raeanne, wait,’’ Rafe said, stopping her with a hand on her arm as she started to walk away. ‘‘No, Rafe, don’t,’’ Raeanne said, pulling herself free.

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‘‘Don’t what?’’ he asked, defensiveness seeping into his voice. ‘‘We’re not even allowed to talk anymore?’’ She looked up at him. ‘‘That’s just it, Rafe, we don’t talk. We argue, we fight, we rub each other the wrong way. But we don’t talk.’’ Rafe took a deep breath. ‘‘Look, I just wanted to...’’ ‘‘Wanted to what, Rafe?’’ Raeanne demanded when his words drifted off. ‘‘To tell me something? To actually talk to me and tell me something you’re feeling?’’ He stared at her, surprised by the sudden burst of anger. How could he tell her what he was feeling, when he didn’t know himself? ‘‘I—I just wanted to wish you luck today.’’ Luck, she thought darkly as she silently turned away and started into the building. She’d felt lucky once— lucky enough to hope he’d come to trust her, but not anymore. She knew now that would never happen and luck had nothing to do with that.

Thirteen ‘‘The court calls Ethan Walker to the stand.’’ A buzz traveled through the courtroom, and Raeanne felt the lump of tension in her throat swell and expand. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rafe seated at the prosecutor’s table. Unlike everyone else in the courtroom, whose eyes were fixed steadily on Ethan as he mounted the steps to the witness stand, Rafe kept his dark gaze riveted on her and that only served to make the muscles in her throat all the more tense. She reached for the small foam cup of water on the desk beside her, hoping no one on the jury noticed how her hand trembled as she lifted it to her mouth. She hated tightropes, hated it when a case came down to one deciding factor, one dramatic moment that could either make or break it for the jury—and Ethan’s testimony was shaping up to do just that. What Ethan said on the stand was going to be important, maybe even the turning point on which this whole thing was decided. And knowing what she did about what he was to testify to, that meant swinging either way. She was walking a tightrope—one wrong step could spell disaster. She held no illusions that Ethan’s testimony would prove his innocence to the jury, but then, it didn’t have to. All she wanted was to place a reasonable doubt in their minds, a plausible uncertainty that would make it impossible for them to vote to convict.

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But the tricky part would be doing that without the testimony making him appear any guiltier than the prosecution already had. She hated tightropes. Ethan climbed the box to the witness stand. His weathered, rugged features looked stony and hard and it gave him a formidable, angry appearance. Raeanne cringed. Smile, she wanted to scream up at him, remembering the hundreds of times she’d asked him to remember. Smile and show them you’re not a monster. But she understood that his dour expression sprang from nervousness. God knew, she was nervous too. As she walked slowly around the table, she quickly scanned the faces of the people in the box. She’d hoped for a reaction that would give her a reading on what they made of this man who’d been accused of murder. But after seeing their twelve curious expressions, she realized her work was cut out for her. She had to get them to listen to what Ethan Walker had to say—but first she had to make sure he didn’t scare the hell out of them. She smiled up at Ethan, and was rewarded with a small, tight smile. She took a deep breath. So far, so good. ‘‘Now, Mr. Walker...’’ she began, consciously keeping the pace of her questioning slow and deliberate. She took Ethan step by step through the charges, reviewing the evidence and asking his slant on events. She talked in a low, pleasant voice, in an effort to relax both Ethan and the jury. It seemed to work, for even though the information she questioned him on was review, she noticed the jury listened in earnest. Ethan seemed to relax more too. He became more animated, more genuine, more human, and she knew that would only help their case.

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An hour slipped by, but Raeanne had no conception of time or space. She concentrated her entire attention on guiding Ethan’s testimony and keeping the tempo slow and relaxed. It was as though the entire courtroom had become swept up in the tale Ethan had to tell, and she wanted to keep it that way. She let him explain to the jury that he’d purchased the explosives discovered in his barn for the purpose of clearing tree stumps out of the ground, not to blow up Nick Dean’s car. She then presented into evidence a police report Ethan had made days before the explosion reporting a break-in at his barn, to help support her conclusion that anyone could have broken into his barn and stolen the explosives. ‘‘You’ve heard the testimony in this courtroom about the bad blood between you and Charlie Avery. Was there bad blood between you?’’ ‘‘We didn’t care much for each other, if that’s what you mean,’’ Ethan answered, shifting just a little in the chair. ‘‘But it was a little more than just not caring for each other, wasn’t it?’’ ‘‘You could say that.’’ ‘‘Would you say you disliked Charlie Avery?’’ ‘‘Yeah, I disliked him.’’ ‘‘Would you say you hated Charlie Avery?’’ Ethan hesitated for a moment. ‘‘Yes, I hated him.’’ ‘‘Would it be safe to say you hated each other?’’ ‘‘I suppose you’d be safe in saying that.’’ Raeanne paused for a moment, feeling the tension level in the courtroom rise a notch. ‘‘Did your feelings for Charlie Avery have anything to do with the accusation he made that your family was rustling cattle from the Kincaid ranch?’’ ‘‘He lied about that.’’

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‘‘Well, thanks to the testimony of Rusty O’Brien, we know that now. But why would Charlie Avery lie about something like that?’’ ‘‘Avery had it in for me.’’ ‘‘But why would Charlie Avery have had it in for you?’’ Ethan glanced up at the judge, then back to Raeanne. ‘‘I...I was...friends with someone.’’ ‘‘Friends with someone?’’ ‘‘Yes. I was...friends with a friend of his.’’ ‘‘And he didn’t like that?’’ ‘‘Right.’’ ‘‘This friend—was it a woman?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Was it Nan Avery, Charlie’s wife?’’ Ethan glanced down at his hands, which gripped the railing tightly. ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘Would you please tell the court who this woman was?’’ Raeanne pressed, ignoring the promise she’d made Ethan about not having to name the woman. ‘‘But you said—’’ ‘‘Just answer the question, Ethan,’’ she said, cutting him off. ‘‘What’s the woman’s name?’’ Ethan gave her a killing look, then glanced down at his hands again. ‘‘Lexine Baxter.’’ A loud rumble traveled through the courtroom, and Judge Matthews hammered his gavel down hard. ‘‘Order in the court!’’ Raeanne glanced into the crowd of spectators, seeing Nan Avery’s bowed head. She looked devastated, humiliated, an innocent victim of the truth. But Raeanne couldn’t let herself think about that now. She had a job to do, the truth had to come out and people were bound to be hurt.

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She stopped as she turned back to Ethan, catching Rafe’s stare from the opposite side of the courtroom. His eyes were dark, unreadable and she quickly looked away. She couldn’t let herself think about him right now either. ‘‘Lexine Baxter,’’ Raeanne repeated slowly. ‘‘She was your girlfriend?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ Ethan whispered, lowering his head. ‘‘You even gave her your class ring, didn’t you?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘So we’re to assume you cared about her a lot?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Was she your mistress?’’ Ethan’s head snapped up. ‘‘No, it—it wasn’t like that. We never...’’ ‘‘I see,’’ Raeanne said when Ethan’s voice trailed off. The jury understood perfectly. ‘‘Now, Rusty O’Brien testified that Charlie Avery was involved with a woman who was not his wife. Do you know who that woman was?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Could you tell the court, please?’’ Ethan took a deep breath. ‘‘Lexine was...uh...she was his...friend.’’ Another wave of murmurs moved through the crowded spectator’s section, and again Judge Matthews censored the interruption with a rap of his gavel. ‘‘Any further outbursts and I’ll clear the courtroom.’’ He turned to Raeanne and nodded. ‘‘Continue.’’ ‘‘Lexine Baxter was a friend of Charlie Avery?’’ Raeanne asked when the crowd had quieted. ‘‘That’s right.’’ ‘‘But it was more than just a friendship, wasn’t it, Ethan?’’

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The line across Ethan’s brow deepened. ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Wasn’t Lexine Baxter Charlie Avery’s mistress?’’ Ethan put his head down. ‘‘Yes.’’ Raeanne stopped for a moment, savoring the silent crackle of tension in the courtroom. Every ear and every eye was on Ethan, on the witness stand—jury, spectators, reporters, clerks, counsels, bailiffs and judge. She smiled to herself, feeling her heart low and steady in her chest and her palms dry and hard. This was one of the rare instants, one of those sterling moments when she felt in complete control and she relished the feeling. ‘‘That must have made you pretty mad, to find out your girlfriend was sleeping with a married man.’’ ‘‘It did.’’ ‘‘Mad enough to kill?’’ Another rumble of voices echoed through the courtroom, and the judge wrapped his gavel again. ‘‘I didn’t kill Charlie Avery.’’ ‘‘No, of course you didn’t,’’ Raeanne agreed quietly. ‘‘But you cared about Lexine Baxter, didn’t you?’’ ‘‘She just used me,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Strung me along to make Avery jealous.’’ ‘‘She told you that?’’ Ethan shook his head. ‘‘She didn’t have to. She came to me one night, upset and crying. Told me Avery was drunk, had roughed her up. Made me promise not to tell anyone I’d even seen her that night, said she didn’t want anyone to know. She told me she loved me, that she wanted us to be together, but she needed money to get rid of Avery.’’ ‘‘What did you do?’’ Ethan dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded his head. ‘‘I pawned everything I could find. Gave her what I could.’’

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‘‘What happened after that?’’ ‘‘The next thing I knew, everyone was saying she’d ran off with Avery.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I felt like a fool.’’ ‘‘And yet now we know that didn’t happen. Now we know that someone murdered Charlie Avery instead.’’ Raeanne walked across the courtroom to the jury box. ‘‘Someone, in the opinion of the prosecution’s own forensic expert, of a height shorter than the victim, had crushed Charlie Avery’s skull and killed him. Ethan, was Lexine Baxter shorter than Charlie Avery?’’ ‘‘Well, yes, of course, but you don’t think—’’ ‘‘And wasn’t there a lipstick and compact found along with your class ring—the class ring you’d given to Lexine Baxter—found near where Avery’s remains were found?’’ ‘‘Yes, but—’’ ‘‘Lexine Baxter told you she wanted to get rid of Charlie Avery, didn’t she?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Ethan, when you heard that Avery’s remains had been found, did it ever occur to you that Lexine Baxter might have murdered him?’’ Ethan shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘‘Maybe, once or twice.’’ ‘‘Once or twice,’’ Raeanne repeated. ‘‘And yet you never mentioned your suspicions to the police. Why?’’ ‘‘Look,’’ Ethan said, frustrated and uncomfortable, ‘‘I don’t know what happened. Lexine disappeared years ago. I don’t know who killed Charlie Avery, and frankly, I don’t give a damn.’’ ‘‘And so you said nothing to the police about Lexine Baxter. Is that right?’’ ‘‘Why drag her into all this? I didn’t see the need to

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go hiding behind the skirts of some poor, misguided woman who might be dead and buried herself by now.’’ ‘‘Sounds to me as though you wanted to protect her.’’ Raeanne said, walking back to the witness stand. ‘‘You must have loved her very much.’’ Ethan looked away. ‘‘It was a long time ago.’’ ‘‘I don’t believe this,’’ Harlan muttered, shaking his head. ‘‘What? That Lexine Baxter might have offed Avery, or that Walker was actually hung up on the woman?’’ Rafe asked dryly, taking a perverse pleasure in the startling turn of events. Harlan gave him a dirty look. ‘‘You act like you’re enjoying this damn soap opera.’’ ‘‘No,’’ Rafe said simply. ‘‘But I don’t see there’s much we can do to stop it.’’ ‘‘Well, not when my chief investigator decides to uncover a witness for the defense,’’ Harlan said coolly, raising a bushy brow. Rafe leaned across the table towards him. ‘‘It’s called getting at the truth. That’s what we’re supposed to be after here, remember?’’ Harlan glanced across the courtroom to where Raeanne stood. ‘‘How can someone who looks so sweet be such a pain in the ass?’’ Rafe followed Harlan’s gaze, and felt his chest swell. Raeanne stood in the midst of the chaotic courtroom, looking calmly confident and in complete control. While Judge Matthews pounded his gavel, issuing orders and admonishing the noisy crowd and bailiffs rushed around ushering spectators out and scrambling for order, she coolly returned to her counsel table and quietly waited. Ethan’s testimony had been powerful, throwing the

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entire case into a different light. Rumors about Lexine Baxter had been a staple of Whitehorn gossip for over thirty years. The wild, unmanageable daughter of the ruined rancher Cameron Baxter had been gossiped and talked about practically from the moment of her birth. By the time she was sixteen, she’d had a reputation that had ‘‘decent’’ folks in Whitehorn blushing. Since she’d left town the same time Charlie Avery disappeared, rumor had had it that Lexine and Charlie had run off together. Rafe glanced up at Ethan, who sat in the witness box while the disarray and disorder moved around him. Except now everyone knew that Lexine had had not only Charlie Avery on the string, but Ethan Walker, as well. Rafe glanced back at Raeanne. He wished he could reach out to her, help her celebrate her triumph today. Whether Ethan won or lost, she’d been magnificent. He remembered the feel of her embrace and the silky touch of her hands along his skin. Judge Matthews slammed his gavel down hard again, causing Rafe’s daydreams to scatter. She needed nothing from him—not even his friendship. What was the matter with him? Why was it getting more difficult instead of easier? Why was it the longer he was without her, the more he wanted her back? ‘‘Any comment?’’ Sandra Wilson pushed her way through the crowd and caught up with Raeanne just before she reached the door of the courtroom. ‘‘Any indication how the jury will vote?’’ Raeanne slowed her pace, the crowd jostling her. ‘‘Sandy, I stopped second-guessing juries a long time ago.’’

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‘‘But surely you have some clue,’’ the Whitehorn Journal reporter said. ‘‘Some feeling about the verdict.’’ Raeanne looked up, spotting Rafe standing at the edge of the crowd. As she watched, he turned and made his way out the door, disappearing down the corridor. Feelings. She’d had a lot of feelings once—especially where Rafe Rawlings was concerned. But she’d been wrong—her feelings had been wrong. She’d been led astray, believing in something that wasn’t even there. But never again. Never again would she make the same mistake. Never again would she trust anything—or anyone—she couldn’t be absolutely sure of. From now on it was either black or white, dead or alive, guilty or innocent. ‘‘Were you surprised that the prosecution spent so little time on cross-examination?’’ Sandra asked, holding a small voice-activated tape recorder up to catch each word. ‘‘Frankly, Sandy, nothing the prosecution does surprises me anymore,’’ Raeanne told her, moving slowly with the crowd through the doors. ‘‘Harlan Collins implied your client’s testimony only showed the jury another motive he had for wanting Avery dead. That he’d murdered him over Lexine Baxter.’’ ‘‘What would you expect him to say?’’ Raeanne pushed the button for the elevator. But inwardly she cringed. ‘‘The district attorney’s case was falling apart right in front of him. He was grabbing at straws.’’ Raeanne tried to display the same confident facade for Sandra that she had for the jury, but she knew the point was a valid one. And she’d expected Harlan to grab at it. She’d known when she put Ethan on the stand that his testimony would very likely either help him or hang him. It was a chance they’d had to take. Still, as she’d

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pointed out again to the jury in her closing argument, their responsibility was not to prove Ethan’s innocence, just to point out a reasonable doubt and she prayed she’d managed to do that. ‘‘Were you expecting things to wrap up so quickly?’’ She looked at the reporter and smiled. ‘‘Well, let’s just say I had my closing ready, just in case.’’ Sandra Wilson smiled back. ‘‘How’s Walker doing?’’ ‘‘How do you expect? He’s an innocent man who’s spent months behind bars for something he didn’t do.’’ Sandra laughed. ‘‘He didn’t seem too happy about testifying—almost hostile at times.’’ ‘‘Can you blame him?’’ Raeanne asked, still defending him. ‘‘He’s a private man, and his whole life has been held up for public inspection.’’ ‘‘You make him sound like a victim.’’ ‘‘He’s as much a victim of this as Charlie Avery is.’’ The elevator door opened, and with the help of several court bailiffs, who held the crowd at bay, Raeanne stepped inside. ‘‘What’s he looking forward to?’’ Sandra called after her before the doors slid closed. ‘‘Having this over,’’ Raeanne said, letting the doors close on the crowd and all the noise and confusion. ‘‘He’s not the only one.’’ Raeanne spun around, surprised to see Rafe at the back of the elevator. ‘‘Rafe. You startled me.’’ ‘‘Sorry,’’ he said, stepping forward and reaching for the button on the control panel. ‘‘Lobby okay?’’ ‘‘Yes, fine.’’ He pressed the button, then stepped back again, leaning casually against the rear wall. ‘‘It’s been quite a day.’’ Raeanne nodded, feeling as though several centuries

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had passed since she’d seen him on the walk outside her office building this morning. ‘‘Yeah, it has been.’’ ‘‘I think the county got its money’s worth today.’’ She turned around and gave him a puzzled look, feeling her defenses rising. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘From you,’’ he said simply. ‘‘You did quite a job in there.’’ She quickly looked away. It was as close to a compliment as she ever expected to hear from him. ‘‘You think so?’’ ‘‘Yeah,’’ he murmured. His gaze dropped to her hand, which was tightly clutching the handle of her briefcase. It made him think of her touch, of the feel of her hands against him, of their gentle caress. Scenes drifted up from the back of his brain, of the two of them together— touching, kissing, making love. They swirled around his head like a garland of memories—a tortuous, painful crown of thorns. ‘‘How’s Harlan doing?’’ He looked up, startled by the sound of her voice. His thoughts scattered. ‘‘You know Harlan. He’s been busy putting the best spin possible on everything.’’ ‘‘Well, if anyone can...’’ Raeanne sighed, purposely letting her words drift. ‘‘They really listened to you.’’ ‘‘The jury?’’ He nodded his head. ‘‘I watched them as you gave your closing. I think you really got to them.’’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘‘I hope you’re right.’’ ‘‘You have doubts?’’ Raeanne lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘‘I don’t know. It was a gamble. I wanted to show them a different picture of Charlie Avery—liar, cheat, womanizer.

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Unfortunately, to do that I also gave them another reason why Ethan might have wanted to see Avery dead.’’ ‘‘Ah, the lovely Lexine,’’ he said, shaking his head. ‘‘She must have been something.’’ ‘‘Really something,’’ Raeanne agreed, rubbing at the stiffness in her neck. She’d been running on adrenaline for hours and now, in the quiet seclusion of the elevator, the fatigue began to settle in. ‘‘Her tastes were certainly...eclectic?’’ ‘‘Is that a polite way of saying she was sleeping with a married man, and a fifteen-year-old kid, at the same time?’’ Raeanne smiled. ‘‘That’s strange, all right.’’ ‘‘Walker was just a kid. I wonder what she’d want with him?’’ ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe she used him to make Avery jealous—or someone else. Who knows?’’ Raeanne said, her smile fading. ‘‘But you want to hear the really strange part? I think he was in love with her—Ethan, I mean. He really loved her. Even after all this time, all the years that had passed, he could hardly talk about it. And he kept his promise to her and didn’t tell anyone about what had happened that night. It still hurt. She’d left him, and it still hurt.’’ It was odd, but at that moment Rafe felt a curious sort of bond with Ethan Walker. He knew what it was to love someone, and to keep that love buried deep—hidden away where it wasn’t talked about or recognized. Rafe glanced up at Raeanne. Would years take away his longing? Would years erase the memories of her in his arms? Would they ease the pain of knowing he would never hold her again? ‘‘If I just could have made the jury see that,’’ Raeanne murmured, almost to herself.

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‘‘I think you did.’’ The look in his eyes had the small elevator closing in around her. His dark gaze saw too much, penetrated too deep, made her feel things she didn’t want to. It was as though all the air in the small enclosure had evaporated, and she was left gasping for breath and for space. ‘‘Well, I hope you’re right,’’ she said with a forced cheeriness that she hoped would mask her nervousness. ‘‘I hope it worked.’’ ‘‘It did on me.’’ She looked up at him, forgetting about her nervousness and discomfort. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘I investigated Ethan Walker, interrogated him, even arrested him on a charge of first-degree murder. I was convinced we had the right man.’’ He pushed himself away from the wall of the elevator and took a step toward her. ‘‘After hearing your argument, I have to admit, I’ve got my doubts.’’ The elevator doors swung open at the lobby, but for a moment neither of them moved. Then, feeling dazed and probably more uncertain than she had in her life, Raeanne turned and stepped into the lobby. ‘‘You know, you were wrong.’’ She stopped, and turned back to him. His hand rested on the elevator door, preventing it from sliding shut. ‘‘Wrong? About what?’’ ‘‘We can talk.’’ Leaning back against the wall, he let the doors slide closed between them.

Fourteen Rafe eased his foot onto the brake, slowing to make the turn off highway 191 onto rural route 17. The big tires of the truck gripped the mud-streaked pavement, made treacherous by melting snow and slush. If he’d just switched off his radio when the message came in for him over the police band, he’d be back in Whitehorn by now, at his desk, where he belonged, instead of heading for Winona Cobbs’s Stop ’n’ Shop for a routine call that could have been handled by any rookie. But the fact was, he hadn’t. He’d answered the alert, and God knew how long he’d be stuck there. Rafe glanced up at the clear sky, but even the bright March morning, with its billowy white clouds drifting against a brilliant blue background, could do little to lighten his mood. He was tired, having gotten up before dawn to head for Lewistown to question a witness to a barroom brawl over the weekend that had left two cowboys dead. The drive to Lewistown had been long, the witness’s memory faulty and the trip a waste of time. Then, just to top off the morning, his supervisor, Sterling McCallum, had called him over the police radio he had in his truck to ask that he stop by Winona’s on his way back into town, in response to a robbery she’d reported. All in all, it was shaping up to be one heck of a morning. He sped along the road, passing slower-moving ve-

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hicles at a speed well above the posted limit. He thought of Winona, of how uncomfortable she always made him. He hadn’t seen her since the trial, and that had been just fine with him. The trial. After only two hours of deliberation, Ethan Walker had been found not guilty, leaving the Whitehorn Police Department with another unsolved homicide to try to figure out. It had been a controversial verdict— leaving many questions unanswered and raising some new ones. Some had agreed wholeheartedly with it, others had vehemently opposed it—and probably no one was more shocked and upset than Mary Jo Kincaid. He still remembered the strange expression on her face—a mixture of surprise and sheer panic. Then swiftly, her expression had changed to her usual mild, somewhat childlike look. It was almost as if... Rafe shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the trial. Regardless of personal opinions and popular vote, the jury had made its decision and from the moment they announced it two weeks ago to a packed courtroom, it had created a scene. When the jury foreman had read their verdict of not guilty, the place had erupted into chaos—cameras flashing, men swearing, ladies gasping and tongues starting to wag. But Rafe didn’t remember much about the upheaval. All he really remembered about that day was seeing Walker grab Raeanne up into his arms and kiss her full on the mouth. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator and the engine strained loudly as it picked up more speed. It had been over two weeks since the verdict was read, over two weeks since he’d seen Raeanne. He’d thought all he wanted was for the trial to be over, to put an end to seeing her every day in court and get a start on finally forgetting her.

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Well, he’d gotten what he wanted. The trial was over, and he didn’t have to see her anymore. She was out of his life. So why couldn’t he forget? Why was she the last thing he thought about when he closed his eyes at night and the first thing he wanted when he woke in the morning? Why did he drive by her house at night hoping to catch a glimpse of her, or stroll through the courthouse halls hoping to run into her? He saw the dilapidated sign for the Stop ’n’ Shop, and eased his foot off the accelerator. The last thing he needed right now was to be under Winona’s prying gaze. It made him feel like a bug under a microscope and he resented the intrusion. He pulled his truck to a stop in the gravelly lot outside the place. Several cars were parked close by, and Rafe could see people wandering through the junk that littered the yard. Grabbing his down vest, he slipped it on over his flannel shirt as he weaved his way through the debris to the front door. The bell above the door clanged loudly as he pushed it open and walked inside. At the sound, a group of women huddled in conversation at the counter stopped and turned around. ‘‘Well, it’s about time,’’ Winona declared, stepping out of a back room, carrying what looked to be a large soup tureen in the shape of a giant green head of cabbage. ‘‘Sterling said someone would be out as soon as possible. That was two hours ago.’’ ‘‘I’d have thought you’d have this all figured out by now,’’ Rafe said dryly, reaching into an inside pocket of his vest and bringing out a small tablet. ‘‘What’s the matter, Winona, losing your touch?’’ ‘‘My touch is just fine,’’ Winona assured him, setting the gaudy tureen on the counter and starting for the back

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room again. ‘‘But I’m in the middle of this right now. You’ll just have to wait for me.’’ Rafe started to say something, but held his tongue. She was being stubborn and it would have done no good. ‘‘Hello, Wolf Boy.’’ Rafe glanced at the group standing near the counter and recognizing Lily Mae Wheeler among them. The nosy old gossip was just what he needed to make the morning perfect. ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Wheeler.’’ ‘‘All that graffiti at the county building downtown, that fight at the Sundowner and now Winona’s place robbed. What is this world coming to? What can we do about all this crime?’’ Rafe smiled. He really didn’t need this now. ‘‘Well, I don’t know. Crime is a problem in a lot of communities, Lily Mae.’’ ‘‘Well, it’s a disgrace—a disgrace, I tell you,’’ she expounded, turning to her friends. ‘‘I mean, it’s getting so a person isn’t safe anywhere.’’ ‘‘Well, it’s not any better anywhere else,’’ one of the others exclaimed. ‘‘I mean, look at what goes on in New York, or California.’’ She shivered. ‘‘It’s enough to make you shudder.’’ As Lily Mae and the others became caught up in their own conversation, Rafe slipped quietly to a corner of the shop, grateful to be off the hook. He was hardly in the mood to explain away the failures of the entire criminal justice system and no way was he interested in their homespun solutions. He glanced around at the array of odds and ends that cluttered Winona’s store, wondering how she could even tell if something was missing with all the junk. In his brief examination of the place, he’d been able to see no

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sign of a forced entry, and he began to wonder if Winona had called him out on a wild-goose chase. As he waited, he was only vaguely aware of the discussion of the group of women nearby. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hear them—he could, loud and clear. It was just that he wasn’t interested. As far as he was concerned, they were a bunch of busybodies, gossiping about people and things they knew nothing about. But just then he realized there was something in their conversation he was very interested in and he listened intently. ‘‘Well, it makes no sense,’’ Lily Mae was saying. ‘‘I mean, Los Angeles! Look what goes on out there—murder, rape, burning in the streets. And if that isn’t bad enough, you’ve got earthquakes and forest fires. The girl obviously can’t be thinking straight. It’ll kill her parents, I tell you, just kill them. Are you sure?’’ ‘‘Oh, absolutely,’’ her friend maintained. ‘‘Sharon down at the beauty parlor does Nell Riley’s hair, who works down at the real estate office? She told Sharon that Raeanne is looking for someone to sublet. She plans to be gone by the end of the month.’’ Lily Mae shook her head. ‘‘Well, you know the poor thing lost her husband so young and that’s not good for a young woman, even though I tell you that Andy Peyton wasn’t much better than that drunkard of a father of his. I don’t think Raeanne knows what she wants. I mean, who in their right mind would want to do the kind of work she does, working with those...well, you know, with those kinds of people—criminals and thugs.’’ ‘‘Like Ethan Walker?’’ another chimed in. ‘‘I don’t care what that jury said, that man was guilty! He got away with murder.’’

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‘‘I’ll say. Decent folks aren’t safe anymore,’’ another agreed in a low voice. But Rafe couldn’t hear anymore. The roaring in his ears drowned out everything else and he felt dizzy and light-headed. Could it be true, or was it just more idle gossip from Lily Mae and her friends? Was Raeanne really leaving Whitehorn? His mind traveled back, remembering how he’d felt when she left after Andy’s death. It had been hard to watch her walk away—he had suffered, mourned, but eventually he’d found a way to live with the pain. Even then, as he watched the bus carry her away, he hadn’t been thinking in terms of forever. He’d told himself at the time that she would never come back, but somewhere in the back of his brain, something had made him believe there still was hope. This time... He tried to think of his life, the long succession of days going about his everyday routines—eating, sleeping, working. Day after day, month after month, year after year. His life would be like the void he’d been existing in for the past several weeks. Except with one major difference. She would be gone. She would be out of his life for good this time. What would it be like, this method of existence, without so much as a glimpse, without so much as the hope of seeing her? He closed his eyes. What did he do—let her go? Beg her to stay? He opened his eyes, turning to stare aimlessly out the front window. She had everything to offer a man and he had nothing to give. She deserved more from a man than a past built on legend and a future full of uncertainties. Besides, too much had happened, too many harsh words had been said, too many bad feelings had been left between them. He couldn’t live with her

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pity and she’d made it clear she needed nothing from him. ‘‘Okay, I’m ready now,’’ Winona said, wiping her hands on her apron and walking around the counter toward him. But when she looked into his face, her hands stopped abruptly. ‘‘Rafe? Are you all right?’’ Rafe winced and quickly looked away. He needed time to absorb all this, needed to be alone to try to sort it all out. He didn’t want Winona’s probing eyes on him, and he immediately tightened up. ‘‘What’s this about a robbery?’’ Winona regarded him for a moment, then drew in a deep breath. ‘‘Right, the robbery. This way.’’ She led him outside, deftly maneuvering her considerable girth through the clutter to a spot along the far side of the building, not far from where she kept her beehives. ‘‘There,’’ she said, gesturing to a place where several large rusted wagon wheels lay leaning against the building. Rafe started to the spot she indicated. ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘My moped,’’ Winona said, as though he should know. ‘‘It’s gone.’’ ‘‘Moped?’’ Rafe repeated. ‘‘You mean like a motor bike?’’ ‘‘Yes, I mean like a motorbike,’’ Winona said, parroting him. ‘‘It was here yesterday, now it’s gone. Someone’s stolen it.’’ It wasn’t exactly the robbery he’d been expecting, but Rafe decided to go through the motions anyway. ‘‘You said it was here yesterday?’’ ‘‘Yes,’’ Winona said. Then, after thinking a moment, she corrected herself. ‘‘Well, I think it was here yesterday. Day before, for sure.’’

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Rafe rolled his eyes, scratching out the notation he’d just made on his tablet and correcting it. ‘‘Were the keys in it?’’ ‘‘Keys?’’ ‘‘Yeah, you know, keys,’’ he told her, making a turning motion with his hand. ‘‘To start it with?’’ ‘‘Start it?’’ Winona looked up at him innocently. ‘‘Why would you want to start it? It didn’t run.’’ Rafe’s head and shoulders sagged. ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘A key wouldn’t do you any good,’’ she explained good-naturedly. ‘‘The thing didn’t run.’’ ‘‘You mean it was broken-down?’’ ‘‘No. I mean it didn’t run. It never ran.’’ ‘‘Never?’’ Winona shrugged. ‘‘Not since I’ve had it.’’ ‘‘How long was that?’’ Winona thought for a moment. ‘‘Oh, gosh, I guess... I don’t know... Well, my goodness, that had to be about three—no, four years ago. I remember ’cause I traded with Harold Potter, lives up near the res? Took a lantern and two oil drums for it.’’ Winona scratched her head thoughtfully. ‘‘I always felt a little bad about that, sorta like I took advantage of him, you know?’’ Rafe put his tablet back into his pocket and started back for his truck. ‘‘Wait—where are you going?’’ Winona called after him. ‘‘Aren’t you going to investigate? A crime’s been committed. My property has been stolen.’’ ‘‘Winona,’’ Rafe said, turning back to her, ‘‘it was a piece of junk.’’ She fell back a step, insulted. ‘‘It may have been junk to you, but to me it was my moped. And it’s been stolen.’’ Rafe stopped. His head ached and his heart pounded

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in his chest. He wanted to climb up into his truck and speed across the highway until he forgot about Whitehorn and gossips and wolf boys and the sounds Raeanne had made when he made love to her. But he knew he couldn’t—he couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t forget. ‘‘Okay,’’ he said in a resigned voice, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tablet again. ‘‘Let’s start all over.’’ Winona grinned and told him again when she’d last seen the bike, how she’d acquired it and provided him with a full description. Rafe jotted it all down—including the description, which included a flat rear tire and no front tire at all. When Winona had told him all she felt he needed to know, he slipped the tablet closed and returned it to his pocket. ‘‘Okay, Winona,’’ he said, starting back across the yard toward his truck. ‘‘But I gotta tell you, it doesn’t look good. I’ll make the report, but there’s not much here to go on.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’ve got confidence in you, Rafe,’’ Winona said, walking with him and patting him on the shoulder. Rafe looked at her, not having the heart to tell her how hopeless it was. ‘‘Just don’t get your hopes up too high, Winona. Okay?’’ She smiled. ‘‘You know, Rafe, I’ve learned that the most complicated problems have the simplest solutions—so simple, in fact, we tend to overlook them.’’ Rafe gave her an uneasy look, feeling as though they were suddenly talking about something other than a stolen piece of junk. She laughed, giving him another solid slap on the back. ‘‘Think about it.’’ She turned and started up the steps to the door. ‘‘And keep it simple.’’ Keep it simple. Rafe shook his head. He kept thinking

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about Winona and what she had said during the twentymile drive back into town. Keep it simple. What had she been trying to tell him? Did she know something, or was this just another of her kooky predictions? The way he felt right now, nothing in his life seemed simple. Still, at the outskirts of town, he turned the truck north. He wasn’t ready to go back to the station. He needed to be alone, he needed to think. He turned up Whispering Pines Road, toward the Kincaid ranch, pulling off the pavement and following the muddy trail past the old Baxter ranch. He drove until he reached the dense woods that stretched out beyond the open plains, following the path until it ended in a thicket. Stopping the truck, he grabbed his down vest and got out. He glanced around at the familiar surroundings— the giant trees, the hard, rocky ground, the quiet stillness. Somewhere in the trees above, a bird cawed loudly, an early spring arrival who was already staking claim to a nesting site. The woods were a place Rafe came to often, a place he gravitated to when he needed time to think, or just to be alone. It was the place where twenty-seven years ago a cowboy had stumbled across a tiny baby— half frozen and crying for his life. Sometimes Rafe thought he’d come a long way from that lost little waif who’d lain wailing on the hard ground. He’d made a life for himself in Whitehorn—he had Emma, and a family and friends who loved him. But other times, like now, he felt as vulnerable and alone as he’d been on the day he was found. What was it that he really wanted? What was it that would make him happy? He wanted answers to his questions. He wanted to know where he’d come from and why he’d been left behind. He wanted to fill in all the blanks in his past so that he’d have something to offer in the future. He

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wanted to feel complete and whole and as though he belonged. He broke off a twig from a fallen branch, poking it absently through the thin blanket of melting snow that covered the ground. He wanted all of those things, but somehow none of that mattered unless he had someone to share it all with. No, he thought, snapping the twig in half. Not someone—Raeanne. She was leaving—her job, her family, and...him. She was going to walk out of his life and he was powerless to stop it. He couldn’t go to her, couldn’t ask her to stay. He wouldn’t know what to say, or where to start. So much had happened between them, they’d been pulled too far apart. There were no words that could heal the damage that had been done. Rafe thought again of Winona’s advice. Keep it simple. But how could he, when everything between them was so complicated? He thought for a moment, sorting through all the confusion and disarray in his mind, breaking it down to basics. The simple fact was, he loved her—he’d always loved her. And despite all the questions in his life, despite all the blanks in his background and the uncertainties in his future, he wanted her with him. Because without Raeanne in his life, none of the rest seemed to matter. Without her, all the questions, all the uncertainties, all the blanks, were little more than trivial details— uneventful and unimportant. But how did he tell her that? How could he find the words? Keep it simple. Winona’s words played through his head like a subliminal message. Was that what he did? Keep it simple? He loved her. Could this whole mess

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between them be solved as simply as that, with just three little words? He heard the bird cry again and he peered up through the trees to its perch on a high branch. Rafe realized he suddenly felt better. He suddenly felt like crying out himself, like shouting to the world. He turned and started back to his truck. As he negotiated the narrow trail back to the road, he contemplated what he’d do next. He wasn’t sure what that would be, but he knew he had to keep it simple. Raeanne placed the cap of the felt-tip marker back on the end of the pen and stepped back to count the boxes in front of her. Six. Six packing cartons full of Christmas ornaments and decorations. It was ridiculous. She felt a little foolish now, thinking of how far overboard she’d gone. But she’d been feeling so hopeful back then, so happy to be back in Whitehorn, back home. She glanced around her small living room now. Boxes were now stacked high where her Christmas tree had once stood and packing materials were scattered about the carpet. Now all she could think about was getting as far away as she could. She wanted to get back to L.A., back to that lonely little apartment complex where she had lived for seven long years and never set foot in Montana again. The past several weeks had been the worst of her life. She’d won the biggest case of her career and yet the victory had felt hollow. She missed Rafe—missed seeing him, missed talking to him, even missed arguing with him. The void he had left in her life was more than she could stand, more than she wanted to face. Maybe she was running away, but it was better than wasting away and that was what surely would happen if she stayed.

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The knock on the door startled her. Tossing the Magic Marker down on the coffee table, she ran a quick hand through her tousled hair and ran to answer it. But as she rounded the corner into the entry, she skittered to a stop. She recognized Rafe’s tall silhouette through the glass and her mind raced. For a moment she considered not answering, turning around and slipping back into the living room and hoping that he would just go away. But that was stupid. They were both adults. He’d no doubt heard she was leaving and it was only right and respectful that he come by to say goodbye. Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she took a deep breath and slowly reached for the doorknob. ‘‘Rafe,’’ she said, as brightly as she could. ‘‘Hi. Come in.’’ ‘‘I just heard this morning,’’ he said without preamble. ‘‘I heard Lily Mae talking about it out at the Stop ’n’ Shop, then I ran into Cinda at your office. She said you were looking for someone to take the puppy.’’ The dog. Of course, that was why he’d come. He would want it back. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and in the back of her throat, but she was determined not to let him see. ‘‘Yeah, I’ve just got a small apartment lined up. He wouldn’t have anyplace to run or play and I’d have to keep him shut up all day. It didn’t seem fair. He’d hate that.’’ ‘‘And he might get lonesome.’’ She looked up at him, remembering their conversation on the street outside her office the day Ethan Walker had taken the stand. ‘‘Yes, he might.’’ ‘‘But if you give him away, won’t he get lonesome for you?’’ Rafe asked, stepping inside. ‘‘Maybe,’’ Raeanne said. She wished he hadn’t come in. She would have preferred that they say their good-

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byes at the door—keeping it simple and light. But it looked as if that were impossible now. She stepped awkwardly through the entry and into the living room, aware that he was following. ‘‘But he’ll forget about me. In time.’’ ‘‘You think so?’’ Rafe asked skeptically. He glanced about the room, seeing the boxes and shipping crates and feeling his stomach twist uneasily in his gut. ‘‘Looks like you’re about packed up.’’ ‘‘Yeah, well...’’ Raeanne said, hoping she had the strength to get through this. ‘‘No sense putting things off.’’ ‘‘I guess not,’’ he said, walking through the living room and checking out the cartons stacked there. ‘‘How are you parents taking it?’’ ‘‘Okay,’’ she lied, trying to force herself to smile. The effort failed miserably, so she abandoned it. ‘‘Of course, they would like me to stay.’’ Rafe knelt down, picking up a book from a stack on the floor. ‘‘So why don’t you?’’ Raeanne looked down at him, surprised. ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘Why are you going?’’ he said, setting the book on the stack and slowly standing. ‘‘I—I’m going because...’’ Raeanne shook her head, flustered. ‘‘B-because it’s...it’s what I want to do.’’ Rafe took a step toward her, feeling a little as though he were stepping into a void. He was a big, tough cop who dealt with danger on a daily basis, but knowing how close he was to losing her forever frightened him more than anything he’d ever faced. ‘‘Is it?’’ ‘‘Of course it is,’’ she snapped, turning away and snatching up the marker. She busily began labeling boxes she’d already labeled. ‘‘I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t what I wanted.’’

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Rafe walked over to where she stood, lifting the marker from her hand. ‘‘Wouldn’t you?’’ ‘‘What are you talking about?’’ she demanded, but her voice sounded frail and uncertain. ‘‘You left Whitehorn once before,’’ he stated. ‘‘You thought it was what you wanted then, too.’’ ‘‘It was,’’ she insisted, trying to look everywhere but into his eyes. ‘‘I wanted to go to law school, I wanted to make a new life for myself.’’ ‘‘And now you want to leave again.’’ Because I have to, she thought to herself. Because I can’t face living here, day in and day out, for the rest of my life, without you. But she simply nodded her head. ‘‘I’m not going to let it happen again,’’ he said suddenly. ‘‘Wh-what are you talking about?’’ she stammered, confused. ‘‘I stood back and did nothing the first time,’’ he said, reaching for her and holding her by the upper arms. ‘‘I was...afraid. I didn’t have the courage then.’’ He stopped, and shook his head. ‘‘Maybe I still don’t.’’ ‘‘Rafe, what are you trying to say?’’ Rafe drew in a deep breath. He felt the old affliction, felt the words stall in his throat, choking and suffocating him. There was so much he wanted to tell her, so much he needed to say. He searched for the right expression, scrambled for the perfect words, only to feel himself panic and pull away. Then, suddenly, he thought of Winona. He saw her sparking eyes, her long gray braid, and heard the jangle of those silly crystals she wore around her neck. Keep it simple, she had advised and he finally understood her quirky words of wisdom. ‘‘I love you, Raeanne,’’ he said then, feeling a warmth

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spread through his body like the sun’s healing rays after a long winter night. ‘‘I always have. I love you, and I don’t want you to go.’’ Raeanne would probably never remember exactly what happened after that, except that she was in Rafe’s arms, that he was kissing her and that she realized for the first time in her life she was where she was truly meant to be. Somehow they had gotten to the bedroom, but she wasn’t sure if he had carried her there, or maybe she had just dragged him. She vaguely remembered articles of clothing coming off, but she was too concerned about the feel of his skin against hers to notice. The telephone might have rung and she thought she remembered hearing the dog barking in the backyard, but none of that seemed to matter. Rafe loved her. He not only had told her, actually said the words, but he was showing her with every move that he made. Rafe loved her and it made her life complete. ‘‘I love you,’’ Rafe whispered, pushing into her and feeling her warmth surround him. ‘‘Don’t go, don’t leave me. I love you. Stay with me. Stay with me.’’ Rafe heard the words on his lips, loving the sound of them, loving the way they made him feel. It seemed strange to him now to think that he’d ever been afraid, that he’d had trouble telling her what was in his heart. It seemed so easy now. The words seemed to flow from him now. There was no way he could have stopped them. ‘‘I love you, Raeanne,’’ he whispered again. ‘‘Oh, Rafe,’’ she said with a sigh, feeling the world lose shape around her and bliss come within reach. ‘‘I love you, too.’’ It was a long time before the world settled back into

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its orbit again. They lay together on the bed—touching, stroking, kissing...loving. It was nearly dark, and the setting sun sent crazy shadows dancing across the ceiling. ‘‘You never answered me, you know.’’ Raeanne opened her eyes at the sound of Rafe’s voice. ‘‘I don’t recall the question.’’ He lifted himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. ‘‘Will you stay?’’ She pulled him down for a kiss. ‘‘What do you think?’’ ‘‘I think I’m very happy,’’ he said, falling back on the pillows, more satisfied than he could ever remember being. He shook his head. ‘‘I can’t believe I almost let it happen again.’’ ‘‘Almost let what happen?’’ Raeanne murmured, stroking the arm that rested across her. He turned to look at her. ‘‘Almost lost you again.’’ ‘‘Again?’’ ‘‘I wanted to stop you the first time, after Andy died.’’ She shifted her weight, resting her head on an elbow. ‘‘Why didn’t you?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Afraid, I guess. And guilty...’’ ‘‘Guilty?’’ Raeanne felt all the feelings of shame and remorse she’d kept buried for so long roar to life. ‘‘What did you have to feel guilty about?’’ He reached out and stroked her cheek with his finger. ‘‘Andy was dead, and I wasn’t. And I wanted you so much.’’ Rafe watched a tear fall down her cheek, and felt himself die just a little inside. He’d let her walk away once, had missed out on a chance of happiness. But, by some miracle, he’d been given another chance. He’d learned

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his lesson and paid dearly for it in the years he’d been alone. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. ‘‘Raeanne,’’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms. ‘‘Marry me. We belong together, we always have. I love you. Marry me.’’ Raeanne felt the tears roll down her cheek. ‘‘I—I don’t know what to say.’’ Rafe smiled, brushing a kiss along her lips. ‘‘Keep it simple. Just say yes.’’ Raeanne let him wipe her tears away. He was right, of course. Lifting her arms up to encircle his neck, she smiled up at him. ‘‘Yes.’’ *

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The Law is no Lady Helen R. Myers

Published by Silhouette Books

America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

Prologue He didn’t want to answer the pounding at his front door. Besides the late hour, the raging storm battering his house was proving that March or not, winter hadn’t yet finished with Montana. What kind of fool wouldn’t have the sense to stay indoors on a night like this? At the best of times, he didn’t have much to say for most people’s common sense, and that opinion had recently been reinforced, thanks to his stinging brush with the law down in Whitehorn. Yet the thumping continued, taking on a frantic urgency that finally had him pushing himself up from his recliner. ‘‘Fourth-largest state in the country,’’ he growled, resenting the need to put any distance between himself and the warmth of his wood-burning stove. ‘‘And a smaller population than some boroughs in New York City. You’d think a guy could get a little peace around here.’’ If some idiot had managed to get stuck out on the mountain highway, he could go bunk with John Mountain, his sole ranch hand, until the storm blew over. ‘‘Damned if I’m going to freeze my butt, or worse, for a—’’ As he succeeded in jerking open the door, the rest of his words died in his throat. He stared in mute horror at a snowcovered man who had to use his whole body to bear the weight of an equally frozen, and exceedingly pregnant woman. His mind tried to reject the vision arguing that this couldn’t be happening to him; not now, after he’d worked so hard to put his nightmares behind him.

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But he was wrong. Again. ‘‘Ethan...’’ His sister’s pitiful, weak voice yanked Ethan Walker out of his stupor. Lurching forward, he swept her out of Homer Gilmore’s grasp. ‘‘What’s wrong with her?’’ he demanded, assuming the old-timer would shut the door and follow him. On the other hand, one never knew with Homer. The prospector was the singular type; the one person in the area with a worse reputation than Ethan’s for being unapproachable and eccentric. For all Ethan knew, the restless coot would dash back into the treacherous night, and take off for parts unknown, not to be seen again for days, even weeks. But apparently Homer had also had his fill of the brutal weather. Ethan heard him shove the door closed and first stomp, then brush, the snow off his boots and outerwear. ‘‘Reckon the baby’s coming!’’ he called back. So much for revelations. Ethan had figured that out for himself the second he lifted Marilee into his arms and felt her writhe and moan. What was more, while genetically the Walkers had always tended to be on the lean side—with Marilee never coming close to outweighing a bushel of twigs in her life—right now her face was the only thing gaunt and fragile about her. The rest of her body reflected a woman ripe and ready to burst with new life, something not even her quilted coat and layers of clothing could hide. What a shock, considering he hadn’t seen her in months— not since they’d crossed paths in town and she’d briefly informed him of her pregnancy. He’d just as soon forget that episode, considering that right afterward she’d run away, as if ashamed of being spotted with him. ‘‘Found her between Whitehorn and here,’’ Homer continued, the thud of his booted feet signaling that he was following them. ‘‘Looks like her car slid off the road. Fig-

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ured she’d been headin’ your way—she didn’t have much to say at first, being shook up and all—so I helped her along.’’ ‘‘Don’t scold, Ethan,’’ Marilee pleaded, between shallow pants. ‘‘Promise you won’t?’’ Scold? He wanted to roar the roof off the rafters. He wanted to shake Homer until the old weasel’s teeth rattled, and then give Marilee a dose for good measure. She was supposed to be in Billings, with her in-laws, for pity’s sake! Only her pitiful condition kept him from yielding to his outrage and panic. But of all times for her to decide to patch up their relationship...and just what did she and Homer think he could do for her way out here? ‘‘You should be in a hospital,’’ he muttered, carrying her into what had once been their parents’ bedroom. His room now, although he never slept there, because he didn’t want to waste the wood it would take to heat that part of the house. And because after Vietnam...after Wayne...he’d found sanity in denying himself such luxuries as beds. But with the door pushed wide, the room would warm up fast and be fine for Marilee. Most important, she would have the privacy this situation called for. ‘‘I had to see you.’’ ‘‘It could’ve waited. You need medical help.’’ He thought of the twenty-five miles between his ranch and Whitehorn. In this weather, it might as well be a hundred. Even so, they would provide better care than what he could hope to give her. ‘‘Maybe there’s time to put chains on the truck.’’ Marilee clutched at his snow-dampened flannel shirt, only to grimace as new contractions gripped her. ‘‘No! I don’t want to go back! They’ll take my baby! Ethan!’’ Despite the prickles at the back of his neck, he told himself that her frantic reaction had to be due to her condition.

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She’d had a scare, that was all. This was her first child. All women got emotional at this point, didn’t they? ‘‘No one’s going to take your baby.’’ Good grief, who would dare? he thought, setting her on the mahogany bed. She was a Taylor now. Regardless of how he felt toward her late husband and her in-laws, to everyone else in this area the name personified power and created its own ring of protection. Only a complete stranger would be stupid enough to— ‘‘They will! They’ll manage it the same way Clay kept me from you once we were married.’’ What was she talking about? Was that true? Not caring about the snow that clung to her clothes and boots, Ethan urged her back against the bedding and the pillows. He almost sat down himself; her announcement had him reeling as if he’d taken a kick in the head from one of his cattle. Kept her away. While all this time he’d believed her happy in her marriage and her life of luxury. So convinced that after Clay’s accidental death he’d assumed she was too ashamed to return to the place of her birth. He’d tried to understand, to forgive her for turning her back on him. Social pressure could be an impossible thing. What with so many people in these parts continuing to believe he was a cold-blooded killer, it had only been reasonable to suppose she’d formed doubts herself. But what she’d just told him suggested something altogether different. An ugly feeling began churning in Ethan’s belly. ‘‘Taylor kept you from coming out to see me?’’ ‘‘That’s right. When I tried—oh, God, this hurts—when I tried, he would get crazy mean. I know it’s evil to say this, but...I’m not sorry he’s dead!’’ Before Ethan could begin to reconcile himself to this latest revelation, a new hammering erupted at the front door. What now? he wondered, glancing over his shoulder at the

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man standing in the bedroom doorway. He’d all but forgotten Homer. ‘‘Well, don’t just stand there. Go see who that is!’’ Then, muttering an epithet or two, he continued to get his sister out of her wet things. Muffled voices drifted into the unlighted room, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. Only at that point did Ethan realize his newest guest was a woman. ‘‘Marilee?’’ Lori Bains rushed in and circled to the far side of the bed. She sounded unsure; understandable, since the only light was coming from the lanterns in the main part of the house. ‘‘Oh, no. This is what I was afraid of. I was on my way back from a medical workshop in Butte when I spotted Clay’s—I mean your car, in a ditch.’’ She cast Ethan a wary glance, adding directly to him, ‘‘Something told me to pull over and make sure she wasn’t inside. That’s when I saw the tracks heading this way. How far along are the contractions?’’ Although he thought it nothing short of a miracle for Whitehorn’s own resident certified nurse and midwife to be the one who’d appeared on his doorstep, Ethan paused in removing Marilee’s right boot to scowl at the woman. It was, after all, one asinine question to be asking a bachelor, let alone a man about his sister. ‘‘How the hell should I know?’’ Somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties, the blue-eyed blonde continued to bear more of a resemblance to a schoolgirl than his idea of an experienced professional. But her answering glare proved she wasn’t unused to his brand of ground-zero etiquette, even if he was the area’s most recent and notorious jailbird. Stripping off her own coat, gloves and scarf, and tossing them behind her without so much as a glance of concern

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for where anything landed, Lori snapped back, ‘‘The usual way, Ethan. You ask her.’’ But as quickly as she’d lost her temper, she collected herself and asked Marilee gently, ‘‘Have you been timing the pains?’’ ‘‘Before. Not now. Now the hurting’s almost constant.’’ Lori nodded. ‘‘Then we can’t afford to assume an emergency helicopter can get here in time.’’ Once again she directed her attention to Ethan. ‘‘Okay, this is what I need you to do. Light that oil lamp on the bed stand, and the get me whatever other light you can. When you’re done, boil some water, and then you can call for that chopper. After you’re finished with that, we’ll need more blankets, and plenty of clean sheets. You have clean sheets, don’t you?’’ Far too anxious to be angry, or to waste precious seconds by doing more than nodding, Ethan bolted. Something in Lori’s voice, beyond her obvious concern about time, had his blood temperature plummeting to match the windchill outside. He could deal with it better by staying busy. Homer dodged out of his way as he hurried past to put on the pots of water. Then, despite what Lori had ordered, Ethan made the phone call. Although the air ambulance service gave him only limited hope for assistance anytime soon, he felt reassured after that. But his hopefulness lasted only until he started collecting the rest of what Lori had asked for. Living the life of a thrifty loner had claimed its price; he realized how high of one when he added two more oil lamps to help illuminate the bedroom, then found himself in a fix. Linens. Besides the set already on the bed, he owned only one other change, which he took from the ancient chest across from the bed. Until tonight, he’d considered the supply more than adequate. Now he wished he had more to offer...so much more. The blankets were in better supply for one reason: A per-

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son never knew how cold it could get up here in the winter, or how long a storm might last. No, a rancher never had enough blankets, or enough firewood, Ethan thought as he yanked bundle after bundle from the shelves in the back of the closet, and piled them on the threadbare armchair beside the bed. ‘‘That’s good,’’ Lori said briskly, efficiently stripping the wet spread and Marilee’s soaked things from under her patient with the minimum of disruption. ‘‘Now go make us a pot of coffee. And shut the door on your way out, Ethan. I need to finish getting her undressed. An audience is the last thing she needs.’’ As he left, he decided Lori had to be referring to Homer, since he had been trying his best not to look anywhere near the bed. He found it tough enough listening to Marilee’s whimpers and moans; he didn’t want the image of her writhing in agony imprinted in his mind, too. Enough ghosts already lived there to last him two lifetimes. Just as he’d suspected, Homer had resumed his post at the doorway and was continuing to crane his neck for a better view. Firmly pushing him out and toward the warmth of the stove, Ethan shut the bedroom door behind him, leaving the women to their business. Nevertheless, any irritation he felt toward the old-timer was offset by a stronger surge of gratitude. ‘‘Appreciate what you did for my sister,’’ he said, moving toward the kitchen area of the large efficiency-style room. To prove it, he located a bottle of whiskey and a glass from a cabinet. But once he’d set them on the coffee table before the stove, he ignored his companion, preferring instead to pace. He felt like a trapped bear. A lousy conversationalist at the best of times, he saw no reason to pretend otherwise now—especially not to someone who seemed to suffer from

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a similar malady. Moving helped, so he piled another few pieces of wood in the stove, and then remembered to put the kettle of water on the propane stove in the kitchen area for instant coffee. All the while, he brooded over what Marilee had confided to him. How he wished Clay Taylor were still alive. He would have like the opportunity to strangle the last breath out of that sanctimonious, self-serving creep, and hang the consequences! Poor Marilee. He should have done more for her, tried harder to teach her about men and things. How he’d let her down. They didn’t have to wait long for the screams; they began well before he made it back to the bedroom with the steaming water, a basin, and his small inventory of towels. With Marilee’s gut-wrenching cries piercing his eardrums, he raced from the bedroom, snatched up his jacket, and dashed outside to check if the snow had let up at all. It hadn’t. As he ducked deeper into the upraised collar of his jacket, he began doing more than hoping for the helicopter to come. For the first time since Vietnam, he prayed. Every few minutes he went out to check again. He even took a moment to run to the bunkhouse and tell John Mountain of the situation. After a while, it did look as if there might be a slowing of the wind and snow, but he still saw no sign of the chopper. It was later, maybe after his third trip into the bedroom, that he realized Homer had vanished, along with the bottle of booze. Ethan accepted the revelation with a philosophical shrug. Who could fault the old buzzard for pulling up stakes? Hell, if given the option, he would make tracks himself. Less than an hour later, Marilee screamed his name, and

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he ran to her side. He let her grip his hand, mumble incoherent things...whatever she needed to do, he stayed with her. It soon amazed him how anyone with chewed-to-thequick nails like hers could create such deep furrows and scratches in his work-roughened skin. But he also knew he would have suffered much more, anything, for his kid sister. Through the entire ordeal, and feeling thoroughly inadequate, he wiped her feverish brow again and again with a towel dampened in a snow-cooled bowl of water; he promised everything would be all right; and he kept snapping at Lori Bains, ‘‘How much longer, damn it?’’ Then everything started happening at once. First there was the faint sound of the approaching helicopter, sweetly underscoring Lori’s cry, ‘‘Here we go!’’ followed soon afterward by the announcement ‘‘It’s a girl, Marilee! It’s a girl!’’ Ethan wanted to charge outside and guide in the rescue team, but Marilee stopped him. Gripping his hand with a new and different panic, she rasped, ‘‘I want to name her Darcy, Ethan. After Mama. Is that okay?’’ She was asking him? ‘‘Sure, kiddo. Whatever you want.’’ He patted her thin shoulder, ready to promise her anything. ‘‘You rest. We’ll have you settled comfortably in a hospital in no time.’’ ‘‘Wait!’’ Again she halted his escape. ‘‘Promise me. Promise me if something...anything should happen, you’ll take care of her. You raise her, Ethan.’’ He didn’t want so much as the germ of that idea to settle in her mind. Didn’t she understand he was the last person to be asked to take on such a responsibility? ‘‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. Don’t get yourself all riled up.’’ ‘‘Promise, Ethan. You don’t know what it’s been like for me. Don’t let those people get their hands on my baby. Please!’’

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Lori paused in caring for the newborn and stared. The hum of the approaching helicopter grew into a wall-shaking vibration. Ethan knew he needed to get outside and help or the crew might miss them. Always conserving, he’d only had electricity brought in a few years ago, primarily for the refrigerator and they didn’t have any outdoor floodlights. Hell, he didn’t even own a traditional lamp yet. He made the only decision he could. ‘‘I promise, honey. Now hush,’’ he added, with a wink and a false grin. Finally succeeding in easing his fingers from her relentless grasp, he ran like hell. Once outside, he discovered John Mountain had heard the approach, too, and was setting out flares. Together they guided the helicopter in for a safe, if not quick, landing. In several more minutes, Ethan learned there wouldn’t be room for him to accompany Marilee to the hospital. Not if Lori went. What saved him from a new despair was learning that the crew said weather conditions demanded they head straight down to Whitehorn, instead of attempting to reach Helena or Butte. The closer location was good news to him and, grateful, he found the generosity to tell the nurse that at the moment his sister needed another woman more than a useless big lug like him. Assuring Marilee that he would follow right behind them in his truck, he waved and grinned at her. Then slamming the door, he backed away from the revving aircraft. By the time he arrived in town the snow had stopped, and six new inches covered the already white landscape. At Whitehorn Memorial Hospital, he parked near the emergency entrance and loped inside. It was well past midnight, and he felt beyond tired—but foolishly cheerful, too. He couldn’t get over the miracle he’d participated in. His little

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sister had given birth to her own baby. That made him an uncle, certified and guaranteed. Who would have figured it? Just beyond the sliding glass doors, he found Lori waiting for him. It took only a glance at her bloodshot, haunted eyes for the happiness inside him to shatter as if he’d run straight into a pane of glass. ‘‘No.’’ She took a deep, shaky breath. ‘‘Ethan. Come sit down. We need to talk.’’ ‘‘Where’s Marilee?’’ ‘‘She...she didn’t make it.’’ The words didn’t register. He refused to let them. He told himself that what Lori meant was that they’d needed to transport his sister to another facility. That’s it. She being such a runt, the doctors probably wanted to make sure— ‘‘She suffered a postpartum hemorrhage while in transit. Are you listening to me? Ethan!’’ What was he supposed to say? Didn’t Lori realize she’d just sabotaged the last of his sanity? ‘‘Sweet Jesus.’’ ‘‘Please understand. The first hour after delivery is always the most dangerous.’’ Her tone and expression grew gentler. ‘‘Everyone did what they could. But...she was simply too weak. Far too tired to go through the kind of delivery this birth demanded. I’m so sorry.’’ He stared at her as though she were speaking to him in some unknown language. She might as well have been; nothing she said made any sense. Marilee had only been thirty-two, for crying out loud! How could she be gone? She’d had everything to look forward to. More. She had a child who needed her...needed a mother. ‘‘You’re lying.’’ He ground out the words. ‘‘No, Ethan. Please come sit down. I know this is a shock.’’ He wouldn’t, couldn’t, listen. He didn’t dare.

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Lying. She had to be lying. ‘‘Marilee!’’ Pushing past Lori, he ran down the hall in search of his sister.

One ‘‘Let us pray...’’ You go right ahead, pal. For his part, Ethan didn’t feel the least bit like praying, not after this most recent spiritual kick in the teeth. To him the service simply reflected another in a series of injustices to have befallen him and his family and he believed it not only logical, but right, for his heart to have grown as bitter cold as the wind sweeping down from the glaciated Crazy Mountains. In fact, he doubted it was possible for a man to get more hostile than he felt. He shifted his gaze from the alpine backdrop and stared at the spray of carnations on Marilee’s casket, already shriveling in the devastating cold. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore all the ‘‘should haves’’ that pounded in his head like toppling tombstones, they wouldn’t stop coming.... There should have been a way to save his sister. His newborn niece should have been allowed to know her mama. Just once, someone he cared about should have a chance at a full, happy life. No, he didn’t buy into the spiritual fertilizer the pastor from First Christian Church was selling. He’d stopped being that gullible years ago. Someone cleared his throat, and he glanced up to see virtually everyone on the other side of the casket watching him with varying degrees of wariness and dislike. The Tay-

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lor coalition. He scanned the two and a half, nearly three, dozen people surrounding Noble and Ruth. Marilee’s socalled mourners. Most were strangers to him, out-of-towners, from Billings; and judging by the expressions of indifference and resentment on their faces, he would wager the majority had never said more than a dozen words to her in her entire life. Except for Melissa Avery North, who owned Whitehorn’s Hip Hop Cafe´, where Marilee had worked before marrying Clay Taylor. She’d been good to Marilee—but Charlie Avery’s kid had her own reasons for casting him venomous looks. The rest had to be friends and business acquaintances of her in-laws—a bunch who believed attending funerals was the politically and socially correct thing to do. Considering the number of wreaths and arrangements scattered around, Ethan guessed they’d also sent the prerequisite toasters and can openers to the wedding. Well, the hypocrites had better not get any ideas about sending any sterling-silver baby dishes and junk for Darcy, or he would be doing something besides staring them down. They might find it embarrassing to be asked questions like ‘‘Where were you when Marilee was being bullied and heaven-knew-what by her husband?’’ A fluttering movement caught his attention. It was the funeral director, waving at him and indicating the single red rose he’d been handed when he first arrived. The pantomiming and wagging of eyebrows finally jogged his memory. The show was over. They expected him to put the flower on the casket and beat it so everyone else could get back to Billings for the reception the Taylors were giving, which would probably be written off somehow as a business expense against Taylor Construction Company, Inc. Far be it from him to hold up things. He’d said his real

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goodbye to Marilee earlier this morning, at the funeral parlor. He approached the coffin, the snow and frozen ground crunching beneath his boots, and set the rose between two of the pink carnations. The contrast startled him; it reminded him of blood on skin...of why and how she’d died. Swallowing hard, he turned away, only to be trapped by Kate Randall’s direct gaze. She stood half hidden by a hedge of evergreens, as if unsure whether she had a right to be on his side. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t. If she belonged anywhere, it was over with the rest of that self-righteous bunch. Noble and Ruth would welcome her with open arms; after all, money and power rarely avoided the opportunity to rub elbows with judicial clout. That was especially true now, with Marilee gone and Darcy’s future in limbo. But his bitterness became muddled confusion when he saw the concern and compassion in Kate’s clear gray eyes. What was going on? Weeks ago, if Rafe Rawlings had been a more creative or coercive cop, and there hadn’t been scheduling problems, she would have been the one to preside over his murder trial, instead of Matthews. She was certainly capable of such cool dispassion; they didn’t call her the Hanging Judge behind her back for nothing. As a result, he had difficulty accepting this performance. But something still reined in his impulse to strike out at her and he knew what it was. History. Theirs. Once, in a more innocent time, she’d been his best friend’s girl; back a lifetime ago, when she’d wore her hair in a long braid, instead of that prim twist he hated. Try as he did to forget it, memories of those moments the three of them had shared stuck in his consciousness like fresh flypaper. So did the promise he’d once made to Wayne about her.

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Damn it all, why couldn’t he put all that to rest? She’d proved she didn’t need anyone and could take care of herself. Hell, it would take a gun held to his head to make him admit it, but even he stayed a bit in awe of the woman and what she’d accomplished thus far in her life. Miserable and resentful, he passed her, careful to keep his head down and his stride long. But he hadn’t covered much ground before he heard her lighter step behind him. He let her follow, fuming about her nerve. Only when he reached his mud-splattered pickup did he swing around and practically snarl, ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘Would you mind some company?’’ ‘‘What do you think?’’ His caustic tone and glare didn’t seem to faze her at all. ‘‘I’d like to talk to you, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Can’t imagine about what...unless your boy wonder Rawlings has cooked up some new theory about how I killed Charlie Avery and you want to find out if it’ll stick this time.’’ The stinging-cold wind whipped free several strands of her dark blond hair and dragged them across her eyes. With leather-gloved hands, she brushed them away, but she didn’t shiver, although her slim wool coat and scarf appeared more suitable for Sunday church than snow and near-gale-force winds. Her dressy boots were equally impractical, and it annoyed him to remember what slender feet and ankles she had. ‘‘Don’t be an ass, Ethan. I’ve never been the enemy.’’ He almost laughed, as much at her opinion of their relationship as at his weakness for making promises he couldn’t keep—to a dead man. ‘‘Could have fooled me.’’ She stepped closer. He gave her points for that. Normally women avoided him. That had been the rule long before his arrest. Since his release, things had only grown worse. What

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made the movement more impressive was that no other single woman he’d ever known—at least none under the age of eighty—had dared to go out in public without wearing full war paint. But, as usual, Kate followed her own rules and stood before him almost bare-faced; what was more, he saw no visible sign of self-consciousness. He couldn’t help but admire her for that, as well—and note again that, while not magazine-beautiful, she had a clean, honest something that, combined with her inner strength and professional notoriety, made her a person to be reckoned with. On a good day, he tried to steer clear of her; this was nowhere near a good day. ‘‘I know this is a difficult time for you.’’ He steeled himself against that calm, low tone that reminded him of brushed suede and quiet moments at sunset. ‘‘Do you?’’ ‘‘Nevertheless, I think it’s important that we speak.’’ Had he described her as strong? Stubborn, he corrected, shrugging deeper into the collar of his down jacket, and tugging the brim of his hat lower. ‘‘I have to get home.’’ ‘‘Then I’ll follow you there.’’ He frowned. At home there were things he didn’t want her to see, not that he believed for an instant she didn’t already know he had the baby. ‘‘At this time the court has no authority to take Marilee’s child away from you,’’ she told him, as though his concern were a spoken thing between them. ‘‘Nor would I consider it. Yet.’’ That one economical admission convinced Ethan that he needed to give her the benefit of the doubt. He would be a fool to think Noble had been sitting still and twiddling his thumbs since being chased off the Double N. Ethan wanted to find out what to expect next. Kate’s implication that he

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wouldn’t be kept in the dark deserved a gesture on his part. Just as long as she didn’t ask for his trust. ‘‘Sure you want to miss the spread over at the Taylors?’’ he asked, a little annoyed at himself for yielding so quickly. ‘‘I hear they’re sparing no expense to console all those heartbroken folks who came to mourn my sister.’’ ‘‘I’m positive. Besides, I had my coffee at home, before I checked on the horses.’’ Ethan seasoned his smile with sarcasm. ‘‘Good move, Your Honor. Remind me that you come from the working class, too.’’ As if he ever forgot that, although her learned father had been a judge, it had been primarily her aunt Beryl who raised her, and who was the one to build the reputation of Shadow Ranch as a source for unique saddle horses. The woman had possessed one of the best instincts for character in animals this side of the Rockies, and had been known equally for her gentle hand in bringing out their most favorable qualities. An individualist of the first order, Beryl had never given a damn what people thought of her, and not only had no one dared to call her a spinster to her face, they had never dared accuse her of being a tough businesswoman, either. Kate was a chip off the old block in more ways than one, except that as much as she loved the animals, the law was her passion. She left most of the training to her foreman, Jorge Cantu, just as she left the general care of her home to his wife, Eva. But there was no denying that she put in her time helping out with the endless chores that went along with ranching. Another reason why he wasn’t surprised to see her gray eyes chill to a flinty silver at his remark. ‘‘Don’t make me regret coming to see you, Ethan.’’ Because he knew she’d let him push and provoke farther than most people dared. He shrugged. ‘‘C’mon, then, if you’re that set on it.’’

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He watched her on and off the entire twenty-five-mile trip from Whitehorn to his place. It helped him keep control of the emotions that kept threatening to burn his eye sockets deeper and a new orifice in his belly. Marilee was gone and he had to accept that. The time they’d lost couldn’t be salvaged, nor could the unspoken words of concern and caring be voiced. He would never forget, and maybe he didn’t deserve to forgive himself for jumping to too many conclusions; but he couldn’t afford to mope about it now. He had new worries to deal with, new responsibilities. He sighed and scanned the horizon. Since the storm a few days ago, central Montana had a new, cleaner layer of snow blanketing the land, and it visually softened the alternately rolling, then sharp, terrain. As he drove west out of town, he eased around the Crazies, as he called them, the fiftymillion-year-old formations that were considered a good twenty million years younger than some of the giants beyond them. To him, the Crazy Mountains always signified freedom; the freedom he felt like a sigh of relief when he was putting civilization in his rearview mirror. Despite the lingering clouds, the sharp wind off the mountains, along with the traffic, had done a good job of eating much of the packed snow and ice off the roads. It was time to remove the tire chains. Maybe he would get around to it this afternoon. Hopefully. It all depended on how long the twig slept. He could ask John Mountain to tackle the chore for him, but the sooner he got himself organized and adjusted to the changes in his life, the better. It amazed him how, after only two days of having a newborn under his roof, all his old routines were shot to hell— and it wasn’t because of any fear in handling the kid. Shoot, he’d been eleven when his mother gave birth to Marilee, and because she’d had a rough time with the pregnancy, his mother had relied on him to fill in wherever possible. If that

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meant pacing in front of the fireplace with a colicky baby half the night in order for her to get a few hours sleep, he’d done it. He’d changed his share of diapers, too. The way he saw it, there wasn’t anything a six-pound-seven-ounce baby could serve up that a calf hadn’t presented to him first. But he was no longer eleven, and Vietnam had changed his sleeping habits; as a result, what rest he usually managed was being cut back by the twenty-inch bundle of energy he’d taken into his home. On the upside, Darcy was already proving to be a cute kid, and while he would have taken a kick in the ribs from an ornery cow before admitting as much, it gave him a strange peace to sit in the recliner with her at night and watch her sleep. Some might call him a contradiction, but he saw nothing illogical about enjoying having a baby around, and at the same time finding adults more of a hassle than they were worth. To him, life was best if kept simple. As with cattle, babies had fairly basic needs, needs he found easy enough to fulfill. Grown-ups were another matter entirely. They insisted on complicating everything, and seasoning those complications with ulterior motives and selfishness. Give him solitude over that bunk anyday. His life might not be perfect, but it beat living with ulcers and alimony. Almost forty minutes after leaving Whitehorn, and a few miles beyond the entrance of Kate’s Shadow Ranch, he drove over the cattle guards marking the Double N. Years ago, his mother had insisted on the abbreviation, after his father—unsure of their future as cattle ranchers—dubbed their spread No Name Yet. His mother had been horrified, fearing people would laugh them all the way across the Great Divide, back into Idaho and a tedious existence as potato farmers. She’d never shared his father’s sly sense of humor; and despite her willingness to work hard, she’d also

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been vain about her hands. An accomplished seamstress, she’d much preferred doing custom sewing and alterations after a long day of helping with the stock, if it meant avoiding those potato fields. She’d been an ambitious woman, and Ethan doubted she would have liked the way he’d abandoned her plans for the place. As he parked before the house, Ethan saw the old homestead through a new perspective—that of a man with an instant family—and his mood grew grimmer. Maybe the compact cabin did look neat enough, but only because there wasn’t much to it. It hardly presented the kind of environment wherein a little girl could flourish. The new coat of brown paint he and John Mountain had added last spring helped some, although he now wished he’d chosen a less depressing color. But there still wasn’t a tree, or even a shrub, within twenty acres of the house, barn or bunkhouse. If he thought back to how he used to race for the forest at every opportunity with Wayne, he decided anyone with an ounce of Walker blood in him would crave something green and alive to look at while growing up. Something besides cattle, holding pens and a pair of dust-coated, weatherwrinkled cowpokes. Why not? Maybe, when Darcy got older, she’d like to read while cradled in the arms of a tree. Kate had, when she was a girl. As she parked beside him, he decided he would take the matter up with John Mountain. It would be a short conversation, but the cowboy had once said that his mother had been gifted with a green thumb. Hopefully some of it had rubbed off on her son, Ethan thought, easing out of his truck. Maybe together they would figure out what variety of tree grew fast enough to keep pace with a little girl. Kate emerged from her four-wheel-drive vehicle, and once again he found himself noting that she moved with the energy of someone who knew where she was going. In boots

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she stood an inch short of being eye-to-eye with him. It made him recall that when she was barefoot, her nose would only reach his chin. He hadn’t seen her barefoot in...well, almost as long as it’d been since he’d seen her hair down. It didn’t seem right or smart to be remembering things like that, especially when he didn’t have a clue as to what the heck she had on her mind. ‘‘This feels like stepping back in time,’’ she said, a faint smile on her face as she glanced around. He hadn’t expected her to resist commenting upon the lack of changes. ‘‘I know it needs work. Been thinking about it myself. Marilee was always telling me...telling me...’’ To put in a vegetable garden. Something. Anything. ‘‘I’ll see to it once the ground thaws.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry about Marilee.’’ Ethan nodded, because he didn’t want to risk exposing the true depth of his emotions. It stunned him how deeply he felt the loss of his sister. Because of the eleven-year age difference, he’d felt like both brother and father to her. They’d lost their old man when a freak lightning strike killed him and his mount. Their mother, unable to cope with more than one role in the family, had relied on Ethan not only to watch over Marilee, but to keep the ranch semioperational, as well. When he was barely a year out of high school, their situation had become particularly tough when his draft number came up. He could have gotten a deferment by citing the family’s hardship status. But Wayne—by then a junior in college—had received his notice, too, and despite being an honor student, had wanted to go. No way had Ethan been willing to let his best friend, his boyhood idol, go into the jungles without him. And although he’d arranged for most of his pay to be sent back home, he still felt as if he’d let Marilee down.

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Now they were all gone...his family, his friend. He was alone, except for little Darcy, and...well, he didn’t know where Kate thought she fit in. ‘‘Do you think I could see the baby?’’ He stared at her for a moment, then felt ashamed for his hesitation and doubt. Whatever their differences, Kate Randall wasn’t the sneaky type. If she had anything on her mind, she would come straight out and tell him. He didn’t have to worry about letting her have contact with his niece. ‘‘Why not? John Mountain’s been keeping an eye on her while I was in town.’’ He led the way inside, where the warmth from the stove and the tantalizing aroma of homemade stew slowly simmering told him that, as he’d expected, the industrious and self-reliant John Mountain had been busy doing more than baby-sitting. The smaller man had been with him since shortly after his own tour overseas. Ethan had hired him as a result of their brief, emotional discussion about the experience. At the time, he’d wondered about his decision; not because he questioned the ex-tunnel rat’s ability to adjust, but because the guy stood only inches over five feet, and was as thin as he was short. Ethan’s concern had been whether or not the cowboy could pull his weight. His doubts, however, had soon been obliterated. John Mountain had proved he worked harder inch for inch and pound for pound than any man Ethan had ever known. That was why he addressed his employee by his full name and made sure everyone else did, too. John Mountain was a rock of stability and support, and the ranch wouldn’t have survived this long, or this well, without him. At the moment, though, the cowboy made an amusing picture, sitting in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by parts of the crib Ethan had dug out of storage.

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Without the hat he rarely took off except when sleeping and bathing, John Mountain’s balding head reflected the glow from the lamp he’d drawn closer as he pieced things together. He looked up, and his wise, shockingly old eyes grew watchful. ‘‘Boss. Ma’am...I mean Your Honor.’’ ‘‘Kate is fine, John Mountain. This isn’t jury duty,’’ she replied, with a warm smile. ‘‘How’ve you been?’’ ‘‘Good, thanks.’’ He shot a questioning look at Ethan, his screwdriver not quite still in his hand. ‘‘Kate asked to see the baby,’’ Ethan told him. He was aware that John Mountain tended to be shy and nervous around women, not to mention the law. Unfortunately, Kate represented a powerful dose of both. Ethan had to struggle to ignore his own overawareness as he removed his hat and coat and hung them on the wall rack beside the door. He then had to pretend indifference as Kate unwound her scarf and slipped out of her wool coat, until he could hang up them, too. Her dress presented more challenge. It was also black, and by most standards demure, but he couldn’t help noticing how it seemed intent on caressing her subtle curves. When he thought he would have to face her in court a few weeks ago, he’d thought he might conquer his dread by trying to diminish her psychological power over him by imagining what she was wearing beneath her grim black robe. Now he decided he’d been fortunate that the confrontation hadn’t taken place. His strategy would have failed, miserably. Damn it, why couldn’t the woman at least look her age? I sure as hell do. ‘‘I have to check on a few things,’’ John Mountain announced, breaking into Ethan’s thoughts. The man rose with his usual agility. ‘‘Finish this later. Uh...the stew? It’s about ready. Help yourselves.’’

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‘‘I won’t be intruding that long,’’ Kate told him as he headed toward the back door. ‘‘But it was good to see you again, John Mountain.’’ He’d already swept up his things from the back rack and set his hat firmly on his head. When he turned back to them, he politely touched the brim, but his eyes remained troubled as they darted from Kate to Ethan. Ethan doubted the man would ever voice the questions in their depths. ‘‘The twig didn’t take all her bottle,’’ the cowboy said in lieu of a goodbye. ‘‘Reckon you’ll hear when she’s hungry again.’’ With that, he slipped out, as quietly as he did most things. In a way, Ethan wished he’d asked him to hang around. The large efficiency-style room seemed to shrink to the size of a coat closet the moment there was only him and Kate left to fill the silence. ‘‘I make him uncomfortable.’’ ‘‘You make most men nervous,’’ Ethan said, having heard enough gossip in town to venture the opinion. ‘‘You included?’’ He watched her gaze move over his face and wondered what she saw...and hated himself for caring. ‘‘Do you really want to know?’’ For a moment, she looked as if she might say ‘‘Yes,’’ but she only offered a wry smile and headed toward the baby. ‘‘Maybe some things are best left a mystery.’’ As she crossed over to the tilted-back recliner, which currently served as a bed for the baby, Ethan frowned. He’d never seen her back away from a challenge before. Even when she bent at the waist to peer down at the infant, there was a hesitation, a new tentativeness, in her that was atypical. She looked as if she were trying to figure out something totally foreign to her. Finally, slowly, she crouched beside the chair and sighed.

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Ethan edged closer, determined to figure out what was going on, but soon regretted it. He found her tender expression disconcerting, as well. It whispered through him, stirring more old memories, ghostly images he preferred to leave undisturbed, and unanalyzed. ‘‘She’s precious.’’ At least they could agree on that. ‘‘Awfully small, though. I was surprised they let me have her as soon as they did.’’ ‘‘I imagine handling her has been somewhat intimidating. But, oh, who could resist? And look at that gorgeous hair... She has Marilee’s lovely complexion, too.’’ He’d never thought of his sister that way, but hearing Kate point it out, he realized Marilee had been pretty, and he’d never told her so. Fighting a new spasm of grief, he retreated to the stove under the pretense of checking on the stew. After stirring it, he shifted the pot to the stack of clay tiles on the corner that he sometimes used as warmers. Kate had already announced she wouldn’t be staying long, and it would be some time before his appetite returned. When the silence grew uncomfortable again, he knew he couldn’t put off the question any longer. ‘‘What did you want, Kate?’’ he forced himself to ask. With a last, almost wistful look at the baby, she rose. But instead of joining him by the stove, she retreated to the front window, where she became a striking silhouette against blue sky and blinding snow. She touched a finger to the frost creeping along one corner of a pane. It once again reminded Ethan of the girl she’d been, her constant fascination with nature, the way she would dwell over a water-smoothened stone found in a creekbed, or the fragile pieces of a bird’s egg beneath a tree. ‘‘I was wondering about your plans,’’ she murmured,

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considering the small peephole the pad of her index finger had burned into the ice. ‘‘Why?’’ He knew he sounded abrupt, maybe rude; but expecting the inquiry had proved nothing compared to finally hearing it. Bad news was coming; anticipating it strangled what was left of his nerves. ‘‘There’s talk down at the cafe´.’’ ‘‘There’s always talk at the Hip Hop,’’ he muttered, his mood souring further. ‘‘Why do you hang out at that place, anyway? You have Eva to cook for you.’’ ‘‘Sometimes there isn’t enough time to go home for lunch. And sometimes I just want a cup of coffee that’s not out of one of those awful machines. Besides, my constituents meet there, Ethan. It’s the easiest way I know of to learn what’s concerning them.’’ All that interested that bunch was idle, and often vengeful, gossip. That was why he generally avoided the place. That, and who owned it. At any rate, he had no use for hearsay, or the people who spread it. But he knew why Kate had mentioned the place. ‘‘So what have you heard about me?’’ ‘‘Something beyond the usual buzzing and editorializing. Something that smacks of an intentional power play.’’ As if suddenly chilled, she crossed her arms. ‘‘It disturbed me, and I wanted to make sure you were aware of it.’’ Ever skeptical, Ethan lifted an eyebrow. ‘‘Should a judge be feeding information to a potential defendant?’’ ‘‘We’ve known each other a long time. That has to count for something.’’ ‘‘‘Known’ is misleading, don’t you think?’’ As he taunted her, he crossed to her side of the room, so that Darcy wouldn’t be disturbed by the conversation, which he knew was about to deteriorate. It had to deteriorate, because of who she was and what she had helped put him through by

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simply existing. ‘‘We knew each other because we were in the same grade during our school years. We both knew Wayne. But all that’s ancient history, and his death changed us forever. It damn sure made it easy for you not to have to deal with me anymore.’’ That seemed to startle, even annoy, her, and when he stopped before her, although she shifted to lean flush against the door, her gaze held a rebuke. ‘‘Believe it or not, I’ve always considered you a friend, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Sure you have. Because we have so much in common, right?’’ Kate shook her head. This was going as badly as she’d feared it might. Granted, she’d expected Ethan to be surprised, even wary of her, at first. He’d always been a loner, and getting arrested and indicted for Charlie Avery’s murder had intensified that quality in him. But the trial was over and he’d been acquitted. Maybe she couldn’t expect him to understand what she’d done on his behalf, but did he have to work overtime at being hostile? All that energy needed to be redirected to what might lie before him. ‘‘Why are you being like this?’’ For her part, she preferred to continue seeing him as Wayne’s unlikely best friend, not the caustic stranger he’d become. Sure, there had always been something enigmatic and taciturn about Ethan, even before Vietnam. But she’d approved of and been intrigued by the glimpses she’d had of the person inside. What would he say if she admitted that he was the only other man besides Wayne that she’d been both physically and intellectually attracted to? It was so ironic; after all, the two of them had been physical and emotional opposites. Where Wayne had been fair and brawny, Ethan was dark, taller, and possessed a craggy wiriness. Wayne had been sunny-natured. Ethan was serious, rarely speaking, even

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when you could tell he had something to say. Wayne had treated her as if she were his sun and a princess all wrapped into one. If she’d ever caught Ethan looking at her, it was anyone’s guess what he’d been thinking. But this was hardly the time to dwell on what had been. She’d come because she smelled a legal problem in the wind, one that bore a stench offensive to her respect for right and wrong. If her hunch was correct, the situation would demand her full attention in order to stop it. She would do as much for anyone; and if it meant butting heads with a man who’d forgotten how to accept having someone care about him, then that was his problem. ‘‘Come on, Ethan, answer me.’’ ‘‘Why am I being like this? Don’t you think I have a right to be a little bent out of shape?’’ he replied, seething. ‘‘For one thing, I’ve just buried my sister!’’ ‘‘This is about more than Marilee. You’re angry because of the trial. Ethan...don’t you realize that it could have been much worse?’’ When he ignored her, she made a disparaging sound. ‘‘You’re thinking Matthews took over your case for me because I was whining about being overscheduled and didn’t want it. That’s not true. I did. But Harlan Collins is a sharp D.A., and do you know what a public fiasco he could have made if he got the tiniest hint that I had a prejudicial interest in seeing your case thrown out of court?’’ Ethan scowled at her. ‘‘Yes, that’s right, thrown out. I believed you didn’t belong on trial, and I did the only thing possible not to hurt your case. I did some behind-closed-doors negotiating with Matthews, and in exchange for his messy domestic-violence case, he took you on. For pity’s sake! Do you realize if you’d ended up with Judge Lessing, you’d probably be in prison right now? The man’s a dinosaur who likes female

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lawyers less than he does short-tempered mavericks. You and Raeanne wouldn’t have stood a chance with him.’’ Of course, Kate knew from conversations with public defender Raeanne Martin that she hadn’t been Ethan’s choice, but rather his single option when he refused to cooperate in his own defense. Afterward, despite being grateful for what Raeanne had done for him, Ethan had remained cool toward the young but talented attorney, because she’d gotten engaged to Rafe Rawlings. Kate could see he was annoyed at being reminded of all that, too. ‘‘What do you want, my undying gratitude, Your Honor?’’ His surly tone made her want to shake him; however, the sound of the baby stirring restlessly warned her to check her temper. She glanced around him at the infant before whispering, ‘‘Good grief, Ethan, when did you become a snob?’’ ‘‘Me?’’ he whispered back with equal fervor. ‘‘Yes, you! You’re subjecting me to reverse prejudice and I don’t like it.’’ She watched his icy blue eyes flash with renewed warning, his craggy features grow as threatening as the great mountain range in whose shadow they lived, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘‘I may have a law degree and be a county circuit judge, but that hasn’t changed who I am inside.’’ Disappointments and heartbreak, maybe, but not her job. She’d refused to let it. She decided to add with a dry smile, ‘‘I’m still the person you used to laugh at when we were kids.’’ He seemed honestly taken aback by that. ‘‘I never laughed at you.’’ ‘‘Think harder. You laughed. And being the tomboy I was, I gave you adequate reason to, what with always trying to keep up with you and Wayne, no matter what you were up to. To this day, I can barely resist stopping on my way

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home from court to join some kids in a snowball fight— though I have to admit, it’s not a bad way to ease a day’s stress. And do you know that when I’m wearing jeans, I automatically check to see if an integral seam is holding, despite it being years since I slid down a fifteen-foot gully to help rescue one of your wayward calves?’’ The memory flickered in his eyes. ‘‘Okay. So I jumped to some unfair conclusions. I still don’t know what it is that you’re driving at.’’ ‘‘You’re doubting my motives for being here. You don’t believe I’m a friend.’’ ‘‘Look...’’ He gestured with exasperation. ‘‘Back in the old days—neighbors or not, school or not—you would never have hung around me if it hadn’t been for Wayne. Why not admit it? Hell, almost every conversation we ever had stayed mostly between you two.’’ ‘‘Because you were shy.’’ He snorted. ‘‘Right. I just wasn’t as fast a thinker as you two were, that’s all.’’ Kate leaned back against the door again, this time crossing her arms beneath her breasts. ‘‘Buffalo chips. Wayne used to say that you were one of the sharpest people he knew—and one of the most avid readers.’’ ‘‘Paperback fiction, Kate. That’s not exactly law journals and legal briefs.’’ She glanced over at the coffee table, piled high with familiar publications. ‘‘What about those trade magazines?’’ ‘‘That’s work.’’ ‘‘As are my law books and the rest. Trust me, those aren’t what I take with me into the tub at night when I’m craving a long soak.’’ For one instant, she thought he might ask her what she did read there. Instead, he cleared his throat and retreated

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to the kitchen. ‘‘I need a drink. You want a cup of coffee or something?’’ Intrigued by the tension she noted in his flannel-clad shoulders, Kate followed. ‘‘Actually, I’d love a beer, if you have one to spare.’’ She knew it wasn’t noon yet, but she was determined to keep obliterating the false images he seemed intent on having of her. Besides, her throat was as dry as that gully she’d once slid into, thanks to the funeral that had made her ache so badly for him and that poor innocent across the room. Unfortunately, one beer wouldn’t stop her from worrying for him, or keep his eyes from looking so haunted and bitter. If her request surprised him, he hid it well. ‘‘Whatever you say.’’ He brought her a bottle from the refrigerator, watched as she screwed off the cap and took a long swallow. The corners of his mouth turned downward. ‘‘So what’s next? Are you planning to match me beer for beer?’’ ‘‘If that’s what it’ll take for you to stop biting my head off and start listening to me.’’ ‘‘All right, if you’re that determined to have your say, get it over with. I’m in trouble again, aren’t I?’’ ‘‘Between what I heard in town and what I saw pass between you and Noble Taylor at the funeral, I’d say that’s a good guess, yes.’’ Ethan squared his chin. ‘‘Let him glare, and let him threaten. It’s not going to change anything.’’ ‘‘Is it true what I heard about you two actually having argued?’’ ‘‘He first telephoned me at the hospital. I’m not sure who called to let him know what had happened, but I can tell you that his timing was lousy and what he had to say was worse. I thought I’d made my position—along with my opinion of him—fairly clear, but the next day he drove out here.’’

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‘‘Ostensibly to recover Clay’s car.’’ ‘‘You heard that one?’’ ‘‘Stories are spreading all over town, Ethan.’’ His expression darkened. ‘‘I’ll bet. But the car was right where Marilee skidded to a stop, not hidden in my barn. And I’ll tell you something else—he won’t trespass again without a bodyguard and an attorney.’’ Kate dreaded having to ask, but she wanted facts. ‘‘What did he say to set you off?’’ ‘‘Just seeing his smarmy, self-righteous face is enough to do that.’’ Ethan’s disgusted tone mirrored his expression. ‘‘But to answer your question, he didn’t waste any words of condolences, he simply announced the gospel according to Taylor.’’ ‘‘He told you that he thought it best if he and Ruth became guardians of the baby, is that it?’’ ‘‘No, he said they would be the legal guardians.’’ ‘‘To which you replied—?’’ ‘‘We’ll see each other in hell first. And I offered him a first-class ticket when he tried to come in here and get her.’’ Kate winced. She knew Noble Taylor more by reputation than from experience, having only met the man at a few benefits. But she understood the shrewd businessman well enough to know you didn’t taunt him. ‘‘I’m not condoning his approach, but Marilee was living with them, and they are the baby’s legal grandparents. Besides that, Clay’s death in that jobsite accident in Whitehorn made Marilee dependent on their support, especially for her prenatal care.’’ ‘‘Are you sure of that?’’ The change in his tone, as well as his expression, gave her an uneasy feeling. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘When Marilee arrived here the other night, she made it clear she didn’t want to go back. She was in too much pain to explain much, but I know fear when I see and hear it.’’

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‘‘Fear? About what? Why didn’t she say something sooner?’’ ‘‘How should I know? Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe they made certain she never had the opportunity.’’ ‘‘Are you accusing the Taylors of somehow threatening your sister?’’ Kate asked the question with care, not certain she wanted to hear the answer. The skin over Ethan’s sharp cheekbones stretched impossibly tight. ‘‘Not only did she inform me that her great catch of a husband kept us apart, but she admitted he abused her. Since there was no way the Taylors could have missed that, I have to believe they condoned it, and I will not have my niece growing up in an environment like that.’’ This was all news to Kate, but she couldn’t have approved more of his fervent protection of Darcy. The problem would be to substantiate such an accusation. As powerful and aggressive as the Taylors were—which often created its own criticism—she’d never heard anything this disturbing about them. ‘‘What a mess...and the bottom line isn’t going to please you, Ethan, but because they’re one of the most successful business and social families in the state, when they make noise, people listen. That means if they want their granddaughter, they’ve every resource available to fight for her.’’ ‘‘Having money doesn’t automatically qualify someone to be a guardian,’’ he snapped, his glance slicing. ‘‘I didn’t say it did.’’ Regret and weariness washed over her, and she sighed, wishing there was a way to avoid getting caught in the middle of this situation. All of her causes cost her something, but she had a feeling this one would clean her out emotionally. Yet how could she turn her back on someone who had been such a huge part of her past? How could she ignore Darcy’s future? She massaged the ache building between her eyebrows.

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‘‘Will you at least tell me exactly what Marilee said to you?’’ ‘‘Are you asking as that so-called friend or as a judge?’’ ‘‘Both.’’ He smiled, only it was tight-lipped and reflected little amusement. ‘‘You don’t see a conflict of interest, the way you did before?’’ ‘‘We’re not in court...yet.’’ She waited, feeling his gaze sweep over her face, her hair. Vanity made her wish she’d used a little eye shadow and more mascara. It was crazy. She was taking on enough trouble without courting this kind. ‘‘I’ll give you this,’’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘‘You’re the damnedest judge I’ve ever met.’’ Sharply aware of the male awareness in his gaze, she pointed at him with the long neck of her bottle. ‘‘Save the sweet talk, cowboy. Tell me what I need to know, so I can help you.’’ He exhaled wearily. ‘‘Marilee had to sneak away like a criminal to get out of the house even for a few minutes.’’ His grip on his bottle turned his knuckles white. ‘‘Apparently life with her in-laws wasn’t any closer to perfect than it had been with Clay. The night she ran away, it was because she was afraid they—and I’m assuming she meant Noble and Ruth—were going to take the baby away from her. That’s when she made me promise that if anything happened, I would be the baby’s guardian. It was as if she sensed something. As if...as if she knew she wasn’t going to pull through.’’ He took another drink, this time nearly polishing off the contents of the bottle. ‘‘Okay, Judge, you take it from there. What do you think is going to happen?’’ Oh, Ethan. Feeling sick to her stomach, and far less in control than she wanted to be, Kate set her bottle on the counter. How much easier her life would be if for once she

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would mind her own business, maybe be less of a crusader. Forget about the quiet, serious rebel who’d gone off to war with the man you loved and come back alone...bitter, and more unapproachable than ever. She exhaled a pent-up breath and forced herself to meet his wary gaze. ‘‘I think the Taylors will definitely bring in the biggest legal guns they can hire and sue for custody of Marilee’s child. I also think that if we don’t think of some way to stop that from happening, this time I won’t be able to keep you out of my court.’’

Two ‘‘F

ine.’’ Ethan shrugged, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. ‘‘I’m not worried. Lori Bains was a witness to everything Marilee said. She’ll have to vouch for that much, no matter what else she thinks of me. When the Taylors realize they don’t have a leg to stand on, they’ll be more than willing to back off.’’ ‘‘Will they?’’ Kate shook her head. ‘‘For such a bright man, you’re sounding disturbingly naive. Just how apathetic do you think people are?’’ He bristled at the idea that she saw him as uninformed. ‘‘Given the state of the world in general, not to mention the clowns this country continually votes into political office, I’m surprised you can ask that.’’ ‘‘We’re talking about the welfare of a child.’’ ‘‘I’m aware of that,’’ he growled. ‘‘I hope you at least had the foresight to get Lori’s statement in writing and her signature witnessed?’’ His confidence took a nosedive. ‘‘Well, no. But as I said, she—’’ ‘‘Is simply one witness. And as respected as she may be, under clever cross-examination she could be coerced into sounding as if she’d been made to say what she did to you under duress.’’ Kate tapped a short, unpolished fingernail on the kitchen counter. ‘‘Listen, Ethan, there are times when even a written, witnessed statement might not be enough. For example, if it’s been only weeks since the principal

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party has been through an arrest and a murder trial,’’ she added, with a meaningful lift of her tawny eyebrows. Ethan knew all too well what she was driving at, and his blood pressure soared to its limit. ‘‘I was acquitted, damn it!’’ In the pulsating silence that followed, Darcy uttered a weak, though lengthy, sob. Exchanging guilty looks, he and Kate turned their attention toward the baby in time to see her tiny hands flailing in panic. Silently calling himself several kinds of a jerk for losing his temper, Ethan hurried to the recliner. He hovered close, began to reach for her, then hesitated as the child once again settled down. Relieved, he backtracked to Kate. But he didn’t have a clue as to what to say to her. ‘‘I’m making a total mess of this,’’ she said, offering him an easy way out. He chose not to take it. ‘‘I shouldn’t have yelled.’’ ‘‘You yelled because I made you lose your temper. Good grief, Ethan, I’m not so out of touch that I don’t know a newborn needs peace and quiet.’’ Why were they arguing over who should bear the blame, when the kid was already asleep again? ‘‘This is nuts,’’ he muttered, frustrated that she could make him feel like a tongue-tied, awkward teenager, just as she had in the old days. ‘‘You’re right.’’ Kate set down her bottle and faced him squarely. ‘‘What I really came here to say is that I believe in you. If you’re intent on fulfilling your promise to Marilee, I want to help you achieve that goal. No doubt it will be in Darcy’s best interests, and a good thing for you, too. But please, don’t forget that facts are facts, and that, right or wrong, the odds are stacking high against you. It makes focusing and planning much easier if we’re starting from a point of clarity, as well as honesty.’’

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Ethan bowed his head, to hide his embarrassment as much as his anxiety for his niece’s future. ‘‘You don’t have to sugarcoat things or beat around the bush. Just say I have a bad reputation.’’ ‘‘Bad? No,’’ Kate drawled, eyeing him with a mixture of thoughtfulness and amusement. ‘‘The group of teenagers I had to threaten with reform school earlier this week for vandalizing their high school gym and affixing an unusually generous appendage to the team mascot were bad. You’re a grown man who’s not only built himself a reputation for being antisocial, but fiercely aggressive, even dangerous.’’ ‘‘Dangerous my— That mess with Charlie Avery was twenty-seven years ago! What’s it going to take to convince people that the issue is over? Dead!’’ ‘‘Does that include your feelings for Lexine Baxter? Are they dead, too?’’ He stiffened. ‘‘I said all I had to say on the subject while on the witness stand.’’ ‘‘Well, under the circumstances, I thought it best to miss out on that. I had to settle for word-of-mouth reports. But may I remind you, mister, that it’s a little late to get sensitive? What’s more, you opened one big can of worms with that testimony, considering our mystery girl has vanished off the face of the planet.’’ Kate grimaced in distaste. ‘‘Talk about dropping a bomb. Lexine Baxter! Good grief, Ethan, I could believe Charlie Avery falling for that overpainted, conniving... But you?’’ ‘‘We were sixteen, Kate.’’ And, if truth be known, it had been sheer loneliness, and having to watch her, so sweet and young, but already nuts about Wayne Kincaid, that made him susceptible to Lexine’s innocent smiles and experienced ways. ‘‘Ancient history,’’ he said, looking away. Kate uttered a soft sound of disbelief. ‘‘All I can say is that you’d better get used to her name coming up again,

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along with the rest of the past, no matter how unpleasant it is to discuss, because your personal life is all Noble Taylor’s attorney will talk about during the hearing.’’ She leaned toward him. ‘‘If Raeanne didn’t spell it out for you, allow me. ‘‘Your acquittal for Charlie’s murder was hardly a vindication, Ethan. It simply means the D.A. failed to show a preponderance of guilt, leaving the jury unable to conclude ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ that you killed him. But that also means a fair percentage of the population continues to believe you did go after Charlie when you discovered he was making a move on Lexine—and/or beating up on her— and that you killed him.’’ Ethan shook his head once. ‘‘The one person I felt like striking out against was myself. And that was after I discovered that no-account cattle-rustling jerk was missing, along with Lexine and the money she’d conned out of me.’’ ‘‘Mmm... That sounds good—except there was also the little matter of Nick Dean’s car exploding during his investigation of Charlie’s remains, and the dynamite being traced back to you.’’ Ethan stared deep into her clear gray eyes, and looked for a hint of what she believed. As with that horse-trading Aunt Beryl of hers, with Kate, sometimes you didn’t quite know. But although he wasn’t thrilled with her in-depth knowledge of his sorry adventures at the hands of Whitehorn’s judicial system, he felt a strong sense of relief that he didn’t see condemnation or fear in her, either. ‘‘In other words, you don’t think the good citizens of this county are going to stand by and let Marilee’s baby stay in the home of a man they believe is a cold-blooded murderer, regardless of what my sister’s wishes may have been?’’ he asked quietly. ‘‘That’s exactly right.’’

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He had to shut his eyes to stop the sensation that he was dropping down a bottomless well. ‘‘What a fool I’ve been. You must think I’m the densest thing on two feet.’’ ‘‘I’ve never thought anything of the kind!’’ ‘‘Then you should have, because somehow I never figured one situation would affect the other. Hell, I didn’t think I needed to do any legal paperwork to keep Darcy. Marilee was over eighteen when our mother died, so I didn’t have to deal with that then. As for now, I thought since I was Marilee’s closest relative, I would automatically become the baby’s guardian. Instead, you’re telling me I have to get permission from you.’’ ‘‘From the court,’’ Kate replied, clasping her hands together, as if pleading for his patience. ‘‘Look, the law tries to cover as much ground as possible, but it’s not always upto-date with citizens’ needs, let alone changing social mores. And it’s certainly not always fair to all parties.’’ Ethan wasn’t concerned about anyone but his niece. ‘‘The point is that Marilee was over twenty-one, and she said what she wanted for her child before a witness. Don’t her wishes count for something?’’ ‘‘Of course they do, and if I have anything to say about things, they will.’’ Kate laid her hand on his forearm. ‘‘But isn’t it better to know what you’re up against, instead of walking around as if you were wearing blinders?’’ For a moment, he couldn’t answer, because he was too aware of her touch. Women didn’t often make such gestures toward him; as she’d said before, his reputation didn’t encourage it. Not from nice women, anyway; and after he realized the truth about Lexine, he’d kept his distance from the not-so-nice ones. The warmth of her fingers went through him like a latenight whiskey after a long day in the saddle, and a longer evening hunkered over paperwork. It made him resent the

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flannel between his skin and hers, and reminded him how long it had been since he’d felt a craving for sex, and how much longer since he’d done something about it. But, damn it all, this was Kate! Never mind that she was a judge and way out of his league, in more ways than he wanted to count. She’d been his best friend’s girl. The sweet torment of Wayne’s life, because of the three-year age difference at a point when it mattered. However, she’d become his torment, too. It had been hard dealing with the flashes of awareness of her, back when they were barely more than kids. Worse had been having to hide them and his guilty feelings from her and Wayne. He didn’t need a crash course in it now. Everyone knew Kate had never married because Wayne had been it for her. He almost exhaled with relief when she withdrew her hand. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ she murmured, in a voice he didn’t recognize. ‘‘Apparently I’m wrong.’’ Only when she started for the door did he realize that she’d spoken, let alone what she’d meant. She’d been waiting for him to thank her for her confidence in him, and for him to assure her that he would try to be more patient. ‘‘No—wait. Kate!’’ He caught her arm before she could reach for her coat. He didn’t know if it was centrifugal force or nervous energy; but between her momentum and his, they ended up overcompensating, nearly slamming into each other. They would have, if he hadn’t grasped both of her upper arms to steady her and stop himself. It brought them close, too close for him to avoid filling his lungs with the scent of her understated yet appealing shampoo—or was it her bath soap? In any case, it reminded him that whimsical spring-flower fragrances had never been for Kathryn Lee Randall. No, this was lusher, something

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that reminded him of evenings and autumn. Wouldn’t she laugh in his face if he told her that? He let her go, but remained close. ‘‘I’m not used to being in the position of having to say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘thank you.’’’ ‘‘Don’t I know it.’’ She spoke as softly as he had. ‘‘Maybe you should try practicing when you’re alone, and you can try it out on me when we win you permanent custody of Darcy.’’ ‘‘Is that going to happen?’’ Despite her dry humor, he found himself afraid to hope, just as he couldn’t fully understand why she was willing to help him. ‘‘We’ll give it our best shot. Will you let me talk to the Taylors?’’ ‘‘You’d want to do that?’’ ‘‘A voice of reason seems safest right now, don’t you think? If you approached him with your attorney, or they sent theirs to you, that would only alienate both sides.’’ His attorney? That was rich. The court might have assigned Raeanne Martin to him for his trial, when he refused to retain one himself; but in truth, hiring an attorney for a full custody battle might make a serious dent in his modest savings. Not wanting to dwell on that before he had to, he asked, ‘‘What kind of effect do you think you speaking on my behalf will have?’’ ‘‘Grating, at first.’’ Her grin was brief but irreverent. ‘‘We’re not that well acquainted, but Noble does pride himself on keeping in touch with the movers and shakers in Whitehorn as much as those in Billings. He’s from the school that believes networking is an asset you add to your financial statement when you’re hitting your banker up for the maximum line of credit. One of those I’m-not-cheapbut-I-can-be-had types. ‘‘To answer your question, though, I expect him to be a hard sell. However, I’m hoping that once things are whittled

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down to the relevant issues, he’ll see the wisdom in being more flexible.’’ Ethan lifted an eyebrow, thinking she’d left out a crucial member of the party. ‘‘Mrs. Taylor doesn’t get a vote?’’ ‘‘From what I’ve seen and heard, Ruth is from the old school. In other words, feminists will come and go, but Ruth will always defer to her husband, because that’s what she was taught to do, and he likes it that way.’’ Which left Ethan with only one question, namely the real reason she was doing this for him. Never mind her reputation as a crusader, and her willingness to stick out her neck for nothing more tangible than principle. He understood her sense of obligation, even to old friendships; and, yes, it was possible that it was all for Marilee and Darcy. But he had an uneasy feeling that this gesture went back to the night, when in a drunken stupor, he’d confessed to her that it should have been Wayne who came back from Nam, instead of him. Although he’d never let himself get that lost in a bottle again, she had also never put herself in a position again where he could repeat the comment. Could this be her way of letting him off the hook? That choice wasn’t hers to make. Not his, either. The right belonged to the one person they’d both loved, the one who would never be back to make a choice either way. ‘‘All right,’’ he began gruffly, knowing something needed to be said. ‘‘Just one thing—don’t jeopardize your career because of me. That would really tick me off big-time.’’ To his amazement, she leaned forward and quickly kissed his cheek. ‘‘Just keep the faith, Ethan,’’ she murmured. ‘‘That’s all I ask.’’ He felt the fleeting caress in strange places, lonely places. ‘‘Look, I can’t let you do all the work. Isn’t there something I could be doing in the meantime?’’ ‘‘How about growing wings and a halo?’’

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He couldn’t find a real laugh, and the brief sound that burst from his lips came out rusty, but it almost felt good. ‘‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’’ Kate briefly glanced around him to the sleeping baby. ‘‘Or maybe you’ve already started.’’ Kate followed her instincts when timing her meeting with the Taylors. Initially, she’d hoped to hold off for a day or two, out of respect for Marilee. Circumspection held its own value, she’d reasoned. However, a tiny voice warned that Noble wouldn’t let that much time pass idly. As a result, she quickly altered her strategy, and had her secretary make an appointment to meet with the Taylors the following afternoon. Of course, the meeting couldn’t take place in her office, as convenient as that would have been. She would manage without the psychological edge of having the signs of her judicial leverage around her. Instead, she accepted Noble’s invitation to their home. The point, she explained in a follow-up chat with a dubious, edgy Ethan, was not to appear threatening. However, her first glimpse of their home triggered the nagging sensation that she’d made a mistake. The Taylor mansion represented one of the older stately homes. Built only a year or so before women had won the right to vote, the two-story Colonial-style structure stood out starkly from its contemporary neighbors. Kate thought it typified the inhabitants’ mind-set: stern in its crisp white and its stark black shutters; predictable as the two chimneys book-ending the east and west sides of the house; and proud as the pilaster-framed doorway crowned with a double set of Palladian windows. After parking her car along the tree-lined street, Kate entered the wrought-iron front gate, then rounded the circular

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sidewalk to the pyramid-style front steps. A sweeping glance had her guessing that daylight had never breached the heavy brocade drapes covering the eight front windows. No doubt behind one pair sat Noble Taylor, ready these past ten minutes or so. She could picture the self-made construction-business magnate settled in a high-backed chair by a fireplace, making a ceremony of drawing out a gold or silver pocket watch that had belonged to someone else’s father, or grandfather, to check the time every minute or so. Not that he had anywhere to go these days. Losing Clay barely eight months ago in a scaffolding accident had cost him more than his only child; he’d also lost his sole heir to Taylor Construction Company. Consequently, it had crushed his drive and his passion for the family business, and the firm’s contracts were at an all-time low. Discreet inquiries had confirmed that Noble wanted to sell. Kate couldn’t imagine that happening—the Noble she knew enjoyed power too much—but the idea gave her hope. Surely a man in such a spiritual crisis would be less likely to take on something as taxing as a custody battle? One thing she knew for certain—this was not a home for a child. She decided that as she listened to the door chime echo through the mausoleum-silent house. A little girl needed music and light, a place to run, and the freedom to laugh. She thought of her own childhood, and the racket she, Eva and her aunt Beryl used to make, especially while preparing her father’s Sunday pancake breakfasts. The Taylors would never allow Darcy to experiment that way, let alone romp around. They would suffocate her spirit as thoroughly as they’d drained the life out of Marilee. Kate knew she had to remember that as she battled Noble’s obstinacy. The front door eased open, and an elderly woman dressed in a formal black-and-white uniform beamed at her. ‘‘Good afternoon, Judge Randall. Recognize you from your picture

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in the paper.’’ She stepped back to let Kate enter. ‘‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’m Norma, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor’s maid. You don’t know me, but you’ve met my niece, Iris. Iris Jackson.’’ The name spawned the image of a vivacious and bright teenager who’d first written her last year seeking educational guidance. ‘‘Yes, of course. Well, what a delightful surprise, and how nice to meet you. How is Iris?’’ Mahogany-brown eyes glowed with warmth and pride. ‘‘She’s wonderful, thank you. She’s heard back from that college you wrote to on her behalf. Would you believe she’s being considered for a full scholarship? It’s so exciting. We can’t thank you enough for helping to give a complete stranger this opportunity.’’ The woman’s shy graciousness had Kate beaming in return. ‘‘Believe me, it was my pleasure. It isn’t often that I meet someone with her gift for communication and hunger for knowledge. Of course,’’ she added in a loud whisper, ‘‘the fact that she cited me as an inspiration didn’t hurt, either. Please tell her that I said hello, and to keep me posted?’’ ‘‘Oh, yes, ma’am, Your Honor.’’ Kate decided to test the friendly woman’s observational skills. ‘‘Norma, did you know Marilee Taylor well?’’ The woman’s expression immediately grew sad. ‘‘Not really, ma’am. She was a sweet little thing, but she kept to herself, mostly. It was a tragedy what happened to—’’ ‘‘Norma.’’ A soft but cool voice held a distinct warning. ‘‘Mr. Taylor is waiting for Judge Randall.’’ Disappointed, but hardly thwarted, Kate offered a reassuring squeeze of Norma’s arm as she passed her, before addressing Noble’s wife. ‘‘Hello, Mrs. Taylor. It was so kind of you to see me at this difficult time.’’ She headed toward the plump matron standing in the

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arched doorway of the nearest room. Dressed in a navy suit and choker pearls, Ruth Taylor evoked a pleasant image, although Kate guessed her champagne-blond bouffant probably hadn’t undergone a color or style change since Clay’s days as a high school football star. Yes, Kate thought, she remembered Noble’s wife accurately; this was a woman who could be counted on to stay in character—that of the lady of the manor. Ruth offered a pained smile. ‘‘It has been stressful. But welcome to our home. Er, Norma...Judge Randall’s coat.’’ Kate signaled the Taylor’s maid not to bother, then slipped out of the wool garment. ‘‘I’ll set it on this chair, if you don’t mind.’’ She draped the coat, along with her leather shoulder bag, on the ornate seat near a door that turned out to be the entrance to the formal living room. ‘‘I don’t want to disrupt you any more than necessary. Also, I must confess to having a great deal of work I have to review for court tomorrow, and so it’s imperative I get back to Whitehorn as soon as possible.’’ ‘‘Oh, dear. I’d hoped we could convince you to stay for dinner,’’ Ruth replied, with precisely the right amount of regret. ‘‘You’re too kind, but I don’t dare. By the way, please call me Kate. I try to forgo formality outside the courtroom.’’ Ruth Taylor inclined her head, although her expression suggested she hardly approved. With a practiced sweep of her hand, she replied, ‘‘Then let me take you in to him.’’ Like the foyer, the living room was wallpapered in a dark, busy print evoking an era when men had paid almost as much attention to fashion and decor as women. With formal, ostentatious furnishings to match, Kate decided that Noble had created his own Freudian slip. He wasn’t the laid-back, good old boy he liked people to think. Once again she felt

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the weight of doubt as she imagined the effect the grim environment would have on a child. ‘‘Judge Randall.’’ Noble rose from a pewter-gray Queen Anne chair by an unlit fireplace. As he pocketed an ornate gold watch, Kate barely suppressed the urge to cough. ‘‘We’re so pleased,’’ he continued, running a hand over his tie. It matched his wife’s outfit as perfectly as his suit complemented his blow-dried and spritzed silver mane. Kate extended her hand. ‘‘Surely our paths have crossed too often for you not to call me Kate.’’ ‘‘And I’m Noble. I must admit, after we missed each other at the funeral, it disappointed me to think that those paths wouldn’t converge again until the next charity event.’’ How like him to initiate their meeting with a challenge to her to explain herself for yesterday, she thought as he closed his fingers around hers. Intent on slowing him down, if not stopping him completely, she tried not to miss a beat as she replied, ‘‘The funeral was difficult for everyone who cared for Marilee, but you and Mrs. Taylor have my heartfelt condolences. When I saw that you were surrounded by so many caring people, I thought it only right to check on Marilee’s brother. You see, I know what it’s like to suddenly find oneself without family.’’ ‘‘You must look to us as your extended family.’’ The prospect felt about as comfortable as the idea of wearing an old-fashioned corset. Suffocating. Noble wasn’t what one expected when visualizing a construction-company executive. Pale and pink rather than sunbronzed, trim rather than sturdy, as she remembered his brawny son being, he looked more like a successful funeral director than the tough, scrappy businessman who’d helped restyle Montana’s skyline for the current generation of homesteaders and pioneers. In fact, he was as much a phys-

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ical contradiction as a professional one, since his commercial, flashy creations had nothing whatsoever in common with the elegant ‘‘museum’’ he lived in. Only his rough, callused hands seemed to offer any link between the two strange personas. ‘‘Now, you must tell me, how’s the horse business these days?’’ he continued, his gaze penetrating. ‘‘Your notoriety for bringing those Hollywood people to Montana is certainly gaining momentum.’’ Kate eased her hand from his grasp, not surprised by this tendency to soothe, then probe, or by the focus of his attention. The kind of clientele her business attracted created an ongoing fascination for a number of area residents, and a considerable amount of criticism from others. It had been her aunt Beryl who first raised West Coast interest in their stock, when then screen actor Jared Banyon purchased one of her horses after riding him in the Western that ultimately made him a star. From that point on, Shadow Ranch’s reputation had spread as the source for exceedingly bright, and uniquely well-trained, saddle horses. Today a single member of Kate’s equine family could yield a better price than some local ranchers’ entire herds. Her most vocal detractors argued that the attention drew too many celebrity types who ended up buying great chunks of property in the state for private getaway homes, thus raising tax rates to an impossible level for the hardworking yearround residents. Kate accepted that the theory held a modicum of truth; after all, who could come up here, witness the photogenic valleys, the mystical streams, smell the sweet morning air, or watch stars invade the panoramic sky like hatchling night flies, and not fall under Montana’s spell? But that was all the blame she accepted. She gave Noble a cool smile. ‘‘It never ceases to amaze

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me how many people prefer not to see that large corporations are buying up ranches at an even faster pace.’’ What got discussed even less was that the real estate information was supplied by local businessmen interested in finder’s fees. ‘‘Oh, they see it, Kate,’’ Noble replied, sounding annoyingly amused. ‘‘But they don’t mind, because despite the transfer of ownership, the ranches continue to be active participants in their local communities. They don’t act like isolationists, the way your people do.’’ Her people? ‘‘You think so?’’ She knew she could argue until next fall about how that very participation he’d mentioned could turn into control, and she wouldn’t get him to admit it. He was obviously one of those poor souls who’d been weaned on the corporate psyche. Any other kind of logic was foreign to him, therefore not to be trusted. ‘‘Well, in any case, we’re slowly selling off our stock,’’ she told him, deciding they’d parried and thrusted long enough. She wanted to avoid any real antagonism. ‘‘Really? I had no idea.’’ The truth was, she’d only begun discussing it with Jorge. ‘‘It’s true. My trainer and foreman is getting on in years, and with my court docket growing heavier, instead of shrinking, we believe it may be the best decision all around.’’ ‘‘Would you be interested in selling your place?’’ A hint of the old, ambitious Noble flickered to life. Kate saw it in the eyes that were only a shade darker than Ethan’s. ‘‘No,’’ she murmured, with a regretful look. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’ ‘‘Sure? I may know of an interested party. It would be a generous offer.’’ Wouldn’t Ethan love to hear that? ‘‘Selling Shadow Ranch isn’t part of the plan.’’

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‘‘Well, if you ever change your mind, I’d appreciate you letting me know first.’’ ‘‘Noble, dear, our manners.’’ With an apologetic smile to Kate, Ruth Taylor indicated the straight-backed chair that faced her husband’s. ‘‘Please excuse him. When he starts talking business, he even forgets to eat. Do sit down. Can I get you a refreshment of some kind?’’ ‘‘Thank you, but I don’t care for anything.’’ However, Kate did sit, inwardly preparing herself to broach the subject she’d come to discuss. As he lowered himself into his chair, Noble studied her with a new wariness and speculation. ‘‘All right then—’’ he crossed his legs ‘‘—we’ve exchanged pleasantries, and yet as much as I pride myself on reading people, I have to admit I still don’t have a clue as to why you asked for this meeting. For some reason, the notion that it has to do with Walker keeps nagging at me. Reassure me, Kate. Tell me you aren’t here to champion the man.’’ She resented the mockery beneath the command as much as she did the order. ‘‘I try not to choose sides, Noble. I prefer focusing on issues and principle—in this case your granddaughter. Wouldn’t you like to know how she is?’’ ‘‘I would.’’ Ruth leaned toward her husband from her perch on the edge of the nearby love seat. ‘‘Please, Noble. Let her tell us about the baby. There’s so much to discuss, plans to make. First and foremost, we have to think of a proper name.’’ Kate couldn’t believe what she’d heard. ‘‘She has a name, Mrs. Taylor. Marilee’s wish was that her daughter be called Darcy. It was the late Mrs. Walker’s name.’’ ‘‘Oh, dear.’’ Ruth cast a dismayed look at her husband. ‘‘That was a thoughtful gesture, of course....’’ ‘‘But hardly a suitable name for a Taylor,’’ Noble continued, rising.

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He stepped behind his chair and assumed an even more authoritarian pose by slipping one hand into his suit jacket. Kate thought the visual resemblance to another tyrant from generations past an unnecessary but ironic warning. Ruth nodded in support of her husband. ‘‘I’m sure something can be done. How difficult could it be to adjust a birth certificate? Dorothea would be lovely, don’t you think?’’ ‘‘Oh, yes. Darling,’’ Kate replied, with a straight face. ‘‘And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to remove all record of the baby’s mother?’’ The woman was as bad as her husband! Never mind Ruth’s ignorance of the simplest hospital policies regarding birth certificates, despite having been a mother herself; the earth hadn’t yet begun to settle over Marilee’s grave, and the two of them were already working toward remolding the child into their own image! Thank goodness Ethan didn’t have to hear any of this. ‘‘Now see here...’’ Noble began. ‘‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’’ Kate thought there was every need. ‘‘Your granddaughter is adorable. I think she’s going to be a mirror image of her mother...a mother she’ll never know. How can you consider taking away the greatest gift her mother could give her?’’ ‘‘We’re offering her more. The best of everything,’’ Noble replied, thrusting out his chin. ‘‘After all, she’s a Taylor, and we intend for her to be raised right.’’ Right. Now there was an interesting word. Once again, Kate was grateful that she lived in a country where there were laws to override this kind of caprice and willfulness. ‘‘Noble, I think you should know Ethan told me about Marilee’s wish that he raise Darcy.’’ ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘He told me yesterday.’’ ‘‘Well, he lied.’’

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‘‘I spoke to Lori Bains, as well. As I’m sure you’re aware by now, she was present during the delivery, and she’s confirmed his statement.’’ The man grew florid, and as stiff as a military color guardsman. ‘‘I can’t believe you mean to buy into that preposterousness. You’re going to let a few words spoken in a moment of delirium override what’s best for my granddaughter?’’ What an interesting shift away from the accusation that Ethan had been lying. Kate wondered how deep a hole he could dig for himself, but knew it was up to her to keep things from deteriorating completely. ‘‘I asked for this meeting today to try to raise an awareness and compassion for the strain this will cause all parties involved,’’ she told the couple. ‘‘Including Darcy. And not as a jurist, but as a friend.’’ Noble grunted. ‘‘Yes, but whose?’’ She decided to ignore that. ‘‘It’s my hope that you’ll be able to resolve this situation without creating any additional ill will, and at the same time avoid a court appearance.’’ Her host leaned over the back of the chair. ‘‘There damn well will be a custody hearing!’’ ‘‘Noble, dear...your blood pressure,’’ Ruth murmured, fingering the pearls at her throat. ‘‘Never mind that. Did you hear what she said? Of all the— I was instrumental in putting you in office!’’ he declared, pointing to Kate. Could he honestly believe that? ‘‘Noble, several thousand voters did that. You aren’t even in my jurisdiction.’’ What was more, her concern that someone might attempt to influence her opinions had compelled Kate to reject all campaign contributions at the beginning of her political career. She had the records to prove it. ‘‘And regardless of what you think you did to encourage support on my behalf, we both

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know that it would be unethical of me to allow that to affect or interfere with my responsibility to the bench.’’ Noble scowled. ‘‘You’ve become quite the maverick, haven’t you? Afraid of no one and nothing, because you always get the last word.’’ Hardly. But he’d obviously decided to disregard the fact that she and her fellow jurists had a higher court to answer to. Any slip on her part, through either an ethical lapse or judicial ignorance, could get a ruling reversed or a decision reprimanded or—to put it bluntly—simply ridiculed. She wasn’t, however, going to waste her breath arguing her professional honor with a man who’d been sued on several occasions for various contractual and building-code safety violations, and who’d settled out of court each and every time. Noble was hardly as restrained. ‘‘Let me give you and your friend Walker fair warning, Judge Randall. I intend to get full and absolute custody of my granddaughter, and if either of you have any notions about interfering, I suggest you think twice about it. You can’t afford the kind of notoriety this case would cause. Think how ugly it could get for you when you come up for reelection. And it’s obvious Walker doesn’t have a prayer of winning.’’ ‘‘Is it obvious?’’ Despite the veins bulging in his neck, Noble managed a frigid smile. ‘‘He’s been accused of murder. He’s violent. Heaven knows he isn’t one of the most successful ranchers in the area. Under those circumstances, how does he think he can support my granddaughter, let alone afford the attorney fees for a custody battle?’’ ‘‘On what do you base your opinion that he’s an unsuccessful rancher?’’ That comment had her genuinely perplexed, because she thought Ethan a fine one. ‘‘Well, look at his place. I made the mistake of actually

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going there, naively thinking I could reason with the man. The cabin is nothing more than a shack, and as for the acreage...well, it’s only a fraction of the size of the really successful ranches. In business, you either grow or you stagnate and die.’’ Kate felt as if she were being yanked down into some intellectual black hole. So much for believing the more-isbetter gang had learned to tone down their rhetoric after the financial and economic messes they’d helped create in the eighties. ‘‘The thought of having to live in a world where everyone’s need or ambition was based on being the first, the biggest or the best frightens me, Noble. In fact, I get downright reverential when I meet someone content to live a— gasp, dare I say it?—modest lifestyle. For your information, Ethan lost his father when he was extremely young, and I’d venture to guess most young people would break under the weight of the responsibility he’s carried. And let’s not forget that he didn’t use that responsibility to avoid the draft. He served bravely in Vietnam.’’ For a moment, Noble looked uncomfortable; however, he quickly recovered. ‘‘Fine. But that was then, and this is now. My granddaughter deserves more than modest care.’’ He’d left no possible negative unexamined. Kate couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever expended half as much energy on thinking how to help or encourage someone as he did on pinpointing their flaws or weaknesses. ‘‘Why are you doing this?’’ Sincerely bewildered, she’d had to ask. ‘‘Why do you seem to be resisting an amicable joint-custody arrangement?’’ ‘‘Because I don’t want one. Bad enough for my son to have been hoodwinked by Walker’s no-account little sister. I won’t have another member of my family tainted by Walk-

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er influence. That child will be a Taylor in every sense of the word, or she won’t be my granddaughter.’’ Kate knew she had to get out of there or risk telling Noble in no uncertain terms what an egocentric, mean-spirited man he’d become. As it was, she didn’t know how she could break this news to Ethan. She rose. ‘‘Thank you for making your position clear.’’ ‘‘Beating a hasty retreat? That’s not like you.’’ She thought him loathsome, in the way he went from livid anger to cool disdain, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting to her any more than he already had. ‘‘Any judge will tell you that every dispute has a cost, whether it’s human or financial. I believe it would be advisable for us to step back and examine exactly how high a price we’re willing to pay.’’ ‘‘We?’’ She could almost see the laughter in his eyes, and swore at herself for the accidental, but costly, slip. ‘‘Yes, we. As in...‘We’ll meet again, Noble.’’’ He nodded. ‘‘I think I look forward to that, Kate. Yes, I believe I do.’’

Three ‘‘Gonna snow again.’’ Ethan looked up from securing a fresh diaper on Darcy to consider John Mountain, standing at the kitchen window, sipping his second cup of coffee. Dawn was still minutes away, but there was enough daylight for his sleepy-eyed cowhand to see what might be brewing north and west of them. ‘‘There’s a surprise,’’ he replied drolly. John Mountain shook his head. ‘‘It’s taking longer. You noticed? Much as I hated the jungle and the heat, thought I’d never come to resent the cold. But it’s happening.’’ Someone’s chatty this morning. Surprised, yet noting that the oddity hadn’t affected the man’s sometimes frustrating, sometimes amusing, fragmented speech patterns, Ethan replied, ‘‘It’s been a tough year.’’ In more ways than one. He shushed the baby when she fussed a little louder. ‘‘Too much of anything will get to you, and we’ve sure had our share of cold and snow. On your way over, did you notice if the temperature’s dropped below freezing yet?’’ ‘‘Didn’t look. Feels close. And once those clouds building up along the summit start rolling down our way, it’ll get worse.’’ That meant there would be more work for John Mountain, work Ethan wouldn’t be able to offer much help with, no matter how good his intentions. As he carefully drew down the baby’s sleeper and zipped it shut around her kicking legs, he dealt with a new dose of guilt. Darcy did her best

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to keep his attention by screwing up her face and squeezing out a temperamental squeal. ‘‘Hey, Little Bit, I thought patience was a feminine virtue.’’ He knew she wanted her bottle; unfortunately, he hadn’t prepared it yet. When she first awakened, he’d been busy cooking his and John Mountain’s breakfast. As it was, his share was drying out on one of the heated tiles, because at the first opportunity he’d needed to get her out of her soaked diaper. ‘‘Just hold your horses. Your old uncle’s only got two hands. You’ll get your grub in a minute or two.’’ He hated the fact that he wasn’t keeping up as well as he thought he should. Somehow he remembered things being easier when he’d been a boy helping his mother take care of Marilee. It hadn’t been a piece of cake, by any means, but, for example, back then a two-o’clock feeding hadn’t been nearly the killer it had come to feel like nowadays. As Darcy’s chin dimpled and trembled with the threat of serious tears, Ethan felt a grin building, and a swelling in his chest. The imp was going to wrap him around her little finger, no doubt about it. He bent to kiss her angel-soft hair. ‘‘I’ll hurry, sweetie.’’ After covering her with the baby blanket that had been in the box of her mother’s baby things, he joined John Mountain in the kitchen area. ‘‘Once I get her fed,’’ he told the other man as he filled one of the baby bottles, ‘‘she should sleep for a good two or three hours. Why don’t we use that quiet time for you to drive down into town for those supplies we were talking about, and I’ll load a trailer of hay in the barn and check on the stock?’’ John Mountain eyed him from beneath the shadow of his brown Stetson’s broad brim. ‘‘You can’t. Too long away from the house.’’ True, he shouldn’t be, but Ethan didn’t see how it could

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be avoided. ‘‘I won’t go any farther than the herd’s closest watering hole. We have to make sure the ice isn’t too thick for the cattle to get a drink.’’ Not since he was a kid and juggling school and adult responsibilities had he found it a blessing that his spread was a fraction of the size of the bigger ranches. But, modest as it was, it would take him a good twenty minutes if he was making the ride on horseback—and a bit longer in the tractor, hauling out the hay. ‘‘I’ll do it before I go.’’ John Mountain’s expression reflected concern as he eyed the whimpering baby. ‘‘Just load up what I can in the old pickup. Won’t take me any time at all. Then I can give them the rest when I get back.’’ ‘‘That’s assuming Old Unreliable’s in the mood to make the full trip. But what if she dies on you along the way? You’d have a hell of a walk back in clear weather, never mind a storm.’’ ‘‘Aw, she wouldn’t. Knows I’d kick her in her spare tire. Finish off by making a feed trough out of her if she tried it.’’ Ethan found his longtime ranch hand’s obstinacy second only to his own. ‘‘Listen to me, you stubborn fool. You can’t do both of our jobs!’’ ‘‘Guess you’ll have to give up the twig, then.’’ Ethan narrowed his eyes, aware of what the cowboy was doing. It didn’t amuse him in the least. ‘‘Stuff it.’’ ‘‘One stupid comment deserves another,’’ the small man replied, appearing anything but threatened. ‘‘Seems to me, we don’t have any choice. It’s not like I mind. Anyway, you think you could leave her unattended? Sure can’t take her with you.’’ It took only one glance toward the tiny bundle of pink on the recliner for Ethan to know his answer. ‘‘I guess not.’’ What was more, he supposed a man who’d survived being a tunnel rat in the war, as John Mountain had, could tolerate

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just about anything—short of discussing those experiences now, and finding himself in absolute darkness or a cramped space. But that still didn’t make it fair; and since Ethan couldn’t begin to pay the guy what he was worth, the need to be just, to share fully in the work load, took on a new and deeper importance. ‘‘Okay, thanks,’’ he told John Mountain. ‘‘But I promise, as soon as I get this guardianship thing out of the way, I’ll look into hiring a sitter for her.’’ ‘‘Lots of luck. Who’ll come way out here? I think...I think shifts’ll work.’’ Ethan had only to remember how late John Mountain had come in from the range yesterday to be doubtful. How long could either of them endure that before it became too much, or—heaven forbid—there was an accident, or John Mountain simply quit? ‘‘Soon as the weather warms, you can take the twig with you in the truck,’’ the cowboy added as he set his mug in the sink. ‘‘That’s when we’re busiest, anyway.’’ He was right. But he couldn’t believe John Mountain would tolerate the extra responsibility. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ he asked. ‘‘I mean, doing an hour or two of baby-sitting is one thing, but diapers and stuff...it gets old fast.’’ ‘‘Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.’’ Once again finding himself on the receiving end of generosity and goodwill, Ethan was left feeling awkward, as well as humble. He sighed. ‘‘Fair enough. Thanks, man.’’ Now if only Kate would call. He checked his watch and told himself he wouldn’t phone to ask. But why hadn’t she gotten back in touch with him? ‘‘Waiting is always the worst.’’ Something in his tone made Ethan wonder what he was referring to...what he was remembering. John Mountain’s comment hadn’t just been caused by his awareness that

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Ethan was worried about the Taylors and Kate’s meeting with them. Of course, Ethan knew better than to ask. Unless the information was volunteered, neither one of them ever broached personal subjects. Instead, Ethan grunted and tested the formula on his wrist, as he’d learned to do years ago. He wouldn’t let himself consciously accept that no news might be bad news; however, he was fast learning that he made a lousy optimist. ‘‘Someone’s coming.’’ John Mountain’s warning had Ethan setting the not-quiteready bottle back in the warming water and heading for a front window. ‘‘I hear it, too,’’ he murmured, only to feel a jolt of surprise as he looked outside. ‘‘It’s Kate.’’ John Mountain immediately reached for his coat. ‘‘Good luck.’’ ‘‘You don’t have to—’’ The kitchen door closed behind the cowboy with a soft click that triggered Ethan’s nerves. Suddenly abdominal muscles that had been relaxed tensed, and he curled his fingers into tight fists. He couldn’t think of a reason for Kate to come out here this early. Didn’t she have to get to court? he wondered, as she brought her vehicle to a halt next to his truck. Seconds later, she climbed out and reached back inside for... He almost exhaled in relief. Baby gifts. She was bringing out a whole armful, two armfuls, of baby gifts; so many that she had to nudge the door shut with her hip. He opened the cabin door, sharply aware of how glad he was to see her again. The realization struck as she passed him, buried beneath presents from the waist up and bringing with her a gust of frigid air underscored by the subtle punch of her scent. He’d wanted that fragrance filling his lungs again, he’d missed the challenge of her sharp mind—so much so that if not for his great concern for the baby, he

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would have forgotten to close the door and followed her into the room. ‘‘I know this is a ridiculous hour,’’ she began, slightly breathless. ‘‘For who? I’ve been up since two and four.’’ ‘‘Then you’re in better shape than me. I haven’t been to bed yet.’’ Now what did that mean? he wondered as she deposited her load on the coffee table and carried a pink stuffed pony to Darcy. ‘‘Why, look who’s awake. Hi, twiglet! How about a smile for Auntie Kate, hmm? Look what I’ve brought you.’’ Twiglet? Auntie Kate? She set the horse on the chair’s raised footrest, then scooped up the baby as if she were hooking herself up to a life-support system. In that instant, Ethan decided he understood her untimely visit. She hadn’t come out of friendship or concern for him and his plight. She’d come to get close to the baby. ‘‘You’d probably be more comfortable without the coat,’’ he drawled, brutally tamping down the emotions stirring inside him. ‘‘No doubt. I’ll take it off in a minute. How’ve you been managing?’’ If he told her, would she hear him? She hadn’t even looked at him when she spoke. As a result, he thought his testy ‘‘We’re getting used to each other’’ perfectly justifiable. Of course, the twinge of shame followed anyway. What the hell—? Jealousy? He felt jealous of a helpless infant? As nuts as he knew the idea had to be, he could neither reject it nor crush it. Instead, it stirred memories of the last time he’d seen a similar expression on Kate’s face, the look that said, ‘‘I don’t want to let you go.’’ It had been the

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moment she said a final goodbye to Wayne at the bus station. Ethan felt as uncomfortable and locked out seeing it now as he had then. It didn’t help that she looked so good—again, a nutty idea, since there was nothing really different about her this morning. The stuffy hairdo was the same, and so was the black coat. But both seemed to accent her fair skin more today and draw attention to the fine shadows under her eyes that confirmed her sleepless night and gave her an unneeded and unwelcome aura of vulnerability. What was more, the wind had stained her cheeks, and the baby was bringing a tender, soft expression to her face that made her eyes velvet soft and bowed her lips into a too-inviting curve. It left him disturbingly tempted to enfold woman and child in his arms, to soak up some of that tenderness for himself. He cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m late feeding her, so you’ll have to help yourself to coffee if you want any.’’ ‘‘No thanks. I’ve had enough to last me until Saturday.’’ Once again the reminder of her sleepless night. Why? Was she trying to build up some sympathy for herself before she hit him with bad news or something? That was it. What else would have caused her to stay up all night? As something cold and sharp took a nasty bite deep inside him, he shrugged off her reply and headed to the stove. ‘‘What’s in all the bags?’’ He knew he’d given the question an unnecessary edge, and that she’d noticed, but when he saw the guilty look she sent him, the inner cold turned to dread. ‘‘I hope you don’t mind,’’ she replied. ‘‘There was this store in Billings that caught my eye. Once inside, I’m afraid I got carried away.’’ Billings. The situation was worse than he’d thought, he was sure of it. He reached for the bottle, oblivious of the tiny voice that

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warned him not to. In the next instant, he flung it into the sink as searing pain raced up his arm. Glass clattered against stainless steel, formula sprayed out from the nipple. ‘‘Ethan!’’ He swore and groped for the cold water tap, and succeeded in thrusting his hand under the faucet before the bottle stopped rolling from one side of the sink to the other. The numbing-cold flow hadn’t begun to ease the first wave of pain when Kate reached his side. ‘‘It’s my fault. I took your mind off what you were doing.’’ He had no problem with letting her take the blame. It didn’t ease his anger, but it helped him bite back the string of curses he wanted to roar. No matter what, he didn’t want to upset the baby. ‘‘Can I get you anything?’’ Kate asked him. ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘Some ice wrapped in a towel. That water might not be soothing enough.’’ ‘‘Kate.’’ A deaf person couldn’t have missed the harshness in his voice. Without another word, Kate backed away, rocking the whimpering baby. Only then did Ethan allow himself to breathe again. The stinging in his hand began to fade, and he could see the damage wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it could have been. He picked up the bottle and inspected it carefully for cracks and chips. Although he found none, he decided on second thought not to take any chances. The crash in the sink had been too violent not to have done some damage, he told himself as he poured the contents down the drain and tossed away the bottle and nipple. Carefully drying his hand, he located a new sterilized one. It took another five minutes or so, but he finally carried

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the warmed formula to Kate, who’d removed her coat in the interim. He took one look at her somber but expensivelooking black suit and opted against letting her feed Darcy. She wouldn’t thank him if she ended up with formula on her clothes. ‘‘You’d better give her to me.’’ ‘‘I’ll be happy to feed her. You go take care of that hand.’’ Suit yourself, he thought, handing over the bottle. ‘‘The hand’s fine.’’ ‘‘Let me see. It doesn’t—’’ ‘‘Are you going to give her that, or what?’’ he snapped. With another guilty look, she carefully offered it to the excited infant. ‘‘Oops...here you go, angel. How about some of this?’’ The baby eagerly closed her tiny lips around the nipple. A moment later, her greedy suckling sounds sweetened the heavy silence settling in the room. ‘‘Isn’t that one of the most beautiful sights you’ve ever seen?’’ Kate murmured, her gaze locked with the infant’s. Ethan turned away from the sight. If he was going to get through what every instinct told him lay ahead, he couldn’t look at the perfect picture she made holding the baby. In self-defense, he went to the nearest front window and, staring up at the gray sky, demanded, ‘‘All right, how bad is it?’’ After only the slightest pause, Kate admitted quietly, ‘‘Critical. But not necessarily fatal. I still believe we have a chance.’’ At least she hadn’t pretended not to understand his question. He wasn’t, however, wild about how the word we had popped into the conversation. ‘‘Are you going to tell me about it, or should I wait a few months for the instant book to come out?’’

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‘‘Of course I’m going to tell you, and there’s no need for the double dose of sarcasm. It isn’t going to change anything, and it certainly doesn’t help this conversation.’’ He was in no mood for her matriarchal tone. ‘‘It’ll help me burn up the frustration left over from waiting for your call last night. You remember the call you said you’d make? The one I didn’t get?’’ ‘‘I know what I told you, and I’m sorry. My only excuse—’’ ‘‘Let the baby breathe.’’ ‘‘What?’’ He spun around and forced her to remove the nipple from Darcy’s mouth. ‘‘Air. It’s necessary, if you’re going to keep breathing. She forgets, because all she’s thinking about is her stomach. You have to do it for her.’’ Although she turned red and her expression reflected her deep embarrassment, her reflexes with the baby were impressively quick. Immediately shifting to free her hand so that she could gently rub and pat the baby’s back and coo reassuringly, she proved to Ethan that her slip had only been that. She knew what to do with that directive. Either that was a result of sometimes having to bottle-feed a colt or filly at her place, or maybe she’d helped out with someone else’s baby. ‘‘Okay, go ahead and let her have it,’’ he finally said in a normal voice as he turned back to the window. She remained silent for several seconds. He could feel her gaze on his back, and knew he’d been unfair and rude, but he couldn’t afford to let himself care. ‘‘The only excuse,’’ she continued in her usual calming voice, ‘‘is that I needed time to think.’’ That had him turning around. ‘‘Think about how to soften the blow to me, or how to make yourself look better?’’ ‘‘That’s not—’’

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‘‘Besides rejecting you, me, and my intention to keep my promise to my sister, what else did Taylor have to say?’’ Temper finally flashed in Kate’s eyes. The smooth skin over her high cheekbones and along her femininely sculpted jaw grew taut. ‘‘Couldn’t we hold the venom? At least until I’ve explained things?’’ ‘‘No. Because I’m the one who’s going to have to pay for whatever disaster you’re alluding to. Given that, it burns me big-time to know that I’m also the single person who’s completely in the dark about what’s happened!’’ ‘‘He was furious, all right?’’ she replied, with as much low-key testiness as he’d exposed. ‘‘I was wrong to think my approaching him would help. Instead, he’s accused me of being biased in your favor.’’ ‘‘Boy, was he ever off the mark. Did you finally let him in on the secret that you’re actually working for his side?’’ ‘‘Stop it, Ethan. Jurists work as arbitrators all the time, if they see there’s the slightest chance to resolve an issue to the satisfaction of both parties. It can be of great benefit to taxpayers bearing the brunt of litigation costs. But in this case the idea was a bad one, and I’ve admitted it. You can’t possibly say anything that will make me feel worse than I already do.’’ ‘‘Give me a minute, I’m sure I can think of something.’’ Wanting to hit something, hard, Ethan settled for pacing the room. Why are you surprised? Especially after what you’ve just been through with the Avery trial? The surprise is that some cop or state official hadn’t already knocked on your door, flashed papers at you and taken Darcy away. When are you going to learn, the system works only if you have the bucks to grease the machine? He was sick and scared, but he had to hang on to the same thing he’d held on to during the trial—the truth. Darcy

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belonged with him. If Marilee had believed it, that was good enough for him. He spun around and faced Kate again. ‘‘Tell me everything that happened...and I do mean everything.’’ She did as he asked, while Darcy contentedly slurped and dozed through her breakfast. She repeated the entire experience, from her point of arrival at the mansion, and her hope that Norma might still prove helpful in giving a clearer picture of what Marilee’s life had been like as a Taylor, to Noble’s final, taunting words. Ethan listened carefully, and in total silence, despite the urge to explode several times. He felt a red tide of fury at the other man’s accusations of Kate being guilty of impropriety, and promised himself that the hypocrite would pay for that one. But perhaps the worst moment came when he learned that the human bulldozer wanted to change Darcy’s name. ‘‘He’s more of a rat than I’d let myself believe,’’ he muttered when she finally finished. ‘‘To think Marilee spent all that time trapped in their house, that environment...’’ He shuddered. Kate’s look held compassion and concern. ‘‘Try not to dwell on that. You need to direct all your attention and energy to keeping Darcy.’’ He watched her place the empty bottle on the counter, then proceed to walk with the baby while gently massaging and patting her back. Yes, she was catching on fast, but he couldn’t dwell on that or on her; he had to focus on the uncertain future. ‘‘He’s not getting her, Kate. I’ll leave the area, move out of state if I have to.’’ ‘‘Don’t say things like that!’’ ‘‘I mean it.’’ ‘‘I believe you think you do, but you’re not being rational. Running away would be financial suicide. What’s

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more, what you’re threatening is illegal. Good grief, as a judge, do you think that I can stand by and let you break the law, Ethan?’’ Kate shook her head vehemently. ‘‘Please, don’t start testing what I can and can’t overlook to help you. Believe me, things are getting complicated enough as it is.’’ But as quickly as her temper had flared, she calmed, focusing on his hand. ‘‘How does that feel now? Do you think you need a doctor’s attention?’’ ‘‘No. I’ve had plenty worse.’’ ‘‘Ethan,’’ Kate murmured, edging closer, ‘‘I’m sorry for adding to your pain and your problems. Admittedly, what I attempted was risky from the first, but I should have better recognized the potential for disaster because of who we were dealing with.’’ Maybe he didn’t feel like being generous, but he knew she was right about Taylor. Her reputation for being coercive was well-known. If she hadn’t been able to sway him, what chance did he or anyone else have? ‘‘I almost have to leave,’’ he told her, inevitably shifting back to his original idea. ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’ ‘‘If it’s the only way, you bet I am. I won’t let Marilee down. Those people have ruined enough lives.’’ ‘‘Didn’t you hear what I said? You’d have to virtually abandon your land. The minute you tried to return, if you tried, the authorities would lock you up and take Darcy away from you. Are you ready to do that? If so, how will you support yourself and the baby? Where will you live? What about John Mountain? You have to give a thought to him, since he’s been resolute in his dedication to you. What do you tell him? There’s always work for a good hand, but the day of the cowboy is setting fast. Where will he go? ‘‘Then think of Darcy,’’ she continued, quiet but earnest. ‘‘Do you realize you would be committing her to a life of

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running? That would mean no stability, no friends, no home to call her own. How will you support her? Where will you live? Who will care for her when you’re working?’’ She hadn’t said anything that didn’t chip away at his logic, even though he suspected she was talking more as a woman than as a judge. He also didn’t have an answer to a fraction of her questions. That irked. ‘‘I don’t know, okay?’’ ‘‘That’s not good enough. Darcy deserves better than that. So does John Mountain. So does Marilee!’’ ‘‘Well, what do you suggest I do?’’ he demanded, arms spread wide. He’d talked more in the past few days than he had in years, and he was about wiped out. He definitely was out of ideas. The funniest expression crossed her face. Not funny, exactly, more like uncertain and...wryly amused? He frowned. ‘‘What?’’ he asked, narrowing his eyes. ‘‘You could marry me.’’ There. It was out. In a moment, he would either start laughing hysterically or tell her that he would rather be sentenced to life imprisonment than do something like that, but it was done. The long night of pacing and inner debate had come to an end. Now it was all up to Ethan. Kate understood the poleaxed look on his face, and sympathized with what he had to be going through. Yesterday, when she finally returned from Billings, she’d believed she would be making this morning’s trip to simply deliver the gifts and to apologize. Too wound up and worried to sleep, she’d sequestered herself in the library that had once been her father’s, hunting through book after book, searching for a case similar to Ethan’s dilemma, some precedent that might give her a foothold. When that proved unsuccessful, she’d begun brainstorming, thinking up various possibilities to suggest to him. None, however, seemed strong enough to

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offset the fact that Ethan’s reputation was still at an all-time low. Unless someone walked forward to confess to Charlie Avery’s murder and remove the lingering cloud of doubt over Ethan’s head, nothing short of the Taylors’ withdrawing their claim would save him from another date in court. And in that darkest hour of deliberation, the incredible idea had come to her. She could offer herself as a solution to his problems. From the look on his face, she was sure the thought had never crossed his mind. ‘‘Shocked you speechless, did I?’’ she murmured when nearly a minute had passed and he had yet to make any response. ‘‘Just about.’’ He rubbed the back of his neck, but continued to watch her warily, as though not certain she was through wielding her verbal wallops yet. ‘‘That was a joke, right?’’ The question stung a bit. She wasn’t unaware that some people called her the spinster Hanging Judge, and she would even admit that she hadn’t had a date since New Year’s; however, her lack of a social life was a result of choices she’d made. At least her proposal had stopped Ethan from yelling at her, she thought, shaking her head to answer his question. ‘‘No. No joke.’’ ‘‘You don’t have enough headaches in your life, you want to take me on? In case you haven’t noticed, I make an albatross look like a canary.’’ ‘‘Try looking at it from my perspective. If I married you, that would automatically preclude my presiding over your custody hearing. Not only would that block Noble’s right to make any accusations against me professionally, but you tying the knot with a judge would do wonders to improve your reputation.’’ This time he lifted both eyebrows. ‘‘To who? The divor-

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ce´e who’s been trying to collect child support from her bum of an ex-husband for the past dozen years? The kids from abusive homes? The Native American who couldn’t get his medical bills paid by that congressman’s kid after a hit-andrun that left the old guy crippled for life? I’ve seen the articles in the papers, Kate. You don’t just operate in court, you’re out in the streets straightening out the problems your brethren claim not to have time for. But I’ve also seen the carefully placed editorials from the headhunters who use every opportunity to paint you as everything from being radical left to fundamentalist right. They already see you as anything but the darling of the judicial system. Can you imagine what they would say if we—’’ ‘‘Married.’’ Kate wondered if he’d choked on the word or on the idea that she would be his wife. ‘‘I’m flattered that you’ve been following my career, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Whitehorn’s not exactly New York City. It’s not hard to do.’’ ‘‘You mean, whether or not you want to, I’m in your face, is that it?’’ she asked, deciding not to believe him for a second. ‘‘Well, I may be considered a bit bold and tough, but when I see an injustice, I like to fix it. What’s more, whether or not they agree with me politically, most people admit that I’m honest. Now, would honest Judge Randall marry a man who wasn’t innocent? You see? It would be a perfect validation for you.’’ Ethan made a face. ‘‘It sounds more like bad math to me.’’ ‘‘How so?’’ ‘‘You don’t solve one problem by initiating a worse one.’’ ‘‘Ouch—I think.’’ ‘‘Don’t play coy. It doesn’t suit you. What’s more, you know damn well what I mean. My mess—whether you

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helped complicate it or not—is no reason to turn toward drastic measures such as marriage.’’ ‘‘Look, I know you’ve probably given up on thinking about that kind of relationship,’’ Kate said, wanting to reassure him that she understood his reluctance thoroughly. ‘‘The remoteness of this place, the increasing challenge of scraping out a decent living for yourself and John Mountain...and now Darcy. I know this isn’t something you’d ask a woman to endure, let alone share. What you don’t seem to understand is that I didn’t mean the marriage would be permanent.’’ ‘‘It wouldn’t?’’ The poor man looked thoroughly mystified now, and she was actually beginning to enjoy herself. ‘‘Certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea? As soon as things get resolved, a reasonable period after you won permanent custody of Darcy, we could realize we had irreconcilable differences and file for an amicable divorce. We’re talking quick, quiet and painless, because the arrangement would, of course, be in name only.’’ ‘‘Of course.’’ ‘‘Naturally, we’d have to keep the whys and wherefores a secret...and in public we would have to be a convincing couple.’’ ‘‘This is ridiculous.’’ Looking more self-conscious and uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him, Ethan began pacing and rubbing the back of his neck again. ‘‘Damn it, Kate, you have your own life to live, a business, a home. Responsibilities.’’ ‘‘I’m not saying it would be easy, but I am good at delegating. The ranch is being ably handled by Jorge and Eva, and will continue to be whether I’m there or not.’’ She glanced around the neat but small cabin. ‘‘Would it be a problem having me here with you for a while?’’

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‘‘You know it would! You’d have virtually no privacy, none of the luxuries you’re probably used to at your place, it gets dusty as hell in here because of the wood burning stove... This is nuts!’’ She knew he needed time to get accustomed to the idea, and she needed to get to court. ‘‘Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s why I came early. Think about it,’’ she said, setting the baby down on the recliner. She’d already noticed that the crib, while assembled, lacked the other essentials, namely sheets, blankets and such. If she got out of court at a decent hour, she would see to that matter, as well. ‘‘You aren’t listening to me! There’s nothing to think about,’’ Ethan all but growled from behind her. Although she felt as if popcorn were exploding in her stomach, Kate made sure she had a smile on her face as she headed for her coat. ‘‘Try anyway.’’ Before she had one arm in a sleeve, he spun her around. ‘‘Why are you doing this?’’ At least that was easy to answer—on the surface. ‘‘I want to help you. I want to help Darcy. Most of all, I need to do something because I’m painfully aware that I managed to talk myself out of doing enough when Marilee needed help. I could see something was wrong, Ethan. I just convinced myself that she wouldn’t have left him.’’ She knew she wasn’t the only one to suspect and do nothing. She saw it in his eyes, along with the raw grief and regrets. Knowing that left them with nothing more to say, she finished buttoning up and left. He didn’t say goodbye as she drew the door closed behind her. It wasn’t reassuring in the least, but Kate had known Ethan Walker for a long time, long enough to recognize that he had to make the next step himself. Or not at all.

Four ‘‘Your Honor, I object!’’ ‘‘You can’t object, Harold. This isn’t a trial. Sit down and chill out, or we’re going to have one of the shortest meetings on record, and mister, I’ve had some fast ones. It will be in your interest to know that you’re giving me my first migraine, and believe me when I say that your client and Mr. Blankenship’s hardly seem worth it.’’ The frazzled young lawyer’s eyes looked like painted golf balls behind his thick eyeglasses. But he did sit. ‘‘Now listen up, you two,’’ Kate continued, leaning forward to make sure she had the full and complete attention of both new Whitehorn attorney Harold Massengil and Baxter Blankenship, the opposing counsel in this on-again, offagain, divorce-turned-assault case, which wouldn’t come to trial if she had anything to say about it. ‘‘It’s been a long day, and it’s going to be a longer week. The one thing I don’t have a stomach for at this point is sitting through another Jenrette-versus-Jenrette mud-slinging party. Is that understood, gentlemen?’’ ‘‘No, it is not. Your Honor,’’ Harold whined, ‘‘my client is in Whitehorn Memorial, with his jaws wired and a future of pureed meals stretching before him, as a result of Mrs. Jenrette’s violent mood swings.’’ Without blinking Kate turned to Baxter Blankenship, the debonair younger partner of Blankenship and Blankenship. ‘‘Would you like to address that?’’

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‘‘He shouldn’t have stuck his head out the sliding glass door when she was closing it.’’ Kate shifted her attention back to the indignant Harold. ‘‘I think that follows the don’t-lean-into-a-punch theory.’’ ‘‘Your Honor,’’ Harold replied stiffly, ‘‘Mr. Jenrette demands and deserves the court’s protection, as well as release from the purgatory that the state euphemistically cites as his marriage.’’ Kate bowed her head to hide the laughter that threatened to bubble up out of control. She’d been kidding about the migraine. If it wasn’t for these moments of asylum theatrics, she would have few laughs whatsoever. ‘‘Harold, if you don’t stop reading law novels, I swear you’ll put me in the hospital, too. Everyone in Montana except you seems to be aware that Wes and Sugar Jenrette have a particular predilection for using Whitehorn as their personal playpen. They will not use the county’s courtroom again. ‘‘Gentlemen—’’ she flipped through her calendar and scribbled herself a note ‘‘—tell your clients that they have until Monday to decide once and for all whether they prefer to live with or without each other. On Monday I want either a withdrawal of all accusations and claims, or proper and complete documentation for the dissolution of their marriage. ‘‘Should they decide to remain as husband and wife, I want notarized affidavits swearing their intention to seek joint and individual counseling. In other words, their days of acting like preadolescents with money to burn, along with their complete disregard for the dignity and solemnity of this court, are over. Failure to comply will burn my bustle. Are we clear on that, gentlemen?’’ ‘‘Y-yes, Your Honor,’’ said Harold Massengil. ‘‘Completely, Your Honor,’’ Baxter Blankenship added, admiring his manicure.

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‘‘Excellent. Then this meeting is over.’’ Kate slapped the bulging Jenrette file shut. She reached for the hefty rubber band when it tried to bounce back open. As Warren Blankenship’s younger brother lead the way out of her chambers, she momentarily thought about calling him back to ask if Warren had heard from Noble Taylor. But she knew it would be a tactical mistake. Word was all over the county that Blankenship and Blankenship would be representing the Taylors in their attempt to gain custody of their grandchild. No doubt Warren had told Baxter to report back on her state of mind. It wouldn’t do to let the enemy know you were getting edgy. That was another reason why she’d decided to put an end to this nonsense with the Jenrettes. The Blankenships needed to understand that she had no qualms about playing hardball; that if Noble Taylor wanted war, she was ready and would take no prisoners. Only when she was once again alone did she allow her fatigue to take over. She buzzed her secretary and slumped back in her chair. Seconds later, a petite woman stepped into the room with a gusto that was typical of the redhead’s personality. ‘‘If you don’t get out of here now, even your four-wheeldrive isn’t going to help you get up into those foothills,’’ Pat Fischer warned. ‘‘The snow’s coming down as if it was one of the first storms of the season, instead of one of the last.’’ Kate waved to signal her eventual obedience. ‘‘Did you get that shopping list taken care of?’’ she added, her look hopeful. ‘‘Did I ever! You’ll never ask me to shop for you again. Everything is in your truck. Be sure a forklift’s available when you decide to unload it.’’ ‘‘Have I told you the woman’s a saint?’’ Kate asked, looking up at the ceiling. Then she beamed at the widow,

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who, like Eva and Jorge, she considered an extension of her family. ‘‘Tomorrow’s lunch is on me.’’ ‘‘Hold that thought. Tomorrow we may all be under three new feet of snow.’’ The New Jersey emigrant tilted her head, and short curls caught the fluorescent light. ‘‘Tell me the truth—is that baby half as cute as I heard?’’ Kate knew Pat had a sister-in-law at Whitehorn Memorial, but had a hunch that most of Whitehorn was talking about Marilee Taylor’s orphan. ‘‘She’s a genuine doll. I wish she was part of a litter. That would be one solution for people like us.’’ ‘‘Hear! Hear!’’ Pat replied with a rueful smile. Then she gestured toward the file-laden desk. ‘‘Now, what’s most urgent in here?’’ As she rose, Kate inspected the mess, too, and shook her head. ‘‘On second thought, there isn’t anything here that can’t wait until tomorrow. Why don’t you lock up and head for home yourself? Otherwise you’ll have me feeling guilty.’’ ‘‘We can’t have that, and you don’t have to ask me twice.’’ The trim woman fingered the fringe of hair near her left ear. Her hazel eyes twinkled with excitement. ‘‘Um...is this a good moment to tell you that I invited Steve Black Feather to dinner and I need all the time I can get to make a decent impression?’’ The pang of envy Kate experienced didn’t stop her from being happy for the other woman. Pat deserved some happiness in her life; she’d lost her husband last fall, after a long bout with cancer. Pat lived just south of the Laughing Horse Reservation, and Steve Black Feather was an English teacher at the reservation school. He and Pat had met when he stopped to help her change a flat tire, months before Jerry’s death. Even then Kate had recognized the instant chemistry, simply from hearing Pat tell of the experience.

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Now she was keeping her fingers crossed that things might work out for the couple. The world had too darn little romance, and far too much heartache, as far as she was concerned. ‘‘I can’t believe you managed to keep that a secret for this long,’’ she groaned, shaking her head. No wonder Pat looked prettier than ever, and...livelier somehow. She circled her desk to give her a hug. ‘‘Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here!’’ Her pleasure waned to a wistful sigh once she had the courthouse in her rearview mirror. By the time she turned from Center Avenue onto Mountain Pass, she still felt happy for Pat, but her own life disappointments resurfaced to create a sobering contrast. Suddenly she even felt seriously shortchanged. ‘‘What’s wrong with you?’’ she muttered, turning on the car’s wipers to full power against the huge snowflakes collecting on the windshield. She’d never been this negative. She’d always believed in the philosophy that when life handed you lemons, you made lemonade. What was more, she had a lovely house, a demanding but rewarding job— two careers, in fact—and she’d been blessed to have some fine and occasionally incredible people pass through her life. Maybe she’d missed out somewhat in the romance department—okay, had been shortchanged—but apart from her proposal to Ethan, when had she ever encouraged a man? Since she was eighteen, when... Focusing on Ethan let a wry smile return. He was, indeed, one of a kind, and she couldn’t wait to see the expression on Eva’s face when she divulged her latest brainstorm. Over the years, her housekeeper had suffered through some doozies, like the time Kate had brought home a woman and her seven children for the night after the woman’s ex-husband went straight from their divorce hearing to torch the family

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home. Maybe she should have stopped at the Hip Hop and begged one of Melissa Avery’s fruit pies to soften the blow. Eva loved the baked goods from there, since making a good piecrust was the one technique she’d never been able to master herself. Melissa North now. In a way, Melissa reminded Kate of herself—independent, avoiding commitments, throwing herself wholeheartedly into her work and trying to make it be enough. But Melissa had decided it wasn’t. Like a few others lately that she could think of. Kate couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t subconsciously trying to tell herself the same thing. Had her proposal to Ethan been for reasons other than moral and legal ethics? ‘‘Don’t be ridiculous,’’ she finally muttered to herself as she drove over Shadow Ranch’s cattle guard. If she’d been interested in seriously pursuing him, she would have started off by inviting the man to dinner, as Pat had done with Steve. She certainly wouldn’t have skipped the whole courtship and asked the guy to marry her! Oh, really? She’d been trying to tell herself that this was another case of ‘‘Mother Kate’’ singlehandedly trying to resolve the world’s troubles. But this time she’d focused on the one man she wouldn’t mind noticing her as a woman. It certainly gave the situation an interesting slant. If you could be calm and collected about it. Brooding, Kate drove through a pocket valley and down one small slope, then to another, before spotting the house. Two stories tall, butter yellow, with green shutters, it sat in the snow like a sunny-side-up egg speckled with parsley. Once the snow melted to where it cloaked only the highest

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peaks, the house would have to compete with a rainbow of wildflowers in the valley. Who could stay melancholy for long here? she asked herself for the hundredth time, as she eyed the robust curl of smoke rising from the kitchen fireplace. The sight triggered a humorous thought, and she wondered what Eva had cooked for dinner. Something hearty, for sure; they could always count on a hot, stick-to-your-ribs stew or chili guaranteed to increase your weight by three pounds by dawn. Corn soup, she guessed, once she opened the back door and caught the first sniff of the yummy aroma. She stomped her feet to remove as much snow as possible, and rushed inside. ‘‘Eva, you were reading my mind,’’ she called beyond the utility room. ‘‘When it started snowing this morning, I almost phoned and said, ‘More than anything I’d like corn soup for dinner tonight.’’’ When she peeked into the kitchen, the tiny, robust woman with the adorable face of a Pekinese never looked up from ladling soup into her husband’s bowl. ‘‘Sure, sure. And Elvis was spotted today in Missoula.’’ Kate winked at Jorge, who shrugged at her, well used to Eva’s drill-sergeant personality. ‘‘No kidding?’’ she replied, pretending to take Eva seriously. ‘‘You’re the fifth person today to say that. Can spring be far off?’’ Eva’s expression soured further. ‘‘Don’t you dare mess my clean floor. Boots off before you eat.’’ Kate left her briefcase and purse leaning against the nearest cabinet, hung her snow-dusted coat beside Jorge’s plaid work jacket and slipped off her knee-high boots. ‘‘What a day,’’ she said, rubbing her cold hands together. She headed for the sink to wash up. ‘‘How are you two? Anything exciting happen?’’

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‘‘Are you sure you want to know?’’ Jorge asked her, with a speaking glance. ‘‘Mind your own business,’’ Eva snapped. Barely taller than his diminutive wife, and with more hair on his upper lip than his head, he possessed exactly the sweet-natured persona he projected. ‘‘I’m not saying another word,’’ he replied, his mustache twitching. Since he and Kate had always possessed their own shorthand—second only to his talent for communicating with horses—it took a mere lift of his bushy eyebrows, and an innocent look toward the ceiling, for her to figure out that whatever had happened had to do with her, and that Eva didn’t like it one bit. Ethan. Could Eva have found out what she’d done? Already? But how? ‘‘You two stop that this instant, or I’m leaving the room and you can wash your own dishes,’’ Eva warned, letting the ladle drop back into the pot with a clatter. ‘‘First you eat. Time for excuses later.’’ Excuses? Intrigued, Kate took a moment to wash her hands, trying to figure out what that cryptic comment meant. ‘‘Jalapen˜o corn bread, too,’’ she murmured diplomatically, taking her seat at the head of the table. ‘‘It looks and smells wonderful.’’ Eva returned to the table with the inevitable glass of milk she’d been serving Kate for more years than she wanted to remember. Thanking her again, Kate reached for the soup ladle. Eva snatched it out of her hand. ‘‘All you have to know is that I don’t approve. No one has told me anything, and I want to know nothing. I have no desire to get involved.’’ Kate spread her napkin over her lap. ‘‘Okay.’’ ‘‘Don’t wheedle. My flexible days are over.’’

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‘‘I must have missed them,’’ her husband murmured into his soup. Kate nearly choked as Eva swatted him with her dish towel. Dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, she asked, ‘‘What have I missed?’’ ‘‘Your neighbor telephoned.’’ Eva never could bear to keep a secret, Kate thought with satisfaction. The woman loved intrigue too much, which was why she had a small TV on the kitchen counter so that she could watch all her soap operas. But Kate didn’t plan to step into this one too easily. ‘‘Mr. Douglas?’’ Kate asked, knowing her hedging would upset Eva terribly. She knew, of course, that her housekeeper meant Ethan, and wondered why he hadn’t telephoned her at the office. ‘‘Go ahead and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, but I’ll tell you here and now, I don’t like the way this feels.’’ ‘‘How what feels?’’ ‘‘Don’t play ignorant with me. You leave here before dawn, and all afternoon he phones.’’ Startled, Kate leaned forward. ‘‘Ethan called? When?’’ Eva snorted in disgust. ‘‘Look at you, all eager and ready to run to him.’’ ‘‘What time, Eva?’’ ‘‘Three o’clock. Then at four, and again only minutes before I hear you coming. He’s forgotten you work? He thinks you sit at home like some princess, with nothing to do but wait for him? And you. What do you think you’re doing messing around with that one, eh?’’ ‘‘Helping a friend through a difficult time,’’ Kate replied, thinking Ethan must have thought the weather would cut things short at the courthouse. Either that, or he’d been

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too—what?—to call at her office. ‘‘Did he leave a message?’’ ‘‘No.’’ Impatient, Kate didn’t want to accept that. ‘‘None?’’ ‘‘You think I forget when a person hangs up the phone without saying another word? I don’t like the man.’’ ‘‘You don’t like—you don’t know him. You haven’t seen him since he was a boy,’’ Jorge offered, a gentle rebuke in his tone. His wife pointed a finger at him. ‘‘And what kind of neighbor is that? He’s too quiet, I tell you. You can’t tell what he’s thinking.’’ ‘‘You married a quiet man.’’ Jorge grinned as he scooped up another spoonful of soup. ‘‘You seem to like me well enough.’’ ‘‘Don’t talk nonsense, you.’’ She refocused on Kate. ‘‘What does he want? You had no role in his trial. He should leave you alone.’’ Kate took her time selecting a slice of the aromatic bread and adding a dab of margarine to it. ‘‘You might as well know something. I wasn’t going to tell you unless... Well, the fact is, I’ve asked Ethan to marry me.’’ The spoon fell out of Eva’s hand and bounced off the side of her bowl and onto the table. She pressed her clasped hands to her lips. ‘‘Jorge, pinch me. I don’t like this dream.’’ ‘‘I’d be glad to, my heart, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t change the outcome much.’’ The woman pressed a hand to her ample bosom and sputtered a barrage of spicy Spanish at both her husband and Kate. Not inclined to interrupt, Kate waited until Eva ran out of steam. ‘‘They’ll take the baby away from him if someone doesn’t do something,’’ she explained at last. When Eva

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refused any sign of sympathy, Kate pursed her lips and told the woman more of his dilemma with the Taylors, and her own reactions to them. ‘‘All right, so the people aren’t wonderful,’’ her housekeeper replied. ‘‘That still doesn’t justify marrying the man.’’ In other words, she wasn’t listening. Kate decided to try another approach. ‘‘You should see the baby. She’s a delight—tiny, pink, sweet. How long has it been since we had a child in the house? I mean, besides the group social services brings out in the summer to see the horses.’’ It was the wrong question to ask. For years Eva had wanted her to marry and fill the house with children, having no clue that that could never be. ‘‘I’m too old to care for babies.’’ When she turned eighty, Eva would have the energy and gusto of someone half her age. Kate knew this posturing merely protected her from her own longing. But as she considered an appropriate reply, they heard a pounding at the back door. Jorge, Kate and Eva glanced at each other. Jorge made the first move to rise, but Kate motioned for him to sit down. Her heart pounding, she went to answer the door. She knew who it had to be; she could almost feel him. What she didn’t understand was why? Did he feel guilty for the way he’d growled and snapped this morning? And you could be pregnant by Easter. Kate opened the door. The picture he made standing on the back steps, his hat low over his intense blue eyes, the snow streaking beneath the rim and sticking to his lashes, made her at once uncertain and tempted to reach out to him. For one of the few times in her life, she decided to be conservative. ‘‘This is a surprise. Come in.’’

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Silent and grim-faced, he did as she beckoned. After shutting the door behind him, Kate turned, intercepting Eva’s resentful stare and Jorge’s concerned one. The one she sent back said that no matter what reason had brought Ethan here, she wanted to save their neighbor any embarrassment they could. ‘‘Eva, Jorge...you remember Ethan.’’ Without giving anyone time to respond, she asked him, ‘‘Are you hungry? Eva’s made some wonderful—’’ ‘‘I need to talk to you.’’ She gestured toward the kitchen door and led the way down the hall, past the formal dining room that hadn’t been used since the reception after her father died. She found the study lights dimmed. For an instant, she considered turning up the brightness, but some impish thought had her leaving the room in its romantic glow. How much more effective it would have been if she’d let down her hair, changed into jeans and a soft sweater, somehow altered her appearance to make him see her in a different way from the usual, she thought with fleeting wistfulness. She knew her formal outfit made him feel uncomfortable, even though she was in her stocking feet. The house, though subtle in its elegance, had to be making things worse. ‘‘Can I get you something to drink?’’ she asked, gesturing to the quaint old bar her father had built into the full wall of bookshelves. ‘‘I think we have almost—’’ ‘‘I still think your idea’s nuts.’’ He could tell he’d shocked her, but he had to steel himself against regret, since after only a moment in her presence he could feel her effect on him, the regrets, his temptation. He wouldn’t let her make a fool of him, no matter what he might end up owing her.

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‘‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you make that fairly clear this morning?’’ She recovered fast. He admired her for that as he watched her lean back against the huge, ornate desk. ‘‘I wanted to make sure you understood I meant it.’’ ‘‘Message received.’’ Recovering even faster, she added a spunky salute, touching an imaginary hat. ‘‘Where’s Darcy?’’ ‘‘At home. John Mountain’s with her.’’ ‘‘Good. And why aren’t you there with them?’’ ‘‘Because a few hours ago Warren Blankenship telephoned to ask who would be representing me in court.’’ Kate’s expression went from confused to indignant. ‘‘That sneaky, low-down... Of course he would do that. You can’t know this, but his brother was in my office earlier for something totally unrelated to this. Baxter never hinted that Warren was up to anything. And since they knew I’d visited with the Taylors, he could have mentioned his brother’s intent to call you. He should have asked about your attorney himself.’’ ‘‘Meaning?’’ ‘‘Don’t you see? There was no reason for Warren to bother you. Except to intimidate. And I see he’s succeeded.’’ He’d managed that, all right. For the first time, Ethan was feeling the possibility that Taylor did have the upper hand, or at least something more up his sleeve. ‘‘Is that why you’re here?’’ Kate asked gently, breaking into his thoughts. ‘‘Do you need me to recommend someone to represent you?’’ ‘‘No. Well, maybe. Hell, I don’t know.’’ She crossed her arms and her trim ankles. Allowing himself only one sweeping glance, Ethan forced himself to fo-

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cus on the painting of Shadow Ranch in the spring hanging between floor-to-ceiling windows. ‘‘I can’t help you until you decide, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Don’t you think I know that?’’ Damn it all, the angrier he became, the calmer she seemed. ‘‘This is difficult for you—coming here, I mean.’’ She tilted her head in invitation. ‘‘Why don’t you start by telling me what’s bothering you the most about all this?’’ Now there was a loaded question. What would she say if he told her to look in a mirror? He had to suck in a deep breath to clear his head. ‘‘You. Me. What you suggested this morning. Do you really think we could fool anyone?’’ he snapped, annoyed with her serene smile. ‘‘Why not? We’re neighbors living well away from town. No one knows what our relationship has or hasn’t been over the years, except the people who work for us—and, fortunately, all three are the type who aren’t given to indiscriminate gossip.’’ ‘‘And when we get to court? You don’t think that one look at us there and it would be obvious we were faking it?’’ ‘‘It’s always a possibility. We’ll just have to be convincing, won’t we?’’ ‘‘Am I hearing correctly? Judge Kate Randall is willing to participate in a lie?’’ Her gray eyes grew flinty with determination. ‘‘Go visit the Taylors’ home, Ethan. I know this place makes you itch for escape,’’ she said, nodding around the room, ‘‘but this is roast beef to their prime rib. Go listen to them discuss their plans for Darcy as if she were a prize calf to brand and show off. No, Ethan, I have no problem being a bit unorthodox if it means stopping what’s clearly a miscarriage of justice.’’

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‘‘I’m not convinced.’’ She hesitated, her laugh sounding a bit embarrassed—or was that confusion? ‘‘Convinced about what?’’ ‘‘Your ability to pull it off.’’ ‘‘Oh, look who’s talking.’’ He shook his head slowly. ‘‘You’re out there more than I am, lady. You would have to face the skeptics every day. In court. Out on the streets. You’d be under a microscope virtually every waking hour.’’ ‘‘Are you doubting my ability to convince people that I’m a loving wife?’’ She straightened and unbuttoned her suit jacket, not taking her eyes off his face. Then she slipped it off and tossed it over the armchair facing the desk. Beneath the jacket she wore a silk tank top. The stark black made her long, slender throat look deceptively vulnerable. Ethan couldn’t decide what he wanted more, to wrap his hands around her neck, or to press his mouth against the tempting column and absorb her heat and taste. ‘‘Yeah, I guess I am,’’ he admitted, torn between focusing on his responsibility and an old hunger. ‘‘Try me.’’ He stiffened. ‘‘Don’t make a game out of this, Kate. This is my niece’s future you’re toying with.’’ Gray eyes turned as dark as thunderclouds, and fever pink stained her cheeks. Kate pushed away from the desk and came toward him in what could only be described as a prowl. Ethan knew he’d been unfair and hard, but he wanted to find her boundaries. The closest lines she drew for herself. In all the years he’d known her, she’d never let anyone get that close, not since Wayne. But if he was going to put his future in her hands, he intended to be the one. ‘‘How dare you suggest I would be careless with a child!’’

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‘‘Not careless,’’ he replied softly. ‘‘Convincing.’’ ‘‘I can be convincing.’’ She’d stopped her advance when they were nearly nose to nose, and he watched the melting snow on his hat drip onto the dark gold of her hair. Slowly she reached up to take hold of his jacket lapels. ‘‘The bigger question is, can you handle it?’’ ‘‘Anything you can dish out.’’ The instant she pressed her lips against his, he felt a flash fire race through him, searing the air in his lungs and stopping his heart in midbeat. As she brought her body flush against his, his blood congealed, crystallized in his ears. In self-defense, he grabbed her wrists, ready to shake her loose, push her away, only to realize he was in deep trouble. Her scent, that damned scent that shouldn’t be legal, coiled its way into his lungs, into every pore, and smothered his fury. In its place, a dormant need roused. Stunned, he felt his fingers loosen their viselike grip as if they belonged to someone else, slide up her sleek arms and around her back. The silk was like her flesh, warm, smooth, stunningly feminine; it whispered under his journeying fingers, hiding little...not the graceful line of her spine, not the narrow band of her lacy bra. Even as her lips stung his, he knew he wanted to rend the material in two, snap the lace and race his mouth over her until she screamed for him, for more, for everything. She fed his anger, and he fed hers. Their kiss deepened and became a duel, their hands an assault. Blinded by the red tide of his desire, it was all Ethan could do not to push her back against the desk and take her, let her take him. He didn’t know what ended the fury. Barely able to breathe, let alone think, he was only aware that it vanished as suddenly as it had erupted, leaving them standing nose to nose, so close they were each other’s universe. And yet neither of them seemed willing to back down or step away.

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Ethan searched for words, any words, to explain the moment, and the complex feelings humming inside him. ‘‘So who gets everything right the first time?’’ she said breathlessly, beating him to it. He wanted to laugh, but found it impossible. ‘‘Nobody, I guess.’’ But as quickly as her spunkiness surfaced, she grew somber. Sad. ‘‘Do you hate me that much, Ethan?’’ Hate? He stared as if she’d asked him a question in some language he’d never heard before. ‘‘Resent me, then?’’ That seemed closer to the truth, but still not right. Ah, she would never understand. ‘‘Kate...do you have to ask such confounded questions?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘Well, you talk too much.’’ He initiated their second kiss, and it took her by surprise. He felt it in the catching of her breath, and the way her fingers momentarily tensed on his jacket. Ethan liked the uniqueness, the uncertainty, of it, as much as he liked that she responded as eagerly as before. She’d always been a physical person, a hugger and a toucher. He wasn’t. It should have been impossible for him to let her touch him, explore him, trace the line of his jaw, his throat, to skim her fingers through the snow-damp hair at his nape. But instead of stiffening, he found himself leaning into her touch, wanting more. ‘‘Wouldn’t you...be more comfortable without the jacket?’’ The breathless question came as he ended the searching kiss to explore the petal-soft skin below her ear. ‘‘No doubt.’’ ‘‘Would you like help?’’

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Reluctantly he lifted his head and forced himself back to reality. ‘‘Yeah. You can walk me to the door.’’ Her expression went from bemused to disappointed. ‘‘Am I talking too much again?’’ ‘‘It’s not that.’’ Ethan stepped away from her and tried to concentrate on why he’d come. Blast it, he couldn’t even think! This was impossible. ‘‘I’ve complicated things, Kate. I should never have touched you.’’ ‘‘Do you hear me complaining?’’ ‘‘Well, you should. The situation’s a big enough mess without adding sexual attraction to it.’’ He had to say that, no matter how frustrated and needy he was feeling at the moment. Or how insensitive it sounded. ‘‘I told you before, we could have a strictly business arrangement, and we still can.’’ The moment he started shaking his head, she closed the distance between them again, and this time rested a hand near his heart. ‘‘Ethan, listen to me. We need to do this because there’s another situation coming up that you don’t know about. It’s a matter that only a marriage between us could help make work in our favor.’’ Suspicious, he muttered, ‘‘What now?’’ ‘‘Howard Lessing. Remember when I told you Matthews hates to listen to domestic cases? Well, he loathes custody cases even more. If we were married, Judge Lessing would inherit your custody hearing, and as I said before, that’s not great news, except he just happens to be taking medical leave, beginning ten days from now. He’ll be out for no less than three months, recuperating from back surgery. In the meantime, Matthews and I will be trying to juggle the work load as best as we can.’’ ‘‘Then what’s to stop the Taylors’ lawyer from twisting Matthews’s arm?’’ ‘‘I’m telling you, the man’s more likely to volunteer for oral surgery. You’re even more likely to run for mayor than

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he is to hear Darcy’s case. He’ll avoid it, especially if I’m involved. And if you have a good lawyer who can figure out a way to stall Blankenship, that can eat up some time, too. I have someone in mind. I’ll give her a call.’’ Ethan closed his eyes, because as usual she had an answer for everything, leaving him befuddled and unable to think of anything. All he knew was that if he didn’t get away soon, he was going to sling her over his shoulder like a caveman and haul her upstairs. ‘‘Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you have a professional death wish or something?’’ She laughed throatily. ‘‘Don’t worry. It will all be inside the parameters of the law. I’m simply going to see that the system works for you for a change.’’ When he opened his eyes, looked at her and shook his head, she chuckled again. ‘‘Why, Ethan, I almost believe I make you nervous.’’ ‘‘I think I’d be a fool not to be.’’ ‘‘The bottom line is, either we try it my way, or you face the probability of losing Darcy. What’s it going to be, cowboy?’’ Hell, he thought, did he have a choice? He tugged his hat lower over his eyes and glared at her. ‘‘I guess you’re getting yourself a husband.’’

Five ‘‘Are you sure we have to do this?’’ ‘‘No blood test, no marriage license.’’ ‘‘I mean together.’’ ‘‘That’s what I adore about you, Ethan, you’re such a romantic.’’ Although she linked her arm through his as they walked up the sidewalk toward her doctor’s office on Monday, Kate felt more like giving him a poke in the ribs. It was only the sweat breaking out on his forehead that urged her to forgive his latest lapse in tactfulness. ‘‘This is part of the ritual, darling. The ceremonial bloodletting before strangers. It’ll help get tongues wagging.’’ ‘‘They do enough of that as it is.’’ ‘‘You know what I mean. By Thursday we should have our certificates, Friday at the latest. Then we can head straight over to the courthouse for our marriage license. I have a call in for Justice of the Peace Monroe Thrillkill to perform the wedding in my office.’’ Ethan froze, only yards from the front door. ‘‘At the courthouse? Why can’t we have it out at my place?’’ ‘‘Even if we stuck bouquets of daisies in your work boots, pulled the curtains to hide one inch of the dust in the place and stood with our backs to your short-order-cook version of a kitchen, I think the atmosphere alone would be too much for this bride to handle.’’ ‘‘You’re the one who agreed to live there.’’

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‘‘Fortunately for you, you’re gaining more than a bride, you’re getting the use of a vacuum cleaner, too.’’ ‘‘Hey, the place isn’t that bad.’’ ‘‘Where’s your sense of humor, Ethan?’’ He grumbled something under his breath, then asked, ‘‘Why not your place then?’’ ‘‘Actually, I thought about that.’’ She’d once fantasized about walking down the L-shaped stairway of her house, and gliding through the double doors of the spacious, guestfilled living room—but to Wayne. She wouldn’t do that to Ethan, even if this wasn’t going to be a real wedding. ‘‘And?’’ Kate covered her momentary wistfulness with an airy wave of her hand. ‘‘For obvious reasons, having the ceremony at the house is impractical.’’ ‘‘They’re not obvious to me.’’ ‘‘You look so cute when you pout.’’ He growled in warning, and Kate laughed softly, feeling another one of those poignant tugs inside that were becoming more and more frequent when they were together. ‘‘The point is that we want the news about us to spread fast, remember? What’s more, we want people to see how happy and compatible we are, that this isn’t a con job.’’ ‘‘What’s next, an immaculate conception?’’ This time she let the laughter bubble forth, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to momentarily lean her head against his shoulder. But, seeing he wasn’t enjoying the moment anywhere close to as much as she was, she murmured, ‘‘Look, we’re here. This is part of the procedure. What’s wrong with trying to make the experience as pleasant as possible?’’ But as they entered her doctor’s waiting room and saw the crowd, she knew Ethan’s mood wouldn’t be improving anytime soon. She recognized several of Dr. Preston’s pa-

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tients that he would know, too; but even those he might not have met before recognized her. The result was a wave of shocked and speculative glances and murmurs that left even her feeling like an exhibit at a carnival sideshow. ‘‘Is this romantic enough for you?’’ Ethan muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Shooting him a dazzling smile, as if he’d said an utterly delightful thing, she tightened her hold on his arm and urged him toward the receptionist’s window. ‘‘Hi, Maddie. Do you have us on your list? I called Dr. Preston earlier.’’ ‘‘Sure do, Judge Randall. Blood tests for a...wedding license?’’ The freckle-faced receptionist blushed furiously as she glanced at Ethan, her expression suggesting she might have gotten the message wrong. ‘‘Uh...congratulations. If you’ll take a seat and, um, have Mr. Walker fill out these forms, we’ll be able to take you in as soon as you’re through. Dr. Preston’s note here says that you would need to get back to court fast.’’ ‘‘I appreciate the consideration, Maddie.’’ Kate led Ethan to the only available spot in the room, a wooden love seat by the door. They sat touching from shoulder to thigh. Maybe it was their audience, but despite their coats and things, Kate had never been more aware of his masculinity than now. ‘‘Didn’t she sound sincere,’’ he drawled under his breath. ‘‘If you wouldn’t glare at people so, they might not get so awkward and scared when they talk to you,’’ she replied in kind. ‘‘I glare at you, and you don’t get awkward and scared.’’ ‘‘That’s because way down deep I know you adore me,’’ she replied sweetly, offering him the clipboard and pen. ‘‘Do you want to fill out this, or would you like me to do the honors?’’ ‘‘My penmanship stinks. Go ahead.’’

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She settled the thing on her lap and began filling in his name and address. When she’d finished several more lines, he grunted. ‘‘Now what?’’ ‘‘How did you know my mother’s maiden name, and all?’’ ‘‘Wayne used to speak about you and your parents...and I’m a good listener.’’ The mention of Wayne had a strange effect on him. Kate noticed it, because she’d come to the section of the form where she needed his input, and getting the answers proved as difficult as getting facts out of a hostile witness. Finally she handed him the clipboard and pen and told him to finish himself. ‘‘I didn’t know you had your tonsils taken out,’’ she whispered to him as he neared the bottom of the check list. ‘‘It happened before I knew Wayne.’’ The implication was unmistakable, and Kate had to wonder if Ethan’s sarcasm was directed toward Wayne for discussing him, or her for having been so close to his best friend. In any case, he’d also stopped writing. ‘‘The sooner we get through here,’’ she reminded him, ‘‘the sooner you can get back to Darcy.’’ That brought a new frown from him. ‘‘I shouldn’t have left her at your place.’’ ‘‘Why on earth not? Eva’s taking wonderful care of her...and regardless of how you said she behaved toward you, I know she’s having a ball with the baby.’’ ‘‘Gee, that makes me feel better.’’ Kate touched his thigh to caution him, aware of the way the nearest onlookers were leaning toward them, trying to pick up bits of their conversation. ‘‘She’s just protective of me, Ethan.’’

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He closed his hand around hers. It was a romantic gesture, unless one noticed his knuckles turning white. ‘‘Yeah, well, do me a favor and fill her in one tiny detail? Remind her that this was your idea.’’ Wondering if he realized how strong he was, she looked deep in his eyes, willing him to see promised retribution beneath the adoration. ‘‘She’ll only think you’ve put a spell on me.’’ That reached him. She could see it in the way his gaze sharpened, and for an instant it felt as if they were the only two people in the room. Kate thought it such a delicious moment that when someone cleared their throat, breaking the magic, she gave a start, nearly causing her purse to slip from her lap. ‘‘Judge Randall? Mr. Walker?’’ the nurse at the doorway called brightly. ‘‘Please come this way. If you’re not through, you can finish the forms in here while we get started.’’ Kate heard Ethan draw a deep breath as they both rose. Whispers followed them. ‘‘Did you see the way he was looking at her?’’ ‘‘Married! Can you believe it? Don’t you just know her daddy is spinning in his grave.’’ ‘‘Wait until I tell Roy. Imagine, Ethan Walker...and her acting like Miss Hoity-Toity.’’ ‘‘Are we having a good time yet?’’ Ethan murmured, as they left the waiting room and followed the nurse down the hall. Kate ignored him. She didn’t want him to see her hurt and disappointment in the people she called her own, or her sudden doubt about whether she could make this work. Ethan might not have any faith in the citizenry of Whitehorn, but he had to have at least a little in her to be going through with this.

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She had to be strong for both of them. She couldn’t let him down. He’d thought the blood test was bad, but late Tuesday afternoon, as he carried Darcy into the courthouse, Ethan realized that the real circus was only now about to begin. He suspected the place hadn’t been this busy since his trial. Unless some other poor fool was being set up on trumpedup charges, word had spread like wildfire over the weekend, and this ant trail of loiterers was here to have a peek at the murderer hitching up with the Hanging Judge. ‘‘Feel like I’m a roach caught in a fruit jar,’’ John Mountain muttered, once they made it into the building and headed for the stairs to the second floor. ‘‘Same here. Sorry.’’ It didn’t begin to cover what he owed the guy for agreeing to come and be his witness. No matter how difficult this afternoon might be for the bride and groom, Ethan knew that being exposed to so many people would be a trial and a half for John Mountain. As they reached the second floor, a man rushed out of nowhere and snapped their picture. Ethan caught a glimpse of a press badge before the flash. Fortunately, both he and John Mountain had their hats on and ducked enough to avoid the direct glare, and Darcy hadn’t yet succeeded in pushing her blanket down far enough to expose her sensitive eyes. ‘‘Gus Muldoon of the Whitehorn Journal, Mr. Walker. Would you care to make a statement?’’ ‘‘Yeah. Do that again in the baby’s face and you’ll slide facefirst down those stairs.’’ ‘‘It’s my job to report the news,’’ the bespectacled man replied with considerable dignity, although his Adam’s apple bobbed like a barometer gone haywire. Ethan exchanged glances with John Mountain, and the

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shorter man walked up to the lanky reporter and crooked his finger. Suspicious but curious, the man leaned closer. ‘‘This isn’t news. This is personal. Last chance. Walk or slide?’’ The reporter retreated, trying to look as outraged as possible as he hugged the wall and scurried down the stairs. Once he was out of sight, Ethan cocked an eyebrow at his cowhand. ‘‘They didn’t teach you that in the tunnels.’’ ‘‘Nope. But if you survived, it did teach you that you didn’t have to put up with jerks like that.’’ ‘‘Amen.’’ Ethan tipped his head toward the door bearing Kate’s name and led the way to her office. In the tiny reception area, they found Jorge and Eva Cantu already waiting. They were dressed in their Sunday best and perched stiffly on the couch. Ethan couldn’t decide which of them looked more dazed and uncomfortable. For the first time in ages, he felt a twinge of compassion. Without exchanging more than a nod of greeting with them, he eased Darcy into Eva’s arms. When he saw her expression warm a few degrees, he murmured, ‘‘I’ll go check and see if Kate’s about ready.’’ He reclaimed what John Mountain had been carrying for him and left the group to slip through the door marked Private. ‘‘I can’t decide, Pat. Don’t you think it’s too— Ethan!’’ Kate froze in the midst of pinning an orchid corsage to her ivory suit. ‘‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?’’ Although he heard the redhead, who’d been introduced to him the other day as Pat, chide him while she stepped between him and her boss, Ethan couldn’t answer immediately. He was too busy taking in the image of his bride.

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Why had he hesitated in calling her beautiful before? He should have remembered that there were different versions of Kate. The one standing before him couldn’t be denied the tribute of being termed stunning. Her slender, feminine suit was perfect for her slim, leggy figure, and the soft color and intricate beading added a luster to her skin and hair that he’d never seen before. But it was the hat that transformed her the most. He’d never been wild about hats on women, save the Western variety, but as he eyed the small tilted cap, with its ivory veil sweeping low over her eyes, he knew he’d been too quick to reject them. ‘‘You look...’’ he began, only to find he couldn’t finish. She smiled. ‘‘You too.’’ That was being polite, that was all, he thought, because beneath his down jacket he wore his only suit, which he’d worn for his trial and Marilee’s funeral; also for his mother’s; in fact, for every important event in his life. He figured someday he would wear it as his final outfit, too. Cut in a Western style, and beginning to look its age, it was the best he could manage on such short notice. But noting how hard she’d worked to make this event seem real and pleasant for him, he was glad he’d at least splurged on the new tie. But, eyeing her corsage, he slowly brought forward the bouquet he’d ordered yesterday on a crazy impulse after they collected their blood test certificates and went for the marriage license. ‘‘I guess this wasn’t such a great idea.’’ Given the short notice, he hadn’t had much of a selection to choose from, but he’d believed the spray of roses and the tinier flowers he didn’t know the name of suited her. ‘‘Ethan, it’s...exquisite.’’ Kate moved in slow motion to accept it. ‘‘I’m speechless.’’ ‘‘It’s nothing.’’ ‘‘It’s everything,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Thank you.’’ With a breathless laugh, she spun around and presented her corsage

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to her secretary. ‘‘Didn’t I tell you not ten minutes ago that this went better on your dress?’’ ‘‘Well, you’re not going to hear me disagree this time,’’ Pat said teasingly, holding it up to her purple-and-white outfit. Excusing herself, she retreated into the small bathroom to pin it on. Kate stepped closer to Ethan. ‘‘The baby?’’ ‘‘She’s outside with Eva.’’ ‘‘John Mountain, too?’’ He only nodded, because Pat returned, the corsage pinned at her shoulder. Beaming at them, she headed for the door. ‘‘Why don’t I go finish introducing myself and watch for Mr. Thrillkill? It is almost five o’clock.’’ Ethan thought he would be glad for the privacy, but once the door shut behind the woman, he felt his mind close down, too, and his tongue tangle into a knot. He didn’t understand it; worse, the harder he tried to think of something to say, the dumber the idea seemed to be. ‘‘Wouldn’t you like to take off your coat and hat?’’ Kate asked, proving that she wasn’t having a problem at all. Ethan shrugged out of the heavy jacket and slipped off his hat. He set both on the arm of the dark leather couch against the wall, ran a hand over his hair and returned to stand before her. Could she tell that beneath all his gear he was sweating like a stuck hog? The way his nerves were going, in another minute his shirt would be soaked worse than some of Darcy’s diapers. ‘‘I have the license ready.’’ Kate motioned toward the desk. ‘‘Good. It’s good that you kept it here.’’ ‘‘Well, as I said yesterday, there didn’t seem any point to carry it all over.’’ ‘‘No point. None.’’ He fingered the knot of his tie, aware that he was beginning to sound like John Mountain. Kate

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must have picked up on it, too, because she stepped even closer, her expression concerned. ‘‘You look miserable,’’ she whispered, a slight frown marring the smooth skin between her eyebrows. ‘‘Who? Me?’’ ‘‘No, the umbrella stand at the door. Of course you. Are you sure you want to do this? Or maybe I should ask if you can bring yourself to go through with this?’’ ‘‘I could say the same thing to you.’’ ‘‘You’re not the one who proposed.’’ ‘‘And you haven’t seen how many people are hanging in and around this building. It looks as if there’s a bunch of folks who are as eager to see the judge marry the jailbird as there are gawkers to watch the murder suspect marry Wayne Kinkaid’s sweetheart.’’ Kate winced. ‘‘Was that necessary?’’ ‘‘Better get used to it. I have a feeling we’re going to be front-page news in at least one paper tomorrow, no matter what we try to do to avoid it.’’ ‘‘Then let’s not avoid it.’’ A determined set to her head, Kate went to one of the windows behind her desk. A moment later, her lips parted. ‘‘My word...they’re doing everything but selling cotton candy and setting up box seats out there, aren’t they? I see every gossip in town, including Lily Mae Wheeler. Even Mary Jo Kincaid, for heaven’s sake. You know we’ve caused a buzz when Whitehorn’s answer to Betty Crocker and Bo Peep starts mingling with the curiosity seekers.’’ Ethan didn’t care. He was trying to keep a foothold on his sanity. ‘‘You want to tell me again how all that out there is supposed to work in our favor?’’ ‘‘I told you, it’s not just a matter of making people believe it’s real between us, though that can help sway what

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the Taylors and their attorney do. It’s about buying ourselves time.’’ ‘‘Have you heard anything from Noble’s henchman?’’ She circled back to him. ‘‘As a matter of fact, I did. Just as my last case ended this afternoon. Blankenship came into the courtroom and cornered me, snorting like one of your rejected bulls.’’ That immediately put Ethan on guard. ‘‘Bad news?’’ ‘‘It could be worse. He’d not only heard about what we were doing, but he also heard about Lessing’s leave of absence. Not surprisingly, he’s put two and two together.’’ ‘‘You don’t seem overly worried.’’ ‘‘Because I’m not. He hasn’t succeeded in doing anything yet except blowing a great deal of steam. Another case took him out of town for the last few days, and so he hasn’t had an opportunity to file on behalf of the Taylors. Now, with our wedding and Lessing’s leave, he knows how much more complicated things will get. He’ll probably meet with Noble and Ruth within the next few days and try to think up some new strategy. But by then we’ll be married and everything will have changed.’’ Ethan watched her faint but pleased smile as she admired her bouquet. ‘‘Yes...changed.’’ He must have given away something in his voice, because suddenly she glanced up, met his gaze, and it happened again. The emotions from that night last week were back, the tension and the desire. Ethan felt the pull and yielded to it, as she seemed to. Closer and closer, until he felt a prisoner of the web from which she peeked out at him. He didn’t know whether to swear or sigh with relief when someone knocked at the door. A moment later Pat Fischer poked her head in. ‘‘Excuse me, you two, but Justice of the Peace Thrillkill is here.’’

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Kate looked at Ethan. ‘‘Are we ready?’’ For a number of things, but this—? ‘‘If you are.’’ Their witnesses and Monroe Thrillkill filed in. They resembled a group of mourners more than they did celebrants. At least Jorge and Eva Cantu did. They went immediately to stand near Kate, while John Mountain hung back, nearer to the door. If Kate noticed, she didn’t let on, instead taking a moment to fuss over the baby and show her to her secretary, then to the J.P. Ethan watched, thinking that with his gaunt, bearded face and funereal black suit and ribbon tie, the guy could have played an undertaker in one of the old Western movies. Just as quickly as the abrupt, forced chatter and laughter had started, it stopped. Everyone glanced at everyone else, as if to ask, ‘‘What next?’’ Thrillkill gripped the lapels of his black jacket. ‘‘Well, should we have a wedding, folks?’’ With a last kiss for Darcy, Kate handed the baby back to Eva, took her place beside Ethan and, as directed by the old man, offered him her hand. Trying to be discreet about it, Ethan wiped his damp palm against his slacks before taking hold of it. ‘‘Dearly beloved...’’ How warm and steady she felt in contrast to him, Ethan thought, staring at the book trembling in the justice’s hands. At least the old geezer had age to blame for his shakes. He looked down at his and Kate’s hands. How real the image seemed, but at the same time dreamlike. No, he still couldn’t believe this. Him and Kate. Oh, God. He felt like an impostor, a thief...a traitor to his best friend. He couldn’t do it. ‘‘Ethan, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? To...’’ The words pounded in his head, and each one turned his

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mouth drier and drier, until he knew that when the time came, he wouldn’t be able to say a word. He would be lucky to draw a breath. Even his tie was beginning to strangle him. In a panic, he looked at Kate. That was a mistake. Her profile was a soft cameo against the amber late-afternoon sky, at once stately and ethereal, known and unknown. Soon to be tied legally and morally to him. No one took the law more serious than Kate. How could she join him in this...fiasco? What was she thinking, feeling? ‘‘This is where you say, ‘I do,’ son.’’ Ethan felt the reassuring squeeze of Kate’s fingers against his. ‘‘I do,’’ he managed to rasp. ‘‘Kate!’’ the old man declared, his enthusiasm rebuilding. ‘‘Do you take Ethan...’’ When her time came, she looked straight at him. Ethan absorbed her gaze, letting it warm his quaking insides like mulled cider on a brisk November night. ‘‘I do,’’ she murmured in that velvet voice, letting each word rub the air. ‘‘Then it’s time for the ring, folks.’’ Caught up in the moment and reassured, Ethan dug confidently into his pocket. This he knew how to do. Only his fingers touched nothing but cloth. It wasn’t there. He tried the opposite pocket, then shot an anxious look back at John Mountain. The smaller man motioned to his own inside pocket. Ethan almost sighed with relief when he remembered. With an incoherent apology, he dug into that pocket and brought out the simple, slender band. Kate had chosen it herself, insisting she preferred it; but he knew she hadn’t wanted him to spend too much money on her. That task had been handled yesterday, too, after the stop at the doctor’s office. He recalled how she’d also asked if she should get

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him one, but, already feeling like a cheapskate because of her ring, he’d turned her down, telling her that he would probably lose it while working or something. All that replayed in his mind as he slipped the band on her finger. And on its heels followed regret, for he knew now that he would have liked a memento of this day for later, once he lost her again. ‘‘Repeat after me...’’ Thrillkill directed, thrusting out his chest. ‘‘With this ring, I thee wed,’’ Ethan said dutifully, suddenly feeling Kate’s hand tremble slightly. Again their gazes met, and this time he squeezed her fingers, wanting her to know he understood. God, how he understood this strange, bewildering, magical moment. ‘‘Then I pronounce you husband and wife. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Walker. Er, that means you can kiss the bride, son.’’ He took hold of Kate’s upper arms and angled his head to avoid her hat and veil. From behind the veil—now more like interwoven snowflakes than a web—she watched, her eyes clear, inviting, sexy, willing him to forget that they were acting. He let himself be drawn by her, until their breaths merged, their lips touched, parted, clung. The kiss was so different from the first time, and yet similar in that it was all awareness, sensation, and tethered energy. He wanted more, the rest. So did she. He knew it when she reached up and touched his cheek. It lasted mere seconds, long enough for someone to whistle, and for Pat Fischer to ask if oxygen would be needed. Then Ethan raised his head, and Thrillkill began drawing him aside, slapping him on the back and congratulating him. He glanced over to see Kate’s secretary hugging her while Eva and Jorge exchanged glances. Eva blinked hard and shrugged. It seemed to encapsulate the moment perfectly.

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‘‘Okay?’’ John Mountain asked near his ear. Ethan hadn’t explained much of anything to him, except that he and Kate were marrying. But John Mountain seemed to understand perfectly, which was why Ethan responded with total honesty. ‘‘What do you think?’’ ‘‘You did fine. Like a pro.’’ It was what he needed to hear to keep his sanity and regain his balance. Enough balance that when Pat insisted they needed a few pictures, he let Kate draw him close, found it easy to slip his arm around her waist and even summon a smile. However, a little of that could go a long way. At the first opportunity, he drew Kate aside. ‘‘Now what?’’ The justice of the peace had filled out his part of their marriage license, taken his fee and left. Kate had traded her bouquet for the baby. Ethan thought the two of them made an intriguing picture. When Pat had snapped one, he knew that somehow he would get a copy for himself. ‘‘That’s up to you,’’ Kate replied, her expression blushing bride radiant. ‘‘Eva brought us a basket dinner along with my suitcases. Jorge’s put it all in my truck. We can go anytime you like.’’ He still couldn’t believe it. ‘‘You do remember that part?’’ Kate murmured, her eyes merry with laughter. ‘‘The bride goes with the groom?’’ Maybe it didn’t make sense, but he felt a bit miffed to be the object of her amusement, or maybe it irked that this performing business seemed to come too easily for her. Whatever the case, he felt himself stiffening. ‘‘I just wanted to make sure you’re serious about this.’’ ‘‘It’s a little late if I’m not. Um, do you think you’ll mind driving my truck? I mean, John Mountain can take yours, right? Otherwise, it will look somewhat...strange.’’ You pegged it, pal. Everything’s about appearances now.

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‘‘We can’t have anything looking imperfect, can we? I’ll go tell him that he can leave anytime. He looks as if he’d like to get out of here.’’ Kate touched his arm to stop him from walking away. ‘‘Why are you angry?’’ ‘‘I’m not angry.’’ ‘‘Yes, you are.’’ She kept her voice low, and seemed totally absorbed in stroking the baby’s tiny hand. ‘‘And it’s not fair. You knew what you were getting into, and what it’s going to take to pull this off.’’ She was right. It seemed unfair, not to mention irrational, to treat her as if this were all her fault. But, in a way, she was to blame. After all, if they’d never met, he wouldn’t be caught in this twilight zone where she represented both fantasy and nightmare to him. However, he knew that to tell her as much would be inviting even bigger trouble, and so he yielded to his pain and angst. ‘‘I just buried my sister a couple weeks ago,’’ he replied, his whisper fierce. ‘‘I’m responsible for a newborn baby that strangers are trying to take away from me, and now I have a wife I didn’t ask for, who just happens to represent a branch of the system I’ve lost complete faith in. If I appear a little edgy and unreasonable, maybe that’s because I feel as if I’m trapped in a runaway car that doesn’t even have a damned steering wheel!’’ Kate lowered her head to kiss the tiny hand wrapped around her thumb, but the look she sent him from beneath her lashes was withering. ‘‘Thank you for sharing that, Ethan. Your ability to look at this complicated situation and see yourself as the only one making a sacrifice is truly inspiring. I appreciate being made to feel as if I’ve not only put my career on the line for nothing, but my faith in you, as well.’’ ‘‘Damn it, Kate.’’

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‘‘Excuse me, please. I have to give some last instructions to Pat, since I won’t be in tomorrow.’’ ‘‘If you would just—’’ Ethan shook his head, wondering if he would ever emerge from the fog he felt lost in. ‘‘Why aren’t you going in tomorrow?’’ Her smile redefined adoration. ‘‘When a couple get married, they usually take at least one day off after the wedding. It’s called a honeymoon. To ignore the tradition would raise questions I don’t think either of us want to answer. But don’t worry. I already have my briefcase packed with plenty of work to keep me out of your hair. You’ll barely know I’m around.’’ After that verbal deboning, she managed not to say another word to him until they exited the courthouse and headed for her truck. That space of time gave Ethan yet more exposure to her indomitable spirit—not that he needed the refresher course. Again and again the lesson struck hard, as when someone in the swarm of curious onlookers called out to her, and then another and another. She waved, stopped every few yards to say something gracious or witty, in her off-the-cuff style. With a few, she shared glimpses of the baby, wrapped snugly against the brisk early-evening air. Always her smile came quickly, and her mood was as bright as anyone would expect of a bride on her wedding day. Even when the photographer he’d had the run-in with appeared, with a more antagonistic attitude, Kate managed to take a potentially volatile situation and turn it around, so that Ethan almost questioned whether the exchange upstairs had really happened. The guy got his picture, and they made it to the truck without an inkling of noticeable strain. ‘‘You do that very well,’’ he said to her when they were finally in her truck. After double-checking the special seat she’d bought for

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the baby during her most recent shopping binge, she secured her own belt. ‘‘I don’t feel like talking to you right now, Ethan.’’ ‘‘I suppose I deserve that.’’ Her sidelong look sliced through him. ‘‘Let me know when you’re sure.’’ What a difference an audience made. He took extra care in pulling out from her personal parking space, the impulse strong to strip gears and floor the accelerator. Sometimes the woman’s mouth... But how could he treat his precious cargo with such negligence? Besides, he didn’t want to prove Kate right again about his temper. At least not so soon after making a fool of himself. It took him until he’d gone a few miles up Mountain Pass before he finally calmed down enough to say, ‘‘I’m sorry for hurting and offending you.’’ ‘‘It’s already forgiven, Ethan.’’ But not forgotten. That was an important and telling point, and he made a mental note of it. Kate forgave quickly, rarely holding a grudge—which was wise, since behavior like that would probably be professional suicide on the bench—but the offending party would be making a huge error to suppose she forgot. Ethan had first recognized that about her when they were kids. In high school, she’d rejected the cheerleaders who wanted her for the squad because they’d snubbed a Hispanic girl she’d felt was far more talented. That was another thing she and Wayne had had in common—a fearlessness in standing up for principle, even if it meant standing alone. How the devil do you hope to live up to that discipline, Walker? Therein lay a humbling truth. He couldn’t. Oh, the alone part he could handle well enough; but he was no hero, and Kate needed to understand that he never would be.

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‘‘In case you haven’t picked up on it yet,’’ he began, groping for the words to explain it to her, ‘‘through the years, when I’ve made mistakes, I’ve rarely bothered doing them in a small way.’’ He thought he heard her chuckle briefly under her breath. When seconds passed and nothing followed, he wondered if he’d imagined it. ‘‘I’ve noticed,’’ she drawled, at long last. ‘‘And I’m still noticing. But don’t try the I’ve-been-alone-too-long-tochange speech. If there’s anything more you want to tell me, think of something interesting, like...you sleepwalk in the nude, or something.’’ ‘‘Kate.’’ The woman was working overtime at being provocative. ‘‘I’m trying to tell you that I don’t know about this.’’ ‘‘It’s a little late for doubts, Ethan. The ink’s dry on the paper.’’ ‘‘I mean, I’m not sure we can be the friends you seem to think we are.’’ Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she continued to look straight ahead at the mountains. The sun had already set, and the sky was now violet and lavender, with only a touch of orange left at the very centermost point. A tiny opening that he felt an urgent need to reach. He wondered at the driven feeling. What would getting there faster do? He still had to face the fact that over the next few months, or who knew how long, he was going to be sharing his small home with a woman who bothered him on too many levels to count. ‘‘You and your speaking silences.’’ Kate sighed and leaned back against the headrest. ‘‘You know what? Tomorrow we can butt heads, arm wrestle, or whatever you think is fitting for two cohabitants in our unorthodox position, but tonight... Could we at least try for something more

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peaceful and harmonious? If not out of respect for the ritual we just abused, then for the baby’s sake. She’s had a full day, and she needs her rest.’’ She was right. Again. What was more, he really wanted harmony between them. If it was possible. ‘‘I’d like to try,’’ he admitted quietly. In his rearview mirror, he saw Jorge Cantu turn off at Shadow Ranch. By the time Ethan drove onto Double N land, John Mountain, who’d been in the rear, had caught up with them and was following down the hard-packed dirt drive. When they reached the house, his ranch hand waved, but continued driving to the bunkhouse. That gave Ethan considerable pause. He and John Mountain shared many a meal together, and it saddened him to think he’d lost that quiet camaraderie. ‘‘Invite him to join us, if you want.’’ Ethan hadn’t realized she’d followed his gaze. ‘‘He wouldn’t come. He’s reached his limit for socializing today.’’ The bunkhouse had its own stove and a good stock of canned goods. ‘‘He’ll be fine.’’ He carried the baby inside, and Kate brought the picnic basket. After placing Darcy in her crib, they finished carrying in Kate’s things. When they came over the threshold the last time, Ethan had a flash image of what it would be like to carry her inside. ‘‘Man, you’re asking for it,’’ he muttered to himself, thoroughly disgusted. ‘‘Did you say something?’’ Kate set her briefcase by the couch and began removing her coat and hat. Ethan hoisted the two heavy cases and headed for the bedroom. ‘‘I said Jorge was asking for it when he carried these to your truck. You really loaded them.’’ ‘‘It couldn’t be helped. There are some books I need con-

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stantly, plus my laptop computer. It was difficult to figure out what I would need and what I could return home to use.’’ Home. Her real home, no matter what. When he returned, he hung up his coat and hat, noting that Kate was already working on unwrapping the baby from her cocoon of blankets. ‘‘She probably needs changing,’’ he told her. ‘‘Why don’t you let me do that? You’re all dressed up.’’ ‘‘What’s that you have on?’’ she countered, glancing over her shoulder. ‘‘Your pajamas? Ethan, you’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep trying to treat me like a combination guest and intruder.’’ ‘‘Yeah, well, maybe it’ll sink in that you aren’t one— guest, that is—when you don’t look ready to pose for some wedding magazine.’’ ‘‘Another clash of wills,’’ she intoned to Darcy. ‘‘Okay, how about this? I’m already changing her, so why don’t you go get comfortable? When you’re done, you can add some wood to the stove and unpack the basket, while I get into different clothes.’’ Ethan didn’t need another suggestion to start tugging loose his tie, but he couldn’t resist pointing something out to her. ‘‘Do you realize you haven’t been in the place five minutes and you’re already dictating?’’ ‘‘It must be delirium from hunger.’’ Just inside the bedroom doorway, he paused. ‘‘I know I’m going to be sorry I asked, but when was the last time anyone had the last word with you?’’ Her laughter followed him into the dark room. ‘‘Pray for a long life, cowboy. There’s always the chance you might be the first.’’

Six All grumbling aside, Ethan couldn’t wait to change out of his suit. By the time he pulled on old jeans and a comfortable flannel shirt, Kate had Darcy changed. She would be good with the baby. Not fast, but then she didn’t have his experience yet. Still, she had the right instincts, and he had to admit he liked the cooing noises and bits of songs and other nonsense she sang to entertain the child. As he stirred the remaining coals in the stove and added three new logs, he thought about telling her. ‘‘You need some light,’’ Kate announced, breaking into those thoughts. Perplexed, he paused in sweeping up the ash and bits of log left at the base of the stove. ‘‘I have light. When I need more, I just get out another oil lamp.’’ ‘‘No, I mean the kind of lamp you plug into the wall. And you could use a stereo, too.’’ ‘‘I have a TV.’’ He brushed his hands on his jeans and went to take one of the baby bottles out of the refrigerator. ‘‘TV can wait for later. Pat told me about a friend who’s a pediatrics nurse over in Helena. She says that babies in her unit seem to cope better if you play them certain types of music.’’ ‘‘Like what?’’ ‘‘Harps.’’ ‘‘Harps?’’ Kate smiled. ‘‘Angel music.’’

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Ethan grimaced and put the bottle in a saucepan of water, then set the whole thing on the wood-burning stove. ‘‘I don’t think I’m ready to listen to this.’’ ‘‘You may be burned and bitter, Ethan, but that’s no excuse to deprive a baby of her own kind.’’ ‘‘Her own kind... Could we try to remember that you’re a judge? I don’t think you want too many people hearing you talk like that.’’ ‘‘Ethan, I believe in angels. And this motherless baby no doubt has a double order of them watching over her. She’ll need them around you.’’ ‘‘Now what’s that supposed to mean?’’ ‘‘It’s too quiet in here. If someone doesn’t do something, Darcy might as well grow up in a mausoleum. I noticed it that first day I came in to see her.’’ Ethan put away the fireplace tools. ‘‘Well, I live here, too, and I happen to like quiet. As for Miss Muffet over there, she’s too young to state a preference one way or another.’’ ‘‘That’s my point. She never will, if she doesn’t start hearing something besides her Uncle Ethan snoring.’’ Kate released the first button of her wedding suit’s jacket before heading for the bedroom. ‘‘Hey—who said I snore?’’ ‘‘Well, I’ll find out, won’t I?’’ As she disappeared into the bedroom, Ethan didn’t know what got to him more, her teasing or the brief glimpse of the creamy satin camisole as she’d slipped out of her jacket. But, grateful for the reprieve, he concentrated next on unloading the picnic basket. Out came fluffy dinner rolls, fried chicken and potato salad, and it soon became obvious that if Eva Cantu didn’t like him, she didn’t believe in showing it by being stingy

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with food. He also lifted out two other kinds of cold salads before he spotted the bowl of rice pudding. Kate’s all-time favorite dessert, and it had become his, too. He remembered because the year his father died, she’d delivered a big bowl of it on Christmas Eve. It was a memorable addition to the tough elk stew and bargain-bakery bread that they’d been about to call dinner. Ethan had felt as awkward about thanking her then as now. Lost in thought, he almost forgot Darcy’s bottle. He pulled it out, shook and tested it, glad to discover he’d caught it in time. He’d barely lifted the baby into his arms when Kate returned from the bedroom. ‘‘Can I take over?’’ At her first mention of changing, Ethan had been relieved, thinking that if she was in casual clothes, he wouldn’t be as aware of her womanliness. Stupid thought. This earth goddess in the ivory tunic and leggings, with her hair flowing past her shoulders and her feet clad in thick socks, was every bit as captivating as the formally dressed Kate had been. She came straight to him, beaming as she had been doing practically nonstop since the ceremony. That vibrant, youthful smile, combined with the brush of her hands across his belly as she eased the baby out of his arms, forced him to pass over the infant without a word and to retreat to the kitchen area out of self-preservation. Terrific. In another minute you’ll be drooling. ‘‘Ethan?’’ She’d followed him. He spun around, certain she’d again seen the loss of control in his eyes. ‘‘Bottle?’’ Disgusted with himself, he passed it over. ‘‘Sorry.’’ ‘‘No champagne, I see,’’ Kate mused, scanning the bounty spread across the counter once the baby starting suckling. ‘‘I suppose Eva’s goodwill didn’t stretch that far.’’

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Ethan had thought about it himself, but hadn’t followed up on the idea of getting a bottle, for several reasons. ‘‘I guess you’ll have to settle for a beer or whiskey, if you feel like celebrating.’’ ‘‘Don’t you?’’ He didn’t know what he felt. At least he didn’t know what was safe to admit. ‘‘I guess I’ll join you.’’ ‘‘Mr. Enthusiastic. Make mine a beer. At least it’s a similar color and bubbles.’’ Shooting her a doubtful look, Ethan took two bottles from the refrigerator and then reached up to a high cabinet for the one long-stemmed glass that Marilee had picked up at a five-and-dime-store clearance sale ages ago. At dinner she’d always had her milk in the glass, and in hindsight Ethan realized her dreams for a better life had been germinating even then. When he set glass and opened bottle before her, Kate uttered a delicious moan. ‘‘You’d better stop spoiling me. If you’re not careful, you’re going to have me eating out of your hand.’’ ‘‘In that case, I’d better invest in some chain-mail gloves,’’ he drawled, finishing with the unpacking. To keep her from noticing his twitching lips, he carried the basket to the corner by the back door. ‘‘You don’t have to wait for me to fill your plate, you know. I’ll join you as soon as the baby’s through.’’ ‘‘That’s okay.’’ He returned, poured her drink, then lifted his bottle to take a swallow. ‘‘Wait!’’ He drew a long breath. ‘‘Now what?’’ ‘‘We haven’t made a toast yet.’’ He’d been hoping to avoid that particular ceremony. He should have guessed she wouldn’t let an opportunity pass to hold to tradition and torment him with rituals he’d been

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depriving himself of for most of his life. ‘‘You’re determined to be upbeat and positive about this, aren’t you?’’ ‘‘Call me crazy, Ethan, but I think it beats walking around thumping my chest and sobbing, ‘Mea culpa.’’’ He succeeded in not swelling up like a blustering rooster, but he couldn’t quite keep from clenching his teeth. ‘‘Is that what I’m doing? You think I’m playing martyr?’’ ‘‘I haven’t been able to read your mind well enough to make up mine,’’ she replied with a shrug. ‘‘Let’s just say you could do with some lightening-up.’’ Since she rarely backed down this easily, Ethan thought that was reason enough to celebrate. Once again he lifted his bottle. ‘‘All right, get it over with.’’ She took her time, first making sure Darcy was ready to take a breather from her bottle. Then she poured her beer and waited for the head to shrink. Finally she touched her glass to his bottle, murmuring a simple ‘‘Here’s to you... Mr. Walker.’’ Cute. And she was getting cuter by the minute. Yet, despite his annoyance, Ethan let his gaze wander downward, to the three open buttons on her tunic, the tempting swell of her breasts. ‘‘Mrs. Walker.’’ But as soon as he took a swallow of his drink, he couldn’t resist asking, ‘‘Have you thought about what you’re going to say when people ask if they’re supposed to call you Judge Randall or Judge Walker?’’ ‘‘Tell them the truth...that I’m sleeping on it.’’ She lifted her glass to salute him. ‘‘May you get everything you want.’’ He wasn’t about to touch that one, no matter how much she grumbled, and they didn’t speak again for several minutes. Ethan figured it was wisest, since she didn’t seem capable of saying anything that wasn’t provocative. After Darcy finished her bottle and Kate put her in her

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crib, they filled their plates. Hoping to continue the silence, Ethan gestured toward the TV. ‘‘Do you want me to turn it on?’’ ‘‘No thanks. I’d much rather talk.’’ Knock yourself out. Talk— Jeez. He’d lost count of how many knots had formed in his stomach since he’d awakened this morning to the realization that this was his D day. His first beer hadn’t done anything to ease them, so he went to get himself another. ‘‘Come on, Ethan,’’ Kate called chidingly after him. ‘‘It’s been ages since we’ve spent more than a few minutes in each other’s company. Don’t forget, if we don’t sound as if we really know each other, we’re not going to appear very credible to anyone at that custody hearing.’’ ‘‘What’s there to know?’’ He returned to his seat. ‘‘I’ve been working the ranch and you’ve been raising legal hell. That pretty well covers it.’’ Kate glanced over toward the crib in the unlit corner of the room where Darcy already slept. ‘‘Tell me about your dreams for her. I know you have some. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have done all you have so far to keep her.’’ ‘‘I just don’t want her to have to put aside her dreams.’’ ‘‘The way you did yours?’’ Ethan concentrated on scooping a large dollop of potato salad and dropping it next to the two chicken legs already on his plate. ‘‘If you want to talk, let’s straighten out our schedules and living arrangements. I sleep over on the recliner, so you take the bedroom. Don’t argue,’’ he added, when he saw her lips move as if to protest. ‘‘I’ve been sleeping there for years.’’ That clearly shocked her. ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘It suits me.’’ The serving spoon cracked against his plate as he misaimed a spoonful of the corn casserole. ‘‘The

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thing is, I have to get up around four every morning, and I’ll need to wash up.’’ ‘‘Of course. Don’t think twice about coming through. You won’t bother me.’’ ‘‘Even so, I’ll try not to make too much noise. John Mountain comes in around five. I cook for both of us, to make up for his having to do most of the range work these days. But, uh, if you’re going to be here tomorrow, maybe you won’t mind watching the baby while I go, too, for a few hours?’’ ‘‘Love to.’’ Kate reached for a roll and tore it in two. ‘‘And I’ll make breakfast.’’ ‘‘That’s not necessary.’’ ‘‘Nonsense,’’ she replied with an airy wave. ‘‘I’m on my honeymoon. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more.’’ ‘‘Very funny.’’ The least she could do was not keep reminding him that they were married, that she was his wife, and that there wasn’t any legal reason for him not to follow her to bed tonight. There were plenty of nonlegal ones, beginning with the fact that, as curious as she might have been about kissing him, that didn’t constitute an invitation to seek oblivion in her softness and heat. He had no idea how he made it through dinner. He remained hungry, all right, but not for food; and everything he put in his mouth tasted like cardboard. On top of that, if he did try to hold up his side of their conversation, he ended up feeling like an awkward youth all over again. When this latest ordeal was over and they’d repacked everything and cleaned up the dishes, a far more subdued Kate finally seemed ready to call it quits, too. Murmuring a good night, she withdrew to the bedroom. Relieved, Ethan checked on the baby once more, and added a couple more logs to the stove before he started

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blowing out the oil lamps. Ready to turn in, he realized he didn’t have his blanket. Normally he tossed it on the couch, but in anticipation of Kate’s arrival, he’d had some foolish notion about straightening up the place and put it in the bedroom. He went to the door, which wasn’t quite closed, and knocked softly. She didn’t answer. Small favors, he thought his hopes rising. Maybe she was already asleep. He would sneak in and get out before— When he was midway into the room, the bathroom door swung open and Kate stepped out, barely wrapped in a towel. Ethan froze. He had a fleeting glimpse of glistening water on her shoulders and her endless legs before he spun around. ‘‘I forgot my blanket,’’ he said to the far wall. ‘‘What are you doing? For heaven’s sake, Ethan, I’m decent. Come in and get whatever you need.’’ He nearly ripped the blanket off the chair in the corner, mumbled, ‘‘Good night,’’ and hurried from the room. Minutes later, as he drew the cover up to his chin and tried to find a comfortable spot to settle for the night, he couldn’t. Why did he have to notice the thing was getting lumpy tonight, of all nights? He shut his eyes, but found less peace. Against his closed lids, he kept seeing Kate—pale, golden and desirable. Yep, you’re married. He shifted to ease yet another ache in his body. Don’t it feel grand? ‘‘I bet you’re thinking that your Auntie Kate’s turning out to be one real nervy lady, huh, twiglet?’’ Kate tickled Darcy’s chin as she strolled away from the kitchen window. She’d been watching for Ethan, growing concerned now that the sun had slipped behind the mountains. It didn’t help that she’d done all she could do for the

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moment. The baby had been bathed, fed and changed again; she had dinner warming on the stove. With time to pace and think about what she’d been doing over the past twentyfour hours, she was using the baby as a sounding board, and shaking her head a great deal. ‘‘It wouldn’t be ladylike for you to mention how long it’s been since I flirted like this. And I know you’ve noticed your poor uncle doesn’t know what to do about me, but—’’ she smiled at the fascinated infant ‘‘—all I’m trying to do is give him a hint.’’ Darcy gurgled contentedly. ‘‘No kidding. I’ll say he’s a tough customer. Here I am, in the prime of my life, with a man who responds as powerfully to me as I do to him, but getting that grumble bear to acknowledge it...’’ Kate gave the cherub an owlish look. ‘‘Jump in anytime with any suggestions, cutie. That’s why we’re having this conversation.’’ Amused at how fascinated the baby seemed to be with her whimsical monologue, Kate returned to the table where she’d been working earlier in the afternoon. She hadn’t accomplished as much as she’d anticipated. As she used one hand to negotiate several folders back into her briefcase, she had to admit a newborn took more time than she’d heard. Of course, it didn’t help that she couldn’t resist holding the darling at every opportunity. But, despite the fatigue that was beginning to settle in after the unusual day, she felt pretty terrific. ‘‘Because you’re a doll,’’ she told Darcy, carrying baby and briefcase to the front door, where she set her bag to take with her in the morning. Then she planted what had to be the twentieth or thirtieth kiss on the baby’s forehead. ‘‘And I wouldn’t have missed spending the day spoiling you for anything.’’ That earned her another tentative, toothless smile. The

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first had stolen her heart, and she’d nearly gotten teary-eyed, thinking of Marilee, how the dear soul would never know such precious moments. It also made Kate wonder how she’d managed to exist as long as she had without doing something about her own yearning for children. The back door opened quietly. Oh, darn, she thought, belatedly remembering that she’d been so preoccupied with Darcy and work that she hadn’t run a brush through her hair since this morning. It would have been nice to dab a touch of perfume behind her ears, too. Since she’d done neither, she let her smile be her enhancement. ‘‘Hi! I was beginning to worry.’’ ‘‘No need. We were merely catching up on the backlog of chores.’’ Ethan rolled his shoulders before slipping out of his jacket and taking off his hat. He looked beat, but wonderful. He sniffed and uttered an appreciative groan. ‘‘Man, I thought I’d imagined smelling food outside. What’s cooking?’’ ‘‘Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and the corn casserole from yesterday. It’s not as fancy or pretty as what Eva makes, but I don’t think you’ll get food poisoning.’’ Ethan looked both amazed and guilty. ‘‘You didn’t have to do all that. It meant a lot simply knowing you were with the baby.’’ ‘‘I didn’t mind. Where’s John Mountain? There’s plenty to go around.’’ ‘‘You know he’s not going to come over here.’’ ‘‘Because of me.’’ ‘‘Not because of you.’’ Ethan looked at his hands and headed for the sink. ‘‘Because he prefers to be alone, and he thinks we do, too.’’ ‘‘Wait a second.’’ Kate hurried to the wood-burning stove, picking up a towel along the way. ‘‘I suspected he

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wouldn’t come. That’s why I prepared him a plate. Before you wash up, be a dear and bring this to him.’’ The plate was already wrapped in foil, and the towel made it safe to carry, but Kate was careful to keep it well away from the baby. Ethan stared at it as if she’d told him it was a four-course dinner. ‘‘That’s...really thoughtful of you.’’ The moment he left to carry the food over to the bunkhouse, Kate whispered playfully to Darcy. ‘‘Did you hear that? He thinks I’m thoughtful. Yesterday I was a rope of chains around his neck that he didn’t want to deal with, and today... Isn’t it amazing what a modest meat loaf can do.’’ Ethan soon returned. Because he’d made it clear he was famished, Kate changed her mind about first offering him a drink to unwind a bit. Instead, she placed the sleepy Darcy in her crib and set out their dinner. By the time Ethan had washed up, they were ready to take their seats at the table. After an initial bite or two, Ethan paused to offer his compliments, then concentrated on his meal. Kate could feel how something else was building in him. She just couldn’t figure out what. ‘‘Er...was it tough for you today?’’ he asked her as he reached for his second roll. ‘‘Different, but I wouldn’t say tough. I think Darcy likes our girl-to-girl chats best. She’s not wild about the speech I’m writing for the Junior League luncheon in Billings next month.’’ He didn’t respond to her gentle humor; instead, he glanced over his left shoulder at his desk. It was old, like everything else in the small house, and as neglected. ‘‘You should have told me, and I would have made room for you over there.’’ ‘‘That’s all right. Anyway, it’s a bit chilly in that corner,

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what with the windows and it being so far from the stove. I worked here at the table.’’ ‘‘Sometimes I notice that myself, but I’ve always tried to blame it on being tired. Um, did you have problems with the fire?’’ He checked the stack near the stove. ‘‘I should have left you with more wood.’’ ‘‘There was plenty, as you can see.’’ Kate began to get intrigued. The more agreeably she responded to his questions, the more strained and disturbed he appeared. What was eating at him now? ‘‘I was wondering...’’ she asked, after watching him stir his mashed potatoes for several seconds. ‘‘What will you do tomorrow?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Stay here.’’ Once again he glanced around the large room. ‘‘See if I can’t make this look like less of a dump.’’ Aha, she thought, finally getting a hint of what was troubling him. ‘‘Your home is not a dump, Ethan. It’s spare. Rustic. Utilitarian.’’ ‘‘Right.’’ He made a bitter sound. ‘‘I’ll bet you haven’t missed your place once all day, did you?’’ ‘‘Am I complaining?’’ Her quiet words seemed to inflame him. For a moment, she wondered if he would explode, storm out. But as quickly as the emotion had stirred, he calmed—or rather he rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face, uttering a weary moan. ‘‘The law’s no lady, Kate. No matter how many statues they build to represent her, I’ve known that truth for a long time. But...you are,’’ he added gruffly. ‘‘And I suppose that’s proving more than I know how to deal with.’’ His honesty left her momentarily speechless. Quite a novelty, she mused, searching for an appropriate reply. How much easier it would be if she could simply slip to her knees

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beside him and wrap her arms around him, but she knew he wouldn’t welcome that gesture from her, either. She could only shake her head. ‘‘You give me too much credit, and...Ethan, you ‘deal’ with me just fine.’’ He avoided looking at her straight, as if his ability to keep this conversation under control relied on that. ‘‘This isn’t going to work, Kate. Look around you. My mother sewed those drapes, and they look it, don’t they? There’s probably two years of dust on them, save the bit I vacuumed off the one or two times I turned on the machine. The furniture— what there is of it—was mostly bargain-basement stuff when we got it.’’ His laugh reflected sheer bitterness. ‘‘I must have been nuts to think I could close my eyes while you made yourself endure this. I realize now that you’d do about anything for the baby, but I can’t watch you...cheapen your own life for this.’’ She hated seeing him beat himself up emotionally for nothing. And it was nothing to her. But, aware that the matter, his pride, meant a great deal to him, she understood that she couldn’t sound flippant. ‘‘What’s your solution?’’ she asked instead, her heart pounding. He bowed his head. ‘‘I don’t know.’’ ‘‘May I make a suggestion?’’ She had to wait for a minuscule nod. ‘‘I telephoned Eva today. Well, I would have anyway, because I needed to make sure everything was okay over there.’’ ‘‘There’s no need to justify yourself. I understand you have a heck of a lot more invested in your place than I do in mine.’’ ‘‘At any rate,’’ Kate continued, not caring for the sound of that one bit, ‘‘I suggested something to her, and now I’d like to run it by you and find out what you think.’’ As expected, he looked wary. ‘‘Go ahead.’’

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‘‘You know I’ve known Eva for most of my life. I trust her implicitly, as I do Jorge. Today I asked her if—provided we had your approval, of course—she would be interested in caring for Darcy during the hours that I’m working.’’ ‘‘Jeez, Kate...’’ ‘‘Hear me out, Ethan. That’s all I ask. I could take her over in the morning and pick her up on my way home. It’s a perfect solution, since most of what she would need is already there. You see, we kept many of my baby things, and Eva’s been talking for years about cleaning out the attic.’’ ‘‘You don’t think she has enough to do without taking on the care of an infant? And consider her age. She should be slowing down, not getting busier.’’ ‘‘If the baby was older, or this was a long-term situation, I would be more hesitant to suggest it, but you said yourself that this is temporary. As for her age, I think Eva would come after you with her mop if she heard that. Ethan, I make sure she goes in for a yearly physical. The doctor says she’s as healthy as I am.’’ Kate leaned toward him. ‘‘Think about how this would free you up. It’s tearing you apart to see how much you’re having to put on John Mountain’s shoulders.’’ Ethan slumped back in his chair. ‘‘When is it going to end? Don’t you see what you’re doing?’’ ‘‘I’m trying to help.’’ ‘‘You’re creating a mountain of debt I’m never going to be able to repay.’’ It bothered her that he should see their situation that way, and she told him so. ‘‘This isn’t about who owes whom more, or even what, Ethan. You’re in the midst of one of the biggest crises of your life. You need help. I can provide that help. That’s all there is to it.’’ ‘‘I wanted to be able to do this myself.’’

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‘‘Well, it’s obvious that’s not how it’s going to work out. I believe in life lessons, and I believe you’re being challenged with some whoppers, Ethan. Don’t fight them. Listen to them. Learn from them. If my hunch is wrong, if things don’t work out, we’ll try something else. But don’t reject the idea because of pride. We simply don’t have time for that.’’ Ethan’s strong, sharp features shifted subtly as he worked his jaw. His blue eyes, already dark from fatigue and lingering grief, seemed almost opaque tonight. He was finding it increasingly difficult to hope, Kate saw. And she knew that if he turned her down, nothing would change on the surface; she would continue to work toward helping him reach his goal; but his decision would change something between them forever. Crush the seed she knew wanted to grow. When she saw his left hand close into a fist, she knew he’d reached his decision. ‘‘Your Honor, after considerable reflection, my client has changed his mind. He wishes to plead guilty and throw himself upon the mercy of the court.’’ Kate nodded, keeping her eyes on the case notes before her until the urge to laugh passed. ‘‘All right, then. Mr. Chester, will you rise for sentencing.’’ As the self-proclaimed poet laureate of Whitehorn stood, she saw from the corner of her eye that Pat was approaching from her chambers. ‘‘Pardon me one moment,’’ she murmured, covering the microphone with her hand and leaning back to hear what Pat had to say. ‘‘Sorry to interrupt, but Eva called,’’ the redhead whispered into her ear. ‘‘The baby!’’ ‘‘She’s fine. It’s Ethan. He’s driving her crazy. He’s

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phoned three times, and a few minutes ago he threatened to drive over to take the baby home because Eva said she was too busy to talk to him. She feels he thinks she can’t handle things. She says if you don’t do something, she’s retiring...without notice.’’ Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. ‘‘She’s bluffing. That woman took one look at Darcy this morning and it was love at first sight.’’ She did some quick thinking. ‘‘Call Ethan, and if you can get through, tell him to stay put, that I’ll call him in—’’ she glanced at her watch ‘‘—ten minutes. Then call Eva and let her know I’m handling the situation. By that time, I should be back there to take over.’’ As soon as Pat started down the bench steps, Kate cleared her throat and leaned toward the microphone again. ‘‘All right, Mr. Chester...as much as I sympathize with your frustrations over the mishandling of your property—’’ ‘‘My book, Judge,’’ the indignant little man said, clutching the remains of his parcel to his chest. ‘‘And not for the first time!’’ ‘‘I understand. However, driving your truck through the plate-glass door of the post office because they’d returned your mangled verse—pardon me, your package—damaged is no excuse for violence. The court hereby sentences you to six months probation, and one hundred hours of community service.’’ ‘‘But, Your Honor—!’’ ‘‘Court adjourned until eleven o’clock!’’ ‘‘All rise,’’ the bailiff called, although Kate was already on her way toward her chambers. Once in the back, she unzipped her robe and detoured to peek at Pat in her reception area. ‘‘Ethan?’’ she mouthed to the younger woman, who was holding the phone receiver to her ear.

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When Pat nodded, Kate signaled that she would take it in her office. She ran back and snatched up the phone. ‘‘Ethan?’’ ‘‘Kate, don’t lecture. I had every right to check on the baby.’’ She pictured him standing by the phone at his desk, legs astride, hand on his hip and hat low over his narrowed eyes. Ready for battle. How not to play to his temperament? she wondered, and spun her chair to her view of Whitehorn, and the mountains. ‘‘I think you’re wonderful.’’ As expected, her warmth and flattery immediately put him on the defensive. ‘‘What do you think you’re pulling now?’’ ‘‘Nothing. We agree, you have every right to check on Darcy, and the fact that you can’t concentrate on your own work is so touching, I don’t mind at all that I had to stop a trial in the middle of sentencing to keep my housekeeper from quitting.’’ ‘‘Ah. The guilt-trip ploy.’’ ‘‘Not at all, and don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll call Eva again, and insist that it’s more important to take your calls and reassure you than it is to get those eggs colored that we’re donating for the communitywide children’s Easter egg hunt on Saturday. Or to make an extra casserole for me to bring along when I come home tonight. Or to—’’ ‘‘I get the message.’’ The chagrin in his voice assured her. That allowed Kate to feel heartsick for him and for what he must have been going through these last hours. She’d spent far less time with the baby; nevertheless, she’d experienced her own severe pangs when leaving Darcy this morning. ‘‘I knew you would. And you know what else? Darcy is a lucky little girl to have you in her life. Try to believe that if anything, anything, occurred, or gave Eva doubts, she

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would call me immediately, and I would notify you,’’ Kate assured him gently. ‘‘Do you think I’ll ever get there?’’ he said, with a sigh underscoring his doubtful tone. ‘‘I’ll bet my name on it,’’ Kate drawled before hanging up. She was still chuckling over that parting volley when she drove home later that afternoon. Not even the challenging day, the gawking from unscheduled visitors in the courthouse and the occasional needling from regulars like Matthews and Harlan Collins, on top of a busy schedule, could dampen her spirits. When she reached Shadow Ranch, she thought Eva might try picking up where the others had left off; after all, their conversation following her chat with Ethan hadn’t hinted at any mellowing in Eva’s attitude toward him or the marriage. But Darcy had obviously worked her magic. Less than thirty minutes later, Kate left Shadow Ranch with the infant, to the tune of both Eva and Jorge demanding reassurances that the child would be back tomorrow. She returned to the Double N, where this time Ethan was the one waiting with an anxious look on his face. He strode outside in shirtsleeves to help her, and Kate let herself pretend that at least a part of his relief and concern was for her. Thanks to Eva’s casserole, dinner was dealt with quickly. While Kate cleaned up, Ethan sat holding Darcy—who was already showing signs of being a little glutton for attention. Yet somehow the evening flew by. Before she knew it, Kate was looking for excuses not to turn in. Part of the reason reflected her previous routine; until now, she had never gone to bed before 10:00 p.m., and if she had a speech or conference seminar to develop, it could easily be midnight. But ranch work demanded early

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rising, so after Ethan covered his second yawn, she gave up. As she murmured good-night, she told herself not to be disappointed, that they’d reached new ground tonight, and that some of the bumps in their relationship had been smoothed out. She reminded herself that trust took time. But that didn’t ease the physical restlessness that struck the moment she drew the bedroom door nearly shut; nor did it keep her warm when she finally crawled beneath the chilly sheets. Once lying there, she got her mind off the cold by reliving moments of the evening, the way Ethan’s eyes had gone tender whenever he looked at the baby...how once or twice that tenderness had lingered when he glanced toward her...how they’d actually laughed briefly together over the baby sounds drifting over from the crib. Most of all, the instant of electricity and sharp awareness when they’d both reached for the refrigerator door at the same time to warm Darcy’s bottle. The memory of the heat that had swept through her when their gazes collided should have warmed her even now and lulled her into sweet dreams. It didn’t. Minutes dragged into nearly an hour. When she realized she was still shivering with cold and remained as wideawake as ever, Kate finally flung back the covers and in disgust padded in her socks to the stove to warm up. ‘‘You get any closer to that thing and you’re going to burn something personal.’’ She jumped at the sound of Ethan’s low, gruff voice. The stove’s window allowed enough light for her to see that he’d sat up and was pushing himself up from the chair. In the past few days, Kate had noticed he slept in just his jeans, and in the amber glow she grew instantly aware of the long, sinewy muscles that sculpted his torso and strong arms, and that without a belt his pants rode low on his hips.

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‘‘Sorry I woke you, but I’m f-freezing,’’ she whispered back, aware that she felt anything but apologetic. ‘‘Guess the door needs to be fully open to get any heat in there, but you could dress more sensibly, too.’’ Kate brushed her hair back as she inspected her thighlength flannel sleeping shirt and her thick woolen socks. ‘‘This is one hundred percent more than I prefer to wear. How anyone can sleep tangled in a bunch of sleeves and whatnot is beyond me. The only reason I am now is so I won’t catch pneumonia.’’ ‘‘Thank you for sharing that. Now we can both suffer from insomnia.’’ ‘‘Ha! Listen to Mr. Discipline,’’ Kate said teasingly, her heart beginning to pound. Ethan shot her a mild look and reached for her hands. ‘‘Knock it off and come here.’’ Then he proceeded to rub her trembling limbs. ‘‘Damn. You are cold.’’ Not for long, she thought as both his heat and the fire’s seeped into her, and the intimacy of his work-rough hands created its own furnace. Despite not being a lover’s touch, Kate found the stroking powerful. But as a physical, passionate woman who’d denied herself a great deal of intimacy for too many years, maybe she was overreacting? ‘‘You’re shaking through and through,’’ Ethan said seconds later, when he noted that her condition hadn’t improved. ‘‘Here, wrap yourself in this.’’ He backtracked for his blanket, and returned to wrap it around her. ‘‘Sit down and I’ll go make you a cup of coffee.’’ ‘‘No thanks. Coffee at this hour will definitely give me insomnia. Why don’t I go get my blanket, and you can have yours back? Then you can at least try to get some sleep.’’ ‘‘You really think I’m going to rest, knowing you’re right here?’’

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‘‘What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll watch you?’’ she asked, only half teasing. ‘‘Would you?’’ She expected retreat, at least a wall of some sort. This almost flirtatious reply raced through her like potent wine. ‘‘Mmm... Does that bother you?’’ ‘‘A man would have to be made of something besides flesh and blood not to be affected by having your eyes on him, Judge Randall,’’ he replied, his gaze roaming over her face. Although his tone was gruff, she knew what he was doing by using her title. ‘‘Shame on you, Ethan. That was a copout.’’ Disappointed, she started back to her room, but he thrust out his arm and blocked her way. Once again he searched her face. ‘‘What do you want from me, Kate?’’ ‘‘Why do we have to define it?’’ she replied, weariness joining forces with her frustration. ‘‘We’re attracted to each other. You’ve tried to ignore it. I have myself.’’ Slowly he reached up and touched her hair. ‘‘Maybe we should listen to those inner voices. They’re usually right.’’ Kate leaned into his touch until he cupped her face with his hand. When she felt his thumb brush across her lower lip, her breath locked in her throat; still, she inched closer. ‘‘Not always. Who’s going to be hurt if we offer and take from each other?’’ ‘‘Us.’’ She would have decided for both of them, would have closed the last inch or two between them, made him kiss her. But she wanted him to decide. With a muffled oath, he did. He fused his mouth to hers, and she eagerly clung. It had been so long since they’d been this close. Too long. What was more, it had never been like this. His intensity triggered

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a searing but sweet pain that momentarily overwhelmed her. Before she began to recover, he forced her lips wider, all fierce but delicious demand as he explored and claimed. Kate moaned softly, dropped the blanket and slipped her arms around his neck. Ethan closed her in the vise of his arms and crushed her closer. With another deep-throated moan, he buried one hand in her hair, cupped her head to hold her still, and redefined her understanding of provocation. All the while, he used his other hand to mold her body against his. From shoulder to hip, he learned and worshiped her shape, until their breaths sounded as greedy as the flames devouring the moisture-starved logs. Soon her body was vibrating with pent-up longing, her body liquefying at the pleasure of feeling him center her against his heat. She had no idea who urged whom down onto the blanket. Her only concern was that he not stop, and he didn’t. He covered her lower body with his and slipped his hand under the flannel. His hand was relentless, his gliding touch sensitive, coursing up her midriff, seeking her breast; when he found her, they both gasped, and he tore his mouth from hers to race it down the side of her neck. ‘‘Ethan,’’ she whispered, unable to remain still, and loving the way the muscles across his broad back tensed under her restless, not wholly gentle, touch. ‘‘Dear heaven, I want you. You’re driving me—’’ The brush of his thumb across her turgid nipple drew a soft gasp from her and cut off whatever else he might have said. Kate writhed, arched toward him, wanting more, wanting him to give himself to her, and take her in return. The hunger was too compelling, almost raw, and it was long past time that he admitted it. Instead, she felt him push himself away from her, felt it like a razor slicing across her skin. ‘‘Ethan?’’ ‘‘Damn. Oh, damn...I can’t.’’

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‘‘Can’t?’’ The cool air made her shiver. ‘‘Can’t, won’t, it’s all the same.’’ She sat up, dragging her shirt up over her shoulder and breast, tugging it down over her thighs. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start this and leave you... hurting.’’ ‘‘I don’t want an apology,’’ she managed, her insides still quaking. ‘‘I want an explanation.’’ ‘‘It can’t be casual for us, all right?’’ ‘‘It didn’t feel as if it would be.’’ She made herself ignore the agony clearly etched on his face. She didn’t care that he looked as if one touch from her would make him rupture like skin stretched too tight. Her own pain was too real. ‘‘Damn you, Ethan. You owe me more than that.’’ He sat back on the brick base of the stove and, resting his arms on his knees, covered his face with his hands. ‘‘I wish there was more, but there isn’t. I don’t expect you to understand, but it all boils down to the reality that I can’t change the past. Or the present. I can’t change who I am, and you—’’ ‘‘I swear, if you tell me I’m too good for you, I’ll do something drastic.’’ ‘‘Will you go to bed? Please!’’ ‘‘This is about ghosts, isn’t it? About Wayne, and your guilt over surviving, when he didn’t. About being able to feel, when—’’ ‘‘It’s not up for discussion, Kate. Just leave me alone.’’ Aching and miserable, she struggled to her feet. And, not trusting herself to avoid saying something she might later regret, she returned to the bedroom and completely shut the door.

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The room’s temperature no longer concerned her. Ethan’s house couldn’t possibly chill her more than the man had himself.

Seven ‘‘So what do you suggest, Kate? Kate?’’ Blast, she thought, realizing her thoughts had been drifting again. Giving Harlan Collins an apologetic look, Kate tried to pick up on their impromptu hallway conversation. ‘‘I think you’re right, Harlan. You have a sensitive situation that under normal circumstances would definitely deserve a formal charge and arraignment. However, considering that two of the three suspects are minors on the reservation, I think we should meet with representatives of the tribal council, bring in the third party’s attorney as a courtesy, to protect us from any accusation of preferential treatment. Set everything on the table and see if we can keep this from getting blown up into a media event at the taxpayers’ expense. The important thing to stand firm on is that hoodlum behavior will not be tolerated in this jurisdiction.’’ ‘‘Sounds good. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have a fix on scheduling.’’ The portly but sharply dressed litigator lifted a stark eyebrow, and a twinkle entered his eyes. ‘‘So would it be improper of a well-meaning district attorney to ask a judge he respects how married life and motherhood is taking?’’ ‘‘Put that way, you may.’’ Kate summoned a grin, albeit a weak one. ‘‘As for an answer, let’s just say that no astronaut ever went through more intense but sweet training.’’ ‘‘My money’s on you. Uh-oh,’’ Harlan added, his voice dropping an octave. ‘‘Don’t look now, but Warren B. is

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about to zero in on you, and I see flamethrowers in his eyes. What do you want to bet his business is with Mrs. Walker and not Judge Randall?’’ It was going to be one of those days. In the past three weeks Kate had been dodging Warren Blankenship as much as possible, because she’d discovered that his continuing scheduling problems made it impossible for him to instigate a custody hearing faster than he’d originally intended. Now that he was back in town, Kate was relying on her heavier caseload, due to Howard Lessing’s leave of absence, to keep him at bay. This time, however, it appeared her luck had run out. ‘‘Mrs. Walker has less to say to him than Judge Randall does,’’ she replied dryly. Of course, what she couldn’t let slip was that since the night she and Ethan had fought, she’d avoided thinking of herself as a married woman unless a moment such as this arose. Any reminder of what a fool she’d made of herself was difficult; she still didn’t know how she’d gotten through Easter, and particularly the church services that she’d attended with Darcy and an extremely reluctant Ethan. ‘‘May I volunteer myself to hang around and offer moral support?’’ Harlan asked, with Warren nearly within hearing distance. As much as Kate admired Harlan the man, she couldn’t afford to give the shrewd attorney he also was any free ammunition. ‘‘Thanks, but can I have a rain check?’’ ‘‘Anytime. Blankenship.’’ ‘‘Hello, Warren.’’ Kate exchanged nods with the departing D.A. before giving Warren Blankenship her full attention. ‘‘I’m already late for a meeting, but if you need to talk, you can walk me back to my office.’’ ‘‘I need more time than that, Judge.’’ ‘‘Sorry. My schedule is extremely tight.’’

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‘‘See me now, or I’ll recommend my client pursues the charge he’s entertaining.’’ The threat bothered her less than his audacity in attempting it. Realizing he wouldn’t be so bold if he didn’t hold some kind of trump card, Kate opened the door to her office and led the way inside. ‘‘Pat, tell the bailiff I need three minutes, no more. And no interruptions while Mr. Blankenship and I are in conference,’’ she told her secretary as she passed the other woman’s desk. The woman’s welcoming expression sobered the moment she saw who was following her boss. ‘‘Done.’’ Kate continued into her private chamber, stopped at the door and firmly shut it after the confident and suave attorney. ‘‘Now understand this, Warren. If you ever threaten me like that again, particularly in public, I will take great pleasure in making your life a living nightmare.’’ ‘‘A tempting proposition...Your Honor.’’ The tall attorney thrust out his chest and smirked down at her. ‘‘But are you sure you can afford to stick out your professional neck any farther than you already have?’’ Although she had a good idea of what he was driving at, Kate forced herself to play ignorant. ‘‘Meaning?’’ ‘‘You’ve interfered with jurisprudence.’’ ‘‘That’s an extremely strong accusation, Counselor.’’ ‘‘But an accurate one, though I must admit your marriage to that—’’ When Kate narrowed her eyes in warning, he paused. ‘‘Your decision to wed Mr. Walker stands as a stroke of tactical genius.’’ ‘‘Tactical. You’re suggesting I married my husband for reasons other than love?’’ Blankenship snickered and stroked his carefully maintained mustache. ‘‘Oh, I wouldn’t begin to suggest otherwise. Not after you two created such a picture of romantic bliss at church. It’s amazing what the love of a good woman

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can do for a man. Er, how long has it been since Ethan’s attended services?’’ That episode had been one of the worst ordeals of her life. Still stinging from the night Ethan had rejected her, Kate would have given almost anything to avoid attending the services. But common sense had prevailed and, knowing it was important to be seen as a family, they’d gone. Ethan deserved the accolades, though. He’d proved he possessed an unparalleled potential for performing, by being the image of attentiveness. A hand at her elbow, an arm around her waist, the squeeze of her shoulder when they paused to speak to the minister after the service...one more touch and she would have screamed. She’d almost been relieved when, upon their return to his ranch, he’d changed and ridden out to who knew where. She hadn’t seen him again for hours, and hadn’t asked where he’d been when he returned. ‘‘You’re wasting your three minutes, Warren,’’ she told him, hoping her voice sounded close to unimpressed. ‘‘Then I’ll summarize. I happen to know that you made a deal with Matthews not to hear my request on behalf of the Taylors’ claim for custody of their granddaughter,’’ the attorney said coldly. ‘‘I also know that you two made a deal so only Lessing would hear your case—knowing Judge Lessing’s unfortunate medical predicament.’’ ‘‘Not that I owe you an explanation, but I’m better acquainted with Judge Matthews than I am with Judge Lessing,’’ Kate replied, matching him stare for stare. ‘‘We discussed the matter and agreed that in order to avoid any accusation of impropriety, we should wait for Judge Lessing to preside over the hearing.’’ Kate crossed her arms, aware of how her wedding band would stand out against her royal blue suit. ‘‘All parties agreed. But if you want to suggest that I had other motives for what would intentionally delay achieving closure to an

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emotionally painful chapter in my husband’s life, feel free to make yourself look foolish to your client.’’ The attorney nodded, conceding defeat. ‘‘I’m impressed, Your Honor. You may yet impact the community and convince people that you two are actually serious about your...marriage. But I have one question. How long are you planning to wait after the hearing to file for a divorce from Ethan Walker? And what explanation is the honorable Judge Kate Randall going to dream up that doesn’t reek to high heaven?’’ ‘‘Advise your client to do whatever he feels in good conscience he must. As I will. But think about this— I have phoned the Taylors on several occasions in the last few weeks, trying to set up an appointment to bring the baby to meet her grandparents in a chaperoned environment. My secretary can testify to that. However, in each and every case, Mr. Taylor has done more than reject my offer, he’s been rude and abrasive.’’ ‘‘Can you blame him? Chaperoned visits— You intentionally insulted the man.’’ ‘‘I’m ensuring the welfare of my husband’s niece. Before her death, Marilee Walker Taylor reported prolonged and serious abuse by Clay Taylor. Noble’s behavior during our discussions strongly suggests this may be a problem requiring expert psychological input before unmonitored visitation should be awarded.’’ ‘‘What?’’ For an instant, Warren Blankenship looked as if he might be capable of violence. But he quickly collected himself and even managed a cold smile. ‘‘It’s clear you’ve won this round, Your Honor. But it’s early in the game, isn’t it?’’ ‘‘I don’t play games with children’s lives, Mr. Blankenship. And if keeping my family whole and safe offsets your own ambitions...tough. Now, this meeting is over.’’

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As the door closed behind him, Kate realized she was trembling. It was a new experience professionally, and hardly reassuring. But she also knew her condition didn’t wholly reflect Warren Blankenship’s threats; she was beginning to understand the emotional stakes at risk. For her. For Ethan. For Darcy. ‘‘Are you okay?’’ She looked up to see Pat easing open the door. Her secretary’s look of concern brought her back to reality faster than any internal pep talk could have. ‘‘Sure. At least I will be. It’s just tiring to dodge accusations and sidestep innuendo when I’d rather be focusing on baby pictures and redecorating.’’ Pat’s expression reflected heartfelt compassion. ‘‘I couldn’t help hearing what he said. It made me furious. Anyone with one eye can see you and Ethan are a wonderful couple.’’ A new wave of guilt tugged at Kate for not being totally up-front with Pat. On the other hand, what had been said that wasn’t true? She and Ethan did make a great couple, and Darcy was thriving in their joint care. The problem was, he didn’t see what was before his eyes. No, that wasn’t right, either. He refused to see it. ‘‘Blankenship is frustrated and reaching,’’ she replied, as much for her own benefit as for Pat’s. ‘‘Frustrated people have a tendency to grab at any opportunity to strike out, forgetting that this isn’t the only case, and certainly not the last one, we’ll have a confrontation over.’’ ‘‘The old lessons about burning bridges,’’ Pat drawled. Nodding, Kate eyed the view out her window. ‘‘It definitely looks like April out there. We should finish up on the Stone case in about an hour. That will give me about a twohour break before my afternoon meetings. I think I’d like a stroll before lunch. Can I bring you back something?’’

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‘‘That would be great. I have some calls to make to line up a painter for the house, and won’t get away from my desk.’’ Kate reached for her robe. ‘‘Why don’t you enlist Steve? I thought you said you two had a great time at that dinner.’’ ‘‘We did. An extremely good time. But seeing how easily things could get serious is making me cautious, know what I mean? No, of course you don’t. You knew Ethan all your life as a friend, but when chemistry hit—wham. You didn’t hesitate taking the plunge, any more than you hesitated letting Warren Blankenship have it between the eyes.’’ Feeling a bit queasy in her stomach, Kate offered a crooked smile and, reaching for the door that connected her to the courtroom, said, ‘‘Just be who you have to be, Pat.’’ But her secretary’s words played in her mind again and again almost an hour later, as she walked out of the courthouse. She was trying to follow her own advice, but Ethan’s ghosts were hard competition. The fresh air buoyed her, however, and the more she walked, the better she felt. She even stopped now and then to chat with several acquaintances, and by the time she reached the Hip Hop, her appetite had almost come back. The cozy but eccentric cafe´ wasn’t yet filled with the usual lunch crowd. Kate chose a small wooden table near the window, and offered a tentative smile as Melissa Avery North walked over with silverware and a glass of ice water. ‘‘Am I still welcome here?’’ she asked, voicing the concern she’d had since her marriage to Ethan. If there was one person who had a right to be upset with Ethan, albeit a right based on misinformation, it was Charlie Avery’s daughter. Kate had been too busy to stop by since her wedding, and she had no idea how Melissa had responded to Ethan’s acquittal, let alone her marriage to him. ‘‘You know you are, Kate,’’ the younger woman replied,

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her bright blue eyes as warm as ever. ‘‘I may not be crazy about your taste in men, but who has all the answers? How’ve you been? We’ve missed you livening up this place.’’ ‘‘Thanks—I think. And I’ve been well. A bit busier than usual, what with the instant family and all. I’ve had to pull out of a few social and organizational things, but the tradeoff has been worth it.’’ The spring sunshine pouring through the plate-glass window turned Melissa’s wonderful hair a deep rich mahogany, and her eyes a gorgeous azure blue. ‘‘I’ll bet. How is that precious baby?’’ ‘‘Thriving. Yesterday Ethan took her in for her second checkup, and she’s gained almost two pounds.’’ They’d been worried when Darcy initially lost several ounces, and despite Eva’s and the doctor’s reassurances that this was entirely normal, they hadn’t relaxed until the crisis had been reversed. Melissa swept her long braid over her shoulder. ‘‘I think Marilee would like knowing you’re raising her child. I always thought you’d make good mother material, Kate. Hope Ethan knows how lucky he is.’’ ‘‘I doubt he’s likely to forget. I remind him at least twice a day.’’ Melissa chuckled. ‘‘That’s the way.’’ ‘‘Seriously, I’m the one who’s been blessed.’’ From behind her, she heard a low guffaw. Kate turned and met the challenging gaze of a newer member of Whitehorn’s police force, a patrolman who’d testified in her court a few times, and not always well. But seeing that Warren Blankenship sat beside him truly disturbed her. She hadn’t noticed him in the corner. ‘‘See there, Blankenship,’’ the cop drawled, ‘‘it’s not about justice anymore. It’s about sensitivity.’’

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‘‘It’s become a woman’s world,’’ someone else at the table put in. ‘‘Give ’em a little power, and they start throwing their weight around worse than any man ever did. Even try to shove some jailbird down your throat.’’ Anger bubbled up in Kate. About to rise, she felt Melissa touch her arm. ‘‘Let me take care of this.’’ The young woman’s long prairie skirt whispered as she moved to the other table. ‘‘Boys—and I do mean boys—how about minding your manners, and leaving the locker room behavior out of my restaurant?’’ New customers drew Melissa from the area, but things did remain quiet for a while. Kate’s waitress came by, and she ordered a fruit salad for herself, and a turkey chef’s salad for Pat. Once alone again, she spotted a friendlier group toward the back of the cafe´ that waved. She was sobered, however, by the two women nearer to her who sent critical looks her way. They had been among the minority at church on Easter Sunday who looked offended that they had to worship in the same building as a man who’d spent time behind county-jail bars. Never mind that he’d been found not guilty in a court of law. Then she heard Warren complaining bitterly. ‘‘All I know is that a decent couple are being denied their rights, and the judges have my hands tied.’’ Although she felt Warren was pushing his luck, she knew that she needed to be more than usually careful, because anything she said or did would be analyzed under a very fine magnifying glass by over a dozen pairs of eyes in this room. She did, however, relish the thought that Warren seemed to be forgetting that he would be appearing in her court in a few days to wade through a tricky driving-whileintoxicated case. His client was a well-known doctor’s son, and Warren and the doctor just happened to be neighbors

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and golf buddies. On paper, the son, almost twenty, appeared to be a spoiled brat who’d been saved by his father’s financial and political influence one too many times. While Kate would wait to study the young man’s demeanor in court, and hear what the D.A.’s assistant had to add to the case, she suspected the outcome would send both the defendant and Warren the message that recklessness of any kind had a price. ‘‘A man’s got a right to complain when justice isn’t being served,’’ a fourth individual at Warren’s table insisted. Kate recognized the voice. The man was one of the town’s insurance agents. A consummate salesman, he drummed up business by getting on any committee or council needing warm bodies. Just recently, as a school board member, he’d helped bring in a vote to approve the building of a new school gymnasium the district couldn’t afford. Kate had already heard the complaints that every yea voter was now a customer of his. If she’d still been single, with nothing to lose but the next election, Kate would have cheerfully taken on this obvious challenge to a debate from the group. However, she had Ethan and Darcy to consider, and Ethan had been right in pointing out that she wasn’t without her own detractors. If she could ask him to keep to the straight and narrow path, she had to be willing to follow suit. Recognizing that would be difficult if she stayed, she went up to the counter, where she paid for her order and asked Melissa to wrap the lunches for takeout. As she stood waiting, she overheard several other people sounding off. ‘‘It makes you wonder. If she can marry him, do we really want her in our courts?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want Lexine Baxter’s leavings if they handed him to me on a silver platter.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry, Kate,’’ Melissa said, hurrying with her boxes.

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‘‘Seems that every sour-tongued gossip in town decided to eat here today.’’ Although common sense told her the younger woman was right, Kate still felt a strong surge of dismay and indignation. ‘‘Don’t worry about it, Melissa. See you soon.’’ Kate was relieved to get out of there. Though she was no stranger to criticism, this episode had affected her, because it had been different. The mood had been mean-spirited, and there had been personal attacks rather than disagreements over issues—and that was morally and philosophically wrong. If she didn’t do some damage control soon, the momentum would increase until it was out of control. Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue as to where to begin. Ethan had just come out of the shower when Kate came in that evening. He’d meant to be quick, but the hot water had been a relief for his sore body, and he’d lingered longer than he intended. After dragging on his jeans, he hooked the towel over his neck and hurried to relieve her of Darcy so that she could drop her briefcase and take off her coat. ‘‘You look tired. Long day?’’ ‘‘About as long as they get.’’ It was more than they’d said to each other in days. ‘‘Please.’’ ‘‘Thank you.’’ ‘‘Goodbye.’’ That had been the extent of their conversations since the night he’d come so close to breaking his personal vow of penance. In a way, the reserve made it easier to be around her, to fight the temptation she always presented, and to deal with what-ifs. At the same time, having Kate angry at him had proved almost as difficult as facing a jury that might have slapped him with a murder conviction. He carried the baby to her crib, finding solace in the delight of her happy recognition. ‘‘Hey, sweetheart. How’s my little—’’

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‘‘Your back!’’ Ethan heard a clatter as Kate dropped the rest of her things and rushed to him. He barely had Darcy’s knit cap and jacket removed when he felt cool fingers run down the six-inch slash along his left shoulder blade. ‘‘What happened?’’ she demanded, a decided wince in her voice. ‘‘It looks like a barbed-wire cut.’’ ‘‘Right the first time. Old Gray picked a bad moment to trip in some abandoned varmint hole, and I rolled off him like some fool who’s never been on a horse before. Went straight into the fence.’’ ‘‘Is Gray all right?’’ ‘‘Fine.’’ ‘‘This needs more cleaning, and some salve. I’ll go wash my hands.’’ The mere thought of her hands on him brought a sweet torment that had his pulse leaping into overdrive and his body tightening. ‘‘Don’t bother. I’m okay.’’ ‘‘Sure you are. Leave it that way and it’ll look like this one,’’ she said, touching the scar higher up. It was the scar he’d brought back from Nam instead of Wayne. The touch was a mere whisper across his skin, but it went through Ethan like a red-hot knife. In self-defense, he spun around and grabbed her wrist. ‘‘Kate.’’ Only then did he see that she looked more than tired, she seemed dead on her feet. He released her immediately. ‘‘I’m sorry for snapping. But you’re ready to drop. Don’t waste your time on me.’’ ‘‘This isn’t about wasting my time, nor is it a maneuver to get you into bed, all right? But I will put on that salve.’’ Stubborn, mouthy woman, he thought as she slipped off her coat, hung it up, then hurried to the bathroom. He listened to her washing her hands as he finished making the baby comfortable, annoyed that she read him so easily. The

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cut needed more attention, but he’d wanted to avoid having her that close to him. ‘‘Are you coming, or do I have to call John Mountain and have him hog-tie you?’’ He sighed and joined her in the bathroom. She had turned on both the overhead and vanity lights to work by and it gave Ethan a stark view of her. She’d done more than wash up, she’d slipped out of her suit jacket and heels. Between the oyster-white camisole, the pencil-slim blue skirt and her usually neat hairdo in sexy, windswept disarray, she looked anything but the cool cookie she was trying to portray. To keep from staring, he gave her his back, but that only gave him her reflection in the vanity mirror. He shut his eyes. ‘‘Would you relax? It’s not as if it needs stitching.’’ It might as well, he thought, resting his forearms on the counter as she urged him to bend. Considering what he would be imagining as she worked on him, a needle and a thread would definitely be less of an ordeal. Using cotton balls, she dabbed disinfectant gently around the bruised and swollen area. Her touch was feather-light, as fleeting as her teasing kisses had been. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to focus on something else, like listing the tax reports due this week, which he hadn’t started. ‘‘You really can’t bear my touch, can you?’’ Had the woman lost her mind? Gone blind? ‘‘Don’t start, Kate,’’ he replied, deciding not to pretend. ‘‘I appreciate what you’re doing, but don’t start.’’ She didn’t reply, and that only made him feel more of a heel. It was worse when he saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked as miserable as he felt. He gripped the edge of the counter and sighed. ‘‘Don’t hate me.’’ ‘‘I don’t hate you, Ethan. I just have to wonder why I

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spend so much of my time reminding myself why I like you.’’ ‘‘It’s not me. You have a fixation with people with screwed-up lives.’’ He expected her to counter with a comment about how his messes bore no comparison, a dry laugh, something. ‘‘That was a joke,’’ he finally muttered. ‘‘Actually, I was thinking how I haven’t done much to help your situation. In fact, I may have made things worse.’’ He watched in the mirror as she leaned over to drop the soiled cotton balls into the wastebasket beneath the sink. Even as his body heated at the tantalizing view of cleavage, his mind locked in on the meaning behind her words, and her troubled eyes. ‘‘You want to talk about it?’’ he asked as she unscrewed the medicated ointment. ‘‘Not really. But you have a right to hear it. I had a runin with Warren Blankenship today. This one almost got ugly. He made accusations. Accusations—there’s a laugh. He basically hit the nail on the head regarding us. That’s not so bad, I suppose, but when I went to the Hip Hop for lunch, we met again.’’ She quickly summarized the experience for him. Ethan had a gut feeling that she left out more than she told. ‘‘Needless to say, I changed my order to takeout and went back to the courthouse before they decided I should wear a scarlet letter on my chest.’’ ‘‘I should never have let you get involved in this,’’ he said, as disgusted with those people’s behavior as he was concerned for her. ‘‘If I had more brains and guts, I’d—’’ Kate silenced him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder. ‘‘It’s done. My concern is that this kind of negativity will somehow bleed back to the courtroom. I’ve seen it happen. Usually on bigger cases, but public opinion can coerce a

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judge to change his opinion on something. Especially if he fears a career backlash.’’ Ethan didn’t like what he was hearing. ‘‘Are you saying it was a mistake to gamble on Lessing after all?’’ ‘‘No. That’s the problem. Lessing was and is the best, the only, choice, despite not being my staunchest supporter. But I had to do something to offset all the criticism. I’ve been working on it for a while now, and I’m afraid you’re going to be angry with me when you hear about it.’’ Although she was still working on his back, he shifted to look at her. ‘‘What?’’ ‘‘I’ve been talking to Noble and Ruth. Well, Noble first, but he’s refused to listen. Today I approached Ruth, offering to bring Darcy over for a monitored visit.’’ Ethan straightened and stared at her in the mirror. ‘‘You did what?’’ Kate attached a second piece of adhesive to the gauze pad on his wound. ‘‘It’s the only fair thing, Ethan. And smart. To cut them off entirely wouldn’t look good in court.’’ ‘‘They made my sister’s life hell! Their son terrorized her. Do you think I care about appearances?’’ he roared. ‘‘Ethan—the baby!’’ Kate warned as she heard Darcy whimper. ‘‘I don’t care how it looks,’’ he said again, although this time he lowered his voice to an angry whisper. ‘‘What right do you have to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?’’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘‘Absolutely none,’’ she murmured, and, throwing the adhesive roll onto the vanity, she rushed out of the room. The haunting image of her anguished eyes, her drawn face, were too much. Ethan lurched after her, barely managing to block her exit at the bedroom door. ‘‘Get out of my way, Ethan. Darcy’s hungry.’’ ‘‘No, she’s not.’’ Only a week into their new routine, Eva

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had started giving the baby dinner at Kate’s place to save them time. Her escape plot foiled, Kate tried to sidestep him anyway. He let her, only to grab her from behind, then bring her back flush against him. ‘‘Kate.’’ He tightened both arms around her waist, pressed his face against her hair and willed her to be still. ‘‘Let me go.’’ ‘‘Not yet.’’ He felt, more than heard, her fight back a sob. ‘‘You can’t keep doing this to me.’’ ‘‘I know.’’ But he didn’t release her. In fact, catching the phantomlike whisper of her fragrance, he followed it, ever so slowly letting his lips whisper across the outer shell of her ear, down the side of her neck. With a sigh, Kate surrendered, letting her head drop back against his shoulder. ‘‘I don’t know what exhausts me more...fighting you, or fighting for you.’’ ‘‘I’m not worth either.’’ He let his eyes drift shut, let his lips rest against the curve of her throat. ‘‘Don’t say that,’’ she whispered back. ‘‘It’s the truth. But, God, I love holding you.’’ ‘‘You love turning my mind and my life inside out and upside down,’’ she said accusingly. But she covered his arms with hers. ‘‘In this case, it’s deserved. Hell, Kate...taking Darcy to see them?’’ ‘‘Monitored by me, Ethan. You didn’t experience what I did today. I admit, after the anger, I felt the first hint of fear. Fear of losing everything. It made me want to try a little harder at compromise.’’ He didn’t want to ask, but, once again touching his face to her hair, he forced himself. ‘‘What happened?’’ ‘‘Nothing promising. Ruth said she would discuss it with

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Noble. He wasn’t home.’’ Kate turned her head until her breath teased his cheek. ‘‘Still angry with me?’’ Reluctantly he lifted his head. ‘‘It’s beginning to feel like a waste of time. You’ll just clobber me with logic.’’ She smiled. He smiled. Ever so slowly, Kate’s gaze shifted to his mouth. ‘‘Kiss me.’’ Dear heaven, he wanted to. His body ached from wanting to. But he didn’t want to start something that he wouldn’t finish. ‘‘Nothing can come of it, Kate.’’ ‘‘Now who’s clobbering who with logic?’’ Her gaze sought his. ‘‘I don’t care about tomorrow. I’m not asking you for promises. Just...kiss me. Just once more.’’ In the end, she closed the inch of space between them, touched her mouth to his and edged him closer to madness by using the tip of her tongue to trace the line of his dry lips and beyond. All the while, Ethan stood rigid, throbbing, his fingers biting into the slender span of her waist, because he wanted to fill his hands with her breasts, get drunk on the sweet nectar he tasted on her lips. Breathing like a freight train and feeling more than one bead of sweat streak down his face, Ethan eased the hold he knew had to be painful for her. Kate dropped her hands, and as soon as he’d completely released her, she turned to face him. ‘‘I’ll get dinner.’’ Not trusting his voice, he settled for a nod. But once he retreated to the bathroom to straighten up, he stared at his harsh reflection in the mirror and whispered, ‘‘You son of a bitch.’’ How much more are you going to take, Kate? How much more are you going to ask me to resist?

Eight S

exual frustration. Ethan tossed the last three empty sacks of calf-protein pellets toward the burning barrel, only to see all three miss. Cursing the things, his aim, and life in general, he retrieved them and shoved them brutally into the metal drum. Yes, it was time to admit that was what had him so edgy that he could probably bend a horseshoe nail between his teeth. He was about as tangled up with sexual frustration as a man could get. And there was no end in sight. ‘‘Want a suggestion?’’ Ethan turned in time to catch the keys John Mountain tossed him. Only minutes ago he’d handed them over to him. The cowboy needed to drive down into Whitehorn and pick up some feed and supplies. This turnabout confused him. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ ‘‘You need a break. You go.’’ ‘‘Says who?’’ ‘‘Me. You haven’t been off this place since the wedding. Nearly two months, ain’t it?’’ Six weeks and two days. Ethan looked up at the blue sky, dotted with lamb-white clouds. May. What had happened to April? He knew what hadn’t happened. That was the problem. He’d been a fool to think he could share a cabin with Kate and not go out of his mind. ‘‘It’s your right to go,’’ he insisted, trying to stay focused

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on the issue. No matter what, he couldn’t deny John Mountain his own break. The guy had few other perks in this job. ‘‘Next time. Now scram. Maybe you’ll run into Ms. Kate. Buy her lunch.’’ Ethan scowled harder. ‘‘What are you trying to do, become a fairy godmother in your free time?’’ ‘‘Nope. But I am tired of seeing Ms. Kate get paler. You getting meaner.’’ Since when did their resident hermit notice such things? John Mountain worked overtime making sure he was nearly invisible on the Double N. In fact, the harder Kate tried to include him in meals and initiate a friendship, the longer John Mountain stayed out with the herd. Of course, that didn’t mean the concise character study was off. Sure, Ethan knew he’d been behaving more and more like a wounded grizzly. When a man watched his dreams slipping through his fingers, and didn’t have a clue as to how to stop the whirlpool that was sucking them away, did anyone expect him to be cheerful? As for Kate...she was getting paler, true; and he was secretly going out of his mind with concern for her. But when he offered her the only solution he could think of to help her, she’d refused to listen. They were at an impasse, and impasses were always debilitating. ‘‘It’s too late for lunch,’’ he muttered, frowning at the keys. ‘‘Besides, she’s in Billings today.’’ John Mountain nodded. That irked Ethan, too. The guy would never ask why, where, or anything. ‘‘She’s giving another speech.’’ Afterward she planned to stop by and try to smooth-talk Ruth Taylor into agreeing to visit with the baby. Not because she wanted it, and despite his disapproval. At least he could take comfort in knowing that so far it hadn’t hap-

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pened—the Taylors stood firm, wanting everything or nothing. ‘‘There’s no reason for you not to go,’’ he insisted when his ranch hand continued to stand there watching him. But as he offered the keys again, John Mountain stepped back. ‘‘Hell’s bells, John!’’ In the end, Ethan went, if only to get away from John Mountain’s stubbornness, and his too-accurate deductions— not to mention his slightly accusatory looks. Once on the road, however, he soon realized he was glad to be going. The snow had retreated to the higher elevations, and spring had settled in the foothills. Granted, they still had cause to worry about an unexpected, stubborn front blanketing them with a killer snow; last year they’d experienced exactly that scenario. In the process, they’d lost a half-dozen calves and two heifers having difficult births that couldn’t be reached in time to help. For the moment, though, deceptively fragile wildflowers were spreading in the most sunny patches of the brilliant green valleys, and all the wildlife were exhibiting their own signs of renewal. Birds were busy collecting bits of dried grass and twigs for nests, and some were already feeding their voraciously hungry hatchlings. Cattle and horses nursed and groomed their toothpick-legged newborns in the warm sunlight. As he followed a tumbling alpine stream running parallel to the road, he passed the entrance to Shadow Ranch, and his thoughts shifted to his own leggy little miracle. At nearly three months, Darcy was showing signs of her personality and proving more and more of a delight. Kate kept bringing home book after book from the library on child care and teaching techniques, and while he’d balked at reading them in the beginning, once he’d reminded himself how he’d failed with Marilee, he’d begun to give them

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at least some consideration. He was, however, most comfortable when he followed his instincts, rocking her to sleep when she was cranky, walking her around and showing her various things that caught her eye. He could already tell she was going to be a remarkably bright little girl. Maybe a singer, he thought, smiling as he thought of the way she’d taken to delivering long soliloquies of gibberish. But thoughts of the future brought him back to the present and the dilemma—dilemmas that wouldn’t go away. Kate. Kate worried him. She was working nonstop, and denying herself too much. True, she bubbled with enthusiasm over Darcy, dropping everything to give the baby a bath or play with one of the dozen stuffed animals that she’d already bought for the child, but he wondered how long the pace could continue. As it was, he didn’t know how she managed to be home nearly every night to help with meals or spend time with the infant, and then work until midnight on a speech, or inch through one of the countless folders she brought home, cases she studied prior to scheduled trials. As he’d always suspected, Kate took every case seriously, following up on women in abusive relationships, runaways placed in foster homes. And still she returned every day to Shadow Ranch to spend time with Eva and Jorge, catch up with business demands there, call clients back. Not surprisingly, she’d chiseled down her social life to nil. He knew that from how few nights she came home late if court or an appearance hadn’t been scheduled. Also telling were the RSVP envelopes that often went out with her as she left in the mornings. He didn’t know much about things requiring RSVPs, but after catching a peek at one, he assumed the others were versions of the same thing. Some went as far as California.

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He drove himself crazy wondering how many were from men. Yes, she was pale, pale from burning the candle at both ends and being put through hell by him and his problems. He didn’t know how she managed it. But he did understand that she would be in far worse shape if he gave in to what he wanted most from her. He found it incredible enough that he could make her want him, even if he’d convinced himself that much of that was compassion, not passion. Yet he was thinking about that as he gave in to temptation and made an unexpected detour. As a result, it was a full hour later when he finally backed up to the loading dock at the Whitehorn Farmers Cooperative. Several trucks were waiting to be loaded, but the crowd at the counter inside was much worse. Resigned to a considerable wait, he wandered around the store checking out the new tackle, the inventory of garden seed, which he decided would have to wait another year, the price board for feed costs... He was studying the various varmint traps when he heard footsteps behind him. ‘‘Well, well. What are you doing in town, Walker? Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?’’ The big mouth belonged to Josh Trask, an old pal of Charlie Avery’s. Ethan decided the fewer words that passed between him and the lanky sometime rodeo rider, the better. When he spotted a chance to be waited on, he moved up to the counter. ‘‘What’s the matter, Walker? Turning deaf in your old age?’’ Bill Frieland, the co-op’s manager, pulled a pen from behind his ear. ‘‘Trask, I don’t need any trouble. Behave or take a walk.’’ Despite the warning, Ethan noticed he was the one who received the wary look from Frieland. It came as no surprise.

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The authorities had found no new suspects to tie to Charlie’s murder; understandably, some still considered him the number one suspect, no matter what the experts had concluded. He was just grateful that Bill had decided to let him place his order. ‘‘Excuse me, gentlemen, could I get through, please?’’ Trask tipped his Stetson, and Ethan stepped out of the way of the woman leaning a shovel and hoe against the counter. It was Mary Jo Kincaid. Though they had never been introduced, Mary Jo had faithfully sat through every day of his trial. She had looked as out of place there, with her frilly, garden-tea clothes, as she did now, but Ethan welcomed the intrusion. At this point, a film crew with a bull would work for him if it broke the tension Trask was trying instigate. ‘‘Mary Jo, what are you up to with that?’’ Frieland asked with a bemused smile. ‘‘Gonna do some gardening?’’ ‘‘I thought I might try a little flower bed in front of the library, Mr. Mills. It could do with some brightening. There’s no budget for one, of course, but that’s not going to stop me. I plan to donate the expense, and my time.’’ ‘‘Why, that’s mighty generous of you, Mary Jo. My wife was saying the other day how lucky Whitehorn was to have you over there.’’ Without asking Ethan if he minded the wait, he quickly rang up Mary Jo’s purchase. She drew out the proper amount from her wallet and handed it to the man. ‘‘You be sure to thank her for me. Oh, and do you know who could give me the best advice regarding blooming plants? Especially roses. I’m worried about freeze conditions and maintenance.’’ Because he was aware of Josh Trask’s narrow-eyed stare, Ethan almost groaned at this annoying chitchat. Fortunately, Frieland knew exactly who to recommend, and the woman soon picked up her tools. She cast him a demure smile.

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‘‘Thank you so much for letting me elbow my way in.’’ She really was a pretty little thing, if you liked the frilly type. He didn’t, and, barely sparing her a glance touched his hat, murmured, ‘‘Ma’am,’’ and turned back to Bill Frieland. It was too much to hope Trask would keep his mouth shut and wait until she was gone to start up again. ‘‘Better watch it, ma’am. Maybe you aren’t familiar enough with the goings-on in our little town yet to realize you’ve been associating with a dangerous hombre. Why, I would consider it neglecting my civil duty not to warn you to give him as much space as possible. The last guy who got too close was a good friend of mine and—’’ ‘‘Shut your mouth, Trask, or I’ll do it for you.’’ ‘‘Tell you what, Ethan,’’ the manager told him, ‘‘go out to Will and tell him what you need. I’ll bill you.’’ Grateful, Ethan thanked him. With a curt nod to the wideeyed woman, he headed toward the loading docks. He thought he was home free after that. In fact, Will, the order filler John Mountain had mentioned was the most reliable, had him nearly loaded by the time Trask strolled outside. ‘‘Hey, jailbird...where you off to next? Gonna go visit your sweetie?’’ Under normal circumstances, Ethan didn’t pay attention to scum like Trask, but the reference to Kate triggered something inside him. Only the thought of what she would say if he landed in a fight stopped him from giving in there and then and knocking the creep off the dock. When Will came along with the last load of fifty-pound sacks, Ethan grabbed the top one and started helping to ensure his speedier departure. Trask put his foot on the back of Ethan’s tailgate. ‘‘Yep, it sure did blow everyone’s mind when you two got hitched,’’ he said, as Ethan approached his truck with an-

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other sack. ‘‘What with Wayne Kincaid being her great love and all. Tell me, Walker, when she’s crying for it, is it your name she calls or—’’ He’d tried. Even as Ethan threw himself at the man, all he knew was that he couldn’t let the bastard finish. He would strangle the last breath out of him first. His first punch went into Trask’s belly. It bent the man in half and left him gasping. But when Ethan tried to add a hammerlike blow over the guy’s back, Trask dodged out of the way and surprised him with a slice across his cheekbone. Thanks to a rodeo ring, it felt like a knife, painful enough to knock Ethan off-balance. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then, before Trask could recover himself, once again dived at him. The momentum carried them off the dock and onto the mountain of sacks piled in the bed of his truck. From there they tumbled over the side and onto the packed-dirt-and-gravel driveway. They hit with a merciless thud, and both of them erupted with grunts, groans and curses that would have cleared the area of women and children if there had been any around at the moment. Ethan had a fleeting thought that he might have cracked a rib, and an elbow was in serious question. But having stepped too far over the line of reason, neither of them gave a hint of backing off. Ethan connected with his next two punches. Trask followed with a uppercut that nearly broke Ethan’s nose. Dust and blood seemed be everywhere, but, determined to hear Trask take back the foul words, Ethan snatched up the wobblier man by his shirt and reached back. He intended to end it, there and then. His thoughts weren’t that logical or orderly, but every primal instinct in him was to lock and load. Go for the kill. What stopped him was the view over Trask’s shoulder—the glossy but

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conservative sedan that braked to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. Hell and damnation. It was Noble Taylor. Even in the shadow of the car’s interior, Ethan saw the look of supreme satisfaction that spread across Taylor’s face. Then the sedan sped away. Hurting, Ethan hauled Trask up like a rag doll and shoved him against the dock. ‘‘You ever...mention my wife again...I’ll finish this,’’ he snarled between heaving breaths. He shoved him away. Then he purged his real anger by kicking a beer can out of his way. Trying to clear his head enough to decide what he was supposed to do next, he wiped at the taste of blood in his mouth and focused on the driver’s door of his truck. If he could reach it, he told himself, everything would be all right. Somehow he did. But as he drove away, his gaze shifted to his rearview mirror, and his thoughts returned to Noble Taylor. There would be hell to pay. Only right now he hurt too much to care. ‘‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mrs. Taylor,’’ Kate said, shaking hands with the reluctant woman. ‘‘As I mentioned on the phone, I was in town for a speaking engagement, and I thought this might be a good opportunity for us to touch base again.’’ ‘‘And as I told you, I’m not sure that we have anything to discuss, Judge Randall.’’ Ruth Taylor kept the handshake short and didn’t budge far from the entrance to the mansion. ‘‘My husband isn’t home, and I wouldn’t think of making any decision without his input.’’ ‘‘Nor would I ask you to,’’ Kate assured her. ‘‘But speaking woman to woman, surely you agree that if we can’t

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establish an intelligent yet compassionate dialogue, no one can.’’ That seemed to appeal to Ruth, and she glanced over her shoulder to her housekeeper, who stood aside, looking sympathetic but trapped by her position. ‘‘Norma, I think we’ll go into the parlor. Perhaps Judge Randall would care for some tea or coffee.’’ ‘‘Nothing, thank you,’’ Kate assured them both. ‘‘The idea of visiting for a few minutes would be refreshing enough. You see, I brought some pictures of Darcy that I’d love to share with you.’’ If Ruth had been hesitant, that remark succeeded in vanquishing her doubts, and she led the way into the first room on the left, which, although smaller, was less stuffy than the living room had been. Kate eyed the seating arrangement of the love seat and chairs and strategically chose the couch. Ruth watched her dig out the photographs from her purse and cautiously lowered herself beside her. ‘‘Er, please don’t take this the wrong way, but—is she doing all right?’’ she asked Kate. Intrigued by the hesitancy, as much as by the question itself, Kate replied, ‘‘She’s a joy. She’s beginning to make little noises, tiny grunts and cooing sounds. Look. Here she is in her crib. I’m afraid we’re inundating her with stuffed animals.’’ ‘‘I’m a fan of dolls myself. I always thought if I had a daughter that I would see she had the dolls I never did. My father was in the military,’’ she explained, when she saw Kate’s curious look. ‘‘We traveled a great deal, and he thought toys were...superfluous.’’ ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ The older woman stiffened, as if realizing her slip. ‘‘Oh, no. I’m not complaining. Besides, it was a long time ago.’’ But she soon mellowed again. ‘‘I did see a doll down at

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Ivers the other day that I almost purchased on a whim for the baby. Of course, she’s too small for dolls, and this wasn’t just any doll. Ivers specializes in collectibles, you know.’’ ‘‘Yes, I still have the one my father bought me there when I was four.’’ Kate had preferred models of horses by then, but she still had the doll in storage, respecting that someone, somewhere, would cherish it in the future. ‘‘Four... Well, I suppose I’m too far ahead of myself.’’ ‘‘But it’s a lovely thought,’’ Kate assured her. ‘‘Maybe if you had a chance to meet Darcy, you’d get a better feel for what she is and isn’t ready for.’’ ‘‘You could be right. But of course I would have to talk to— Why, Noble, dear. You’re early.’’ Noble Taylor ignored his wife and stepped farther into the room, staring at Kate. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Red-faced, and more agitated than Kate had ever seen him, he evoked an aura of a man both riding some emotional high and furiously angry. Careful, she told herself. ‘‘I was in the neighborhood, Mr. Taylor. I wanted to see if perhaps—’’ ‘‘You’re trying to brainwash my wife, while your socalled husband once again shows his true colors. He may be committing another murder for all I know!’’ She couldn’t comprehend what he could possibly mean and so simply shook her head. ‘‘I’ve come from Whitehorn. I saw him myself!’’ Ruth did a double take. ‘‘Noble, what were you doing in Whitehorn? I thought you said you had to go to Bozeman today.’’ He clenched his hands at his sides. ‘‘Don’t interrupt me. Aren’t you listening? I saw Ethan Walker, that so-called responsible citizen that we’re not supposed to be afraid of, beating a man to a pulp.’’

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‘‘Where? When?’’ Kate demanded, unable to believe what he was saying. It had to be a mistake. Noble must had seen someone who looked like Ethan. ‘‘By the loading dock at the feed store in Whitehorn.’’ A lead weight fell on Kate’s chest. Ethan had said John Mountain would be going to pick up supplies today. Could he have changed his mind and gone instead? ‘‘Dear God.’’ She didn’t know what to think, only that she had to get back to Whitehorn. Back to the Double N. ‘‘Please don’t jump to conclusions,’’ she said, rising. ‘‘There has to be some explanation.’’ ‘‘Oh, I’ve no doubt there is,’’ Noble replied, hooking his thumbs around his suspender straps. ‘‘In fact, it’s what I’ve maintained all along. The man you claim is capable of raising my granddaughter is nothing more than a hooligan, a— a sociopath! Now take your propaganda and get out.’’ Kate didn’t need the dismissal. She’d already been shoving the pictures into her purse and heading for the door. In fact, she barely heard him. With a parting, barely coherent goodbye to Ruth, she turned all her thoughts on Ethan. The drive from Billings to Whitehorn had never seemed longer. Kate couldn’t remember when her nerves had last been stretched to the extent they were when she wheeled into Shadow Ranch and raced to the house. This detour didn’t help, but she’d decided she would ask Eva to keep Darcy for the night. She had no idea what she would be walking into over at the Double N, and there was no reason for the baby to suffer. A short time later, she entered her home, to receive another blow. Ethan had beaten her to it. He’d come by and taken Darcy, despite Eva’s protests. Kate couldn’t believe her housekeeper’s accusations. ‘‘What do you mean, he kidnapped her?’’ she asked,

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stunned, as she stared into the empty baby carriage. She shook her head. ‘‘Eva, let’s not get hysterical. She’s his niece. He had ever reason to stop by and take her home with him if that’s what he wanted to do.’’ ‘‘Not in the condition he was in!’’ Kate’s heart did a flip-flop. ‘‘What was wrong with him?’’ ‘‘I haven’t seen so much blood since I slaughtered my first chicken as a girl.’’ Ethan was hurt. Although she hadn’t touched her lunch at the Billings country club, Kate’s stomach rolled threateningly, adding to her unease. ‘‘How long ago was all this?’’ The corner of Eva’s mouth drooped farther as she pantomimed uncertainty. ‘‘An hour ago.’’ ‘‘Did he say anything?’’ ‘‘He told me to mind my own business.’’ Kate rubbed at the viselike pinch between her eyebrows. ‘‘I’d better get over there.’’ ‘‘Stay, child.’’ Eva gripped her arm, intensifying her entreaty. ‘‘He’s made his decision. Don’t let him drag you down with him. How are you going to defend the man? Already his face looks as if a bull used it as a doormat. Who knows what he did before he came here?’’ She didn’t have any answers to pacify Eva, no possible explanations for what she knew she must do, except one. ‘‘He’s my husband, Eva. I have to go.’’ ‘‘Go if you must. But do it for the baby’s sake, not his.’’ She followed Kate to the door. ‘‘And I tell you this—you give your papa no rest in heaven!’’ She couldn’t have chosen a more cruel declaration; however, rather than get into an argument, Kate muttered that she would be in contact as soon as she could, and dashed back to her car.

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As she drove back toward Mountain Pass, though, she put her personal hurt aside. Eva didn’t mean half of what she’d said; she simply didn’t understand all that was going on. That was her fault for not having explained better. She focused on the baby. Darcy was young enough that she wouldn’t understand Ethan’s condition. That gave her some reassurance. No matter what this sounded like, Ethan wouldn’t endanger a child. But Ethan... What’s happened? Her anxiety grew as she reached the Double N and drew nearer to the cabin. She felt better when she saw his truck backed up to the entrance of the barn. How badly could he be hurt, how upset could he be, if he could still maneuver the truck for unloading? But her spirits sank again when she realized he hadn’t begun to unload, and that there was no sign of John Mountain. Inside, she found more that disturbed her. Darcy was lying in her crib, screaming her little heart out, and the only sign of Ethan was the sound of water running full force in the bathroom. ‘‘Sweetheart, don’t. Aunt Kate’s here,’’ she murmured soothingly, tossing her purse and keys on a side table. Quickly shrugging out of the red bolero jacket of her redand-black suit, she hurried to the crib. ‘‘Poor twiglet. Uncle Ethan took you away from all the color and noise of Eva’s kitchen. Bet you’ve been telling him that you don’t want to be left alone in this gloomy room. Come on...up you go. We’ll make it better.’’ She lifted the child from beneath the too-warm blankets she’d been wrapped in for the trip and into her arms. Only then did she slip off the baby’s bonnet. Dark brown curls clung in damp chaos around her feverish forehead, giving evidence of the baby’s overexerted, anxious state. Her small,

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flushed, tear-mottled face and tiny fisted hands completed a picture that both broke Kate’s heart and infuriated her. ‘‘There, there. It’s better now,’’ she said in a singsong voice. ‘‘Let’s go see where that grumble bear is, okay? Bet looking at him gave you a fright.’’ The chatting calmed Darcy, and it helped Kate, too, giving her a chance to purge some of her tension as she entered the bedroom and circled to the bathroom. However, the lack of sound—save that of running water—disturbed her anew. So did the amount of steam billowing out of the room. If Ethan hadn’t been hurt when he went in there, he had to be hurting now, and most likely from second-degree burns! ‘‘Ethan?’’ When he didn’t reply, she ventured a bit farther into the bathroom. That was when she saw his clothes scattered on the floor where he’d dropped them. Even with the steam, she could see the bloodstains. ‘‘Ethan, it’s me. Are you all right?’’ She heard a grunting sound—or it may have been a moan—before he shut off the water. ‘‘Go take care of the baby. I’m fine.’’ He didn’t sound fine. ‘‘I have the baby. She was blue from screaming when I arrived.’’ Another low sound emerged from the stall, but no real reply. ‘‘We need to talk, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Not now!’’ ‘‘Yes, now.’’ She only caught the end of the ugly word that erupted from him before he threw the shower door open. It should have come off its rollers from the force, shattered as it hit the jamb. But, to Kate’s relief, despite shuddering horribly, it didn’t break. Then she saw his face, and concern for everything else shifted to secondary importance. ‘‘Oh...Ethan.’’

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‘‘Satisfied? Can I have my towel now?’’ He finally took notice of the baby. ‘‘For the love of— Get her out of this sweatbox!’’ The baby didn’t mind the steam, but she took immediate offense at his tone. When she broke into a new heartbroken wail, Kate shot Ethan a scathing look, snatched up the towel from the rack behind her and flung it at him. ‘‘Congratulations. Now you’ve managed to alienate all of us.’’ She returned to the living room, where she started preparing Darcy’s dinner. She hadn’t had time to ask Eva, but due to Ethan’s unexpected appearance, she guessed her housekeeper wouldn’t have had time to do that. As she went through the mechanics, the sight of Ethan’s battered and bruised face remained a terrible thing to contemplate. In her wildest dreams, she’d never have thought anything could make her oblivious of a man’s nudity, but that had done it. However, no matter how she ached for him, she was furious with him for what he’d jeopardized. She’d barely begun to feed the baby when he emerged from the bedroom. Dressed in jeans that he’d barely zipped, he went straight to the cupboard where he kept his whiskey and poured two fingers’ worth into a glass. He downed it in one swallow that left him hunched over and gripping the counter. Kate watched, torn in two. ‘‘Was it worth it?’’ she finally had to ask. ‘‘That’s not the point.’’ The careful enunciation of each word spoke of how his own nerves were frayed—or else how much pain he was feeling—but Kate couldn’t let that matter. ‘‘Well, you’d better think of one good one, because I drove here straight from getting thrown out of Noble Taylor’s house, and he’s crowing with glee at your behavior today.’’

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Ethan slammed the glass down on the counter and started to walk away. In the next instant, he wheeled around and roared, ‘‘You weren’t there! How can you judge what I do or don’t have to defend?’’ The moment he finished, he realized how loud he’d been, and the look he shot the baby reflected his abject shame. ‘‘You weren’t there,’’ he concluded heavily. ‘‘For your information that’s not the point, either,’’ Kate said, keeping her voice so low it shook. ‘‘Why did we do this, Ethan? Why did we get married, if you had no intention of trying to help? Why am I driving myself to exhaustion trying to survive, keeping up with two households? Why couldn’t you keep out of trouble for a few more weeks—a few more weeks, until we got through the custody hearing?’’ ‘‘I didn’t plan what happened!’’ The harsh words, as well as the pain they cost him, weren’t lost on her. As angry as she was, Kate told herself she had to know everything. ‘‘Tell me what did?’’ ‘‘I don’t want to talk about it.’’ ‘‘You don’t get a choice. You have to explain it to me so I can inform Joan Nyland,’’ Kate replied, reminding him of the lawyer she’d contacted from Billings to help them with the custody battle. ‘‘She needs time to figure out what damage has been done to your position. And I need the information, as well, since who knows what I’ll get hit with at court tomorrow?’’ He retraced his steps to reach for the bottle again. Then he stopped, and abruptly put it away. ‘‘I was at the feed store,’’ he began a moment later, staring at the cabinet. His tone remained flat, devoid of any emotion whatsoever. ‘‘A guy started being a jerk. I left. When I got outside, he followed. He wouldn’t give up.’’ ‘‘So you hit him?’’

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Ethan raked both hands through his hair. ‘‘It’s not that simple.’’ ‘‘Simple, complicated, right, wrong...do you think Warren Blankenship is going to care? Judge Lessing?’’ Kate shook her head in disbelief. ‘‘You—a man who’s already been on trial for a violent crime—you say you were provoked, and despite your precarious reputation in the community, your method of handling the situation was to use violence?’’ ‘‘He insulted you!’’ Although barely audible, the words were intense, and his look was feral. Kate was glad Darcy chose that moment to take a rest from the bottle, because her hand suddenly shook. He’d defended her. Lord, what a mess... But how did she make him understand? ‘‘Do you know how many people insult me on a given day, Ethan?’’ He made a brief, dismissive motion. ‘‘Don’t. It’s not the same thing.’’ ‘‘It is. They’re words, Ethan. Words spoken by angry, small-minded, dull-minded people who want you to lower yourself to their level. And you let him do it.’’ ‘‘Sweet heaven...you’re my wife!’’ The declaration might have thrilled her, except that a terrible thought came to mind. ‘‘Oh, no. That’s it? Please say it isn’t. Don’t try to suggest you were defending me, when what you were really doing is defending your pride.’’

Nine E

than stood at the front window, looking out at the moonless night. The house had never sounded so quiet, not even when he lived here alone. It had been that way for hours, ever since Kate had retreated to the bedroom with Darcy and shut him out. He felt like slime, an outcast. Unwanted. The feeling closed in on him, forcing up memories of the jungle and how he’d survived its suffocating stranglehold by thinking of Montana. Home. Where did you go when that home was no longer a sanctuary? What did you do when you knew you’d done something wrong, but couldn’t change it? He dropped the curtain on the night and returned to the recliner, picked up the large stuffed unicorn he’d brought inside about an hour ago and set it on the floor before him. Another idea gone bust, he thought, remembering the elation he’d felt earlier today, when, on impulse, he’d made the detour to the department store, hunting for something special for Darcy. When he saw the giant stuffed toy in the window, with its soft white fur, flowing silver-thread mane and golden horn, he’d known that, despite being a dozen times bigger than the baby, it was perfect. The toy had brought back all the memories of the day before, when they’d bathed the baby and Kate had entertained them both by singing a song about unicorns and dreams.

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He’d wanted to repeat the magic he’d felt with them, if only for a while. He’d wanted Darcy to know that although Kate would inevitably have to leave, her foster aunt would always be part of her life. The toy had been his contract, a reminder that he would suffer anything rather than deny the child Kate’s love. It had been a nice thought—a dream, inspired by a fairy tale, created by a realist. Small wonder that, as impulsively as he’d developed the fantasy, he’d quickly destroyed it. He couldn’t blame Kate for withdrawing from him, for shutting him out. What amazed him was that she hadn’t packed up and left already. Yet with each breath he took, he grew more aware that he couldn’t go through the night this way. Not this time. Although his face and body hurt like hell, it wasn’t all a result of the fight. That pain didn’t compare to his inner agony at the thought of all the endless, barren tomorrows without her. Oh, God. He wasn’t even sure he could make it through the night; the feel of her slipping through his fingers hurt too much. Despite the knowledge that he had no right to hold on, would indeed have to let go, something inside him kept demanding, Not yet. Stay with me a while longer. As another wave of despair swept over him, Ethan rose and let his feet carry him to the bedroom. Well accustomed to the darkness, he eased open the door and approached the bed. It was lighter there, thanks to the night-light Kate had purchased for the bathroom. The faint amber glow bathed the woman and child on the bed in an ethereal light. Ethan stood in silent observance, grateful for the chance to fill his mind with a different vision from what had been festering there. What he saw gave him a quiet joy, but a gnawing envy, too. Kate lay curled with her back to the light. In the nest of her body lay Darcy, being entertained by some angelic

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dream. The sweet smile that played across Darcy’s Cupid’s-bow mouth had him bending low, lower...finally close enough to kiss her forehead. How he yearned for an ounce of her goodness, her pureness of spirit, to seep into him. Intent on ensuring Kate a full night’s rest, he carefully picked up the baby. But no sooner did he straighten than he saw Kate’s eyelids lift. Their gazes met, locked. For a moment, he saw tenderness and more. Then the lingering veil of drowsiness vaporized like morning dew and he saw realization take hold. Doubt, worry and disappointment returned like an overcast sky. ‘‘Go back to sleep. I’ll take her to her crib.’’ He retreated, knowing it was best, painfully aware that to linger and not weaken his resolve would take a stronger man than he. What worked was redirecting the anguish churning inside him into tenderness for the baby as she roused. Since she no longer woke for two-o’clock feedings, he used the opportunity to change her, all the while talking softly to her. It won him a loving smile, which tempted him to show her what he’d bought her today. But, as quickly as she’d awakened, she drifted back to sleep. The gift could wait for tomorrow, he decided. By then— if Kate was smart and chose to give up on him—he and Darcy would need all the entertainment he could think of to make up for the loneliness her absence would create in both of their lives. After he was through, he backed away from the crib, and only then realized he wasn’t alone. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Kate standing in the bedroom doorway. Dressed in the oversize flannel nightshirt he’d once criticized, with her hair in sleepy disarray, physically she hadn’t changed much from the schoolgirl she’d been when he and Wayne left for Nam.

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But she had changed inside. She’d become much more cautious, even in the past few hours. She was closing emotional doors. It reminded him of a night a lifetime ago, a night as still and stark as this one, when a vow had been drawn from him... ‘‘Promise me, if something happens to me, you’ll take care of Kate, Ethan. She won’t make it easy for you, she’s so independent and spirited, but promise anyway. She’s special. I know you see it, too. She has a lot of love to give, but I couldn’t stand it if some bastard destroyed that special light in her. Promise, Ethan.’’ He’d promised, but only to make Wayne stop scaring the crap out of him. And the next morning, his idol, his mentor and pal, had died. That was why he’d come back and, after trying and failing to tell Kate how he’d failed her, how he’d failed them both, he’d given up on his vow. But how did you stop wanting? Aware of those old feelings humming in him now, he soothed them by crossing over to her. ‘‘I wanted you to sleep,’’ he murmured, letting his gaze caress her face. ‘‘Then you shouldn’t have come in.’’ True. They were growing far too attuned to each other for her not to know if he was close. It made no sense to apologize, either. It wouldn’t be sincere, because he liked knowing she could be that sensitive to him. ‘‘How do you feel?’’ he asked instead. ‘‘Numb.’’ ‘‘Can I get you anything?’’ She didn’t answer that, but her gaze asked what he could possibly get her that would be a panacea for what he’d cost them. She had a point, but he also knew that if he had to do it over again, his decision would be the same. So there was another dilemma: How did you apologize for accepting your own flaws?

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‘‘What’s that?’’ Her gaze, somewhat bewildered now, had moved on to the stuffed animal hardly hidden by his recliner. ‘‘Hell, they say you’re never too young to start learning to ride...’’ She shot him a doubtful glance. ‘‘Okay, so I was feeling guilty because you’ve been buying her all these things, and I hadn’t gotten her anything. I thought the least I could do is find her something to add toward the collection you started for her,’’ he said, gesturing to the menagerie keeping the baby company in the crib. Ethan watched her push away from the jamb and circle the decorative dustcatcher. He refused to feel any guilt for lusting after her luscious legs, the silky fall of her hair, the curve of her breast glimpsed in the deep V of her shirt when she stood just right. ‘‘You know she’ll toss it out for a water bed in, say...oh, twenty years or so,’’ Kate warned, a husky warmth entering her voice. ‘‘Maybe, but I don’t think so. Her aunt hasn’t outgrown her love for fairy tales, or her faith in miracles.’’ She cast him a doleful look. ‘‘I’m not in the mood to be charmed, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Stop making me want to try.’’ As expected, she chose retreat. But, about to circle back to the bedroom, she saw the box on the side table. She stopped. ‘‘What’s this?’’ She should have missed it. It was a tiny box. But the gold foil wrapping had picked up the light from the oil lamp on the kitchen island. ‘‘A little something for you. I was carrying the toy to the truck when I passed this window and...’’ He shrugged, preferring to watch what she would do. She squared her shoulders. ‘‘I won’t accept it. I can’t.’’

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‘‘Yeah, you can. If not as a thank-you for what you tried to do, take it as a thank-you for what I’m about to ask of you.’’ Some intent must have shown in his eyes, because she suddenly, vehemently, shook her head, and this time she did make it to the bedroom. Only Ethan stretched his arm out across the doorway at the last moment, stopping her. ‘‘Why now?’’ she whispered, almost beseeching. ‘‘Why tonight?’’ He almost stopped breathing in order to retain the subtle touch of her breasts against his arm. ‘‘It’s time.’’ ‘‘No. I’ll call Joan Nyland in the morning and tell her not to use me as an intermediary anymore, that you’re all hers. This is impossible, Ethan. I thought I could do this, but only a fool keeps banging her head against a brick wall without something giving.’’ ‘‘Give me one more night.’’ ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘I want you, Kate.’’ ‘‘You...’’ Despite having every right to call him a number of terrible things, she surprised him by falling silent. ‘‘Why tonight?’’ she asked again. ‘‘Because you’ve finally let go of the illusions you have about me.’’ ‘‘I’ve never had any illusions about you, Ethan.’’ ‘‘Yes, you have. But now you can see me for what I am.’’ ‘‘Achieving what?’’ ‘‘Honesty. Complete, total honesty. Enough to admit the chemistry between us. It’s time we deal with it.’’ And if she tried to slip past him now and lock that bedroom door, he couldn’t guarantee he would let her. Not this time. Instead, she turned to bring her body flush against his, and looked up at him. ‘‘Then say it. Tell me you want to make love with me.’’

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‘‘I want to unbutton that nightshirt, drag it over your head and taste every inch of you. Then I want to rub you all over me until you’re closer than my own skin. I want you hard, and I want you soft, and I’ll even settle for a little crazy.’’ ‘‘But you don’t want to make love to me?’’ ‘‘No.’’ ‘‘Have it your way,’’ she said, unbuttoning the three buttons on her shirt, then slipping her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and locked his mouth to hers. He’d been frustrated, tired, angry with the waiting. Now he knew only the devouring hunger he had to sate. He’d told Kate things would never be casual between them, and he’d meant it. Seconds later, when he felt the first tremors of pleasure begin reverberating from his body and hers, he knew that what followed would be all he’d asked of her, and more. But not casual. Even before he deepened the kiss, she was his. He felt it from the first instant, and crushed her closer, wanting the imprint of her on him, to know he would feel her hours, days from now, no matter what. He didn’t care about the pain settling in his back from his earlier acrobatics, or the ache in his ribs. And, to his relief, Kate gave every evidence of wanting him just as badly. In fact, rising on tiptoe, she held him as tight as she could and pressed herself to him with an urgency that threatened to drain him before they’d barely begun. Pleasure speared through him, and longing fed him. No matter how and where he touched her, it wasn’t enough. He explored her like a blind man, stroking the length of her back, caressing the fine but strong bones of her shoulders, spanning her trim waist, then splaying his fingers to possess the tempting curve of her hips. Dizzy with the heady sensations, he leaned back against the door jamb and tested his endurance further by drawing her between his legs.

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When he moaned, she tore her mouth from his. ‘‘Am I hurting you?’’ ‘‘Yeah, but don’t stop. It’s a good hurt...a very... good...’’ Frustrated with flannel, he slipped his hands beneath and sculpted her slender, taut curves. If he’d known she felt this good, that she was wearing so little, he might never have resisted her this long. Wanting more, he cupped her and rubbed her slowly around and around, matching the pagan rhythm of his tongue. Around and around, until a small fire ignited between them and soft, throaty sounds of pleasure whispered in her throat. When he momentarily clenched his hands, she gasped and tore her mouth from his. ‘‘I have...one question,’’ she breathed shakily. ‘‘Is this going to happen standing up?’’ ‘‘Not our first time.’’ The idea appealed, though. They’d deprived themselves for too long not to claim the right of urgency. He knew she agreed when he slipped his hands to her thighs, and as she hooked a leg around his, he wrapped her completely around him and carried her to the bed. Lowering her carefully, he eased himself over her. Their gazes held, even when they were once again nose to nose. Slowly she reached up to touch his bruised face. ‘‘Don’t keep pretending you aren’t in pain. I saw you wince.’’ ‘‘Close your eyes.’’ ‘‘Ethan—’’ ‘‘Make me forget it.’’ Silenced for a moment, she searched his face, touched the places he knew would turn him into an eyesore by morning. She then moved those elegant fingers down the taut cords along his neck, across his shoulders, and deliciously down his back, into his loosened jeans.

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Her hands on his hot flesh wrenched a deep moan from him. Seeking her mouth again, he resumed the rhythmic thrusts against her to show her what he wanted, and where he ultimately wanted to be. With that, a sweet wildness settled between them. It intensified like a hot summer afternoon that promised the satisfaction of a saturating storm. The longer the kisses, the more feverish and humid the air became, the more restless and eager their caresses. They agreed simultaneously that her shirt had become more tedious than temptation, and although Kate began to arch to rid herself of it, Ethan chose to surprise her by sliding down her body, then using both hands and mouth to inch it up and bare her to his view. What he uncovered had him aching all over again. Pale, shimmering, sleek, she fulfilled every dream he’d had of her. Equal to the need to touch was the desire to taste—at the joint of her left hip, over the shallow valley of her stomach, to the peaks of her surprisingly lush breasts, where she framed his face with her hands and offered herself to him. The shirt momentarily forgotten, he lowered his head and fastened his mouth to her left breast. Her ragged cry and spasmodic shudder told him what he’d long guessed, that as with him, Kate had denied herself a great deal for a long time. Wanting her to know the same fierce pleasure that knowledge brought him, he did everything he could think of, everything he’d ever wanted to try—not with just any woman. With her. It was too much, too soon, for her. The way she bowed off the bed, the crescendo of her muted cries, told him so. And he wanted it. He wanted her to come apart for him, because although he hadn’t known an excessive number of women, he did recognize he’d been right about her honesty,

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too. There was nothing she would hide from him, and no one who would prove more generous and willing as a lover. That proved as potent a stimulant as any aphrodisiac could hope to be. He rose to his knees, helped her sit up, and slipped the nightshirt over her head. Pausing only to shake her hair out of her eyes, she then unzipped his jeans the rest of the way. The briefest brush of her fingers against him had him sucking in a sharp breath. Impatient for more, Ethan pushed off the denim. ‘‘Wait,’’ he said hoarsely as she drew him with her, back onto the bed. ‘‘I have to—’’ ‘‘No, you don’t.’’ ‘‘Kate.’’ ‘‘Come inside me, Ethan. It’s all right.’’ He didn’t completely understand, and when she closed her hand around him, he almost stopped caring. He could have succeeded if she’d been anyone else. But this was Kate, the woman he’d never been able to drive out of his mind, even when she belonged to another. His hesitation transmitted his doubt to her. ‘‘We’re safe,’’ she assured him. ‘‘Not entirely. And I won’t put you at risk.’’ ‘‘You can’t.’’ She turned her head away, but he caught the brief glimpse of pain in her eyes that spoke of an old vulnerability. One secret. He wanted it spelled out for him; he didn’t want to mangle her feelings any more than he already had. Taking hold of her chin, he forced her to face him. ‘‘Can’t?’’ ‘‘Blast you, Ethan! Why don’t we make a big production out of this?’’ Taking advantage of his surprise and his bruises, she pushed him aside. She almost made it off the bed, but he

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was faster, stronger. He had her flat beneath him again after only the slightest skirmish. And he understood. Finally. Thoroughly. ‘‘You can’t have children.’’ ‘‘I’ve changed my mind about this,’’ she said, staring at the headboard. ‘‘Let me up, please.’’ ‘‘Ah...Kate.’’ He’d thought he no longer had a heart to break. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She turned livid. ‘‘Don’t you dare say that to me! And get off!’’ Instead, he kissed her, kissed her with a sweet ferocity that announced she couldn’t hide from him with this, either, and that it didn’t make a damned bit of difference to her desirability to him. She fought him at first. She punched at shoulders that ached, pushed against ribs that threatened to cut off his breath. Finally, desperately, he succeeded in gripping her wrists and pinning them at the sides of her head. ‘‘Kate, don’t. I’m sorry for not having the right words, and even lousier timing. I’m sorry.’’ She shut her eyes, went completely still beneath him. ‘‘I know.’’ ‘‘If you really want to stop, we will. Right now.’’ She opened her eyes and looked into his. Silently she eased her right hand free, grasped his and drew it down her body, over her taut breast, down the concave line of her abdomen, to the narrow band of material stretched across her hips. ‘‘No,’’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘‘Help me. Make me stop aching. Let me make you—’’ He kissed her before she made him embarrass himself with just her seductive words. Then he slipped his hand inside her panties to that secret place that told him what her eyes transmitted was true. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

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He watched her body tense and arch as he delved into her heat and discovered how hot and sensitive she was. It spurred his own passion, and raced it to a new more dangerous level. ‘‘Yes,’’ she whispered, at his almost desperate movements, when he dragged down that last barrier between them. He wanted to kiss her there, hear the sounds of pleasure she would make, feel her nails score his back as he raced her toward ecstasy. But she’d pushed him too close to his own edge. Cursing his own weakness, craving another taste of her passion, he raised himself over her and sought her mouth. Then, slowly, slowly, he lowered himself into her moist heat. She gloved him with aching care, so thoroughly and deeply they were soon shaking from the hot pleasure. And when he was as far as she could take him, he went still, wanting to feel her heartbeat and let her feel his. He would have stayed that way forever, if he’d thought he had even a minute chance to make it last; if he hadn’t opened his eyes, and seen her face, seen how strain competed with ecstasy. But the sight of her, the feel of finally being inside her, was simply too much. Too much. All of it. Her. The truth was a scream in his head, and a raging fire scorching every inch of his body. Still, he began the age-old rhythm, a dance she eagerly matched, then reinvented for him. Within a matter of heartbeats, she made him want to swear or pray, he wasn’t sure which. But most of all she made him want to watch...watch what was happening between them. It didn’t matter that sweat streamed into his eyes, burning them, as he tried. It didn’t matter that her short nails were going to leave their

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own marks on him as she struggled to keep him close. He had to...had to...see. Kate. She was his. They were one...if only for this brief instant. The image branded into his memory forever, he shut his eyes tight, grasped her hips hard, and raced to end the torment he’d carried in his heart and soul for over half a lifetime. The first thing Kate realized once her mind began clearing again was that she’d slipped close to the edge of the bed. It seemed appropriate, since she’d already leaped off one precipice tonight. At least the cool air felt wonderful against her scorched skin. She reached beneath her to sweep her damp hair farther away from her nape and fanned it, as well as her equally damp throat. ‘‘And here I thought this room never got above fifty degrees,’’ she murmured, feeling delicious, despite the discomfort. Ethan remained prone and still beside her, but replied, ‘‘If we don’t get under these blankets, you’ll be saying it again in a few minutes.’’ ‘‘I’ll risk it.’’ ‘‘Good.’’ He pushed himself up on one elbow. ‘‘That means I get to look at you longer.’’ Interestingly, the remark didn’t embarrass her any more than she thought it might, not any more than his intent gaze did, or his touch as he ran his fingers from the damp hollow of her throat, down between her still-heaving breasts, and beyond, to where they’d been intimately joined only minutes ago. The sensual caress fascinated her as much as it had to discover the sexual side of him. She’d learned that Ethan approached his sexuality with a

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deliberate, unapologetic thoroughness, the same thoroughness he applied to most everything else—except maybe relationships. It had made the experience of making love with him one she would never regret, much less forget, no matter what the future held for them. If she’d had a bit more of a clue of this years ago, would she have been able to resist him? ‘‘Did Wayne know?’’ Though she was a bit shocked that their thoughts had been running along the same line, Kate had been expecting that particular question. It had her closing her eyes and taking a few seconds to let a familiar wave of sadness sweep over her and recede. She usually handled her grief well. The philosophers were right about time healing even the sharpest pain. But nothing erased it completely, or obliterated the awareness of all that had been lost or denied. ‘‘I was only eighteen when he left, Ethan.’’ ‘‘That’s not what I asked.’’ ‘‘No,’’ she said at last. ‘‘He didn’t know...because we never got that far.’’ Ethan went still. ‘‘You two were nuts about each other. He may have worried about the age thing—’’ ‘‘He did.’’ ‘‘But no one in all of Whitehorn cared. It was a given. He was the crown prince, you were the princess. You belonged to him. No one would have held it against you.’’ ‘‘He would have held it against himself. That’s the kind of person he was. We didn’t, Ethan.’’ He was silent for a long time. Heaven only knew what he was thinking. For her part, Kate concentrated on keeping the past where it was, but not too successfully. How could she, when Ethan was staring at her as if he wanted to attach her to a lie detector. ‘‘Would you have told him?’’

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What was it she heard in his voice? Shame? Jealousy? ‘‘Of course. It would have mattered to Jeremiah. He wanted grandsons, and even though he liked the idea of a Kincaid and Randall union, that little technicality would definitely have changed his mind.’’ ‘‘Wayne would have handled him. He was the only one Jeremiah couldn’t dictate to.’’ Kate knew the late patriarch had idolized his oldest son, as had most everyone else, but even handsome, strong, and ever-charming Wayne wouldn’t have been able to budge his father on the sticky issue of the purity of the Kincaid family tree. But there was no need to argue the point with someone who’d known Jeremiah’s headstrongness as well as she had. That was why she’d always known that, as much as the head of the Kincaid clan might have approved of her, he hadn’t been wild about Wayne’s closeness to Ethan. That had been proved upon Ethan’s return from the war. He’d tried to pay his respects to Jeremiah, but the grieving and bitter man had chased him off the ranch, shouting hideous accusations and insults. But she hadn’t treated him much better back then, had she? She hadn’t let him talk, because she’d been locked up in her own pain. And she’d been afraid that if he looked at her even close to the way he was looking at her now, she would embarrass them both with her willingness. No, her eagerness. ‘‘When did you find out you couldn’t have kids?’’ Ethan asked thickly. Kate sighed and covered her face with her hands. ‘‘Don’t, Ethan. This isn’t something you need to hear, any more than we should have brought Wayne into bed with us.’’ ‘‘Tell me.’’ She couldn’t, not if she had to look at his grim, battered face, which reminded her so acutely that their problems

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were far from over. Rolling onto her stomach, she bowed her head and focused on her loosely clasped hands. ‘‘I wanted to get pregnant before he left. Wayne refused. He worried that if something happened to him, the pressure and responsibility might be too much for me. He didn’t want his father pulling what Noble did to Marilee. Don’t get me wrong, he loved Jeremiah. But he also understood what a bastard he could be.’’ ‘‘He never stopped thinking of other people. Especially you,’’ Ethan said, his voice gruffer than usual. ‘‘He wanted to take care of everyone. Make everyone happy.’’ ‘‘That was his gift. And I wanted to give him one back, but it wasn’t to be.’’ She tried a shrug, but failed. ‘‘How did you find out, Kate?’’ The man was relentless. ‘‘Have I ever asked you about your sexual initiation? Never mind,’’ she replied when he lifted an eyebrow. Once again, she sighed. ‘‘After we got the news, I went back to college and...I did something stupid, okay? I got scared, went to a doctor, and the rest is history. I can never get pregnant, okay? Damn it, Ethan, you know yourself from being on that witness stand that confession is not good for the soul.’’ To her amazement, he reached forward and stroked her hair. ‘‘That must have been tough news to bear alone.’’ She closed her eyes, wanting to resent him for his generosity. Why wouldn’t he call her half of the names she’d called herself? ‘‘Wayne wanted children as much as his father did,’’ she said, trying to remember the innocent she’d been then. ‘‘Probably more than me at the time. Do you realize, if things had turned out differently, I would have had to make him see that he belonged with someone else, who could give him babies? If that didn’t work, I would have told him that

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I’d had second thoughts about marriage. That I wanted a career instead.’’ Ethan made a low negative sound. ‘‘He would never have believed you.’’ ‘‘Maybe. Look at me now. At any rate, I would have tried. I probably would have asked you to help me, too.’’ With an oath, Ethan sat up and combed his hands through his hair. Kate sat up, too, hesitantly touching his broad, scarred back. ‘‘I’m sorry. I know you would rather have taken a bullet yourself than do anything that hurt him.’’ ‘‘Don’t give me credit I don’t deserve,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Wayne was the hero. Not me.’’ She thought about arguing the point, about finally letting him tell her whatever it was that brought such a look of anguish to his pale blue eyes whenever anyone mentioned Vietnam. She’d seen it the first time their paths crossed after his return, and he still carried the look today. But she hadn’t been able to listen back then. At any rate, the past couldn’t be changed, she insisted to herself for the hundredth time, and nothing could be gained by reopening old wounds. ‘‘So,’’ she said instead, ‘‘now you know why you needn’t worry about me muddying your life with more unwanted complications.’’ He surprised her by turning around. ‘‘But it doesn’t explain why you let me complicate yours.’’ She should have known he would go for the jugular. First he’d knocked her off-balance with his passion and openness as they made love, and now he wanted to refuse to let her sidestep her deepest thoughts and feelings. ‘‘I thought we’d covered that weeks ago,’’ she said, hedging. ‘‘I’m talking about what just happened between us.’’ ‘‘You asked me. Or rather,’’ she added throatily, ‘‘you told me.’’

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‘‘If you’d said no in any way, shape or form, I would have stopped.’’ Because he was edging toward dangerous territory, Kate chose to retreat. ‘‘I’d like to go freshen up now.’’ ‘‘Not yet,’’ he said, suddenly pushing her flat on her back. He kept her there with his own body. ‘‘Ethan!’’ ‘‘You know what I think? You were trying to purge something. What was it, Kate? Or were you punishing one of us? Who was it? Me? You? Or were you getting back at Wayne for dying on you?’’ ‘‘That’s a horrible thing to say!’’ ‘‘The truth often is.’’ ‘‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You certainly don’t want to deal with the truth.’’ ‘‘Try me.’’ Her heart pounding, her body once again reacting to the power of his, Kate let her emotions take control. ‘‘Which truth, then, Ethan? The truth about lust? That I wanted you to carry me to this bed, and have wanted it for a long time? That it shames me not to care about anything right now except that you make love to me again? Oh, excuse me. You don’t want to hear that word. But I don’t use another word for this feeling, because no one has ever made me feel this reckless, this hot, this needy, before. No one, do you understand?’’ ‘‘That’s not what I—’’ ‘‘Oh, yes, it is what you wanted to ask. Just as you wanted to know how you ranked against Wayne, but would never say it because it would be committing the ultimate sin against a man you held as close as a brother!’’ ‘‘Stop it, Kate!’’ ‘‘Just as I’m afraid to ask if once was enough for you,’’

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she concluded softly, wanting only to know his power and heat again. Ethan uttered a soft curse. Then he whispered, ‘‘No, it’s not enough,’’ and silenced anything else she might have said by hungrily locking his mouth to hers. Kate reached for him as he pressed her deep into the bedding, aware of his agitation as much as his desire. She understood those warring emotions well. They both had to deal with the guilt of being survivors. ‘‘Come inside me again,’’ she told him as she felt his arousal, hot and demanding, against her thigh. ‘‘Let’s stop stirring up memories and hurt. Let’s not think about yesterday or tomorrow. Let there just be this.’’ He gave her what she wanted, his entry fast and as breathtaking as the kiss that accompanied it. In a matter of hours, they would have to go back to analyzing, planning, negotiating, and dealing with the countless demands that filled their days. But this was the eye of their storm, a temporary oasis in the middle of an unforgiving spiritual desert. Kate wrapped herself around Ethan and reached for the oblivion only he could provide. Then she dared him to follow.

Ten ‘‘Would you please repeat that?’’ Kate said, unable to believe what she’d just heard. The sound of Sheriff Judd Hensley clearing his throat came clearly over the telephone line. ‘‘I know this is not the kind of news you need to start your morning, Judge, but it’s true. Josh Trask wants to file assault charges on Ethan. I was hoping you would ride out to the Double N with me when we go pick him up for questioning. Ethan might take the news better if you’re around.’’ ‘‘This is insane. It’s been nearly a week since that episode. What’s the man been doing since then?’’ ‘‘He says he’s been home recuperating from his injuries. He does look a mess, Judge.’’ ‘‘So does my husband, but he hasn’t filed assault charges on anyone.’’ The lawman sighed heavily. ‘‘I didn’t say I agreed with what’s going on here, but I do have an obligation to follow the law. Especially when the guy walks into my office with his attorney.’’ Kate’s heart did a nosedive. This was serious, if the man had already contacted a lawyer. All Judd had to tell her next was that Trask’s doctor had also concocted a serious injury for the guy to make his claim more believable. ‘‘Who’s his legal counsel?’’ ‘‘Baxter Blankenship.’’ She gripped the locket she’d accepted from Ethan the

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morning after they first made love. ‘‘Why am I not surprised?’’ ‘‘I had a feeling you would say something like that. Can I count on you, Judge?’’ ‘‘You realize this is a farce?’’ ‘‘You bet I do. Trask has spent more than a few nights behind bars for disorderly conduct and a few other things, so I’m not wild about what smells like a waste of taxpayers’ money. But I have to honor this accusation, because this county can’t afford any lawsuits from citizens who feel their rights have been violated.’’ Dear Lord. Poor Ethan. How was he going to bear this? ‘‘Give me an hour, Judd. I have to cancel a number of appointments.’’ ‘‘I appreciate it.’’ With Pat’s help, it took her less than ten minutes to clear her calendar. She tried to call the ranch right afterward, but, as expected, Ethan wasn’t in, which canceled her hope of warning him about what had happened. Then she decided that might be good news. It made her sick to her stomach, but she focused on using the extra time to detour by the offices of Blankenship and Blankenship. Inside, she spotted the brothers in a glass conference room, and she wasted no time in waving off a secretary and barging inside, getting straight to the point. ‘‘Plotting how to next accuse my husband of abducting residents of Whitehorn on behalf of aliens, gentlemen?’’ she asked as they reluctantly rose in greeting. The two exchanged sly grins. ‘‘This is an unexpected but delightful surprise, Judge,’’ Warren said, gesturing to a chair. ‘‘Care to sit down?’’ Kate ignored the invitation. ‘‘I want you to know I’m aware of what a sham you’re pulling, and think it’s despicable. It’s one thing for a relative to contest the custody of

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a child. But to try to add leverage to your case by what amounts to nothing more than a provoked situation is reprehensible behavior.’’ Unintimidated, Warren sat down again. ‘‘Your Honor gives us too much credit. Baxter was just now informing me of the unfortunate situation. But I must say I understand your distress. Your husband can’t seem to keep out of trouble, can he?’’ Kate wished she could reach across the conference table and tip his coffee mug into his lap. ‘‘This is going to backlash on you two. At any rate, be assured I will have the charges dropped, and there will be nothing on the books for you to even allude to at the custody hearing.’’ ‘‘Don’t be too sure,’’ Baxter replied. ‘‘I think my client has a right to be concerned for his safety. After all, Charlie Avery had a disagreement with Ethan Walker, and look at what happened to him.’’ ‘‘Baxter, try it and you’ll be lucky to walk behind an ambulance in the next parade, let alone chase one.’’ Kate decided she needed to make one more stop, at the feed store. She needed a reliable witness who would make Trask look as if Ethan should have filed charges against him. ‘‘But I’m here to give you a chance to withdraw your charges while you still have time.’’ Warren turned to his brother. ‘‘See what I mean? She’s terrific. Understands the best defense is a strong offense. You’re a worthy opponent, Your Honor. But this time you’re shooting in the dark. Ironic as it may seem, one case has nothing to do with the other.’’ ‘‘Have it your way,’’ Kate replied, with an indifferent shrug. But she walked out before her act of bravado slipped, out of fear for Ethan. To say she’d expected a different response from the brothers would have been an overstatement, but she’d had

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to try to appeal to their conscience if nothing else. Now all that was important was to get to Ethan. She needed to phone Eva, too, in case anyone called from the press. Preoccupied, she almost collided with an attractive blonde who, laughing throatily, backed out of the small conference room. Kate sidestepped her, guessing by the woman’s attire and the folder in her hand that she was on the staff, but she stopped short when she saw the man she was talking to. Noble Taylor. And Warren had the nerve to suggest the Trask situation had nothing to do with Darcy’s custody case. Disgusted, especially since the businessman had a decidedly guilty look on his face, Kate shook her head. ‘‘What won’t you sink to?’’ Without waiting for a response, she stalked out of the building. At the feed store, she spoke quickly with Bill Frieland, who not only agreed to be a witness for Ethan, but gave her a list of names of people who might also testify should she need more. Then he brought in Will. The loading dock worker admitted he had some concern that Trask might come after him, but agreed he would testify if his boss did. Kate was almost ten minutes late arriving at the sheriff’s office, but she felt much better. She found Judd Hensley on his way to his patrol car. When he spotted her, he tugged his Stetson lower over his dark eyes and gave her one of his long speaking looks. ‘‘You gave me a few minutes of doubt—especially when I phoned your office and learned you’d left there quite a while ago.’’ ‘‘Don’t tell me you thought I’d hightailed it to the ranch without you?’’ she replied, lifting an eyebrow. She liked the no-nonsense lawman; a man of few words, in some ways

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he had much in common with Ethan. They’d both been through some tough times. ‘‘And then what?’’ ‘‘Yeah, that’s what I told myself. But was it smart going face-to-face with the Blankenships?’’ She refused to ask how he’d heard about that. Secretly, however, she knew she should be glad they hadn’t filed a complaint against her. ‘‘Maybe. It resolved any doubts I had regarding this being a setup.’’ Judd nodded, indicating this came as no surprise. ‘‘Hop in, and you can tell me about it along the way.’’ ‘‘Expecting company?’’ Ethan looked up from the ancient water pump he and John Mountain had been trying to overhaul and felt a prickling at his nape. He’d seen the sheriff’s truck, with its overhead lights, too often not to recognize it without having to see the official decal on the side. ‘‘No.’’ He tossed the wrench into the tool chest and reached for the rag hanging out of his right hind pocket. And here he’d been thinking life had been almost sweet these past several days. Wiping grease from his hands, he wondered who was gunning for him now. When he saw Kate in the passenger seat, his self-pity turned immediately to concern for her. Since the night they’d made love, he’d made every excuse to keep his hands off her, doing paperwork he’d put off for months until she went to bed, staying out late to work on one piece of broken machinery or another...and although he had a feeling Kate knew all that, she seemed willing to let him decide what their future held. Well, this was obviously it. Judd Hensley’s arrival was exactly why he’d been keeping her at arm’s length. Who did he think he’d been kidding, to hope he could have a normal life and a real relationship? But if anyone had tried

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to hurt Kate, they were in for it, he vowed, striding for the truck, which stopped a few dozen yards away. He headed straight for Kate’s side and jerked open the door. He helped her out, then gripped her by her upper arms to search her face. More than anything, he needed to know she was all right. Instead, he noted how clean and elegant she looked in her green-and-blue suit, which conservatively hid both lush and lithe curves that could make his mouth go dry and desire charge through him like a high-voltage current. God help him. It shouldn’t be possible to be thinking about what he was thinking, with trouble looming so close he could smell it in the air. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ he demanded gruffly, his gaze searching her face. ‘‘Ethan...there’s trouble, darling.’’ Her own gaze spoke volumes. Asking him to be brave, it prepared him for the arms she slipped around his waist, and for her tender kiss. Despite the dread of the unknown, the gift of having her this close had Ethan’s pulse racing. ‘‘Sweetheart, you’ll get filthy.’’ ‘‘I don’t care.’’ Wishing he could kiss her properly, he looked over her shoulder at Judd, who was rounding the truck. ‘‘Sheriff. What’s up?’’ ‘‘I won’t beat around the bush, Ethan. Josh Trask has filed assault charges against you. I’ve come to take you in.’’ ‘‘Oh, no.’’ If it hadn’t been for Kate holding him tight, he didn’t know if he would have believed what he was hearing. ‘‘No way. You’ll have to bring in your whole department to get me downtown again.’’ ‘‘Ethan, Judd is on your side,’’ Kate assured him. ‘‘He agrees that this is nonsense.’’ ‘‘Then he can let me be,’’ Ethan replied, speaking directly to the lawman.

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‘‘He would, darling. But he has to follow the rules.’’ ‘‘Rules.’’ Ethan’s world turned dark. ‘‘I’m sick to death of rules. Why is it that everyone ignores them until they want to get at me? Was Trask obeying any so-called rules when he insulted my wife? What was I supposed to do, stand there and let him get away with it?’’ ‘‘I’ve talked to Bill Frieland, Ethan,’’ Kate said, laying a calming hand against his heart. ‘‘He says he’ll vouch for you. Will agreed, too. They’re going to meet us at the station. And Bill gave me several other names. Judd thinks we’ll have this cleared up in a few hours. But if not, I’ve already made arrangements for a bond, and if you do get booked, I’ll get you out right afterward.’’ Booked. He briefly shut his eyes. He couldn’t deal with the humiliation and shame again. He wouldn’t stand for Kate seeing him that way. ‘‘How much more are you going to put up with? Don’t you see it’s over! I can’t win.’’ ‘‘Stop it. What are you going to do, let the Trasks and the Taylors of the world win?’’ ‘‘Honey, they already have.’’ He put her at arm’s length and turned to John Mountain, who’d been standing by and listening, his expression enigmatic, as usual. ‘‘Guess you know the routine by now.’’ ‘‘I’ll be here. You listen to your lady.’’ Surrounded by people who thought he was a bottomless pit of faith, he thought with frustration. Well, he wasn’t. He focused on the sheriff and offered his wrists. ‘‘You need to cuff me?’’ Judd grimaced sourly. ‘‘Just get in the damned truck before I forget who I’m really ticked off at.’’ Ethan expected at least a few members of the press to be waiting at the station when they arrived, especially after Kate and Judd Hensley filled him in on what they knew. ‘‘Baxter Blankenship must have been doing some phone

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calling,’’ Kate said with disgust as the small group swarmed the truck. Just as he had in the old days, Ethan coped by turning into himself, making fewer and fewer responses, the closer they got to town. By the time he exited the truck, he was totally within himself and barely heard anything the demanding reporters yelled at him. Nor did he blink as a persistent photographer tried to get a full-face photograph. Only inside, as Kate tried to follow him into the sheriff’s office, did he momentarily flounder. ‘‘Go away, Kate.’’ ‘‘I’m staying with you.’’ ‘‘No. I don’t want you to. Go away and do what you have to do. I know you’re putting off meetings and work for this.’’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘‘Do you think I could work, knowing this was going on?’’ She stayed right at his side. ‘‘I’m with you in this, Ethan. Get used to the idea.’’ ‘‘But I don’t want you here!’’ He’d been too loud. People turned and stared. Others whispered. One or two elbowed each other. However, none of that bothered him as much as seeing Kate’s hurt. If it hadn’t been for Judd Hensley, he might have made an even greater fool of himself by reaching for her. Then it would have taken a cutting torch to get them apart. ‘‘He’ll be fine,’’ the lawman assured Kate with a sympathetic look. ‘‘But you may want to use the office next to mine to call his lawyer, just in case. Keep everyone happy.’’ ‘‘Joan Nyland does need to be informed of this. I’ll be back soon,’’ Kate told them both. Ethan thought she sounded far more subdued than usual. And the kiss he turned away from in self-defense barely skimmed his chin. ‘‘Ethan...’’

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He knew she was worried about him, maybe a bit angry, too, but he couldn’t reassure her. Hell, he couldn’t get past his fear to reassure himself. ‘‘...and I asked Eva to watch Darcy tonight,’’ Kate said as she sped past Shadow Ranch’s entrance. It was early afternoon. This ordeal had taken longer than she’d anticipated. But through a tremendous amount of work, and even more willpower, she’d managed to turn a potential nightmare into a closed matter. Ethan was free. Witness after witness had come down to the station at her pleading, cajoling, arguing and, yes, even threatening, to tell of what they’d seen. By the time Judd Hensley had heard the same story a half-dozen times, he’d had a deputy haul Trask in and demanded he stand before those witnesses and defend his own story. The man had squirmed and whined, and finally had pointed a finger at Baxter Blankenship— who’d also been ordered to the station—for talking him into filing. When Baxter shrugged and pleaded a loss of memory regarding how he’d learned about the fight, Kate had challenged him by bringing up Noble Taylor’s name. Not only had the man had the audacity to insist he didn’t know what she was talking about, he’d pretended to be offended at Trask for using his good name to waste everyone’s time, and magnanimously assured Judd that he considered all of Trask’s charges dropped. Kate was exhausted, but very proud. On the other hand, she remained extremely worried about Ethan. The Blankenships had succeeded in achieving what they’d set out to do. He had been totally humiliated once too often. But Kate knew what had shamed Ethan the most. It had been Trask’s taunt about her and Wayne. Kate winced, thinking about it now. What man could have dealt with hearing that? She wished she could take

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back what she’d said that evening she’d come home and found him all bruised and bleeding. No wonder he’d gotten that terrible look on his face. And now he’d gone through the ordeal of hearing Trask’s taunt repeated and repeated in Judd Hensley’s office before all those people. It had been a nightmare, but the expression on Ethan’s face had been even more frightening. He’d virtually removed himself spiritually from that room, and now she didn’t know if she could get him back from the dark place he’d let himself slip off to. ‘‘Turn around.’’ Because they were the first words he’d said since leaving Whitehorn, Kate nearly pulled over. Then she realized what he meant, and changed her mind. ‘‘No. You need the time alone to rest and regroup.’’ ‘‘I’m not abandoning my niece.’’ She gripped the steering wheel more firmly. ‘‘No, you’re not. You’re letting her stay with a couple I trust implicitly. Don’t try to pull that argument again, Ethan. Eva may give you heck because you scare her, but she adores Darcy, and the baby will do better there than if she’s listening to you rage throughout the night.’’ ‘‘I haven’t said anything yet.’’ But he would. He needed to, if he wanted to get beyond this and prepare for their next challenge. Whatever it would be. Whenever the Blankenships or Noble Taylor got creative again. Once they arrived at the house, however, things got worse. Ethan didn’t go in. At first, Kate wondered if he might hop in his truck and go after the baby himself, or Trask or the Blankenships. But, to her relief, he strode over to the bunkhouse. Hoping he might sit and talk things out with John Mountain, Kate went into the cabin and changed from her busi-

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ness suit into a terry robe and let down her hair. She was pouring herself a glass of wine and thinking of indulging in her first bubble bath since moving in when Ethan came in through the back door. ‘‘Hi,’’ she said, offering a soft smile. ‘‘Want to join me in a glass?’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Are you hungry? There’s some roast beef and cheese. I could make you a sandwich.’’ He shook his head again. Kate drew a deep breath. ‘‘How can I help you?’’ ‘‘You mean you haven’t performed enough miracles today?’’ She knew he didn’t mean it, but she had to bite back her own sarcastic retort, nonetheless. Damn it, she’d suffered today, too, and she’d asked for nothing from him except to let her stand by him so that she could get him back here and safe. In order to achieve peace, did she had to force a war with him? Apparently so, she concluded, seeing his resolute expression. After taking a last sip of her wine, she set down the glass and focused on him completely. ‘‘What Trask said that day at the feed store was tasteless and disgusting, but the only reason he said it was to provoke you. After what we shared that night, after what I told you afterward, how can you let his words have any power?’’ ‘‘It’s not what he said, it’s that every damn person in Whitehorn heard him, all right?’’ Now they were getting somewhere. ‘‘I may be wrong about this, but I’m fairly certain that my secretary and a few other people don’t know, because they weren’t there. And I doubt John Mountain knows, because he wasn’t there...’’ She spoke gently, and with a coaxing smile, but Ethan

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remained aloof and unamused. Hands clenched, jaw working, he glared at her. ‘‘I’m taking a shower,’’ he muttered abruptly, and walked away. Kate decided to let him go. She might have struck out in this first attempt, but maybe the shower would help him scrub away the memories of what he’d been through today. She picked up her glass and sipped her wine. Then she began pacing around the room, listening to the water run and run. She tried to fill her time by phoning Eva and checking on things. But when she hung up minutes later and the shower was still going, she wasn’t worried about him running out of water—they gravity-fed from a large storage tank out back, and the hot-water heater operated on propane—but she understood Ethan wasn’t even beginning to champion his demons. How long should she wait for him to call to her for help? Under the circumstances, he wouldn’t let himself. Determined, she placed her empty glass in the sink and headed for the bathroom. Untying the sash of her robe, she slipped it off and laid it on the vanity. Then she slid open the shower stall door. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ He’d been leaning back against the fiberglass wall, eyes closed, simply letting the water spray over him. The steam was so thick, Kate thought it a miracle he could breathe. ‘‘I got lonely and decided to join the party,’’ she replied, closing the door behind her. ‘‘Don’t you understand? I don’t want you here.’’ He meant to be cruel, and his words sliced at her, but Kate focused on the desolation she felt emanating from him. ‘‘Shut up, Ethan, before you hurt my feelings. And turn around. I’ll wash your back for you.’’

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She would have smiled at his stunned look, but she knew better. Just as she knew that, when he turned, it had more to do with not wanting to look at her than with any submission. She picked up the washcloth and soap he’d dropped on the built-in seat and began massaging his back. ‘‘I know what you’re doing,’’ he said, bracing his hands against the wall. ‘‘It’s not going to work.’’ ‘‘That’s a boy. Stay tough. Go down fighting. Don’t even open your eyes to figure out who’s the enemy and who’re the good guys. Just punch everyone’s lights out.’’ She thought his spine would snap, he went so stiff. ‘‘You think you’re cute, don’t you?’’ ‘‘Ethan, I’m an only daughter and an only child. I’m not only cute, I’m downright incorrigible.’’ He wanted to continue to fight her. She had to wait for a small eternity for him to change his mind, before she felt his shoulders relax and saw his head bow. Kate used the time to massage the stiffness out of him, kneading and rubbing as she would one of her weary horses after a torturous workout. But this wasn’t methodical routine to her. She was fighting for the heart and soul of the man she loved. She loved Ethan’s body, the strength and spareness of it, and with water sluicing off him in long streams, he looked like a finely molded sculpture. The brutal scars that marred the beautiful lines broke her heart every time she saw them. As tenderness merged with sensuality, she leaned forward to kiss the deepest, oldest injury. Hearing his breath catch, she did it again. ‘‘When we’re done, I want you to climb between the fresh sheets I’ve put on the bed. You need to be able to stretch out and relax,’’ she murmured, caressing him more slowly and rhythmically now. ‘‘Kate...stop.’’

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‘‘Fat chance, cowboy. I’m not going to let you forget what you’ve achieved today.’’ ‘‘Nothing. You’re the one who did everything.’’ ‘‘Only because you were in the right. What’s more, you didn’t lose control when things got tense in Judd Hensley’s office.’’ Kate knew that even though she’d been instrumental in getting the charges against Ethan dropped, she couldn’t have succeeded without his cooperation. ‘‘I’m very proud of you.’’ He whipped around, grabbed her wrists and growled, ‘‘Damn it, will you stop it?’’ She lifted her chin, but her gaze relayed a sensual invitation. ‘‘Make me.’’ Aware that he needed release of some sort, she offered herself, not caring at all that he recognized her motive and that he wanted to resist. When he shifted his hold to frame her face, she saw the internal battle. Touching him as gently as she would have the baby, she slid her hands along his arms, then across his broad shoulders and downward, downward, until she cupped his taut buttocks and brought her hips flush against his rigid body. With a groan of surrender, Ethan locked his mouth to hers. Expecting anger, she was astonished by his urgency and tenderness. He used his thumbs and lips to award the same caresses she’d bestowed across his back, relaxing her and seducing her into a long, explorative kiss that became more like an erotic feast with every second. Then, using his tongue, he initiated a sinuous stroking, tempting her to participate in a sign language as explicit as any words could be. By the time he slipped his arms around her and drew her more tightly against him, she throbbed all over. But that was only the beginning. He continued to move against her, letting her grow more and more intimately aware of his

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aroused flesh. Finally he cupped her hips, and soon their bodies matched the erotic rhythm of their kiss, melting away all thought, as well as all patience. Wanting him more than she could have told him, Kate rubbed her thigh intimately against his. Ethan reacted immediately, turning her until she was flush against the wall. Expecting him to lift her, she found herself the recipient of even more passionate loveplay as he bent to lick the wild rivulets of water coursing across and down her breasts. First her right, then her left... He paid both the same intense attention he had her mouth, until her nipples thrust toward him in hard, aching points. All the while, he let his right hand bury itself in the golden curls between her thighs. His touch was amazingly gentle and generous, and knowing he could feel her melting for him, Kate dragged her mouth from his to rest her forehead against his shoulder. ‘‘Bed,’’ she breathed. ‘‘Too late.’’ This time he did lift her. As careful as he was, it was still an impaling as he lowered her onto his burning-hot flesh. She balanced herself with his strong shoulders and arms, while inside she felt him turning her core into a liquid heat. Ethan felt it, too, groaning softly. ‘‘Ah, Kate...Kate. Am I hurting you?’’ ‘‘No. I can’t believe—’’ She bit back a cry as he taught her a new pleasure. ‘‘Ethan, I’m so full. I need...I need...’’ ‘‘I know it. It’s the one thing I can give you, sweetheart. Come on, Kate. Burn for me. Then I’ll burn for you. And maybe, if we try hard enough, we’ll hold back tomorrow for a while.’’ Something about his words troubled her, but caught up in his passion, and driven by a current she couldn’t control, Kate quickly pushed her doubts aside. He wanted her. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her,

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just as she couldn’t satisfy her curiosity and pleasure in touching him. It was going to be all right, she thought, feeling the tremors that began crescendoing at her core. She would make it all right, she promised, as he cried out and went rigid in her arms. Ethan reluctantly let Kate ease down his body until she stood on her own two feet again. Her breath was still coming in shallow pants, and his wasn’t much better. But he knew he already wanted her again, and this time he intended it to happen in bed. He adored her for trying to make him forget the nightmare of today, and for ignoring the countless differences between them. There would be plenty of time to mourn the fickleness of fate in the empty expanse of the years ahead. Tonight, and for however many nights she would give him until the end, he would stockpile the memories he could. And he would try to show her at least a trace of how much he loved her. After shutting off the water, he grabbed the towel over the door and wrapped her in it. Then he lifted her into his arms as he’d wanted to the evening he brought her here as his bride. ‘‘I could get used to this romantic streak,’’ Kate murmured, using the tip of her tongue to absorb a droplet of water that had been streaking down his jawline. He carried her to the bed, stretched himself beside her, and then rolled them around and around until she lay stretched over him. ‘‘I don’t know anything about romance, Kate. I just know that I still want you all over me, closer than a rash.’’ She smiled, settled herself more intimately over him and

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laughed softly as he quickly sucked in his breath. ‘‘So where do you want to itch first, cowboy?’’ His heart stopped. ‘‘I’ll show you.’’

Eleven He knew better than to let himself get seduced into believing that maybe, just maybe, as they’d worked things out with Trask, he, Kate and Darcy would make it as a family. Happiness lured him into believing in tomorrows and tricked him into a severe case of myopia. Through June, their world settled into a near normalcy. He called it ‘‘near’’ because living in the cabin continued to be problematic for them. No matter how organized she managed to be, Kate still had her hands full, ferrying her belongings between their homes. He tried to help by doing more to make her situation easier, even started picking up Darcy at Shadow Ranch on evenings when she was out of town or would be delayed at the courthouse. Nevertheless, the work load continued to grow, and the strain was often more than he thought she could manage. But she never complained; in fact, she seemed to be blossoming with every day, adding to the temptation to trust in hope. If they had a future, he began to tell himself, he could do more to make her life easier. Add to the cabin, for one thing. And put in central heating and air conditioning for another. How Kate managed to structure her evenings so that there was playtime with Darcy, he didn’t know. But he loved to watch her with the child, and it hurt like hell to think of all the years she’d lived with the double grief of having lost Wayne and learning she would never have a child of her

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own. He even fantasized about the doctors being wrong, about them discovering he’d planted his own seed inside her. They were both still young by today’s standards. Most of all, he lived for the hour when he could lead his wife to bed. At first, as he’d feared, he couldn’t sleep there; and he thought it would be as it had been when he first came back from overseas. He’d tossed and turned, and he’d about given up and retreated to his chair when Kate began talking. It had been her voice, that velvety, soothing tone, that slowly but surely numbed whatever psychological mine fields he’d created for himself, and let him sleep. The next night, she’d done it again. He’d soon learned she didn’t even have to talk about anything sensible or logical. One night she’d actually drawn him into a conversation about saddles, of all things. Soon, between the pleasure of holding her love-sated body against his and their friendly banter about the slope and length on saddles, stirrup preferences and whatnot, he’d drifted off to sleep again, and for the first time hadn’t awakened until morning, when he felt the cramp in his shoulder from the unnatural sleeping position. Kate had laughed all the way out the door at what she called his ‘‘poleaxed’’ look. It became their ritual, and a way for them to get to know more of the little things about each other. He soon learned that she was delightfully ticklish, that she had never enjoyed skiing as much as Wayne did, that she loathed the taste of fish, but had always wanted an aquarium, that she dealt with the stress from her most traumatic cases by once a month renting a bunch of three-hankie movies from the video store and then watching them over a weekend until she was cried out...and that she was a tireless, adventurous lover, eager to try anything if she thought it would bring him pleasure. But not all of their bedtime chats were amusing or teasing. One night, after a tranquil evening when they’d finally

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convinced John Mountain to come sit out back with them and share the homemade ice cream Eva had sent over, Kate had asked him if he knew about John Mountain’s experiences in the war. At first, he’d worried that this was a prologue to questions about himself and Wayne. Selfish or not, he didn’t want the subject arising at this stage of their relationship. But he’d soon realized she was simply trying to understand the man who moved like a benevolent shadow through their lives, to respect his indescribable need for space and privacy. ‘‘He was a tunnel rat,’’ he’d begun one night, resting his cheek against her soft, fragrant hair. ‘‘As best as I can figure it, they were mostly reconnaissance and intelligence people, a branch of the engineers who went down into those countless miles of tunnels the Vietcong built to transport troops and supplies, and basically did what they had to do to stop them.’’ ‘‘Dear Lord. Little John Mountain?’’ ‘‘They had to be the smaller guys, sweetheart. We aren’t talking about something the size of the New York subway. It was all volunteer duty, too. No officers allowed.’’ ‘‘I can’t imagine him down there in such a dark, confined place all by himself.’’ ‘‘Well, they usually operated in groups of three to six, but I guess there were times that didn’t seem reassuring, either, considering the limited amount of equipment they took with them. I know I’d want more gear with me than a pistol, communications wire, a knife and a damned flashlight. John Mountain’s the only one I ever spent any time around, but I knew one guy who said he’d met a couple. From what he told me, they make me sound like a party animal. The guys tend to be pure loners. Not the type for long-term relationships.’’ ‘‘It sounds as if it was a suicidal job.’’

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‘‘There were a lot of top brass that agreed with you. In fact, they started using something called a Rome plow instead, that caved in the tunnels. Later they figured out that a flight of B-52s dropping a couple hundred bombs each could be even more expedient.’’ Kate had stopped him there. She’d buried her face in the curve of his neck and muttered that she would never again ask another question about the war. It had reminded Ethan of her block about listening to certain things in the past, and for the first night in several days he hadn’t been able to sleep. By the following night, however, the bliss had returned, and it had stayed. That was why he wasn’t prepared for Kate’s arrival from court the Friday before the Fourth of July weekend. They were planning a relatively quiet few days, except for the customers coming out to Shadow Ranch, which would take her away overnight—Saturday into Sunday morning. But the idea of having her to himself for an entire Sunday and Monday filled him with an almost boyish pleasure. They’d even talked of driving out with the baby to one of the larger creeks that ran through Kate’s spread for a picnic. Then he walked out to meet her as she pulled in Friday evening. He took one look at her pale face as he opened her door and forced himself to ask, ‘‘What’s happened?’’ ‘‘So much for thinking I have an indomitable poker face,’’ she replied, attempting to brighten her tired smile. She kissed him tenderly and motioned toward the back seat. ‘‘Why don’t you get our little charmer back there, before she starts blowing out your eardrums, too.’’ ‘‘She’s not sick, is she?’’ ‘‘Hardly. I’d wager to say she’s getting a bit spoiled from all the attention she gets. She thinks she should have driven

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over here sitting on my lap. Riding in the back in a boring old carrier is for other twiglets.’’ Ethan knew this forced chattiness covered something serious, but he let her get away with it, aware that she wanted to choose her own time. When she uncorked the barely touched bottle of wine in the refrigerator, even before changing out of her work clothes or kicking off her shoes, Ethan knew it was time to force the issue. He put Darcy in her crib and set her stuffed unicorn close, so that she could gurgle at it and reach for it between the bars. Then he went to find out what was troubling Kate. He came up behind her, wanting badly to wrap his arms around her waist, to bury his face in the silky softness of her hair. But, sensing that this might be the news he’d been dreading, the beginning of his end, he asked, ‘‘Is it about the case?’’ She didn’t beat around the bush. Putting down the bottle without pouring, she said, ‘‘Howard Lessing is recuperating in record time. He came by my office this afternoon—a courtesy visit to let me know that he’s going to be hearing cases beginning the fifteenth. He’s scheduled Darcy’s custody hearing for the sixteenth.’’ ‘‘Two weeks.’’ After waiting for so long, willing it to be over, now he wanted it postponed for...twenty years and about eight months. ‘‘I phoned Joan to fill her in,’’ Kate continued. ‘‘She’s put us on her calendar.’’ Ethan glanced over to the baby. ‘‘We’re just getting to know her, getting a glimpse of her personality. She’s identifying her toys, the people she loves...’’ ‘‘Please don’t. Not tonight. For one night, please don’t assume you’re going to lose at the hearing.’’ ‘‘I don’t want to have the hearing at all. It’s not fair that it happen.’’

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‘‘I know.’’ ‘‘You told me that just the other day you were in Billings again and tried for another meeting with Ruth Taylor, and it didn’t work.’’ He turned away and ran his hand over his hair. ‘‘Does that sound like a person who’ll do anything as long as she can spend time with her grandchild? They don’t want her. They want to win a power play.’’ ‘‘It’ll all be brought up. Joan will see to it.’’ But her flat tone, and her failure to turn around and face him, finally got through to him. ‘‘What aren’t you telling me?’’ When she didn’t respond right away, he took hold of her shoulders and carefully forced her to face him. ‘‘C’mon, babe. Out with it.’’ ‘‘Blankenship is causing trouble again. This time he’s setting fires at the county clerk’s office. As a concerned taxpayer, he’s saying that since we’re married and I’m living here, I should no longer be able to claim a homestead exemption on Shadow Ranch.’’ Ethan grimaced. ‘‘The guy is unbelievable.’’ ‘‘The guy is dead meat if I ever get my hands on him. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was the one raising the question.’’ ‘‘Did they give you an idea how long you have to do something about the situation?’’ ‘‘If I remember correctly, it’s prorated between the months I lived there and how long I lived here. The thing is, they want me to select one to make their bookkeeping easier.’’ As much as it stuck in Ethan’s throat, he had to say it, though he had to let her go and step back from her to manage it. ‘‘Well, maybe it’ll work out soon. As you said, a few weeks after the hearing, you can, uh, set things straight with them.’’ She frowned. ‘‘Set things... Oh. I see.’’ She looked to

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her left, to her right, everywhere but at him. ‘‘Yes, no doubt you’re right.’’ ‘‘Kate, look at me. I didn’t mean I wanted to— I’m not in any rush to annul our marriage.’’ ‘‘Annul? Oh, God.’’ She touched a hand to her head. ‘‘You’d better stop while you’re ahead.’’ Ethan tightened his abdominal muscles against the pain he felt at her cold response. How could this be happening? Why now, when things had been perfect? ‘‘Look, I’m sorry. The news about the hearing date being set, and this tax thing, just rattled me, that’s all.’’ But her expression remained closed. Offended. ‘‘How did I become the bad guy here?’’ he asked, sincerely at a loss. ‘‘You’re the one who told me this arrangement would be temporary.’’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘‘You’re absolutely right. No one can fault you for being inaccurate.’’ She circled the island the long way, to avoid touching him. ‘‘Kate. Don’t walk away angry. Doesn’t the fact that we’re lovers count for something?’’ ‘‘We have sex, Ethan, remember? You’re the one who made it clear what you did and didn’t want from me. And I’m going to go get some aspirin for this headache before you redefine another word I used to think I understood.’’ Kate didn’t know how she made it through that night or through the long weekend. It helped to have to get back to her place for the couple from California who’d come to look at her dwindling stock. She’d dealt with them before and enjoyed the husband’s comedic flair in film. Nevertheless, entertaining them overnight when she was juggling these new problems, not to mention certain heartbreak, wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done. In the end, she and Ethan didn’t go on the picnic with Darcy. They didn’t go down into town for any of the cel-

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ebratory activities, as they’d discussed. Most hurtful of all, she and Ethan didn’t touch again, and Ethan had returned to sleeping in his recliner. The one thing they didn’t stop was making sure that Darcy had plenty of attention and fresh air. But they didn’t do it as a couple, or as a family. Either Ethan took her with him in the truck for a drive to check on his herd, or she spread a blanket on the floor and played with the baby, flipping through colorful magazines, reading her children’s books, or playing make-believe with all of Darcy’s stuffed animals. Emotionally exhausted, she dropped Darcy off with Eva on the fifth. She wasn’t at all surprised when the older woman took one look at her and shook her head. ‘‘I didn’t want to believe you were in love with him when you two first married. But I realized not even my Kathryn would do something so bold, so crazy, as to play house with a man she didn’t care for. Now your heart is breaking. Don’t deny it. I have eyes. What are you going to do, child?’’ ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Kate admitted. ‘‘And I don’t have time to worry about it, either. There’s too much else to focus on, and Judge Lessing isn’t going to be fooled if I walk into his court looking as if I’m in mourning.’’ ‘‘I think your so-called husband is a fool for not seeing what’s in front of his face.’’ No, Kate thought as she drove toward Whitehorn a short time later. It was her fault for being too good an actress. She’d even fooled herself into thinking her attraction to Ethan was primarily physical, and would stay that way. From the beginning, when she hadn’t let him tell her about Wayne’s death, she’d given him all the signals that she would always keep him at arm’s length. How could she blame him for doing exactly what she’d wanted? Her only escape came through throwing herself into her

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work. During meetings and phone calls, she managed to push her personal crises far enough in the back of her mind to retain a hold on her sanity. And yet she even failed to fool Pat. ‘‘You keep looking like that, and Blankenship is going to claim success before he ever gets to court,’’ her secretary warned her late that afternoon. ‘‘I know. There’s a saying I like in one of my meditation books for women that goes, ‘This revolution of women is the only revolution where the outpost of the enemy is in our own heads.’ Whoever said that knew what she was talking about, because I’m a prime example.’’ Kate sighed and scrawled her name on the bottom of the letter Pat had handed her. ‘‘If we’re caught up, I’m going to call it a day. I’d like to detour by the cemetery, since I didn’t get into town over the holiday. Why don’t you take off, too?’’ ‘‘Thanks, boss. Steve and I are refereeing a volleyball game for some of his students, and I don’t have anything to wear.’’ The unlikely comment gave Kate the laugh she needed. ‘‘You’d better hustle, then. We can’t have our ref looking scroungy,’’ she said teasingly, reaching for her purse. The Kincaid family was buried at the town’s older cemetery, on Willow Brook Road. Kate didn’t come here often, because she didn’t like to think of Wayne here. It reminded her too much of the pain he might have suffered. The place she felt him most was in the mountains they’d ridden in together, often with Ethan. But she’d come today because there would be no opportunity for a long ride for some time yet, and she needed the unique spiritual grounding that Wayne had always provided to anyone in his presence. There were several small flags by his headstone. That didn’t surprise Kate. A great many people had cared for him. Life did, indeed, go on, but no doubt a whole generation

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would have to pass before his loss would stop being felt so poignantly in Whitehorn—especially since his nine-monthsyounger brother, Dugin, was proving such a disappointment these days. As far as she was concerned, Dugin’s most recent disturbing move had been to marry Mary Jo Plumber two summers ago. Most everyone else in town seemed to like Mary Jo well enough; she was described as sweet and demure by those who thought she was a salvation to the children’s section of the public library, but Kate’s feelings toward Dugin’s attractive wife weren’t dissimilar to how she’d felt about Ethan’s former flame, Lexine Baxter. As far as she was concerned, the old saying about butter not melting in her mouth applied to both women. However, if Dugin was happy, she supposed that was all that mattered. ‘‘You see why I needed to visit?’’ she murmured, with a sad smile at the headstone. ‘‘I’m pitying Dugin, while my own life is a disaster and a half.’’ With a sigh, Kate wrapped her arms around her waist. ‘‘What am I going to do, Wayne? I love him. I’ve tried to ignore it, ignore him, for years. I’ve achieved everything Dad and Aunt Beryl always wanted for me, except to experience a loving relationship with a man and have a family of my own. And I know you want it for me, too. Ethan’s the one. We both know that. But I can feel my chances with him slipping through my fingers, the same way I felt it when you said goodbye that last day.’’ She looked up between the branches of a great ponderosa pine to gaze at the brilliant, cloud-dotted sky. No sudden solutions or reassurances popped into her head; nor had she expected any. But a feeling of deep peace and reassurance slowly embraced her, a feeling that gave her the strength she needed to return to her truck and head for home. Focus on the positive. Kate told herself that no matter

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what, Ethan would want her to continue being an important part of Darcy’s life. If she couldn’t share her life with him, she could share in a part of the life that brought him such joy. As she drove away from the cemetery, she didn’t know what made her look at the small house on her right. It was the last of three modest bungalows that some young upstart builder had designed to launch his career, in a rural area where land costs were significantly cheaper. The elegant sedan parked behind the compact automobile in the driveway definitely didn’t fit with the middle-class aura of the house. It also looked extremely familiar, but she didn’t remember why. She drove on, turned onto Mountain Pass, only to pull over and wait for an eighteen-wheeler to go by. Then she made a U-turn. Something about the car bothered her, and she wanted to take a second look. As she drove past the house that second time, it still didn’t trigger her memory. Annoyed at herself for wasting time, she turned at the church and accelerated to make up for lost time. Just as she was passing the third house, she casually glanced over. The front door opened, and she saw a man and woman embrace. As she began to glance away, she suddenly did a double take. ‘‘Good...grief,’’ she whispered, and barely recovered in time to brake for the stop sign at the corner. She drove in a blur all the way to her ranch, where she barely could talk to a concerned Eva. Pleading a headache and a preoccupied mind, she went on to the Double N, with at least one conflict before her. Did she tell Ethan what she’d seen? Needing time to think, she couldn’t deny being relieved when she discovered he hadn’t come home yet. After chang-

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ing, she carried the baby outside for a walk, to show her the pasture where Ethan kept his new mother cows and their calves. But as the baby cooed and fluttered her hands at the romping calves, Kate’s thoughts were focused elsewhere. She was still brooding when Ethan and John Mountain pulled in a short time later. As usual, John Mountain tipped his hat and retreated to his quarters. Ethan came over to her and, with a brief look of longing, took Darcy from her. ‘‘How are you?’’ ‘‘Okay.’’ ‘‘Are you sure?’’ Shaking her head, Kate admitted, ‘‘No. I’ve just seen something that would guarantee you getting custody of Darcy, but I’m not sure I can tell you about it.’’ Ethan stood watching her for several seconds before drawing off his hat and wiping at his dusty brow. ‘‘I don’t think I’m ready for this. Are you saying we could put an end to this fiasco, and you’re going to keep it a secret?’’ It sounded horrible to hear it said back to her, but Kate had to nod. ‘‘Would you mind telling me why?’’ ‘‘Because I don’t approve of the tactics the Blankenships and Noble Taylor used. And to participate in the same kind of manipulation as a defense to win your case wouldn’t be making the point you’re trying to establish.’’ ‘‘Since this argument ceases to make sense to me, what is that point?’’ ‘‘That you’re the choice Marilee made when she debated on who should raise her child.’’ ‘‘I thought we agreed that if I’m going to rely on my reputation and good intentions, I don’t have a prayer.’’ ‘‘You don’t know that.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes, I do. Which is why, if I’m out of options, I want the information.’’

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‘‘I’m sorry. I have to think this over.’’ With a parting look of rebuke, he started for the house. After a few steps, he turned around. ‘‘Let me ask you one more thing—whose side are you on?’’ Stinging from his cold rejection, Kate watched him walk away. She yearned to follow him, to tell him what she knew. But he’d already told her what he would do with the information. Kate couldn’t give him that ammunition, because she believed in her heart that responsibility stood before convenience. Ethan didn’t understand that there were more futures than his at stake here. Noble had seen to that. If Joan could establish Ethan’s case on its own merits, then sharing this damaging information would serve no purpose except to hurt and humiliate an innocent woman who’d believed in her husband’s fidelity. If a case couldn’t be raised in Ethan’s favor...well, she would have to deal with that when the time came. But how to explain that to Ethan and ask for his trust, his faith? She didn’t ask him for anything, nor did she give him the information he wanted. In fact, over the next week, Kate made a point of keeping out of his way, to avoid another outburst between them. At one point, he wanted to order her to leave. In the next hour, he feared she might pack her things and go. It was the longest week of his life, so much so that when the day of the hearing arrived, he was more than ready to have it over with. He dressed in the suit he’d worn for his last court appearance. Because he finished early, he stopped by Shadow Ranch to spend a last few minutes with Darcy, just in case. Eva eyed him with skepticism, Jorge with caution; but when she saw him fumbling for his handkerchief on his way out,

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she stopped him and gave him an impulsive hug. Then Jorge shook his hand. The hearing was closed to the public, but word of mouth had lured quite a few of the curious. He endured a considerable crowd on his way inside, to Kate’s office, where he met up with her and Joan Nyland. Even then he hoped Kate would give him some signal to let him know he could embrace her, and tell her the truth—that he was afraid, for all three of them. His new attorney reminded him of an older version of his wife—sophisticated, sharp, and with no patience for fools. The look she gave him asked if he was going to be an asset or a liability to her. Kate saw no reason to remain in her office, and they moved to Lessing’s courtroom shortly thereafter. Soon afterward, they were joined by the bailiff. In about ten minutes more, the judge walked into the large, quiet room. He moved slowly, his recent surgery still showing its effects on him. It took him almost another five minutes to get up to his bench and settle himself, at which point he was sweating profusely and cussing almost as badly. His secretary placed a folder before him, and a glass of ice water. After shuffling and muttering for another moment, he looked at the table to the left of theirs. Now what? Ethan wondered, staring at the old man. He sniffed and coughed and scowled down at the folder before him. ‘‘We have a small problem, ladies and gentlemen. Just before entering this court, it was brought to my attention that Noble Taylor has suffered a stroke.’’

Twelve ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’ The woman before her represented a shadow of the Ruth Taylor Kate had come to know over the past months. Pale, her hair still that perfect champagne blonde, but no longer coiffed to bubble perfection, her attire a simple cotton top and slacks instead of a designer suit and pearls, hanging on her drained and aging body. Ruth had met this latest challenge in her life, but was floundering. It compelled Kate to reach for the woman’s hands and lead her to the couch in the intensive-care unit’s special waiting room. To offer regrets and condolences over Noble’s devastating condition would have been hypocritical. Kate avoided that by replying, ‘‘What can I do for you?’’ After Judge Lessing’s shocking announcement only hours ago, which had included a startling notation that Ruth Taylor wanted the custody hearing to continue and for Ethan and Kate to be awarded custody, Kate had quietly told her husband to go home. She had wanted to come here to Billings. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt it...necessary. ‘‘I appreciate the gesture, Your Honor....’’ ‘‘Oh, heavens, Ruth. Call me Kate.’’ ‘‘Kate...I’m so ashamed,’’ Ruth whispered, as soon as she sat down. As she bowed her head, Kate wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lowered her head to the older woman’s. ‘‘No. The problems we went through are in the past. Done.’’

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‘‘It will never be done. You see, I knew what he was doing. I knew about—’’ Ruth drew a deep breath and somehow reclaimed her dignity. ‘‘You and I need to talk, Kate. The doctors say it’s unlikely he’ll recuperate to a fraction of who he was. It’s our punishment for his infidelity as we were inflicting our rigid ways on others.’’ Once again Kate hugged her. ‘‘This isn’t the time.’’ ‘‘It is. You tell Ethan...you tell him Marilee was a lovely girl. Being simple and undemanding shouldn’t be a crime, and I’m ashamed that I didn’t speak up when I should have. When it would have saved her some pain. It’s bad enough I stood by and let Noble’s selfishness and cruelty ruin our son. You see, I’ve been a coward, thinking only of protecting my marriage. ‘‘But I’m speaking up now. I only cared about being a model wife, and that wasn’t enough. Or maybe that was too much. I think it would take someone of this younger generation to explain it to me.’’ ‘‘The fact that you recognize your mistakes is the beginning of change, Ruth. The rest will come.’’ ‘‘Will it?’’ Ruth stared at her with pain-filled eyes. ‘‘I’m almost alone now. My days will be long, and often empty. Would it be too much to ask if once in a while you might bring the child to visit me?’’ This was beyond Kate’s expectations. And yet she’d seen miracles happen in her own court. But each time they were new and special. One question remained, though. Would Ethan be gracious in victory? Kate thought of his expression when Judge Lessing had awarded custody of Darcy to him...and seconds later, when Ethan had turned to her. He hadn’t said anything, they hadn’t touched. It had broken her heart, because she’d needed him so much.

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But, for Ruth, she would dare to have hope. ‘‘Let me know when you’re ready,’’ she told her. They spoke for several more minutes before Kate, deciding the exhausted woman needed some rest herself, hugged her again and made the long trip back to Whitehorn. She passed Shadow Ranch, because she’d already phoned Eva and Jorge and warned them she would probably be returning later that evening. But, knowing she would need to finish things with Ethan first, she drove straight to the Double N. She found him sitting at his desk when she entered. One look at the crib, and she froze. ‘‘Where’s Darcy?’’ ‘‘With Eva. I asked her if she minded, because I thought we needed to talk.’’ Kate nodded and dropped her things on the couch. ‘‘You’re right. I suppose you know I went to Billings?’’ When he inclined his head, she continued, ‘‘Naturally, it will be days before they’re certain of the severity of Noble’s stroke, but considering what they know so far, and his age, Ruth’s been told she’ll have to hire a full-time nurse to help her out.’’ After a long pause, Ethan looked out the front window. ‘‘If you’re expecting me to offer some token sympathy, you’ll have a long wait.’’ ‘‘I’m not asking. I didn’t have much to offer myself. I went to thank her for the decision she made.’’ ‘‘Almost too little, too late.’’ ‘‘Ethan.’’ ‘‘What? Do you think this cleans the slate as far as them trying to ruin my reputation?’’ Kate moistened her lips. ‘‘I should tell you that Ruth asked if I might bring Darcy over sometime for a visit.’’ ‘‘Absolutely not.’’ ‘‘Ethan, please hear me out.’’ ‘‘No, you listen! They were out to destroy me. Ruin my

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reputation. Get me thrown back into jail. Make it impossible for me to see my niece, not to mention ruining your life.’’ Kate kept nodding until he was through. Then she crossed the room and leaned her hands on his desk. ‘‘That was Noble and Warren Blankenship. I told you before that Ruth was a good wife. She didn’t challenge him. Even if she secretly disagreed, she would never have challenged him. If you want to judge her for anything, judge her for that.’’ ‘‘And you think because the old buzzard is hooked up to life-support now, anything’s changed?’’ ‘‘Yes. Because she’s decided she no longer owes Noble that kind of allegiance.’’ He studied her for several seconds, narrowed his eyes and demanded, ‘‘Meaning what?’’ ‘‘She discovered that Noble was having an affair with one of Blankenship’s paralegals.’’ As concisely as she could, Kate told him about what she’d seen the other day, then how that had triggered a memory of when she’d been in Blankenship’s office last month and seen them together. ‘‘I’m not saying that she’s the only one Ruth was referring to, but there you are.’’ ‘‘There you are,’’ Ethan murmured, looking a little dazed. ‘‘That’s what you were holding back from me?’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ‘‘And when were you going to tell me?’’ ‘‘As I said before, I wasn’t—unless the hearing was handled badly or there was a strong suggestion that Judge Lessing was going to decide in favor of the Taylors. This was a matter of a marriage, Ethan. I didn’t know whether Ruth did or didn’t know about it, wanted to condone it as long as it was kept quiet, or what. We had no right to intrude on that.’’ ‘‘Why not? They didn’t hesitate intruding in my life. And yours.’’ He rose, furious. ‘‘What if you’d waited too long?

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What if Lessing didn’t want to listen to you? What if Blankenship had managed to convince Lessing that you were making it up?’’ As he spoke, he circled the desk. Now he was face-toface with her, his expression evoking a man pushed to his limit, but Kate refused to back away. In fact, she was getting fed up with these accusations altogether. ‘‘I’m going to explain myself once, and then, as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed. It was my call, Ethan. And it wasn’t one I made lightly, regardless of what you’re obviously thinking. I read the situation. I have the experience. I made the decision to leave them room to do the right thing, for once in their lives. And Ruth did.’’ ‘‘In other words, you didn’t think I had the discipline to resist going for Taylor’s jugular. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Your Honor.’’ He said that quietly, which made the inference sting all the worse. ‘‘If I’d been in your shoes, Ethan, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have done anything to keep that child away from Noble.’’ ‘‘It would have been nice to have been given the benefit of the doubt. All you managed to do was prove you don’t trust me.’’ She couldn’t believe he was pushing this hard. Exhausted, disappointed, she wanted to end it. ‘‘That’s why I married you. Why I’m risking my career, my reputation, my safety if you ask some people...and my heart to a child I’ll have to withdraw from, to an extent, once we separate. Absolutely, Ethan—I had no faith in you at all.’’ Maybe it was those words, the fatigue in her expression, or the tremor in her voice, but Ethan suddenly seemed aware of what he was doing—and stepped back, looking ashamed. ‘‘Hell, Kate...I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.’’

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‘‘Forget it. Let’s just stop. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.’’ ‘‘I know.’’ He sighed. ‘‘Then why do I feel caught in limbo?’’ ‘‘Because we’re still supposed to play house and keep up appearances. But...I don’t know if I can anymore.’’ He bowed his head. ‘‘I didn’t thank you enough for putting up with the primitive lifestyle, let alone taking the risks.’’ ‘‘Yes, you did. That’s not the point.’’ ‘‘Then what is?’’ ‘‘That too often you made me forget about the risks.’’ ‘‘Did I?’’ he asked huskily. When she nodded, he took a step closer. ‘‘What if I wanted more?’’ If he didn’t stop doing this to her, she was going to have to sit down. ‘‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’’ ‘‘Was everything you did just for Darcy and—?’’ He held up his hand. ‘‘And the fact that we make great lovers.’’ He’d said the word, at least. It was better than simply being sexually compatible. And Kate knew what she wanted to say, what she thought he wanted her to say, but she’d stuck her neck out for him so much already. She needed him to let her know that he would be there to catch her if she went any further. ‘‘What is it that you’re asking for?’’ ‘‘I want you as my wife. Permanently.’’ He exhaled shakily. ‘‘I’ve tried to think of a day when you wouldn’t be in my life, and I couldn’t. I don’t want to.’’ He closed the space between them and took her face in his hands. ‘‘I...love you, Kate.’’ She searched his face. ‘‘Why was that so hard for you to say?’’ ‘‘Because I know I’ll always be number two in your life, and I had to believe I could handle that, that it wouldn’t matter, coming in second to a ghost.’’

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‘‘Wayne’s dead, Ethan,’’ Kate whispered. ‘‘I faced that a long time ago.’’ ‘‘I know that’s what you want to believe, but you were at the cemetery the other day, when you saw Taylor. That doesn’t sound like a woman who’s put the past behind her.’’ ‘‘You and I had fought, Ethan. And I was struggling to figure out what to do next. Of all the people who knew you, I believe he understood you best. It may sound crazy to you, but I was there hoping that being closer to him would make me understand you better. I was there because of you, Ethan.’’ For a moment, he looked hopeful. His thumbs even stroked her cheeks, as if he were about to kiss her. But in the next instant he shook his head. ‘‘Then why haven’t you ever let me talk about him? About what happened to him?’’ Now it was her turn to shake her head and retreat. ‘‘I was afraid of what you’d say. He was gone. What did it matter how or— No,’’ she said, turning to face him again. ‘‘I was afraid you would say something that would take you away, too.’’ ‘‘So instead we wasted all these years circling each other like wary combatants?’’ ‘‘They weren’t wasted,’’ she replied, seeing it more clearly now. ‘‘I think we needed the time to heal, and grow, because we were three parts of a whole...and we always will be. But one part of us was cut away, and we needed to learn that he’s still an integral part of who we are.’’ ‘‘Some of us are still trying to heal, Kate,’’ Ethan said quietly. ‘‘You’ve found your peace. I still need to find mine, and I can’t if you don’t let me tell you about that day.’’ Could she bear it? She had to, if they were going to move on together. Slowly she nodded. ‘‘Go ahead.’’ He walked to the window, his shoulders squared, his head

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high. ‘‘Our platoons had both suffered heavy casualties after this push to take a village, so they put our two groups together. I hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks, and so we stuck together as we entered the village. ‘‘Wayne spotted the little girl before I did. She’d been injured, and she was huddled against a hut that we needed to check out. At the same time, a kid came out of the woods. Wayne yelled, ‘Take him!’ But I told him he was just a kid. No more than thirteen.’’ Ethan sucked in a shuddering breath. ‘‘Before I knew it, the kid had thrown a grenade at the hut. It would have killed the girl. Wayne knew there was no time to get her away, and he leaped, yelling, ‘Take him!’ and threw himself on it.’’ He let his head fall back and groaned. ‘‘It should have been me.’’ ‘‘You can’t say that,’’ Kate replied, swallowing her tears. ‘‘I hesitated with the boy, and I lost my best friend. It should have been me.’’ Kate rushed to him, grabbed his arm and swung him around. Despite her own anguish over Wayne’s terrible death, it was Ethan’s self-loathing that tore at her heart. All these years, she’d made him carry that grief, when she could have given him release from it, only she hadn’t wanted to know, to protect herself. ‘‘Ethan, listen to me. He made a choice. You said it yourself, he was always concerned with fixing things and making people happy. Do you think he could have stood it if he’d had to look at that mutilated little girl? Or you?’’ ‘‘Oh, God, Kate.’’ Ethan reached for her, and she wrapped her arms around him as tightly as he held her, absorbed the shudders of his work-hardened, grief-racked body. ‘‘I’m so sorry,’’ she whispered again and again. ‘‘But,

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Ethan, there was nothing you could have done. Let it go. He’ll always be a special part of both of us, but let it go. Let him rest now.’’ They stood together, clinging and holding, something silent and sweet seeping from one to the other, easing the old pain, offering something new and hopeful in its wake. Finally, when she felt him relax and press a kiss to her brow, she leaned back to gaze deeply into his eyes. ‘‘I love you, Ethan. That’s why I married you. That’s why I fought so hard for you. That’s why I want to spend the rest of my life with you and Darcy.’’ His eyes grew bright and intense, his hold tighter. ‘‘Say that again. The first part.’’ ‘‘I love you.’’ ‘‘And I love you. I always have.’’ Kate nodded. ‘‘I know. Now.’’ He framed her face with his hands, caressed her with his thumbs, his look as relieved as it was worshipful. Then he closed his mouth over hers for a kiss that sealed their hearts as their vows had linked their lives. They’d never held each other with more care or with more joy. Their kisses had never offered sweeter promises. ‘‘Your heart’s pounding like a sledgehammer,’’ Kate said, when she could speak again. ‘‘So’s yours.’’ But, as quickly as he’d grinned, Ethan sobered. ‘‘Damn, Kate. Are you sure? I’m more of a liability than an asset—’’ ‘‘You’re everything I want.’’ ‘‘And this isn’t exactly a paradise,’’ he added ruefully. She shrugged—as much as he would let her—and lifted her mouth to his. ‘‘We’ll work on it. Together.’’ ‘‘Together,’’ he agreed, holding her fast to his heart.

Epilogue ‘‘Have one more pancake.’’ Kate held back a grin until Eva had added it to Ethan’s plate and returned to the stove. Shifting Darcy on her lap, she leaned over to whisper to him, ‘‘I think she’s definitely getting to like you.’’ ‘‘Either that or she plans to do me in with kindness.’’ But there was only amusement in Ethan’s eyes as he winked at her and attacked the rest of his breakfast. This late-morning meal together was a treat for them, after the past several weeks’ hectic pace; however, life was tasting very sweet indeed. Only a few days after the hearing, they’d discussed their future and the cabin. Although he’d been hesitant at first, Ethan had agreed they would all be more comfortable if they moved to Kate’s house. Between the move, decorating the baby’s nursery, across the hall from the master bedroom, and work, luxuries like sleeping late were few and far between. But neither one of them was complaining. Her greatest joy, however, was Ethan’s acceptance of her offer to join their lands, and his agreement to expand his herd. At first he’d been self-conscious, worrying about how it would look, since his several-hundred-acre operation was nothing compared to the thousands Kate had inherited. Also, Kate’s land possessed the best pasture and water. But when she reminded him that Shadow Ranch had no

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future without heirs, and that she would sell off all her horses, except for a few personal ones for pleasure—and to keep Jorge happy and out of mischief—he’d finally agreed...under the condition that it all now be called Shadow Ranch. It had taken more convincing, but they’d talked John Mountain into moving into the cabin, and just recently they’d hired two other men to help with the work load, who would move into the bunkhouse. Yes, fate was treating them with a new tenderness, Kate thought. She was even developing a cautious, but interesting, relationship with Ruth Taylor. Once Noble was released from the hospital and she had the full-time nurse to help her, she’d regained her strength and some of her previous self-esteem. Kate made a point of bringing Darcy twice a month for a long visit. Noble had no perception of the child, but Ruth was blossoming into quite a grandmother, with the gentle help of her housekeeper, Norma. From the looks of things, it didn’t appear as if the child would miss out on having a grandparent after all. Best of all, though, last night, as they lay in each other’s arms, Ethan had asked her what she thought about adopting a little brother or sister for Darcy. Kate was still basking in the warmth of that suggestion, and the lovemaking it had precipitated. In fact, as she walked Ethan to his truck to say goodbye before he left to check on the crew over at the cabin, she was tempted to ask him to stay home to continue further ‘‘negotiations.’’ The sound of an approaching vehicle had them both shading their eyes against the sun to peer at the truck with the overhead lights appearing around the bend. Kate’s heart did a little thump. She recognized the police vehicle, and when Ethan’s arm tightened around her waist,

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she knew he was uneasy, too. Only the baby cooed with delight at the sight of more company. ‘‘Aren’t we getting paranoid?’’ Kate muttered, shooting her husband a quick, not quite amused, glance. ‘‘The sight of one of those, and automatically we anticipate bad news.’’ Ethan didn’t reply, and he didn’t step forward when Rafe Rawlings stepped out. To cover for him, Kate offered a bright smile for the young, darkly handsome policeman. ‘‘Rafe, this is a surprise. What brings you out here?’’ He tipped his hat to her and offered a crooked smile at the baby before sliding a more somber look at Ethan. ‘‘Sorry to disturb your day, Judge, Ethan. I was wondering if you might have seen Homer Gilmore around lately?’’ Ethan stiffened, and his expression turned stony. ‘‘What are you accusing me of this time, Rawlings?’’ The younger man held up both hands and vigorously shook his head. ‘‘Whoa—you have it all wrong, man. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not even here on official business. But I talked to Kane Hunter last night, and one of the first questions out of both of our mouths was whether the other had seen old Homer lately. Usually we can count on one of us having visited with him. Anyway, since you’ve got men covering a good stretch of land in this area, I thought you’d ask them to keep an eye out for the old guy, and to let one of us know.’’ Kate shifted the wriggling baby, who was intrigued with the policeman’s shiny badge, glinting in the hot August sun. ‘‘Of course, Rafe. We’ll be happy to.’’ Looking far more relaxed, Ethan added, ‘‘I’m going over to see the men now. Glad you caught me, because I’d like to help out if I can. I owe the old buzzard for saving at least one life.’’ His words ended gruffly as he touched Darcy’s

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baby-fine dark curls. He cleared his throat. ‘‘And I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.’’ ‘‘Shoot. Can’t say you don’t have a reason to be cautious. If I was you, I might still be holding a grudge.’’ Rafe extended his hand. Overjoyed with the scene, Kate ducked her head to nuzzle the baby, and to hide the stinging in her eyes. She wasn’t about to let it get around town that the Hanging Judge was turning into a softy. But as soon as Rafe pulled away, and Kate called for him to say hello to Raeanne for them, she leaned into her husband’s body and sighed. ‘‘I love you, Ethan.’’ He wrapped both arms around her and the baby and kissed one, then the other, on the crowns of their heads. ‘‘Keep telling me, love. Maybe in another thirty or forty years I may figure out what I did to deserve it.’’ ‘‘No problem,’’ Kate promised.

ISBN: 978-1-55254-833-2 MONTANA MAVERICKS BOOKS 5-8 Copyright © 2007 Harlequin Books S.A. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.eHarlequin.com

About the Authors Jackie Merritt Jackie Merritt’s first book was published in December of 1988, and since then she’s been deeply engrossed in the writing game. While she’s gone through dry spells, where she can't write a word that makes sense and every idea ends up in the trash can, for the most part she’s usually working on a viable story. Jackie honestly believes that anyone with a reasonable grasp of language and grammar can write a book—if they're selfdisciplined enough to put in the time and effort that writing demands. Starting a book is easy; staying with it until it is finished is the part that stops many would-be authors. Jackie believes she had an advantage that a lot of people do not have. As a former accountant, she was used to working alone and completing long projects. Oddly enough, the same principles apply to writing. Plus, of course, you have to love it. Jackie’s first attempts to write fiction were so bad they were comical, but she still fell in love with writing. She had written hundreds of business letters before that, but never a word of fiction, and there, all of a sudden, was a whole new world for her to explore. She had a great time since selling her first novel and many subsequent books, and is looking forward to many more good times ahead!

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