Montana Mavericks 05-08

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

Author: Merritt Jackie | Warren Pat | Daniels Rebecca

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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



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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THE RANCHER TAKES A WIFE

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.

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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.

Six T

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 entreés. 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



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



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